“Ronnie?’’
“Hey, Mace. It’s a shame they make us wait to eat until after everybody from Abundant Hope is done praying. I’d feel more prayerful with a full stomach.’’
“Ronnie, where’s my mama? I thought y’all walked over together.’’
“We did. But you know Rosalee. She saw someone she knew and ran off to say hello. She told Alice and me to come on inside. Said she’d meet us at the table.’’
“When was this?’’
“Not five minutes ago.’’
“Where?’’
“Outside, in the parking lot.’’
I left him standing there staring. Pushing my way against the faithful and the hungry, I went outside. There were at least a dozen vehicles in the parking lot: pickup trucks, battered sedans, shiny SUVs. I rushed up and down the parked rows, looking for Mama.
And didn’t find her.
Taking a corner around an old Buick, I slid in something slippery. I caught my balance and looked down at fluffy eggs and cubed ham oozing on the asphalt. Shards from a casserole dish poked out from a golden layer of cheese. I stooped and picked up a shard—white, with a perfect blue aster in the center.
“Good Lord, Mace. You’re as white as rice.’’ Ronnie Hodges panted from rushing out after me. “Is everything okay?’’
“Who did Mama run off to talk to, Ronnie?’’
“Well, I don’t know. My distance eyes ain’t what they used to be. The truck was all the way over to the other side of the parking lot.’’
“A truck? What kind?’’
“It was an old pickup. White, I think. Or something light. Why?’’
“One person in the truck, or two?’’
“Just one. The driver. But why, Mace? What’s wrong?’’
“Man or woman?’’
“Well, now …’’ Ronnie looked heavenward, like he had to think on that for a while.
I felt a scream rising in the back of my throat. “Dammit, Ronnie, was it a man or a woman?’’
“Woman,’’ he finally said. “I’m almost sure it was a woman.’’
I grabbed Pam’s car keys from my pants pocket. “Mama’s been kidnapped, Ronnie. Call the police. Then, tell Delilah to make an announcement that anyone who saw anything should stay here to talk to the cops.’’
Ronnie’s jaw hung open. He worked it a couple of times before some words came out. “Where are you going?’’
“To find Mama,’’ I said as I flew toward the car.
“Wait, Mace.’’ Ronnie’s heavy footsteps pounded behind me. “Delilah’s not here.’’
I stopped and turned around.
“She called your mama this morning. She said she couldn’t face the crowd after all, not after Pastor Bob took all the hurricane money. Delilah asked your mama to promise to explain to everybody how sorry she was.’’
Think! Think! Think!
I pounded three times on the steering wheel in Pam’s car, trying to dislodge the fog in my brain with each blow. I needed to focus, like I do when I’m tracking an animal. Get inside the kidnapper’s head.
Any prey, knowing it’s being hunted, will either flee or find a hiding place. I scanned the lot. There was nowhere to hide a pickup with a pint-sized captive. The driver had surely fled.
I eased the VW across the lot, to the side where Ronnie had seen the truck. In the wild, an animal leaves a trail: flattened grass, bent twigs, droppings, or tracks on the ground. I hoped to see something, anything, that would reveal the path taken by the animal in the pickup’s driver seat.
There wasn’t even an oil stain.
Then, just as I reached the exit, I spotted what I prayed was a clue out on the road in front of the VFW. Something small and round shone against the blacktop, about thirty feet to the right. Seeing nothing on the pavement to the left, I made the right. Slowly, slowly I drove, and then stopped. The object on the road was a honeydew-colored earring, gleaming in the rising sun.
Mama had been so excited when she found the set, which included a necklace and a bracelet, too. She had a pantsuit in that exact shade of light green, and the costume jewels were a perfect match.
I hoped she tossed the earring out of the car intentionally, like Hansel and Gretel with their breadcrumb trail. I didn’t want to think of the alternative: that the clip-on was the first casualty as Mama struggled with her kidnapper.
The VFW is at the far western end of Main Street. I drove for two miles without spotting another clue. Then I came to an intersection. Right, left, or straight ahead? I parked on the shoulder and examined the site on foot. There was nothing to suggest choosing one way over another. There was only a quiet Saturday morning and empty road in all directions. Making the wrong decision might mean Mama’s life.
I was about to start combing the grass alongside the intersection when I noticed an ancient fisherman. Sitting stooped in a folding chair and holding a cane pole, he was nearly hidden by the cattails that grow along the banks of Himmarshee Creek.
I came up quietly, not wanting to scare him or the fish.
He looked up, dark face nearly hidden in the shadow of a huge straw hat. “Hey.’’
“Hey.’’ I returned his greeting and got right to business. “I’m trying to find a light-colored pickup truck that might have come by here about ten minutes ago.’’
With yellowed teeth and sunken cheeks, he looked about a hundred years old. I hoped he still had his wits. “Yes’m,’’ he finally said. “I saw a truck. White, it was. I was just gettin’ here myself to do a little fishin’ when the damn fool driving nearly run me over.’’
“Did you see which way it went?’’
He aimed the tip of his pole to the west. “Straight ahead, along the course of the creek. I remember, ’cause I was walking ’long side of the road, right there.’’ He pointed the pole again. “They flew by me, so close I could see the look on the face of the white lady in the passenger side. Real little lady. She looked scared, like she thought they was gonna hit me.’’
“Did you notice anything else unusual?’’
“I remember wondering why she was only wearing one of them round earbobs.’’
I thanked him and continued on my way. In another mile, a honeydew scarf waved from a fence alongside the road. I was on the right track.
Just before the intersection with State Road 70, a woman stood on the roadside at the back end of an old blue van. Cardboard boxes and a metal contraption that looked like a coat rack sat around her on the grassy swale. She bent into the back to pull out a folding card table and a chair. Coming alongside, I read the sign on the van’s left panel: Wendi’s Whirligigs.
By the time I stopped and backed up, she’d put up her table and started arranging her wares. She sold airplanes and birds fashioned from old beer cans.
“Are you Wendi?’’ I asked, shifting Pam’s car into neutral.
She nodded, but didn’t look at me. She hung her whirligigs from the coat rack, hoping to catch the eye of passing motorists. I asked about the truck.
“Might have seen something.’’ Her head was down, orange spiky hair pointing to a flock of beer-can birds she was arranging on the table. “I’ve been busy. I have a lot of these here crafts to sell. Business is awful slow in the summer.’’ She finally looked at me. “Awful slow.’’
Highway extortion. I searched for my purse on the seat and floorboards. It wasn’t there. But I saw it in my mind—just where I’d left it on a chair at the VFW. My wallet was inside. Even worse, so was my phone.
“Look, I’m in trouble,’’ I told Wendi. “My mama’s been kidnapped. I need to know which way that truck was headed.’’
The hard line of her mouth softened, making her almost pretty. “I thought there was something off about those two gals. Love affair gone bad, ri
ght? I been there.’’
“Yes, that was it,’’ I agreed, desperate for her help even if it was under false pretenses.
“Was that your mama in the passenger seat? The one with the platinum hair?’’
I nodded.
“Pretty, for an older gal. They were heading west. Your mama looked right at me as they passed, about ten minutes ago. She was yelling out the window, ‘Park, park, park!’ It didn’t make sense. I already was parked. But that’s all I heard before the truck blew by.’’
“You notice anything else?’’
“There were crushed beer cans in the back.’’ She pulled a cigarette from behind her ear; lit it. “It’s a shame people smash them. A good can is the foundation of my business.’’
“Thanks, Wendi,’’ I shifted into gear and let out the clutch, as a cigarette-smoke cloud drifted my way. “If I get her out of this mess, we’ll be back to buy a six-pack of whirligigs.’’
“Good luck,’’ Wendi called out as I pulled onto the road.
What could Mama have meant? I tried to concentrate, but kept getting a picture in my mind of work boots. I’d seen mine sitting on the floorboard in the back when I was searching for my purse. I glanced over my shoulder at the heavy boots.
Suddenly, I knew exactly where Mama’s captor had taken her.
Himmarshee Park doesn’t open on Saturday morning until ten, giving the kidnapper plenty of time to … I couldn’t bear to finish the thought. I didn’t want to imagine what the murderer had planned in my workplace for my mama.
The slats on the wooden bridge vibrated under the VW’s tires. I spotted a honeydew-colored shoe just beyond the rise of the little span. It was the mate to a heeled pump I’d seen in the middle of the street just before the turn-off to the park.
The woods were eerily still. No birds called. No animals rustled through brush. It was as if the humidity that already hung like a wet veil over the day had sucked out all the sound. Technically, we were closed. But all anyone who wanted in had to do was unhitch the steel cable that stretched across the road. The Do Not Enter sign would fall to the ground, and they could drive right through. Which is just what someone had done.
I turned off the car’s ignition and coasted across the downed cable. When tracking an animal, the quieter the better.
The white truck was pulled off ahead, blocking a nature path. There was no one inside. It was the pickup from Emma Jean’s yard. I stopped right behind it, blocking it in between a tree and the nose of Pam’s VW.
Kicking off my loafers, I quickly changed into the boots, lacing them tight around my ankles. Then, I started out running for the park’s office. I felt for the car keys in my pocket, glad that I’d thought to put my office key on Pam’s key ring where it wouldn’t be lost. The ground and foliage was still damp with morning moisture. Droplets wet my hair and splattered onto my shirt as I passed under the low, bushy fronds of Sabal palms.
It only took minutes to reach the building and unlock the door. But it felt like hours.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?’’
“This is Mace Bauer.’’ I kept my voice low, in case anyone was lurking nearby. “I’m calling from inside the office at Himmarshee Park.’’
I’d made many 911 calls from the park over the years: Broken bones. Heat exhaustion. Two fatal heart attacks for senior citizen visitors. I heard my own voice, calm and steady. Only I knew the fear I was barely keeping at bay.
I continued, “Please contact Detective Carlos Martinez with the Himmarshee Police. This is an extreme emergency. A woman’s life is at risk.’’
“Are you in danger, Ma’am?’’
“No, not at this moment. But my mother is. She’s been kidnapped, most likely by someone who’s killed before. She’s being held somewhere in the park. Please tell Detective Martinez to get here as soon as he can.’’
“Ma’am, you need to stay right where you are.’’ Urgency edged into her professional tone. “Stay put until we can get an officer out there. It won’t be long.’’
I glanced at my watch. Seven-forty on a weekend morning. The police roster would be sparse at that hour, and the park’s at least fifteen miles from town.
“I can’t do that,’’ I told her. “We’re talking about my mother here. Just tell Martinez to hurry.’’
I hung up before she could speak again. The office phone rang back immediately. The answering machine was picking up as I slipped out the door and struck out into the woods.
I returned to the trail that led to the entrance, back to where the white truck was parked. And then I took off on the path in the opposite direction, going deeper into the woods. It seemed likely that whoever had Mama would choose to stay on the marked trail instead of trying to cover rough terrain.
Here, I was on familiar ground. Some of the ferns along the path were bent back, evidence that someone had recently passed by. I saw a platinum-colored strand of hair caught in a low-hanging branch. And there was a knee-high nylon, balled up and dropped in the center of the trail.
I almost had to smile. Mama never wore shoes when she worked outside, a habit carried over from childhood. It embarrassed my sisters and me no end when we were teenagers. We’d bring home a date, and there Mama would be: standing in the yard with a garden hose, as barefoot as an Amazon tribeswoman.
“Well, I don’t see what’s wrong with it,’’ she’d always say. “My feet are just as God made them.’’
After sixty years of unshod gardening, her soles were as hard as horse hooves. At least she’d be safe from sharp sticks in the mulch covering the path. I held on to that thought. It was the only thing I had to be optimistic about.
The woods were so still, I could hear my own breath. I strained to hear anything else—a voice, or the snap of a branch that might reveal where the killer had gone. I covered perhaps a quarter-mile before a human-sounding murmur floated toward me through the heavy air. I crept closer, following the direction of the sound. Now, the noise became a voice. It was Mama’s, thank God.
“You know you can’t get away with it,’’ she said.
A low answer. I couldn’t make out the words.
“If you turn yourself in now, I’ll put in a good word. I’ll testify and tell the jury you never once hurt me.’’
I stopped, staying hidden in thick trees, just short of a small clearing. Across the open space, Mama stood on top of a concrete wall. Facing her was Emma Jean Valentine, aiming my grand-daddy’s shotgun directly at Mama’s heart. Beyond the wall was a shallow pond, home to Ollie the alligator.
Emma Jean lifted the shotgun’s barrel, motioning with it for Mama to jump. “You have a choice, Rosalee. Either you go in willingly, or I shoot you and your body falls in. Either way, the gator gets his dinner.’’
“Emma Jean, please. Think of how my girls will feel. You know how much you loved your own little boy. I love my daughters like that.’’ Mama wiped tears from her cheeks. “This isn’t you, honey. This is someone else. You aren’t a murderer.’’
Emma Jean lowered her own cheek to her shoulder and rubbed. Could she also be wiping away tears?
“I’m sorry, Rosalee. I didn’t want to hurt anybody, I swear to God.’’
I moved stealthily through the oaks and hickory, trying to find an angle to approach out of Emma Jean’s sight line. Every moment felt like a month. Just before I burst into the clearing, I saw Emma Jean hesitate. She hung her head and dropped the shotgun a few inches. But before I got out a sigh of relief, her shoulders squared. She lifted the weapon and aimed. I was close enough to see the fear in my mother’s eyes, but not close enough to tackle Emma Jean.
“No!’’ Sprinting across the field, I screamed. “Don’t shoot.’’
All in an instant, Emma Jean whipped her tear-streaked face toward me. Whirling back toward Mama, she struggled to fire. The
old shotgun jammed. My mother stumbled on the wall and fell backward. Emma Jean turned and started for the woods, still hanging on to the gun.
“You do it,’’ she yelled to the sky. “I never wanted any of this.’’
I had no idea what she was shouting about. But there was no time to ask. I heard splashing from Ollie’s pond. Praying hard, I reached the wall and looked over. Mama was flailing, which looks to a gator just like a fat duck in distress or a drowning baby deer. In other words, dinner.
“Hold on, Mama. I’m coming in.’’
The pond wasn’t more than six feet at its deepest, but even that was too deep for a woman of Mama’s size who never learned to swim. I reached her easily. Calming her was another matter. First a fist, then a flying elbow connected with my face.
“Listen to me.’’ I grabbed her around the neck and stared directly into her terrified eyes. “You’ve got to stop fighting me. It’s not safe. Now, I’m going to float you about three feet toward the side of the pond. The water’s shallow there. You’ll be able to stand.’’
She was listening, her eyes locked onto mine. I felt her relax. That was the good news.
The bad news: Ollie had noticed the commotion in the water. He slid off the bank and was swimming our way.
Mama had her back to the alligator. I thought it best not to let on that Ollie was bearing down. A hysterical woman and a hungry gator make for a bad combination.
“You’re almost safe, Mama.’’ I forced a reassuring tone. “Just walk along the sand to your left until you come to the pathway out. There’s a steel gate at the end. I’ll be right behind you.’’
“It was Emma Jean all along, Mace. How could she? She was my friend.’’
I looked over my shoulder. Ollie had covered three-quarters of the pond’s length. “Not now, Mama,’’ I said quietly. “We need to get out of this water. Immediately.’’
All I could see of the gator was his snout and one eye. I knew that beneath the surface, his powerful tail was moving to and fro, propelling him closer and closer.
Mama Does Time Page 25
