by L C Hayden
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Linda couldn’t stop shaking. She unfolded the piece of paper attached to the picture. The laser-printed message on it read:
I pushed your parents’ car off the road. It was not an accident. Don’t do anything stupid like going to the police. Take a look at the second envelope.
Trembling hands reached for and opened the second envelope. More pictures. This time, one of Eric as he made his way toward his car. The next one showed one-and-half-year-old Brad. How big he’d gotten since she’d last seen him. He stood at the daycare, clutching a ball.
The note read:
Self-explanatory. Cute grandson. You go to the police, they die. Remember, I’m watching you, and don’t try to contact your son again.
Start packing. Two weeks from now, you’re going on a trip. That’ll give you plenty of time to take care of matters here at home. Take the camper. I’ll get back to you with more instructions before the time is up.
You’re now ready to open the last envelope.
Linda felt as if every nerve in her body would pop. Her hands shook so much, she dropped the envelope. She retrieved it. She wanted to open it. She didn’t want to open it.
What else could this monster do? Who was he? Was it money he wanted? If so, she gladly would have given it to him. He didn’t have to kill her parents—but he hadn’t even asked.
She drew a deep breath and forced herself to open the last envelope. No note this time, just a picture.
Mitch. Over two hours ago, he had kissed her and gone to her parents’ house to take down the antennas. He had been on the roof, but now he lay on the ground, a pool of blood by his side.
Linda dropped the picture. Her world turned gray, then pitch-black.
TWO
One good thing about campgrounds, folks always seemed friendly and tended to enjoy shooting the bull with a stranger. While Carol bathed, napped, and read, Harry Bronson decided to see if he could find someone for some stimulating conversation. He stepped out of his motor home and looked around.
He had to admit, South Dakota housed its share of beauty—or at least this part of the state, the area surrounding Custer State Park, did. But beauty didn’t captivate him. Work did, but he no longer had that. He’d been given the option to retire or be fired. Bronson felt that hadn’t left him with a hell of a lot of choices.
He had put in twenty-eight years as a detective with the Dallas Police Department, and his willingness to sometimes bend the rules had led to his forced retirement, something he couldn’t face at the moment.
Best to keep busy. Talk to fellow motor home owners. Find out how they kept their sanity. Bronson enjoyed traveling, but not the way Carol did.
He stood by his doorway, scoping The Roost Resort campground. No one in sight. Damn. Just his luck. He would at least walk around the campground. As he headed back toward his camper, he spotted a woman sitting on the step of her motor home. Her bent back and her lowered head gave her a look of desperation or loneliness. Bronson would do the neighborly thing.
He got within five feet from her before she noticed him. “Evenin’, ma’am.” He offered her his usual warm smile and stood back, giving her space.
She looked up, and Bronson realized she’d been crying. Tears. I hate tears. He wished he hadn’t approached her, but what could he do now? He took a step forward.
She bolted to her feet. “What do you want?”
Bronson raised his hands as though surrendering. “Whoa. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What do you want?” The venom in her voice sent Bronson a warning signal.
“Nothin’. Nothin’ at all. I just stopped to introduce myself. Me and the Mrs.—that’s Carol—we’re right next door. Sorry to have bothered you. I’ll leave you alone.” He stepped away, aware of her watchful eyes.
Bronson went inside the camper and flopped down on the couch.
Carol set her book down. “What’s wrong?”
Bronson told her about their next-door neighbor. Carol got up. “I’ll go talk to her. Sounds like she needs some cheering up.”
“Don’t bother. She’s going to bite your head off.”
“Maybe not.” She bagged some homemade cookies, kissed his lips, and walked out.
Bronson flipped on the TV. Cops was on. Great.
* * * * *
Forty-five minutes later, Carol returned. “Can you flip three hamburgers?”
Bronson turned the TV off and set the remote down. “Three?”
“We’re having company.”
“Don’t tell me. Not Ms. Grouch next door.”
Carol frowned and placed her hands on her hips. “She’s not a grouch. She’s just a very sad woman. Didn’t tell me why and I didn’t ask. I sensed she could use a friend and that’s all I offered.”
Bronson’s heart swelled with pride. Carol was definitely a keeper. “I’ll go get the grill ready.” He stepped out, opened the outside storage, retrieved the barbeque grill, and began to clean it.
“Damn it!” Bronson heard the Grouch say. He snuck a look over. She was attempting to take out the awning, but wasn’t having much success. Bronson continued to wipe the grill.
“Damn it!” she repeated.
As he turned on the grill to warm it up, he thought about ignoring her plight, but the gentleman part of him won. “Need some help?” He deliberately stayed still, not yet crossing into her campground area.
She jerked as she turned to stare at Bronson. Her glance slipped away from him and searched the campground. “I could use it.”
Bronson ambled over, wondering why she seemed so paranoid. “May I?” He pointed to the awning.
She nodded and stepped away from him.
He loosened the brackets on each pole and flipped the small lever on top of the awning’s front. He grabbed the loop and pulled the awning out. “There you are,” he said as he raised and locked the poles in place.
She continued to look around the campground. Bronson followed her gaze, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “They’re watching, you know. I’m sure they’re watching.”
Oh, oh. “Who’s watching?”
She turned to face him. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her gaze shifted from motor home to motor home. She bit her lip.
Years of experience had taught Bronson to recognize the warning signals of a person on the run. This lady needed help. His police instincts piqued like a hound on a trail. “Maybe we should begin by introducing ourselves. My name is Bronson—Harry Bronson, from Texas.”
She studied him, as though debating if she could trust him.
He smiled and nodded once.
She took a deep breath. “I’m Linda Randig from Two Forks, Wyoming. Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” Good, she’d taken one step toward opening up. A small step, but still a step. Bronson would have to rely on every questioning technique he’d ever learned in his twenty-eight year career. “So tell me, Linda, who’s watchin’ you?” He swallowed the urge to ask if she was a certified lunatic.
Her eyes danced with fear as she stifled a cry.
“It’s okay. I’m not one of them.”
“How do I know that?”
Good question. “The police are usually the good guys.”
Linda gasped and took a step back. “You’re a policeman?”
“Not anymore. I’m a retired detective from the Dallas Police Department.”
“Retired?”
He nodded. “My wife, Carol, I believe she invited you to dine with us. So if you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I’ve got some grillin’ to do.” He turned and walked away.
“Detective.”
Bronson stopped and pivoted.
“I need—” She shrugged. Her eyes narrowed, and Bronson felt his soul scrutinized.
“I feel like drinkin’ a good cup of coffee,” he said. “You know of a place where we could get one? We’ll sit down and talk.”
Slowly, she nodded. “I make a great cup of co
ffee.”
Home-brewed coffee, something Carol—an otherwise perfect woman—had never learned to make. Bronson could almost taste the brew. Like a dog, he felt he would start salivating at any moment. “I accept.”
“You wait here.” She pointed to the lawn chair by her front door. “I’ll bring the coffee out.”
He watched as she stepped into her motor home and closed the door. He wondered if she would come out again. Bronson walked to his own site, lowered the heat on the grill, grabbed a lawn chair and the newspaper, and returned to his neighbor’s front door.
He set the chair down, opened the newspaper, and read. Fifteen minutes later, he folded it and placed it under his chair. By now other campers had begun to gather in groups of twos or threes and exchange friendly chatter. Bronson watched them.
Ten minutes later, he reopened the newspaper and read the articles that hadn’t originally interested him. He read every headline and skimmed over the comics one more time. He put the paper away.
Some of the other campers busied themselves by barbequing. He should be doing the same. He picked up the paper again, sighed, and set it down. He waited some more and almost fell asleep—or he might have napped, he couldn’t tell. He considered walking away, but Linda seemed so desperate.
The door behind him opened. “You’re still here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He spoke without turning around. “I’d wait an eternity for a good cup of coffee.”
Linda stepped out, leaving the front door open. Bronson noticed she hadn’t brought the coffee. Damn.
She sat beside him, stared ahead, and remained quiet. So did Bronson.
Time marched on. The seconds extended into minutes.
“Two Forks, Wyoming—that’s where it happened?” Bronson spoke without looking at her.
She nodded.
He focused his attention on the white-to-purple bed of pasqueflowers. He’d read somewhere that South Dakota had adopted this tulip-like blossom as their state flower. “How long ago?”
“A bit over a month.”
“Ah.” Bronson paused. “What was the first indication you had that something was happenin’?”
“My parents died in a car . . . accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
Bronson glanced her way and knew it’d be hard to get her engaged in a conversation again. “Those flowers there.” He pointed to the pasqueflowers. “The Indians called them the navel flowers because when they bloom, spring is born.”
Linda looked at the flowers. “That’s nice.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is. Spring is a time of hope and this is spring. Maybe you can tell me about the accident.”
Linda’s gaze quickly returned to the flowers.
Bronson leaned forward and watched for her reaction. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
She gasped. “How . . . how did you know?”
“You paused between car and accident. That indicates you question it.”
She nodded. Then she got up and went back into her camper.
Bronson stood up, folded the paper and his chair, and returned to his own campsite. He got busy grilling three burgers, his mind focused on Linda. He couldn’t wait to resume their conversation.
* * * * *
It being neither hot nor cold, Carol chose to eat outside on the camp’s picnic table. Bronson covered it with a white and red checkerboard tablecloth.
Throughout the meal, Linda remained quiet and withdrawn. Not that Carol noticed. She chatted away, causing even Linda to smile every so often.
After they finished eating, Carol gathered the paper plates and stood up. “I made a cake for dessert. Lemon—Harry’s favorite, but I still have to put on the frosting. You two wait here while I get it ready.” Carol hummed as she went back inside.
Bronson leaned back in his seat. “Tell me about the accident.”
She looked at him, her eyes piercing his soul. “You know, you remind me of my father.”
Great. Linda was older than him. “Your father?”
“Yes. He had a quality about him that made people want to trust him. You have that same characteristic.”
“Huh. Thanks, I guess.”
Linda’s lips barely formed a smile. “Maybe it’s not that. Maybe I just desperately need to unload and you’re it.” She cleared her throat. “You probably think I’m looney tunes.”
That thought had entered his mind. He shrugged.
“I brought evidence.”
Bronson sat up straighter as she reached into her purse and handed him three pictures. The one of the man lying in a pool of blood captured his interest the most. He looked at her. “Tell me about these pictures.”
At first, Linda hesitated and spoke slowly, but the deeper she got into the story, the more she crowded her words. Somewhere during her narration, Bronson retrieved his spiral pocket notebook and jotted down the pertinent information. When she finished, she said, “Please tell me what to do.”
“The most obvious thing is to go to the police. I’ll go with you.”
“No. No police. The man who contacted me, he said . . . he explicitly said—”
“I know what he said.” Bronson had heard it before. “That’s the first thing they always tell you. No police. Of course they don’t want you callin’ the police. It’s to their advantage if you don’t call, but years of experience tell me it’s the best thing to do.”
“No, absolutely not. Promise me you won’t contact them.”
“They can help.”
“No! This is my son’s life—my grandson’s life—we’re talking about.” She wagged her index finger in Bronson’s face to emphasize the points she made.“I’ll do anything to protect them.”
Her steady, almost threatening tone told Bronson not to push it. “Anything,” she repeated.
Bronson raised his arms as though surrendering. “I understand, and I will abide by your wishes, but if things get out of hand, or if I feel we have no choice but to notify the police, I’ll do so. But, if at all possible, I’ll let you know ahead of time. Fair enough?”
She frowned. “I still don’t like the idea.”
“Think about it. If savin’ your son’s and grandson’s lives means police involvement, then that’s the way to go. What do you say?”
Linda nodded reluctantly. “Maybe. If it gets to that point, we can talk about it. Right now, I’m so worried about the kids and I can’t even warn them.”
“I could do that for you.”
Linda’s eyes lit up. “You will?” She bit her lip. “What if they find out?”
“They?”
“The people watching me.”
Oh, that they. “They won’t. I’ll be careful.”
“But they’re watching me.”
“That’s right, they’re watchin’ you, not me. I have more freedom to move around, at least for a little while.”
Linda raked her hair with her fingers. “How do I know they’re not watching me right now, and they’ve seen you?”
Bronson scanned the area. Everyone seemed to be minding his own business. “They probably bugged your home. That’s how they’re able to keep up with you.” He pointed to her motor home. “You said they insisted you drive that?”
Her eyes narrowed. She nodded.
“That means it’s probably bugged. They didn’t want you stayin’ at motels where they can’t keep track of you. They probably can’t see you or hear you right now.”
Linda bolted to her feet, her hands folded against her chest. She breathed hard through her mouth. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” She stepped away from the camper as though it had the power to attack her. “My camper is bugged?”
Bronson stood up. “I’m assumin’ it is. If it’s okay with you, ma’am, I’ll go and check.”
Linda’s forehead formed deep furrows. “Yes, of course.”
“But first, tell me about the voice on the phone.”
She looked at her motor home. “What about the bugs?”
“That’s next. First the voice.” Bronson retrieved his notebook and pen. “Is it the same one all the time?”
“I think so.”
“But you’re not sure?”
She shrugged. “It sounds the same, I guess. Only one.”
“Anythin’ unusual about the voice? High-pitched? Low-pitched? Raspy?”
Linda considered his questions. She shook her head in frustration. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Next time he calls, pay close attention. How does he phrase his words? Is there any background noise you can identify? Does he have an accent? Maybe you can leave your cell on speaker mode, and I’ll be able to listen.”
“I can do that. I’m so damn frightened, I know I won’t be able to pay attention to the details you ask for.”
“You will, once you’re aware of what you’re supposed to be listenin’ for. I have no doubt in my mind.” He smiled.
She almost returned the smile. Bronson felt he’d made progress. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure they placed a bug in your camper. I’m hopin’ it’s nothin’ more than a listenin’ device. If they have visual, things will be trickier. Either way, we’ll have to explain my presence. After I search the place, I want you to go in there and pretend you’re talkin’ on the cell. You’re going to tell me, your cousin, that you’re having problems with the motor home. Maybe the sink isn’t drainin’ or the stove won’t turn on. Somethin’—anythin’. Pause while I supposedly tell you that I’m comin’ over. You’re goin’ to insist that I don’t need to come over, just tell you what to do. But of course, I’m goin’ to insist on comin’ over. Maybe after you ‘hang up,’ you can cuss and say you hope I don’t blow everythin’ for you. Think you can do that?” He stood up, headed for her camper, and studied it.
She followed his glance. “Yeah, I’ve done a bit of acting in my life. I can handle that. Are you searching for a transmitter?”
“Sort of. I’m really lookin’ for a trackin’ device.”
“A what?”
“It’s a little piece of equipment that enables them to track you.” He pointed to the black Mercedes that Linda towed behind her camper. “Is that your car?”