by L C Hayden
sixty-three
Sixteen more miles, that’s all. Just sixteen more miles and he’d reach The Roost Resort.
He spotted a motorcyclist on the shoulder taking something out of his saddlebags. As Bronson drove past him, the cyclist waved. Bronson waved back and kept going. Normally, bikers ignored him. Bronson shrugged and his thoughts turned to Carol.
Tonight she’d be performing on stage and just as he had promised, he’d be there to see the show. He couldn’t wait to wrap his arms around her. If he went a little faster, they’d be together sooner. Automatically, he checked the rearview mirror. He saw the motorcyclist approaching at high speed. It figured. Bikers were always reckless, always weaving in and out of traffic.
Bronson slowed down. Let him pass, get away.
Two minutes later, the Harley Davidson zoomed past, but instead of continuing, the driver slowed down and kept even pace with Bronson. He signaled for Bronson to pull over.
Bronson eased off the gas pedal. Now what? The cyclist definitely wasn’t a cop. Why was he asking him to pull over? Good thing he hadn’t put his gun away. Bronson slowed down, pulled off onto the shoulder, and stopped the car. He watched the motorcyclist dismount and approach him.
He remained in the car, alert, the engine running, his hand ready. The cyclist removed his helmet and Bronson recognized him. The Slug. Jim Babel, Little Carol’s soon-to-be ex. Bronson killed the engine, opened the door, got out, and faced him.
“Hello, sir.” Jim shook his head sadly. “I know what you think of me. I don’t blame you.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to treat you to a cup of coffee.”
Bronson crossed his arms and stared at him.
“Come on, Mr. Bronson. What would it hurt? You can’t possibly turn down a free cup of coffee.”
He had a point. “Follow me to the Purple Pie Place.”
* * * * *
Bronson and Jim sat in the back room where customers who wanted more than ice cream usually sat. A cup of coffee and a huge slice of warm apple pie awaited Bronson. Jim had a float. “What’s all this about?” Bronson asked once the waitress left.
“I messed up.” Jim looked at Bronson, his eyes searching for compassion.
“Yeah, no shit.” Bronson took a bite of his pie, set the fork down, pushed his food away, and glared at his son-in-law.
Jim looked down. His shoulders were stooped, his head slightly bowed. “All these days without Carol I’ve been miserable. I’ve realized how much I love her. She worships you, Mr. Bronson. If you asked her to give me another chance, she’d do it. Please ask her, not for my sake, but for hers. I know I can make her happy. She loves me. She really does. I’m asking—begging—for your help.”
Bronson took a sip of coffee and set it down. Somehow, today, right now, it didn’t taste all that great. “Convince me.”
“She’s no longer Carol Bronson,” Jim continued. “Her name’s Carol Babel.” He played with the straw in his float, bobbing it up and down. “I really messed up and I’m real sorry. I ignored her. All I wanted to do was ride my bike. We became nothing more than roommates. Then she walked out. ‘That’s okay,’ I told myself. I didn’t realize then how much I would miss her and how much I love her. We can work this out. I can finally be the kind of husband she deserves. All I need is a second chance. How about it?” Jim’s eyes filled with hope and anticipation.
Bronson looked at him and crossed his arms.
“If you do this for me, I promise to spend the rest of my life making her happy. I love her and I know she loves me. I’ve talked to your wife and she told me Carol’s miserable, but even though her mom has begged her to call me, she refuses. She’s proud and stubborn—no offense—just like you. No matter how badly she’s hurting, she’ll kick me out. We’re both miserable and you’re the only one who can help.” He glanced down and lowered his head. “I don’t know what else to say.”
The silence between the two stretched.
Jim slowly looked up at Bronson, nodded, pushed his float away, and stood up.
“Wait,” Bronson said. “Have you ever been bowling?”
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When the Past Haunts You
A Harry Bronson Mystery/Thriller
by
L. C. Hayden
Chapter 1
Carol Bronson sat ramrod straight on the sofa waiting for her husband. Soon as he opened the front door to their motor home, she stood, her eyes, tiny slits on her face.
Under normal circumstances, at this point, Carol would place her left hand on her hip, wiggle her extended right hand index finger, and scold him. But not today.
That, more than anything, forced a gasp to escape from Harry Bronson’s mouth. He took a small step forward. “Carol, sweetheart, what . . .”
“Have we ever kept any secrets from each other?”
A frown formed on Bronson’s forehead. “No, of course—”
“Think before you answer.”
When he worked for the Dallas Police Department, before he’d been forced to retire, he worked cases that placed him in mortal danger. He’d tell Carol not to worry, all was well. A small, white lie he knew she didn’t swallow.
Since then, almost two years later, he hadn’t kept anything from her. Unless . . . He reached in his pocket and felt the cell. Still there.
“I’m waiting,” Carol said. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Bronson crossed his arms. “No.”
“Then I’ll start. Your sister called.”
Carol spoke in a calm voice, but as far as Bronson was concerned, she might as well have shouted. He took a deep breath. “I don’t have a sister.” He swept past Carol, heading toward the bedroom. That was the main problem about traveling in a motor home. No space for privacy.
“Harry Bronson, you get back here.”
Bronson stopped but didn’t turn around.
“We’ve been married thirty-one years and in all that time, you never mentioned a sister.”
Bronson felt her arms wrap around him. He wanted to turn around, face her, tell her the ugly truth, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” She rested her forehead on the middle of his broad back.
Bronson squirmed, forcing Carol to release him. He turned to face her. “Last thing she told me was that she wanted nothin’ to do with me or Mom or Dad. She made that decision, she should stick to it.” He headed toward the door leading outside. “Now, if you excuse me, I’d like some time alone.” He gently opened the door and let himself out.
*****
The sun began to set, blanketing the South Dakota woods with a rich, warm glow. Bronson sat outside his camper, staring at the sunset. He could hear the laughter of children coming from the neighboring camp spots. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped and an airplane roared by.
The sun descended behind the mountain and the wind blew, bringing a cool breeze that penetrated his light jacket. Still he sat, unmoving, like a statue. Slowly, one by one, the lights in the neighborhood campgrounds dimmed and faded. Quiet time had arrived.
Bronson could no longer see the trees as darkness concealed them. He thought he detected some movement to his right. A deer, perhaps. Carol would love to watch the animal. He made no attempt to call her. He sighed when he saw the light in their bedroom go off.
He waited ten minutes. Half-an-hour. An hour. When the chill penetrated his bones, he finally stood and headed inside.
Carol had gone to bed, and he hoped, to sleep. He didn’t feel like talking. He lay down next to her, listening to her steady breathing.
“Do you feel better?” Carol asked.
Not asleep. Damn. “Maybe, a little.”
“Sometime—not now—you’ll need to tell me about Lorraine.”
Lorraine. Hearing her name seemed surreal. He sat up.
“All those calls you’ve been receiving—the ones you told me came from telemarketers—that was Lorraine trying to reach you.”
Bronson nodded, and then realized in the darkness she might not see him. “Yes.”
“She’s in trouble, she said. She needs her big brother.”
*****
Not even seven o’clock and Bronson’s cell buzzed. No need to look at the caller I.D. Every morning for the past eight days, a bit before 7:00, Lorraine called. Same as always, except that this time, he planned to answer.
He dug around for the phone and looked at his wife still sleeping. The cell in his hands stopped buzzing. He pressed one, got voice mail. He had eight messages. “Harry, hi. It’s me, Lorraine. Bet it’s a shock hearing from me after all these years. Call me. Please.”
Delete.
Message two: “Hi. I’m getting desperate. You haven’t returned my call. I really need to talk to you.”
Delete.
Message three: “Please don’t ignore my calls. I know I did lots of things wrong. But I’ve changed. Please call me. As soon as you can.”
Delete.
Message four: “Big Bro? Pick up. Please, please pick up.” Bronson’s trained detective ear recognized the sense of urgency. He hesitated and then deleted the message.
Message five: “Why haven’t you called? I can’t go on like this, alone. I need you. I’m waiting by the phone.” Heart-wrenching sobs broke up the message.
Drama Queen. She’d always been a drama queen. He erased the other three messages, unheard. He sat at the edge of the bed, his hand playing with the cell, his mind bombarded by the memories he hoped he had forgotten.
Lorraine.
Only fourteen and already a drunk.
Lorraine.
High on pot and Lord knows what else.
Dad, with his weak heart, begging her to stop. Lorraine threw her head back, laughed, and blew smoke toward Dad’s face.
Bronson stood and headed for the living room area. He bit his tongue—a habit he had developed when he didn’t want to curse—and found his sister’s number on the missed calls function. He pressed the call key.
Lorraine immediately picked up. “Oh God, Big Bro, you called. I need you.”
“What do you want?”
A pause. “After all these years, those are your first words to me?”
“What do you want?” Bronson repeated. He tried to force the anger and the bitterness out, but like thick syrup, his resentment smothered his intentions.
“I want you to come.”
“I can’t.”
“Please. I got involved in—” Another pause. “Please, I’m afraid. They’re going to kill me. Please come.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
“You’ve got to. I’ll tell you when you get here. I don’t want to say anything over the phone. I’m afraid it’s bugged. You need to come.”
“Where are you?”
“Whittle City, Pennsylvania, near Pittsburgh.”
Clear on the other side of the United States. “Not sure I can get over there.”
“Please.”
“I’m in South Dakota.”
“South Dakota? What are you doing there? Thought you were a detective for the Dallas Police Department.”
How the hell did she know that? Worse, how had she gotten hold of his and Carol’s cell numbers? “I’m retired. Carol, my wife—but I guess you know that since you talked to her. Anyway, we got a motor home.”
“Retired?”
Did Bronson recognize a note of regret in his sister’s voice? “Yes, retired.”
“But you can still . . . You’ve got contacts, right?”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to come. Please. I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”
“You should have thought about that before you killed Dad and Mom.” He hung up.
Chapter 2
Carol stood, arms crossed, leaning against the refrigerator. “That was Lorraine, I suppose.”
Bronson nodded.
“What did she want?”
“She wants me to come.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
Carol rolled her eyes. “Are you going to go?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Too far. She’s in Pennsylvania. Too expensive.”
Much to Bronson’s surprise, Carol turned, opened the refrigerator door, and took out three eggs. “Omelets, okay?”
“I’m not hungry. Make one omelet and I’ll take a small part.”
“Fine with me.” She began to chop an onion. “Onions and ham?”
Bronson knew she would add some vegetables. Always after him to eat healthy. He’d be one step ahead of her. “Might as well throw in some tomatoes, spinach, and any other healthy junk.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion. I’ll do that.”
Damn. He should have known better. She tricked him into agreeing on the healthy junk.
“Donna called,” Carol said.
Bronson cast a glance at the picture of their daughters. Carol couldn’t have possibly been more than eight in that picture. Now, she was a grown, married woman. Where did time go? “She had anything important to say?”
“She’s having problems and she needs her father.”
Bronson sat up straighter. When it came to his daughters, he’d turn every stone in the world to help them. “What kind of problems?”
Carol shrugged as she sliced a tomato. “Doesn’t matter. We can’t afford to go see her.”
“Of course we can. Remember we set up a savings account which we promised not to touch? The money there is tagged for Family Emergency only.”
Carol smiled.
Bronson threw himself back onto the couch. He knew he’d been outsmarted—again. “Donna didn’t call, did she?”
Carol’s smile widened. “No, she didn’t.” She took out the vegetable oil. “Soon as breakfast is over, we’ll withdraw the money to cover one air ticket to Pittsburgh.”
Damn.
*****
Bronson flew into the Pittsburgh International Airport even though Whittle City had a small airport. In the long run, it’d be cheaper to rent a car and drive to Whittle City, located less than fifty miles north of Pittsburgh.
Once the plane had landed, Bronson stared at the cell as though it would grow fangs. He hesitated a moment before punching in Lorraine’s number. “I’m here,” Bronson said when she answered on the first ring.
“Thank you, Big Brother, for coming.”
Early in childhood, she started calling him Big Brother. Bronson never figured out if that was because he had always been taller and bulkier than the rest of their friends, or because he was two years older than she. “Yeah,” he said in reference to her thanks. Sure, he was glad to be there. So much, in fact, he wished he was somewhere else. He wished he didn’t have to talk to her. He wished he could forgive her. He wished. “Now what?”
“Meet me at the entrance of Glacier Valley Covered Bridge.” The bridge located at Glacier Valley State Park ranked as the number one spot in the geologists’ and photographers’ must-see places. The picturesque 2,546 acres state park which had been formed by glaciers provided spectacular year-round views from sunrise to sunset. As kids, Bronson and Lorraine had loved that place. They even preferred it above Disneyland.
Bronson lowered his head and rubbed his eyebrows as though fending off a headache. “Why there?”
“Because, Big Bro, I desperately nee
d something I can hold on to. You and I—we had some great times there.”
Indeed they had. Bronson remembered both of them racing each other along the two-mile loop trail that began on either side of the covered bridge. They giggled and made up imaginary scenarios as they followed the trail, a delightful walk along Sliding Rock Creek. But that was their past. He was no longer Big Bro. “Dad and Mom were there, too. They’re the ones who introduced us to the place.”
A long silence followed at the other end. Bronson thought he heard a sob. “I miss them, too. I wish I hadn’t . . .” Another pause. “Can’t change the past, no matter how much I want to.” A long-drawn out sob followed.
Bronson kicked the floor. She’d been a kid then. Only fourteen. Get past it, but dammit, she had been old enough to know better. “How long will it take me to get to the bridge? I’m at the Pittsburgh airport.”
“It’s about a forty-minute drive if you take 79 North.”
“See you in an hour.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
*****
To say that the drive to the state park was scenic would be an understatement. The centuries old forests stood majestically, giving way only to the occasional stream or creek. But for Bronson, one tree blended into the other until it all became a blur. He checked his watch and pushed down on the gas pedal.
Bronson felt his heart skip a beat as he saw the approaching Glacier Valley State Park exit. He slowed down, took the 488 ramp, and half-cursed Carol for forcing him to come. The park lay minutes away. Much to his surprise, the closer he got, the happier he felt. The park had brought back the magic of childhood.
All his early memories came rushing back like tidal waves that cleansed away the resentment. Bronson found himself looking forward to seeing his sister. Would he recognize her? After all, he hadn’t seen her since their parents’ funerals. He’d been only sixteen, she fourteen. Would their meeting be awkward? What will their first words be?