The Ticking Clock

by Daniel Roland Banks

  “You’re sure?” Christine asked.

  “I’m sure about that, some other things, not so much.”

  “Is there any part of it you can talk to me about?”

  I took a long slow breath. I would have to tell her something. Could I tell her that because of the life I’ve chosen, everyone I’ve ever loved is dead and everyone I will ever love will probably die before I do? No, not yet.

  “I guess I’ve just been single for so long, it’s hard to imagine having a woman in my life.”

  “So, what am I, chopped liver?”

  I laughed.

  “Hardly, but you know what I mean.”

  She smiled.

  “Are you so committed to the bachelor life, you can’t imagine something better?”

  I considered the question. It required a careful answer. What was wrong with me? Why were my emotions getting the best of me?

  “No, it’s not that. On the contrary, I can imagine having Hafsah in my life. Up until now, I’ve only imagined what it might be like. Will you run along and let me get some work done?”

  22

  “I’m in love with her, John.” Tony said.

  We were having lunch together at Currents restaurant. It was kind of a posh place. Probably a little too frou-frou for a couple of working stiffs like Tony and me, but I figured since somebody would be expecting me to be there, I might as well show up. I hate to eat alone.

  I’d mentioned something about Christine in the course of our typically sophisticated and erudite conversation, and Tony just blurted it out.

  “Yeah, Tony, I’m aware of that. I expect she feels the same way about you.”

  “No, John, what I’m saying is; I can’t imagine my life without her. I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

  I was amused by his intensity and his candor. I’d known Tony for several years. I’d been there for him when he lost his wife and son in a highway accident. He struggled through the loss, but he’d been sustained by his faith, with a little help from me. He’d been rattling around all alone in his big, empty three bedroom house for too long”

  “Really, Tony? That’s terrific.”

  “Is it? I mean, do you think she’ll say ‘yes’?”

  “I expect so, but you’ll never know till you pop the question.”

  “Yeah…” He was lost in thought for a moment. Then he looked at me.

  “You’ll be my best man, right?”

  “Of course, I will. I’m honored. Thank you for asking.”

  He nodded his answer.

  “I guess we’ll have to get married in Kerrville, where her folks live.” He mused.

  I chuckled.

  “Kind of putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. I think I have a good way to ask her.”

  “On bended knee?”

  “Probably, but I want it to be a surprise and something she’ll never forget.”

  “Tony, I promise you, once you ask Christine to marry you, she’ll never forget it.”

  “Oh, sure, but I want it to be special.”

  The waiter came and gathered up our empty plates.

  I shrugged and said, “I’ve been under the impression asking that question tends to be very special for most women.”

  “Sure, but…I have an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you, yet. I’m not sure I can pull it off. In the meantime, you can’t say a word to Christine about this. OK?” Tony was very earnest.

  “Your secret is safe with me.” I grinned. “Now tell me a little bit more about this dead guitar player. What makes you think it might’ve been a homicide?”

  Tony took a moment to think about what he was willing to divulge. The waiter came back and asked if we wanted coffee. We did.

  When the waiter had brought us our coffee, Tony spoke up.

  “His name was Jeff Tolbert. His girlfriend and his family agree that he wasn’t depressed or in any way suicidal. In fact they say he was all jacked up, excited about the upcoming concert.”

  “That’s insufficient reason to open a homicide investigation.”

  “The evidence at the scene was inconclusive.”

  “What’s inconclusive about finding someone hanging from a rafter?” I asked.

  “It’s not what we found; it’s what we didn’t find.”

  “No note?”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Poirot.”

  I chuckled, ducking my head to concede the point.

  Tony went on. “He did leave a note, sort of. It was posted on Facebook. The usual sort of thing, you know. ‘I hate myself, there’s no hope, I just can’t take it anymore,’ like that.”

  I nodded slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  When Tony didn’t say anything, I prompted him.

  “So, what was missing?”

  “His girlfriend found him hanging in the shed they used as a garage. She couldn’t untie the knot, because the rope went over the rafter and was tied to one of the wall posts. His weight made the knot too tight.”

  I was wondering where he was going with this.

  “She called 911, and then she ran back to the house and got a kitchen knife. She used it to cut the rope. When the emergency people arrived on the scene, they found him already deceased, lying exactly where he fell when she cut the rope.”

  Tony began swirling the last of his coffee in the bottom of his cup.

  “Am I missing something here?” I was getting annoyed.

  “That was my thought. There was something that bothered me about the crime scene. Something I was missing. Then it dawned on me. She found him hanging in the middle of the empty garage, nearly two feet in the air. Then I knew what was missing.”

  I waited for it.

  “There was no knocked over stool or ladder. Nothing he could’ve climbed up on. There was a lawnmower stored over in a corner, too far away for him to have used, and it was too low to the ground. How did he get up there?”

  “Good question.” I said.

  “His girlfriend is barely five feet tall and slight. She didn’t lift him up there.”

  “If she didn’t kill him, would she have helped him commit suicide?”

  “Nope. She was in town when it happened. No way she’d anything to do with it. Another thing, there were rope burns on the insides of his hands.”

  “Do you think he could’ve jumped up, grabbed the noose and slipped it over his own neck?”

  “I considered that, until the coroner told me there were some faint ligature marks on his wrists.”

  “As though his hands had been tied behind his back?”

  Tony nodded his affirmative.

  “A more thorough examination of the rafter and the rope showed clear evidence of abrasion. Somebody put the rope around his neck, tossed the rope over the rafter, and hauled him off his feet, maybe three feet in the air. They tied the rope to the post, untied his hands, and left him there, kicking, as he strangled to death. He’d managed to get a hold of the rope, but he couldn’t lift himself high enough, long enough. Then, his hands slipped.”

  After a moment, I asked the obvious question. “Any idea who might’ve done it?”

  Tony sighed.

  “Not at this time.”

  23

  As the sound of the chimes died away, I heard someone approaching the front door. It was opened by the grief-stricken lady of the house, Rosie Ferguson’s mother, her face drawn and pale.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ferguson. May I come in?”

  She lowered her eyes and nodded, stepping aside to let me pass.

  “Who is it, Joan?” Mr. Ferguson called, from another room.

  Closing the door, Mrs. Ferguson didn’t reply. She looked at me and gestured toward the living room.

  Inside, I waited for Mrs. Ferguson to have a seat on the sofa.

  I turned as Mr. Ferguson came into the room.

  “Tucker, what are you doing here? We have no further need
of your services. Didn’t you get the check I sent you?” Mr. Ferguson scowled at me as he spoke.

  “Yes, I did. Thank you. I just wanted to stop by and tell you both how sorry I am for your loss. Following a lead, I asked Lieutenant Escalante to meet me at the place where we found your daughter and her boyfriend.”

  “He wasn’t her boyfriend.” Mr. Ferguson’s yelled. His complexion was approaching a color I would call “scarlet indignation” or perhaps “ruby wrath”.

  “You were there? You found Rosie?” Mrs. Ferguson asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. A witness told me they’d seen a green Chevy truck at that location. I’m so sorry. I got there too late to save Rosie and Jeff.”

  “You couldn’t‘ve saved them. Nobody could.” Mr. Ferguson scoffed.

  “Why do you say that? If I’d learned where they were only a day earlier, they’d still be alive.”

  “They’re fate was sealed the moment they ran off.”

  “What are you saying? You told me, you believed Jeff abducted Rosie.”

  “Whatever. I want you to leave. Get the hell out of here.”

  Ignoring her husband’s growing rage, Mrs. Ferguson said, “Please have a seat, Mr. Tucker. You’ll excuse me if I don’t offer any refreshment.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” I chose a wingback chair opposite the sofa. I avoided eye contact with Mr. Ferguson.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about…I mean… was it…” Mrs. Ferguson struggled to form her question.

  “Rosie and Jimmy were camped in a spot about seven miles north of here. They had shelter and supplies. So, they were as comfortable as could be expected.”

  “You call that camping? That rusty old building is nasty, squalid and vermin infested. No place for my girl.” Mr. Ferguson said.

  “By all appearances they were happy there— happy being there, together.”

  Mr. Ferguson staggered forward. “No. That’s a lie, Rosie could never be happy with anyone but me.”

  I suspected his blood pressure was approaching something akin to explosive decompression.

  “Did my daughter suffer, Mr. Tucker?” Mrs. Ferguson asked.

  How do you answer a question like that? What definition of suffering would apply in this case?

  “No ma’am. She was killed instantly. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Ferguson?”

  He nodded and said, “I think so.”

  That told me all I needed to know. I stood up.

  Turning to face Mr. Ferguson, I said, “I think she probably suffered more when she was living in this house.”

  Mrs. Ferguson cried out and broke down, violent spasms shaking her as she sobbed into her hands.

  “You son of a bitch,” Mr. Ferguson snarled, lunging for me.

  Anticipating his attack, I blocked his outstretched arms with my left forearm and slammed the heel of my right hand just below his left ear. His forward momentum combined with my blow sent him crashing into the coffee table, which shattered and collapsed under him.

  The front door burst open, and three uniformed police officers in tactical gear ran into the room. Two of them jumped on Mr. Ferguson, pinning him to the floor as he struggled to get free.

  Tony walked in behind the officers. “Robert Joseph Ferguson, you are under arrest for the murders of James Duncan and Rosemarie Ferguson. If you continue to struggle, Officer Miller will taze you. That failing, if you continue to resist arrest, one or all of us will shoot you. You have the right to try. Go ahead, try.”

  All the fight went out of Ferguson. The officers cuffed him, hauled him to his feet and read him his rights.

  He stood with his head hanging down, looking only at the floor. Officers were holding his arms, one on each side.

  “Did you get it all, Tony?” I asked.

  “Yes, J. W. Loud and clear. I figure with the recording, the forensics, your testimony, Priscilla’s—this guy’s going away for the rest of his life. Too easy if you ask me.”

  I stepped in front of Bob Ferguson. “Mr. Ferguson, look at me. When you get where you’re going, I hope you’ll pay attention to the prison chaplain. No matter what you’ve done, there’s help and healing, forgiveness, and restoration for you if you repent and ask God. No sin is too great, nor any man too vile, for the grace of God. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He stared right through me, as though at an on-coming locomotive, looking into the face of some horror in a place the rest of us couldn’t see.

  Tony pointed at the open door. “Get him outta here, boys.”

  Mrs. Ferguson continued sobbing. I walked into the kitchen and returned with a dish towel I’d soaked in cold tap water and wrung out. Sitting beside her I pulled her hands away from her face and began gently wiping away her tears. She leaned back on the cushions and let me bathe her face.

  Tony sat on the sofa typing a text message on his phone.

  When her breathing returned to normal and she was calmer, I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Ferguson. We know this was nearly more than you could bear. You were very brave.”

  “All these years, how could I let him…That monster.”

  “You have to learn to forgive yourself. The situation developed without your knowledge. By the time you found out, it was beyond your ability to confront. You feared what he might do.”

  “I failed my daughter and got her killed.” Hot tears were again streaming down her face.

  “The first step toward healing is acknowledging your brokenness. You didn’t have anything to do with her death. That was all his doing. You can’t go back and change what happened, but you can go forward into new life.”

  “Can I?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I promise. Here’s the number of a friend of mine. She’s a psychologist and a gifted counselor.” I handed her the card. “She’ll help you work your way through this. It’ll take some time…”

  I was interrupted by the chimes of the doorbell.

  Tony answered the door. When he returned, he wasn’t alone.

  Priscilla Davidson and her mother were with him.

  Those ladies took charge of Joan Ferguson and wrapped her up in their loving care, telling her how much God loved her and that they were there for her.

  Tony and I took the opportunity to make excuses and let ourselves out.

  24

  It was just a matter of time, Hafsah was thinking. Time, it wasn’t as linear as most people thought. Time was not just a ticking clock, the turning of the earth, or one thing leading to another. Many things occurred simultaneously. At times she sensed a fire and passion in the man threatening to consume her. She was drawn to him, as a moth to a flame. Other times, he seemed distant and uninterested in her or even in the hunt for Nat Baha. He would drift away as though he were thinking about something else.

  Why was he so reluctant to do what had to be done? Was he incapable of wrapping his head around the fact there was no other option, except to kill Baha?

  It was the same with their growing attraction to each other. She’d finally stopped trying to deny it. There it was, she wanted to be with him. He was clearly attracted to her, she was certain of it. She sensed within him a struggle. What was it?

  Often, when they were together he would throw up walls and withdraw. What had happened in his life to make him so reserved? Perhaps it was the importance of the mission. Maybe he was still trying to maintain some sort of professional distance. No, they’d already crossed that line. It was as if he was afraid to get too close to her. Who had hurt him so badly he was nearly crippled by it?

  On the other hand, maybe it was for the best. Perhaps he was saving her from herself. What was she thinking? This was a mission. She’d no time for romance. Until now she’d always been able to avoid the complications of intimate relationships. She was on the move, at large and in charge. What was wrong with her?

  There were moments with John when she was as giddy as a schoolgirl. Images of wedding gowns and children’s names danced just outside her consciousness. But that was all th
ere could be – dreams. She would be moving on soon, when Baha was dead. Her entire focus needed to be on killing her cousin.

  John was right about choosing the time and place. They couldn’t afford to attempt killing Baha when he was anywhere near innocent citizens. In a bid to escape, he’d kill anyone and everyone around him. If they could lead him into a trap, the matter could be more safely brought to a close. This plan of luring him to a recording studio might just work.

  Now, she was no longer following in the wake of her cousin’s murders. Finally, she was ahead of him. Her cousin might not be able to resist the opportunity to make a recording of his music. It was the one hope they had, and the opportunity was only three days distant.

  It was just a matter of time. Three days. She sensed they were running out of time. Every heart beat reminded her of the ticking clock.

  She was convinced Baha was very near. These locals knew where he was. Everything pointed to it. In most other countries, she and her team would’ve taken one of these men and made him talk. Here in America it was more problematic. It wasn’t easy to snatch someone off the streets. They couldn’t have the police involved. Of course, John would never permit it – if he knew of the plan. They also ran the risk of tipping off her cousin. If he thought his mission was in jeopardy, he would simply disappear, again.

  It was just a matter of time. Three days. In three days, this would all be over. She would be leaving this place, and leaving John behind. Could she?

  Did she imagine she could stay here with this man? Could she really settle down in a small city in East Texas, and become a – what was the term – soccer mom? Ridiculous!

  Would John go away with her? How would that work? No, that too was ridiculous.

  What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she shake these feelings? And, what was his problem? Why didn’t he come right out and say what he wanted and expected from the relationship?

  No. it was for the best, she’d be leaving. She didn’t need to make any foolish mistakes. But, before then, she wanted desperately to break through his barriers and get to know him better.