by C. Ruth Daly
“Your friend is fine. She and the woman made it out okay. They were the ones who called the police. They made it back out of the woods to the houses along the bank.” The paramedic turned his attention back to me. “You need to be quiet. We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy.”
I wondered who the woman was and then somewhere in the recesses of my brain came the picture of Thelma Carson lying feet outstretched and presumably dead. Slowly to my recollection came the hard hand of the bearded man. Ned Hollis had grabbed me from behind and pushed me to the ground. I wondered if that’s why my head hurt. And then it struck me. Everyone’s safety had been accounted for. Except for one. I listened to the sound of the hearse doors slam and the continual conversation of the law enforcement officers outside.
The other paramedic stuck his head in the back of the ambulance. “How’s she doing, Charlie?” He spoke quietly and seriously.
Charlie with the kind blue eyes answered his question. “Looks like a hard blow to the head and she’s still woozy, but okay.”
I nodded in and out of a sleepy stupor; my head pounding with pain and my neck writhe with angry stings.
The paramedic continued to speak. “Looks like the guy died on impact. This girl’s lucky she didn’t plunge over that edge and land headfirst in that shallow water too. Seems like he stumbled over the girl, and down he went. That tree root saved her life. And the paramedic closed the doors. I heard him move to the cab of the ambulance, and then felt the roll of the tires against the ground and we were away from the river. Once again blackness blanketed my eyes and I was out.
TWENTY-NINE
Ned Hollis was dead. It was November 5th, Election Day in Burgenton. Glynda, LBJ and I found ourselves at the sheriff’s office along with their moms and my dad sitting at a table with our lawyer, where we were talked to by investigators from the State Bureau of Investigation and a couple county sheriffs.
My head had a patch of gauze on the right corner and my hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Some of my hair had been shaven to make room for the stitches that crossed my skin. It was difficult to see the men across the table as they asked us questions. My glasses had been broken in the fall and they were now buried out in the woods along the river some place.
Glynda was quiet and LBJ even quieter. It was poor Glynda who had helped a drugged up Thelma Carson out of the woods and to the Morrelli house where they phoned the police. LBJ had made her way back across the river just as I had suspected, where she could not awaken Grandpa Todd from his sound asleep. Without his hearing aids Grandpa was deaf as a stone. Too afraid to shake him and startle his old heart, she spent the night frantically pacing her room until her mother came home at 5:30. It was then that they drove into town and discovered that Glynda and I were nowhere to be found.
Glynda had come out of the corner of the trailer where she had been crouching in fear and mustered the courage to untie the figure in the chair. She stirred Thelma into semi consciousness and then helped the big woman back out of the forest. Glynda dumped the listless Thelma on the Morrellis’ drive and walked to the front door to find Trevor dressed in cowboy pajamas. Mr. Morrelli and Trevor carried Thelma into the house while Mrs. Morrelli called the police. Trevor Morrelli developed a new respect for Glynda for dragging a two hundred-eighty pound woman jacked up on whiskey and barbiturates through a mud-filled forest.
The investigator continued. He was the same man who came to Grandma Becker’s house not so long ago. He asked how we ended up in the woods, what the trailer looked like and how Thelma Carson looked when we found her with the funeral wreath around her neck. He asked again if Thelma spoke to us and Glynda told him she didn’t say a word. Even though we had all already told our stories individually, we were repeating them again. And then I had to tell again about my wild flight through the woods, being chased by Ned Hollis and last remembering stumbling to the ground and waking cold and tired in the back of the ambulance.
Thelma was out of the hospital and resting at home. I didn’t realize until later she was just one room down from me where I had spent one night and she had spent three. My head was banged up, and I twisted my neck—I guess I wasn’t really unconscious for long, but had fallen asleep from cold and exhaustion. I was unconscious long enough to escape witnessing the death of Ned Hollis. It gave me the creeps to think that while I was knocked out in the woods, he lay dead about twenty yards from me.
Once again I luckily escaped the grip of Ned Hollis.
Funny how there were the selected ones. I thought. Rita Brennan was selected and so was I. Poor Linda Miles and Theresa Davenport. They were not lucky. They were doomed upon meeting Hollis. Funny how life works.
I was tired of talking to the investigators and they knew it. “That’s all we need to know from you ladies.” The shorter investigator said. “We know you’ve been through a lot. Donna, I bet that head of yours still hurts. “He smiled. “You girls did a good job of apprehending the bad guy...thank you.” He extended his hand to me and I stood up, reached across the table and smiled slightly taking his hand in mine. The taller investigator shook Glynda’s and smiled; then mine and then LBJ’s. By the time all the adults had shaken hands it seemed like another fifteen minutes had passed before we finally were walking down the steps of the sheriff’s office and out to our cars.
The town was abuzz with excitement as Burgenton was getting a new mayor. It was obvious who the winner would be. Robert Rolf was the new mayor, even though an election was still held in case there were any write-in votes. As Dad and I drove back to the house we passed the Hollis campaign headquarters, dark and empty except for signs which read, “Vote for Hollis, A Better Burgenton” still strung across the windows. The sight made me shudder.
“What’s going to happen to Thelma, Dad?” I was curious to know. Actually, all three of us had developed feelings for Thelma, especially Glynda, who we realized shared some similarities with the older woman.
“I’m not sure, Donna. Looks like right now she didn’t know anything about the murders. Sounds like Hollis sort of kidnapped her. He was kinda crazy, I guess. Sad to see things like this happen Donna. Lots of lives wasted...too many young lives wasted.”
Dad didn’t say anymore. The car pulled up in front of the house and we got out. Surprisingly, Mrs. Randall was there, sitting at the dining room table having a cup of coffee with Mom. Mrs. Randall rarely ventured across the alley to our house, but I knew why she was there today. Mrs. Randall was ready to gather gossip on the Hollis matter and spread it among the church sewing circles in the town. Dad also knew Mrs. Randall’s motive.
Mrs. Randall was quick. “Why hello Donna, and hello Mr. McNally. What did the investigators ask?” Then she realized the fast direction of her question and backed off. “My, Donna. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine Mrs. Randall, but I can’t tell you anything. You understand, don’t you?”
Mrs. Randall was taken back and noticeably disappointed. “Of course I do, Donna.” She took a sip of coffee. “I was just... well, I was just wondering. That’s all.” She quickly took another sip of coffee and told Mom she needed to go. “Donna, if you’re feeling strong enough, can you help me across the rocks? That alley gets too precarious for my old feet.”
I looked over at Dad, who gave me a wink and nodded. I knew what he meant. Go ahead and go Donna. But don’t say one word to her. I turned back to Mrs. Randall. “Okay, Mrs. Randall.” And I helped her out of the house and back to the safety of her porch steps.
When I turned around the mail carrier was out making the rounds. He bounded up the two steps to our front porch and stuck the mail in the box. “Hi, Donna. How’s that head of yours?” he asked as he passed me on the sidewalk. “Letter came for you all the way from Montana.”
I picked up my step, appreciative of the announcement of my mail, but curious as to what else the mailman had inventoried in his brain about the McNally family and every other family in town.
“Thanks a lot.” I forced a smile and
hopped onto the porch and grabbed the mail from the box, wondering who had sent mail from Montana. I sorted the letters and found mine sent from an address in Rockville, Montana. Inside the house I dumped the mail on the dining table and tore open the envelope. Scanning the page I glanced to the bottom. With Kindest Thoughts, Rita. A smile spread across my face so wide that it caused my stitches to hurt.
I couldn’t wait to read what Rita had to say. She hadn’t written at all since she returned to her parent’s home and I thought I would never hear from her again.
Dear Donna,
I heard the news about Ned’s death. I am sorry that you had such a terrible fall, but I’m glad that YOU are OK. I must admit I was not surprised to hear Ned Hollis fell to his death. It must have been awful for you to go through such an experience. You are so brave and I am so proud of you.
Life in Rockville is different from Indiana and Burgenton. I hope that I can find a job back in Indiana, but I may have to wait a year. In the meantime, I’m here and freezing to death!
If I make it back to see my folks this summer, I’ll try to head up the Burgenton way and see how you and Glynda are doing.
By the way, did you ever take an axe to that photo I gave you? Now that Ned is gone, you should!
With Kindest Thoughts,
Rita
I had forgotten about the picture and ran to the garage where it had been buried in the corner. Quickly moving a bike and some lawn rakes, I found it and uncovered the photo. There was Rita from the chest up giving me a demure smile. I knew Dad had a hatchet buried in another corner and I ran to look for it. Grabbing the hatchet I headed to the picture. I raised my right arm above my shoulder and I was ready to bring the blade down on the face of my good friend.
This is too weird. I thought. Why an axe? I think I’ll get LBJ and Glynda. We should do this together. I wonder why Rita wants me to destroy it.
THIRTY
It was hard waiting the hour-and-a-half before Grandpa Todd could get LBJ into town. The three of us had been excused from school for the day to talk to the sheriffs and the investigators. We would be returning to school tomorrow and all of our parents had wanted us to stick around the house since we had been through such an ordeal. Besides that, we had directly disobeyed Grandpa Todd and left the house when we were not supposed to and we had lost their trust as a threesome. I had walked half-way and met Glynda who waited patiently with me until Grandpa Todd’s wagon arrived at the curb and dropped off LBJ. My dad would take her home and she had exactly two hours before she had to return.
The three of us stood there facing Rita Brennan’s upper quarter and contemplating how we would take the hatchet to the picture.
I assessed the photo and wondered how to provide the least damage to it. I felt as if I was personally injuring Rita if I cracked that hatchet against her face.
“We could take it and hit it against the corner.” I didn’t know what else to do. “Should we try to whack it from behind?” I turned to Glynda and LBJ.
We all agreed that it seemed like a good idea and we carefully flipped the picture over. I now realized how heavy it was and wondered how I was able to drag it all the way from Grandma Becker’s house to mine.
When the backside was facing up we understood why Rita wanted us to take an axe to the picture. Instead of a light cardboard mat, the rear of the photo was covered in a shiny thin metal. It would be too difficult to break with an axe. Without hesitation, we looked at each other, flipped the frame over and I lit down on the picture, cracking Rita right between the eyes and splitting her shy smile in half. There was a smaller sheet of metal behind the photo and we carefully picked up the broken glass, laid it aside and grasped the sheet on three corners. As we moved the metal to the side we were puzzled by what we saw.
A faded blueprint of something had been placed neatly across the metal backing in a nice fold. What was it? We had never seen anything like it. LBJ, Glynda, and I sat and stared at its neatly wrapped covering. It was confusing to our fourteen-year-old minds as to why Ned Hollis with all of his riches would care about an old faded print. I carefully reached for it and gently pried it from its place. It came up easily in a cellophane seal. The print was old and weathered, having faded through time and covered with a dirty film. I couldn’t make out the print, but after unfolding the corners I noticed it was a dated map.
The three of us sat silently, crouched on our knees before the unfolded map before us. It was covered with swirls and symbols that we did not recognize. LBJ turned to me. “What do we do with it?”
Glynda wondered what the map was and so did I. None of us had ever seen anything like it before. We were afraid to tell our parents because we had already caused enough trouble for them. So with deliberation we carefully folded the corners and placed it in its cellophane lining. Later I placed the map in my cedar box with the padlock where it remained for six years.
Suddenly an idea hit me. “Rita Brennan put it here! No wonder she told me to take the picture.” It was all making sense now. “Did Rita steal this from Hollis?”
The thoughts rushed from my mouth as so many other thoughts popped into my head. Then I remembered my stony encounter with Ned Hollis in the alley. “I think you have something of mine, kid...” And I had thought Hollis was talking about the picture of Linda Miles, or was he wondering about a treasure map of his?
WINTER, AGAIN
THIRTY-ONE
It was the middle of November and life was returning to normal. Or at least normal for LBJ, Glynda, and me. LBJ and Trevor were officially ‘going out.’ Trevor actually spoke to Glynda and me. Maybe it was true admiration and respect after our gallant night in the woods, or maybe it was because Glynda saw Trevor in his cowboy jammies. Either way, it was kind of nice to be acknowledged by one of LBJ’s suitors.
Evan Miles completely avoided me and wouldn’t even make eye contact. There was a rumor that he was moving and going to school in another county. Eda was still in our loop, but had gravitated more toward her German Baptist friends. We didn’t really see her much except in passing at lunch.
Thelma Carson was innocent. We had learned Thelma had spent her life confronting her innocence and dealing with the consequence. And once again, Thelma was a victim of her own innocence. First she had fallen into a drunken stupor and lay semiconscious on the sofa on the night of December thirty-first. She was convinced she saw Linda Miles follow Brian Reynolds out the door, but by the time Linda had gone back inside Hollis’s house, Thelma Carson was out cold.
Almost a year later Ned Hollis came to her seeking help. As the story went, he reeked of liquor and was manic with fear as he pulled up to her house out in the country that night in late October. After all, Ned knew Thelma was his closest cousin but Thelma knew the reality of the situation. It was her son who had come to her that night. Thelma’s only child: the child out-of-wedlock whom she had given up for adoption those thirty-some years ago.
Ned Hollis blasted through her front door agonized with fear for his uncertain fate. Thelma was able to calm Hollis for a time and explained their true relationship. But she wanted him to know that despite the fact she had given birth to him, Ned Hollis’s motivations were all wrong. Thelma wanted no part of his murderous affairs.
In anguish with his empty feelings of loneliness and despair, Hollis began to rage. He leapt from his chair and pushed Thelma to the ground, forcing his weight upon her, he reached into his pocket for a handful of pills, pushing one after the other into Thelma’s mouth and then pouring whiskey down her throat until she was no longer conscious. With the incredible strength from his high emotional state, Hollis picked up Thelma, carried her to his car and sped down her lane, onto the road and past the Odd Fellows Cemetery where he spotted a fresh grave with the funeral wreath Mother draped across it. Grabbing the wreath and jumping back in the car, Hollis sped down the road to his hideout by the river.
It was there that he kept Thelma captive, forcing pills and booze down her throat. No one knows what Holl
is intended to do with Thelma—not even Thelma. But people say that a mad man has no plan. He simply acts on one desperate motivation after another. Yet Hollis we learned was more than wrought with illness. He was a man bent on destroying every woman who ever cared about him—including his mother as the newspaper reports speculated that the young man murdered her while she slept in their Georgian home those years ago. And now that Thelma showed a hint of concern and shared the maternal link she had with him, it was inevitable. Hollis would destroy her, too. Only Thelma did not understand why he waited a few days. What had he intended to do with her in the end? Our previous feelings for Thelma had softened after sharing a night in the clutches of a murderer, and we shuddered at the idea.
Whatever Hollis’s plans were, they were interrupted by Glynda and me. Ironically, Hollis was buried in that Odd Fellows Cemetery, not far from where he had stolen the wreath. It was a quiet ceremony with few attendees—only a few surviving members of the McCormick and Reynolds families. Coach Moore, Hollis’s dad, and the step-father to Officer Terry Moore, stood by Thelma’s side. And this time Thelma was the one who placed a funeral wreath labeled Son on top of the shiny wooden casket. The first and last time that her relationship to Ned Hollis was publicly announced.
