When You Call My Name

by Sharon Sala

  “Nuts?”

  Both men looked startled as Glory came out of the cabin. Embarrassed at being overheard, Conway jumped up from his seat and yanked off his hat as a flush colored his skin.

  “Now, Miss Dixon, I’m real sorry you heard that, and I don’t mean anything personal by it,” Conway said. “I was just stating a fact.”

  It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard a hundred times before, and it wasn’t what interested her. “What was that you were saying about an investigation?” she asked.

  Conway relaxed, apparently thankful that the conversation had changed.

  “We found a partial fingerprint on the car that tried to run you down. Course it’ll take a while for any results to come back, and you understand if the fellow that left it had no priors, then we have no way of identifying him, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “And for what it’s worth, I sent that scrap of fabric that you gave me off to the crime lab at the Capitol. Don’t think we’ll learn much, but we’ll at least have tried, right?”

  He hitched at his gun belt, and studied a knot on the plank beneath his feet. “What I came out to say is, I’m sorry. When you came to me for help, I let you down, and I can promise it won’t happen again.”

  When the chief offered his hand, Glory didn’t hesitate. And when he shook it firmly, in a small, but significant way, she felt vindicated.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

  He nodded. “So, that’s it, then,” he said. “I suppose I’d better be getting back into town. It doesn’t do to leave my two deputies alone for long. On occasion, they get ticket happy, and then I’ve got some angry townsfolk wondering why they could make a U-turn on Main Street one day, and then get fined for it the next. Besides that, we had ourselves a burglary last night. Someone kicked in the back door to Henley’s Garage and Filling Station, waltzed in and helped themselves to a whole set of tires. From what we can tell, the thieves brought their own rims and mounted ’em right on the spot.”

  Conway shook his head as he started toward the cruiser. “I’ll tell you, crooks these days either have more guts or less brains than they used to. And finding any fingerprints as evidence in that grease pit is impossible. Nearly everyone in town is in and out of there. Ain’t no way to figure out who left what or when they left it, and old man Henley’s fit to be tied. See you around,” he said, and then left.

  Glory turned to Wyatt, a smile hovering on her lips as Conway drove away.

  “I didn’t think this day would ever come,” she said.

  “What day?”

  “The day when someone other than my family would bother to believe me.”

  He cradled her in his arms, hugging her to him. “After this morning, how can you forget the fifty-odd members of my immediate family who think you hung the moon?” He tilted her chin, then kissed the tip of her nose when she wrinkled it in dismay.

  “Fifty?”

  He grinned. “I underestimated on purpose so I wouldn’t scare you off.”

  Glory shifted within his embrace. “As long as I have you, I’m not scared of a living thing,” she whispered.

  Joy filled him as he held her. “Lady, you take my breath away.”

  A light breeze teased at her hair, lifting, then settling long, shiny strands across his hands. Unable to resist their offer, Wyatt combed his fingers through the lengths, entranced by the sunlight caught in the depths.

  “Wyatt, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Play ceased immediately. The tone of her voice was serious, as was the look in her eyes.

  “Then tell me.”

  She moved out of his arms, then took him by the hand and started walking toward the shade trees above the creek at the back of the cabin.

  Wyatt went where she led, aware that when she was ready, she would start talking. As they reached the shade, Glory dropped down onto a cool, mossy rock, and then patted the ground beside it, indicating that Wyatt join her, which he did.

  As she sorted out her thoughts, she fiddled with her hair. It was sticking to her neck and in spite of the shade, hot against her shoulders. Absently, she pulled it over her shoulders, then using her fingers for a comb, separated it into three parts, and began to braid.

  “I have a theory,” she said, as she fastened the end of the braid with a band from her pocket. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I think that the body that was buried at the dump is somehow connected to what’s happening to me.”

  A shiver of warning niggled at Wyatt’s instinct for self-preservation as he gave Glory a startled look. “I don’t like this,” he said.

  She shrugged, then stared pensively down the bank of the creek to the tiny stream of water that continually flowed. “I don’t, either. But nothing else makes sense.”

  “What made you think like that?” he asked.

  “It was something that Chief Conway said, about people being afraid of me.” She turned toward Wyatt, pinning him with that clear blue stare. “What if someone thought my gift was like some, uh, I don’t know…a witch’s crystal ball, maybe? What if someone did something bad…really bad, and they thought that all I had to do was look at them and I’d know it?”

  Wyatt’s heart jumped, then settled. “You mean…something bad like committing a murder and dumping a body?”

  She nodded.

  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he considered what she’d just said. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

  “It would explain why, wouldn’t it?”

  “It’s about the only thing that does,” she said. And then her chin quivered.

  “Come here,” he said softly, and she crawled off the rock and into his lap, settling between his outstretched legs and resting her back against the breadth of his chest. When he pulled her close, surrounding her with his arms and nuzzling his chin at the top of her head, she savored the security that came from being encompassed by the man who’d stolen her heart.

  For a time, the outside world ceased to exist. For Glory and Wyatt, there was nothing but them, and the sound of the breeze rustling through the leaves, birdcalls coming from the green canopy over their heads, the ripple of the water in the creek below and the raucous complaint of a squirrel high up in a tree across the creek.

  Bo Marker was back in business. He had shells for his rifle, wheels on his truck and a renewed interest in finishing the job he’d promised Carter Foster he would do. Now he didn’t just want the money Carter had promised, he needed it to pay Frankie for helping him last night with the heist.

  But Bo wasn’t a complete fool. He had no intention of going anywhere near that Dixon farm again. He still had nightmares about that man who’d run him off, and hoped he never saw him again.

  As he drove along the back roads, he kept his eye out for a good place to conceal himself and his truck. A location that would be close to the main road that led down from the mountain. That Dixon woman and her man couldn’t stay up there forever. They’d have to come down sometime, if for no other reason than to get food. When they did, he’d be waiting. This time, he’d make sure that there would be no Kentucky bigfoot with a gun at his back when he took aim.

  Pleased with his plan, Bo proceeded to search the roads, while Carter Foster lived each hour sinking deeper and deeper in a hell of his own making.

  Carter was running. His belly bounced with each lurch of his stride, and his heart was hammering so hard against his rib cage that he feared he was going to die on the spot. With every step, the sound of his shoes slapping against the old tile floor of the courthouse echoed sharply within the high, domed ceilings.

  He burst into the courtroom just as the judge was about to raise his gavel.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Your Honor. May it please the court, I have filed an injunction against the company that’s suing my client.”

  The judge leaned over the desk, pinning Carter with a hard, frosty glare.

  �
��Counselor…this is the third time you’ve been tardy in my court this week. Once more, and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

  Carter paled. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  And so the morning passed.

  When they recessed for the day, it was nearly three o’clock. Carter’s belly was growling with hunger. He’d missed breakfast, and because of his earlier dereliction, had been forced to skip lunch. Right now, he wouldn’t care if his client got drawn and quartered, the only thing on his mind was food.

  He came out of the courthouse, again on the run. He tossed his briefcase into his car, and was about to get in when he heard someone calling his name. With a muffled curse, he turned, and then felt all the blood drain from his face. The chief of police was walking toward him from across the street.

  “Hey there, Foster,” Conway said, and thumped him lightly on the back in a manly greeting.

  Carter managed a smile. “Chief, I haven’t seen you in a while. I guess since the last time we were in court together, right?”

  Conway nodded, while gauging Foster’s condition. His supposition the other day had been right on target. Foster looked like he’d been pulled backward through a downspout. He needed a haircut. His clothes looked as if he’d slept in them, and there were bags beneath his eyes big enough to haul laundry.

  “Say, I’ve been meaning to speak to you,” Conway said.

  “Oh? About what?” Carter’s heart jerked so sharply that he feared he might die on the spot.

  “Your wife and all,” Conway said, a little uncertain how one went about commiserating with a fellow who’d just been dumped.

  “What about my wife?” Carter asked, as his voice rose three octaves.

  Conway shrugged and wished he’d never started this conversation. Old Foster wasn’t taking this any better than he’d hoped.

  “Well, you know, she’s gone, and I heard that—”

  “She ran off, you know,” Carter interrupted. “She’s been threatening to do it for years but I never believed her. I guess a man should believe his wife every so often. It might prevent problems later on, don’t you think?”

  The moment he said it, he gritted his teeth, wishing he had the good sense not to ramble, but when he got nervous, he always talked too much.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Conway said. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I’m real sorry.”

  Carter sighed and even managed a smile. “Thanks. That’s real nice of you, Chief.”

  Conway nodded, and then as Carter was about to get in his car, he asked, “Have you heard from her?”

  From the look on Carter’s face, the chief thought he was about to have a heart attack. Carter’s mouth was working, but no words were coming out. Finally, he cleared his throat, and managed a small, shaky giggle.

  “Actually, I have,” he said. “I’m about to become the recipient of a Mexican divorce. Isn’t that a laugh? Me a lawyer, and she felt the need to go to Mexico to have her legal work done.”

  Conway nodded, although he couldn’t see much humor in the situation. And then he shrugged. He supposed it was every man’s right to deal with hardship in his own way.

  “Well, you take care now,” Conway said. “I imagine I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

  Carter paled. “Why?”

  “Why…in court, buddy. In court.”

  Carter imagined all kinds of insinuations that were spelling out his doom, and in a fit of panic, fell into his car and drove off in a hurry, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust smoke and the sounds of tires shredding on pavement.

  The chief shook his head, and ambled on into the courthouse, thanking his lucky stars that he’d been the one who’d done the divorcing all those years ago. It must play hell with an ego when one was the dumpee.

  It wasn’t until later on in the afternoon that he received a phone call that set him to thinking along a completely different line.

  “Chief, line two for you,” the dispatcher shouted, and Conway rolled his eyes and picked up the phone. One of these days they were going to have to invest in some sort of intercom. Yelling at each other from room to room didn’t seem professional.

  “Chief Conway,” he muttered, shifting files on his desk as he searched for clean paper and pen.

  “Conway, this is Lane Monday. I thought I’d call and see how the Dixon investigation is going.”

  Conway was pleased to be able to count off the number of things that he’d done since last they’d talked. And when the marshal seemed satisfied, it pleased him even more.

  “That’s good,” Lane said. “And it’s one of the reasons I called. I had fully intended to come back that way within a day or two, but I’ve had a family emergency and a slight change of plans.”

  Conway frowned. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  “No, and it’s thanks to Glory Dixon,” he muttered, thinking of the chaos back at their home, and then of Toni and Joy, and considered himself a fortunate man.

  “How’s that?” Conway said.

  “All I can tell you is she knew about the tornado that hit our house this morning, even before it hit. If Wyatt hadn’t called us in a panic, screaming for us to get out of the house, we wouldn’t have made it to the cellar in time. I don’t know how Toni and I might have fared, but a tree came through the window and crushed our baby’s bed. If she’d been in it…” He couldn’t even finish the story.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Conway said, and shuddered from the images the story provoked.

  Unwilling to dwell on the horror still fresh in his mind, Lane quickly changed gears.

  “That’s not why I’m calling,” he said. “It’s with regards to the missing-person factor in Glory’s story about the woman in the dump.”

  Conway fiddled with his pen, and wondered if he should admit to the marshal that he’d given that story little thought. Remembering Monday’s earlier anger, he decided not.

  “Yes, what do you have?” he asked.

  “Well, you know how you said you had no reports of missing persons?”

  “Yeah, go on,” Conway said.

  “I checked with the FBI. In my book, they’re the experts when it comes to kidnappings and missing persons. The man I was talking to suggested that sometimes a person is actually missing for weeks, sometimes even months before it’s discovered. Usually because a family member, or the community, believes them to be on a legitimate trip somewhere.

  “He said they had a case once where a wife whose husband was in the oil business claimed that he’d made an unscheduled trip to South America and was then killed in a plane crash over there. Imagine their surprise when what was left of him surfaced months later in a fisherman’s net off the coast of the Carolinas.”

  “Ooh, hell,” Conway said. The image was startling, to say the least.

  “Anyway, my point is, you might keep that in mind as you work the case.”

  “Yeah, right, and thanks,” Conway muttered, and then disconnected.

  He leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk and locked his hands behind his neck, thinking as he did about what Monday just said. How did coincidence factor into a warning of impending danger? And how did…?

  His feet hit the floor as his hands slapped the desk.

  “Son of a…”

  He jumped to his feet and stepped outside, staring across the street at the sign on Carter Foster’s office.

  Out To Lunch.

  For a man who was supposed to be mourning the loss of a wife, he sure hadn’t lost his appetite. “I wonder?” he muttered, then frowned, pivoted on his heel and stalked back into his office.

  “Hey!” he shouted.

  A deputy came running.

  “I want you to check the bus station, the ticket counters in every airport within driving distance, and anyplace else you can think of that provides transportation.”

  “Yes, sir,” the deputy said. “What am I checking for?”

  Conway tapped the deputy on the shirt, lowering his voice in a confide
ntial manner. “I want you to find me a paper trail. I want to know how and from where Betty Jo Foster left town, and if possible, who with. And I don’t want to walk out of here this evening and find out that everyone in town knows what you’re doing.”

  The deputy’s eyes widened.

  “What I’m saying is…do your job and keep your trap shut,” Conway growled.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and out the door he went.

  Bo woke himself up when he snorted. The sound was so startling that he grabbed for his gun before he came to enough to realize that it was himself that he had heard. His legs were stiff, his butt was numb, and his belly was pushing uncomfortably against the steering wheel of his pickup truck. He yawned, then stretched as he felt nature call.

  Satisfied that from where he had parked, he was perfectly concealed from the road, he opened the pickup door and then scooted out of the seat, leaving the door open for privacy’s sake as he did what he needed to do. Groaning beneath his breath as his legs protested his weight, he went about his business.

  At that minute, a car came flying around a corner and then headed back up the hill. Confident that he was safe from being seen, he turned to look.

  His heart jerked as he cursed. In a panic, he grabbed for his rifle, forgetting that he’d been using that hand for something else. To his dismay, he was too late to take aim, and found himself watching the taillights of Wyatt Hatfield’s car as it disappeared over the hill.

  Disgusted with his bad luck, he kicked at the dirt. Now there was no telling how long it would be before they’d come back.

  Wyatt was carrying in groceries while Glory, at his insistence, had gone to her bed to lie down. Ever since she’d had the vision about the storm, she’d had a dull, niggling headache. It wasn’t uncommon for such a thing to happen, but this time, she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of malaise.

  Her head had barely hit the pillow when he came into the room with a glass of water and a couple of pills in his hand.

  “Here, honey,” he said. “See if these will help.”

  Gratefully, she accepted the water and the pills and swallowed them in one quick gulp. She set the glass on the table, and then lay back down on the bed.