Five Minutes

by R. Lanier Clemons

  “Fair enough.” Once steady, she bent down to retrieve the weapon but almost fell over from dizziness. “Guess I need another minute.” She breathed in and out several times, leaned over, and retrieved the weapon. With the gun secured in her waistband, she grasped the back door knob and followed the woman into the kitchen.

  “Sorry I had to leave you out there, but I live alone, and you’re too big for me to drag in the house by myself.”

  Jonelle supported herself on the kitchen counters and made her way over to a small table where she sat heavily, the pain in her head diminishing.

  “Think you can manage some aspirin?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  Jonelle took a few of the pills, waved away the whiskey, and instead accepted the offer of water to wash down the pills. “What’d your daughter hit me with?” A lump formed on the back of her head, but as far as she could tell, she wasn’t bleeding.

  “I’m guessing she used a piece of firewood I always keep back here. I’m so sorry. I raised her better than that. Don’t know what happened to her when she left home. She used to be such a good girl.”

  “Where’s Tamora?”

  “She left with Lorraine.”

  “And Lark?”

  The woman glanced away. “I’m not sure. They wanted to bring the child here, but I told them no. I don’t want to get involved in whatever mess they cooked up.”

  “Where were Tamora and Lorraine going when they left?”

  “Back to Maryland somewhere.”

  “Why . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Mary Burroughs.”

  “Why were they here in the first place?”

  Mrs. Burroughs sighed and placed her arthritic hands in her light green polyester pants pockets. “I’m too old for this nonsense. Last time a child stayed at my place—”

  “Was it Lark?” Jonelle asked.

  “No, some other child. Teenager really. It took me a helluva time to force them out. First it was, we only need a place for a week, then it was two weeks. Only when I demanded that I meet the child’s family did they finally go someplace else.”

  “Where’s this ‘someplace else’?”

  She got up and poured herself a couple fingers of the whiskey. “I don’t know because I don’t wanna know,” she said.

  “Give me some idea. If they didn’t confide in you, you must’ve overheard them talking about things. Tell me everything you saw and heard.”

  She swirled the brown liquid in the glass. “Lorraine went on and on about pictures. They didn’t want video, only pictures. Still pictures, she said. And they already had a photographer that wouldn’t cost them because it was one of the young men from that apartment building she managed.”

  Jonelle had sketched out that much so far. “Whose this ‘they’? Any names besides Lorraine and Tamora? Any other locations?”

  Another large swallow of whiskey followed by a grimace. “My grandson Shawn’s name was mentioned, but he never stopped by. And before you say anything, I already know he finds women to act in them perv videos. I also heard of Jelani and Randy. Them two take the pictures. I was okay with that ’cause I thought all them was adults, and to each his own as long as nobody gets hurt.” Her eyes lost their focus. “I heard a rumor that turned my stomach. Don’t care if it was true or not, I wanted that filth out of my house and away from me as fast as possible.”

  Jonelle understood. “But what about Lark?”

  The elderly woman gazed wistfully around the small kitchen. “As God is my witness, no little child ever stayed here.”

  “They wanted her to, though, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “If she wasn’t here, do you have any idea where they kept her?”

  After a slight hesitation, a quick nod.

  Jonelle sat back, arms folded across her chest, and waited for the woman to continue.

  “I don’t know all the places. I made Lorraine tell me most of it because I’m not one of those stupid people you see on TV that got evil stuff going on right under their noses.” She examined the liquid in her glass as if wanting more but afraid of what might happen if she filled the glass again.

  “They kept moving her around. Tamora said they made a game out of it, so’s the child wouldn’t get scared. Some game, huh? Tamora claimed they wasn’t doing nothin’ wrong ’cause most of the pictures would be of her and Lark. Mother and daughter. Like that. And they had a private list of clients so nothing would go on the Internet. Or . . . whatever.

  “When she explained it to me, it didn’t sound so bad. At first. But then I got to thinking about what she meant when she said ‘most.’ Why didn’t she say ‘all’ instead?”

  Tears formed in the elderly woman’s eyes. In spite of what she’d heard, Jonelle reached over and patted the gnarled hand. “I’m not blaming you for this . . . mess.”

  Mrs. Burroughs shuddered. “You do what you can,” she said, addressing the ceiling. “You raise your kids the best you know how. Teach them to be God-fearin’ people and what happens? They end up doing the devil’s work.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Even to her own ears the words rang hollow.

  “Maybe not all, but part. Lorraine was twelve when her daddy was killed in a hit-and-run accident. She was sittin’ right next to him in the front seat. It was a miracle she wasn’t killed, too. She used to be such a sweet girl before that happened. But now . . . I don’t know anymore.”

  The pain in her head subsided to a dull ache, so Jonelle stood and paced from one end of the kitchen to the other. Odd they hadn’t taken her pistol. “Does Lorraine carry a weapon?”

  “No. She wouldn’t dare. Not since she saw a friend of hers shot when she was in high school. She’s been scared of the things ever since.” She frowned at Jonelle. “Only reason I let you in here with that thing is ’cause you’re hurt.”

  Jonelle stopped pacing. “Where are they going from here?”

  “I don’t know. I wanted her out and didn’t much care to find out.” The elderly woman placed a hand under her chin and looked off in the distance. Jonelle briefly thought of her own mother on the other side of the country, trying to find herself as late middle age fast approached. Her mother had no qualms about leaving Jonelle on her own. Some parents not only carried their burdens, but those of their children as well, for their entire lives.

  “You must have some idea. Think. Where’s the last place they talked about?”

  CHAPTER 45

  I’m not sending any more texts. Somebody might trace them back to where I am, throwaway phone or not. It’s hard to keep writing stuff down, but if I don’t I’m afraid I’ll forget where I’ve hidden the information about the bank accounts. And if anything happens, it’s not gonna fall on my head. It was the . . . contact’s idea to open three of them, at different banks. Everybody voted on me being the logical one to apply; who’d suspect somebody who looks like me, of doing anything wrong? Once the money starts rolling in, I’m supposed to start depositing the cash. They trust me that much. Idiots. What I’ve got in mind is worth all the grief I’ve taken these past several days.

  Got me an idea the other day when we was in the store. Woman comes in with three kids, all looking like they was under five. The oldest—a boy—was quiet like Lark. I started getting ideas. Be easy to pose the two of them together. They wouldn’t do anything—I’m not a pervert.

  Something to think about.

  CHAPTER 46

  Mrs. Burroughs clasped her hands. “They said something about leaving the parking lot. Too many people around or something. I never asked what parking lot . . . or where. Or what they meant.” Mrs. Burroughs confirmed Jonelle’d been unconscious for less than ten minutes. Add that to the time she’d spent in the kitchen, and that meant Watkins had about a half hour lead. Lead to where, she wasn’t sure. Parking lot? Were they keeping the child in a car or van? While Watkins didn’t confide everything to her mother, the woman had sharp ears, which is why, though exhausted, Jonelle need
ed to get back to Maryland.

  She thanked the woman for her help and once inside the Jeep, plugged in the directions from York south to Baltimore. The best route was interstate 83. She’d contact Burt when she got the chance and suggest they issue a BOLO—be on the lookout—to find Shawn, Randy, and Jelani.

  On the highway, she relaxed a little until fast approaching headlights in her rearview mirror forced her out of the center lane and over to the right. The car moved with her, practically sitting on her bumper. She hated that and tapped her brakes in an effort to get the idiot off her tail. If she moved any more to the right, she’d end up on the shoulder.

  She touched the brakes again. The tactic didn’t work, so she strained to get a look at the nutcase behind the wheel.

  Two people sat in the front of a familiar-looking sedan. She groaned. Were Randy and Shawn so stupid as to follow her again? She eased off the gas to see if he’d go around.

  He didn’t. When she sped up, so did the car. She slowed, he slowed. Only mildly concerned, Jonelle decided as long as they were cruising along like this, no problems. Several miles later and with the driver not making any move other than to stay so close that no one could drop in behind her, she remained calm.

  “Whatever floats your boat, Randy,” she said out loud. Her gun was loaded and within reach, and she’d use it if she had to.

  She turned the radio up to help take her mind off of the past hour and soon got lost in the soft jazz sounds of a mellow saxophone coming through her speakers. Up ahead the highway information sign indicated she had about an hour and change to get to Baltimore, and she perked up. The sedan still hovered near her bumper. If he left the interstate when she did, well . . . she’d see what happened.

  What happened was not what she expected. A jolt from behind startled her. “What the hell!”

  Another bump, this one harder. The Jeep rocked dangerously. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands. While she loved her Jeep, it wasn’t the safest vehicle around, even with the roll bars. She fumbled for her pistol and placed it close to her hip. At first she considered pulling into a gas station, but then what? Not knowing what these fools had in mind encouraged her to keep driving.

  One thing she knew for sure: it wasn’t Lorraine Watkins. Another bump and she went from apprehensive to pissed. More concerned about the damage they were doing to her vehicle than at their efforts to intimidate her, she set a course for Tamora’s apartment building. The music that filled her Jeep, at first comforting, now annoyed her. She needed her wits about her, so she turned off the radio.

  An exit sign for Shrewsbury appeared. In two miles she had to make a decision—either get off the highway to address the situation or keep going. One mile gone and above the treetops on her right a blue-and-white sign of a Hampton Inn beckoned. She steered for the hotel. She’d have a better chance of defending herself and calling for help there rather than risk getting killed on the highway.

  She waited until the last second to pull onto the off ramp for W. Forrest Avenue, the Jeep rocking dangerously and her tires squealing in protest. Had she lost the tail? Headlights appeared again. He’d managed to stay with her.

  The road she found herself on was relatively deserted. The assholes behind her had stopped their aggressive driving but stayed close. She raced down the two-lane road, and followed the signs to the hotel. The hotel entrance rose up ahead on the right. She pulled in, parked in front under the lights, and put the gun in her bag.

  The sedan followed, but instead of coming close, stayed in the shadows and continued on to the far end of the parking lot as though the occupants needed time to figure out what to do next. And avoid the security cameras.

  Through the hotel’s glass doors a dark-haired woman dressed in green stood behind the registration desk talking on the phone. No one else was around. Jonelle shut off her Jeep, exited and locked the doors. If they made any attempt at attacking her car further, she’d shoot first and ask questions later.

  Keeping an eye on the vehicle idling in the shadows, she went to examine the Jeep’s back end. The bumper as well as the spare tire carrier had several dents and scrapes, none deep but still obvious. “Sonofabitch,” she screamed into the night. Enraged, she withdrew her gun and with the weapon at her side, stormed over to the sedan.

  Her anger reached the boiling point. She stopped at the edge of the building where a maintenance man, eyes bulging at the tall black woman brandishing a gun, dropped a push broom and ran to the front, hands covering his head as if anticipating an imminent attack.

  She stopped and took several deep breaths. She put the gun in her bag and picked up the broom. The implement had seen better days. She unscrewed it from the base. Made of wood instead of cheap plastic, she lifted the handle up and down. Perfect.

  The idling car didn’t move.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” said a female voice behind her. “Is there a problem?”

  While tapping the broom handle on the ground, Jonelle kept her voice as calm as possible. “No problem. Sorry for scaring your employee, but me and my boyfriend over there”—she indicated the sedan—“are having a slight disagreement. I’ll be finished doing what I need to do in a few, so no need to call the cops.”

  Seconds passed as the young woman appeared unsure of what to do next. “Well. Um. I think I need to go call my supervisor.”

  Jonelle had to hurry. While the brief exchange tamped down her anger somewhat, the urge to exact revenge still bubbled within. Alone again with dumb and dumber, she raised the handle above her head, moving it in a circular motion. There was only one thing she wanted to do, and if anyone tried to stop her, well . . .

  She marched up to the car and smashed the broom handle on the hood. The loud thunk echoed in the darkness. “You’re so brave. C’mon, get out of the car.” She whacked the car again and again, ignoring the muffled shouts of protest from the men inside.

  Still rotating the broom handle like some deranged baton twirler, she walked in a wide arc toward the back and walloped the trunk. Over and over she bashed, her hand aching with each pounding while enjoying every moment. In the back of her mind she knew what she was doing was not only dangerous but wrong. And probably on video. Yet once she started she couldn’t stop.

  Finally, the two inside stepped out.

  “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind,” Shawn screamed. He jabbed a finger at Randy. “Told you we shoulda brought a gun.”

  “I ain’t going down for shootin’ nobody,” Randy yelled. “That wasn’t part of the deal, especially now that—”

  “Shut up fool.”

  Fascinated by the drama unfolding in front of her yet unsure of what the two numbnuts had in store she again took out her weapon. She pointed the gun first at Shawn then at Randy. “The three of us are starting to know each other very well. So I don’t need to remind you I’m not afraid to use this. If I have to.”

  “Yeah. Well the joke’s on you,” Randy said, backing away from Jonelle. “Nobody knows where the kid’s at now.”

  “Asshole,” Shawn yelled at Randy.

  “Uh. That’s if we knew in the first place.”

  “Too late, wiseass,” Jonelle said. “You two are coming with me.”

  “Like hell,” Shawn said. He turned and bolted toward thick bushes bordering the property, with Randy close behind screaming everything but her name.

  “Yeah, whatever,” she shouted at their retreating backs. She lowered the wooden handle. “I need to get one of these. Might come in handy.” She flung the handle on the ground, reached inside the open driver’s side door, cut off the engine, took the keys and threw them in the bushes. “They’ll have to figure another way outta here.”

  She removed a penlight from her purse and checked the floor. Nothing but fast food wrappers and beer and soda cans. A quick search of the back behind the driver’s seat yielded the same result. The unlocked glove compartment was filled with papers. Not wanting to stick around any longer in case the young receptionist alerted the cops
, she shoved the papers in her bag. She picked up the broom handle and strolled back to her Jeep.

  The receptionist stared from the safety of the lobby when Jonelle gave a thumbs up and placed the broom handle on the pavement near the entrance. Once inside her vehicle, she left the way she came, noting the faint woop-woop of sirens in the distance. Driving five miles above the speed limit, she kept a constant eye in her rearview mirror on the lookout for police until she reached the Maryland state line where she finally relaxed.

  Back on familiar territory, Jonelle headed for the Westminster, Maryland IHOP, a place she’d frequented often. She parked beside the last handicap spot in front and trudged inside, chose a booth close to the exit, and sat facing the door. The large window gave her a good view of her Jeep. Stifling a yawn, she waved away the menu and ordered a ham and cheese omelet with home fries and coffee, no toast.

  She settled in the tan-colored booth and pulled out the papers taken from the sedan. Before spreading them out, she tried rubbing the tiredness out of her eyes and succeeded only in making them ache. She stared at her reflection in the glass.

  There she was, alone in the middle of the night, eating breakfast at a time when normal people returned home after a real dinner out with family and friends. Adrienne’s harping on her not giving Burt a chance weighed on her. He was a good guy. Actually, he was better than that. The man had a great job he loved. A great personality coupled with an easy sense of humor made him more than attractive.

  Jonelle sighed deeply and fingered the crumpled papers stolen from the two lowlifes. And then she remembered the picture on the fliers the kids made of four-year-old Lark. No matter how lonely she got sometimes, working a case beat delivering summonses by a wide margin any day. She thought back to the porn studio warehouse and the legitimate businesses there. All that room to make something out of nothing and with a break in taxes to boot. What if . . .

  She worked the kinks out of her shoulders, hiking them up to her ears and down again, rotating each one in turn. The waitress came with the coffee, and she sipped thoughtfully while studying the sheets on the table. Most were receipts for car repairs, fast food restaurants, and drug stores. Jonelle noted with amusement that the drug store receipts were mostly for condoms. Two handwritten notes were signed “Lorraine.”