Dooley Is Dead

by Kate Merrill

  She rested, gave thanks, and once the numbness left her freed right hand, she reached up and started tugging at her gag. She tasted blood on her lacerated fingers, but kept working. When she finally got it loose, she realized she’d been muffled by her favorite scarf, the one she’d chosen to wear to work this morning. Somehow this ultimate indignity fueled her fury.

  When she opened her throat to scream, her voice was so hoarse no sound came out. So she tried again and again until her vocal chords produced the raspy, inhuman cry of a distressed animal. She screamed and gasped for oxygen, beat against the ceiling until her lungs gave out. When she wet herself, tears of self-pity rolled down her cheeks and she lapsed once again into a deep, unconscious sleep.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Matthew…

  Matthew slowed when he saw the crooked oak tree Ginny had described, then made a sharp right onto Dula Road. He passed the old, two-storied frame farmhouse on the left, Trevor’s place. He noticed lights in the windows and his Jeep in his drive, but kept on driving towards the dead end.

  He hadn’t been down this lane in years, so everything looked different, especially the high chain link fence erected on both sides of the road. He read the sign---Dula Construction---and saw aging lumber, rock, and concrete blocks piled inside. An abandoned forklift was silhouetted against the setting sun, with its claw lying palm up in the dirt, like a hand at the wrist of a broken steel elbow. Even at a distance, Matthew noted the rust peeling off the machine’s body.

  By the looks of it, Maynard’s business was not thriving, so clearly his wife’s whopping inheritance would come in handy. Unless, as Diana suspected, Maynard knew nothing about Paula’s fortune. Since the eerie yellow security lights had just begun to glow, Matthew estimated he had a good hour of daylight left, so he had better get a move on.

  But why? As he approached the simple brick ranch house at the end of the street, parked and walked up a short sidewalk bordered by flowers, he had no clear idea why he was here. He hesitated at the aluminum screen door decorated with the letter “D,” and wondered what on earth he’d say to the woman. He didn’t even know these people, although he had a vague recollection of them visiting his store a time or two. Still, Matthew definitely had a bad feeling about Diana’s disappearance, and his gut told him Paula and Maynard Dula were involved up to their eyeballs.

  He squared his shoulders and knocked with his knuckles, then listened as an ungodly yowling started up from somewhere in the depths of the dark house. The agonized crying put him on edge, and he wondered fleetingly if he should have brought a weapon. But Matthew didn’t hold with violence, never owned a gun, and had always figured most disputes could be settled with human reason. Maybe not this time.

  He took another deep breath and realized the sound was familiar, only a cat in heat. He laughed at himself for reacting like a nervous Nellie. But then he heard a crash inside, followed by a loud curse, and before Matthew got a handle on the nature of these new threats, the aluminum door flew open.

  “What the hell do you want? You fixin’ to sell me something?”

  The man swaying in the doorway was drunk and stank of beer. His long gray hair was matted. It hung loose on his bony shoulders, and he was shirtless, with a silver crucifix dangling against his scrawny chest.

  Matthew stepped back a pace. “Maynard Dula? I’m Matthew Troutman. I’d like a word with your wife.”

  The man’s odd gray eyes were unfocused, yet they fixed on Matthew. “Yeah, I know you. You’re lil’ Jailbait’s daddy, ain’t that right?”

  Matthew let it go. He knew Ginny had visited this hovel not long ago. The stench from inside---cat box and cigarettes---was overwhelming. “Is Paula home?”

  Maynard raised both skinny arms and hung onto the doorjambs for support. His body sagged with his weight, and thanks to an odd red illumination backlighting him from within, Matthew was struck by his perverse resemblance to Christ on the cross.

  “No, man, Paula’s gone.” Suddenly Maynard’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  Matthew was startled by the depth of the man’s grief. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand…”

  “Ain’t you hearin’ me? Paula done left me. She moved into a damn motel.”

  Matthew’s hopes plummeted. No use telling Maynard his story, or asking about Diana, because no words would penetrate his drunken despair. “What motel?”

  “Shit, man, you think she’d tell me? She wants a fuckin’ divorce.”

  Matthew retreated another step. “You have no idea where I’d find her?”

  Maynard stumbled as the afflicted feline who’d been making the racket escaped between his legs and raced off into the darkening yard. Once he regained his balance, Maynard held up a shaky arm and pointed down the road. “You might could ask my nephew. Him and Paula’s real close, so maybe she told that son a bitch.”

  Matthew flinched as Maynard fell back, then slammed the door in his face. His legs felt wobbly as he strode back down the flowered sidewalk and spotted the cat streaking down the road, looking for her tom.

  As he climbed back in his truck, the image made him uncommonly sad because it conjured up a conversation he’d had with Diana that day they visited Tom Dooley’s schoolhouse in Whippoorwill Village. It seemed a lifetime ago. They were standing together in the parking lot. Diana’s face was lit by an aureole of sunlight, and he’d pointed out what had happened to Tom when he tried to balance three women at once.

  “They should’ve called him Tomcat.” Diana had laughed. “Laura, Ann, and Pauline…three cousins. Like juggling three balls in the air.”

  Matthew’s heart ached as he worried about Diana, so he started his truck and drove down the road to confront Tom’s present-day ancestor. Dooley was dead, but Trevor was very much alive, and somehow he had managed to insinuate himself and the horrors of that accursed legend into what used to be Matthew’s happy family. The time had come, after nearly a century and a half, to put those old ghosts to rest. To make it right. And before the night was through, Matthew was determined that Trevor would help him do just that.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  A sad and shallow grave…

  Diana knew she was fading faster than the thin lines of light defining her prison ceiling. This last waking she knew time was short, and although the excruciating pain in her head had become a dull throbbing that kept precise time with her slowing pulse, she also knew she was losing all grip on reality.

  She required air, water, and final escape from her numb body, along with the stench it left behind. Her voice made no sound when she screamed, her hands were dead from pounding. And although she struggled to hang onto all the good moments of her life as they streamed backwards through time, her brain kept snagging on the regrets---those moments she could have done much better with Mama, her children, and mostly with Matthew. Why had they parted with angry words? Would that final argument be the memory that lingered above all others when all memory passed into eternity?

  As she slipped deeper into delusion, Diana found herself sleeping at the base of a mountain. Above ground the laurel bloomed, a gentle breeze bent the leaves of a willow tree, but a jealous lover had buried the blade of a mattock in her skull. Diana longed to drive the legend away and pull herself back into her own life---or death---but one line from the story kept repeating like an old phonograph needle stuck in one groove; “They found Tom Dooley’s woman buried in a sad and shallow grave.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Matthew…

  He rapped hard on Trevor’s door, and unlike the reception he’d received at Maynard’s, Trevor opened immediately, a wide grin on his face. “What a surprise. C’mon in, Trout.”

  He ushered Matthew down a floral hallway, past the requisite parlor and dining room, and directly into the kitchen, the heart of any farmhouse. The space was brightly lit by a new white ceiling fan and smelled of freshly brewed coffee.

  “What’s your pleasure, coffee or beer?” Trevor exuded hospitality. “I had a great time at your place toda
y. Ginny and Lissa took me for a boat ride, then we picnicked on an island. Too bad that storm came up.”

  “Please stop, Trevor.” Matthew held up his hand. “I’m glad you had fun, but this isn’t a social call. As the young man’s smile drooped, Matthew searched for the right words. The deeper he committed to this course of action, the more his mind told him he was on a fool’s mission. But his heart told him something entirely different. As he studied Trevor, standing ramrod straight and respectful in a bright blue tee shirt that matched his eyes, Matthew realized that under different circumstances, this man might have been his son-in-law.

  On the other hand, from the beginning everyone including the police had fingered Trevor for Lori Fowler’s murder---just like in the Tom Dooley legend. Yet the women in Matthew’s life had always believed in his innocence.

  Trevor pulled out one of four antique pressed wood oak chairs and offered Matthew a seat. “I don’t know what this is about, but why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?”

  Matthew hesitated, but then sat down. Trevor sat across from him and pinned him with those probing eyes as Matthew explained his concerns. As he spoke, he was mindful he was likely hitting quite a few nerves by dredging up details about Lori’s murder. After all, the woman had been Trevor’s fiancée. As he told about Loveless Fowler’s Trust---all the money at stake---the young war vet shook his head.

  “Sure, I knew about the money. Lori talked about it all the time, but we didn’t need it. Not now. We could’ve lived just fine on my pension. For awhile.”

  Matthew sensed his companion was becoming agitated. His large, powerful hands rested flat on the table and his fingers began to tremble.

  “What about Paula Dula?” Matthew pressed. “Did she need the money?”

  Trevor’s heavy brows dipped in a frown. “God knows what Paula needs. The woman is crazy.”

  “Crazy?”

  “Unstable.” Trevor attempted to pick up his coffee, but his hand shook too much. “She always had this insane fantasy about me, but it’s bullshit, and she knows it.” He climbed to his feet and started pacing. “Even so, she’d never hurt Lori.”

  “Are you sure?” Choosing his next words carefully, Matthew revealed that Paula had already claimed all the trust money and was about to purchase an expensive property at Lakeview Estates. “Did you know about that?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Did your uncle Maynard know?”

  “I doubt it.” Trevor’s pacing put Matthew in mind of a caged lion.

  “I just saw Maynard. He’s drunk. And Paula has left him, moved into some motel.”

  Trevor stopped abruptly, his face turned ashen and his clenching fists went slack. “Jesus Christ.” He sighed. “I knew this would happen someday, but not so soon.” His gaze shifted wildly around the room but refused to light on Matthew’s face. “I’m worried about Maynard. He’ll kill himself. We need to go up there and check on him.”

  Matthew noted Trevor’s distress and wondered briefly if he was on drugs, some sort of psyche medication. He sensed the man swinging between extreme highs and lows and feared not only for him, but for himself. Still, Matthew had an agenda and needed Trevor’s help.

  “Don’t worry,” he offered soothingly. “By now Maynard’s passed out. He’ll sleep through ’til morning.” Matthew hoped with all his heart this was true, because he didn’t want a suicide on his conscience. He waited until his words sunk in, seemed to have a calming effect, and then told Trevor about Diana---how she’d gone missing.

  Trevor seemed to be listening. He ceased his pacing and poured the leftover coffee from the pot into the sink. He now stood above that sink, both hands braced on its rim, and contemplated whatever wisdom he saw in the brown liquid swirling down the drain.

  “What motel would Paula choose?” Matthew asked when the time was right.

  Trevor laughed bitterly. “I could’ve answered that question back in the day, but now Paula has more choices. I’m sure she’d choose something more upscale than the fleabags we used to inhabit, but I don’t know where she’s staying. Besides, it doesn’t matter.”

  Reading between the lines, Matthew realized that once upon a time Trevor and Paula had had an affair. “Why doesn’t it matter?” he demanded.

  “Because she won’t be sitting around in any motel room.” Trevor backed away from the sink and wiped his hands on his jeans. “What’s that you said about Diana’s dog? Where’d they find her?”

  “They found Gracie wandering around in an abandoned landfill.” Matthew wondered what the hell the dog had to do with the problem at hand.

  “Listen, Trout, you said Paula’s buying property in Lakeview Estates, right? Well, there used to be a landfill adjacent to that land. If Gracie was with Diana, then that’s where she got lost.”

  The implications hit Matthew hard. Gracie had been the key all along. “So you think Paula was lying? She and Diana got together after all, and they went to the site?”

  “What other explanation could there be?” Trevor continued excitedly. “And I hate to say it, but if Gracie got lost, then something happened to Diana.”

  Something bad. Matthew filled in the blanks and the fear he’d been feeling all evening congealed like a hard knot in his stomach. Why hadn’t he put it together sooner? “You know the way to Lakeview Estates?”

  But Trevor had already left the kitchen. Matthew followed him into a bedroom just down the hall and found him rummaging through the top drawer of a dresser. “What are you doing?”

  “We’ll take my Jeep,” Trevor said. “I haven’t been up there in years, but the land used to be rugged. Four wheel drive will come in handy.”

  Matthew was impatient to leave, but he needed this man. As his eyes roamed around the space, he saw an austere single bed made up military style and clothes hung neatly in the closet, the hangers spaced at perfect intervals. Precisely what one would expect from a Sergeant Major.

  “This might come in handy, too.” Trevor located what he’d been looking for.

  Even in the dim light, Matthew saw the gun in Trevor’s hand and his body tensed.

  “This is my baby.” Trevor stroked the gleaming pistol with a corrugated black grip. “Beretta M9, standard army issue.”

  “Put it away, we don’t need it.”

  But the man ignored him. Instead, he removed a small holster from the drawer and tucked it inside his pants, took out a clip and loaded the weapon. “Okay, are you ready, Trout?’

  Trevor tucked the gun out of sight, and then Matthew trailed him out the door.

  FIFTY

  Matthew…

  Trevor made a couple of wrong turns along the way, but Matthew held his temper and prayed they weren’t on a wild goose chase. What if Diana and Paula had completed their business at Lakeview Estates hours ago, then gone out together---dinner or shopping? Not likely. Considering the suspicions Diana had about Paula, not to mention the fact that she’d never leave Gracie behind, convinced Matthew that the last thing Diana was up to was a girls’ day out.

  “This is it…” Trevor made an abrupt left through a pretentious stone entryway to the future gated community. “Hope we can locate Paula’s lot fast, it’ll be dark soon.”

  Matthew felt helpless as the light faded from the sky and Trevor made more wrong turns. The development was illuminated by incongruously ornate, newly constructed streetlights---yet there were no streets or sidewalks. The would-be neighborhood looked oddly sinister in twilight, with homeless foundations lifting like tombstones from the red clay and the wooden bones of residences waving their naked skeletons against the sunset.

  “How will we know Paula’s lot?” Trevor asked.

  “Beats me, but why don’t you turn here and drive up that hill?” When they reached the crest of the promontory, they saw the soaring framework of a mini mansion. “This is it,” Matthew stated with certainty.

  “How do you know?”

  “Climb out and I’ll show you.” They parked in the gravel lo
t. Trevor handed Matthew a flashlight, then both exited the Jeep. Matthew led Trevor to a fragile temporary signpost. “See, this one is sold.”

  “So what?”

  Matthew pointed to the Rittenhouse-McCorkle logo attached. “So Diana and Liz sold it, this has to be the place.”

  “Good work, Trout.”

  The men smiled at one another and started up the hill. When they reached the top, Matthew turned on the flashlight and beamed it into the large foundation. The light jumped along the concrete walls, then flew into the rafters, but much to Matthew’s disappointment, they saw not one sign of life.

  “If they were here, they left.” He struggled to keep the desperation from his voice.

  “Yeah, but they were here.” Trevor squatted and trailed his hand across the earth. “I saw fresh tire tracks down below, and these are footprints. Near as I can tell, we’ve got us a pair of medium sized flip-flops and a pair of larger, sensible sandals.”

  “So now you’re an expert tracker?” Matthew was skeptical.

  Trevor grinned. “It was harder in the deserts of Iraq, where the blasted sand kept filling in the evidence. This here’s a piece of cake.”

  Matthew wanted to believe, because if he knew anything about Diana, it was her longtime love affair with her all-purpose sandals, and these prints looked to be her size. “What else do you see?”

  Trevor took the flashlight and beamed it up and down the hillside in a grid pattern. “Okay, here we go…” He scrambled halfway down and Matthew followed. “Those first impressions were made by two people walking forward, up to the site this morning. This set was made by the person in the flip-flops sometime this afternoon, and she was coming down the hill. Alone.”