Chapter 32
Rejuvenated from her walk and additional caffeine intake, Perri returned to the library and had just begun the climb up the stairs to the second floor when her phone rang. It sounded incredibly raucous in the hush of the lobby; she had forgotten to turn it to vibrate. She hustled back outside onto the wet sidewalk to take the call. It was Tom, “Tom? What’s up, have you found her?”
“No, but she called my phone.”
“Where is she? Is she ok?” Her questions came out a little breathless.
“I don’t know, we don’t know. It wasn’t her phone. Archer says it was probably some disposable thing.”
“Well, what did she say?” Perri was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet in anticipation, willing Tom to spit it out. He reported the rest of the conversation to Perri in a mechanical voice. “Hey, we’re going to find her.”
“We will, I know.” Tom realized Perri didn’t yet know about Eleanor positively identifying Roger Morris. He related their visit to her at Helen McEwan’s house that morning, then asked Perri, “Have you had any luck there?”
“Yes and no. The yes part is that I found a description of the knife in some notes written by a Civil War Captain who knew the man who had the knife. The no part is that he was so bedazzled by the knife that in his enthusiasm to describe it he managed to avoid naming the man who owned it. But, it does narrow it down to a specific regiment and company for me. I’m going through another box of documents that came up on the search too, I just haven’t discovered a reference to it yet. I’m headed back in now. I’ll call you if I find anything I think will help.”
“Please do. Remember, I only have until three o’clock before they call back. I’m not sure what will happen after that.”
With a sober nod of her head that Tom couldn’t see over the phone, Perri said goodbye. She returned to the research table she had previously occupied, unpacked the archive box again, and worked her way to the letters at the bottom of the stack with renewed purpose.
She looked back to her notes to get her bearings on what she should look for. Tom had told her that a man named Roger Morris had found the knife in Alabama. Circumstances had altered the path of the knife causing it to end up in Nina’s unsuspecting hands instead of the hands of its intended buyer. Who was the buyer? The buyer could be anywhere. She had no reason to believe anything in these documents from the 19th century would tell her who a buyer in the 21st century was, but she was doing something, and that’s what mattered right now.
‘Where are you?’ She pressed the end of her pencil against her chin as she commenced reading the flowery script of the letters.
***
They didn’t bring her into the house this time, and this time she wasn’t asked to put on the hood. Instead, she was instructed to face the rear wall of shelves, the ones she had run into during the night. This time, someone covered her eyes with a cloth and tied it, very tightly, behind her head. It felt suspiciously like the belt from her robe. Some of her hair was caught in the knot and pulled. Nina reached up to try to loosen the offending hairs only to have her arm soundly slapped down. “Hey!”
“Keep your hands down.” The Matron from Hell was back. “Time for you to make a call.”
“How am I going to make a call if I can’t move?”
The next voice was not the Matron’s, it belonged to The Voice. “I do apologize for the accommodations here, Mrs. Watkins, or may I call you Nina?”
“If calling me Nina will get me out of here, please do. But you haven’t told me what to call you.”
A soft chortle reached Nina’s ears, which were not covered by the blindfold. “Now, Nina, we’ve been through this already once before. There is no need for you to call me anything at all.”
Nina bit back a smart-aleck remark and waited.
“I believe it is two o’clock, time to call your husband back. I want to go through with you what you are to say to him. I do not want you to vary from it. If you do, the call ends and…well, so does your safety.”
“Meaning I’m safe right now? I don’t think so.” Nina couldn’t help herself.
“You are safe. Right now. Let’s not alter that arrangement.”
“You said it’s two o’clock? You told Tom three o’clock. You are calling too early.” Her breath became more rapid.
“He was told to have the knife in his possession by three o’clock and that he would receive another call.”
Nina could hear the scuff of hard soled shoes on stone. “Let’s go through what I want you to say. I’ll have you repeat it to me to be sure you have it correct. Then my assistant will dial the phone for you and hold it to your ear. When your husband answers, you will repeat it, then the call will be ended.”
Nina was eager to talk to Tom again, if only for a few seconds and she wasn’t allowed to hear what he had to say. “Tell me what you want me to say. Let’s make the call, let’s get it done. They’ll be tracing it because I called earlier, and they’ll know where we are.”
“You are correct that the location of a call from a cell phone can be traced, instantaneously so. Unlike movie and television scripts where a call is untraceable unless the caller hangs on for a minimum amount of time, today’s cell phones are immediately traceable.”
“Good, then the police will be on their way soon.”
“Before you become overly confident, I feel it is only fair to tell you that the call you made earlier today, and the call you are about to make, were not made directly to your husband’s phone.”
Nina was confused. “Yes, it was, I talked to him.”
“Oh, you did? Did you hear him talk to you? What did Tom have to say to you?”
Nina opened her mouth to answer but realized she hadn’t heard Tom’s voice, other than when he answered. “He said ‘Hello’ when he answered the call.” Her chin lifted defiantly.
“You heard a man say hello to you because that is what you expected to hear. Do you recall that? I’m sorry but that wasn’t Tom.”
“Then who was it? And how does Tom know what to do if you didn’t call him? You had to call him at some point.”
“Oh, we did, my dear, we did, don’t get flustered. But you underestimate me, I believe.”
Nina heard the frosty edge in The Voice that hadn’t been present before and realized she wasn’t dealing with a country gentleman just trying to settle a faintly amusing disagreement. She said nothing, just waited.
“You were indeed talking into a cell phone. We asked you for his number and you gave it to use, then we dialed a number, but it wasn’t his. You are most likely the owner of a smartphone, are you not?” Nina nodded. “I’m sure that you are aware of the fantastic array of apps for phones. There is more than one application that allows a call to be recorded and replayed later. Your message was recorded on a cell phone, we wanted you to believe you were talking to Tom. Much more convincing to have that sharp glint of despair. We certainly didn’t want to contact Tom with the same phone we used here. Instead, we replayed your message and recorded it again on a simple hand-held device, now considered low tech. I believe they used to call them dictation units. They use microcassettes. Awful things that stretch and break, but perfect for our purpose. They are very easy to destroy.”
Nina tasted sour bile in her throat. The Voice warmed to his subject and elaborated further, “The signal of the phone on which you recorded the message will not be traced because it was never used to make contact. That microcassette recording was played to Tom through another one-time use phone from a location quite remote from this one and then discarded. I’m sure the police, maybe even your friend Detective Vaughn, have that phone in their possession even as we speak, but it will lead them nowhere. The extent of their knowledge is where the call originated and that’s all.”
“Now, since you are fully aware of our process, I see no need to use a phone with the application at all. We’ll just have you speak directly to the recorder. You’ve saved us a modicum of time and troubl
e. Let’s go through your script.”
***
“No financials on Roger Morris.” Archer slapped a manila folder down on his desk, startling Tom who was looking out the window. He also set down the plastic tackle-box filled with foam that contained the knife in its scabbard.
“Who doesn’t have any credit cards or bank cards?” Tom said in disbelief.
“It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them. It means he stopped using them ten days ago. He’s getting money to travel and live on somewhere else, or he had enough cash put away to fund himself while he’s on the road.”
“So again, untraceable.” Exasperation clearly evident in Tom’s voice.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Tom looked up sharply at Archer, “What do you mean?”
“Roger is married. He has a wife. Valerie Morris. Chuck is working on tracking her down and contacting her right now. Maybe she knows where he is or can at least give us some information to help find the guy. Surely he checks in with her now and then.”
“What if she doesn’t want to cooperate?”
“It will be better for her if she does and we’ll make sure she is totally aware of that fact.”
“What if she refuses?”
Archer sat down. “People usually come around.”
Chapter 33
The time had passed too quickly for Perri as the three o’clock deadline loomed. There were more letters than she had estimated, being written on both sides of the thin paper. The stack had appeared less daunting than it turned out to be. It was slow reading at times too. The letters were from a mother, Elizabeth, to her son, Isaac and were written between 1891 to 1902. There were no letters from Isaac to his mother included in the box. Perri tried to piece together this portion of their lives from Elizabeth’s side of the story.
It was 2:27 in the afternoon and she had worked her way up to 1899. Apparently, Isaac’s father was ailing from an undisclosed malady. Judging by some of the references, he was no longer a middle-aged man, but was quite elderly. As the pages of the 1899 calendar flipped past, the tone of the letters became more somber.
There was no letter from Elizabeth informing Isaac of his father’s death. Isaac was probably notified by someone else while his mother was in mourning and that letter either didn’t survive or wasn’t included here. There were only three letters remaining. Perri arched her back and flexed her shoulders, and began the third letter. It read:
My Dear Isaac,
How are you son? My days here are long since the passing of your father. He is greatly missed and I do not know what to do with myself. I hope you and your good wife are well. Your brother writes to me that you have started a brewing house of your own now. I am comfortable with this news. I think you will have a prosperous business in your new home in Virginia.
I must address that which I regret very much. As Matthew informed me, you are not well pleased that you did not receive your father’s side arm upon his death as you were entitled.
Perri sucked in her breath a little at this revelation. This was the closest she had come to linking the knife with a name.
Please forgive my failure to have it sent to you. Jasper, your late father, meant the world to me and I have been completely lost without him. When he passed I was heartbroken and did not remember all my responsibilities. Lucinda has been a great help to me, but she did not know this was to be done. I know how very adamant you were about receiving it to keep, but I think though we can be assured that your father’s repose will be serene to have been laid to rest with that which was his especial favorite, having been in service with him for long years and seen much at his side. He always much-admired Thomas’s work and valued his friendship. The knife he made for your father served him through battles in the War. His stone is well made. I think you would be pleased to see it.
Perri’s pulse didn’t so much increase as she was sure she had just produced a PAC, a premature atrial contraction. When the pacing signal of the heart is a little delayed by something such as stress, shock, or illness, it causes a palpitation or the sensation of a missed beat. Perri knew the feeling well enough; she’d had issues with it after her divorce and the stress it caused. She coughed, which usually helped, and finished the letter.
If I may ask a favor from you as my oldest son, I will. I know that I am following not far behind your father, which is not a cause for sadness but to me is a comfort. I would be grateful if you will be certain of some things for me when the time is here, even though I have not been as dutiful myself. Lucinda knows the dress I wish to be buried in, the green taffeta that your father had made for me the holiday after we moved here to this little hillock north of the Port of Mobile. You were a young man at school. I remember well how proud your father was when the house was built and he christened it Graham Hall, like a stately mansion. I also strongly wish that you leave on my finger the ring your father placed there upon his request to marry me. I have worn the ring nigh seventy years and would loathe to part with it even in death. And truly, I think it would be discomfiting to any other lady to wear the ring bearing a personal inscription between two others.
Perri’s mind was swirling around these details. She breathed deeply and tried to calm the cyclone of bits and pieces of new information long enough to fit them together. She checked the time, 2:32. ‘Finish the letter.’
So please consider this for me as your loving mother. I will enjoy hearing from you and knowing about how your business goes. Please take care of yourself and Hannah and give my love to her and to Benjamin also. Matthew has said Benjamin is to begin a new job teaching at a university near there in Richmond. He is such a fine young gentleman and I’m sure you and Hannah are proud of him.
Your loving mother,
Elizabeth
Perri knew this was the link, this was what she needed, but she had to organize her thoughts to be able to pass the information on to Tom even though she wasn’t sure yet how it would help. She had found a link between the knife and the ring which she hadn’t expected, as well as proof they were both from Alabama. She still needed to be sure of a last name to be able to link the knife to a family. It was 2:38. She wanted to call Tom but what if he was getting another call from Nina? He had said ‘by 3:00’ not that the call would come right at three o’clock. No, she thought, wait just a few minutes, wait long enough to snap the scattered puzzle pieces into place. They were nudging her, there was something about them that she recognized.
Perri asked for a copy of the letter and hurried back to the table to check the pages of notes bound by twine. It was the only item she hadn’t read completely. The pages trembled and the ragged piece of twine they were tied together with bobbed in sync with her bounding pulse as she held them.
***
Archer dropped the receiver back into the cradle with a rattle. “That was the lab. They traced the phone and sent a car to the location. They found the phone…in a trash can on a school yard in Church Hill. Disposable phone, it was the only call made from it. They can be bought by the hundreds online, from cheapo chain stores, anywhere. No fingerprints.”
Tom’s disappointment was painfully evident on his face and in his posture. He stared intently at his phone where it lay on Archer’s desk, as if trying to will it to ring by the power of his mind.
Trying to distract him, Archer asked if Tom had heard from Perri lately. “No.” His head shot up with a look of alarm. “What if she calls right when Nina calls? What if it cuts off Nina’s call or something? You know how phones are, they do the worst thing at the worst possible time, like they know.”
“Don’t worry about that. We have your phone wired and can handle it if two calls occur at the same time. The chance of them being at exactly the same time are pretty low and Perri knows about the three o’clock deadline. She’s not going to call you right then.”
“You are going to be able to both trace this call and record it without me having to do anything but answer it, right?”
“Right. Just ans
wer it like you always do. The only thing you need to be careful of is to not dislodge the USB cable. Even if you did though, we can still trace it like we did the other one, although I think it may end up the same way, at a dead end. We would, however, lose the recording.”
“Is there plenty of slack on this cord?” Tom fiddled with it, worried about ruining the recording.
Archer jingled the change in his pocket and pulled out half a handful of coins, “Tom, let me get you something, what’ll you have?”
“I’m all worked up. I couldn’t drink anything.”
“I’m going to get an iced tea from the cafeteria, and I’m going to bring you one too. If you don’t want it, fine, but I’ll get it anyway. It’s just after 2:30, I’ll be back in less than ten minutes. Don’t touch the phone unless it rings, ok?”
“Ok, yeah, ok.” Tom sat back in his chair and white-knuckled the arms of the chair as Archer stepped out. He simultaneously wanted it to ring and dreaded it ringing.
The tea was soothing to his parched throat and Tom was grateful for it after all. He and Archer sat, not talking, each with his own thoughts.
Tom’s phone rang at 2:50 p.m. He looked up and Archer nodded for him to answer; the speaker was on and the call was being recorded. Tom’s hands were sweaty and his finger smeared and stubbed across the glass surface of the phone as he tried to swipe it to answer the call. It took a couple of tries.
“Hello?” His voice sounded gravely and coarse to his own ears.
There was silence at first, then a quick buzz and Nina said, “Hello, Tom.”
“Nina, I’ve been anxious waiting for...”
“I’m ok. Don’t worry about that. But I need you to follow the instructions.”
“Can you tell me…”
“I’ll tell you once and then I’ll repeat it again.” Nina’s voice was flat and measured. Tom was afraid they were threatening Nina, not letting her respond to anything he said. Archer was frowning, brows drawn low, little creases forming between his brows and at the corners of his mouth.
Buried Roots Page 18