by V. B. Tenery
The police couldn’t have gotten here that quick. Unmarked car. Perhaps a detective, but they didn’t roll on minor cases. I leaned inside the jeep, pushed my gun under the seat, and eased away from the door, arms away from my body, hands open.
A goon with the face of a bad prizefighter withdrew from the vehicle. A bloody handkerchief encircled his left hand—red stains smeared down his jacket.
This clod didn’t work for the city. He was the lowlife who had attacked Ted—the owner of the blue sedan.
An inch shorter than me, he reached into his jacket with his good hand and pointed a .40 Beretta at my heart. “Hold it there, Adams.” As I stared at the gun, he looked much bigger. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to come home, and I don’t like to wait, especially in the cold.” He moved in close. The gun never wavered.
“Why? Did you run out of handicapped kids to pistol whip?” Wrong thing to say to a man holding a gun.
He lunged forward and brought the gun butt down, aimed at my skull.
I ducked and caught the blow on my right collarbone. Hot pain soared through my arm and my collarbone crunched like someone stepping on dry twigs. I hit the ground.
The goon stepped back and growled. “I want to know where you’ve stashed London’s kid.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said through clenched teeth.
A sinister grin spread across his ugly face. “I think you do.” He stepped forward, put his foot on my wounded shoulder, and pressed down.
Waves of pain like hot knives ripped down my arm and flooded through my shoulder.
The goon stood over me, poised to rain another savage blow on my head, when blue and white strobe lights flashed into the street. The ambulance, soon to be followed by the cops.
The thug jerked around. The lights moved into my front driveway. His posture tensed, and he turned back to me.
I raised my good arm to evade the blow that would follow. Instead, he drew back his foot, and aimed at my upper body. In mid-swing, I grabbed his shoe, almost knocking him down. He recovered quickly and before I could block the next move, pain flared as the gun butt connected with my skull. I slid back onto the icy ground and welcomed the darkness that followed.
Somewhere Outside Hebron
Consciousness returned in small increments of awareness. As the fog in my brain cleared, I realized I lay folded into a fetal position, my head jammed against my knees in the trunk of a small automobile. Claustrophobia pressed the trunk closer, closing in on me.
The car wasn’t moving and stale, sour air inside the trunk assaulted my nostrils—familiar odors of oil and fuel.
Pain and cold metal were my next sensations although the top of the trunk lid felt tepid. Sunrays seeped through rusted holes like tiny flashlight beams in the dark space. I must have been out for a while. The light confirmed it was daylight and that the car sat somewhere in the open.
My body throbbed with the ache in my head and my shoulder felt as though the thug continued to beat me with the butt of his revolver. I tried to move, but the small space left no room to maneuver. I focused on becoming invisible, tried to summon my power. It didn’t work. The gift had never failed me before. The pain in my body wouldn’t let me concentrate, and the tight space became unbearable. Blackness enveloped me once again.
When I next awoke, my head pounded and the misery in my shoulder remained as severe as ever. A chilled darkness emanated from the metal hull.
Night.
My tin coffin grew colder as the temperature dropped. As a rule, tight places don’t bother me, but there was far too much of me, and much too little space in the trunk. I tried to fight the panic that filled my chest, as silent screams choked off my breath.
The terror must have been the stimulus my tortured psyche needed. Like the answer to an unspoken prayer, I found myself free outside the car, invisible and sucking fresh, cold air into my lungs. Weak, I slid painfully to the ground.
The pungent odor I’d smelled earlier was a junkyard. My assailant had locked me in an abandoned car on the outskirts of Hebron.
With stiff feeble movements, I climbed into the backseat of the rusting wreck. I stretched out as much as possible, and welcomed the comfort the dirty seat covers provided. My body needed rest—until it could heal itself. A warm blanket would have come in handy.
As I lay in the frigid darkness, my arm felt a familiar bulge in my coat pocket. My cell phone.
In his haste to leave, my attacker was in too big of a hurry to check my pockets. Now if I could just get bars. Yes!
I called George.
I stumbled outside the junkyard and sat on a cement retaining wall. As best I could figure, it was late Tuesday night.
George’s truck slung snow sludge as he barreled down the narrow lane and slid to a stop in front of me. He got out, opened the passenger door, and helped ease my bruised carcass into the warmth of his pickup. “What happened? You look like the loser in a kickboxing tournament.”
The heat in the cab stopped my chill, and I relayed the one-sided battle with the mugger, leaving out how I’d escaped from the trunk. It eluded me how the thug evaded the police and why he didn’t just shoot me. Perhaps he wanted my death to be a slow process since I hadn’t divulged the information he wanted.
Nice guy.
The truck roared into action, and George glanced over at me. “I know I owe you my life, but saving your hide is getting to be a habit.” He went quiet for a moment and then nodded as if reaching a conclusion. “I have an old Marine buddy who’s a medic. We’ll get you fixed up.”
He picked up his cell phone and made the call.
Twenty minutes later, we entered a small frame house in the suburbs. George’s Marine buddy, Gloria Burke, was a pretty woman with caramel skin and bright hazel eyes. She opened the door at our knock.
Without fanfare or introductions, George nodded at her. “This is the package I called you about.”
She stood back and opened the door wide. “Bring him in.”
The pain was almost unbearable. George helped me inside and led me to a sofa. Sweat beaded on my brow, and I leaned against the cushions.
Gloria prodded my head with the gentle touch of an angel. “You’ve got a big goose egg here, and your right eye is dilated, so looks like you’ve got a concussion.”
She helped me off with my shirt. More pain.
“Ohhhh, I bet that hurts,” she said. “There’s swelling and the skin is broken in several places. Without X-rays I can’t say for sure if the collarbone is broken, but it sure looks that way.” She washed the wounds with alcohol wipes and smeared on an antibiotic gel.
I gritted my teeth and tried not to embarrass myself by fainting. Tough guy to the end.
She removed a prescription bottle from her bag and handed me two pills. “This will help with the pain, but it might make you drowsy. Keep the rest.”
I fell in love with Gloria Burke.
“If the bone is broken it will take five to six weeks to mend,” she said in a boot drill sergeant tone. ‘Your collarbone doesn’t appear to have a clean break, but it could be fractured. You should really see a doctor and get it X-rayed. The sooner, the better.”
I wouldn’t see a doctor. They’d asked questions I didn’t want to answer. Another anomaly of my physical structure―broken bones healed at an accelerated rate. I would be whole again in a week.
Gloria encased my arm into a sling and stepped back. She nodded her satisfaction. George helped me to my feet and I tried to pay her.
“Forget it,” she said. “You can repay the favor sometime.”
George took me to his home and put me to bed. Good friends were God’s answer to prayers.
13
George Thomas’s Home
“Norma takes better care of you than she does me.” George feigned a wounded look at his wife.
I winked at Norma. “Yeah, I think I’ll sell my place
and move in with you guys. Norma’s a great cook. She fluffs my pillows, makes me breakfast, and brings me coffee. This is better than the Hilton.”
George’s right eyebrow lifted. “Exactly why is it you make him an omelet and hash browns, and I’m lucky to get a cold biscuit?”
“That’s easy.” Norma tossed a grin over her shoulder. “He’s prettier than you are.”
As she left the room, George called after her. “Girl, you need glasses.”
After breakfast, George walked me around the property, Tooie at George’s heels. The dog carried a slight limp in his right back leg, a gift from his previous owner.
I scratched behind Tooie’s ear. “How’s he doing?”
Pulling a doggie treat from his pocket, George grinned. “He’s healthier than I am.”
Tooie was a rescue dog George picked up, half-starved and crippled, at a shelter. The dog had needed a lot of love and affection before he started to trust people again. The two had been inseparable ever since.
I enjoyed the easy camaraderie of George and Norma’s home for a day. It took that long to regain my strength and adjust to life with one good arm, but I was getting better by the minute.
Pain in the shoulder had almost ceased. It wouldn’t take long to heal, even if it the bone had fractured.
Hebron, Wyoming
Back at Jake’s place, I called Rachel. Nothing new. The situation remained stable. That was a good thing. I avoided the subject of my injury. She didn’t need the extra worry.
Next, I dialed Mabel and asked about Ted. She laughed. “I’ve always figured he had a hard head, now I know for certain. He hasn’t even had a headache.”
Still one more call to make. I punched in Lincoln Armstrong’s number. He didn’t answer so I left a voicemail about my trip to San Quentin.
Later that morning, I flew back to Frisco to check out Abigail’s old neighborhood.
Holiday traffic cluttered the road, and weary travelers packed the airport. Only three shopping days until Christmas.
Onboard my flight, I found myself sandwiched in the middle seat between a talkative valley girl and a man who kept the flight attendant busy bringing rum and Coke. And I paid a small fortune for the privilege.
San Francisco, California
After we landed, I grabbed a taxi. I was too much a coward to drive in freeway traffic with one arm.
Abigail’s last known address lay in one of the city’s high-rent districts, a gated townhouse community with well-tended lawns and bright tropical flowers. A salty mist in the air confirmed its nearness to the sea. My ID and gift of gab got me past the female guard at the entrance, and I started with the neighbors on each side of Abigail’s old address.
At my first stop, a smiling cherub doorknocker greeted me. An elderly woman with a permanent frown imbedded on her brow answered my knock.
I smiled. “Good morning, I’m—”
“How did you get in here? Solicitors aren’t allowed. Didn’t you read the sign at the gate?”
“Ma’am I’m not selling—”
The little cherub bounced violently when its owner slammed the door in my face.
That could make even an angel frown.
Undeterred, I marched on to the next winsome cupid and dropped the knocker on the metal pad. The cherub’s smile seemed to brighten.
The woman who came to the door looked about forty, except for age spots on her hands. I guessed her to be in her early fifties. Attractive in the way of many California women who aggressively pursue the fountain of youth.
Reaching inside my jacket, I pulled out my card, and handed it to her. After a slight hesitation, she scrutinized it and introduced herself as Goldie Marks.
“I’m looking for information on Abigail Marshall. She lived next door about ten years ago.”
She paused. “I knew Abby well. Is something wrong with her?”
I shrugged. “She disappeared three years back. Her husband asked me to find out what happened.”
Goldie’s eyes widened. “Why did he wait three years to hire a detective?”
“It’s a long story. Basically, he let the police handle it until he determined they’d stopped looking.”
She eyed my injured arm. I could almost see warnings of stranger-danger flash through her mind. She must have decided she could take me if I tried something. She stepped aside and allowed me to enter.
Inside, she led me through the entryway to a low-to-the-ground white sofa. “Would you care for a cup of green tea? I can make coffee, but the tea will be better for your arm. It has loads of antioxidants.”
I opted for the coffee. She excused herself and left for the kitchen, giving me a moment to explore the surroundings.
The living room offered a wide expanse of marble tile with a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows. That panorama of sea and shoreline must have cost a mint, considering property values in the Bay area. I could buy a three-story mansion in Utah, complete with tennis courts and pool, for what she must have paid for the condominium.
Modern décor never appealed to me, but the room was striking. A white twelve-foot Christmas tree, adorned with red birds and bows, stood in the corner near a marble fireplace.
A collection of colorful porcelain and pottery decorated one wall. I’m no art connoisseur, but even my untrained eye recognized these were valuable. I rose from the sofa and strolled over to an alcove. Inside the hollow sat a white porcelain vase painted with tiny blue flowers.
While I studied the pottery, Goldie returned with a silver tea service.
She set the tray down and then came up behind me. “You have a good eye. That’s the most expensive piece in the collection. It’s a plum blossom vase from the Yuan Dynasty. It’s more than seven hundred years old.” She spoke with practiced ease, her face alight as she related the historical pedigree of her treasures. “Do you know anything about antique porcelain?”
I shook my head. “No, I was just attracted to the lines and color.”
“My late husband was an avid collector. Most pieces here are museum quality. He also collected porcelain figurines.” Goldie waved at the opposite wall brimmed with delicate dolls in various 18th century costumes and poses.
“Come, let’s drink the coffee before it gets cold.”
We returned to the sofa, and when I sat, my knees almost touched my chin. Low furniture did that to men of my height.
She poured the liquid into tiny cups too small for my fingers. I fidgeted with the handle, holding it with care between thumb and forefinger.
She opened her mouth as if to say something when her gaze fell on my predicament. She laughed, and almost spilled her drink. “Are you as uncomfortable as you look?” She laughed again. “Let me get you a bigger cup.”
I tossed her a grateful grin. “Thanks.”
Still smiling, Goldie took the tea service away and returned with two large mugs and a carafe. “I should know better than to bring the china out except for ladies’ luncheons.”
I settled back on the couch. “What can you tell me about Abigail Marshall?”
Relaxed in the curve of an oversized chair, Goldie folded her legs beside her. “Abigail was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She could have made a fortune modeling, but she didn’t have time for a career. She had a full-time job just to keep herself and her son alive. Abby married a monster. Many nights, when Ben arrived home in a rage, she and Joey came here to sleep––afraid to go home. Her prayers were answered when Ben went to prison. Unfortunately, it wasn’t soon enough to keep him from killing her son.”
“Marshall killed his own son? The boy didn’t die in a car accident?”
“Oh, Ben didn’t drive the car that ran Joey down, but he was as guilty as if he’d been behind the wheel. “That day, Abby and I stood in the courtyard watching Joey ride his bike. Ben came home and called him to come inside. Terrified of his father, Joey froze. When he didn’t come immediately,
Ben charged at Joey in a fury, and the boy rode his bike into the path of an oncoming car, trying to get away. The driver wasn’t moving fast, but he didn’t have time to stop. Joey died instantly. I’ll never forget Abigail’s scream. It still haunts me. Joey was the best-behaved child I’d ever met.” Goldie’s eyes clouded, and she glanced at the antiques. “He loved to look at the figurines. He never tried to touch or hold them. He just sat on the floor with his toys and stared for hours.”
She shook her head as if to erase the vision she’d resurrected. “Abigail sold her home and moved in with me after Joey’s death. She was a wreck for six months. I believe she would have killed Ben if he hadn’t gone to jail. She waited until the trial ended and they shipped Ben off to San Quentin. Almost a year later, Abby was gone. She left a note that she needed to start over. At first, I received a few calls and then nothing. She never returned. I suppose there were too many bad memories here.”
I pulled out the retouched Ralph Jensen picture Amos had given me. “You ever see this guy around here?”
She studied the photograph for a moment. “No, I don’t think so, but he does look familiar. Who is he?”
“An old friend of Ben’s––perhaps responsible for Abigail’s disappearance.”
She shivered. “I hope you catch him. Abby deserved a lot better than she got.” Goldie stood and picked up our cups. I rose from the sofa with her.
“I have some photos Abby left. I’ll dig them up. I didn’t want to throw them away. The pictures were her prized possessions after Joey’s death. She left in such a hurry...I think she just wanted to leave the pain behind. Perhaps you could take them to her husband. Would you like to stay for dinner? You really don’t need to be driving around the freeways looking for a restaurant with that arm.”
The eagerness in her invitation showed a vulnerability I wouldn’t have suspected−an unexpected side of her personality. Wealth had never been a cure for loneliness.
