Eventually, I began to drag, my heart hammering so hard it scared me. I caught a break when the trail split up ahead and a rhododendron thicket just beyond the left fork offered a place to lay low. I tried to slow my rasping breath; Marshall surely would’ve heard it. I pulled out the cell phone, but again, no service.
After half an hour like that, I crawled outta the thicket. I got the feeling Marshall had taken the other trail or maybe turned round. I started running again when it dawned on me he’d likely gone back to kill the peddler and his wife.
Chapter 61: Abit
As I made my way back to the barn, it’d grown dark and harder to see if Marshall was hiding behind bushes or trees, waiting to kill me. I felt woozy a time or two, oncet when I realized the top of my ear had been shot off. I touched it, which started it howling with pain.
When I crested a hill, I could see two cop cars below parked under the security light, a white van plus three black SUVs parked at crazy angles nearby. No ambulance, which I hoped meant the wife was okay. As I hurried past the barn, I didn’t want to look inside and yet I couldn’t stop myself. It was empty except for a team, clad all in white, scouring the scene of the crime under bright work lights.
I stepped up on the long wraparound porch. Through the dining room windows I could see a cluster of FBI agents, sheriffs, and other coppers. When I walked inside, Curtis ran over.
“Hey, everyone! Abit’s here. He’s okay,” he said, throwing his arms round me. “I’m so sorry, Abit. A coal truck overturned on a narrow road. We were stuck for almost an hour.” Well, that answered one question. Then I asked how the wife was. “She’s badly shaken, but yes, she’s fine physically. She said you saved her life—and her husband’s.”
I’d been feeling like a coward for running away, but I reckon my running off did give her and her husband a break. For now. “But Marshall’s still on the loose. I couldn’t catch him.” (I didn’t mention that would’ve been hard to do since I was running ahead of him.)
“Not your job, son. We’ve got a team searching the area.” That was Stoltz, who’d just walked over. He paused and patted me on the back, apparently his only gesture of comfort. “Thanks for stepping in.”
“I thought you’d be after me for stepping in it. But I couldn’t sit back while she was screaming.”
“Like Agent Maynard said, she credits you with her life.
I believe that was when I fainted.
Chapter 62: Della
I always felt a burst of energy when I returned to D.C. Creative power radiated in that town like a second sun. It wasn’t always the good kind, but fortunately we had elections to deal with that.
Earlier that week, I was packing for my trip to D.C. to see Alex when Aggie Metzger, Stoltz’s ex-wife, finally returned my call, though a telegram would have had more words: Ezra explained your call. The Yard Hotel, Monday, seven o’clock. Come alone. Very cloak and dagger; I felt like a character in a David Baldacci novel.
When I hung up, my cell phone rang again. I expected to hear Metzger’s voice telling me something she’d forgotten, but it was Sheriff Horne breaking the news that Abit was missing in Kentucky. He promised to let me know as soon as he heard anything.
I wasn’t budging until I knew Abit was safe. I paced around my apartment, loaded the Jeep, walked Rascal, and killed time in the store with Mary Lou.
It was already dark when Horne reported that Abit was okay. I had a good cry, grabbed Rascal, and took off for D.C. in spite of the late hour; I knew the route better than my GPS.
Rascal was the perfect passenger, curling up on the backseat and sleeping most of the way. He’d wanted to ride shotgun, and I’d wanted him there, but I knew if I’d had to slam on the brakes, the little guy wouldn’t have stood a chance. When I parked in front of Alex’s home in Georgetown, Rascal hopped out and marked the big oak tree in the front yard, expanding his territory four hundred and fifty miles.
We’d gotten in so late I didn’t even want to know what time it was; I just crashed. The next day Alex relaunched our homecoming with a midday meal he’d planned for the evening before: grilled lamb chops marinated in lemon juice, olive oil, and rosemary and a bottle of 1989 Bourgogne Pinot Noir. We ate slowly and caught up on our news. I told him what little I knew about Abit’s latest adventure, and once I assured him Abit wasn’t hurt badly, I could see how proud he was of “our boy,” a term he’d started using back when Abit was a boy.
Eventually we got around to my rendezvous with the FBI. When I explained to Alex what little I knew about the meetup with Agent Metzger, he insisted on coming along. “To hell with her demand to come alone,” he said, genuine concern darkening his face. I knew he expected me to object, but to be honest, I was relieved. I’d been away from D.C. long enough to lose my bravado, especially in the District’s shadier areas.
On Monday, Alex drove us to the address—a small old hotel near the Navy Yard. I saw a woman sitting in the lobby who had to be Metzger. It felt as though I should utter a code word, but the meeting turned out to be nothing like that.
She stood as we approached and smiled. “Hello, I’m Agent Metzger. I know you must be Della Kincaid. I used to enjoy reading your articles.” She looked over at Alex and frowned. “I said to come alone.”
Alex stuck out his hand. “Alex Covington. And I play racquet ball with your boss, if that helps.”
“Oh, yeah? Anyone could say that.”
“Okay, he has a Semper Fi tattoo on his ass.” She looked at him strangely, and he added, “Which I noticed in the changing room after racquet ball.”
Metzger laughed. “I suppose that doesn’t narrow it down much, given how many Always-a-Marines roam the Earth, but I believe you. And I recognize your byline. Great job on the Social Security series.”
Now that both our egos had been burnished, we relaxed. As I looked around the slipping-toward-seedy hotel, it hit me that Metzger hadn’t been worried so much about me bringing someone from my side as being seen by anyone from hers.
The meeting didn’t last long. I placed a box of reports, lists, research, and a detailed summary of my findings on the table in front of her; she put the box in a duffle bag without looking inside.
“Thanks for your kind words, Agent Metzger, about my reporter days,” I said. “I was a good enough reporter to know how valuable this information will be in the right hands, and I’ve compiled some good intel for your review. But I’m also a good enough reporter to know I don’t have enough. And I don’t have the ability to get more.”
“That’s where I come in.” She went back to all business and let us know we were done when she stood and hoisted the duffle. “Be sure to thank Ezra for me. If this material is what I think it is, I plan to thank him myself. Without his recommendation, I doubt I would have taken you seriously. I wish I could keep you informed, but with any luck, you’ll see the results in a 40-point headline.” We shook hands and started to walk away.
“Oh, one other thing,” Metzger said. “Do you have any idea who this whistleblower is?”
I shook my head. “Just that he’s a hero.”
(It seems only fair to mention that a couple of years later Westonia Bank was fined and sold off, ensuring most of its transgressions would be hidden in capitalism’s dark basement until its name was forgotten. Or until, with any luck, some future dogged journalist starts digging.)
Chapter 63: Abit
Fiona and Conor came home!
When I saw them walk through the security gate in Asheville, it felt as though my heart started beating again. I could’ve sworn Conor had grown. He seemed bigger and older, even though it had been only a few weeks. I guess that’s what world travel does for you. I hoped to give it a try.
But Conor wasn’t too big to pick up and squeeze. As I held him close, all the tensions of the past weeks just left me. Usually when I put him down, he’d run off, but this time he stayed close and took my hand. I didn’t pick up Fiona and squeeze her (though I wanted to), but I did give her a big
kiss—and got one back.
We talked and talked on the drive home. Her father was going to be fine after some treatments Fiona helped with. Their weather hadn’t been as rainy as ours, so they’d traveled a good bit round Clifden, and Conor got to meet all kinds of relatives.
My shot-off ear was on the left side, so she couldn’t see the wound. I could tell Fiona was too give out to hear about all that, so I just gave her the basics and promised to tell her more over breakfast in bed.
It was late when we pulled up the drive toward home. I’d put Mollie inside with an early dinner since it would be dark when we got back. When our headlights hit the house, we could see her fuzzy face parting the curtains in the upstairs window as she stood on our bed. By the time we came inside, she’d gotten all settled looking on the oval rug in the living room, certain she’d fooled us into thinking she’d been there all evening.
After their long time away, Mollie musta thought it was just me coming home. Dogs were like that, content, after a time, to settle in with whoever would feed them. But when she saw Fiona and Conor, she went over to the boy, put her head against him, and made the most pitiful crying sounds. Before long, though, those two were romping round on the rug like the old friends they were. As they played, I bent over to touch my boy’s head, and Fiona saw my ear.
“Jaysus, Joseph, and Mary! What in the world happened to ye, Rabbit?”
Her hand reached for my ear, like she was gonna soothe the wound, but I took hold of it just in time. “Nothing that won’t heal in a week or two. Let’s not talk about it now.” Normally that wouldn’t be enough to calm her, but she was too weary to argue.
The next morning, she was up before me, what with the big time difference and her body clock off, so I didn’t get to make her breakfast in bed. When I heard her up, I found a piece of paper and wrote a note, promising it another time, no expiration date.
I went downstairs and hugged her while she stood at the stove. After a while, she told me to take a seat. She’d made me something I’d had at Nigel’s oncet: a fine English breakfast with sunny-side up eggs and bacon and fried bread and tomatoes and mushrooms. And tea and toast and marmalade.
“Wonderful,” I said between bites. “A full English!”
“Make that a full Irish,” she said, but she was just kidding. Even after a trip back home, she didn’t harbor bad feelings against the Brits.
I’d set the note at her place, and when she read it, she leaned over and kissed me. Her eyes were kinda puffy, but she looked happy to be home.
Around ten o’clock, I made a pot of coffee, and we sat together while Conor played outside with Mollie. We could hear him laughing, which was a sharp contrast to what I had to tell Fiona. I fumbled round for the right words until she said, “Rabbit, just come out with it. Don’t sugar-coat it. That ear of yours frightened me last night, but as long as you’re standing safe and sound in front of me, I know I can take it.”
So I told her about “The Peddler and His Wife” and Kentucky and the overturned coal truck and the noisy hawk and, well, everything. Her hand flew to her mouth when I told her about Marshall White. He’d even fooled Fiona, queen of the Irish gypsies.
“That bastard took half your ear off. Let me look closer,” she said. When I bent my head over, she just kissed it and added, “Whoever tended to you did a fine job.” I heard her voice tremble, and next thing I knew, she threw her arms round me and cried ‘til my shirt was wet.
After that she asked lots of questions about Marshall and what happened next; I filled her in best I could. “He’s on the run, honey. But the FBI figures he’s headed for Winston-Salem.” I explained about the fancy hotel and “Poor Ellen Smith.”
“Well, he’s taken murder ballads to a new low. I don’t ever want to play one again—I don’t care how pretty Polly is or how wise Omie is!” She did that little foot-stamping thing. I was trying to comfort her when she jerked away. “What happened to Vern?”
“He’s with family services here in the county. His babysitter was looking after him while Marshall was terrorizing Kentucky, but then the authorities took him somewhere. That’s all I know.”
“Oh Rabbit, he should come here and be with Conor. They are more than friends; they’re closer than some brothers.” She got up to make some calls, and I knew nothing would stop her ‘til that lad was sitting on our front porch.
Chapter 64: Abit
Marshall was still on the loose, but I wasn’t worried about the seventy-three-day ticking clock anymore. He’d blown that the week before when he’d left the peddler and his wife alive.
The FBI was crawling all over the hotel in Winston-Salem, and a couple of agents stayed round Harlan County. But I figured Marshall woulda been crazier than we already knew if he were hanging out there.
I called Wallis to bring him up to date on Marshall. He hollered into the phone something about that SON OF A BISCUIT, stopping his rant long enough to tell me how much he liked my made-up swearword and hoped I didn’t mind him borrowing it. I laughed and said I was proud it was up to his standards. Then I told him what I’d really called about: without his know-how, the FBI would still have their heads up their BLUNDERBUSS. His turn to laugh before telling me to come see him soon.
Life for us had started up again. I was working on some orders, finishing up one I’d needed an extension on. When I told the customer I’d had my ear shot off chasing a dangerous criminal, the woman told me she’d read about that in the Mountain Weekly and for me to take all the time I needed. She added something about how the table was worth even more now that it was by someone famous. That sounded kinda silly to me, but I reckon it was her nerves talking.
Fiona was back working at the hospital after a coupla extra days off getting used to Eastern Time again. And Vern had, indeed, come to stay with us, for now. He didn’t ask much about what had happened to his father, but you could tell he was confused. We all felt sorry for the little guy and were doing everything we could to make things seem normal. When Conor and Vern asked after Marshall, I just told them he was away on a gig. A gig from hell.
It was my turn to make supper that evening, so round four o’clock I headed to the kitchen. Conor ran in and asked if he and Vern could go down to the creek and play. “Okay, but don’t get your shoes wet. Take them off before going in the water.” He laughed at me—I guess that was obvious, even to an 8-year-old—and ran off with Vern.
When Fiona got home just after five o’clock, she asked after the boys. I was in the throes of cooking, so I told her to take a beer down to the creek where she’d find them. A nice way to leave work behind—a creek, a beer, two boys.
A few minutes later, she came running home, hollering at me through the open kitchen window. “The boys aren’t there, Abit.” I looked out where she was standing, holding two little pairs of shoes.
Sheriff Horne drove over right after we called. When he came into the house, he gave me a nod, a gesture I took as an apology for making fun of Wallis’ and my theories. But that didn’t matter to me anymore; I just wanted to find our boys. Besides, I’d heard about Mary Lou and Duane getting back together, and while I was happy for my old friend, the dark circles under Airhorn’s eyes reminded me of the heartache he was suffering.
Fiona came downstairs after I called up to her. We sat together in the living room and Airhorn said soothing things like we’ll get those boys back and they likely just wandered off. Then we told him everything we could think of. We wanted to make sure he knew, like we did, that it was Marshall who had our boys. No question about it. I’d seen the emptiness in his eyes, just from that quick look I got before he shot at me.
One good thing: Fiona and I hadn’t started snapping at one anothern with blame. Who could’ve known it wasn’t safe for two little boys to play on their own farm?
That night we couldn’t sleep not knowing where our boys were. The next morning, Fiona called in sick again—sick at heart was as real as a cold or cough. We didn’t bother making any breakfast; neith
er one of us could have eaten a bite. I did perk some coffee, and when I brought a couple cups into the living room, I noticed an envelope stuck under our front door.
Chapter 65: Abit
Fiona tore open the envelope.
Marshall musta sneaked up during the night and stuffed the ransom note under our door. During all that time I’d stared at the ceiling, wide awake, why couldn’t I have heard him and caught him on our porch? And why for oncet in her life couldn’t Mollie have barked? I usually liked her being so quiet, but not that time.
Fiona let out a howl when she read what he wanted: $20,000. “... enough money to get away and start over,” he wrote. Like we were friends, and he was just asking for a small loan to tide him over. “Where would we ever get that kind of money, Rabbit?”
“We could mortgage the farm—again.” I’d sunk all my inheritance, small as it was, into the farm, but I’d sell everything I owned to get those boys back.
Stoltz took over from Airhorn oncet it was an official kidnapping. He arrived little more than an hour after the sheriff’s call. I don’t know how he made that trip so fast, but I was grateful he cared enough to risk his own neck on those windy roads. I asked after Curtis; he was due back from Charlotte that afternoon.
I introduced Stoltz to Fiona, and she left to go make tea. We talked some but it wasn’t ‘til she came back and served us that we got down to the real business at hand.
The plan was to meet up with Marshall, who’d given us the deadline of nine o’clock that evening. He also included instructions on how to find him and the boys. Sounded like Marshall planned to leave Vern behind when he “started over.”
Murder Ballad Blues Page 19