by Sharon Ervin
“Mr. Krisp, your robbers and kidnappers are right there in Settlement, just waiting for you to come sack them up. Bo was a kindly caretaker, not a criminal.”
“What we suspect, Ms. Loomis, is that this recluse, this societal outcast, took advantage of you.” She noticed he was again addressing her formally. “We’d seen pictures of you, of course, but they don’t do you justice. You are a nice looking young woman. A horny old hermit stuck out in the boonies like this Bo probably licked his chops getting his hands on you.”
Sara’s temper flared. “It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like that.”
“An old coot, cut off from all other humans, suddenly falls heir to a lovely young woman...”
“He’s not an old coot.”
Krisp’s eyebrows shot up. “How old a man is he, Sara?”
She wrung her hands. “At first I thought he was old. Cappy told me he was and I just assumed Cappy knew. He wore a bearskin coat and his face and head were covered with all this long, unkempt hair.”
“And later?”
She cleared her throat. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you said at first you thought he was old. Later did you revise your thinking? If so, what changed your mind and just what age range are we talking about here?”
She squirmed, studying the table in front of her.
“The Johnsons’ son, Lutie, was trapped on a sand spit in the middle of the river. The water was rising and the current was fast. Bo waded out to get him. Saved his life, probably. Mrs. Johnson said Bo had saved Lutie once before, a couple of years ago.”
“So, how did that incident change your mind about the man’s age?”
“When he came out of the water, his clothes--he just had on a T-shirt and the pants to his long underwear--his clothes stuck to him. The water... He was soaked through and his clothes clung to him and he had...well, he had a really nice man’s body, a young man’s body. I mean it belonged to a man who was considerably younger than I thought Bo was.”
Larchmont shifted uncomfortably. The reporter stared indifferently at the window as his fingers continued making the keyboard clatter. Krisp’s expertise at his job had become apparent.
“Sara, were you sexually attracted to Bo?” Krisp’s voice was low, confidential, coaxing.
Her chin quivered and tears stung her eyes as she bit her lower lip and whispered, “Yes.”
“That’s very common,” Krisp said softly, his demeanor and tone forgiving, understanding. “He fed you, kept you safe, rescued you from situations you perceived to be life threatening. It’s perfectly understandable that you might view him as your hero, your savior.”
She stiffened and gulped down her emotions. “I appreciated his help. I am not as naive as you seem to think...”
“We’ve interviewed Jimmy Singer, Sara.”
She drew a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Krisp, Jimmy Singer and I had sex.” She strained to speak around the lump in her throat. “Bo and I...” Her face twisted with the memory and her voice became stronger. “Bo and I made love.”
Krisp frowned and nodded knowingly. “I’m sure you thought so. Speaking from a man’s viewpoint, I think for him it was an opportunity to get into an attractive young woman’s underpants.”
Sara set her mouth. “Krisp, sex with Jimmy Singer and sex with Bo was like the difference between biting a lemon and sampling cheesecake. Lemons are tart, burn your lips, leave a bitter taste in your mouth. Cheesecake is smooth, and sweet, and you can’t wait for the next bite.”
Larchmont cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed. Just as obviously, Krisp tried to control a smile, a reaction apparently prompted by his subordinate’s discomfort. “That’s very descriptive, Ms. Loomis.”
“It’s also very accurate, Mr. Krisp.”
“Nevertheless, you were his prisoner.”
“No, I wasn’t. When I asked him to bring me back to civilization, he did.”
Krisp looked skeptical. “Do you mean to say you were there of your own free will?”
“I didn’t get there of my own free will, of course.” She splayed her hands, palms down on the table. “The weather had a lot to do with my staying longer than I needed to.”
“Was it during the bad weather that you and Bo became intimate?”
“Yes.”
“And what interrupted this romantic interlude?”
Sara was suddenly struck dumb. She knew Krisp saw her uncertainty and was going with his instincts.
“Somehow he found out we were getting close, didn’t he, Sara? He was happy to have your company as long as there was no threat to his freedom, but when we started closing in, he shucked you and took off, isn’t that right?”
Sara glared at Krisp, hating him. “You don’t know how it was between us.” She inhaled two great gulps of air, angry, suddenly less certain.
Krisp shook his head sadly. “Bo sounds like a pretty fair con artist, Sara. You were naive about sex, vulnerable, frightened. He gave you food, shelter, safety. It was only natural you should be grateful. When he made overtures, you saw a way to repay him, to demonstrate your gratitude, and you did.”
How could this stranger guess so close to the truth? Tears slid down her face and she swiped at them. “It wasn’t like that. He cared about me.” She felt for the ring dangling around her neck, hidden beneath her new sweatshirt.
“How do you know that, Sara? Did he tell you so?”
“No. You know he couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
“I already told you, I never heard him speak.” Sara slumped back in her chair and exhaled loudly. “Krisp, I’m tired of this.”
The junior agent shifted as if he were about to stand but hesitated with Krisp spoke again.
“Ms. Loomis, your lover aided and abetted criminals after a crime. He held onto you for well over a week, getting his jollies. Does it matter at all to you that your parents spent every hour of that time in hell?”
She winced. What had he expected her to do?
“Young woman, law enforcement people all over this country spent valuable man hours searching for you, digging up what might have been shallow graves, hoping against hope to find you alive. If Bo had returned you to Settlement, you’d probably have been home in a few days.”
Sara scrubbed tears off her face with the palm of her hand. “Krisp, I know you’re not stupid. Franklin wanted to kill me that night after the robbery and every night from then on. If Bo hadn’t been there, he would have. I wasn’t strong enough or smart enough to stop him.”
Where had Krisp gotten his information? She had a pretty good idea.
“Did you make a deal with Franklin Kindling, Mr. Krisp? You wouldn’t file criminal charges against him if he’d help you find and prosecute someone else for the kidnapping he did? Even his own goons were mad at him for snatching me. Good grief, man. What kind of an investigator are you?”
Krisp ran his hands over the top of his head smoothing the already tamed strands of hair stretched over his balding pate. “We stumbled onto Settlement accidentally, Sara. Everyone accused everyone else until we got it narrowed down to Holthus, Cappy and Franklin, and a couple of others.”
She interrupted. “Are Cappy and Franklin brothers or cousins?”
“Both. Queenie’s their ma. Their dads are brothers.” He gave her a sheepish shrug. “Anyway, Cappy would have told us, if he could have, but he got to stammering and stuttering so bad, we couldn’t get any of it. Franklin volunteered, made the deal to tell us everything in exchange for immunity from prosecution.”
“But he didn’t tell the truth if he blamed Bo. Does his immunity cover lies?”
Krisp shook his head. Sara stared at him.
“How’d he say he knew about my being at Bo’s anyway?”
Krisp’s eyes widened. “He said he’d never seen you in person, that Cappy took groceries up to Bo one day and saw you, and promised they’d come back to help you escape.”
“Di
dn’t see fit to mention that he was the one who grabbed me and tied me up in the first place, or that it was Cappy who hand-delivered me all trussed up to Bo?”
Krisp shook his head, his mouth pursed. “I’d still like to talk to Bo and those Johnsons.”
Sara glanced toward the draped windows. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble locating the Johnsons. But they’ve got no use for those people in Settlement. If they know you’ve made a deal with Franklin, they’re not likely to have any respect for you or your investigation. They are very pragmatic people, Krisp. They see things black and white.”
Krisp looked at her oddly. “Are you feeling steadier now?”
She nodded.
“Then let’s get back to your personal relationship with Bo. You’ve confirmed that you had sex with the man.”
“Yes, but why is that any concern of yours or the FBI’s?” She pulled her feet up to hook her heels on the front edge of her chair and wrapped her arms around her knees.
“The extent of your emotional involvement may make a difference in your selective memory, how sympathetic you are toward him, in how much credence we can give your account.”
“I told you, I write the news. I gather information and pass it on with no embellishment.”
Krisp inclined his head indicating he understood. “We’re all human, Sara, subject to our own interpretations of behavior. It’s obvious that you think you had a close personal relationship with the man.”
She started to object to his terminology, then let it go as he continued. “Could you take us back to the cabin? Could you find it again?”
“I doubt it. I have no sense of direction. The only chance I would have of finding it would be to start from the Johnsons’. I could probably find it from there.” She hesitated then continued. “Krisp, when you were on the river looking for me, why didn’t you go to the Johnsons’ cabin?”
He flashed Larchmont a warning look. “We got there, eventually. We’ll get one of them to take us to Bo’s cabin. Would you like me to pick up anything for you while we’re there?”
Lowering her eyes, Sara shook her head no. Everything and everyone that mattered to her had left when she did.
“Sara,” Krisp’s voice was again kindly, “do you expect to see Bo again?”
Remembering their final moments at the remote bus depot, the corners of Sara’s mouth quivered. “No.”
“If you ever were going to see him again, where would you expect that reunion to take place?”
Her eyes locked on his, she exhaled, and her shoulders slumped as she whispered, “I don’t expect to see him again. Not anywhere. Not ever.”
“Does he know where to find you?”
“What difference does it make? If you’re right and I was just an easy lay, why would he try to find me?” She glowered at Krisp but he sat unmoving, regarding her quietly. She relented. “I don’t know how he would.”
“Did you tell him where you’d be?”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know if I’d still have a job or if I’d have the nerve to come here, to face people, to live alone. I couldn’t have told him. I didn’t know myself.”
Regarding her solemnly, Larchmont offered her the tissue box. She took one and blew her nose. “Is that all?”
“For now. Do you realize, Sara, that our recovering you alive after twelve days beats all the statistics.”
“You didn’t recover me, Krisp. Bo brought me back.”
“All right, it’s still unusual, getting you back after that length of time. Take it from me, you are one very lucky lady.”
His voice dropped to a conciliatory tone. “You did what you had to do to survive, Sara. You played it smart. You may need counseling to help you get by this. As for me, I admire the hell out of you. You kept your head and came out of this deal alive. But, Sara, don’t be pining away for your hillbilly. I guarantee, even as sweet and pretty as you are, he’s not grieving for you.”
He regarded her quietly, his expression unreadable, before he allowed a slight smile. “Well, maybe he is, but not enough to risk putting his head in a noose.
“You’ve helped clean out a nest of thieves and we in law enforcement, and the potential victims out there, thank you.
“You’d make a good cop, Sara Loomis. You’ve got an eye for detail. You’re gutsy and you’re strong, mentally and physically. You might want to consider a career change.”
She laughed. He had to be kidding.
“I’m serious here. You let me know if you ever decide you’re interested.”
Did he intend that as a compliment or was he being sarcastic? She couldn’t tell. “Right. Thanks.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I don’t know why you won’t go out with me.” The words had been Stanton Rezabec’s theme song the four weeks Sara had been courthouse reporter for the Gazette.
Rezabec had the city beat. He was personable, attractive, probably forty years old, Sara guessed, and both cheerful and persistent.
Her first day on the job, Stanton asked her out to dinner, offering to show her some of the night spots around town.
Not sufficiently settled in her job, staying at the motel with her parents, looking for an apartment, and still roller coastering emotionally, Sara declined, politely, firmly.
Libby Cook, the young society editor, lived at The Oaks, an apartment complex two miles from the Gazette. There were two apartments available in her building, one on the second floor and one on the third. Sara followed Libby home to see the vacant apartments, and to talk to the manager.
“The only elevator in the west wing is old and slow,” Libby explained. “Take the apartment on two next door to me and save the climb.”
The apartment on the second floor had only one bedroom. Sara’s parents insisted she take a two-bedroom. Her dad was adamant.
“We’ll pay the difference. Mother and I want to see you fairly often for a while. If you have two bedrooms, we can do that without being so much in the way. I know you understand.”
Reluctantly, Sara agreed, realizing how much her abduction had frightened them. When she took the apartment, they relented and grudgingly went home, promising a return visit as soon as the movers delivered her furniture.
Libby bounced with enthusiasm that Sara at least would be in the same building.
“You can stay at my place until your furniture gets here.”
Sara declined. “I don’t want to do that. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Libby, but I need privacy right now.” Libby’s face fell, dejected. Sara smiled. “But I’d take the mattress off your sofa bed, if you offered.”
Libby brightened. “You’ve got it, girlfriend.”
That afternoon the two women wrestled the mattress onto the elevator and up to Sara’s vacant apartment then argued good-naturedly about where to put it.
It ended up in the spare bedroom, out of the way when Sara’s things arrived.
A reputed womanizer, Rezabec repeated his invitation twice more that first week then made loud objections when Sara kept turning him down.
He advertised their situation, noisily complaining, announcing her rejections to everyone in the newsroom who took time to listen. It became an inside joke with co-workers laying money on when she would cave.
Like most in the newsroom, Libby encouraged Sara. “Go out with him once, Sara, to shut him up.”
His embellished accounts of her repeated refusals were hilarious, making even Sara laugh at his pathetic, soul-wrenching stories.
Stanton’s high profile romances were legendary among the staff. Obviously he had only limited experience with rebuffs.
Sara’s morale got another boost on Friday when her furniture arrived, and a mixed surprise Saturday when her menstrual period started. She wasn’t pregnant. She insisted to herself that she hadn’t been worried, but secretly she both celebrated and mourned.
She cried herself to sleep every night the first week, sick with grief and tormented by Krisp’s theories of Bo’s view of
their relationship. Toward the end of the week, she finally admitted to herself, he might be right.
Browsing in the mall, Sara stepped into a small shop, The Humidor, to smell the tobacco and summon memories. She spent lunch hours sitting in the city park sniffing the pines and watching tame squirrels scamper. She poked around in a saddle shop enjoying the fragrance of the leather.
“Are you married?” Rezabec asked privately the second week of his campaign. “No,” he said, answering his own question. “I know you’re not. Married ladies don’t blush as much as you do. No, obviously that’s not the problem.”
Rezabec took a new approach the third week with, “Don’t try to tell me you don’t find me attractive.” He laughed boisterously at his own suggestion, prompting Sara to giggle at his audacity.
He persisted. “Women like me a lot. What’s that old commercial, ‘Try me, you’ll like me.’”
Despite the turn-downs, Sara enjoyed Stanton’s light-hearted teasing which provided temporary stints of relief, helped her overcome some of the awful, consuming grief.
“Ms. Loomis?” It was Krisp’s voice on the phone her third Thursday on the job. She recognized it before he identified himself.
“Hello, Agent Krisp. How’s the investigation going?”
“We’ve arrested and arraigned Cappy and Franklin Kindling. Their faces are covered on the surveillance tape from the convenience store, but we have a good shot of the truck and of a man we assume is Franklin forcing you inside. We’ll need your testimony to finger him as the man shoving you into the vehicle. Can you identify that truck?”
“Yes. What about Bo?”
“Not a clue. We had forensics all over that cabin. The tough wood and all did not yield so much as one usable print.
“The Johnsons’ description sounded so much like yours that our guys thought you people had memorized it. When we got the same description from the Kindlings, we were convinced everybody was for real.
“We’ve determined that he’s between twenty-five and forty years old, something over six feet tall, has brown hair, and dark brown or black eyes. Finding him should be a snap.” Krisp hesitated and Sara, realizing he was being facetious, gave a nervous little laugh which seemed to encourage him.