Free to Die

by Bob McElwain

  “You’re sure?” she asked, searching his face.

  He nodded, reaching for his bag. She picked up her purse, turned out the light and walked toward the door. As he opened it for her, he knew she couldn’t see the icy grip of fear pinching his stomach. If she noticed the tremor in his hands, she didn’t comment. He followed her out, closing the door behind him. Stomping ruthlessly on fear, he fell in step beside her.

  A black Pontiac Trans Am was parked beside the cottage next to his. “I feel a little better,” he said grinning. “At least I remember the car.”

  She smiled, unlocked the door for him, moved to the other side and slid behind the wheel. He tossed his bag into the back seat as the car started with an authoritative roar. She drove carefully, dodging rocks and chuckholes. Once on the highway, the car quickly gathered speed. Two miles later, she turned off in front of an all-night coffee shop.

  “I’d feel better if you called Amanda.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke. She looked straight ahead through the windshield.

  “No need,” was all he said. He was rewarded with a dazzling smile. The powerful car leapt back onto the highway.

  But her smile was undeserved. Right now he needed to get out of Nevada. He’d check with Amanda when he got to LA. If there was anything wrong, he’d split. In a crowd of ten million people, he knew how to lose himself in minutes.

  He broke the long silence. “Are you really a bounty hunter?”

  “I’m a licensed private investigator. Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time tracking down missing and runaway kids.

  “But Amanda’s been good to me. When she needs me, I make sure I’m available.” Although there was little traffic, she kept her eyes on the road.

  “Are you good at your work?”

  “One of the best.”

  “What’s your fee?”

  “Three hundred a day plus expenses.”

  “Kinda high.”

  “I’m worth it.”

  He smiled. He felt better for reasons he didn’t understand. The tremor in his hands was gone. It was more than the hope she’d brought. Maybe it was only the woman. Maybe it was because he was going back to sit down once again at the game he’d abandoned three years ago.

  He gave up further speculation. His smile was replaced by a hardness in his eyes. He rubbed the slashing white scar on the palm of his hand with his left thumb. “I want to hire you,” he said softly, “to find the real killer.”

  “That’s unrealistic.” She looked at him briefly, then back at the highway curving gently to the left. “It’s been three years. Give ten good people a year and they’d probably still come up with nothing. It would cost a fortune with virtually no hope of success.”

  “I’ll get the money.”

  “But why?”

  “Charges dropped can be filed again. To be free, I’ve got to find the killer.”

  “You’d be wasting money,” she said emphatically.

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll do what’s needed to see that charges are dropped.” She met his hard look for a moment. “But that’s it.”

  “Do you ever change your mind?”

  “It happens,” she admitted curtly. “But it’s quite unlikely in this case.”

  He noticed the set of her chin and the tightness of her lips. He leaned his head back in the seat, wondering what it would take to make it happen.

  She handled the car with an easy grace and a minimum of wasted effort. And she was easy to look at. He closed his eyes to ease the brightness of the desert sun. The rumble of the heavy tires on the concrete highway was soothing.

  * * *

  Brad awoke from a fitful, dream-infested sleep when Josie stopped for gas in Victorville. Her face was drawn, her eyes reddened from strain and lack of sleep. When she got out to fill the tank, he got out and stretched.

  “I can manage the rest of the way, if you like,” he said.

  “That would be greatly appreciated,” she replied with a tired smile.

  As he settled behind the wheel, she reached for an extra coat in the back seat, then used it as a pillow to cuddle against the door. For the rest of the trip, his attention was divided between driving, the woman sleeping beside him, and thoughts of what lay ahead. Should he go through with it? But he knew there was no real choice.

  Every patrol he’d ever led was routine, so they’d said as he had prepared to leave. But far too many had become grisly, deadly affairs. Josie Botsworth had not lied. But he knew the true nature of fact. He wondered what would go wrong. He shoved the accelerator down and the car charged more swiftly down the sun-bleached highway.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sunday

  The cell was a few inches over six by eight feet. There was a lowered corner in the smooth concrete floor with a drain. The fluorescent light was even and bright; there were no shadows even behind the white, bright, seatless toilet. The two-foot bunk was the only other feature. There were nine steel bars in the door, with six more on either side. The three-inch bolt was electrically operated from outside the cellblock. He tried to ignore the dull gleam of the bars.

  He concentrated on taking slow even breaths, as he lay full length on the bunk. He listened for the crashing splat of a drop of water on damp, gray clay, but he could hear it only in memory. He had covered his eyes with an arm, but it did not dim the brightness much. It was a constant battle to subdue fear. He tried desperately to think of Josie, to keep her image before him as a symbol, as a sufficient reason for being here.

  He remembered the way her dress had inched up her thigh as she had dozed while he’d driven across the desert. The traffic of the city had awakened her. Following her directions, he had pulled up in front of the Holiday Inn on Roscoe Boulevard, just east of the San Diego Freeway in the San Fernando Valley.

  Inside the hotel, he had discovered Amanda Pothmore had a great deal of confidence in Ms. Botsworth. She’d reserved the room for a week.

  The door opened into a nicely appointed sitting area. The bed was beyond the furniture, tucked against the back wall beside a well-appointed roomy bath. To the left was a small kitchenette.

  After the quick tour, Josie had opened a cabinet in the kitchen and pointed to a bottle of Wild Turkey. “Compliments of Amanda,” she had said with a smile. “Get some rest. I’ll reserve a table for us downstairs at seven. Amanda will join us; she’s anxious to see you.”

  When Brad had nodded approval, Josie had smiled encouragingly, then left. The room had become suddenly empty.

  Later he had settled in at the small table at the window with a drink and gazed out at the city. He had never been good at waiting; he wasn’t doing better now. As he had often done, he had tried to focus on things he might do once he was free. But as always, he had become distracted, wondering if it would ever happen.

  * * *

  Dinner had been macro-managed by Amanda Pothmore. She had dominated all with her cheery confidence. Josie had smiled a lot, but she hadn’t said much, other than to support Amanda. Their certainty that all was well had boosted Brad’s hopes. He had been able to hold up his end of the chatter with a lightness that surprised him.

  But when the door to his room had closed behind him, the confidence both had shared with him evaporated. He hadn’t gotten to sleep until nearly dawn.

  * * *

  Sunday, promptly at eleven as agreed, Amanda had gotten another hug. Walden had said little beyond a succinct review of the case. All three had driven downtown where Brad had formally turned himself in to Sgt. Hank Walters.

  It had been a homecoming of sorts. Their handshake had been firm and Hank had seemed uninterested in releasing Brad’s arm. They had grinned a lot, often foolishly. They had talked as long as they could, delaying what must come. Finally Brad had stood; it was time. With a brief nod of acceptance, Hank had risen and led the way downstairs.

  He had stayed with Brad throughout the booking procedure, easing the sense of degradation. He had made sure the booking officer used “Mr.
Ashton” in the proper way, “Just like with any VIP.” He’d even lingered a long while in the cell.

  Brad refused to guess how long he’d been alone or how long he’d be alone. The strong scents of disinfectants and detergents were as grating on his senses as the brightness of the constant lights. Even with his eyes closed, images of black steel bars interrupted scurrying thoughts. He wondered if this was as bad as it would get. What would a year of nights like this one add up to? What if it turned out to be five years? Or fifteen?

  He had dozed, on and off. Each time he had come awake, he’d had to take firm control, steadying his breathing to a slow even rate. He had managed to keep the cell walls from closing in. It was progress of sorts, something he’d been unable to do before.

  When the cell door clanged open, he awoke with a start to see Hank facing him, smiling. Brad couldn’t remember a more welcome sight. With Hank at his side, he showered, shaved and dressed quickly.

  Together they had faced countless terrors of which death was possibly the least; they had never talked of these things. Now they spoke only of girls, cards and who really owed how many smokes. This last matter was of critical importance since neither man smoked.

  Side by side, in step, they walked into the courtroom.

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday

  “Judge Tofler, the Vietnam war has marred this nation deeply.” Jeffery Walden was persuasive. As Brad remembered, the judge was nodding; he was making no effort to hide his boredom. Walden straightened his perfectly positioned tie, settled his coat on his shoulders with an elegant shrug and continued, “But what concerns us here is the impact of that war on the individual soldier who fought it.”

  Walden was a dynamic force in the courtroom. His slight stature was lost to those listening. Alone at the defense table, Brad loosened his new tie; it felt foreign, restrictive. He wanted to walk out, despite the two armed marshals.

  He looked around the room. Most were concerned about other items on the court’s agenda. A few were curious, perhaps drawn by the magic of Walden’s presentation. Sgt. Hank sat behind the rail near the prosecutor’s table. He caught Brad’s glance; whatever concern he felt was carefully hidden behind his nearly black eyes. His coarse blond hair contrasted nicely with his light green sport coat. He pointed his thumb to the ceiling as if to say, “So far, so good,” then turned his attention back to the judge.

  Brad knew that Amanda and Josie, seated behind him, were listening carefully. He tried to ignore the trickles of fear, to concentrate on what Walden was saying. He wished the judge would do the same.

  “You have his war record before you. The patrols he led were extremely effective. Night after night, Lt. Ashton and a few selected men, vastly outnumbered, fought a deadly guerilla war. The medals and citations he received are ample evidence of his success.”

  Weinberg paused, considering his next point. The judge looked up as if suddenly remembering where he was. “As a prisoner of war, Lt. Ashton faced a different kind of war for two years. The record shows he fought these battles equally well, with great personal courage. The record does not show the impact of violence, treachery and torture on the individual man. We must—”

  “Mr. Walden,” interrupted Judge Tofler with a sleepy nod, “that will be sufficient for now. Bail is hereby reinstated.” Brad breathed deeply; it felt good. The drama was unfolding according to the script. At least Amanda would get her money back.

  “As to the charge of flight to avoid prosecution,” Judge Tofler continued, his sleepy voice barely audible, “does anyone have anything to say?”

  He glanced toward the prosecutor’s table and mumbled, “Ninety days. Suspended.” He rapped his gavel lightly and continued, still gazing at the prosecution’s table, “I believe, Mr. Danielson, you have something to say.”

  Mr. Danielson rose, trim and neatly groomed in a gray three-piece suit. “I presume you’re referring to an earlier discussion of dropping charges?”

  The judge scowled darkly, studying the man suspiciously. He spoke bluntly. “I was not speaking of a discussion, but of an agreement.”

  “My office would like additional time to study the matter, your Honor. We’re not prepared to dismiss at this time. We’re not—”

  “You’re not what?” interrupted Judge Tofler, totally awake now.

  Brad didn’t hear what was said. He was dealing with a personal earthquake of a magnitude immeasurable on any scale. His grip on the arms of his chair turned his knuckles white. The trickles of fear had become waves, thundering and pounding at every part of his being. Everyone had told him he’d be free today. They were wrong. He turned slowly and studied their faces.

  Josie was puzzled, her brow furrowed in concentration. Amanda was plainly worried. The judge became increasingly angry as the dialogue continued. Only his attorney, Jeffery Walden, seemed undisturbed. Sgt. Hank leaned well forward, arms on the railing, his dark eyes expressionless as they darted between the judge and prosecutor.

  Brad’s attention was drawn to a man he hadn’t noticed earlier, sitting in the back row. It was Lt. Randolph Stratford, the man who’d arrested him originally. His pale blue eyes showed a vitality and youth that offset the impact of rapidly thinning hair. For a moment, their eyes met. Stratford’s smile faded. He rose gracefully and left the courtroom. Brad’s hard look remained fixed on the door, long after the man was gone.

  When he noticed Josie was watching him, he determinedly turned his attention back to the judge. Trembling slightly, he wiped fine sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His mind overflowed with the ghosts of hopes and dreams that had died in this room. Despite all effort, images of despair crowded in. He tried to clear his mind, to listen.

  “This court will be no part of your games, Mr. Danielson,” the judge thundered. “I’m reducing bail to fifty thousand dollars. And,” he continued angrily, “I will have a complete explanation before the end of the day. This case will be settled next Monday at 9 a.m. We are adjourned.” He rapped his gavel decisively. “Next case!”

  Unperturbed, Jeffery Walden gathered up his papers, slipped them into a thin, hand-tooled leather briefcase and turned to speak with Amanda over the rail. When she’d left, Brad said, “What the hell’s this?” His voice showed only a trace of the icy chill in his spine, the surging turmoil in his mind, and his struggle to contain an unwanted anger.

  “Try not to worry. It’s one of those things.” Walden took his arm firmly and together they walked out of the courtroom. Josie Botsworth fell into step behind them.

  In the hall, they found a quiet corner. Josie said, “I’m truly sorry, Brad.” Her deep blue eyes asked nothing.

  “Even the judge was surprised,” Walden pointed out. “I’ll get right to work and have the matter settled in no time. I want you to go back to your hotel, relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll call as soon as I have something.”

  Brad took the offered hand, but didn’t release his grip. “What could happen?”

  “If we have to, Mr. Ashton, we’ll wait for a trial and blow them out of the water. Can I have my hand back?” he asked, smiling. When his hand was released, he placed it on Brad’s shoulder. “Believe me, this is the kind of case I dream about. We’ll win hands down if they decide to prosecute. Do I look like a loser?”

  Brad shook his head. Swayed by the man’s easy confidence, he managed a slight smile.

  Jeffery Walden nodded, then strode quickly away. When he moved out of sight, the confidence that had radiated from him was also gone.

  “He’s good, Brad,” Josie said. She placed her hand on his forearm and gave it a firm, sympathetic squeeze. “He may be the best criminal lawyer I’ve ever known. I’d bet a lot on his opinion.”

  “My life?”

  “Aren’t you being overly dramatic?”

  He was silent, staring at the marble floor. He felt her hand fall away from his arm and wished she’d left it a while longer. “Innocent people have been convicted,” he said softly.

  “The pe
rcentage is so small, it’s not worth considering.”

  “If I lose, it’ll be a hundred percent for me,” he responded grimly.

  “This will work out,” Josie said firmly.

  Her sincerity was a tangible thing. Despite his grim mood, she reached him with her quiet certainty. The gray wool skirt accented her hips and thighs. The long-sleeved blouse and tailored bolero jacket softened, but could not hide, the upthrust of her breasts. Part of him wanted to try, right here, to see if he couldn’t span her slender waist with his hands. He wondered how far those delightful freckles extended down her back.

  Further speculation was interrupted by a big man, nearly sixty, with a shaggy mop of bushy, gray hair, and thick glasses that reflected light in disconcerting fashion. As if Josie wasn’t there, he shoved himself between them, facing Brad, seeking to intimidate with his greater height and bulk.

  “I’m Tuckman,” he said, handing Brad his card. It hung there in the slight space between them. Brad said nothing, nor did he move. He simply examined the man.

  Tuckman wore an expensive tailored blue serge suit that didn’t disguise the basic crudeness of the man. His carefully manicured nails failed to soften the look of his huge, heavily calloused hands.

  “I got a good proposition for ya.” Tuckman backed away, belatedly trying for politeness and failing again. The card was still extended toward Brad. “Can ya drop by? Soon?”

  Brad took the card and glanced at it. It read, “So-Cal Trucking. Willard Tuckman, President.” Brad looked up questioningly at the piercing brown eyes hiding under heavy, bushy eyebrows behind the thick lenses.

  “Lydia’s ma was my sister. I’m your uncle sorta, ’cause you married Lydia,” he offered. “Take my word. We gotta meet, you and me. There’s good bucks in it for you.”

  Finally Brad nodded acceptance.

  With a look at Josie that undressed her, then toyed with her, Tuckman turned abruptly and strode off. Two men, nearly as large as he was, stepped away from the wall, gave Brad a parting look and fell in behind the big man. The trio paid little heed to others walking in the center of the hall.

  “Now there’s a winner,” Josie said.