“It’s okay, Blue. Everything is okay.”
His fingers clasped gently around my waist. “I want to cuddle for a bit, if that’s okay with you.”
I trembled at his touch, needing him to hold me. I sensed he knew it. By reaching for me, he gave me an out and let me keep my pride. It was so damn lame.
I let him do it.
The shell that had hardened around my heart since that night with Joey loosened and fell away. I turned into his arms and buried my head against his thin chest.
Like a newly hatched chick, I settled into Chip’s protective wings.
A part of me still remained uneasy. Like that chick, I now felt exposed for all the predators to find and attack. I didn’t like that feeling—not one bit.
Chapter Twenty-One
Perionne—November, 1978
Special Agent George Carson of the FBI stormed into the waiting room of the Perionne Municipal Hospital. They’d stuck him with the Perionne bank robbery case that afternoon.
He’d received the assignment and took the three-hour drive from Indy to Perionne, not counting the ten minutes it took to find the miniscule dot labeled Perionne on his road atlas. Between then and now, the perps had slipped away.
The local bumpkin cops had identified the two assailants, but locating the rednecks proved a different matter. The yellow T-bird showed up abandoned at the race track but from there, the trail went cold.
They’d tightened the screws on Lily Mills—girlfriend of the psycho who went on the shooting spree. They’d threatened the pregnant waitress with a federal indictment. They painted a detailed picture of her serving a life sentence in a women’s prison, never to see her child again. He’d traumatized her and felt like a total asshole in the process. All for nothing. Mills didn’t know anything. The psycho’s mama was no help, either, though she cooperated easily enough.
He’d run out of leads. Crimley had no family or close friends; at least; no one but Gunther—bless his mass-murdering, shooting-spree, psychotic heart.
Carson’s afternoon in Perionne didn’t change his dim view of small towns. He longed to wrap this case up and get the hell out of here as fast as he could.
He worked late into the evening before giving up. He checked into a local dive of a motel, only taking the time to leave the number with Perionne P.D. before collapsing onto the rock-hard mattress.
The phone rang at the ungodly hour of 3:00 AM, jarring him awake. The calm voice of the dispatcher told him a local patrolman had found one of his perps, dying in the hospital. He damn well intended to get a few answers before the guy kicked the bucket.
* * * *
Carson approached the nurse’s desk, his nose burning at the nauseating smell of alcohol and stale vomit. As a Fed, Carson had spent a lot of time in hospital wings identical to this one. It used to upset him, bringing back memories of his Dad slowly giving in to the cancer. The sickness and death didn’t affect him so much these days, but he still hated the smell.
He opened his mouth to address the nurse but paused as he spotted a fortyish man with a thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a white coat approach him from across the hall. The doctor extended his hand. “You must be Agent Carson. I’m Dr. Eric Lee. I received the call from the police station.”
Carson nodded back, returning the doctor’s firm handshake. “Dr. Lee, I understand Jeff Crimley’s your patient. I need to talk to him, now.”
Dr. Lee grimaced. He motioned Carson to follow him. “I’m sorry, but I have a problem with that. If I wake Crimley up, I’ll most likely end up zipping him up into a body bag later tonight. The patient is suffering from hypothermia, as well as severe loss of blood from his stab wounds.”
Carson fumed. Of course, the doctor needs to hassle me, now.
They approached the door to a private room. A Perionne police guard straightened in his chair, seeming to come to life at the sight of the federal agent.
Carson folded his arms. “Let’s start at the top. Is he going to make it or isn’t he?”
The doctor shrugged. “I doubt it. We’ll do all we can, of course. We just didn’t get to him in time.”
“Well, then, what are we discussing? If you can’t keep him alive, then I need him awake, now. He won’t do anybody any good once he’s dead.”
Dr. Lee puffed out his chest. “Listen to me, Agent. That man has little enough chance as it is. If we rouse him at this stage, the shock alone could kill him.”
George Carson bristled, frustrated to be on the verge of breaking this case and going home, only to have this man fret about the health of one of the criminals. “No, you listen, doctor. Two people were murdered in cold blood at the Perionne National Bank today. I need to tell their families something. We know who two of these monsters were, but we also know—because of the way they blew out of there so damn fast—that a third person was very likely involved. We’ve tried patrols, roadblocks, and house-to-house searches. Nothing. If I can identify that third person, I can’t let my only opportunity go by.”
Dr. Lee sighed. “There may only be one person to find. When we brought Jeff Crimley in, he babbled that he’d killed Gunther Stalt in a fight. That’s what you wanted to know, right? So the murderer’s dead, and the co-conspirator will likely die before the end of the night.”
“He said that? Gunther’s dead?”
The doctor referred to a note pad. “The admitting physician heard Crimley say Gunther gave him the stab wounds, but he still managed to kill Gunther before it was over.”
Carson grunted, not impressed. “I’ll still need to speak with Crimley to corroborate that. Then, I’ll have to tell Gunther’s mother. Damn shame. She’s a sweet lady. Even if her son turned out to be a bastard.”
Dr. Lee shook his head and frowned. “It puts my patient in jeopardy.”
Undeterred, Carson barreled on. “There may still be a third man out there.”
Dr. Lee squinted and rubbed his temple. “God, I hate this. Don’t you have anything else to go on?”
Carson threw up his hands. “I’ve got nothing, Doctor. We found the getaway car this afternoon. Stolen last week. They’d abandoned it at a race track. Not a useful print on it. They must’ve had a second car waiting, but we can’t find a good set of tracks.”
Carson fished into his jacket and drew out his badge. “Look—we can do this one of two ways. You can wake him up now and save us all a lot of time, or I can make a phone call and have a court order dropped off early this morning. You’ll have to wake him up either way.”
“I doubt it’s quite as easy as you make it out, but, yes. I see you’d ultimately get your way. Sit tight a minute.”
* * * *
Jeff Crimley floated in a haze of pain, gradually rising to consciousness. A weight pressed on his chest, making each breath a great effort. He opened his eyes, his vision blurry, but he could tell he lay in a narrow bed in unfamiliar surroundings. A hospital?
The monotonous beeping of his vital signs recorded on some unseen machine reached his ears.
I’m dyin’.
He looked into the face of a serious-looking man in a brown rain-spotted windbreaker.
A cop.
“Crimley? I’m Agent Carson of the FBI. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” Crimley forced the word from his lips. His throat felt raw, and his voice sounded hoarse. I need to rest.
“Crimley, do you remember the bank robbery? I need to ask you questions about it.”
Crimley nodded. It was easier than trying to speak.
“You were identified as a participant in this robbery, along with Gunther Stalt. Can you verify for me that Gunther was involved?”
Crimley nodded again.
“Where’s Gunther now? If you cooperate, we’ll make things easier on you.”
Even in his condition, Crimley detected an uncomfortable urgency in the man’s voice. The agent was trying to play him for a fool. Well, there was no need to hold back about Gunther.
Crimley took a
deep, painful breath. “Dead.”
“Dead? You mean Gunther’s dead? Did you kill him?’
Crimley nodded, struggling to breathe. “I stabbed him. He stabbed me. He died.” God, my chest hurts! Just let this end.
“Crimley, there was a third person involved, wasn’t there? You had a getaway car driver. Isn’t that correct?”
The words slowly penetrated Crimley’s fogged brain. Poor Jim. He’d never asked to be a part of this. I forgive you, if it means anything.
“Can you tell me who he was?”
He remembered Jim yanking him from the car, abandoning him to die at the side of the road. He couldn’t work up any anger toward the man, though. We’re the ones who dragged Jim into this mess. Can’t ruin it for his family.
Crimley took a deep breath. “Getaway driver blackmailed. Forget him. No danger.” Even as the world darkened around the edges, Crimley drew some satisfaction at seeing the Fed’s face turn a bright, angry shade of red.
“So, there was a getaway driver. Tell me who.”
If this is dying, it’s not so bad. Just slip off into the black and see what happens next. “I’m dying. Just go away. Leave me to it.”
The agent’s voice faded into the background. He barely heard the next words.
“Listen, Crimley, we want to help that man as much as we want to help you, but we can’t do that if—”
For Crimley, the world blurred away for the last time, and a heavy darkness settled over him. He closed his eyes and drifted.
* * * *
At 7:40 that morning, Jim pulled the blue Buick® Regal into his driveway.
He’d driven all night, until the panic settled, and he could finally focus again. More punch-drunk than worried, he pulled into the parking lot of a 7-11 and purchased a bottle of Fantastik® and a rag.
He scrubbed on the many bloodstains ground into the light gray cloth of the passenger seat. When he finished, the spots left behind resembled old chocolate more than mayhem. He’d burn his jacket later.
Exhausted, he arrived home, not noticing the squad car parked at the curb until he reached his front door.
A chill of terror ran through his body. All this work, all my worrying, and they already knew. They’ve been waiting for me to show up. In an odd way, relief washed over him. Better to come clean early, pay for my sins, and not look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
How will I explain this to Jessie?
He took a deep breath. No sense in fighting. I’ll surrender peacefully. He opened the door. They’d take him away from his family and lock him away in a hole, where nothing and no one could get to him. Nothing but the sound of Crimley’s voice calling out, over and over for eternity. That’s one thing they won’t be able to take from me.
He stepped through the back door, which opened directly into the kitchen and breakfast bar. The pleasant aroma of bacon and coffee wafted toward him. Had he ever smelled anything so good, so much like home? Would he again?
Standing in front of the oven, Jessie turned and smiled at him. He could hear the still-whistling tea kettle of boiling water.
“Good morning, honey,” Jessie called. He detected the strain under her nonchalance.
“Hi.” Jim walked past the bar, where he could see Deputy Fred Lovison seated in the dining room. Jessie must have insisted that the informal breakfast bar wasn’t an appropriate place for an officer of the law to eat.
Jim had seen Lovison, with his stocky frame and thinning brown hair, create a dominating presence—mainly when trouble broke out at the Cat’s Cradle. This morning, the officer beamed a toothy smile at him. “Mornin’, Jim.”
“Mornin’, Fred. A little early for a social call, ain’t it?” His voice sounded surprisingly calm.
“I’m afraid that’s true. I’m here on official business. Well, at least I was.”
“Oh?” Jim noticed the almost-empty plate in front of the deputy. Lovison picked up the last piece of bacon and took a bite.
Jessie waved the spatula. “Fred drew the tiny straw. He’s been going door-to-door since late last night, trying to find out more about that bank robbery. You remember. The one we saw on TV.” She turned her back on the deputy, facing Jim, the look in her eyes penetrating like a pair of pointed daggers.
It was almost too much to take. His wife, who he’d wanted to protect most of all, was lying for him.
“Right. The bank robbery. That sounded...absolutely awful, deputy.” He didn’t dare say anymore. He’d avoided the news reports on the radio for the last few hours.
Deputy Lovison swiped at his mouth with a cloth napkin. “It was. Relax, Jim. Your wife already told me you were working around the house all day and watching TV with her, just like you always do.”
Jessie stepped toward an overhead cabinet, fishing out a coffee cup. “We watched Casablanca. “It’s one of Jim’s favorites. He even tried recording it on our new videotape machine, but he still hasn’t got the hang of the remote.”
The deputy chuckled. “I love old movies. Can’t beat that Bogie, and Ingrid Bergman was a dish.”
Jessie entered the dining room, the mug in one hand and the kettle in the other.
The deputy grinned at her, then at Jim. “I figured since I have over half the damn town to patrol, I might was well take up Jessie’s offer for breakfast. Say, what was wrong with the car?”
Already punch-drunk, Jim jumped as if he’d been slapped. “What’s that?”
The deputy waved vaguely in the direction of the driveway. “Jessie told me you were having car problems.”
“Oh, yeah. Spark plugs. Replaced ’em this morning with a spare set. Car’s driving fine, now.” A comment formed in his mind about being a former racecar driver and preparing for those emergencies, but he stopped short of saying it out loud.
How many other lies has Jessie told?
“You didn’t see Gunther or Crimley recently?”
Jim shrugged and stared—maybe too long. “Uh...no. No, definitely not. That is, Gunther visited a few days ago. Hadn’t heard from him in months, then he showed up at my door. He had a lot to drink, but he just blew off some steam about losing his job.”
The deputy stared quizzically at Jim. “I don’t suppose he told you anything useful or hinted at what he planned to do?”
“No.” Jim shifted from foot to foot while the deputy waited patiently. “Well...he said he needed money because of Lily. Hinted about a loan, but I ignored the hint. I didn’t think he’d do something like rob a bank. Crazy.”
Jim stood before the deputy’s stern gaze, biting back the urge to scream. The deputy took a long sip of his coffee. “Say, hear the latest?”
Jim shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“They found Jeff Crimley and took him to the hospital. Someone stabbed the poor bastard nearly to death. He’d been tossed out on the road. He died early this morning.”
Jim’s mind raced. “That’s horrible. Did he say anything...useful?” To his amazement, his voice sounded calm.
“Crimley said he killed Gunther. He also confirmed that someone else drove the getaway car, but Crimley refused to name him. Said it didn’t matter, and that we should let it alone. You believe that? Now that’s loyalty.”
Jim stood on wobbly legs, blindsided by the memory of dumping Crimley on the side of the highway, and humbled that, in the end, Crimley had shown him mercy.
Jessie hollered from the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee, dear? I got a fresh pot ready.”
Jim mumbled, “Yes.”
The deputy nodded. “You do look mighty tired. Probably got up a lot earlier than you wanted to, eh?”
He nodded and said nothing, still trying to absorb what the deputy had told him. “So, now what are you going to do?”
The deputy shook his head. “Keep going door to door like a damn vacuum cleaner salesman. My hunch is this other guy doesn’t even live around here. They probably hired some professional. They say Crimley had some pretty shady connections.” He took a sip
of his coffee. “The FBI says ‘do it’, so that’s what I gotta do. After all, I’m just a bumpkin small town cop, so what do I know?”
The sizzling of frying eggs reached Jim’s ears from the kitchen.
Jessie called out. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“Okay. That sounds good.”
The deputy held the coffee cup up and made an appreciative noise. “Good stuff! I’m sorry I have to bust in on you good people and bother you so early in the morning.”
“It’s no bother,” Jessie said.
“That’s right,” Jim added. “You’ve got a thankless job ahead of you. We appreciate all you’re doing.”
The deputy moved on with casual questions about the neighbors. Jim answered as best he could, his mind still contemplating the tragic news about Crimley.
Finally, the deputy finished his plate and rose. He extended his hand, offered his thanks, and let Jessie lead him to the door.
Jim tottered out of the dining room and into the connecting living room, collapsing onto the leather chair. He listened to Jessie say goodbye, his head still spinning. At the welcome sound of the door closing, he placed his hands over his eyes to hide his relief.
Jessie came into the room, letting the silence linger before she finally spoke. “I don’t want to know.”
Ashamed, Jim looked down as her bitter, disappointed voice penetrated his soul. “I just want you to answer about a few points, and we’ll never speak of it again.”
He nodded.
“Did you kill anyone? Did you shoot anyone? Did you stab Gunther? Crimley? Did you do anything else but drive the car? I want the truth.”
He swallowed down shame. Tears filled his eyes. “I didn’t. I swear. I couldn’t. I didn’t want anything to do with—”
“Shut up!” Her shriek stunned him to silence. She took a deep, shuddering breath, holding back tears. “I just want to know that you didn’t hurt or kill anybody. Nobody saw you in the bank. Nobody knows what happened after, and I don’t want to know, either. Just tell me you didn’t kill anyone.”
“I didn’t.”
Jessie sobbed.
Jim sat, listening to his wife’s weeping. Along with his other crimes, he’d broken Jessie’s heart.
Haunting Blue Page 16
