A Treasure to Die For

by Radine Trees Nehring

  She listened again, heard no voices, and finally turned on the flashlight to do a more exact survey. Numerous footprints and what looked like drag marks led through heavy dust to an open door on their right. A pile of old looking construction trash was heaped against the wall next to them. Carrie saw a short piece of metal pipe sticking out of the pile and pulled it loose to take with her.

  Realizing their footprints would be as obvious as the others were, she took Eleanor’s hand and they walked in the existing tracks as far as the door. Eleanor stepped around it on tiptoe, flattened against the wall, and pulled the door back to shield her body from view.

  Carrie inspected the hiding place. It looked safe. Unless someone beamed a flashlight directly on Eleanor from the entry door, she’d be completely hidden.

  The tracks led through a small hallway to a flight of stairs. A few steps down the stairs turned left, so she couldn’t see the bottom.

  She turned the flashlight off and stopped to listen. Women’s voices. A slapping sound. Man’s voice, “Hey.” Not Henry. Brad Jorgenson?

  Faint light from below, voices barely audible, so the stairs didn’t open into the room where the speakers were.

  She started down the stairs, bracing a hand against the wall, feeling carefully for each step.

  The stairs ended in another hall. Bright light came through a door on her right. Propane lantern? Evidently the room had no outside windows. If it did the light could probably be seen from the Promenade, perhaps identified as a fire. That would sure get attention.

  The hallway she stood in was between the front of the building and the lighted room. There were several closed doors on her left and, testing, she turned a knob. It moved silently, and she opened the door to see the glow of Central Avenue lights through the window of a closet-like room.

  What next? She moved into the small room, pushed the door partly closed, and wondered if she should go back and tell Eleanor where she was. She could send her to let Gwen know it would be easy for her to signal anyone on Central.

  But first she had to see if Henry was in that lighted room.

  The women were talking about Henry King and she recognized both Greta’s and Martha’s voices. They were discussing just what she had assumed, that Marcus Trotter thought her Henry was someone who knew where money was hidden back in the ‘60s.

  Henry must be in there because Greta was telling Martha this Henry was not a local man, but only a member of her Elderhostel group.

  Carrie had heard enough. Time to get help.

  She started out of her hiding place but was stopped by slow, measured footsteps coming down the stairs. Eleanor? She ducked back to wait and see.

  She was about to risk another look when a dark shape went past in the hallway and moved silently to stand in the shadows at the side of the lighted door. The person was listening as intently as she had been. A man. Was it Marcus Trotter? She couldn’t tell.

  Oh, if only it could be Agent Bell. How was she going to get out now and alert everyone? Once more she had let her impulses drive her into an impossible situation, and the drumbeat of her heart was keeping time to words banging in her head, What now? What now? What now? She hoped Eleanor had seen the man and gone for help.

  She could tell, even in the semi-dark, that the man was agitated by what the two women were saying. He shifted his weight from one foot to another and moved his hands rapidly up and down the sides of his body. Finally his hand jerked into a pocket and came out with a hand gun. Light from the lantern was strong enough to reveal its unmistakable shape as he attached a silencer to the barrel.

  Now Martha Jones was telling Greta that her brother Mark was the one who killed Everett Bogardus!

  The watching man jerked to attention, lifted the gun. He could see what was happening in the room, but Carrie couldn’t.

  Oh, God, what am I going to do? Help me, help me! Help all of us. Oh, please, please.

  The man brought his other hand up to steady the gun and walked into the room. Greta cried out and a male voice grunted. Was that Henry?

  Carrie hurried out of her hiding place to stand where the man had been, but she was afraid to risk a glance around the door frame. He must be just inside, and everyone would be looking toward him.

  Was there a second entrance? She backed away from the opening and went around the stairs to the opposite end of the hall. Yes, another door. The light wasn’t as bright here so that must mean the action was centered around the door where the man had been standing. Should she go get Eleanor now, alert the FBI?

  The man and Martha were yelling at each other. He sure sounded like Trotter, and he wasn’t pleased that she had brought Greta here, or that she had a gun herself. “You fool,” he said. “A shot can be heard. Use your drugs.”

  “I remind you your gun makes noise too, even with that silencer. But I had no intention of using mine; I was simply entertaining your baby sister. I fully intend to get rid of these people the quiet way.”

  A thunk and a cry from Martha had Carrie hugging the door frame to peer carefully around its edge.

  Henry! He was locked inside a steam cabinet angled to face the other door, and a young man, presumably Brad Jorgenson, was inside a second one. Martha Jones was slumped on the floor next to the cabinets. She seemed to be unconscious; evidently Trotter had hit her. Greta huddled against her brother’s chest, sobbing.

  NOW! Go for help. Carrie went up the stairs as fast as she dared, grabbed for the door Eleanor was hiding behind.

  Eleanor? She was gone! Gone for help?

  Where...? Quick, turn on flashlight, where, where? Search...there, footsteps, new drag marks, no, oh, no. ELEANOR! Follow the drag marks...another empty room.

  Oh, Holy God! NO! Carrie almost shouted her friend’s name, but choked the sound off in time.

  One end of Eleanor’s bright red scarf was around her neck...slip knot, Carrie recognized that. The other end was tied to an exposed ceiling beam. Eleanor’s wide, terrified eyes pleaded with her. She was gagged with a handkerchief, her hands were tied, her ankles too. The tips of her toes were braced against the back of a broken, three-legged chair that was almost, but not quite, out of her reach.

  Dear God, oh, help us, help! Have to get her down.

  Something to climb on...I’m not tall enough...something to cut that scarf.

  She jerked her flashlight around the room, saw nothing to stand on except the chair balanced so precariously under Eleanor’s toes. Was Eleanor breathing?

  Hold on just another minute, dear, dear Eleanor.

  Hurry, hurry. To the door. Up the steps, jump down. Could Gwen and Jason see her? Wave arms. Hurry to edge of roof. There, there! They were running toward her.

  “Gwen, Jason—Eleanor needs help. Inside. Quick! On the left.”

  As they rushed forward she continued, “I’ve been hiding on the floor below. Quiet—Marcus Trotter has gun—Henry and Brad there—locked in steam cabinets. Greta Hunt, Martha Rae Jones there too—Jones is down now—not for long, I think. Be careful. Help Eleanor.”

  As soon as Gwen was close enough, she reached for Carrie’s hand and, this time, Carrie didn’t resist. Instead she pulled the young woman across the roof of the building and up the wooden stairs. Jason had run ahead of them and was already through the door.

  Were they in time? How awful that Jason would have to see Eleanor like this and know her best friend Carrie had brought this danger and pain to her. Terrible, terrible thing for a friend to do.

  She waited long enough to see Jason grab his wife’s legs, lift the weight of her body. Eleanor was still strong enough to keep her knees locked as he lifted.

  She was alive, alive!

  Gwen had her knife out and was balancing on the broken chair, reaching up to cut the red scarf.

  Oh, please, let her be unhurt!

  As they eased Eleanor down, Carrie began tip-toeing toward the stairway. This room might be directly over the room where Henry was.

  Nothing looked different when she re
turned to her place by the doorway. How was it they hadn’t heard the commotion above? These old buildings must have thick walls and floors, and maybe Greta’s sobs, still loud in the silence, had masked any noise the three of them made. After all, she hadn’t heard that evil man drag Eleanor away and tie her to the beam, and Eleanor wouldn’t have gone without a fight.

  Trotter was still holding Greta and had turned away from where Martha Jones lay. There was no sign of her gun. He obviously didn’t consider the woman a threat to him, conscious or not, and was more interested in comforting his sister. Greta’s eyes were shut, her head lying against his chest.

  Neither of them could see Martha Jones when she began to move. She lifted her head, only inches at first, then slithered backwards across the floor like a snake in reverse. Where was she headed? To get something? Whatever it was must be on the other side of those steam cabinets.

  Could Henry or Brad see Martha? No, she was crawling against the wall of the cabinet Henry was in, and the metal itself would shield her from their view.

  Carrie wondered if she should scream something about Martha. Trotter could stop her movement; he still held his gun in the hand that wasn’t holding his sister. But, she decided, if he was alerted he’d want to shoot Carrie McCrite, not Martha Jones. And all she had for her own defense was a piece of pipe.

  Martha had slithered out of sight, and Carrie began to shift from one foot to another just as she’d seen Trotter do earlier. What was the woman up to?

  Brother and sister were talking; he was urging her to go back to her Elderhostel group and forget all that she had seen tonight. He would take care of Martha Jones, he would take care of everything. She shouldn’t worry.

  “Will you set these men free?”

  “Of course, little Greta, right away, as soon as you’re safely gone.”

  But Carrie didn’t believe a word of that. He couldn’t afford witnesses.

  And neither could Martha, who had now come back into view just behind Henry’s head.

  There was a hypodermic needle in her hand, and she was reaching toward Henry’s neck.

  ...get rid of them the quiet way...

  Wild heat raged through Carrie and, without a second thought or consciously willing it, she cried out as loudly as she could and vaulted across the floor, holding the pipe in both hands. She swung toward Marcus Trotter’s head as she passed him, connecting with something, then leaped behind the steam cabinet, flinging herself against Martha, lifting the pipe to aim a blow at the arm with the deadly-looking needle.

  “Don’t you touch him!” Carrie yelled as she brought the pipe down on Martha’s arm with a horrendous, bone-breaking crack.

  Chapter XXVI

  Carrie and Henry

  For an instant there was no sound at all.

  Then Brad’s voice said,“Wow, oh, wow, did you see her?”

  That was just before Martha Rae Jones began shrieking and Greta Hunt’s wails joined the racket.

  Henry didn’t blame Martha for crying. Her arm had to be broken, and Carrie was now grabbing her by the hair to drag her away from the steam cabinets, the hypodermic needle, and the bag of lethal drugs.

  Would Carrie be able to tie her up, tie Marcus Trotter too, all by herself? Trotter lay on the floor and, for the present at least, he wasn’t moving. Carrie’s pipe had connected with his head, so he probably posed no immediate threat, and Henry saw Carrie pick up Trotter’s gun as she tugged Martha past him.

  Henry began to undo his belt. If he and Brad could get their belts out of the neck holes of these confounded cabinets, Carrie would then be able to use them for securing Martha. With Martha tied and Trotter unconscious, she’d have time to undo the cabinet locks and let him out so he could help her with the rest of it.

  The rest of what? She was doing okay by herself.

  Next to him, Brad cleared his throat. “Um, who IS that woman?” he asked. “You know her?”

  “Yes...guess I do,” Henry said. “And I’ve decided I’m going to marry her.”

  “Well, um, okay then, if it’s what you want. But buddy, you don’t ever wanna make her mad at you...”

  Brad went on—talking to himself now. “All she had was a pipe. Gotta get me one of those.”

  Henry began laughing, and that changed to a smile of relief as Agent Bell slid into the room, looked around quickly, then put his gun away. He went to lock handcuffs on Marcus Trotter and the weeping Greta Hunt. Gently, Henry noticed, he pulled Martha Jones away from Carrie, looked at the woman’s arm, and handed her over to one of the FBI agents who, along with two park rangers and Gwen Taylor, had come into the room behind Bell.

  He hoped someone let him out soon; he needed to go to Carrie. She’d slid down the wall where Bell left her and was sitting on the floor, arms loose, legs extended like those of a limp rag doll. Her eyes looked glazed, staring out at the room. She was probably in shock and needed him to hold her in his arms.

  Over. It was over, and she felt like a rag doll with the stuffing leaked out. All of a sudden her stuffing had drained away somewhere in this room, and she couldn’t even lift her hands.

  Languidly she watched Gwen go over to Officer Jorgenson...Brad. Hmmm. Gwen and Brad. She wondered if they were friends—or was this just one police officer helping another?

  Why didn’t someone let Henry out? If only she could walk, she’d...

  Gwen was talking to the good-looking young officer as if they knew each other well. She’d managed to open the top doors on his cabinet. Now their conversation seemed more intense, as if she were trying to convince him of something.

  Oh. Oh-oh. Gwen opened the lower door, helped Brad stand. He must have been in that cabinet for what...ten hours? Gwen put Brad’s arm around her shoulders so he could lean against her back. Together the two of them moved out of the room.

  Carrie smiled. Their positions almost shielded the big wet spot on the front of the young man’s pants. Under the circumstances, she was probably the only one who saw it.

  She wondered about Henry. There were public rest-rooms up on the Promenade. If she could just get her stuffing back, she’d be able to take him there. She shut her eyes and wished someone would let Henry out of his box and that Agent Bell would come back to talk with her. She needed to tell him Greta Hunt was an innocent bystander in all of this and he should let her go.

  He had to let her go; they couldn’t continue the Elderhostel without her. The trip to the crystal mine was coming up, and Carrie didn’t intend to miss that. It was, after all, the main reason she was here in Hot Springs.

  Chapter XXVII

  Carrie and Henry

  Law enforcement ranger Jake Kandler was the one who finally freed Henry. The big man opened the steam cabinet doors easily, helped Henry stand, helped him take his first steps. After a brief interlude outside, Kandler accompanied Henry back into what he identified as the former men’s dressing room in the Quapaw Bathhouse.

  Ignoring the activity in the room, Henry sat on the floor beside Carrie and, without a word, pulled her onto his lap, holding her against his chest. That’s when the tears started. She was still limp as a rag doll, and eventually he had to help her look in her pockets for the tissues she always carried.

  After a blessed period of quiet she was just beginning to wiggle when Agent Brooks appeared beside them.

  “Hear you’re quite a menace with a pipe,” he said to Carrie, “if what Trotter and Jones say is true, that is. Feel ready to talk about it?”

  She lifted her head far enough to shake it, then leaned back against Henry.

  “Okay, we’ll talk later.”

  “You must release Greta,” she said then, finding her voice. “It’s true she was the one who told Marcus Trotter and Martha Rae Jones about Everett coming to the Elderhostel, but that was innocent, nothing to do with money. Her brother rarely came to visit her, and I bet she hoped that the chance to meet Everett, whom she knew to be the son of one of his old-time friends, would bring him here for a visit. As for Mar
tha Rae, Greta talked with her daughter, and they believed getting her to come would erase past ghosts and help Martha find new friends. Greta may be naive, but criminal stuff couldn’t be further from her thought. She’s not like that.

  “I saw Bell put handcuffs on her...you’ve got to let her go.”

  “What Carrie says is true,” Henry added. “I was here while Jones and Hunt had the conversation that proves it. Carrie evidently overheard the same thing.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Brooks said. “You two wait here.”

  Henry managed a laugh. He doubted either of them could get five steps away from this spot without being stopped by some agent or ranger anyway, though Carrie’s strength seemed to be returning and he was sure she’d soon be able to walk.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what now. Guess we just wait.”

  In a few minutes Agent Bell came back into the room with Greta, sans handcuffs, and a strange man who hovered over her. Husband, probably.

  “Got to get up, talk to Greta,” Carrie said as she slid off his lap, braced a hand against the wall, and stood. She insisted on walking to Greta on her own. Henry followed, expecting to hear her offer gentle words of comfort to their Elderhostel coordinator. He was touched by this concern in the face of all Carrie herself had undergone.

  He’d noticed, though, that Greta looked more resigned than sad. He suspected she’d known at least something about her brother’s criminal connections, no matter how innocent she seemed. Nevertheless, as Carrie touched Greta’s hand, he tried to think about words of comfort he, too, could say.

  But Carrie began briskly, talking to Greta as if this evening had never happened. “We haven’t had a chance to thank you for all your work organizing this wonderful Elderhostel,” she said, “and I wanted you to know how much we’re looking forward to the crystal mine trip. You’re doing a great job, Greta. Keep up the good work.”