Intervention

by Terri Blackstock

  And then she lost it.

  It was a terrible thing, being separated from the one child she had left. She closed her eyes, hating her tears.

  How had she come to this? Here she was, a single mom, trying her best to raise her children, doing all the right things. The Bible said that you reaped what you sowed. But she hadn’t sown this, had she? All the time she’d been caring for her sick husband, was she sowing the seeds of drug abuse? Was she sowing disobedience, wickedness, murder?

  She opened her eyes and looked toward the long-term parking area. She imagined Emily walking out to the car with Trish, probably trembling because she needed a fix, smoking a cigarette, wondering where this car was going to take her and what her life would be like for the next several months. She probably felt like she’d been punched in the gut, much like Barbara felt now.

  She’d gotten into the car and encountered the killer. Then she’d run the other way and jumped into the car of a stranger.

  Was it Greg Leigh’s car? Had he been Tredwell’s accomplice? Did they kill Emily to keep her from identifying them?

  Oh, God, please don’t let that be. Take care of Emily, and take care of Lance …

  The phone rang, startling her. She checked the screen. It was Kent. Suddenly a sure, swift knowledge slammed through her body.

  He was calling to tell her Emily was dead. A tremor started at her feet, made its way to her knees, to her heart, out to her hands and fingers.

  Swallowing the dry knot in her throat, she answered. “Hello?”

  “Barbara, where are you?”

  “At the airport. What is it? Do you … have some news?”

  “No.” The word brought such relief that she almost collapsed. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Obviously, you’re not. I’m on my way to the judge’s office to try to convince him to give me search and arrest warrants. Andy’s already on his way up to brief the police in Dalton. I was calling to see if Lance got off all right.”

  “Yes, he’s on the plane. He wasn’t happy about it.”

  “And you’re not too happy, either.”

  She shook her head and her face twisted as she tried to hold back her emotions. “I thought it was the right thing when I bought the ticket.”

  “And now you’re not so sure?”

  “No.” She wiped her cheeks. “You must think I’m a basket case. I’m usually not like this. I’m usually strong.”

  “I know. I can see that.”

  “My daughter’s being held by some crazy person, and I’m a wreck because my son didn’t wave good-bye to me.”

  “That’s not why you’re crying, Barbara.” His voice was soft, intimate. “You’re crying because you’ve been through so much. I’m sure Lance would have waved if he’d known you’d be this upset.”

  She stared toward the area where the murder had occurred. “You know now that she didn’t kill Trish, don’t you?”

  “Yes, we know.”

  “That she was abducted?”

  “Yes. We think that’s what happened.”

  “Oh, dear God.” She pressed her hand against her forehead. “My husband would be so disappointed if he knew the mess I’ve made of things.”

  “You didn’t do this, Barbara. You can’t blame yourself for the kidnapping anymore than you can blame yourself for her addictions.”

  “Then who can I blame? It’s not John’s fault. He did everything right.”

  “And so did you.”

  “No, I must have done everything wrong. When he got sick, I was totally consumed with him. Right at the end I couldn’t think of anything except helping him through his pain. For the last couple of weeks I stayed up all the time so I could work his morphine pump every twelve minutes just to keep him from suffering. That time is such a blur. There’s a whole year of our lives that has practically vanished from my memory. And now I put all my energy and focus on Emily … and Lance gets pushed to the side.”

  Kent was silent for a moment. “My mother used to be more focused on my brother,” he said. “The Emily of our family. One time I told her that it felt like she didn’t even realize I was there. You know what she said?”

  “What?”

  “She said that you give your time to the one who needs you the most. That’s what you’ve done.”

  “Yeah. But my children needed me too, and I wasn’t there for them.”

  “So who took care of them?”

  “I guess they pretty much fended for themselves. They ate a lot of ravioli and macaroni and cheese during those days. Friends helped me get them to school and back. We suspended all our activities for a few months.”

  “Barbara, what else could you have done?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I was put in that position of making tough choices. I did the only thing I felt I could do. You prioritize, you make decisions, you respond, you react. Maybe I left them out. Maybe if I’d made them a part of it … let them pump the morphine to ease their dad’s suffering. But I was trying to keep them away from him, trying to keep them from suffering too. And I just failed at all of it. He still died, and I didn’t ease my children’s pain.”

  “You were there for them after he died,” he said into the phone. “You know you were. I can’t imagine a scenario where you wouldn’t be. Look at you now. I don’t know what keeps you going, but you keep trying. You’ve been terrible places, and I can tell from knowing you just a few days that there’s nothing in this world that would stop you from trying to rescue your child in distress. You’re a good mother, Barbara. You need to know that.”

  Kent drove with his phone to his ear, wishing he could turn his car around and go to her. It had been a long time since he’d wanted to comfort a crying woman. His wife had gotten so cold and hard toward the end of their marriage, before she left him for another man. Holding her had been the last thing on his mind.

  But Barbara’s weeping turned him inside-out. Finding Emily was the only comfort he could give.

  “I have to believe there was a purpose in all this,” she said. “I believe God took John when he did because he was building something in us. I have to believe that even the drug abuse has a purpose. God’s weaving something into Emily’s character, something he’ll need to use someday.”

  Baffled by that kind of faith, Kent didn’t answer.

  Barbara went on. “Maybe someday she’ll have a testimony about how God broke her free of her chains, and she’ll help people who are going through the same things.”

  He didn’t know what to say. He’d never seen that much purpose in anything in his life. His brother was now in prison, his mother was clinically depressed, his ex-wife was now on her third marriage. But he admired it in Barbara.

  “You keep your faith, okay?” he said into the phone. “Don’t let it waver. Keep believing there’s a purpose, because there probably is one. I’m going to find her as soon as I can. Do you believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  That one word of affirmation tugged at his heart. Maybe she was right. Maybe all this did have a purpose. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

  “Thanks, Kent. I didn’t mean to fall apart on you. I wanted you to think I was stronger than this.”

  “You are stronger than this,” he said. “You didn’t fall apart. You just opened the pressure valve and let a little stress out.”

  He heard a long sigh. “Be careful, okay?”

  No one had told him that in years. “You too. You go back to the hotel and wait until I call you.”

  She didn’t commit to that, and he had the sick feeling that she wouldn’t. He hung up, glad Andy hadn’t been with him to hear any of that. His response to her was unprofessional. He couldn’t let his mind dwell on her again until he found Emily.

  Please, God, help us find her.

  The words were out before he realized he was praying again. What did that mean? That he believed there was someone up there who heard him? For the first time in years, he actually considered the possibility th
at the creator of the universe might have a purpose for him, and that he might hear him. Maybe he hadn’t forgotten him, after all.

  forty-two

  Barbara’s widowhood had never been more cruel. Driving back from the airport, she battled the mocking voices whispering despair into her ear. She was alone in this fight, and she lacked the courage to defeat her enemies. But she would take them on, anyway.

  She got back to her hotel room and sat down on the bed. She had to go to Dalton, to be there if they found Emily. But details waylaid her. Should she leave her things, planning to return? Or should she pack and check out?

  The big decision to send Lance home had rendered her unable to make the small ones.

  Why hadn’t God allowed John to be here, to hold her up when she suffered? Why was there no one to walk alongside her? Kent’s phone call had only reminded her of her loneliness.

  She turned on her television to chase away the shadows as she packed her things. Up came a football game. For a moment, she closed her eyes and listened to those familiar sounds, trying to imagine that her husband was close to her, watching the game while she busied herself with household chores.

  She had no interest in football, but those had been the sounds of her home when John was still alive. It melted her into tears.

  “Where are you, John? Why aren’t you here with me?” She looked at the ceiling. “God, I don’t understand it. What have I done?”

  Did she dare call it injustice, this condition of her life? She longed for someone older, wiser … someone with more courage to walk her through this.

  Suddenly, she missed her mother. She picked up the phone, dialed her number. It rang six times, and she almost gave up. Then there was a feeble voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Mama? It’s Barbara.”

  “Barbara, you were supposed to be home hours ago.”

  Barbara’s thin hopes vaporized. Her mother’s dementia still held her in its clutches. “Mama, I need to talk to you. I’m going through something, and I just need you to be clear for a minute.”

  “They steal from me.”

  “Who does?”

  “The people who broke into my house.”

  Her mother lived in an assisted living home. The “thieves” were the staff who helped care for her. There would be no clarity today.

  She heard a click, then the phone cut off. As she often did, her mother had forgotten she was talking and hung up.

  Rage shuddered through Barbara, threatening to explode her skull.

  The phone rang in her hand. Had her mother called back?

  Without checking the caller ID, she clicked it on. “Mama?”

  “Barbara, it’s Fran.”

  She thought of hanging up, but Fran forged on.

  “I got permission to use an antique secretary’s desk and some memorabilia from David Francis’s collection. I can go by and take a picture of it for the presentation if you want. And I found all sorts of great stuff on your other design boards — ”

  “Not now,” Barbara bit out.

  “Barbara, we have to get this done if we’re going to meet our deadline.”

  “Then we won’t meet it. I have to go.”

  “Barbara, what about the Francis stuff?”

  She stood up and screamed into the phone, “I said, it’s over! I can’t meet the deadline! Find another job! I can’t deal with this now.”

  She cut off the phone and heard cheers and applause rising from the television. Snapping, she grabbed the desk chair, lifted it, and crashed it into the screen. The game died.

  Smoke and the smell of burning wires puffed out from the set.

  What had she done?

  She collapsed onto the bed, screaming things at God that she’d never thought she’d say.

  Get up.

  Whether it was God’s still small voice or her own, she wasn’t sure, but as her fury drained, a calm replaced it.

  You’re not alone.

  She sat up, blew her nose again, and stared at the casualty of her rage. The broken TV would have to be replaced.

  I’ll walk with you. You don’t have to do this by yourself.

  She held her knees for a moment, wondering why the smoke hadn’t set off the alarm system. Water pouring down on her head would have been a fitting end to this moment. That there was none was evidence that God was still there.

  That, and the whisper, coaching her along.

  Pack. Go.

  She threw the rest of her things into her suitcase, then picked up the glass on the carpet in front of the TV. Thank God she hadn’t done this in Lance’s presence.

  She picked up the hotel phone, dialed the front desk.

  “Front desk. May I help you?”

  She cleared her throat. “Um … this is Barbara Covington in 403.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Covington, what can I do for you?”

  Her voice was shaky. “Uh, these televisions that are in the room? I was wondering how much they cost.”

  “I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

  “Because … I need to pay for one.”

  “Ma’am, you can buy one at Best Buy or Sears … I can give you directions.”

  “No, I need this one.” She shoved back her hair. “See … I kind of broke it.”

  A pause. “Would you like me to send a maintenance man up to repair it?”

  “No, I don’t think it can be repaired.”

  “Oh? What’s wrong with it?”

  She surveyed the broken glass, the chair lying on the floor. “I sort of dropped something … against it.”

  “I’m sorry … you dropped something against it?”

  Hearing it repeated back to her was too painful. “I lost my temper, okay? I’ve been a little upset.”

  A beat of silence. “And rightfully so, ma’am.”

  “Anyway, I broke the blasted TV, and I need to pay for it. If you could, just find out the cost and add it to my bill.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Would you like us to replace it?”

  “Not for me. I’m checking out. Do I need to come to the desk?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s okay. I’ll check you out and add the cost to your credit card. I hope you … enjoyed your stay.”

  She hung up, then ran around the room, throwing her things into her suitcase. It was time to change locations anyway. Maybe then she wouldn’t have to worry about the reporters every time she stepped outside.

  Feeling like a coward and an idiot, she rolled her suitcase into the hall, out the side door. A cluster of reporters had gotten wise to her covert exits, and they descended on her now.

  “Barbara, where are you going?”

  “Are you returning to Missouri?”

  “Have you gotten word on your daughter’s whereabouts?”

  She pushed through them, trying to dodge the cameramen who blocked her way. She got to the car, popped the lock. She opened the driver’s door, pushed her suitcase across to the passenger side, and slid in beside it.

  “Barbara, do you have anything to say to your daughter if she’s listening?”

  A reporter blocked her from closing the door. “Excuse me.” She reached for the handle, threatening to close it on her. The woman stepped back.

  “Where’s your son, Mrs. Covington?”

  Barbara closed the door and started the car, checked her rearview mirror. There were cameramen behind her. She backed out slowly, forcing them to move.

  Finally, she put the car in Drive, and the crowd parted enough for her to get through. She let out a long breath as she pulled out of the parking lot, knowing that they’d be following her. Somehow, she’d have to lose them before she could head toward Dalton.

  It took a few twists, turns, and lane changes, and a dangerous U-turn on the four-lane highway, before Barbara felt certain she’d lost them.

  Finally, she put Dalton in her GPS and headed north.

  forty-three

  Greg Leigh knew he was in trouble. It was bad enough that they’d connected him to t
his case through Tredwell, but now they were probing around as if he were a suspect. He needed to call a lawyer, but he didn’t have one. He’d burned bridges with the attorney who’d handled his lawsuit, blaming him for losing the case. Now he’d have to start over with someone else.

  When he got back to Dalton, he would get on the phone and find someone to represent him. This was all getting out of hand. Why hadn’t he thought more about what could go wrong?

  It had seemed like a great plan. He’d been watching Trish Massey’s Facebook page for weeks. He’d “friended” her under a fake name so he could read her blogs, looking for an opportunity for revenge. When she stupidly posted information about this trip and her return time, leaving out the fact that she’d have a girl with her, the idea had blossomed to life in his mind. Theoretically, he wouldn’t even have to be nearby.

  His drug-addicted nurse, Gerald Tredwell, was the perfect one for the job. He should have been thrown out on the street after Leigh caught him taking prescription pads. In fact, he should be in jail. Leigh had threatened to press charges unless Tredwell did him this favor, and if Tredwell pulled it off, Leigh had promised him a huge payday at the end.

  To prepare for the big event, he’d bought a cell phone under a fake name. In case Tredwell got caught, phone calls he exchanged with him before and after the confrontation couldn’t be traced back to him.

  All Tredwell had to do was wait in Trish’s car for her to return, knock her out with the chloroform, then inject her with the Tubarine which would paralyze, then kill her, and be on his way. The night Trish was away, Leigh had gone to the airport to find her car, and had even checked the location of the security cameras, so that Tredwell could get in on the side of the car where he wouldn’t be as visible, then easily slip out the same way. He’d hoped hours might pass before anyone noticed the woman slumped over her steering wheel and called for help. By then, Tredwell would be long gone.

  Leigh should have just waited at home for the call that it had all been done. But no, he was so uneasy about the whole thing that he’d decided to go to the airport himself, and watch from his car across the garage.