"As long as it's not about lunch, talk."
"Hell no, I've been on Tums for the last two days. I probably shouldn't be talking about my client, but I'm uneasy, and it isn't from the meal."
"Talk. It stays with me."
"Peterson was really upset when I called him. Wanted to go for the kidnapping warrant right then. Says his ex-wife called, left a message that his daughter was all right and to leave them alone. Nothing else, but he had a number off the caller ID. I checked it out, and it's a pay phone at a convenience store in Davenport. You know where that is?"
"Of course. Small town, northeast of here."
"I called him back with the pay phone news and we agreed to meet yesterday morning to get the warrant. But he didn't show. I haven't heard another word."
"Check out his house?"
"Of course. Car's gone. I left messages, no response."
There was nothing but silence for a moment.
"I have the urge to take a drive and look around Davenport. But rural Polk County has some strange paths."
"Want an official tour guide?” Bubba asked.
"Any place to eat up there?"
"Not really."
"Good. I'll meet you at the convenience store. Give me an hour."
Bubba agreed and thumbed the connection button. Then he dialed Robin Johnson. She was at her desk.
"You know if Rachel has a safe house near Davenport?"
"Bubba, don't call me about crap like that. I don't know anything about violating a custody order."
He filled her in on what Larson had told him. She cursed and when she stopped, she said, “You think this Larson guy is trying to pull an end run to find the ex-wife, using you as a stalking horse to move around us."
"My gut tells me he's on the level. But I've been wrong before."
"I'm afraid we're going to have to chance it because I have no damned idea where the safe house might be. Rachel wasn't very trusting about information that husbands might use. What I can do is put out a BOLO for her car on a child abduction. A unit might spot her. She's going to be royally pissed if you're wrong."
"But I'm not."
"No, your gut is right. While you look, I'll run a check on the telephone and utilities. See if the computer can find anything. I'll also contact whoever is uniform in that area to let them know you're up there so you won't frighten them sneaking around."
"Thanks, pumpkin."
"Drink, and carve one jack-o'-lantern no one ever forgets. Find her. Go."
"Gone."
* * * *
As Bubba drove, he thought how Davenport, a small town with a major highway running through it, was a perfect place for a safe house. Strangers were common. The roads surrounding Davenport ranged from paved streets running through subdivisions to dirt lanes. It was in the section of the county closest to the Disney complex, yet Davenport still awaited normalization.
Larson was waiting in the store's parking lot when Bubba pulled in. Hot engine noises were creaking under the Chevy's hood.
"You made good time,” Bubba said out the Bronco window.
"That's what passing lanes were made for."
"There's a lookout for Rachel's car. The patrol units up here know we're prowling around. You have a picture of the father?"
"All of them. Let's ask inside."
They went inside. The store was crammed with a wide variety of ethnic foods, packaged edible goods, a wall of beer, and hundreds of cigarette packs behind the counter. A young man, Hindu or Pakistani, smiled at them.
"May I help you, gentlemen?” Larson showed him the picture of Missy. “Like I told the other gentleman, I do not think I have seen the little girl."
"This guy?” Larson flashed Peterson's picture.
"The same. Night before last. A large angry man, who didn't believe me."
"How about this woman?” Larson showed the wife's picture.
"Perhaps, many American women look alike to me. I am sorry."
"How about a big stuffed bear?” Bubba asked.
The man nodded and smiled wider. “A yellow bear, bigger than her? A small girl has come in here several times with such a bear."
"Do you know where they live? What kind of car they drove?"
"A car, who knows, a thousand cars come and go every day. They go somewhere that way.” The clerk waved to the left, away from the center of town. They bought a couple of Cokes, bags of peanuts, then thanked the clerk and left.
"You think we should split up? Search twice as much that way,” Larson said as they stood by their vehicles. They had poured the peanuts into the Cokes to drink and eat at the same time.
"This whole area is an unincorporated mess: woods, farms, subdivisions that have turned back to nature. There's no easy pattern. You take the east side of the highway. It's an old development turned into irregular homesites. The roads form a grid, but nobody does the upkeep on street signs. I'll take the other side. It's worse, haphazard, dead ends and loops. I think I remember enough of it not to get lost. We have about five hours before dark. Then it will be near impossible. I have a feeling that we need to find them today."
"If we aren't too late already."
* * * *
Bubba drove and peered, drove and backtracked. The miles crawled by and the hours slipped away. Robin called and said there was nothing in the computer that could help her identify the safe house. He thanked her and drove. He kept worrying that he'd missed a new driveway or confused an old road with a dead end. He and Larson called each other every fifteen minutes with the same negative report. Their irritation continued to grow.
The light was fading into a glorious sunset, highlighting the leaves that were changing, when Larson called and told Bubba to meet him back at the convenience store; he'd found them. Larson was standing by his car, orange clay streaking the rear panels, when Bubba arrived.
"Where are they?” Bubba asked.
"I drew a map as I drove out. It's complicated, follow me."
"I'll try to find a patrol unit to meet up with us. Give them directions as we go."
"All I have is the BMW right now. Still have to figure out which house."
"Drive. I'll follow you and make the call,” Bubba said.
Bubba called the county dispatcher in Bartow to request a meeting with any available unit. There were never many patrolmen working this area and the two assigned this day were handling a car and semi crash back on Highway 27. The dispatcher said he'd tell them to find him as soon as they were free.
By the second left and third right, Bubba knew he'd never be able to direct anyone in the dark until they found out the exact address. When Larson stopped at the beginning of tracks leading into scrub woods and killed his headlights, Bubba did the same. Larson played his flashlight along the tracks, saw taillights reflected from inside the tree line.
"There's the BMW. No one inside. Engine cold, doors unlocked."
"I bet he's close by. He wouldn't want to chance getting lost on these roads. Let me grab my flashlight, maybe we can tell something from the tracks where he left the paved road,” Bubba said. He lifted the rear door of the Bronco and opened his tool box. He took the flashlight and a pry bar.
He and Larson stood at the edge of the asphalt where the tracks began. They looked at the bent grass and weeds, then at each other.
"What do you think, Daniel Boone?” Larson asked.
"I think he came from that way. Turned in, left the car, and walked back. It's Peterson. You agree?"
"Peterson has them all. He must have driven around like I did and spotted the BMW. I don't like this one bit. You lead the way."
"Leave the cars here. We'll walk ten minutes and if we don't find anything, then one of us will come back for a vehicle."
"A plan. That's good."
They walked along the asphalt without speaking. The trees were thicker here, almost creating a tunnel. A strong wind rustled the dried leaves, creaks from the limbs chimed in. The temperature had dropped to the fifties; Bubba was
glad they were moving. After a few creepy minutes, they came to a T in the road. To the right, they could see the glow of houselights. They started that way and got within fifty yards when a pack of dogs began barking. They turned around and walked the other way, the sound of the dogs continuing. The woods thinned, oaks and hickory giving way to pine trees. The ten minutes were almost up when they saw more houselights. They stopped in the shadows where the scrub ended and the mowed grass began. No dogs barked.
"Now what?” Larson asked in a whisper.
"We peek in some windows."
The house had a two-car garage that was closed. Draperies were drawn on the front windows. As they passed by one of the back windows, a gleam of light escaped between poorly closed curtains. Bubba looked in. It was a sparsely furnished bedroom, but the big yellow bear looked comfortable on the bed. Bubba motioned Larson to follow him away from the house.
"This is it,” he said. They both flinched as the garage door opened. Light flooded the driveway. They stepped back into the shadows. A Camaro backed out, stopped, and a tall man got out. Bubba looked at Larson, who nodded. Peterson went back inside through the garage.
"He knows you, Larson. I'll go around back. When he comes out again, confront him. I'll go in the back door."
"You confront him. He doesn't know you. He'll be confused. I'll go in the back."
"I have the pry bar."
"I have a size thirteen shoe."
They were still whispering when Peterson emerged carrying a suitcase and Missy. He put her in the passenger seat and fastened her seat belt. He flipped the suitcase onto the backseat and went back inside.
"Here's the pry bar. Take the back. I'll be in the garage.” Bubba held out the pry bar to Larson, who took it reluctantly. They both knew that the action would be where the little girl was. Larson walked through the yard while Bubba went to the driveway. He leaned into the Camaro and checked on Missy. She was asleep, breathing shallowly, as if she had been drugged. Bubba leaned against the hood of the Camaro with his arms folded and waited.
Peterson hurried out of the house and halted abruptly when he saw Bubba. He was nearly Bubba's height with knobby hands and elbows. He had a rawboned look that went with his straw-colored hair and pale skin. He also had a mouse under his right eye, a bite mark on his chin.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the Tooth Fairy, here to make a withdrawal if you don't answer my question. Where's Rachel Thomas and your ex-wife?"
There was the sound of a door banging open. Peterson glanced over his shoulder. “What's going on?"
"Where are they?"
"Inside. Now move aside. I'm taking my daughter and leaving."
"No, not tonight.” Bubba stepped into his path. “Where did you get the scratches on your neck?"
Peterson tried to push by. Bubba put his hands against Peterson's chest and shoved. The man left the ground for a moment, then landed several feet away and stumbled backwards into the wall. Bubba thought he might actually make that big bench press. He walked over, grabbed Peterson by the arm, and dragged him along.
"We can't go in there,” Peterson said. He flopped against Bubba's grip.
Bubba dragged him through the doorway and then smelled the propane. He could hear Larson coughing. One spark and this place was going up. But they had to go inside. He stepped back and took a deep breath, calming himself. Now that Larson had popped the back door, there was a wind current into the house. That would help. Bubba dragged the protesting Peterson with him.
"Where are you?” Bubba called out.
"In here.” Larson's voice came from a room off the living room. Bubba and his cargo entered the room. The ceiling light was on and Larson was drawing a blanket over the torsos of the two unconscious women. Before they were covered, Bubba saw bruises and whip stripes across them.
"We better get them out of the fumes,” Bubba said.
"I turned off the gas in the kitchen. If we open this window, it should be all right.” Then he coughed. “I used to smoke. Damn, that hurts."
Bubba shoved Peterson into a corner and cranked the jalousie window open. Fresh air poured in. The stench faded. Leaving Larson to watch Peterson, Bubba went through the house until he found a working phone. He called 911 and asked for ambulances, Robin Johnson, and a sufficiency of deputies. The emergency dispatcher would be able to find an exact address through the phone connection. Computers could do some things very effectively. He returned to the bedroom.
"He was going to kill them, wasn't he?” Larson asked, tapping the pry bar against his palm.
"I think the wife was right this time,” Bubba said.
"I had a right to my child. The courts said so,” Peterson said. He was standing in the far corner on the room. He began a side-sliding motion, heading for the door.
"I don't think the courts will agree, when you finally get out of prison, dirtbag,” Larson said. He cut off Peterson's crab-like scuttle, grabbed his arm, and raised the pry bar.
"No, you can't do that. That violates the private detective code. You can't hit your own client,” Bubba said. He stepped close to the two men. “That's the rules."
"Can I hold him while another detective hits him?"
"That's allowed."
Bubba's punch hit Peterson just below the sternum. He folded in two and would have collapsed if Larson hadn't held him up.
"Nice punch. I could feel it in his arm.” Larson smiled and dropped his client. “By the way, Peterson. I quit.” He turned to Bubba, “Did you bring any handcuffs?"
"Forgot them."
"No problem. Just don't want him escaping.” He grabbed the moaning Larson by the shirt collar and dragged him out of the room.
Bubba checked the women. Their pulses were rapid and their breathing shallow. Rachel kept trying to move but with no coordination. Her lips were swollen, split, and one eye was badly bruised. Bubba patted her shoulder and she lurched.
"It's all right, Rachel. I'm here. Missy's safe. So are you,” Bubba said in a low voice, trying to be soothing. She seemed to relax, but he couldn't be sure. At least the EMTs would be here soon. He left them and went to the other bedroom. He picked up the bear and started out when he heard a scream from the living room. When he arrived there, Peterson was curled on the floor, holding his right knee, moaning. Larson was smiling and patting the pry bar against his palm.
"He tried to escape. I told him not to. I didn't think I could run him down."
Bubba nodded and walked through the house with its lingering odor. Outside, the smell of pine cleaned the air. In the Camaro, Missy had twisted slightly. Bubba unfastened the seat belt from around her and put the bear in her arms. In her sleep, she squeezed him close and smiled. Bubba could see the line of strobing light, blue and red, filling the limbs of the trees. The light brightened the yard even before the vehicles arrived.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Copyright © 2005 by Mitch Alderman.
[Back to Table of Contents]
The Green Spider by Sax Rohmer
A Mystery Classic
I find from my notes that Professor Brayme-Skepley's great lecture which was to revolutionize modern medicine should have been delivered upon the fifteenth of March, and many of Europe's leading scientists were during the preceding week to be seen daily in the quaint old streets of Barminster—for the entire world of medical science was waiting agog for the revelation of the Brayme-Skepley treatment.
Many people wondered that Brayme-Skepley should deliver a lecture so vastly important in old-world Barminster rather than in London; but he was not a man to be coerced—so the savants, perforce, came to Barminster.
At twelve, midnight, as nearly as can be ascertained, on the fourteenth of March the porter in charge of the North Gate—by which direct admission can be gained to the quadrangle—was aroused by a loud ringing of his bell.
Hurrying to the door of his little lodge, he was surprised to find at the gate the gaunt figure of Professor Brayme-Skepley, enveloped in a huge
fur coat. He hastened to unlock the wicket and admit the great scientist.
"I am sorry to trouble you at so late an hour, Jamieson,” said the Professor, “but there are some little preparations which I must make for tomorrow's lecture. I shall probably be engaged in the bacteriological laboratory for a couple of hours. You will not mind turning out with the key?"
He slipped a sovereign into the porter's hand as he spoke, and Jamieson only too gladly acquiesced.
The fire in the little sitting-room of the lodge was almost extinct, but the man revived it, and, putting on a shovelful of coal, lighted his pipe, and sat smoking for about an hour. At one o'clock he stepped outside, and glanced across the quadrangle.
The Professor was still working, and, finding the night air chilly, Jamieson was about to turn in again when a light suddenly appeared in the top window of one of those ancient houses in Spindle Lane. The house was the last of the row, and overlooked the bacteriological laboratory.
"That's old Kragg's house,” muttered the porter; “but I didn't know anybody lived there since the old man died."
The light was a vague and flickering one, almost like that of a match; and, as he watched, it disappeared again. There was something uncanny about this solitary light in a house which he believed to be uninhabited, so, with a slight shudder, Jamieson returned to the comforts of his fireside.
Curiously enough, I had been reading upon this particular night in Harborne's rooms; and at something like twenty minutes past two I knocked the ashes from my pipe, and was about to depart—when there came a sudden scuffling on the stairs. We both turned just as the door was flung open, and Jamieson, white-faced and wild-eyed, stumbled, breathless, into the room.
"Thank Heaven I've found somebody up!” he gasped. “Yours was the only window with a light!"
"Where's the brandy?” I said, for the man seemed inclined to faint upon the sofa.
A stiff glass of cognac pulled him together somewhat, and, with a little colour returning to his face, but still wild of eye, he burst out:
"Professor Brayme-Skepley has been murdered!"
"Murdered!” echoed Harborne.
AHMM, Sep 2005 Page 14
