by Tim Greaton
"You sound different than the last Jane Smith I talked with from your office. And come to think of it, that one sounded different than the one before." He knew that the collection people used fake names. He supposed it was in case some down-on-his-luck Joe went on a shooting frenzy like that guy who killed his stock broker a while back. "You don't have more than one Jane Smith there do you?"
"Very funny, Mr. Studbridge. You know why I'm calling."
Jason smiled half-heartedly. They'd been calling once or twice a day for a month now. "Let me guess. You want to extend my credit line again. I thought I told you I don't need your money, so you may as well quit begging for my business."
"My, if you're so fond of humor why don't you get a job as a comedian. Then maybe you could make our payments, Mr. Studbridge. We still haven't received a check, and it says here that you were going to pay us something by the middle of the month."
Jason sighed. "Look, Ms. Smith. If I had money to pay you, don't you think I would have sent it by now? These daily calls aren't helping any of us. I'm doing the best I can."
"We need to do something about this account, Mr. Studbridge. Don't you have relatives you could ask for help? Maybe one of your other cards would give you an advance that you could apply to this account?"
"I've said this before. You'll get it when I get it. Now, if you don't get off my case, I'm going to take my attorney's advice and file bankruptcy on the lot of you."
There was a long pause, just as Dan Simard had told him there would be if he mentioned the feared word. Jason didn't have to tell her it would be the corporation and not himself that would file if it came to that.
"That's a very serious decision, Jason," the Citibank representative said. She was speaking slower and more pleasantly, and Jason didn't miss that she was now using his first name. "I know you realize bankruptcy will destroy your credit for years...and none of us wants that to happen. Do we?"
"Then I think it would be best if I didn't get these calls any more. Don't you?"
"You know we have a policy to follow."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Jane. Unfortunately, it looks as though I'll have to see my attorney in the morning. We'll hurry and get the paperwork start—"
"Now, Jason...why don't we slow down a little. There's no reason for rash decisions. Let me see if I can't get permission to call...say every other day?"
Jason smiled. He twirled a pencil on his desk, while his eyes studied the deserted trucking station out the window. He shook his head. "Nope. Never mind, Jane. I know you've only been following policy. It's probably just as well this way."
"Would once a week be all right?" Her voice was tight, desperate.
"I wouldn't want to get you into trouble."
"No, Jason. I think that will be fine. Maybe next week you'll have a better idea of when we can expect a check?"
"Maybe." Jason hung up the phone. At least now he knew how to handle the others when they called.
He glanced at his watch, a Rolex, and just seeing the name made him mad. The timepiece made him feel like one of those welfare cases who drove a new Cadillac or Town Car but paid for their groceries with food stamps. With the money he'd spent on this watch a few years ago, he could have made several more monthly payments. He reached angrily for the small buckle on the band, but then stopped himself. People would think he hocked it—
Which if you were smart, you would.
—and he couldn't bear the thought of anyone suspecting his current crises. It was bad enough that Connie knew. He'd always had an image problem, and now, with his business balancing precariously on the verge of bankruptcy, he felt like a false prophet whose temple was crumbling around him.
"Mr. Studbridge?" Connie said through the doorway again. "The police are here to see you."
"The police?"
She opened the door all the way. "There are four of them, sir, and they look even more serious than I usually think of police as looking."
Guilty thoughts of unpaid parking tickets leapt into Jason's mind, but then he remembered he'd had to pay them last fall before they would remove the "boot" from his BMW. He couldn't remember getting any since, but...
"Also," Connie continued, "Mr. Loranger from Eastern Financial called. He said he can't meet with you on Tuesday, and if you want to see him it has to be tomorrow morning at ten. Otherwise, he's going to cancel the credit line and turn the company account over to the collection people."
Jason mentally calculated the distance to Hartford. With sparse midnight traffic and good fortune, he figured it shouldn't take more than seven hours. He studied his watch. That would mean he'd have to leave by one-thirty or two in the morning. Yes, he could make it. Besides, staying up all night wasn't really a concern as he hadn't been sleeping lately anyhow.
"If you would, Connie, call Mr. Loranger back and tell him ten o'clock will be fine. I'll see him there at his office."
"And the police?"
Jason ran a hand through his sweaty hair. He nodded. "You can let them in, Connie—" He glanced at his watch again. "—and as soon as everyone else is punched out you can go."
"Thank you, sir."
As Connie had said, there were four men: three dressed in the dark blue uniforms of the Greater Rochester Police Department, and a forth wearing an inexpensive gray suit with a pink, floral tie made of 1950's upholstery material. With expressions like pallbearers, two of the policemen and the suited man filed into his office, while the third cop stopped in the doorway and turned sideways, presumably to insure that no one entered—
—or leaves.
The oldest of the four men, a familiar heavyset man in his mid- to late-forties, thrust his thick forearm toward Jason, who shook it and winced at the big man's grip.
"Hello, Captain Perez," Jason said.
"Nice seeing you again," the big man responded. The last syllable of his words were clipped as if the final letters were not completely verbalized. "This is Officer Campton, Detective Simpson, and the gentleman at the door is Officer Perez."
Jason glanced at the man in the doorway, who nodded slightly. After hearing the name, Jason could see a strong resemblance. Son? Younger brother maybe? He didn't bother to ask. It didn't make any difference anyway. Besides, he had to speed this along; he still had a lot of financial footwork to do tonight if he was going to make payroll for tomorrow.
"What can I do for you?" Jason asked.
"We'd like to discuss your friend again."
The skin between Jason's shoulder blades began to crawl. The captain had his full attention now. "I haven't seen Sedge for a while," Jason said, choosing his words carefully.
"But you do know Sedge Delorme pretty well, don't you?" the man with the gaudy tie said. His voice was high-pitched and whiny, which seemed out of place on such a tall, broad man. "We spoke with Mr. Delorme's landlord a short while ago, and he told us you have been paying his rent for the past three or four years. Why is that?"
Jason moved forward several steps, but stopped short of settling into the high-backed, leather seat, the only expensive furnishing in his otherwise simple office. With a wave of his arm, Jason offered his chair to the captain and motioned for the detective and second policeman to take the two remaining steel chairs on the other side of the desk.
His guests continued to stand.
"Gentlemen," Jason said. "I've had a long day and the night looks like it's going to be even longer. Right now, I need a seat but don't feel comfortable sitting while you stand. So, if you would please settle down, I'll answer anything I can for you."
The captain nodded and three pairs of polished shoes made scuffling sounds as the men took their seats. Jason moved to the display bench and slid his rump onto it. He noticed that the background thrum of machinery was lessening. He had become so accustomed to the factory's noise that it only became noticeable when the operators, one-by-one, closed things down and prepared to leave for the night. The growing quiet, however, made him uneasy. He couldn't help feeling that each silenc
ed machine brought him closer to a time when they would never start again.
His thoughts returned to the police and the matter at hand. Sedge was in trouble, and this looked more serious than ever before. One time, maybe this time, the police were going to carry his friend away and convict him on purely circumstantial evidence. And then when the prison inmates started dying they'd throw him into solitary confinement. A few weeks later, Sedge would commit suicide.
And God help us if that happens!
"Thank you for meeting with us," Captain Perez said, his words characteristically clipped. "We're hoping you might have some idea where Sedge is right now?"
"No, but he never goes far. Except for an occasional trip to the bookstore or to get groceries, he stays right there in his apartment."
The detective and the two policeman exchanged glances. Jason could tell that something really serious was up. Who had died this time, he wondered.
The detective moved forward, leaned his elbows onto his knees, and pressed the tips of his long fingers tightly together as if preparing for prayer. Jason sensed that this was a man who wouldn't give up until he had Sedge eating three meals a day in striped clothing.
"When did you talk to Mr. Delorme last?" he said to Jason.
"Last night or the night before. Why do you ask?"
The detective's intent stare became even more piercing. Jason had to fight the urge to look away.
"So you haven't spoken with him in the last twelve hours?" the detective said. The youngest policeman was frantically scribbling notes onto a pad.
"That's what I said. What's going on anyway?"
The detective opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted. "Sedge is in trouble again," Captain Perez said. "We found the first-floor tenant of his building dead—murdered in her bathroom." The big man's face twisted into an expression of disgust. "Now typically we wouldn't immediately suspect the other tenants, but with Sedge's previous involvements..." He let the accusation drift off.
"Why didn't you just talk to him while you were at the building?"
"We tried," the detective said. "But there was a note on his door saying he had moved."
"Moved?" Jason whispered.
"The landlord let us into his apartment," Captain Perez continued, "and it was stone empty. Your friend is gone. All he left behind were a few half-burnt Satanist books in the basement incinerator. Did you know he was a Satanist?"
Fear constricted Jason's chest. He dragged in series of ragged breaths and gripped the edge of the counter to keep from losing his balance.
"Are you all right?" the captain asked.
Jason nodded.
The detective's unblinking eyes bored into him. "Is there something you need to tell us?" he said in nasal tones.
Jason couldn't coerce enough air from his lungs to utter any words, but he did manage to shake his head. Besides, what could he possibly have said? A demon, not my friend, killed that poor woman. And then should he go on to describe the two dozen other murders Ichabod had committed in the last twenty years? No, of course not. There was nothing he could say to change the horrible track that events had taken.
And Jason knew that soon things would get much worse. Because, you see, Sedge was doing the unthinkable...he was returning to Bragdon.
You can purchase the rest of
Ancestor - Book 1
at Amazon.com
NOVELS BY TIM GREATON
From Focus House Publishing
The Santa Shop
(book 1 in “The Santa Conspiracy”)
Purchase Here
Bones in the Tree
(a 13,500-word, 41 page novella)
Purchase Here
Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End
Purchase Here
Ancestor – Book 1
Purchase Here
Tim Greaton’s Blog – The Perfect World
Subscribe Here
Heroes With Fangs
Coming Fall 2011
To follow Tim’s Blog online:
timgreaton.blogspot.com
If you’d like to email Tim Greaton, send to [email protected]
You can also join Tim at…
Facebook
Goodreads
