by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Forty Six
Halloween landed on a Saturday this year. We spent the afternoon with a realtor. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was putting my home up for sale. No sense in paying a mortgage payment on a house unused. Norrah’s house was technically still her grandma’s, but wouldn’t be forever. Someday it would be Jay Davis and Norrah Davis’s. I bought my house at a good time, only paid eighty-grand for it. It got up to two-hundred grand at one point, then dropped down to almost what I paid for it. It rebounded a little, now worth a hundred-and-forty. Since I had only paid jack-shit of the principle down, I still owed about 79,998 dollars on it, give or take. But I’d come out ahead with the rise in property values by roughly sixty-large. I was looking forward to making a joint-account with my better half, and contributing my sixty G’s minus the taxes. I was contributing too, damnit! And I was the only one between us making the green. She had just started her final year of college two months ago, and would be some kind of accountant or book keeper next year, God willing.
After the realtor left I took Norrah up to my bedroom and tried to plant a baby in her guts. Making a person is a chore more enjoyable than any other by a landslide.
It was three P.M. almost on the dot when we made it back to Norrah’s. We didn’t know it yet, but by four we’d be on our way to Sedona, Arizona.
We just stepped foot inside her house when my cell rang. The LCD screen read Maurice Esperanza. I answered the call.
“Wassup?” I said. “Haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“There’s been a break in the story.”
“Oh? Pray tell, pray tell.”
“Pray tell,” Norrah said thickly and giggled.
I put the call on speaker phone, as is the routine when you have a mate as inquisitive as mine (inquisitive, a polite way of saying nosy).
“Newspapers and the local news have been showing pictures of Hostetler, trying to get a lead on him. We’ve had a few, but all soft leads. Until now. A couple hours ago someone said they saw a man who looked just like the guy in the pictures, in the passenger seat of a car just outside a bank ATM. The man driving the car got out, withdrew cash and got back inside, took off. We didn’t think it would amount to jack shit until we took a look at the bank surveillance tape. One angle shows the passenger of the sedan and damn if it doesn’t look just like Hostetler. And what’s more, would you care to guess the description of the man who withdrew the money?”
“No way. It’s him? Really?”
“Definitely. And that’s not even the strongest evidence that it was Hostetler. Ready for a good laugh?”
“I am.”
“Bank transactions show that the withdrawal caught on film to be by Doug Hostetler withdrawing five hundred bucks from that ATM. What an idiot, huh?”
“No kidding. I wonder if Doug was tied up in the car. Any idea where they went to from the bank?”
“They drove west on La Paz Avenue. We got cops all over the place searching for the vehicle. We’ll find him any minute. The car is friggin orange. Stands out like a sore thumb.”
“Cool. I hope you nail his ass soon.”
“We will.”
“I appreciate the call. Keep in touch.”
“Yep. Thought you’d like to hear the news. Take care.”
I hugged Norrah and kissed her forehead.
“You have no idea how wonderful I’m going to feel knowing Paul is in jail,” I said. “I think I’ll cry.”
“I think I will, too. Mostly for the families of those two girls. They deserve retribution.”
“Nobody will ever know that Paul killed them, though.”
“I guess,” she said. “We do, though.”
Norrah strew the Snickers bars in a large metal bowl, placed it by the door. We took a shower together, washed each other thoroughly, made a couple sandwiches and got the Scrabble game out. I noticed I had a text from Maurice. It read: We got him on the run. Will be over soon.
“Oh hell yeah,” I said as Norrah set the game up. “They found him. Chasing that bastard.”
She took a deep relieved breath, grinned triumphantly. We began playing Scrabble, doing little talking and a lot of thinking. Reflecting. Finally this mess would be over. I thought Edward’s soul could rest easy now, knowing who framed him was about to be brought to justice.
It was a quarter to four. I made a pot of coffee when it was pretty clear that Norrah intended on taking fifteen minutes to make a word out of her Q and no U.
When my phone rang I smiled up at Norrah. This was the call. This was the good news we had been waiting for. I put the call on speaker phone.
“Get him?” I asked.
“I need a huge favor from you and Norrah.” There was excitement and fear in his tone. It alarmed me. “There was a brief chase. They drove to a residential neighborhood and the driver got out, ran. We recovered Hostetler, he’s fine. We chased after Paul. He took refuge in a house.” He hesitated. In it I sensed he was building the requisite courage needed to ask for some potentially enormous favor. “Davis, there’s a hostage situation taking place. Gunshots inside the house, a few of them. Paul has a little boy hostage. He’s making demands. That’s why I’m calling you.”
“Me? What do I have to do with anything?”
“He wants you and Norrah here. He says once you get here, the boy will be released. If not, he’ll execute the boy. He claims to have killed the boy’s parents, and we believe him.”
“I hope you’re fucking with me.”
“Wish I was. We’ll put bullet-proof vests on you guys, helmets with face-shields. You’ll be safe. It’s about a six hour drive from Arrowhead. We told Paul you’d be here by early morning, and he seemed okay with that. That might be enough time for us to put an end to this crisis. Hopefully when you arrive the boy will be safe and Paul with either be dead or in custody. We can’t take that chance, so come on out. I’ll text you the address. Once you’re close, just follow the emergency vehicles. They’ll be expecting you.”
“Please say you’re fucking with me. Please?”
“Davis! Dude! I’m not fucking with you!”
“That’s all you had to say. We’re heading out now.”
