by Paula Boyd
I reached in and dug out the music box. My gut reaction was to throw it across the room and watch it shatter. I would have too, except I feared it would set off a perpetual plinking of "Feelings." I tossed it on the bed instead. Ditto for the clock.
Annoyed with the whole situation, I grabbed the box, flipped it over on the bed and shook it. Wads of paper and comics-wrapped packages scattered out across the bedspread. As I started to fling the box aside, something flopped and scraped inside. Apparently I hadn’t gotten everything out. Pulling the top flaps back out of the way, I saw a grayish pasteboard sheet covering the bottom of the brown carton.
I turned the box on end and picked at the edges until I could pull it out. When I did, I turned it over. My breath caught in my throat.
Photographs, lots and lots of them, cut out and pasted on in clusters and singles, some with small captions. It might be nothing more than a Pollock memorial, but it was more than I thought we’d get out of that box.
I sat down on the edge of the bed with the collage in my hands just as Jerry finished his call. "I found it face-down in the bottom of the box," I said as he walked over. "Looks like a Willard Pollock history in photos."
Jerry sat down beside me and I held it up between us so we could both see.
"I suppose he could have made it for me--to burn--but more likely he wanted Little Willie to have it."
The first pictures on the sheet were old black and white photos of a toddler, presumably the elder Pollock, along with milestones such as first car, first girlfriend, prom, and wife.
"Nadine Irwin," I said, pointing to the caption beneath a small wedding photo. "I didn’t remember her name. She stopped me at the falls on Saturday. I didn’t recognize her at first. She hasn’t changed much. Older."
"Happens to all of us," Jerry said.
Pollock, looking much younger and even cockier than when I knew him, stood beside a plain-featured woman who was as tall or taller than he was. Her dark hair was swept back from her face and hung in long ringlets at the back of her head. The wedding dress was a traditional high-necked design with long sleeves and long train, and in the storybook setting, she looked almost pretty.
I pointed to the picture. "She came to the office once to talk to Pollock. I remember being a little surprised at how she looked. He seemed more like the trophy-wife type."
"Maybe he knew he needed a smart woman to keep him out of trouble."
"I don’t know if she was smart or not, but I do know he was in plenty of trouble that day. She was pissed. And Pollock was sweating."
Jerry glanced up at me. "Don’t guess you remember why."
I shook my head. "No, but she was married to Willard Pollock. There had to be a hundred different reasons every day."
"I guess she still lives around here then?"
"She was at the falls ceremony, but that doesn’t mean she necessarily still lives here." I hopped up, went to the desk and pulled open the drawer. Sure enough, a phone book. I located "Irwin, N. K." just as Jerry leaned over my shoulder.
"Only two Irwins with first name starting with N," I said. "N. K. and Nathan."
"Both at the same address," Jerry added.
"Mockingbird Lane. Do you know where that is?"
"In the old country club area, out by the golf course."
"That’s a pretty upscale part of town. Wonder where she gets her money."
"Probably got a good start in the divorce." He smiled a little. "My ex-wife sure did."
I hadn’t done so well in my divorce, but there was no point arguing that case at the moment. "Wonder who Nathan is?"
"Has to be a brother or son. Guess it could be her father." "Well, I’d vote for a son."
"Probably," Jerry said. "But why does he have her last name?"
"The usual reason for that is not having a father around when the baby’s born--for one reason or another."
"And just gave him her maiden name."
"Maybe she was pregnant when she divorced Pollock and just kept it a secret. Pollock is not your role model father figure," I said, grossly understating the situation." She probably didn’t want him anywhere around her kid. Can’t blame her there."
"You may be right. Let’s find out some facts."
Jerry made a quick call to Rick and got him started checking on Nadine and Nathan Irwin. After he hung up the phone, he turned his attention back to the photos on the board. "Rick said he’ll get back to us. In the meantime, we better keep looking. We’ve already gotten more from the box than I’d expected."
"Okay then," I said, clicking on the desk lamp and sliding the poster board under it. "We started out assuming nothing Pollock sent was important. Now, let’s assume everything is."
Jerry nodded, sat down in the desk chair and pulled me onto his lap. I sighed at the gesture and the contact.
We’d had only one night together and exactly no time to discuss what it meant between us, yet we had somehow moved into an easy companionship. Having to focus our attention on finding a killer had, in some ways, made things easier for us personally. Being good friends to start with hadn’t hurt either. I turned around and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then leaned an elbow on the desk and got back to business.
The photos were close together, and in some cases overlapping, but where there was space, Pollock had written a note. In one cluster, I saw a cut-out of my infamous student council yearbook photo, the one where the pervert had leaned over and kissed me, the one on the page in Red White’s hands. The notation was small and I had to move the board in and out a few times to get my eyes focused to read it.
"Public mistakes, public remorse," I read aloud, pointing at Pollock, my stomach turning with every word. The first part of his message was obvious since I’d been the victim of that particular public mistake, but the second part was not. "Are his box of letters and baby gifts supposed to be a public apology?"
"Not a very good one if it is." Jerry pointed to another section. "These look like they were taken prior to his divorce, and a number of them are from our senior yearbook."
The murderer’s favorite publication as well.
Jerry then moved his finger to a small photo in the bottom right-hand corner. Two men, probably both around sixty, stood next to a white pipe fence by a silver metal barn with a few cows lingering in the background. There was no question who the two men were: Red White and Willard Pollock.
Seeing the actual age-enhanced Pollock, I wondered how I could have imagined--even for a second--that Red White looked anything like him. They were about the same height and build, but the faces were dramatically different. Red White wore his standard cowboy clothes and had a straightforward matter-of-fact look about his face. Pollock wore loafers, jeans, sport jacket and that unmistakable "look at me, I’m a stud" grin.
The caption read: "Best friend I ever had."
"I still don't think Pollock is our killer," I said. "Being inclined to seduce any woman he came in contact with, he probably didn’t have many friends. Hard to believe he’d kill his best one. Still, somebody is trying to make it look that way."
"Yeah, only it’s too obvious and makes it look like a setup," Jerry said.
The thought boggled my mind. "You think Pollock set himself up so it would like he was really innocent? He’s not that smart."
Jerry sighed heavily and stared at the cluster of photos. "It’s one option. We have to look for everything. There may be something hidden here that will steer us elsewhere. Even so, except for Calvin, everything and everyone seems to spin back to Willard Pollock in one way or another."
"You know, you’re right. If it weren’t for Calvin, we could make this whole thing revolve around Pollock--and Rhonda Davenport." I paused for a minute. "Maybe that’s it. Calvin was connected to Rhonda by trying to help her in the present, and he may have known she was pregnant in the past--pregnant with Pollock’s kid. Maybe that’s all there is."
"She wouldn’t tell me it was Pollock," Jerry said. "Why would she tell Calvin?"
No answer to that one. "If we knew our killer’s motivation, it still might be enough. Might even work very well."
Jerry leaned around and propped his chin on my shoulder. "Have you come up with any of those yet?"
"What, motivations?"
He nodded, his chin bobbing on my shoulder. "We could use some good ones about now."
"I thought you had some hotshot profiler in Dallas working on this."
He leaned back and groaned. "Let’s don’t talk about that, okay?"
"No, no, we should talk about it." I glanced over my shoulder and grinned. "I might learn something."
"Probably not. The woman who usually does this for us had a family emergency."
So nobody was out there figuring out whether our killer was a snake or a rat? "Isn’t there someone else who can do this sort of thing? Doesn’t sound like brain surgery."
"Yeah, intern," he said, a hint of disgust in his voice. "Some kid from a university who happened to be getting class credit for being there."
"And?"
"The intern says our subject is probably male because of the executions, rope and heavy hauling."
I nodded. "We figured those things out on Saturday, although they don’t automatically convince me we’re not dealing with a woman."
"Exactly," Jerry said. "Nevertheless, you asked so I’ll tell. Let’s see now, the intern also said something about ‘association with previous trauma which provoked violent response.’ Basically, our boy-genius intern figured out that something flipped somebody’s switch from general neurotic to serial killer."
"Gosh, you really think so?" I said, sarcastically, of course. "But I’ll go one step further. I’ll bet the original trauma that’s being unearthed now was somehow inflicted by Pollock."
"Odds are you’re right, but I’d like to hear your theory on why."
"But my theories are so technical," I said, chuckling. "Actually, it was just the fact that he inspires me with murderous thoughts. I wish I could forget I’d ever come in contact with him. Wait a minute! That’s just what Russell said, remember?"
"Guess I don’t."
"I thought it was odd at the time, of course most of what Russell says is odd, but this was almost poetic." I paused to run the words through my mind to make sure I had them right. "He said ‘Some people don’t ever forget, Jolene. And some people don’t want things remembered.’"
"I remember. Rather profound statement for Russell." Jerry reached around me and nudged the photos to where he had a better view. "Pollock wants everybody to remember him."
I banged my hand down on the desk. "See, that’s what happens. I think I’m getting somewhere and then it gets all squirreled up."
"Me, too," he said. "But I do think we’re getting somewhere. Let’s go back to the photos. Something’s going to click."
That was the problem, everything was clicking. There was so much clicking my brain felt like an old manual typewriter in typing class: lots of pecking going on, but when it was done, nothing on the page made any sense.
Jerry pointed to a candid photo. "Who’s that with Pollock?"
I leaned closer. "Looks like the bingo booth at the homecoming carnival. And I do believe our pal Pollock was calling numbers."
"Bingo." He smiled a little.
"Uh-huh. Bingo is right because I know exactly who is standing beside him."
Jerry nodded. "Sharon Addleman."
"Well, clear that card and get a new one. We already knew she and Pollock had an affair."
"Doesn’t mean we know everything that went on between them."
Room service showed up with our lunch and we took a break from the poster board, if not from our thoughts. Sharon Addleman’s name hung over us like a half-screwed-in light bulb, and we didn’t chat much as we ate our sandwiches--turkey with cheese--as we were both too busy thinking. No good theories came from the efforts, however, and when we were done, we still had nothing but random events, people and motivations that were sort of related, but not really.
"I think I’ll call the hospital and check on Russell," I said, walking back over to the desk.
Jerry stayed at the table in the corner, sipping iced tea and making notes on a legal pad.
I found the number for the hospital and dialed. I eventually spoke to someone in the emergency room. They gave me no information whatsoever, of course, except to say that Russell was still there. I asked if he’d been admitted to a room and the lady said no. But he’s still at the hospital? Yes. And on we went. I stopped just short of asking if he was dead and hung up the phone--very nicely--and relayed this non-information to Jerry, who said he’d call later. Russell wasn’t likely to be conscious and talking anyway, even if he was alive.
Well, yeah, if you put it that way.
In spite of my lack of success with the hospital call, I figured I’d better make another one and see if Mother was okay or if she’d flown off to Mexico with Fritz. That last little aside was my dream, not hers, as she would prefer a shopping trip to Dallas, thank you very much. I’m the white-sandy-beaches type.
My preferred companion for such adventures had moved from the table back to the mess of packages and paper on the bed, so I sucked up my courage and lifted the receiver again. I was poised, ready to punch in the appropriate numbers, when Jerry uncovered my cell phone--I had apparently buried it during my "take it out on the box" moment.
"You must have turned your ringer off," he said, waving it at me. "You have three missed calls."
Peachy. "Fine, toss it here." I put the desk phone receiver down and caught my mobile one. I held down the button that automatically dialed up to check messages. I punched in my code and the recorded voice started in, giving me the date, today, and the time, 1:46 p.m. I checked my watch. It was now 3:55, so the message had come in about two hours ago--about the time we’d found Russell.
"Jolene," my mother’s voice said, quivering slightly. Anger? Maybe, but well controlled. Things must not be going so well with Fritz. "Are you there, Jolene? I don’t know why you aren’t answering your phone. You told me you always keep your phone on. I need you to call me right away. You hear? Right away, now."
The second call came in about five minutes later and voiced the same plea, only this time I heard the anger loud and clear, right along with desperation.
I swallowed down my own knot of fear and waited to hear the third call, which logged in around two, and got right to the point. "Jolene, this is Willard Pollock. I’m out at your mother’s house. You and Jerry Don need to come out here. Your mother and I’ve had a nice visit, but I need to get on with my work. Hurry up, now. We’ll be waiting."
The age was apparent in his voice, but the somewhat raspy speech was still rife with that same cocky inflection. And even after all these years, it still made my skin crawl.
"You’re not going to believe this," I muttered, kind of in a daze, the kind of daze that precedes panic. "I don’t believe it." I punched the button to replay the messages and held it out for Jerry.
He hurried over and grabbed the phone. His face grew grim as he listened. After punching off, he set the cell phone down and grabbed the receiver from the desk phone. He jabbed the telephone key pad with more force than was necessary, and within seconds was barking out orders like an irate drill sergeant. By the way he spoke, I surmised he was talking to his own office in Bowman County. And I can assure you that whoever was on the other end of that line was paying close attention. I sure was. Sheriff Jerry Don Parker’s easygoing manner was nowhere to be found at that moment, and it darn well put the fear in me.
I dug my fingers into my palms to still the trembling and headed away from Jerry. Whatever else he had to say wasn’t going to change the bottom line. Pollock had my mother and we had to get her back.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, I stopped at the closet for some battle clothes. If I owned such things as combat boots, a camo suit, and matching cap, I would have already had them on. I slid aside the mirrored closet door and saw a p
lastic-covered bundle of clean clothes hanging on the rack. The hotel laundry service had performed a miracle and I was very grateful.
I ripped the plastic off my one and only button-up shirt, a short-sleeved pale blue thing, and slipped it on over my tee shirt, leaving it untucked. Yes, I had a good reason.
I fed a black leather belt through the loops of my jeans, stopping two loops shy, then walked back into the main room and pulled the blue gun case from my duffel bag. I did not do this with extreme calm, but rather with resignation.
The idea of shooting anyone--even Pollock--did not sit well with me, but the bastard had my mother and I had plenty of bullets.
As I lifted the holstered pistol in my hands, I instantly felt incompetent. Wholly, totally and completely. The shaking business didn’t help matters either.
Okay, now what? Feeling both scared and stupid, I glanced up to see if Jerry was watching me. He wasn’t. He wasn’t even in the room. I figured he’d walked through to his side to get himself ready to go and that was just fine with me. That allowed me a little time to give myself a refresher course, such as that might be, considering.
I flipped open the holster snap and slid the gun out. It was small and, dammit, still scary. I pushed the release button, dropped the clip, checked the ammo, replaced the clip, pulled back to chamber the first round, then realized yet again that I had to release the safety first. Started the whole process over and repeated it about three times, ejecting the bullet in the chamber each time so I didn’t accidentally blow a hole in myself.
I was just getting readjusted to the hardware and the mindset when I felt something on my waist. Yes, I jumped, and yes, it was Jerry. "I could have shot you," I said, scared and consequently a little angry.
"Or yourself, which was the point. You have to be aware of your surroundings at all times, Jolene. All times."
His hands were moving around my waist and I was not having that loving feeling. I was scared. Having him check out my artillery just made it all the more real. We were going to war.
"You did pretty good," Jerry said, "but you need a wider belt to hold the holster in place better. Be aware that you’ve got some play in there."
