Chasing Shadows

by Wendy Meadows

  “Maybe my cell phone is being tracked?” Sarah suggested.

  Amanda pulled Mittens closer. “Nate, go faster, if you can.”

  “This here old truck won't go no faster than sixty,” Nate told Amanda, “but I'll sure get him to try. Come on old boy, cough up the dust and get moving.”

  Sarah glanced over her shoulder. The car was quickly closing the gap. “Nate, when I give you the word, ease off the gas.”

  “What?” Amanda asked in a shocked voice.

  “Let’s find out if it’s teenagers after all,” Sarah replied tensely.

  “Ain't no teenagers out this late in Prate,” Nate objected. “I have been driving this road my entire life and ain't never seen any of our local kids making fools of themselves – well, not this late in the day, anyway.”

  Sarah focused on the car. She believed every word Nate told her, but she had to be sure. “Okay, Nate...get ready...” she said, watching the car zoom up behind the truck. “Okay now...slow down...not too much, though...just enough to make the car pass you.”

  Nate eased off the gas and let the truck drop down to a cozy twenty miles per hour. A gray BMW with dark tinted windows quickly overtook them, then swerved smoothly into the left lane, sped around the truck, then pulled back into their lane and slammed on its brakes so that they almost collided. “Hold on!” Nate yelled and with skilled hands and a calm mind, he steered the truck into the left lane and stomped on the gas. The truck sped past the BMW. As it did, Sarah cast her eyes at the license plate. “Where's that car from?” Nate asked.

  “California tags,” Sarah replied in a heavy voice as the BMW got moving again, pursuing them. “Nate, this truck isn't going to outrun that BMW.”

  “Nope. But they’re following us. And Old Nate isn't a fool,” Old Nate said and pointed up the road with his left hand. “The Monroe's live about a half smile ahead. If we can make it to their driveway I'll swing in for a visit. Old George Monroe don't take nonsense off folks from out of state. He'll give this situation a helping hand.”

  Amanda fought back the urge to reach out and hug Nate. The old man sure was a diamond in the rough. “You show them, love!”

  Before Nate could reply, the BMW pulled up even with the truck again, and to Sarah’s horror the driver's side window of the BMW rolled down. A rough, powerful hand appeared with a gun and began firing at the truck. “Get down!” Sarah yelled and threw her arms over Amanda's head. As she did, an image flashed in her mind: it was the isolated cabin belonging to the murdered real estate tycoon, a case she had worked on months ago. The outlines of the lonely cabin whispered into her mind. She saw the cabin sitting alone in the Alaskan wilderness, as if hungry for life to reenter its heart—longing for love and light, laughter and peace. Sarah wasn't sure why the cabin entered her mind when it did, and she sure didn't have time to psychoanalyze it in the moment, either. The sound of the gunshots quickly snapped her out of her reverie and chased the isolated cabin away. “Stay down,” Sarah yelled again.

  “Who is getting up, love?” Amanda shouted and pulled Mittens under her arms. “Hold on, sweet baby.”

  Nate narrowed his eyes and focused on the road. There was no sense in panicking—panicking only gets you killed. “Let old Nate do the driving, ladies, and don't worry your little minds about missing supper.”

  Sarah moved into a crouch, planning to return fire, but hesitated. She only had the bullets sitting in her gun and one extra clip. She couldn't afford to blindly fire at a speeding vehicle and chance wasting bullets. Instead of firing she kept her head low and waited for Nate to reach Mr. Monroe's driveway. When she felt Nate swing the truck into a dangerous turn, the tires scattering a plume of gravel and mud around them, she tilted her head up just in time to see the BMW race past the dirt driveway Nate had turned onto. The BMW slowed and then sped away as Nate tore down the driveway without looking back. “They're driving on,” she said in a relieved voice.

  Nate kept his foot on the gas pedal and didn't let up until he slammed the truck to a stop in front of a beautiful two story farmhouse with a gorgeous wrap around porch. Seconds later, a large man built like a grizzly bear stepped out onto the front porch carrying a double barrel shotgun. He squinted his eyes and studied Nate's truck. “Nate Ringgold, is that you?”

  Nate eased open the driver's side door and waved his hand. “Yeah, it's me, George, so don't go blasting your gun at my empty belly.”

  Sarah looked at Amanda as they sat up in the truck. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” Amanda sighed. “I was really hoping for a fun, easy-going trip to Los Angeles, just us girls,” she explained. “The trip is ruined now. Never mind the bullets.”

  Sarah patted Amanda's arm and opened the passenger side door. “Come on, June Bug. Let's say hello to Mr. Monroe and let Mittens get some fresh air.”

  Amanda climbed out of the truck and looked at the farmhouse. The farmhouse was an absolute dream, built and expanded by generations of Monroes. The open fields behind the farmhouse smelled of sweet hay. If Amanda wasn't so scared she would have run up to the farmhouse and hugged it. Instead, she looked up at the darkening sky and saw the first star of the night appear. “It's going to be a long night,” she whispered and set Mittens down at her feet.

  “What's this all about, Nate?” George demanded. “You come racing down my driveway like a man on fire. You in trouble? I heard shooting.”

  Nate tossed a thumb at Sarah and Amanda. “I picked these here two pretty ladies up off the road when I saw them standing with their jeep that got a flat tire. Wasn't long before some fancy car with California plates came racing at us with guns blazing.”

  George gripped his shotgun with powerful hands. He was a large man who didn't tolerate nonsense. Being a God-fearing, hard-working and practical man were the three main tenets that guided his life. “Where is this car now, Nate?”

  Nate tossed a thumb back down the driveway with a mischievous grin. “Sped off when I pulled a surprise turn into your lane. You might want to call the sheriff and get him out here, George. Me and the ladies will stand out here and keep watch.”

  George stared down the driveway and then walked back inside without saying a word. “Nice man,” Amanda groaned.

  “Can you blame him?” Sarah asked. “Put yourself in his shoes.”

  “I know, I know,” Amanda apologized. “But he can put himself in our shoes, too. Someone is out to kill us...well, you. But that involves me, love. I'm not dancing on marshmallow clouds right now. And even worse, I need to visit the loo really, really bad...and I don't think Mr. Shotgun Man is going to let me use his bathroom.”

  Mittens didn't have a problem, however. She let out a happy stream next to Amanda. Amanda cried out when she realized what had happened and began shaking urine off her shoe. Nate shook his head at Amanda’s noises and turned instead to study Sarah's shadowy face. “Them folks shooting at us, you know them?”

  “I might,” Sarah replied, feeling the night settle into her heart. “But I can't be certain if they are who I think they are, Nate. I have to be cautious in my thinking right now.”

  “Fair enough,” Nate told Sarah. “I’m not in any hurry to find out who shot at us from that fancy car. I figure we'll know soon enough.”

  Sarah kept her eyes on the driveway. Surely, she thought, the BMW wouldn't dare return to attack on private property. An open road attack was the mode of operation for hired killers—quick and easy with no witnesses. Private property changed the rules of the game. Private property meant the possibility of prying eyes, extra witnesses, other factors that could be very damaging in a court of law. “Focus,” Sarah whispered and walked her mind back through time. “Focus on the case.”

  Amanda was shaking a stern finger at the husky puppy, but then she looked at Sarah. “Are we still going to Los Angeles, love?”

  “If we can,” Sarah replied. “You don't have to come with me.”

  Amanda put her hand on Sarah's shoulder and stared down the dusty driveway. “I'v
e already been shot at and used as a fire hydrant. I'm pretty much broken in for this case,” she told Sarah with a grin as they continued to wait for the local sheriff to arrive.

  “A dead body?” Sarah exclaimed, staring at the old man who wore his sheriff's uniform so baggy that the brown fabric hung on his frail body like a silly clown outfit.

  Sheriff Paul Bufford was just as shocked as Sarah to find a dead body in the passenger seat of her jeep. He was an old man of seventy-one and not in the mood to be up so late dealing with “A bunch of horse manure,” as he had muttered at first. This was one something that he just knew would interfere with his bedtime cup of apple cider and honey. “A woman,” he said, and hitched up his uniform britches as a strong wind snapped at his thin gray hair and weathered face. “Someone called and left an anonymous tip about the body. I was already headed out here when dispatch called me about this car chase with gun shots by the Monroe place.”

  “Wasn't no dead body when I picked these two ladies up off the road,” Nate said and shoved his hands down into the front pockets of his pants. “No sir, wasn't no dead body at all, Paul.”

  “Well, Nate, there's a dead body now,” Paul fussed and folded his arms together and looked at the front porch. “George, will you put that shotgun away, for crying out loud?”

  “Not until you're off my property,” George said, as the night wind ruffled the hem of his flannel work shirt around him. He pointed his shotgun at Sarah in a gesture. “This woman claims she's a retired detective from Los Angeles. You better check her story, Paul.”

  “Already ran her,” Paul continued in a patient but slightly cranky voice. “I'm not stupid, George. I've been Sheriff for over twenty-two years now. Her name came up when I ran the vehicle registration and I called the place of employment listed as a reference in her old California DMV records.” Paul focused his eyes on Sarah. “Ms. Garland is who she says she is.”

  Sarah caught the curious look in Sheriff Bufford’s eye. “Who did you speak with in Los Angeles?” she asked.

  “A man who seems to know you very well.”

  “Pete,” Sarah said.

  “That's the man,” Paul agreed. “Your friend, Ms. Garland, wasn’t too happy to hear about your side stop in my county, either. And I'm not too happy, either. There has never been a murder in or around Prate, Oregon before, never. Prate was listed as one of the top ten safest places for families to live in.”

  “In the 1962 Readers Digest,” Nate threw the fact at Paul. Amanda exchanged a look with Sarah and suppressed a smile. This was evidently a long-standing dispute between the men.

  “Doesn't matter when the year was, Nate,” Paul argued. “The fact is, we have a murder on our hands and the peaceful reputation of Prate, Oregon has been changed for good.”

  “You said it was a woman’s body you found?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes, a woman,” Paul snapped. He would rather be at home, and Nate Ringgold’s irksome argument only served to make him miss his wife Sophia, who would be reading her usual Readers Digest by now. Instead, he was standing out on George Monroe's farm feeling a chill from the night air. “Ms. Garland, Prate is a small town. We have a hospital the size of a classroom and one single red light in town. Prate is a farming community filled with families, not wild snakes from big cities. Now, you listen to me and listen close. I don't know what's going on, but you better put your badge back on and get to the bottom of this mess and fast. Am I making myself clear?”

  “I'm retired, Sheriff.”

  “Not anymore. I'm deputizing you and your friend here,” Paul told Sarah in a stern voice. “I figure if you can catch a deadly serial killer, well, you can catch whoever killed that poor woman and shoved her into your jeep.” Paul ran his hands through his gray hair. “Truth of the matter is, my guys just aren't smart enough...I believe that you have nothing to do with the murder, and I also believe you are the best person to solve it.”

  Sarah took Mittens from Amanda and cradled the puppy in her arms. “Sheriff, last winter was very difficult for me and my friend. We dealt with a lot of deadly people. We're both tired and this is just a fun trip to Los Angeles to relax and forget our worries—”

  “And sign a very generous contract from a major studio,” Amanda pointed out.

  Sarah sighed. “Yes,” she agreed. “Sheriff, I have to get to Los Angeles for a meeting. I don’t have time.”

  “You’ll make time,” he replied stubbornly. “You know I would have to detain you as a witness anyway. The faster you solve this, the faster you can leave. You brought this trouble to town, you can solve it, too.”

  “Which leads me to ask you about the dead woman.” Sarah braced herself. “Sheriff, what did this woman look like?”

  Paul hesitated and saw Nate staring at him. “Go on, Paul, tell the woman what she wants to know if you want her to do your job for you,” Nate told him.

  “The woman,” Paul said, “well, I can describe her like this.” Sarah listened as Paul gave a perfect description of Rebecca. Tears began falling from her eyes. “Do you know the woman?”

  Sarah nodded through her tears. “I spoke to her this morning.”

  “But...Rebecca was in Los Angeles,” Amanda said in confusion.

  “Maybe not,” Sarah replied. She handed the puppy to Amanda and wiped at her tears. “I called Rebecca on her cell phone because I couldn't reach her at the office. Could she have been out of town? She didn't imply that she was, though…”

  “Oh dear,” Amanda sighed, “this case is really getting complicated.” She wondered what this meant for her best friend’s contract with the movie studio. When she looked at Sarah, she could see that in her grief, she had no idea what to think, either.

  Nate watched Sarah wipe her tears. The woman had a good, gentle heart about her that pleased his own heart. “Somebody is trying to frame you for murder.”

  “Maybe, but I don't think so,” Sarah said and thought about the gray BMW. “I think it’s a warning. I'm being warned to back off and stay out of Los Angeles. Or so it seems. I could be wrong.”

  “Let's say you're right. Who is sending the warning?” Paul queried, furrowing his wrinkled brow.

  “I'm not sure yet,” Sarah confessed. “Right now, Sheriff, my enemies are in different corners and I don't know who is throwing the punches.”

  “Well, maybe your friend Pete will. He's driving up to Prate as we speak,” Paul told Sarah. “I indicated I was investigating a body in your vehicle, and he immediately said he would come here.”

  “Pete is on his way?” Sarah asked as butterflies gripped her stomach.

  “That's right,” Paul said and shook his head. “The body is being taken over to the county morgue in Lawsondale.” Paul rubbed his eyes. “I found a purse in your jeep belonging to the dead woman too, along with some luggage I'm assuming belongs to you. Anyway, your jeep is being towed to the garage in town. You can pick it up tomorrow morning. Not much more we can do tonight—”

  “Sheriff, the people who killed my friend are still on the loose. You need to set up roadblocks and—” Sarah began.

  Paul held up his hand. “Ms. Garland, this is Prate, not Los Angeles. If I go sticking roadblocks up in the night, why, every person in town will be in a panic and come running with questions. No ma’am, nothing doing.”

  “Sheriff is right,” Nate told Sarah. “Folks in Prate get mighty jumpy when a fly gets in their ointment,” he explained. He tossed a thumb at George. “See what I mean?”

  Sarah looked at George Monroe. The man still stood on the porch. He was on edge and ready to shoot at the first shadow that moved. “I guess I do.”

  “If folks in Prate get jumpy, you'll have a hundred Georges running around looking for shadows that ain't there, but they might fire on flesh and blood that is,” Nate cautioned Sarah. “Best to wait until morning and see what happens.”

  “I want the both of you at the station house at nine sharp. I'll deputize you at that time. Your friend Pete should be here around t
hat time, too,” Paul said and walked over to a brown and white sheriff's car that looked like an antique. “Keep your wits about you – and your sidearm – in case your attackers come back during the night. We believe in ‘standing your ground’ here in Oregon, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Let's pray for a peaceful night,” Nate told Paul and waved him off. The Sheriff climbed into his car and drove off down the gravel driveway. “You ladies best come and stay the night with old Nate. Ain't no sense in going into town this late.”

  “Do you have room?” Amanda asked Nate.

  “I live in an old farmhouse by myself,” Nate explained. “It’s about the size of this one here. I'm sure we can find room,” he finished and tipped Amanda a wink.

  Sarah looked at George Monroe, who was still standing on his porch ready to fire at anyone who might threaten his homestead. “Mr. Monroe, we wish to apologize for causing you so much distress tonight. But I have to plead with you to please refrain from speaking about tonight’s events to anyone.”

  “What she is saying is if you go running your mouth, the people who killed that poor woman may pay you and your family a visit, George,” Nate said in a very serious voice. “Now, we both know you can wrestle a grizzly bear down to the ground, but bullets are a whole different story. The men shooting at us earlier weren’t using shotguns, if you catch my drift.”

  “Yeah, I catch your drift, Nate,” George said in a gruff voice. “I served in the Marines for two years. I understand weaponry. You just make sure next time someone goes shooting at you, get them to follow you down my driveway so I can get a good aim at them,” George added and then walked inside and slammed his front door shut.

  “Come on,” Nate sighed, “let's get home. My tummy is rumbling and my supper is waiting.”

  “I'm going to ride in the back of your truck, Nate,” Sarah explained. “If we have company I'll be able to take better aim.”

  “Suits me just fine,” Nate told Sarah and climbed into the passenger seat of his truck. “Amanda, you and the puppy better ride up in the cab with me.”