“Find Fowler,” Sara mumbled. “Martin where are you? Come out, come out wherever you are.” She giggled.
Hands under her shoulders yanked her erect. Her feet gave away and she stumbled and would have fallen if hands hadn’t held her. She was half-carried out the front door and unceremoniously shoved into the passenger side of a small car. Althea climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
Martin where are you? What were they going to do to her?
The woman drove slowly down the drive and turned into the secondary highway. When they reached a straightaway leading to a steep incline, she depressed the accelerator until the speedometer hovered near seventy. Then she adjusted the cruise control and tapped the brake pedal.
Sara saw the pedal depress completely to the floor. There were no brakes. The woman kept her foot off the accelerator and the car’s speed gradually decreased until it rolled to a near stop.
The car was still moving slightly as Althea opened the door and jumped out. She ran alongside the car, slammed the door shut, and then twisted the cruise control button to “resume.” The accelerator automatically depressed as the car increased speed. Sara’s inner voice screamed.
The steering wheel! She had to grab the steering wheel. Sara lurched over toward the driver’s side and grasped the wheel and jerked it.
The car waffled back and forth on the narrow road as it reached the crest of the incline and started down. She moved over until she was under the wheel and depressed the brake pedal time after time.
The pedal jammed completely to the floor with no apparent reduction in the vehicle’s speed.
She squinted, as if the act of contorting her face would adjust her dizzying vision, but the road ahead wavered back and forth. A car was approaching; its headlights flickered up and down in warning and now she could hear the sound of its horn.
She was in the wrong lane and on a direct collision course with the oncoming car. She wrenched the wheel, and again the car slithered back and forth over the road, ending up in the correct lane as the other car, its horn protesting loudly, careened safely past.
The woman who had driven this car had adjusted something on the wheel.… What had she done? Sara fumbled with the unfamiliar dash, her fingers sliding from one button to the other. The windshield wiper started wavering back and forth before her, and cleanser spurted up to obscure most of her already poor vision.
Frantically, she downshifted into low amidst the protesting scream of the transmission.
There was a steep curve ahead. The car, even at its rapidly decelerating pace, would not make the turn.
Sara twisted the wheel violently to the left. The car skidded across both lanes and off the shoulder. It started to climb a steep dirt embankment, slowed, and tilted over on its side.
She was able to push the door open and tried desperately to pull herself from the vehicle. Another car, lights flashing on its dome, had stopped on the road below. Two large men came up the hill toward her.
She had one leg over the side of the car and painfully pulled up the other and fell over onto the ground. There she threw up, and lay panting on the grass.
“Drunk as a skunk,” one of the men said.
“Throw her in the tank.”
Chapter Six
Bright morning light cast a pattern of window bars against the wall by the bunk. Sara examined the shadow for a long time as she adjusted to the fact that she was in jail.
The previous night’s events were a blur of fuzzy images. She had tried to tell them. She had forced out the words, but they hadn’t understood and had mistaken her terror for drunken paranoia.
She felt physically debilitated. Not only did her body signal the pain of the two auto wrecks, but the drinks they had poured down her all culminated in a massive headache.
Steps came down the corridor. With difficulty she lowered her feet from the bunk and ran a hand through her matted hair.
A heavy-set matron rattled a large key ring as she beckoned toward Sara. “Your bail’s been posted, honey.”
The door swung open and Sara followed the matron down the hallway.
Ray Heath stood in the open door that led into the cell block. Sara gave a short cry. She ran ahead of the matron and into Ray’s open arms. He held her as she pressed her face against his shoulder.
“Oh, darling, thank God you’re here. It’s been a nightmare.”
His voice was low and reassuring. “It’s going to be all right, Sara.”
She stepped back to look up at him. Ray was a tall man of Sara’s age, nearly six-feet-four, with a rangy body and slightly curling sandy blond hair. He had a wide mouth and smiled often, producing two deep lines that creased the sides of his face. He was not so much handsome as pleasant looking.
“They tried to kill me and Martin’s missing.”
He nodded. “I know about Martin. The police called me late last night and I drove down here right away. I took a head count at Meegan House and found that Martin wasn’t there.”
The matron stood impatiently behind them rattling her keys. “If you sign for your property, you can leave,” she said. “Your court appearance is two weeks from Thursday.”
Sara turned. “Court appearance?”
“Excessive speed and driving under the influence of alcohol.”
“They forced me to drink.”
The matron shook her head. “I know, hon. My old man forces it down me every Saturday night. We have a ball, but we don’t drive cars.”
“I want to make a formal complaint. I want a warrant drawn for the arrest of two people.”
Ray had his arm around her waist as they continued down the hall. “Are you sure you want to pursue this, Sara?”
“I sure as hell do. I want them arrested for assault.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know their names, but I know what house they operate out of.”
“You really want to make a complaint, hon?” the matron asked.
“I surely do.”
“I’ll take you in to the chief. You wanna sign for your property first?” The matron picked up a large bulky envelope from a desk and opened it. “One pocketbook with assorted lipsticks and so forth and twenty-five hundred in cash. Sign here please.”
Sara pulled her hands away from the sheaf of money as if it were contaminated. “That’s not mine. I only had about ten or twelve dollars in my purse.”
“It’s yours. We took it from you last night.”
Ray led her to a far corner of the room where he whispered to her. “Early this morning, I looked at the Meegan House checking account. You withdrew twenty-five hundred, nearly the whole account, yesterday.”
“No, I didn’t. Ray, you can’t believe that.”
“The checkbook was lying open on your dresser.”
“You went into my room?”
“I had to. They called me with some wild tale about your drinking and wrecking cars.… It’s my responsibility, Sara.”
“I didn’t take that money. You have to believe me.”
“Come on, you two,” the matron said with extreme impatience. “I have other prisoners to look after.”
“Take the money,” Ray said. “We’ll straighten everything out later.”
Sara nodded and numbly signed the receipt for the money. She handed the large wad of bills over to Ray who stuffed them in his pocket.
“You still want to see the chief?” the matron asked.
“Yes.”
Chief Richards was a balding man with a reddened, weathered face. He smoked a corncob pipe and viewed Sara and Ray with a mixture of good humor and irony.
He tapped his desk top with a pencil and then looked down at the notes he had made on the yellow legal pad. “You’re sure that’s the house where they took you?”
“Positive. Set back from road, white, with bay windows in front … on Route 153.”
“That’s the Boylston place. I’ve known Tad Boylston for four years—ever since he retired and moved to
Horton. Worked for the telephone company for years. His wife Mary is active in the garden club and they both go to the Baptist church.”
“Miss Bucknell wouldn’t lie about a thing like that,” Ray said with less conviction than Sara would have wished.
“Not saying she is, but am saying she might be mistaken.” He leaned forward. “You see, Miss Bucknell, the permanent population of Horton is five thousand, although that triples when the tourists come in. That means I know everybody but anybody in this town. And I know the Boylstons well enough to know they aren’t kidnapping and shooting drugs into people.”
“What do they look like?” she asked.
“Well, Tad is kinda fat in his old age, got less hair than I do, but there’s a fringe of white around his ears. Mary’s kinda round too, wears her hair up in …”
“That’s not them. The woman was my age … a redhead … and the man wore a suit and looked like …”
“Like what?”
“A cop or something.”
“My men are all accounted for. Not that there’s many to account for.”
Ray stood up. “Perhaps we can come back another time.”
“I know what happened to me,” Sara said, realizing that a hysterical tone had crept into her voice.
“And I know you wrecked two cars yesterday, Miss Bucknell. The State boys couldn’t get you on driving under the influence the first time … but we got you the second.… We got videotapes of you crawling around the floor when we booked you.”
“I don’t want to hear.”
“They aren’t pretty, that’s for sure.”
“You,” he pointed the stem of his pipe at Ray, “you’re a doctor, aren’t you?”
“Of psychology,” Ray answered.
“Well, this little lady needs a little psychology. She was on one hell of a toot yesterday, wrecked a van and then rented another car which she drove off the road. Seems to me, for everyone’s health, she ought to be kept away from wheeled vehicles.”
“I told you what happened.”
“You got to give me names, Miss Bucknell. Or tell me where these bad guys are.”
“I don’t know.”
Chief Richards shrugged and stood up to signify the end of the interview. “If you find out, let me know.”
In the police station parking lot they sat in the hot car baking under the sun. Finally, Ray leaned over and turned on the ignition and air conditioner. In a few minutes a cool stream of air flowed around them.
“I’m not a drunk, Ray. You’ve got to believe me.”
He tapped the Wheel in thought for a moment before swiveling on the seat to face her. “Remember last year at Middleburg College when we met and when … the first time we were really together?”
“It’s called making love,” she snapped, “and you’re supposed to be the psychologist.”
“You drank an awful lot of sparkling Burgundy.”
“For God’s sake, I was nervous and it … it seemed romantic.”
He threw the car in gear and backed out of the parking space. “Why don’t you tell me exactly where the house is that they took you to, and go over in detail everything that’s happened.”
“That’s the first sound idea I’ve heard all day.”
She covered the details as succinctly and orderly as she could. Ray was quiet as she spoke, only occasionally stopping her to ask a question or for clarification of a particular point. She started with the beating of Martin Fowler by the motorcyclists and continued until the recounting of last night’s accident.
“And now Martin is missing,” Ray added.
“Are you sure he’s not hiding out somewhere near the halfway house?”
“We couldn’t find him.” He slowed the car to a stop and pointed up the winding drive toward the white house with the bay windows. “Is that the place?”
“Yes, it is.”
“We’re going in.” He turned up the drive.
Sara cringed back in the seat. “Please, Ray, there’re at least two of them.”
He braked before the front stoop, slammed from the car and walked over to an older man weeding flowers along the small garden under the bay windows.
“Mr. Boylston?”
“Yes.” The man painfully stood and brushed soil from his pants knees. “What can I do for you, son?”
“This is your house, isn’t it?”
“Last I heard. You selling insurance?”
“No, sir. You and your wife live here alone?”
“We do, except for when the kids or the grandchildren visit. What is this, son? Twenty questions?”
There was a small flurry of movement in the bay window behind the curtains until a white-haired woman peered inquisitively out at them. Sara left the car and walked over to where Ray and Mr. Boylston stood. “Were you here yesterday?”
“We don’t go many places except to town for groceries once a week.”
“And there’s a baby grand piano in the living room, pictures of your children and grandchildren along the mantelpiece,” Sara spoke quickly, nearly in a staccato.
“You’re describing our place, all right.”
“Thank you,” Ray said as he took Sara by the elbow and purposefully steered her back into the car. He drove rapidly down the drive and screeched onto the highway.
The white-haired woman came down the steps and stood near her husband. “I don’t think we’ve done the right thing,” she said softly.
He vehemently thunked his hoe into the dirt by his feet. “We needed the money,” he snapped.
“I knew the house,” Sara said.
“And not the people in it.”
“How can you explain it?”
“I don’t know, Sara. Maybe you were in there drunk.”
“Without the Boylstons seeing me? Besides, I told you, I hardly drink at all.”
He fell silent and drove rapidly back to the mansion. Without speaking he opened the car door for her, grabbed her arm in what had become more of a captive gesture than comforting, and walked her through the front door, down the hall, and into her bedroom. He left her standing in the middle of the room and opened the large closet door. Sweeping back hangers of clothing, he pointed to the closet floor.
Sara looked down in astonishment at the collection of empty vodka bottles neatly aligned in rows. “I … I don’t know how they got there.”
“You drank them, Sara.”
“No, Ray.”
“Have you ever heard of alcoholic psychosis?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
A man with a long handlebar moustache poked his head around the door. “Hey, Ray, I need some things at the store and there’s no bread in the house bank account.”
“I have the cash for you to deposit,” Ray answered.
“Who’s he?” Sara asked.
Ray signaled for the man to come in. “Bob, I’d like you to meet Sara Bucknell.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Bob said.
Ray blushed when Sara turned to face him. “And just what is Bob’s job here?”
“He’s the new resident director,” Ray said in a small voice.
Chapter Seven
Sara sat on the edge of the bed and read the letter Ray handed her. She had had contracts not renewed and tenured jobs that disappeared before fruition, but she had never been actually fired before. Tears peaked her eyes and she didn’t care.
The letter was short, formal, and without compassion or regret. The words “your provisional job is terminated effective immediately” were the ones that counted, and it was signed by the superintendent of the school. There was no appeal.
Ray sat down next to her, and his arm slipped over her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
She broke from his grasp and stumbled across the room. “Sorry! You’re sorry! Why didn’t you stick up for me?”
“I tried.”
“I’ll just bet you did.”
“There wasn’t anything I could do, Sara. He had enough on you to fire you two tim
es over.” He waved a deprecating arm toward the silent line of empty vodka bottles in the closet. “Not even counting those. Or the money taken from the house account.”
“I told you, I didn’t … Oh, God! What’s the use?” She pulled a large suitcase from the closet, plunked it on the bed, and began to pile in clothes haphazardly from the bureau. She stopped with a handful of lingerie in her arms. “What did he have on me and how?” she asked quietly.
Ray sat awkwardly on the windowsill with his hands clasped before him. “There was a call from Albany. Someone high up, a commissioner or a legislator, I don’t know exactly. I only know that whoever it was swung a lot of clout. They told the super that word had come to them about you. That you …”
“That I what?”
He abruptly stood. “Damn it, Sara! It’s not important.”
“It is to me.”
“They said that you were drinking, wrecking cars, and some other unfounded allegations.”
“Like what?”
“It’s too ridiculous to mention.”
“Try me.”
“That you kept one of the men in your room overnight.”
“Good Mother of God!” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “I did. There was a reason for it. Martin Fowler was injured and the doctor said that he should be watched.”
“I knew there was an explanation for it.”
“Then why in hell didn’t he ask me first?”
“There was too much pressure from Albany.”
“You’re a bastard, Ray. Do you know that?”
“Come on, Sara. What choice did I have? The super sent me down with the letter because he knew that we were friends. It could have been someone else. What can I do now? I can’t deny the police reports, and God knows what Bob has seen and heard. He certainly saw the bottles in the closet.”
“And don’t forget the missing money.”
“It’s been returned and won’t be mentioned.” He put his arms around her, but she shrugged them off. “I tried, but the super was adamant. You can’t always kill the bearer of bad news.”
“I know. I guess it isn’t your fault.”
“I’d like you to stay with me at my place.”
She brushed her eyes and turned toward him angrily. “Boy, see how inconsistent you are. First you fire me and then you ask me to move in with you.”
The Man Who Heard Too Much Page 6