The Overnighter's Secrets

by J. L. Salter

  He must think I’m in Long Beach. “Uh, yeah, pouring.”

  “Well, I just checked the Internet weather and it’s clear on the west side of Nashville. We’ve got the entire band of storms right here in Greene County.”

  “Yeah. Well, anyway... about Bethany...”

  “Maybe she got caught by a train.” Packard seemed anxious to get off the phone. “Check back later.”

  “Well, could you ask her to call me when she gets in?”

  “Huh? Okay. Give me a second.” He acted like he’d never taken a message before. “All right. What’s your number?”

  Shane recited it twice. “By the way, where are you located?”

  “You’re coming here?”

  “Well, I probably won’t if you give her the message, but I need to know where she works. What’s that address?”

  With obvious reluctance, Packard revealed it.

  Shane repeated it twice as he wrote the address on the same note page as the phone number. “Have her call me.” He thanked Packard and hung up. Then he showed the address to Georgeanne and asked for directions.

  Shane’s presence, if not the abundance of water he’d brought in, had already caused a lot of attention. Not only had the other clerks stopped their own activity to listen and watch, but so did the other customers being served... and those waiting in line. Guess they’ve never seen a wet biker either.

  Georgeanne’s directions were amazingly precise: “Take Main Street east, out of town. It’ll curve around to the right... you’ll pass the park on your right. It’ll be Highway 70 by then. Cross the tracks and go maybe half a mile farther south. It ought to be in that commercial strip on the right hand-side.”

  “If I wasn’t in a hurry, I’d give you a big hug.” Shane grinned. “You’re the first woman who’s ever given me directions that good.”

  Georgeanne blushed. Perhaps because of his compliment... or possibly she’d pondered what the soggy bear hug would feel like.

  As Shane departed the Registrar section, he saw a janitor approaching with a mop and bucket. “Hey, Mack, somebody made a mess in there.”

  Shane stood at the courthouse entrance and looked out toward the parking lot, which was beginning to resemble a shallow lake. Evidently Verde-town didn’t plan too well for drainage.

  All this trouble just because he’d finally figured out that Bethany probably needed to hear him speak about commitment and their future together. Shane could have just slept-in at the motel, gotten up leisurely, had warm coffee and a thin waffle, and waited until the rain passed over. Of course, the heavy storm front showed no signs of movement. The whole of Greene County was apparently socked in.

  Shane called her cell phone again. No answer, so he left another message. “Bethany, I think I understand what was bothering you yesterday morning... and last night. We need to talk. Call me.”

  A courthouse security guard strolled nearby, evidently to check him out.

  “I’m leaving... just waiting for it to clear.”

  “Then you’ll be here a while, ‘cause this front ain’t moving. Just heard a bulletin on the radio.”

  “Crud.” As Shane looked through the glass doors again, the building’s interior lights flicked off and then back on.

  “I was ‘fraid of that. Last big storm we had like this... knocked out most of old downtown.”

  Shane gave him a puzzled look.

  “Power grid dates back to the Civil War. Can’t get a bond issue passed to upgrade it.” The lights dimmed again. The guard walked away but kept an eye in Shane’s direction.

  Shane checked his phone again for messages. None. Time to go. But no point in running to his bike. People do that in the rain, but they get just as wet or wetter when they run. Shane just walked quickly.

  About ten minutes later, Shane pulled under the large canopy of a gas station and called Bethany’s office again.

  Packard answered. No, she hadn’t shown yet. But the CPA had an idea. “Maybe she has a doctor appointment... or dentist. Whenever she’s been this late, it’s usually something like that.”

  “Could you check her desk calendar and see if that’s it?”

  Packard’s sigh suggested he disliked making any effort related to his sole employee. “Uh, nothing on her calendar... but I don’t think she always writes it down.”

  “Okay. Just tell her to call me when she comes in.”

  Another heavy rumble of thunder which sounded like the boom of artillery. Sometimes lightning made a harsh ripping noise, which always reminded Shane of the German 88 mm projectiles soaring overhead in World War II movies. He’d heard plenty of weaponry on the battlefield in Kuwait and during airborne training, but never that 88 mm sound. Very distinctive.

  Shane rode back through the rain to Bethany’s cottage. Her vehicle was not in the driveway or the garage. Shane peeked again through the cottage windows. No sign of life inside Bethany’s, but he saw the curtains flutter next door. Nosy neighbor.

  Huddled under the decorative eave which nearly covered the economical stoop, Shane tried to think. Bethany’s friend, Connie—where did she work? The Chrysler dealership. Yeah, he’d seen that complex somewhere near Exit 242, a few more miles in the pouring rain.

  Chapter Forty

  Shane’s entrance at the Williams Chrysler-Dodge-Plymouth-Jeep Dealership made even more of a spectacular impression than his courthouse arrival. Since it was pouring rain, there were no customers. As the lone female agent sat leafing through a magazine, all the salesmen were clustered around a large flat-screen TV watching baseball. Atlanta was tied with somebody.

  “C’mon, Braves, get yer rally goin’. It’s the playoffs!” The plump fellow with his tie tucked into his shirt.

  Shane wondered why locals in Nashville’s metropolitan area would be rooting for Atlanta.

  Nearly everyone turned and gawked as Shane walked in, trailing water. His boots squeaked on the industrial carpet and puddles formed everywhere he paused. When he headed straight for the glassed office at the back of the showroom, everybody could see where he was going and one salesman moved as though he might block the way.

  “Mack, I need to see Connie, and my good mood drowned about an hour ago.”

  He stepped aside quickly.

  Connie was on the phone when Shane entered her transparent cubicle. Her mouth hung open for a moment before she abruptly ended the call. “Shane?” She rose. “What on earth?” She’d obviously never seen him wet before.

  “I can’t find Bethany. Any idea where she is?”

  “Hold on.” She buzzed somebody in the Service Department and requested a bundle of shop towels. “Yeah, clean ones.” Then she faced Shane again. “Beth ought to be at work...”

  “Already checked.”

  “Then maybe she stayed home because of the storm.” Connie looked helplessly at the water pooling on her floor.

  “Car’s gone... nobody’s inside her place.”

  A greasy mechanic showed up at her door with an armful of shop towels. He nearly fell backward when he saw a drenched biker standing in Connie’s cubicle.

  “Try to sop up some of that flood, Shane... you’re gonna drown me in here.” She grabbed half a dozen towels and placed them in a chair. “I haven’t seen Beth since Saturday at lunch.” She motioned for Shane to sit.

  He didn’t. “Any idea where she could be, besides home or work?”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “She was fine last night when I called. But it’s...” When Shane checked his watch, more water poured out of his cuff. “Nine-thirty and I can’t track her down.”

  “Well, maybe she went over to her parents’ house. She’s usually over there about once a week.”

  “On a Monday morning in a storm?”

  “No... guess not.” Connie frowned. “But we could call and check.”

  “I don’t even know them. All the time we were together I never saw Bethany’s folks. You know, different states.”

  “Okay, I’ll call.” C
onnie started to reach for her office phone. “What should I ask?”

  “If Bethany’s there. Or if they know where she is.”

  “I’d need to have a reason. They’ll get worried if I call out of the blue like this.”

  Supposedly, her folks didn’t know anything about Bethany’s burglary, being followed, or getting mugged. Shane struggled for a topic that might work. “Just figure up some way to find out if they know where she is.”

  “Okay, give me a minute.”

  Someone with an air of authority appeared beside Shane and motioned to Connie. He was probably checking to see if she needed a policeman.

  “He’s okay, Herb. This is my best friend’s boyfriend. He’s just wet.”

  That’s re-stating the obvious.

  Herb paused and then walked away, shaking his head. Connie sat at her desk and looked up a number in a tiny notebook from her purse.

  The call lasted nearly five minutes and Connie handled it well. She acted like she was checking on their automobile warranty and, by the way, how was their daughter? Connie turned to Shane. “Nope, they haven’t seen her. In fact, they’d expected her yesterday afternoon, but she didn’t show. And didn’t call.”

  “I was with her in the morning and she said she was going there later.”

  “Must’ve changed her mind.” Connie put away her little notebook.

  “So where’s Bethany now?”

  “This isn’t like her.” Connie shrugged. “Think we should call the police?”

  “They won’t look. She hasn’t been missing long enough.”

  “And you’re sure she was okay when y’all spoke last night?”

  “Yeah, about twelve hours ago.” Shane looked down at the puddles on Connie’s floor. “Who’s that library guy she’s always talking about? Maybe he knows something.” When Shane pointed to her phone, more water sprinkled to her desk.

  “I could call him, I guess.” She looked in the phone book for the library’s number. She reached him after one departmental transfer.

  While Connie spoke to Jeff, Shane looked back out to the showroom. None of the salespeople were watching the ballgame or reading anymore. The new diversion was to monitor Soaking Shane.

  “Jeff said he hasn’t spoken to Beth since Saturday either.” She wrote down Jeff’s number and gave it to Shane. “He said to call him when you find her.” Connie hesitated. “Or if you don’t.”

  “Connie, who’s the most perceptive and reliable person you know?”

  “Other than Beth? I guess Jeff.”

  “Okay, then he’s my backup.”

  “What for? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m heading back to Bethany’s. If she’s still not there, I’m gonna break in and see if we can figure out whether something’s happened.”

  “I don’t think Jeff has much experience with break-ins.”

  “In all the research you’ve been doing, I take it he’s been the next best thing to a detective. That’s what I need right now.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Give me all your numbers. Here’s mine.” He scribbled it hurriedly on a piece of photocopy paper from her credenza. The page was nearly soaked when he finished. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m officially worried now. If you hear from Bethany, call me. If I have to call you, I might need you pronto. Can you drop everything and come?”

  She sputtered. “It depends, Shane. You know...”

  Shane understood. It had to be partly convenient. When he nodded, more rain splattered Connie’s desk.

  “Look, I’m not a teenager anymore who can jump in a car and zoom off somewhere. I’ve slowed down a bit.” She gulped. “But if you need me, I’ll be there. Beth’s my best friend.” Connie’s eyes reddened. “I’m just not as fast to change gears as I used to be. Be patient.”

  “That was never one of my qualities. Maybe Bethany told you.”

  Connie nodded. She knew.

  None of the salespeople spoke as Shane exited the dealership but there seemed to be a collective sigh of relief that he was leaving. Nobody likes wet bikers.

  Another drenching ride. It was nearly eleven o’clock.

  This was Shane’s third visit to Bethany’s cottage that stormy morning. Each time he’d peered into the windows and prowled around the perimeter. On this third instance, however, luck ran out. The cops!

  “Halt! Hands up! Verdeville Police!” A tall, young, one-stripe patrolman who looked like he’d never been out in a storm before. At least he had a good raincoat.

  “No problem, officer. I’m her boyfriend and I think she might be in trouble. I need to take a look inside and see what’s what.”

  “Sorry, pal. Maybe you’re a boyfriend... maybe a peeper. There’s been break-ins out here, including this same address. And a neighbor reported a prowler earlier this morning.”

  “That was me, looking for Bethany Muse.”

  “Don’t admit anything yet, pal. I need to Mirandize you.”

  “Don’t bother with my rights. Just go inside and check on Bethany.”

  “Do I need to call backup? Or you gonna come peaceful?”

  Shane felt anything but peaceful as he was cuffed and escorted through the rain to the waiting patrol car. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it, pal.”

  Well, at least in jail, he’d be dry.

  The officer got into the front and turned around, pointing past Shane’s shoulder. “That your bike?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  The patrolman didn’t answer, but radioed for the impound trailer.

  Shane asked why he couldn’t leave the motorcycle there.

  “I looked at the plate when I drove up... your county registration’s expired.”

  “I’ve never had it registered here.” Shane felt like he ought to be gesturing. Not possible with your wrists cuffed behind you.

  “Expired or never registered. Same difference. Impound.”

  “But my bike doesn’t live here. It’s county-registered in California.”

  “Impound. Minimum $165 to get it out... after you register it.”

  “You tell them to be careful with my bike. It’s a 2000 Road King five-speed.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Nothing special. See ‘em all over.” After an instant’s pause, the officer leaned a bit closer. “I got a ’04 Ultra Classic. Cherry.”

  “Sweet.” It was not so much a matter of trying to one-up this guy, but Shane wanted someone to take care of his bike. “Well, I also got a ‘76 shovel head back home...”

  “FXE Super Glide?” That got his attention. “I’d like to ride that ole hog.”

  “Matching numbers.” That particular hog was manufactured at least a dozen years before this cop was even born. “No scratches on the King and I’ll bring the shovel head later... when I move my stuff. You can ride it.”

  The patrolman nodded thoughtfully. “I can tell Impound it’s special... for a friend.”

  “Thanks... I won’t forget.” Shane gazed at the Road King as they drove away through the rain. It felt like leaving a beloved child alone at a busy intersection... and your only weapons are in the kid’s saddlebag.

  They encountered several traffic accidents on their way to the station. Verde-town people evidently couldn’t drive in bad weather.

  The process at the booking station was chaotic, but short. Main power was out, so the computers were down. Just emergency lights and unspecified key areas were maintained by a massive exterior generator. Probably includes their executioner’s electric chair.

  Shane’s wait in the holding cell, however, was anything but short. Over the course of the next several hours, he had occasion to share benches with a drunk, two rather old-looking high school boys who’d been fighting, and an over the hill prostitute... since the women’s holding cell was being re-grouted. The wino and the hooker seemed to be regulars.

  ****

  Kuwait City—February 25, 1991

  Shane’s platoon lieutenan
t had asked for volunteers to go in while the rest of his squad provided covering fire and observers called in air strike coordinates. Shane didn’t know any of the stranded men—a “friendly” Saudi unit—but it didn’t matter. At age nineteen, Shane felt relatively indestructible. Still scared, of course.

  Two PFCs went with him. Shane no longer recalled their names. One was slightly wounded getting in, but they still rescued the three stranded Saudis and recovered one body.

  The Iraqi Republican Guard had made their way in the back door about the time Shane’s Humvee cleared the front. And the overhead aircraft released an unbelievably expensive Tomahawk missile about one second later.

  Their Humvee was disabled by the intense blast and all friendlies in the open were hit with shrapnel or building debris. One dead, one badly wounded.

  That left Shane, with his own shrapnel wound, and the un-wounded PFC for several intense moments trying to get everyone still alive to cover behind a low wall, partly demolished from an earlier tank battle. Fortunately, more members of his squad scurried out to assist. Everyone took small arms fire from the RG patrol on the other side of the immense smoldering crater, which had formerly been the temporary command post.

  With more friendly covering fire, everybody who could walk or run made their own way back to safety, while a few newcomers remained at the low wall to protect their retreat. The two Saudis still alive made it out safely. Shane had carried out the wounded PFC. He no longer remembered that man’s name—only that he survived and was later evacuated to Ramstein. He bled all over Shane’s shoulder.

  Absent-mindedly, Shane fingered the area just above his left nipple: his bronze star tattoo, and his reminder of the importance of timing. In one way it was about the rescue and the decoration. But also much more. Critical timing. If that observer had waited two more seconds before authorizing the missile launch, their vehicle would have been out of range of its blast. Timing.

  The difference between Shane receiving the Silver Star and the Bronze Star had also been reduced to a matter of seconds. If they’d gotten everybody out alive and brought back the Humvee intact, the Lieutenant swore Shane would have gotten a Silver Star. But with casualties coming out and a vehicle totaled, he barely got the Bronze. Timing.