Heart of a Runaway Girl
Trevor Wiltzen
Copyright © 2020 Trevor Wiltzen
Heart of a Runaway Girl
Trevor Wiltzen
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.
Published by:
Trevor Wiltzen
PO Box 22528 Southbrook
Edmonton, AB, Canada, T6W063
Cover Design: Trevor Wiltzen
ISBN-13: 978-1-7774-2120-5
Dedicated to family and friends
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
Continue this Exciting Series
Get Your Mystery Now
About The Author
CHAPTER 1
Wednesday, September 3, 1986
Mabel adjusted the nameplate pinned near her heart. She took out her notepad, flipped it to a blank page, then put it back in her apron pocket. Her fingernails weren’t perfect. They hadn’t been for years, but she kept a nice color on them. She smelled the steam off the coffee and knew the pot was fresh, just like her customers wanted. She turned to face her diner with the coffee pot in hand.
Starting through the aisles, she topped up cups with flair and left her customers smiling. Most were either guests at her motel, miners and construction workers servicing the new mine, truck drivers stopping in, or the local folks who didn’t have someone at home to brew them a fine coffee or fix them a good meal. Most had already finished their dinners, except for two kids in the back booth, who hadn’t ordered anything. They kept up with the coffee, though, and she was tempted to bring them something to eat anyway. They were too skinny.
The girl in the booth had face piercings and a tattoo spelling H-O-P-E on the backs of her fingers. She was barely eighteen if that. Likely came from a good family as her clothing looked new, though stained and rumpled. She was dressed in black, which matched her dyed hair and dark lipstick.
The local man across from her was familiar to Mabel. A former tree planter out of California, he was known to sell weed in Blue River, and maybe some harder drugs as well — or so the whispers went. Winston was his name, though Mabel didn’t think it suited him.
Neither looked at her as she refilled their cups. The girl stared out the rain-streaked window as if to avoid looking at the young man opposite her, while his gaze was directed straight at the girl. He was angry, for sure. They’d been having an intense conversation for over an hour — occasionally, a voice had been raised and then muted like a gusting fall storm. They’d been practically face-to-face while they talked but now couldn’t be sitting further apart. Their argument hadn’t solved anything, Mabel thought. Most arguments lead nowhere good. The young man glanced up at Mabel, looking embarrassed and frustrated, and gave her a ‘Why are you still here?’ look. But in that glance, Mabel could see he was afraid. Afraid for the girl and maybe for what she might do next. Oh, you poor dears, she thought. You’re too young for this.
“Do you need anything?” Mabel asked.
The girl turned away further. The boy — Mabel had downgraded him from a man — said, “We’re fine,” drawing a huff from the girl. Mabel stayed for a moment, hand on her hips, coffeepot held tight, looking at them. They were too young for wisdom, too old for innocence, and it pained her. But this wasn’t the time for a motherly sermon. These kids wouldn’t listen any more than hers would in a mood like this.
“Well, tell me when you need anything, dears,” she said and waited for just a touch longer in the hopes they would.
When they didn’t, she swung around, eyes glistening, and hoped life wouldn’t make an example of these two. If she had known, she would have turned around, swept them up, brought them to one of the motel’s rooms, or — better yet — to her home out back. She had lived there for all her forty-one years. After her parents had passed in her early twenties, she’d taken over the diner, the motel, and the house with its beautiful wraparound porch.
At least some of it: a bank up in Seattle owned the rest. This town, Blue River, didn’t have a bank — too small and practically a castoff from the highway. Farmers, sawmill operators, and miners called it home as well as extremists who called it a kingdom, a sorry lot of folks, mostly lonely men and women with nothing in their pockets or would-be-patriarchs who wanted a secluded place to raise their children. Not that Blue River was particularly good to its young. Most wanted to leave, and Mabel couldn’t blame them. Any kid with ambition seemed to go. It had gotten so bad some folks said the only decent things tourists cared to see were Mabel’s highway motel and diner, and her.
The compliment was nice, sort of, but she wasn’t too affected by it. Between the roofs that needed new shingles or the few extra pounds around her curves, she certainly wasn’t out to impress anyone anymore; her cooking alone was good enough to bring folks in. Though she had hired a cook now, cutting into her earnings some, as did the wages of her other waitresses and the motel cleaners. Altogether, she kept five locals fully employed. Something she was proud of. Her dad never thought a girl could manage a business, and it made her smile that she’d proven him wrong before he died. Her mother, more of a timid soul while he was still alive, had blossomed into a stronger woman after his passing, though she hadn’t lasted much longer for this Earth either. Not that dad was mean or anything or that they made a bad home. It was just the times.
As for her, life wasn’t turning out as she’d once hoped. Practically divorced, struggling to stay afloat, at least she had two growing boys she dearly loved. The eldest, Hector, was a ten-year-old future hell-raiser like his father, even if the boy couldn’t stand his dad anymore, while Fred was two years younger and a real sweetheart. But her littlest one took on a lot of her pain, being so sensitive and all — and that hurt.
She reached the next table and filled another cup. The old trucker’s face lit up as she gave a sweet smile. He spooned the sugar in and said, “Thank you, Mabel. This coffee is just fine.”
“Oh, Luv, just come back on your return trip. That’s all the thanks I need.” She patted his shoulder and walked away. And knowing he’d be giving her a quick once-over, she put a little extra swing to her step to brighten his day.
Her charm, swagger, and a little bawdy humor were the only gifts she’d give her male customers. Still marrie
d, she was loyal to a flaw. Her poor fool of a husband, Bill, having stopped drinking, was at least smart enough to keep trying to win her back, the rare times he was back in town. And if he weren’t so tough on our boys, she thought, maybe they could be a family again. But he just wouldn’t learn. Even with the gray hair and wrinkles on his youthful frame, he was still more boy than man, and she didn’t need another child to raise.
Reaching the counter, she picked up a cloth, gave the smooth surface a quick shine, then surveyed her world, with its green-and-white vinyl seats and dated décor. She hadn’t changed a thing since her father built it in the late fifties, and it made her wonder if she weren’t meant for these Nancy Reagan times. But as long as her clients left her diner with a smile, no matter how life treated them, it was fine with her. This world needed a little more love in it. And maybe, she thought, her life did as well.
She looked at the kids in the far booth and frowned. Now, why are those kids fighting, she asked herself. Evil is as evil does, as the Preacher used to say on Sundays when he was alive. So don’t let that devil in. He preys on the weak — and you don’t know how vulnerable you are.
CHAPTER 2
Thursday, September 4
The next day, Mabel knew the dinner rush was dying when the remaining truckers peeled themselves off their seats to get back on the road, and the few locals who had come in to play backgammon were packing up, laughing and ribbing each other. The locals nodded to Blue River’s Sheriff, bearded and heavy-set, who had just arrived, opening the door for them and tipping his hat as they left.
Sheriff Dan tossed his hat and notebook onto the diner’s long counter, hitched up his pants, and eased onto his favorite stool with a grunt.
Mabel came by with his usual coffee. “Not like you to be out this late,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be home with your hunting show on?”
The Sheriff used a napkin to wipe his forehead, sweating despite the air conditioning. “That’s exactly where I should be,” he said before a short coughing fit took him. He pounded it out of his chest while scooping heaps of sugar into his coffee, spilling some on the counter.
“You want some pie too?”
The Sheriff stopped pounding his chest with a last grunt. “Mabel,” he said, leaning back. “That sounds about right.”
“You got it.”
Customers like Dan often treated her more like a therapist or a bartender, and she knew more about some folks than they would tell their kin. But something was amiss with Dan tonight — she worried it was about her eldest son again — so she added an extra scoop of ice cream on his pie to make him feel good and slid it over.
Dan took a big bite and started talking with his mouth full, spitting crumbs over his beard and onto the table. “Just saw somethin’ I wish I could forget.”
“Accident?”
Deadly accidents were not uncommon here, the highway a long stretch leading from nowhere to nowhere fast. Beautiful by day, where the dark forest had been swept clear by winter avalanches, revealing spectacular views of mountains, blue rivers, and big sky; sinister at night while looking out a car window at the forest’s blackness, with only the tips of its tallest trees cutting into the starry sky to give it form.
The Sheriff shook his head, looking rattled. “Those are bad enough. But no. This was much, much worse.”
Mabel was relieved: Dan wouldn’t be talking like this if it were Hector. And though he wasn’t the best sheriff by far — in fact, he wasn’t too far off from the worst — he helped her family when he could. It wasn’t that he was a bad man; he just never learned to be much more than a disappointment to his disappointing parents. Blue River was full of Dans. The wilderness, a breeding ground for weed farmers and end-of-the-world preachers, allowed fringe families to live without fear of Johnny Law and Bob Government. Sheriff Dan knew this, too, so he didn’t try too hard to enforce the law. Mostly, he didn’t want to get shot for trying. So, he let things slide, and the community knew if he put someone behind bars, it was because he couldn’t do anything else.
“You going to tell me about it, Dan?”
“Actually, Mabel. I came here specific to talk to you.”
“Oh really?” she asked, her voice cracking. “What’s my boy been up to now?”
“No, no, not him. Don’t worry,” the Sheriff said, flipping open his notebook and resting it on the counter as he polished off a bite. This time he spoke after he swallowed, and she was grateful. “I just want to know if a young girl passed through here. Sixteen, maybe eighteen, years old. Black hair, tattoo on her hand—” He stopped as Mabel pulled back, concerned.
“I know the one. She sat back there.”
The Sheriff glanced to where she pointed and then leaned in closer. “Anyone with her at the time?”
“That tree planting boy who sells pot — Winston.”
“The black fella.” His eyes turned cold.
Mabel gave him a fierce look for a warning. “The boy.”
“You care about all them strays, Mabel, but they can turn on you. If that fella did those things—”
“What do you mean? What happened to the girl?”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh, dear,” Mabel said. “What happened?”
“Murdered.”
“Murdered?!” At Dan’s shushing motion, she lowered her voice. “How? What?”
“Them things that were done to that girl.” Dan shook his head; he’d started sweating again. “Made my heart turn cold.”
Kevin, the twenty-year-old cook, came out of the kitchen to start mopping the floors. With his long hair, handlebar mustache, and tattoos covering most of his body, he was a candidate for trouble himself, and Mabel had made a special effort to get him on the right track. Dan turned quiet and picked up his fork to eat.
When he finished, Mabel said, “Winston’s not that type of boy.”
Dan put his fork down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t know what type he is. But I’m going to talk to him. Maybe take him in.”
Mabel was taken aback. “Those two kids were a couple, I could see that.”
“That’s good to know,” Dan said, clicking his pen to write her words down in his notebook. “Most murders are committed by someone known to the victim. Someone dies, you look to kin and partners first. Can’t see how anyone could have done what was done.” Dan glanced up as he wrote. “Were they fighting?”
“Well, yes…” Mabel paused as the Sheriff kept writing and nodding. “No, it’s not like that. They were talking for, I don’t know, an hour, maybe more. Yes, they’d occasionally raise their voices, but then they’d pipe down again. Dan! Stop writing and look at me. That Winston looked like he cared about her. And more like he was scared for her.”
Dan shrugged and clicked his pen closed. “Maybe he thought that girl was going to turn him in or something. Or maybe he was on the drugs, harder than the weed he normally sells. Who knows? This is good, Mabel. I thought this was going to be hard, but it looks like we got our man.” Dan flipped his notebook closed.
“You can’t say that! They were talking, yes. But that was yesterday. When did it happen?”
“Coroner said last night. Her body was dumped inside the sawmill when there was no shift.” He started to get up. “State Police are at the crime scene, so I’ve got to call this in, maybe beat ’em to it. Get this done quick. It was pretty horrific. The brute beat her, abused her.” Then he glanced around and lowered his voice to a whisper. “And likely raped her.”
Dan grimaced, then leaned into the radio mic attached to his vest, and called Buster, his volunteer deputy, giving Mabel a moment to think about all she had learned and said. After he was done, she got started.
“Remember, he’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“Not if Larson’s boys get to him first.”
Mabel gasped. “Larson’s an animal!” Larson was the local drug kingpin who lorded over Blue River like it was his personal domain and acted as the true arbiter of what l
aws could be broken in town.
“He’s good to this community, Mabel.”
“What a thing to say! He’s only good to white people.”
“It’s true,” the Sheriff said, ignoring her comment.
“He’s a racist pig. And so are all those that follow him.”
“Better me bringing the boy in than him then, huh?”
“Just don’t let that man near him.”
“I hear ya,” he said, and then stopped. Looked at her. Then slowly said his thoughts aloud, “My man Buster saw the boy in the park earlier today, living in the trailer on Ted’s property. But Buster would let Larson know, them being friendly and all. You’re right again. I better get on this quick before there’s company.”
Mabel made one last plea. “Wouldn’t the boy have run if he did it? Why would he have stuck around?”
“Don’t care.” The Sheriff tipped his hat. “Thanks. Didn’t think this would pan out so easy, but thanks to you, this could be over quick.”
“But—” Mabel protested, but Dan was already lumbering out the door.
The police cruiser lights flashed on outside, and the blue and red washed over the diner tables and booths as he backed out and then drove off into the night to pick up Winston.
The far empty booth caught her attention, and she blamed herself for letting the girl go last night — clearly, trouble had caught up to her, and now she was dead. And the boy? If Dan were to have his way, Winston would be going to prison tonight.
Tears started to flow down her cheeks, and she let them; the staff were used to her tearing up at least once a day out of kindness — but tonight the intensity of Mabel’s grief brought Kevin over.
“You okay, Mabel? What did the Sheriff want?”
Mabel didn’t answer. She just pulled him in and gave him a long, deep hug, wishing she could protect all the children in the world.
CHAPTER 3
Mabel dried her eyes, sent Kevin to finish the cleanup, and looked around the empty diner. She had another hour till closing. If Buster knew where to find Winston, Larson wouldn’t be too far behind. Buster hung out with that White Nationalist bunch — racists, in Mabel’s eyes, though they acted like it was a badge of honor. Too many in Blue River had accepted Larson at the start of his reign several years back, which had given Larson time to recruit more supporters. Now, Larson was the big boss, and the small folks were starting to learn the truth. Too late, Mabel thought. Only a matter of time before he took things too far.
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