3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Service is at eight,” Blake said. Darla sat up and looked confused.

  “You might be more comfortable over here,” he added and pointed to a neutral pew on the other side of the church.

  “Oh, I thought it was at seven-thirty. Over there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Why did I think the service was at seven-thirty?”

  Blake shrugged and resisted the temptation to say something unkind. Darla settled safely in her new location just as Mildred arrived. Blake thanked the Lord for small favors and retreated to his office.

  At five minutes to eight, Blake watched as Colonel Bob’s car wheeled around the corner and pulled smartly into a parking place. It did not even come close to hitting anything and drove at a normal, even a little above normal, speed. He wondered if Colonel Bob had new glasses or had just been lucky. When he saw the object of his speculation exit from the passenger side, he frowned. When T.J. Harkins emerged from the driver’s side and the two of them walked up the steps to the church together, he understood.

  “You puzzled, Padre?” Colonel Bob said, face innocent. “No surprises, I can’t see so good anymore—no news there—and T.J. here—”

  “Sergeant,” T.J. corrected.

  “Quite right there, Sergeant. Sergeant T.J. here has been assigned as my driver.”

  “Rose and Minnie know about this?”

  “Oh, well, certainly. We have that all worked out. T.J. brings me to church at eight and then drops me at the Crossroads Diner after. I always go there on Sunday morning. Eat one of those heart attack breakfasts they’re so good at, drink coffee, and chat up Flora. Tell me something, Padre, it’s been a while since I could really see her. Is she still, ah…handsome?”

  Blake could not say. He knew Ms. Blevins by reputation only and couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen her or, if he had, knew what she looked like. He did know that except for the one time when he took Mary Miller there for coffee, the diner stayed pretty devoid of good-looking women, much less handsome ones. The Crossroads was a guy thing.

  “I don’t know, Colonel—sorry.”

  “Well, no matter. If I can’t see her, it doesn’t make much difference, does it? Ben Franklin said all cats are gray in the dark. I say, all women are beautiful if you’re blind.”

  “How bad is—”

  “You mean, am I blind as a bat? Not yet, Padre. Macular degeneration in both eyes. On a good day I can see mostly shapes and could drive if I had to. Doc’s given me pills that are supposed to slow it down, but putting on the brakes isn’t the same as throwing her into reverse.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, well, where was I? Oh, so, after he drops me, T.J. will fetch the ladies to church and then circle back to take me home. We have a schedule all worked out, see?”

  He unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to Blake. Days, times, and events, in large print, filled the page. Blake felt an enormous sense of relief. T.J. provided a solution to a problem—no, an answer to prayer. Colonel Bob’s increasing disability worried him. T.J. had removed one more problem from his plate, at least for a while.

  T.J. peered into the church and scanned the parking lot. “Mr. Blake,” he said, “is Miss Deputy Ryder here today?”

  “Not yet. She comes at ten if she comes at all.” He thought a moment. “That’s usually every other Sunday, so I don’t expect to see her today. Is there something you wanted?”

  “Yes, sir. If you see her, would you ask her about the ride in the police car she said she would give me?”

  “Well, what I will do is have her call you. Shall she call you at your home, at your aunt’s, or at Colonel Bob’s?”

  T.J. frowned. Multiple choices created a problem for him. He could sort them out most times, but he needed a minute or two.

  “You have her call me on my cell phone,” Colonel Bob said. “I’ll see she gets hooked up with my sergeant here. Okay, T.J., now my pew is over on the gospel side near the back…you don’t know which side that is? Well, I can see we have some educating to do here. See, all churches are…”

  ***

  Ike slipped into Callend College’s library as unobtrusively as possible. He hoped Sunday morning would mean fewer students and the absence of the librarian. He was right on both counts. He found the back issues of the Washington Post and read the stories Charlie had mentioned. Neither was particularly helpful. A writer was found dead—apparent suicide. The man had shot himself in the head and the woman, naked and mad as a wet cat, was found as Charlie had described her. Her apartment had been methodically trashed. She couldn’t describe her attackers except to say they wore ski masks and were not gentlemen—an understatement of monumental proportions. She later reported the event in greater detail on the five, six, and eleven o’clock news appearing, he read, smart, attractive, and very professional. Ike guessed her boyfriend’s murder had been a good career move for her.

  He returned the papers to their hanging rods and chanced a trip to Ruth’s office. He did not think she’d be working on a Sunday, but you never knew. He walked the length of the long corridor toward the administrative wing. His shoe soles squeaked on the newly waxed floor. “Cop shoes,” Ruth would call them. On either side, classrooms, their doors closed, measured his progress. He peeked through the glass when he reached Ruth’s outer office. No Agnes Ewalt in sight. That did not mean Ruth wasn’t in, but it did increase the probability. He tried the knob. It turned and he walked in. Ruth’s door was ajar. He softfooted to the sill and tapped on the door.

  “Who?” Ruth clearly did not expect anyone.

  “C’est moi.”

  “Come in here. I have a bone to pick with you, Schwartz, and what’s with the phony French?”

  “I just want to be sure that you, unlike your faculty friends, do not mistake me for an uncultured rube. A little French, perhaps a quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning—How do I love thee? Let me count the ways—”

  “Can it. What are you doing here?”

  “As I said, brushing up on my couth. I was using your library.”

  “Bully for you. Do I want to know the real reason?”

  Ike lowered himself into one of the two matched crewel upholstered chairs and stretched out his legs. Afternoon sun filtered through partially closed blinds. Very peaceful. A large room with oriental rugs, rosewood paneling, and a carefully contrived Georgian ambiance. Its only discordant note was a modern clock on the mantle. He wondered if the town would spring for an office this nice for him. He knew they wouldn’t.

  “The reason? No, and the bone you have to pick?”

  “My building…it’s being…altered, no, transformed, hell…it’s not the same.”

  “How about transmogrified? It’s being transmogrified. You didn’t expect that?”

  “Trans…is that what you were doing in the library—humping up arcane vocabulary?”

  “Humping up arcane…you’re not doing too badly there yourself. No, I was reading your Washington papers, if you must know. What’s different about your building?”

  “The back wall…you remember how that used to be? There were restrooms at either end, a utility closet, a stairwell, and an elevator shaft to the floors below in the center.”

  “I remember.”

  “They’re gone.”

  “What’s gone?”

  “The elevators, the stairwell, they’ve disappeared. Everything else is exactly the same. I thought they’d built a new wall in front of the old one but if they had, the restrooms would be bigger or something. They’re just gone.”

  “Maybe they moved the three floors under the building to a new site. Jacked up the top floor and skidded the—”

  “Stop. Are they really that good? I mean to make that wall look exactly like—”

  “They are that good.”

  “So down in the bowels of the earth under my new—my new what?”

  “Art museum.”

  “Ah. Down in the depths, under my new art museum, spooks in trench co
ats and fedoras are going about their business. What are they doing down there, anyway?”

  “I have no idea and before you ask, I can’t find out for you.”

  She stretched arms over her head, swiveled once around, and fixed him with her this is important look.

  “I’ve been thinking about your mother.”

  “New insights into the mystery of the Book of Ruth?”

  “She loves you very much, Ike.”

  “I don’t see the connection. Holy Writ is not my long suit, but even I know it’s a reach from the Book to that statement.”

  “Men are so dense. You really don’t get it?”

  “Clueless.”

  “Understatement. Take me to lunch and I’ll find out why it took you so long to get in touch with me since that night.”

  “So long? You said you wanted to be alone for a while and—”

  “You really are clueless.”

  Chapter 27

  Steve Bolt tried to be as quiet as possible as he shifted around in the car’s trunk. He managed to extract his Buck knife from his boot and cut the zip ties around his ankles. Reversing the blade and severing the wrist bindings had been a challenge that finally succeeded, but only at the cost of a mean gash near his right thumb. The last thing he wanted was for his kidnappers to hear him thumping about. If they thought he could move, they would probably stop, rebind him, and then he’d never get free. And freedom was what he had in mind. As nearly as he could tell, they’d been driving south. He couldn’t be sure, but he knew they’d turned right out of the motel’s parking lot and had stayed on a more or less straight course ever since. Once his hands were free, he managed to twist around so that he could reach the trunk release lanyard. The car accelerated. He’d have to wait until it slowed or stopped. The car swerved left and seemed to be climbing. They must be going east now. East meant the Blue Ridge Mountains. He grabbed the trunk deck from the inside to keep it from flying open, and pulled the lanyard. The latch thunked and the deck lid tugged at his fingertips. The car did not slow—a good sign. He gripped the lid and waited.

  Five minutes later the left turn signal started blinking and the car slowed. Bolt prayed for oncoming traffic to force it to stop. His prayers were answered. The car paused momentarily. Then, as it accelerated into another left turn, he rolled out of the trunk and onto the road. He’d been cramped in the confined space so long, his legs refused to respond and he barely regained his footing. He spun around and stared at the car. Without conscious effort, his mind registered both the license plate and the men’s voices.

  The car completed its turn and pulled off the road. The doors flew open and two men pushed their way out. In the split second it took for them to focus in on him, his adrenaline kicked in, conquered his stiffness, and he lurched into the woods.

  He knew the intersection the instant he tumbled onto the road and thanked a god he rarely acknowledged otherwise for deliverance. He’d just cleared the Rocky Knob entrance onto the Blue Ridge Parkway and landed in the mountains. He was home. Once in the woods, there was no way those men would ever find him. He slipped behind an oak and risked a glance back to the road. Two men stood next to the Lincoln. One had a cell phone to his ear, his arms gesturing wildly. The second jerked out a pistol and snapped off six shots in Bolt’s general direction.

  Bolt checked his pockets. He still had most of the two thousand left. He pulled out the credit card and tossed it away. Buffalo Mountain lay just to the south and that meant safety. Over the years it may have been tamed and even civilized, but there were still places in the hollows and coves where a man could hide and where there were people who would help him. With nearly two thousand in cash, he could disappear for months. He grinned and began working his way into the trees. Those men would never track him. Never.

  ***

  No one ever accused Donnie Oldham of being a genius. Next to Hollis, he might appear bright, but compared to, say, a tree stump, he came up short, which would explain why he took off early Sunday morning to use Harris’ credit and bank cards. He figured if he put some distance between Floyd and the cards, he would have a better chance of cashing out. Close to the issuing bank—he’d finally figured out what that meant—the other ATMs would know about the accounts being closed. But further away, they might not have got the word. So he decided to drive to Charlotte.

  He arrived downtown at noon. He hoped no one would notice him or his out-of-state tags. The first ATM he saw was one owned by the issuing bank for a VISA card. He knew Hollis said the card should be returned there, but he thought the account had only been shut down for non-bank ATMs and it would work in the ATMs it belonged to. This one ate the card. He stared in disbelief as the message appeared on the little screen informing him to see the bank manager at his earliest convenience. He drove his fist into the screen. It did not break, but something in his hand did. He cursed and shook it and kicked the wall.

  He drove around trying to decide what to do next. He continued cursing and pounded on the steering wheel with his good hand. He wished he’d pulled out more money the first time he’d used the cards. At the next ATM he tried a MasterCard. The machine was not one belonging to the issuing bank. It returned the card with the same message Hollis received. He had the same response with the American Express and a second VISA. Finally, he tried the bank card and held his breath. He asked for and received three hundred dollars. He tried again and was rewarded again. When he’d withdrawn twelve hundred dollars the machine asked him to wait. He didn’t. He snatched the card and strode across to his truck. No sense pushing his luck. Tomorrow—no, he’d wait until Wednesday and then he’d try again. In his delight at again having money and prospects, he forgot the pain in his hand. The security camera built into the ATM, however, recorded all four of his withdrawals. He failed to see the black Suburban that drifted up to the ATM just as he turned the corner. Luckily, the occupants of that vehicle did not see him either and would have to wait until the following day when the bank opened to discover that Donald Oldham, not Alexei Kamarov, had withdrawn the funds.

  ***

  Whaite Billingsly was not a man to use the Lord’s name in vain. He attended the Baptist church out on the highway every Sunday and, when he could, on Wednesday night as well. He didn’t drink, smoke, or chew. In his youth, before he left the mountain, before he’d met Darcie, married, and had children, things were different. On the mountain, drinking came as natural as breathing. A boy became a man when he’d had his first full blown drunk, shot his first buck, and visited one of the Grainger girls. But that was all behind him now. He worked hard, took care of his family, and had a good future.

  Head down under the hood of his pickup, he stared in frustration at the engine. Somehow the head bolt had been torqued too tight and he’d sheared it off. Until he could pull the head off the engine, the new gasket would lie useless on the front seat. The moment the socket suddenly gave way with the bolt head in it, he seriously considered leaving the Baptist church for a few minutes and addressing the Almighty in the old mountain way. Instead, he closed his eyes and counted to ten—three times. He’d have to drill out the old bolt, no easy job, and rethread. Then he’d need to visit the parts department at the Ford dealership or hit the junkyard again and pick up a new one. None of that could be done on a Sunday afternoon. He wondered, just for a second, if the Lord would really mind if he were to drink a nice cold beer. He reckoned he wouldn’t, but Pastor Jim would. He used to keep a small stash of bottles, for just such occasions, in a little refrigerator he had in the garage. Now all it held were sodas and the kids’ juice boxes.

  His wife called him in for early supper. He’d promised to go with her to the evening service as well. Why not? The truck wasn’t going anywhere tonight anyway.

  “There’s a man says he’s with Floyd County on the phone for you. Don’t be long. I have to be early to church.”

  Whaite filled a water glass, plopped in ice cubes, and went into the front room to take the call.

 
“I got it,” he yelled, and waited until he heard the click signaling the phone had been hung up in the kitchen. “Hello.”

  “Deputy Billingsly, the word on the street is, you’ve been trying to locate Steve Bolt.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Do you know where he is?”

  “We located him but we were too late. Somebody found him first and took him.”

  “Kidnapped or killed?”

  “Kidnapped at least. Can’t say about the other. Judging by the way they went into his hotel room, he could be a dead man by now. If he ain’t, he will be soon.”

  “He was my lead in a shooting. Now what do I do?”

  “Can’t help you there, partner. You have any other leads?”

  “Donnie Oldham, maybe.”

  “Well, I can help you with that twerp. I’d like to talk to him myself.”

  “Can we meet sometime tomorrow?”

  “Sure enough. There’s a beer joint on the main road called The Pub. Donnie drops by there pretty near every day. You meet me there at three. I go on shift then. Somebody there will know where he’s at.”

  “Can you give me directions?”

  The county man described the location. Whaite retrieved a pencil stub and fumbled for a piece of paper to write on. He pulled a scrap from his pocket, frowned at the numbers on one side—license plate maybe—and wrote the directions on the reverse.

  “Three tomorrow—The Pub. Got it. Thanks.” He hung up and headed toward the dining room.

  Chapter 28

  Monday morning and another week gone. Ike sighed and pushed open the door to the Sheriff’s office. A gust of warm air and Anne Murray’s rendition of “White Christmas” assaulted him. Essie had her CD player going full blast and stood on the booking counter stringing plastic holly and pine fronds over the assignment board. When she bent over to extricate another strand, Ike thought it a good thing she’d decided to wear slacks today instead of her usual miniskirt.