“Did you go and find her?” I asked.
He sighed and clutched at his napkin. “God, I wish I had.” The room grew still.
“I was afraid she didn’t want me, Mavis.”
The girls were watching their father. He suddenly looked like an old man. Catherine reached over from beside him and put her hand on his. Anne looked at me and then pushed her chair back and went over and hugged him around the neck.
“And what did Madge think of all this?”
“She’s always known how I felt about Elizabeth.”
“Did she want you to go find her and see how Elizabeth felt about you?”
“Yes, but I just couldn’t do it. I was afraid, I guess.”
“What did Spencer think? Did you tell him?”
“He thought I should leave well enough alone.”
“Where were you on Monday night of last week?”
“He was here, Mavis,” Catherine said. She held up her palm. “I swear. He was grading exams.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
So there I am, driving back to my motel thinking that these things aren’t so easy. I’m also thinking that it’s a shame poor Elizabeth didn’t know that her daughter let the cat out of the bag.
I parked the car and was crossing the parking lot to my room when out of nowhere the elusive hit-and-run driver came toward my body, no lights on, doing ninety to nothing. If I’d had my wits about me, he, or she, wouldn’t have had a chance. It wouldn’t even have been a close call, except that I was thinking about Elizabeth and all the people that could have found her, and wondering who did.
There were no screeching tires like on television, no bright lights glaring a warning at me, and if it hadn’t been for my keen sense of hearing—my mother always said I had big ears—I would have worms crawling in and out between my toes right now.
Unfortunately, as I dove out of the way onto the pavement between two parked cars, I didn’t stop to look at the driver. I couldn’t say if there even was one. The police kept asking me over and over—before they sent me off in an ambulance to get my bumps and cuts checked—what color the car was, its make and model, and I couldn’t remember that either. Some detective. I think rule six or seven is something about an investigator being observant. Great. I’m establishing quite a reputation for myself.
After the attendants in the emergency room checked me over and put bandages on my face, knees, and elbows, and after I refused to spend the night in the hospital, I caught a cab back to my motel.
It was almost straight-up twelve o’clock, and I was supposed to meet the midnight rider, Willard Thompson, in downtown Fort Worth. Without stopping in my room to freshen up, I carefully transferred from the cab to my car. I looked both ways before coming out into the open. Trust me, Mother.
I was late, and I knew it, but I hoped that Willard was a patient person and wouldn’t abandon hope. My eyes were glued to the rearview mirror. I wasn’t taking any chances. No one was there, and I finally made it to the appointed corner at about twenty-five after.
The bright lights flashed on and off and on again. When the car did a U-turn and sped off down the road, I followed. He went hither and yon again until I was totally lost. Finally he stopped at the side of the road in another sleazy section with which I was unfamiliar.
There were dark ramshackle houses spaced widely apart on the opposite side of the street. On our side were a couple of rickety old buildings that looked like they had been condemned. To say that the area was not well lit would be a gross exaggeration. If it hadn’t been for the half-moon shining from up above, I wouldn’t have been able to see my hand in front of my face.
He got out and approached my car. I could see by my headlights that it was indeed Willard, much to my relief. I had no way of knowing until then. I wasn’t hesitant to talk with him this time. My curiosity got the better of me and, after cutting my lights, I hopped out, anxious to hear what he had to tell me.
“Hi, Mr. Thompson,” I said to the tall, dark figure that loomed over me. I moved toward the hood to sit upon it. My knees ached when I stood too long. I perched on the side of the car feeling the warmth from the engine. There was no breeze. I could hear the crickets chirping somewhere in the darkness.
He squinted at me. “What happened? You been in a fight or something?”
“Or something. Someone tried to run over me, but they missed.”
“Goddamn!”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“I knew this thing was big! Listen, Miz Davis, you’re in more trouble than ya know. You and I dug up more than we should’ve, and your asking questions got a lot of shit stirrin’.” He stood too close to me in the dark and was whispering fiercely even though there was nobody else around.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, leaning away from him, trying to get a clear picture of his expression.
Headlights were coming slowly down the road, and Thompson was keeping his face toward them, watching. I started watching, too.
Without looking at me, he said, “I found out that there’s some big people involved in the drug business in this town, and I don’t want no part of it.”
The car inched closer and finally passed us, moving slowly in the opposite direction. It was a small, dark, four-door sedan, its tinted windows bordering illegality. Thompson shifted his attention to me. “Ya get my drift?”
“No. What people? Are you sure this is something I need to hear? Otherwise—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” I found myself whispering also, but wondering why.
“Big people. People in control.”
“Who, for Christ’s sake? I don’t want to play games with you. If you know who, tell me.”
He looked behind himself, and all around, as if there might be someone close by to listen to what he said. He started whispering again, “Cops, and defense lawyers, and—”
Suddenly a set of lights came at us. Startled, I hopped off the hood of the car. The approaching lights weren’t a hundred feet away.
“Get down!” he yelled at me and I ran as best I could between my car and his. He was following after me when the first shots rang out. “Oh shit!”
I duck-walked, if you can call it that, around to the back side of my Mustang, and Mr. Thompson wasn’t far behind me as the car passed by.
I heard the screeching of tires that I hadn’t heard earlier in the evening and peeked up over my car to see what looked like the same dark-colored sedan doing a U-turn.
“Run, Mr. Thompson! Behind that building!” I called out to him as I hobbled as fast as I could from the roadside. I stumbled into the drainage ditch that was concealed by tall weeds, struggled through it, and ran toward the back of the dilapidated building that was closest to my car.
I heard more gunshots from the street as I reached my destination. The thought occurred to me that I might buy a gun if I ever got out of this situation. I didn’t hear Mr. Thompson behind me, and I crouched down and came from around the back of the building in time to see the car do another turn. Mr. Thompson’s dark shape was crawling in my direction. He was so big that if they were looking while they turned their car around they would easily be able to make him out.
I ran to help him, grabbing at one of his huge arms as I reached him. “Get down, dummy!” he said fiercely.
I dropped to the ground as the next round of shots began. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“No. I been hit. Keep down!”
We both began crawling as fast as we could. When we reached the back of the building, Mr. Thompson just sank to the ground. I waited, and yes, even prayed a little. I was expecting whoever it was to come after us on foot. I listened for footsteps in the brush, my breathing too loud in my ears. My heart was pounding like a bass drum.
“Mr. Thompson, do you have a gun?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer me. I reached out in the darkness to feel for his hands. He had rolled over. One hand was clutching his side, and the other a long, dark object. My hands met with a warm, sticky substanc
e when I touched his arm. I got closer, reaching for the dark object. It was some kind of a revolver. I unwrapped his fingers from around it, and took hold of the handle. If it was blood that I’d felt, it was all over the gun, too.
Pointing it away from the two of us, I found the release and flipped the cylinder open. I couldn’t see well, so I picked each shell out until I determined that there were still two bullets left. Snapping it shut, I made sure the bullets were next to the chamber, ready to fire. Then I leaned up against the building and waited for them to come and get us, my finger on the trigger. The little that I know about guns, Ben taught me, but I’m not afraid of learning more. Necessity is the mother of invention and all that.
And that’s how the authorities found us. I heard their sirens from far off, but I wasn’t about to move. Who knew how crazy the shooters were. Besides, somewhere in the back of my brain, I’d thought I’d heard Mr. Thompson say something about cops and defense lawyers.
The sirens grew closer and closer until they stopped. I could see the flash of lights. I kept my position until I heard footsteps in the brush and saw the beam from flashlights, then I called out to them. “There’s two of us here. The man with me has been shot and needs medical attention. When you come around the comer of the building, I want to see some identification because I’m armed and scared.”
I could hear some static from a radio, and then, “TarrantCounty Sheriff’s Department, ma’am. Put down your gun. We aren’t going to hurt you.”
“I want to see some ID. Please!”
A few seconds later, something solid landed near my feet. I felt around on the ground until I found it. It was a shield pinned to a leather holder. I could feel the raised numbers.
“Okay, deputy. Come on.”
“Throw out your weapon, ma’am.”
I began an “Our Father,” and tossed the revolver toward the side of the building. Seconds later, a beam of light struck me in the eyes. I could barely make out a dark shadowy form behind it, and then another. The men approached us warily, their guns drawn. I stayed where I was. If these were crooked cops, and I was dead meat, there was nothing I could do but finish my prayer.
The flashlight was lowered, and I was given a hand up. I dusted myself off as I asked the deputy for an ambulance.
“Already got one on the way. You all right?”
“Yeah. A little scared, maybe, but, yeah, I’m fine.”
The second man was bending over Willard. “He’s hit pretty bad, but still breathing,” he said as he shined the light over his body. “Caught it in the side.”
“Poor Willard,” I said, as I leaned over him. His breathing was raggedy.
“What in the hell’s been going on here, ma’am?” asked the first officer.
I could hear another siren as we waited in the dark for the ambulance. “Could I have a minute with my friend?” I needed to talk to Willard before they took him away. As soon as the second deputy stood up to talk to his partner, I crouched down over Willard. “Mr. Thompson, can you hear me?” I asked in a soft voice. I could see his eyes open a little crack and he nodded slightly. “I have to ask you, what were you going to tell me?” I had a theory about why Elizabeth disappeared. I needed Willard’s confirmation. He mumbled something, but I couldn’t understand him. I put my hands on his cheeks and looked down into his face. “Nod if you can understand me,” I said. I could feel him nodding slightly.
“They’re coming with a stretcher, ma’am,” said one of the officers.
I whispered in Willard’s ear. “Nod, Willard, if you were going to tell me that there are Fort Worth cops and defense lawyers involved in dealing dope.”
He nodded and then whispered something again. It sounded like district attorney. My heart skipped a beat.
“DAs? Nod if it’s DAs, Willard,” I whispered.
His head bobbed up and down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Willard’s eyes opened wide with what I can only assume was fear, since that’s what was clutching at my stomach. I smiled at him and patted his cheek. “You’re a good man, Willard, and a good friend. You rest now, and I’ll see what I can do about taking care of the situation.”
I could hear more footsteps in the long grass. As I stood up a pair of uniforms with a stretcher came ’round the corner at us. They fetched Willard and took him away.
The two deputies and I followed the stretcher out to the street where there were three sheriff’s cars parked helter-skelter—bubble lights flashing—and more deputies examining our cars. As we reached the ditch, I could hear one man say, “Shotgun, here.”
Another said, “Looks like a large-caliber handgun over here.”
The street was littered with glass. The driver’s side of my Mustang was full of holes, my windows and tires blown out. I felt a terrific urge to blubber like a baby.
They wanted to deluge me with questions. I wanted to check my car out. I went over to pop the hood open.
“What are you doing, lady? You can’t touch that. It’s evidence,” a deputy said. He’d come over and put his big hand on the hood.
“I just want to see if I’ll be able to drive it if I get the tires fixed.”
“Somebody tried to kill you tonight and you’re worried about whether you can drive your car? Hey, Lou,” he called to another deputy, “did the paramedics check this lady out? I think she’s in shock or something.”
“Lady, are you sure you’re all right?” It was the first deputy. The one who’d come out behind the building and found us. “Even if you could drive your car, you’re going to have to answer some questions before you can go anywhere.”
“I just want to look under the hood,” I said, reaching for the hood again.
I could tell they thought I was nuts, but I had to know. It was easier than concentrating on what Willard had told me. I needed time to mull that over in my mind. And I needed time to decide whom I could trust.
“Okay, go ahead, but I don’t know what you can tell in the dark.”
I popped the hood and raised it and stood staring at the engine, feeling like a dummy. They were right, and I knew it, but fear was preventing me from thinking clearly. What was I doing in a strange town where I didn’t know anyone, where I didn’t know who I could trust, where I didn’t even know if I’d be able to get home?
The deputy who the other had called Lou shined his flashlight around the engine for me. “Satisfied?” he asked.
“Start it for me?”
He went around and got in and started my car. Then he shut it off, got out, and brought my purse and keys to me. I slammed the hood.
“Ready to make a statement now?” Lou asked.
I opened my purse, dropped my keys inside, and studied the interior, looking for an answer. How did I know he wasn’t in on the whole thing?
“You want to come sit inside my car where we can talk?”
I nodded and let him lead me to his car, which was sticking halfway into the street, door hanging open, lights still flashing. After we got in, he cut off the lights and pulled over to the side of the road. He turned off the engine and turned on the inside lights. He was young, in his upper twenties, but had gray in his light-brown hair. His face was lined with fatigue. He had brown eyes and a mustache, and wore the short-sleeved khaki uniform of the sheriff’s department.
“Your name is Mavis Davis, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“One of the other men checked your identification in your purse and ran a license plate check. Sorry, but we didn’t know what we’d find when we pulled up.”
“It’s okay.”
“The man with you. What’s his name?”
“Willard Thompson, and that’s all I know about him except he’s on parole. I don’t know where he lives or anything.”
“Mind telling me, Miss Davis, what you were doing out here in the middle of the night with someone like Thompson?”
I sighed. I might as well tell him as much of the truth as possible. “He was gi
ving me evidence to use in a murder investigation.” I watched for his reaction and was rewarded when his attention quickly shifted from his notepad to me.
“You’re not a police officer.”
“Private.”
“Where’s your ID?”
“It’s here.” I dug around in my purse until I came up with my card case, which I showed to him. Then I dug around some more and found my cigarettes. I was trying to light up, but my hands were shaking so badly that the deputy took my lighter away and held it for me. Any thoughts of quitting had been shoved to the back of my mind.
“Sure you’re okay?” He frowned at me.
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