Revelations

by Laurel Dewey

  “Let go of me!” Jane seethed. He released her arm and she stormed toward the truck.

  Jordan stood still. “Don’t abandon me, Jane! You’re the only one who can bring me my life!” Jane’s gait increased. “Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t prevent it from still operating in your life.” She moved into a slow run but she could still hear his screaming voice. “If things don’t work out here, I’m heading to south Florida and opening up a hair salon called, Mien Coif. Think it’ll fly, Jane?” She flung open the door to the truck but the narrow canyon caught the echo of Jordan’s voice and carried it back to her. “Don’t believe their lies, Jane!”

  She backed the truck away from the cabin and took a hard spin, spraying gravel across the dirt. Barreling out of Jordan’s property, she turned right to head back to Midas. Her face was flushed with anger and indignation. Goddamn him, she thought. This was the second time in less than twenty-four hours that the bastard hit tender nerves that no one dared inflame. She craved revenge; to shut him up so she wouldn’t have to hear him remind her of the awful truth. Who in the hell wanted to hear the truth, even when it was callously staring one in the face? To have her private thoughts laid bare and screamed into the wind made Jane feel far too exposed. She could make him suffer. A cascade of devious police tactics lobbed for attention. There were loopholes Jane could exploit; meddlesome search warrants she could execute. Even though she knew she had nothing but her bruised ego to blame, Jane didn’t care. The gaping private wound needed to be covered. It would quash any popularity she had with Jordan. But then again, Jane never suffered the burden of popularity in her life. Why start now?

  Jane was so deeply entrenched in her desire for retribution, that she didn’t see the speeding patrol car buzz by her truck on the opposite side of the highway. It wasn’t until she looked in the rear view mirror, that she saw the car skid to a stop before making a hairpin U-turn and race up the road toward her. Jane kept the truck at an easy 45 mph as she hit a straightaway section of the road. The patrol car raced within inches of her bumper. Checking the side mirror, she saw it was Bo and he looked enraged. He suddenly jerked the patrol car into the oncoming lane next to her and forced Jane off the highway and onto the shoulder in a blizzard of rage. She skidded to a wobbly stop as he tucked his patrol car behind the truck and exited well before the car came to a standstill. Jane didn’t make it out of the truck more than two feet before Bo’s angry frame loomed closer and launched a stinging attack.

  “So, you’re all balls to the wall, is that it?!” Bo screamed, his nostrils flaring and pupils narrowing in for the attack. “I see you got your big-girl panties on and you’re gonna show me how it’s done!” He proceeded to tell Jane how Weyler handed over the twenty Chesterfield cigarettes, along with the pack and ashtray that she absconded. Fortunately, Weyler left out the fact that Jane followed Bailey to the strip club because the pointed message on her Mustang that morning clearly sent Bo over the edge. He figured he knew who wrote it. “You’ve been talking to that child killer behind my back! Don’t you lie to me no more! Beanie laid it out for me! You got him riled! And now you are the one at the center of all this mess! You!”

  Jane felt slightly intimidated by Bo’s hulking figure. She spoke in a calm voice; the kind of tone she reserved for talking jumpers off the ledge. “I screwed up, Bo. I admit it. I thought if I drew him into my confidence, he’d open up about Jake…”

  “But he didn’t, did he?! He just talked in circles with lots of riddles that don’t mean nothin’! Don’t you think I know the way that son-of-a-bitch acts?! See, I’ve kept him safe ever since he dragged his guilty ass into this town. I did it because that’s my job. For three goddamn decades, I’ve protected every person who came here to live and leave their past behind. And in four goddamn days, you have done nothin’ but take a wreckin’ ball to everything I’ve built!”

  Jane took a step back. “Now hang on. I admit I should have told you about the cigarettes. But you can’t lay the blame on me for all the chaos Jake’s kidnapper has set forth!”

  “Let’s call the kidnapper by name, Perry! Jordan Copeland. And you obviously must have said somethin’ that pissed him off for him to leave his four-letter calling card on your car in deer blood!”

  “Deer?”

  “The first thing I did was test it. Good God��there’s people standin’ around your car thinkin’ that it’s Jake’s blood! I had to put their minds at ease. But now all they want to know is when this hell is gonna stop. ‘When are we gettin’ our town back, Bo?’ And I can’t give ‘em that answer because I don’t know how much you’ve compromised the case by chattin’ up the Trash Bag!”

  “What about the Van Gordens? Did you ever consider that they’re not opening up to you and that they could be putting their own son’s life in jeopardy?”

  “Jesus Christ! Jake is never comin’ home. You know it and I know it! And if he ain’t dead, he’s ruined for life.”

  Jane stared at Bo in silence. There was something intensely jarring in the way Bo’s face filled with sadness. “So keep him lost? Is that what you’re saying?”

  He swallowed hard. “Sometimes a man has to accept when his son ain’t ever gonna be right and when he’s never comin’ home.” Bo’s chin trembled. “See, the damage is done!” he said, recovering quickly. Bo shifted his stance closer to Jane. “Let me tell you somethin’, Perry. When you take away everything, a man is left with two things—his integrity and his reputation. I’ve worked my ass off my entire life for both of those. I may not be the smartest man on this planet, but I’ll be damned if I’m leavin’ this town without both of them intact.” Bo stared at Jane, in one breath fearful and in the next, obdurate.

  “If you keep turning away from what you refuse to see or don’t want to hear, it doesn’t speak much for your integrity and it sure as hell tarnishes your reputation.”

  Bo’s eyes narrowed. “You think you know me, Perry? Don’t be so goddamn sure! I’ve heard and seen too damn much in this life.” He turned and lumbered back to his patrol car, wincing in pain as his large frame hit the driver’s seat.

  By the time Jane rolled back in front of the B&B, there were only a few people gathered around her ice blue crime scene. The spring sun warmed the pavement, taking the edge off what had been a cool morning. A lone deputy finished taking photos while another dusted for prints. Weyler stood on the sidewalk, calmly answering questions from a concerned citizen. When he saw Jane, he excused himself and met her as she exited the truck.

  “I tried to stop him, Jane…”

  “I’m sure you did. He thinks Jordan did this,” she said, motioning to the Mustang.

  “Any other likely suspects?”

  Jane considered the possibilities as she removed her jacket. “Bo?”

  “You serious?”

  “I’ve pissed him off plenty. Maybe he’s trying to scare me.”

  “That isn’t his style, Jane. If this is the work of the kidnapper, and if it’s not Jordan, then he’s suddenly making it very personal. Somehow, he knows you’re working the case.”

  “I’ve never been connected to this case in the media.”

  “There was that impromptu news conference the day we showed up. You and I were included in the frame during Bo’s sound bite.”

  Jane thought it through. “So, if it’s not Jordan, whoever did it was watching TV that one day and caught a twenty-second glimpse of me in the background. But my car wasn’t featured in the shot so how would they know what I drove based on that TV clip?”

  “The only people who know what car you drive are people in this town.”

  “And Jordan…”

  “Did he offer anything of value this morning?”

  “He told me he didn’t kill Daniel Marshall. He said the boy shot himself by accident.”

  Weyler’s eyes widened. “That was his big secret?” Jane nodded. “Fascinating timing, don’t you think? Just when the heat’s bearing down on him, he throws out that bone
to make us question everything.”

  “I don’t think he was lying,” Jane said, hating to admit it.

  “But you’re also not sure he’s innocent either.”

  Jane moved to the rear of her car. “I just want to get as much distance from him as possible…” The deputy took the last shot and headed back down the street toward Town Hall. The other continued dusting for prints. “Any idea when we’ll hear back on that bloody thumb print you sent to CBI?”

  “I said to rush it because we’ve got a pending case up here, but we’ll get it back when we get it back.”

  Jane stared at the graphic assault on her trunk. “You know, this doesn’t compute. All along, I’ve said that the M.O. of our guy is that he wants to be heard. He’s tired of being ignored. I’ve actually made quite a point of exposing whatever I can. If I’m right that this individual wants attention, he wouldn’t write, Fuck You, Jane! He’d write Thank You, Jane!”

  “It could have also been a knee-jerk response to an exchange that tripped off his anger. When you left Jordan’s yesterday, did you leave on a good note?”

  Jane easily pulled up her parting words to Jordan. “I said, ‘Fuck you!’ And I meant it.” Weyler furrowed his brow. “Hey, he crossed the line with me.” She turned away. “He’s got a bad habit of doing that. And frankly, I’m sick of it!” The desire for retribution swelled up again. “I’m ramping this up, like you said. I’m tired of playing games with Jordan.”

  “What did he say to you that made you change your opinion?”

  The first words that came to her mind were—the truth. But Jane wasn’t about to admit it. “I’m just tired. I want this to end. I’ve got my own health issues I have to deal with.” Jane started inside the gate. “Hey, you said Bo lost his wife to cancer last year? Did they ever have any kids? Maybe a son?”

  “I never heard of any kids. Why?”

  “Out there on the highway, he said something about how a man has to accept when his son isn’t right and when he’s never coming back. The way he said it…it was a little too close to home.”

  A deluxe dark blue sedan slowed to a crawl in front of the B&B. The male driver, the only occupant in the car, squinted toward the B&B sign and then parked several spaces away from Jane’s Mustang. Jane noted the yellow rental stickers on the front window of the sedan. A wiry gentleman in his mid-eighties got out of the car and retrieved his small suitcase from the back seat. He was attired in a three-piece, striped suit and was impeccably put together, down to the watch fob and polished dress shoes. His black wool overcoat set off his carefully coiffed grey hair. Stern eyes peered from his narrow-rimmed spectacles as he read the Fuck You, Jane! message.

  “Good God,” he muttered, turning away from the profanity. He quickly sized up both Weyler and Jane in an elitist manner. When he saw the butt of Jane’s Glock in her shoulder holster fastened across her Groovy T-shirt, his left eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “I assume this is still the only bed and breakfast in town?” When he spoke, he regarded them over the top gold rim of his eyeglasses, as if he were at a cheese-tasting mixer and was examining the placards on two rounds of Brie.

  “Yes, sir,” Weyler replied. “The Greens are inside. If you catch Sara, you could probably talk her into a late breakfast.”

  He scowled. “Yes. Well, I’ve already eaten. And I’m only enduring this place one night.”

  Weyler extended his hand. “I’m Morgan Weyler and this is Jane Perry.”

  The elderly gentleman shook Weyler’s hand with little enthusiasm. There was a constant sense that he was so above them. He refrained from shaking Jane’s hand. “Jane?” He turned to her Mustang and the three-word bloody graphic. “So you’re the recipient of this declaration?”

  Jane shifted uncomfortably in her cowboy boots. “Yes. That would be me.”

  He glanced up and down her body, looking askance when he read her T-shirt. Jane suddenly felt like she was on the auction block, and this old guy wasn’t going to make an opening bid. “Is it a prank?”

  “No, sir,” Jane replied. “It’s actually a crime scene.”

  He put down his suitcase. “Is this part of the Copeland mess?” His thin tenor meant business.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Jane said, now her turn to judge his right to take up space on the street. “Why would that interest you?”

  “Because I’m in charge of Jordan Copeland’s trust fund and I’m here to make an assessment in regard to the recent events that have taken place.”

  Jane nodded. “Eddie…”

  The man prickled. “Excuse me?”

  “Edward Butterworth, right?” Jane asked. She realized immediately how much this East coast, stuffed shirt must bristle when Jordan called him “Eddie.”

  “Yes,” Butterworth replied in a careful manner as he slid his thin body next to them and headed toward the B&B. “I really must be going.” He disappeared up the steps and into the building.

  Jane turned to Weyler. “The Copelands’ cleanup man.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Jane grabbed another hot cup of coffee inside the B&B and some leftover bacon from the serving pan before walking down Main Street to the Midas Library. There was a little more action in the joint than on the day before, but it was still empty enough that she could turn any corner and fire her gun without hitting a soul. She wandered to the section that displayed MODERN LITERARY GREATS OF THE 20TH CENTURY and scoured the shelves for anything about author, Thomas Wolfe. She was confident that Wolfe’s book, being the first clue, meant something more to the kidnapper. Jane uncovered a biography on Wolfe. Scanning the front pages, she learned that he was considered by some to be the “most overtly autobiographical novelist,” so much so that his hometown of Asheville, North Carolina, banned his 1929 book, Look Homeward, Angel from the Asheville Public Library because the depictions of the characters were too “frank and realistic,” due to the fact that Wolfe apparently didn’t use enough “artistic license.” Flipping forward to the chapter on You Can’t Go Home Again, Jane read how it was published posthumously in 1940 and followed the life of George Webber, a man who seemed to mirror Wolfe’s own short life. Webber, a novelist, writes a successful book about his family and southern hometown only to find his life shattered by the voices of outrage that greet him. Jane found two passages intriguing. The first one spoke about how in the story, Webber’s family and friends, felt naked and exposed by the truth they read in his book. Jane looked up momentarily. “The truth…” she whispered. Returning to the book, she continued reading. This is a story of a man who flees scandal and leaves the only town he knew to search the world for his own identity. When Webber returns to his humble hometown later, there is love for the distant memories but the sad revelation that… You can’t go home again. Her thoughts turned to Jordan and his pattern of using those five fateful words in her company.

  She considered what he said only hours ago, “I exist in this town like I’ve existed in every other town. I exist under a modus vivendi…a practical arrangement that allows conflicting people to coexist until a final settlement is reached. The final agreement is usually my removal from the town.” Since Jordan never felt at home anywhere in his life, did it make sense that he created an event that would release him from his fractured existence and return him to the safety of confinement? He wouldn’t be the first ex-con to play that card. When you’ve spent more of your life in the slammer than out, freedom was like riding a wave of razors. Just as he claimed to have created a situation by hiding Daniel Marshall’s body and pleading guilty to his murder simply because living behind bars was more comfortable than his hometown of Short Hills.

  Jane returned the book to the shelf and thought about the series of clues pinned on the clothesline in her room. Her belief that the kidnapper was telling a story��albeit one with hidden messages and even hazier motives—made more sense to her now, if he was using the platform of You Can’t Go Home Again to launch his message. George Webber exposed the truth and nakedness of people who
wished to remain anonymous. Webber himself then goes on a search for his own identity only to realize that he’ll never be the same again. Thinking back on the voicemail messages left by the kidnapper in a disguised voice, it had always bothered Jane that he used the wrong tense when he said, “He cried like a baby and will never be a real man.” It should have been “he cries” since they heard the sound of a crying child in the background. Maybe she was nitpicking, Jane wondered, but she’d learned fast that the person behind these clues was a calculating master of the written word and knew how to manipulate it to his benefit. The mere fact that he spoofed the phone number on his throwaway cell phone of the house directly across from the Copelands’ home seemed to be jaggedly pointing to some relevant information. The pieces only briefly came together after Jane dialed David Sackett and found out that an eight-year-old, red-haired boy lived in the back house on that property with his Russian immigrant mother and then quickly left for unknown reasons. It was getting frustrating as hell to Jane because whatever story the kidnapper was telling was so confusing to those who were trying to solve this crime, that nobody in charge understood it. They almost needed a program to decode the clues.

  But, wait a second, Jane reflected. The Van Gordens were no Mensa minds, but both Louise and Bailey seemed to jointly react to the Ace of Spades playing card along with the Chesterfield cigarette when Bo laid them out on their living room table. Those two items triggered something within them almost simultaneously. Maybe, possibly, they had at least a part of that elusive program needed to decipher what the kidnapper was trying to say? It had to be the reason they held back the teddy bear with the BAWY note attached to its front bib. It represented something to them…something about Jake perhaps? And what in the hell did BAWY stand for?