by J. D. Webb
“Do you know the way out?”
“I sure hope so.” Heather headed the truck through the trees. They bounced and jiggled on the bench seat as the truck bumped over ruts and tree roots. Heather wrestled the truck between and around obstacles. They made countless turns and backtracks. Several minutes later Heather jammed on the brakes.
Trish hit her head on the dash and came up sputtering. “Why did you stop?”
Heather pointed. “Take a look.”
Trish rubbed away the pain from her forehead and stared open-mouthed. There, about a hundred yards in front of them, was that damn trailer.
Davis was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn,” Heather muttered. “I knew I should have busted his kneecaps after I conked him on the head.”
THIRTY
“God, what do we do now?” Heather sighed. “Where’s Davis?”
Trish tried to ignore the flock of humming birds fluttering inside her stomach. “I see that. If he’s conscious, he had to hear his stupid truck. Probably inside tending to his headache. We need to grab his guns.”
Heather nodded. “Right, you take a pistol and I’ll use a rifle.”
Trish shook her head. “I want the rifle. I’m a better shot with it.”
“I thought you didn’t like guns.”
“I don’t, but I never said I don’t know how to shoot. My dad was a hunter who insisted on his little girl learning about firearms.”
Trish opened the door and cringed when it squeaked, echoing through the woods. She didn’t latch the door behind her, trying to keep down the noise. Heather followed and they rummaged through the bed of the truck, finding two rifles, several boxes of shells and a pistol.
Trish grabbed a rifle. Heather chose the revolver. They loaded their weapons and hunched down beside the pickup, waiting for Davis to show himself.
The birds began to jabber again after being disturbed by the women at the truck. The sun settled behind the thicket of trees. It was turning colder. Trembling, Trish wondered if she could possibly shoot someone. A deer or rabbit was hard enough, but a human? Even a dirt bag like Davis would be a challenge she wasn’t sure she wanted to face.
They leaned on the Ford’s fender and watched. The only sound, other than the birds, was the wind fluttering through the remaining fall leaves.
When the bullet hit the front of the truck inches from Heather’s head, they both screamed. Heather fell backward and for a second Trish thought she’d been shot. A quick glance proved otherwise. Trish’s legs were so cramped she could not stand up. That proved to be a good thing because another bullet ricocheted off the truck’s window post close to the top of her head.
Heather scrambled to a kneeling position and aimed her pistol at the trailer. “Wait, Heather. Don’t waste any bullets. Did you see where the shots came from?”
“No.”
“I didn’t either, but it sounded like they came from near the woodpile. Do you see him?”
“No. Just let me drill that sucker. He scared the shit out of me.”
“Me, too.”
“There. I saw some movement. You were right. That’s where he is.”
Trish took aim. She put four rounds into the logs; five of them rolled onto the ground. Then it was quiet again.
Davis yelled from behind the woodpile. “Well, ladies, I see you’ve fired a rifle before. Looks like a Mexican standoff. How about we call a truce?”
Trish put four more bullets into the wood. Heather emptied her pistol as well. Trish yelled as loudly as her dry throat would allow, “Throw down your rifle and come out with your hands up.” Never thought I’d ever say that.
Much cursing and muttering came from Davis’ position.
Trish yelled again. “Do it now or that wood becomes splinters.”
Heather held a pistol with both hands. “Better do as she says, sucker. I’m pretty impressed with her accuracy.”
“All right. Hold your fire. I’m coming out.”
Trish kept her position. “Throw out all your weapons. Whatever you’ve got.”
A rifle helicoptered out and landed on the ground between them and Davis. Then a knife landed close to it. “That’s all I got.”
“Come on out.”
Davis rose from behind the woodpile. He had a large white bandage around his head and still wore his uniform. He stepped in front of the wood and began moving toward them. He had a smile on his face.
“That’s far enough. Lie face down on the ground. Do it now.” Trish hoped she sounded like she meant it.
Davis just stood there. “Have either of you ever killed someone? It’s not pretty. Death is very ugly. You must live with that all your life.” He moved forward again.
Trish shouted. “Stop. I’ll shoot.”
Davis’ smile never wavered. He took one more step—only about twenty yards away.
Trish didn’t hear the shot and didn’t remember pulling the trigger. Davis went down, grabbing his foot. “You bitch. You shot me.”
“Yes, I guess I did. I’ll do it again. The plus is I won’t have to field dress you. That always makes me queasy. Now lie flat on the ground. Heather, get something to tie him up.” Trish kept the rifle trained on the man as he rolled around holding his foot, cursing. She decided not to insist upon him lying flat, guessing he wouldn’t be jumping up to rush them any time soon.
Heather returned with some electrical cord. She pushed Davis down and bound his hands behind his back, then secured his uninjured leg as well. When she seemed satisfied he couldn’t get up, she pulled off his shoe to inspect the damage to his unbound foot.
“Clean through and out the other side. I’ll get something to bandage it with.” She looked up at Trish. “I never figured you’d actually do it. Wow, that was awesome. What a shot.”
Trish lowered her rifle and set the safety. “Actually, I was aiming for the ground near his foot.”
Heather let out a cackle. “Well, it sure worked. I’ll be back soon as I find some bandages and something we can pour on the wound to make it really sting.” She hurried off to the trailer.
Davis moaned and rolled his head sideways to look at Trish. “So what now?”
“Well, that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about. Relax. And I think it would be best if you don’t talk. I’m still mad.” Trish rested the rifle on her shoulder and sauntered toward the trailer.
THIRTY-ONE
Trish found all she needed to tend to Davis’ wound in his trailer. The bullet had smashed his instep badly. Some broken bones would need attention when they got back to civilization.
She knelt beside him. Davis winced the whole time she cared for his wound. She remembered her grandmother’s admonition about being careful helping stray animals, how they might bite in their pain. Well, she couldn’t just let Davis bleed to death. She began to remove his sock.
“Ow. Go easy there, lady. You messed me up bad.”
“I suppose there was no reason to shoot you. I think you’d be thanking your lucky stars I didn’t blow your kneecap off. And that I am kind enough to give you first aid.” Trish gave an extra pull on the knot she had tied. “Are you denying you were going to kill us?”
Davis paused and smiled through a grimace. “Okay, you got me there. But someone in my profession can’t afford to leave people around who can testify against him, can he?”
“Don’t give me the profession BS. You’re a piece of crap who sneaks up on innocent victims.”
Davis sat up awkwardly, his hands tied behind him. “Not one person I ever eliminated was innocent. I’m very careful about my targets.”
Trish waved her hand at him. “What about us?’ She pointed to Heather. “We’re innocent. You were going to send us to the great beyond. I don’t want to hear any more. You’re a cold-blooded killer. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Trish got up and headed to the trailer to find out what Heather was doing. Maybe finding a phone or some directions to get them out of here. The beauty of the setting sun w
as in marked contrast to their circumstances. If she were an artist, the orange and purple reflections on the clouds would be a great inspiration to paint a picture. How odd. The birds have quit chirping.
“This is the FBI. Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands on your head.”
The megaphone’s hollow message didn’t register at first. Trish stood transfixed. The message was repeated. She blinked, dropped the rifle and slowly placed her hands on her head.
Heather slammed open the trailer door and stood her hands on her hips. “Where the hell you been, Cheever? You’re about three hours late.”
The megaphone barked again. “Hands on your head. Come forward slowly.”
Suddenly a team of men in black ninja outfits carrying weapons pointed in their direction surrounded them. Two men hurried over to where Davis lay, two others gently patted Trish and Heather down and told them to sit. Cheever, followed by Bob Jenkins, appeared from behind a tree.
Two minutes later a man ran up to Cheever and whispered in his ear. He nodded and offered his hand to Heather. “You can get up now, ladies. The area is clear.”
Heather ignored his gesture and stood, brushing off her clothes. “Area was clear before you got here,”
Cheever acted like he didn’t hear her.
Bob helped Trish up. “How’d you know where we were?”
Cheever smiled and interrupted. “GPS from a tracking device we added to the disk. We’d have been here sooner, but this area isn’t fully pinpointed yet. What happened? How’d you get away from him?”
Bob Jenkins shot Cheever a harsh look. “Let’s find out if they’re all right first.” He turned to Trish and put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Trish looked into Bob’s eyes. Steely concern stared back at her. She had the urge to pat his hand, but held back. “I’m fine, thanks. Just anxious to get home and away from that creep.”
* * * *
Several hours later, at the police station, Trish and Heather finished the paperwork. Their story had been repeated three times and recorded. Bob insisted on staying through the entire process and offered to take Trish home. She accepted.
Trish flopped back in the passenger seat of Bob’s Monte Carlo. It’s over. So drained. I feel like I’ve finished my second marathon. Now for a hot bath and some rest.
Bob climbed in and started the car. He smiled. “Since I’m a cop it would look really bad if we had an accident and you weren’t wearing a seatbelt.”
Trish sat up. “Oh, you’re right.” She snapped the belt in place. “I’m just so relieved that Davis is in custody and I can go back to being unknown again.”
“Trish, I was really worried about you. Cheever wouldn’t give out any information, and I was detailed to help his men get to where they were going. I felt like a gofer. Crap, I was a gofer.”
“Cheever has a way of making you want to slap him around, doesn’t he?”
Bob chuckled. “My thoughts exactly.” He looked over at her. “Anyway, I’m glad this worked out okay. You’re a hero…ah…I mean heroine. With everything that happened, losing your husband and then being kidnapped…well, you’re one hell of a woman. And I mean that in the nicest way.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
“If there’s anything I can do in the coming days, ask. I’ll break down some doors if you want. You name it.”
“That means a lot to me. If I need something, I’ll call.”
Bob grinned, staring straight ahead with hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. They were silent during the short ride to the B&B stairs.
Wonder how I’ll get through the next few days. What a nightmare this has been. Jim’s murder, finding a serial killer in quiet old Millvale, getting kidnapped by that killer and now, facing a funeral and a bout of medication for cancer. I know how Job in the Bible must have felt. Come on, God. Can’t you ease up a bit here?
THIRTY-TWO
Trish trudged upstairs with feet seemingly encased in concrete blocks. She waved goodbye to Bob and unlocked the door. It was after 3 a.m., so the decision to skip taking a bath was a no-brainer. Trish dropped her purse on the dresser, kicked off her shoes, and rolled onto the softness of the Inn’s featherbed mattress. Closing her eyes, she allowed the silence to envelope her. Until someone banged on the communal door between the apartment and Mrs. W.’s part of the house.
“Trish, are you okay? Open up,” Mrs. Williams’ troubled voice roused her.
“Yes, I’m all right.”
“I’ve made some tea for you. I have it here.”
I guess it’s not in the cards for me to get any rest tonight. She looked at her clock. I mean this morning. “Just a minute, Bev. I’m coming.” Trish rolled out of bed and tripped on her shoes as she stepped onto the floor. She opened the door. Bev Williams grabbed her arm and escorted her to the kitchen. More like herded her to the kitchen. She padded down the hall in her hose.
Bev pulled out a chair and motioned Trish into it. “Tell me what happened. I heard you were kidnapped. Are you okay?”
“Yes. Davis took Heather and me as hostages. He’s now in jail.”
“You poor dear. How awful. Davis? Henry, the mailman?” Bev’s eyes appeared twice their normal size behind her glasses.
The teakettle on the stove began a shrill whistle. Bev jumped up and poured hot water into two cups. She plopped a teabag into each cup and placed them on the table along with a plate of fresh blueberry muffins. Bev pushed the plate toward Trish. Grinning, Bev snagged one for herself and sat down on the edge of her chair, leaning forward. “Let’s have it.”
Between bites and for the fourth time, Trish related the story. Bev was the best source of information the town gossips had and Trish knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until the entire story unfolded. She toyed with the idea of writing up a recap when she was more rested to hand out to people so she wouldn’t have to repeat it over and over. Bev seemed stunned as she listened to the tale. However, not so stunned that she couldn’t manage two more muffins.
“I hope he gets the death penalty for what he did to my precious finch.” She glanced lovingly at the surviving finch. “I’ll pull the lever myself. I still can’t believe we had a serial killer right here in Millvale.” Bev shook her head. “I’ve lived here all my life and don’t remember anyone ever being killed. Well, except for Mr. Dennis back in fifty-nine. He got himself caught in his antique threshing machine he was readying for the county fair.” She shivered. “Ugly mess that was.”
Trish finished her tea and got up to leave.
Bev smiled at her. “You know, Bob was beside himself with worry about you. He was here three or four times, filling me in when he heard anything.” Bev winked. “I think he has a thing for you. Mind you, I know you just lost your husband, but it’s something to think about. You couldn’t find a better man anywhere. And not just ’cause I’m prejudiced either.”
Trish turned to go. “Yes, Bob is a good man. Thanks for the tea, Bev.” She grinned. “And for the heads up.”
* * * *
The alarm rang at 6:30. Crap, forgot to shut that thing off last night. Trish rolled over and slapped the snooze button. She closed her eyes but couldn’t shut off the activity behind her eyelids. It was like her brain was yelling at her to get up. Well, she did have to finalize the funeral arrangements. God, I hope I’ll be able to get through that ordeal. I can just imagine what kind of a scene Jim’s mom will make. Always making a point of telling everyone I wasn’t the best catch available for her son. And his dad who never had a kind word for anyone.
Trish sat up on the side of the bed and stretched. That hurt. Her muscles refused to cooperate; her body seemed to belong to someone else. Somehow she got herself together and, not wanting to bother Bev, decided to walk two blocks to grab a McGriddle.
The cold morning air refreshed her a bit. The soreness dissipated on the way back to her room. Next came the dreaded visit to the funeral home. She was determined to give Jim a proper funeral, but had no idea
how to pay for it. She made a mental note to go by the house and try to make some sense of their finances. Jim had been so secretive about everything. It would take a while to sort things out.
After the meeting with Gerald Boggs, great-grandson of the founder of Boggs Funeral Emporium, Trish wanted to slap the smarmy jerk. His insincere smile and semi-gentle push toward the most expensive casket and arrangements ticked her off. She couldn’t leave fast enough after telling him decidedly that she would take the next-to-cheapest casket and no extras.
Trish returned to her apartment and called Heather to see how she was doing. After hearing a tirade about “Waking somebody from the dead,” she was convinced Heather was doing fine. Then she called Mr. Sloan to let him know she would not be back to work until later in the week. Surprisingly, he told her to take as much time as she needed.
She was preparing to drop by the house to pick up a few more clothes when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Morgan? I’m glad I finally tracked you down. My name is Todd Boston. I’m one of the owners of your late husband’s brokerage firm, Dodge, Kelvin and Simone. Your husband was doing some important work for us, and we need to locate a document he had in his possession.” Todd Boston? I don’t remember anyone by that name from Jim’s firm. “I wonder if I might meet you at your home to see if we can locate it. When I met with him last week, he set it aside in his desk to add some final details. I have a deadline I must meet by Friday and that paper is critical. It should only take a minute to retrieve. If it weren’t vital, I would never have bothered you at this inopportune time.”
“I’m really busy and the house is in a mess. I don’t have any idea where anything is.” Trish hesitated.
“Please, Mrs. Morgan. My very job is on the line here.” The man sounded desperate. “Well, I suppose we could. I do need to go over some things at the house. Okay, maybe we could meet…” Trish glanced at her watch. “…say around one p.m.?”