“Stop it!” he growled, wincing at the pain in his own limbs. Rapping her sharply on the head with his knuckles, Wayne frantically surveyed the area. There was no one in sight. But could anyone have heard her scream? He held his breath and listened. A crow cawed at the rustle of wind through dead leaves and the girl’s breath huffed loudly from beneath the quilt. Most likely, no one had heard. In one swift motion Wayne gathered her struggling body into his arms and lifted her to the doorway, then pushed her inside with a forceful thrust.
Impatience warmed his blood. What could he do now? Couldn’t she remember how he’d saved her life? If not, it was understandable why she had reacted this way. He rested a moment to catch his breath. How the hell did he get himself into such a miserable predicament? Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. He could’ve let her drown and gone about his business. After all, his own father could’ve been in danger. But, no, this lady needed him. She’d fought valiantly for her life, and whatever trouble and red tape he got himself into, it was worth it. A human life was at stake. He’d get himself out of this dilemma … somehow.
Wayne removed the blanket and examined the woman’s face. Her eyes bulged with terror, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. She was wild, intent on destroying him. But he’d make her understand. And he wouldn’t trust her for a minute until she did. Somehow, she truly believed she had been kidnapped. He would have to calm her down and help her remember.
Suddenly her screams returned, deafening him with their piercing tone. The sound reverberated inside his throbbing head.
“Shut up!” he commanded, shaking her shoulders hard.
Nancy cringed beneath the quilt.
Collapsing to the floor, she wept uncontrollably, as visions of life’s most pleasant moments flashed into her mind. Gone forever were the Sunday dinners with her parents, her music, her pets. And Charlie—strangely enough, in this dire moment even the bitter arguments with her husband evoked soothing memories. These and so many other precious scenes would forever lay behind her.
But then came a faint sound of hope.
She lifted the quilt from her head to listen more attentively. Her captor’s face, frozen with fear, showed that he had heard it, too—
The whine of an engine.
An approaching vehicle.
Panic-striken, Wayne leaped to his feet and peeked out of a window. His father’s pickup truck was ambling up the driveway. What could he possibly want? Under no circumstances could his father be allowed inside. And the woman—she would have to be silenced. There was no time to explain.
Wayne flung the quilt away and reached for her clothing on the sofa. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, sadness in his eyes. He stuffed a portion of her dress inside her mouth and tied its sleeves around her head to keep her quiet. Then, arresting her struggling limbs, he rolled her to her stomach and tied her hands behind her back with a bra strap, securing both legs with a coiled section of her slip. He hoped the makeshift bindings would hold her long enough for him to turn his father away.
Wayne stood and covered her incapacitated torm with the blanket, quilts, and sleeping bag, then tried desperately to regain his composure, to appear normal despite his true condition, as he opened the door and stepped outside.
An empty Schlitz bottle sailed through the air and shattered against the side of the trailer, shards of brown glass barely missing Wayne’s head. James Crocker had already exited from his battered pickup truck and was now staggering angrily toward his son.
“You little bastard,” James slurred. “Caused me to stay all night in the pokey. I’ll whup your ass—that’s what I’ll-do.”
Wayne trudged forward to head his father off when, to his surprise, James took a hard swing at him. Wayne ducked just in time, as the follow-through of the swing caused his drunken father to stumble.
“Go home and sleep it off,” Wayne begged as he dodged another wayward blow, and then wrestled and pinned him to the ground, quickly turning his face away from his father’s fetid breath.
“Lemme use your phone,” James begged. “Ours is dead. I gotta make a call.”
Wayne groaned, but held his father’s arms firmly to the ground.
“My phone’s dead, too,” he answered.
“Now, don’t try to hand me that bullshit—”
“I said my goddamn phone is dead! Now leave me alone, will you?”
James stared past his son’s shoulder at the clear blue sky. Having just been on the biggest bender in his life, James hardly knew what day it was.
“All right, lemme up,” James drawled, releasing the tension in his arms. “You don’t ‘preciate me. You never did. I’ll get out of your goddamn way.”
Wayne eased off and helped his father to his feet. James brushed at the cakes of mud on his knees, then plowed directly into Wayne, knocking him hard to the ground. James stumbled toward the door of the trailer.
“I’ll use the goddamn phone whenever I feel like it,” he mumbled beneath his breath.
Staring in horror, Wayne quickly scrambled to his feet. Wavering, James was reaching for the doorknob as Wayne raced madly toward him. Wayne tackled him hard and the two went sprawling to the side of the trailer, rolling and tumbling in the mud.
“I said for you to leave me alone!” Wayne growled between gritted teeth. He grasped the collar of his father’s shirt and shook it hard. “Can’t you understand? I don’t owe you nothin'!”
“Lemme up,” James begged. “Lemme up and I’ll go.”
Out the corner of an eye Wayne saw the doorknob turn. It was only a slight movement, but enough to send cold shivers down his spine. She’s up, he thought.
Quickly he grabbed his father under both arms and pulled him to his feet, directing him away from the trailer and back to his truck.
“I’m sorry, Dad—I’d be glad to let you use the phone if it was working. But there’s nothin’ I can do. Besides, I wish you’d go home and see about Mom.”
“Shit, I’ll tend to you later,” James slurred. Wayne opened the truck’s door and helped James behind the wheel. “I’m gonna teach you some respect.”
“Okay, okay,” Wayne obliged.
James turned the ignition and the truck coughed to life. With a sly grin he noticed the blood on Wayne’s face, mistakenly assuming he had inflicted the wound himself. Nodding toward the gash in Wayne’s forehead, James snarled, “That ought to teach you enough for now. So fuck off.”
Whipping the steering wheel into a sharp turn, James stomped heavily on the accelerator, and drove off, too much in a huff to hear the faint squeal for help from inside the trailer. Wayne met the woman at the door and shook her hard, storming at her as she fainted and fell to the floor.
6
Because Sheriff Chester Arnold laughed easily and often, those who knew him least considered the lawman soft, and wondered if he took his responsibilities seriously enough. But in reality, Chester Arnold was a firm believer in justice and tirelessly devoted his efforts to the safety and security of all Shelby County residents. And when the time came to exert pressure, he knew exactly when, where, and how far to push.
Returning an empty porcelain cup to its saucer on the coffee table, the sheriff glanced at the Farrells, who had welcomed him into their living room. As he’d been in the vicinity, the sheriff had, as a courtesy, stopped by their home, fully expecting to learn that their missing relatives had long since safely arrived. And though there had been no further word of them, he was still not terribly concerned. First, he knew Tom Farrell well enough to detect that Tom was not nearly as worried as the two women, whom he felt were merely overreacting. And then, the sheriff was sure that the Barnetts had most likely been unavoidably detained in last night’s violent weather. So for the present, the sheriff decided to comfort the ladies as best he could and then possibly do some preliminary checking back at the office before issuing a missing persons report.
Fumbling his broad-brimmed hat in both hands, the sheriff spoke calmly and rea
ssuringly to Liz.
“I can understand your concern,” he consoled her, “but let’s not worry too much just yet. These things sometimes have a way of clearing up all by themselves.”
“But the weather—”
“I’d be a whole lot more concerned if the weather had been normal,” the sheriff interrupted. “Everyone involved in serious accidents has been identified, and I can assure you, your kinfolks’ names haven’t crossed my desk.”
Liz sat silently as the sheriff slowly rose from the sofa with a tired grunt and headed for the door.
“These ice storms just tend to shut everything down around here, as you well know,” he said. “It takes a while for everything to get back to normal.”
With a gruff chuckle, the sheriff pulled the door open and stepped outside. Tom Farrell followed, closed the door behind himself, and faced the sheriff alone on the porch.
“Ain’t it just like women to carry on like that?” Tom said. “They just about drove me crazy.”
The sheriff tapped his hat on and smiled.
“Well, Tom, I know what you mean,” he said. “But it’s getan’ awful close to lunchtime now, and if your niece and nephew ain’t heard from soon, I’ll begin to get a little jumpy about it myself.”
Sheriff Arnold took a deep breath as he descended the steps. Fresh country air—there was nothing like it. The sound of Tom’s cattle mooing in the pasture and the cackle of hens around the yard brought back his own youthful memories. He had grown up just a few miles away, but now, he thought, the area was changing faster than anyone could imagine.
“Haven’t seen you around these parts lately, Chester,” Tom interrupted the lawman’s reminiscences.
“No, I’ve been keeping pretty busy,” the sheriff answered, gazing ahead at the freshly paved road skirting Tom Farrell’s property. “In fact, today was my first time to cross the new Kelley Creek Bridge.”
Tom spat over the porch railing and wiped his mouth on a flannel sleeve.
“Just crossed it the first time myself yesterday,” Tom answered. “Those construction boys were haulin’ ass to finish up afore the weather broke loose.”
Odd, thought the sheriff. Something about that scene had bothered him the moment he crossed the bridge. Something didn’t seem right about it, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason.
“Glad we got rid of that awful curve,” the sheriff commented. “When I was a kid, three out-of-towners from Birmingham died when they smashed into the railing.”
“I remember it myself,” Tom answered. “A tricky road it was—even for folks who traveled it every day.”
The old road. That’s what it had been. Something about the old road.
“Well, I’d best be gettin’ back to the office before they accuse me of goofin’ off on the job,” the sheriff chuckled, slipping behind the wheel of his patrol car. “Let me know when you hear something,” he called out to Tom.
“You do the same,” Tom answered.
The V-8 Ford engine rumbled to a stop and quietly ticked as the sheriff cut the ignition. Exiting, and slamming the door in disgust, he glared past the rerouted roadway. Not a single barricade blocked entry to the old road.
“Goddamn lazy bastards,” he mumbled as he paced toward the mud-splotched former passage. Pushed far to the left, a simple sawhorse-style barrier leaned against the brush, a blinking yellow caution light still flashing faintly.
Vandals, he thought. Some wise-ass teenager decided to route traffic down a dead-end road. Shit! As if there wasn’t enough to worry about already!
The sheriff dragged the crude barrier back to the center of the road, loose gravel crackling beneath his shoes. Maybe it wasn’t the road crew’s fault after all.
Turning back toward the car, he reconsidered. Hell, this road needs a better barricade than that, he thought, staring at the flimsy sawhorse which looked oddly foreboding. His curiosity hooked, Sheriff Arnold walked briskly past the barrier and around the sharp bend of the old chert-based road. Treetops at both sides of the forgotten artery merged overhead, blotting out the sun with an eerie artifîcial darkness. Damn, just driving past here, you’d never know how spooky this place really is.
Crows cawed at the gentle breeze and fluttered away as the intruder violated their terrain. Stepping past a large mudhole, the sheriff gazed ahead at a bizarre, frightening sight: The old bridge stood partially dismantled, without a single barrier to its entry.
“Holy Jesus!” he whispered, feeling his heart plunge to his knees.
At a slowed pace, he stepped forward hypnotically. A sudden movement in the nearby brush startled him, and instinctively he drew his weapon, sighing with relief as a doe and her fawn leaped away into the forest.
Nearing the bridge he stared ahead at the missing center span. How could a construction firm be so negligent? Nausea grew inside his stomach.
They’re down there.
Stepping to the edge, he calmly looked down. Nothing. Dark chocolate-colored water flowed quietly in a peaceful setting. The line on the far shore indicated that the creek was receding. All was well. Expelling a burst of breath in relief, the sheriff pivoted, then froze.
Something caught his eye. A light spot. In the water. Just below the surface, a short distance downstream. Something … white.
Liz Farrell’s shaky voice echoed in his mind, a wavering tone of alarm carrying clearly over the telephone just this very morning. “Sheriff Arnold, they’re driving a white ‘63 Ford Falcon. I don’t know the tag number—but it’s a Georgia license plate.”
The mystery’s over, he thought sadly. He envisioned cold muddy water washing over their trapped corpses, floating against the roof of the sunken vehicle.
Sheriff Arnold wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Although he’d seen his share of grisly automobile accidents, he could feel his stomach muscles tighten, vomit rising to his throat. These victims were close relatives of his friends.
With a hacking cough, he regained his composure. Running back to the patrol car, the sheriff summoned help on the radio and seized the wooden barrier as evidence.
Someone would pay for this.
Nat Mason returned from a second trip to the creek all but empty-handed, his only additional find an ordinary looking hub cap. And though it was of negligible value, Nat thought it might replace a worn-out shoe box as a container for his collection of tiny plastic dinosaurs. Knowing Pa would be awake by now, he had been forced to cut this second treasure hunt short. A self-avowed Baptist minister, Pa held strong convictions about returning lost valuables to their rightful owners, and though a pang of guilt stirred within young Nat, six dollars was just too much to resist. It would have to be kept a secret.
The six bills were almost dry. Nat wadded them into a crumpled ball and stuffed them into his pocket—Skipper guarded them well. With tail wagging, the dog padded forward, his claws clicking lightly on the wooden planks of the porch.
“Good boy,” Nat praised him, sprawling beside the dog and stroking the animal’s back. “I’m gonna buy you a new chew-toy.”
The aroma of sizzling bacon drifted through the air—breakfast! And here it was almost lunchtime already. Pa had been away late last night, returning from a Dothan job interview. Ma had been terribly worried about him driving alone in that awful weather, but in the wee hours of morning he finally arrived safe and sound. That’s when the lively conversation of his parents had awoken young Nat. Drawn also by the warmth of the fireplace, Nat had stepped through the chilly hall to the living room, rubbing sleep from his eyes, only to be promptly escorted back to bed by Pa.
“It just might snow tonight, son,” Pa had said as he tucked his youngest child beneath a layer of quilts. “It’s just ice and sleet so far, but if the Good Lord wants it, it’ll snow.”
Nat had fallen asleep dreaming of snowball fights, of building his first snowman, of sliding down embankments on strips of cardboard.
“Nat, get in here!” his mother yelled from behind the screened do
or. “I’ve been callin’ you all mornin'!”
Jumping quickly to his feet and beaming from ear to ear, Nat bounded inside. Money was better than snow, he’d decided.
He couldn’t get her to stop crying.
She was hysterical, shaking her head in a wild frenzy each time he spoke, as if even the sound of his voice inflicted pain.
Wayne watched spellbound as she raved. This has gotten way out of control, he thought.
He waited until she was finally exhausted before he made any attempt to approach her. She reminded him of a kitten, helpless and frightened, cowering in a corner at the onslaught of a vicious dog. Knowing she perceived him as a sex offender, he felt ashamed. He would have to be especially careful now. Avoid rushing her.
Give her time.
Give her space.
Tightly wrapped in a cocoon of woolen blanket, she sniffled and wiped her tears on the fuzzy nap.
“Please …” she finally spoke. “I need to go … to the … bathroom.”
“Can’t we talk first?” he asked.
She lowered her head, then pleaded, “Please?”
Wayne shrugged and motioned down the hall.
After a moment she struggled to rise, pain arcing across her stiffened joints. Then she slumped back to the floor.
“I can’t … walk.”
“Let me help you,” he offered, then quickly added, “I promise I won’t hurt you.”
Cautiously he awaited a response, then interpreted her silence as consent. Bouncing to his feet, Wayne approached her, but she gasped at the sudden movement, and he quickly retreated.
“Sorry,” he apologized, progressing more slowly this time. “Honest, I’ll help you, and leave you alone. Then we can talk.” As his hands searched for a firm hold on her shoulders, Nancy held her breath, wincing at the slightest pressure.
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