Buried Truth

by Caleb Whitaker

Chapter 12: City Anxiety

   

  The trees slowly merge into buildings as we ride into town. I catch a glimpse of something in my passenger side mirror that gives me cause for concern. There is a string of five or six vehicles behind us that have drawn closer as we entered the city limits. There are no police cars that I can see, but for some reason I can’t shake a feeling of danger. It doesn’t make any sense. Two cars are riding our bumper right behind us, a black Escalade and blue truck a little further back, then another car in the distance coming around a curve.

  Ryleigh must sense my discomfort because she asks, “Are you ok? What is it?”

  I continue staring at the mirror, and dismiss my hunch that there is danger as me being anxious. “I’m fine, just tired. Thought I saw a cop, but it wasn’t.”

  She appears to buy it, her eyes remain solely on the pavement ahead, and it wasn’t really a lie anyways. My body feels like I have run a triathlon, and I have seen cops that aren’t really there. There is no need to scare the poor woman with desolate fears of a ravaged mind.

  We are soon at the intersection in Burkeville that with a right turn would take us into the center of town. She looks more than exhausted with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting against her head. She has already done so much for me. The least I could do is comfort her.

  “I know I don’t remember everything that happened, and I’m a wreck right now. But I can’t help noticing you look absolutely worn out as well. Is there anything I can do?”

  She removes her hand from her head and puts both hands on the steering wheel as we cross a rickety, old railroad track. “It’s that obvious, huh? I thought I was being discreet.”

  “I know how you feel. But seriously, if you need anything I’m here for you. I just wanted you to know that.”

  A faint smile briefly forms on her face before melting away back into an earnest look of worry. There is something about her that seduces me into growing closer to her, despite the unnerving quality in my gut. She replies, “I know. I’m fine. I’ll tell you everything I’m dealing with when we get to the hotel.”

  Instead of continuing down the road, Ryleigh pulls into a market just off the highway. The market is bustling with people of every age that are carrying on their everyday lives as if it will always be that way. The car comes to a stop next to a woman scolding her kid in front of a pristine minivan. The little boy looks me in the eye while being whacked on the rear end by his mother’s deliberate yet caring hand. The boy’s eyes are filled with regret and sorrow, his mouth covered with smudges of chocolate.

  A poke to my side, and my eye contact with the boy is broken. “We need to eat and get some supplies. I’ll go get some stuff, but you need to stay here. Just to be safe.” She kisses me on the cheek, and then gets out of the car leaving me no chance to argue. Before she slams the door, I scream after her. “Try and find some scotch.”

  Trying to see if anyone suspects her of harboring a fugitive, I watch her walk away and head into the supermarket. The mother and little boy have already left, presumably headed home where they will be together, probably in a less than thrilled mood but happily together. Being disciplined by mom was never a short, happy experience. There was never just one punishment; instead, there would be several guilt-ridden hoops to jump through before I could escape my chains of perdition. But it was all for the best—without it, who knows what else I would have done that would have led to an entrapment within the lifestyle of dangerous desires and motivations.

  My thoughts jump over to the tough task of figuring out who my traveling partner really is as a person. Which isn’t an easy topic to pick apart when I can’t remember anything for myself. I’m totally dependent on her even for discipline much like the little boy who was completely dependent upon his mom. That can’t be the way to start a healthy relationship, but I have no choice.

  So what do I really know about Ryleigh? She is smart, caring, and pretty. So why is she sticking her neck out for me? We have only been dating a few months. None of which I can remember. She could easily abandon ship, leaving me helplessly alone while she looks for someone else. I wouldn’t hold it against her at all. I mean my life is upside down right now, and it might never be right again. So why is she still here? Is it because she does care? It does feel like she really likes me, at least for who I was before all this. Something still feels off. It’s like she feels guilty. But guilty of what?

  She admittedly knows something that is very hard for her to confront. Even though I do trust her more than anyone else right now, I still wish I had more than this one option. But, who else can I trust? Matt is a dead end. I guess I could give Joanna or Alice another call, but they have nothing to do with any of this, making it sadistic torture to involve them in this late a lap in the race. The fact is none of my other friends would help me now that the cops think I played a part in my parents’ death, unfortunately smart friends aren’t the best for dumb situations.

  I pull the new cell phone Ryleigh had given me out of my pocket. I go to the contact information and click on the number that sent me the nerve wrecking text. I scratch my head, weighing the consequences of what I’m about to do. I have to be the biggest idiot ever for doing this.

  I send the text without a flinch. ‘This is Ryan. You texted me, and I need to know who sent me a text from this number.’

  After a few seconds of self-doubt, my phone vibrates. There is a reply text. ‘It’s not safe. I can’t tell you, or we both would be in danger.’

  What is going on? I text back, ‘What danger? Do I know you?’

  A few more seconds go by until my phone vibrates again with a reply text. ‘Someone wants to harm you, but I don’t know who yet. Same person who killed your parents. I had the misfortune of being at the right place at the wrong time. Now, I’m just trying to do the right thing. Don’t tell anyone about these messages!’

  This has to be a joke. How am I supposed to believe this? Was this person in the house that night, too? I shouldn’t be doing this. It was a stupid idea. For all I know this could be the person that killed my parents. What do I do?

  A minute goes by before I decide to reply, ‘Were you at the house that night?’

  The next message I get takes a couple minutes to come in, and it is much longer and much more confusing. It reads, ‘I know you don’t remember. You were in an awful state that night and somehow you just wiped it from your memory. I passed by the house that night. I saw you running with a girl and someone was after you. I followed you home and approached you after the girl left. You were already delirious and couldn’t remember what had happened. I can’t tell you much more right now. It’s not safe. So, don’t respond to this message again and delete my number and messages from your phone. Staying safe should be your priority.’

  Who is this person? If they are telling the truth about being at the wrong place at the right time it could be anyone. A list of my parents' friends runs through my head. I just don’t see one of their friends being this cryptic. And none of my friends would be this stupid as to stick their neck out for me.

  Just when I thought things about that night were getting clearer. Maybe Ryleigh can help? Then again, Ryleigh is already dealing with her own issues. It’s probably better to keep this to myself for now. So, after doing my best to memorize the number, I do as the person advised and delete the number and messages from my phone.

  Wait, where is Ryleigh? If this was the killer, it's not safe for her. She could be in trouble. It's only been about ten minutes since she left, but still something could be wrong. Anxiety begins to take hold of me like a spreading fire as five more minutes roll by and she isn’t back yet. Then, five more minutes come and goes whilst I consider going into the market looking for her. My hand clenches the door handle fearing the worst, but then she exits the building with bags in tow. I unclench my hand off the door handle and settle back in my seat as if nothing is bothering me.

  She throws five bags onto the back seat, then we are
off to find the hotel, like it’s just another day in which nobody with sinister motives would be closing in on us at this very second. “Did you get the scotch?” I ask as we pull out onto the highway.

  “Yes, I got your scotch.”

  She hands me a paper bag with the bottle wrapped inside. I take the bottle out and open it as she turns on the radio. I take a large gulp. She turns and stares at me. “Are you sure that is what you want to do?”

  No, mom of course not! I take one more gulp and place the bottle back in the bag. “After the week this is turning out to be, I’ll take a few sips.”

  I’m not an idiot. I know it’s a problem to have an excessive need for a drink. I also know this isn’t a solution to any of my problems. Sometimes what you know and what you end up doing just don’t line up. My headache and soreness is actually bearable at the moment. My head is clear and my thoughts are fluid. So, it's not that I really need a drink to wind down. I need a drink simply because I really want it. I don’t know why I’m craving my old comfort companion right now. Maybe I really am in self-destruct mode as Matt thought or maybe I do need a drink. Either way, that was some awesome scotch.

  The effects of the scotch do the trick. I sit back and forget about the recent texts. “What all did you get from the market?”

  Her answer is “Some sandwiches from the deli, a couple 2 liter cokes, some cookies, some chips, a pack of batteries, a couple flashlights, some shower stuff and of course your beloved scotch.”

  I remark back with a smirk, “I think you got us covered.”

  We both laugh hysterically for a couple seconds. Our chuckles get loud enough that even the worst country song ever on the radio is drowned out, which doesn’t hurt my feeling at all. Turning my attention to finding the hotel becomes a treasure hunt now that the scotch is in me. We are in the outskirts of Burkeville heading into town. This part of the city is mainly little family owned businesses or fast food restaurants. There are a couple stores like the market, we just left, but it’s mostly still somewhat rural as far population goes.

  As we drive, she speculates, “I believe we turn at the next light and head back out of town. Then it should be on the right side of the road before we leave the city limits.”

  Not really knowing where the hotel is located, I shrug my shoulder in agreement and bafflement. If it were not for the alcohol in my system, I would probably be freaking out about the congested traffic. The bumper-to-bumper tightness as we travel into the center of the city could send anyone into a panic. Luckily, I don’t see any police vehicles, but right now, I probably wouldn’t even care. I take another swig from the bottle for good measure.

  We are soon at the light, so she turns and heads back out of town down an old city road that will hopefully lead us to where we think the hotel is located. We have traveled into town heading towards the center of Burkeville, which is a higher populated area. Which is definitely not what we want right now. But before getting to the heaviest population density, we turned and are now heading back into a less populated area. Which is what we want.

  As we travel out of town, the traffic thins out like mice scurrying away into various hideaways as a hawk soars overhead. I just hope our hawk doesn’t swoop us off the ground and bury me in the prison system until I die. About a mile from the city limit, Ryleigh is proven right as a sign for the hotel appears. The hotel is located off the highway behind a group of trees that block people motoring past from seeing it. The only identifier for the hotel is the one sign that reads ‘Burkeville Mansion’.

  We exit onto the paved trail leading to the hotel. Once we curve around the group of trees that block the hotel, the so called mansion comes into view. Along with the frightful view of the mansion, the history and lore of it starts flowing through my head.

  The hotel is three stories tall and what looks like room enough for seven or eight rooms across. It is well known for its historical significance, but not very well received as a lodging establishment. The hotel was, at one time, a town house for one of the first mayors of Burkeville.

  The mayor lived in the house with his wife, three children and countless servants. Tragically, he hung himself in the building after he was publicly scrutinized for stealing funds even though it was never proven. That was in the early 1900s and ever since then it has had a reputation of being haunted by the mayor and his wife, who also died on site a few years later. That history makes it a perfect place to hide out because only the craziest of people stay here anymore.

  As I eye the building, Ryleigh says, “I heard it is only kept open because the people in the mayor’s lineage want it kept open. It was even in the news last year, briefly, because the cops wanted it shut down due to hazardous living conditions. Long story short, the family sued the city and police departed and ended up with a huge settlement that was used to update the site. A little bad blood with the cops surely couldn’t hurt.