Loyal Be Jack

by Robert Tarrant

  Leaning back in my chair, I rubbed my temples. I must have looked like I was in serious distress because a small gray-haired woman, who looked every bit the part of a librarian, stopped as she was walking by and asked, “Are you having problems with the computer, sir?”

  “Oh, no. The computer is working fine, it’s me processing the information I’m finding that’s posing the struggle.”

  With a kindly smile and a pat on the shoulder, she said, “Sorry, I can’t help you with that.”

  I was attempting to recount the order of events at the time I’d discovered the first references to Shifty. I asked Katharine if the nickname meant anything to her, and she said that it didn’t. Of course, Katharine would have been a teenager when Armstrong first started running for local government office. When he dropped the nickname. I certainly didn’t think Benjamin would have mentioned the nickname or the events he found so distasteful to his daughter. As was often the case when I pursued intense intellectual analysis, I soon found myself going around in circles. I left the library with the knowledge that Robert Armstrong had at one time been nicknamed Shifty. Whether he was the Shifty in Benjamin’s notes, or a mere coincidence, was still an unknown, but I also couldn’t shake Justin’s disbelief in coincidence. If Armstrong was Shifty, what was I to do? What did Benjamin expect me to do to make amends? Even if I did identify Shifty, I still had no idea of the identity of his victims.

  The positive mood I felt leaving the Buck Pole had deteriorated dramatically. I no longer knew who or what I believed. What was true and what wasn’t? What was related and what wasn’t? I had to convince Katharine to sit down with me. If I could understand more about the circumstance of her abduction I could determine if I felt it was somehow related to the theft of the files. I could then explain to Katharine what I had discovered about the governor once being called Shifty. She might well have insight that would help determine whether he was the person responsible for the acts that her dad had found so loathsome.

  I was nearing Bloomfield Hills and had not received a call back from Doctor Phil. That could mean that he was busy doing doctor stuff or it could mean that he was blowing me off. I thought about calling Katharine’s law firm and attempting the same ruse about flowers but dismissed the idea as quickly as it was born. No one employed at a law firm is going to give out the home address of a partner to a voice on the telephone. Then another thought occurred to me. I had Lily’s number in my phone. She was probably more likely to give Katharine’s address to me than Doctor Phil anyway. I wondered if she was still working at Benjamin’s house. She sounded pretty adamant that she was not going to stay on and work for Katharine even if asked, but it had only been a few days so she was likely still there. It might actually be better if she had left Katharine’s employ, she would be less restrained from giving me Katharine’s Bloomfield Hills address.

  I had almost given up when Lily answered. She sounded like she was pleased to hear from me. We made small talk for a few minutes. She asked how my project for Benjamin had gone at the lodge. I told her fine and that I felt I would be going back to Florida in the next day or so. I mentioned that Katharine had been at the lodge for a couple of days. Lily sounded surprised by that information. She probably thought that, based on Katharine’s behavior toward me at the time of Benjamin’s death, she would have no desire to be alone with me. Lily told me that she was still caring for the Whitt home but was looking for another position.

  I sprung my question on her. “Katharine seemed really depressed when she was at the lodge. I guess Benjamin’s death is sinking in and hitting her harder than any of us might have expected. In spite of our past differences, I do still care about her. I’d like to send her flowers, but I don’t have her address in Bloomfield Hills. I was hoping you would have it. Do you?”

  Lily’s reply was so quick that I had to ask her to repeat the address a couple of times while I simultaneously attempted to memorize it and find a pen in my pocket. I ended up writing the number on my hand and memorizing the street name. I thanked Lily and ended the call as I exited I-75 to stop and enter the address in the navigation app on my phone. The address turned out to be in the northeast corner of Bloomfield Hills not far away. From the map, it looked to be on a cul-de-sac with the house backing up to a small lake like those that dot much of Oakland County.

  I was parked in a small shopping area and noticed a florist shop on the marque. My lie about wanting to send flowers suddenly seemed like a good way to get my foot in the door now that I did have the address. Katharine might not appreciate my unexpected visit, but who can turn away a guy with a bouquet of flowers in his hand? I searched my memory banks and recalled that Katharine really liked white roses. She always joked that they represented purity and humility, traits she aspired to represent. Though I was keenly aware that she had failed miserably in her aspirations, I guessed that she still loved white roses.

  With the bouquet lying on the passenger seat, I made my way slowly down Katharine’s street. Following the navigation app, I was also checking addresses. The late autumn sun dipping low to the west coupled with the moderate cloud cover had caused lights to wink on in most of the houses. The street had a rural feel without curbs or sidewalks and the homes were set back on sizable wooded lots. All of the deciduous trees, with the exception of the oaks, had dropped their leaves, but the abundant evergreens still did a good job of providing privacy. It would be very easy to forget you were living in the Detroit metropolitan area, but that was probably the idea.

  Katharine’s house was a two-story with a brick facade on the first floor and stucco and timber on the second. It had an attached oversized two-car garage and appeared to be at least four bedrooms. Certainly larger than a single woman would need. A circular driveway followed the course of a low stone wall outlining a raised garden filled with shrubs and ground cover ivies. When I parked in front of the house, it appeared unlit. Maybe she’s not even home. Maybe she’s staying with Dr. Reynolds. That would make more sense than her being alone. I walked up the short sidewalk leading from the driveway to the front door already starting to think I needed to develop Plan B.

  Pushing the lighted doorbell button, I heard the melodious tones of a deep-throated chime. I waited a couple of minutes without any response and then pushed the button again. This time, through the pebbled glass next to the door, set in an intricate pattern of bronze caming, I saw a light come on. Seconds later, the door opened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Acting surprised, Katharine said, “Jack, I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought we were going to talk on the phone.” Having seen the security camera mounted above the door blink twice as I approached, no doubt activated by my motion, I found her surprised facial expression just a bit disingenuous. It had never been her nature to open the door without knowing who was on the other side. I certainly wouldn’t expect her to open a door blindly only a few hours removed from a kidnapping.

  “I just couldn’t stay away. I had to see with my own eyes that you were okay.” I held the bouquet of roses out and stepped forward. For an awkward moment, Katharine didn’t move. Then, with movements that seemed more reluctant than welcoming, she took the bouquet from me and stepped aside allowing me to enter.

  “Sorry, Jack. I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just not totally with it yet. I took a sleeping pill when I got here this morning and have been asleep all day. My head just hasn’t cleared yet.” Standing in front of me with her hair styled and her traditional light makeup perfectly applied, her appearance didn’t seem to coincide with her words.

  These few minutes of interaction had reinvigorated every one of the questions about the events of the past couple of days that had been plaguing me on the drive downstate. Exuding as much empathy as I could fake, I said, “Can I come in for just a few minutes? I just want to talk to you? I just want to know that you’re all right. I was so scared, so worried about you.” Then, sensing that she was anxious to be rid of me, I added a carrot. “I’m going back to
Florida tomorrow, but I couldn’t leave without seeing for myself how you were doing.”

  Without sincerity, Katharine replied, “Sure, Jack. I wanted to talk to you anyway. Oh, and thanks for the roses. That was very nice of you.” Turning, she dismissively laid the bouquet on a small table in the foyer and started toward the back of the house. “I was just about to have a cup of coffee. Would you like one? Or would you prefer a drink?” The last question came out as more of a condemnation than an offer.

  Of course I wanted a drink. I always wanted a drink. The solace I took was that I didn’t always choose a drink. “Coffee sounds great.”

  I followed Katharine into a well-appointed kitchen with a center island counter that had four stools nestled on one side. Katharine’s home was not the size of Benjamin’s, but from what I could see, it was certainly top shelf. I took a stool while Katharine busied herself with the coffee. On our way to the kitchen, we had walked by an open doorway, and my sideways glance had revealed a home office with a fully lit computer screen. She must have been using the computer while she slept off her pill. Really?

  Katharine set two cups of coffee on the counter. Moving a stool to the other side, she sat directly across from me, thus placing five feet of granite between us. Taking a sip of her coffee, she said, “So, what would you like to know, Jack?”

  Maybe it was just the skeptical mood I was in, but I found that an odd question from a woman who had been kidnapped, held for ransom, and released only a few hours earlier. “My gosh, Katharine. I want to know everything. Did they harm you? How did they take you? Where did they take you? Why did they release you without the ransom? I was frantic with worry. I just want to know what happened.”

  Reaching across the counter to pat my hand, she said, “I’m sorry, Jack. I’ve been so caught up in my own trauma that I’ve lost sight of the fact that you were going through the same thing. Well, nearly the same thing.” Her face had softened, and the air in the room had seemed to warm. “Of course you want to know what happened. And you deserve to know.” She took a long sip of her coffee before launching into her story.

  “I was sitting in my car in the parking lot, talking to the office. Well, I had just ended the call. A guy came up to my car door. I was going to put the window down and ask what he wanted, but before I could, he jerked the door open and grabbed me. He pulled me out of the car, spun me around, and jerked my arms behind my back. Next thing I knew, he had wrapped one of the big zip ties cops use around my wrists. I started to scream, but he clamped his hand over my mouth and pushed me into the back seat of a truck that had suddenly pulled alongside us. I was sprawled across the backseat with this guy on top of me.” Her voice started to break, but she quickly composed herself. “I thought he was going to rape me. He pulled some kind of bag over my head and growled in my ear that if I made a sound he’d kill me.”

  Katharine had withdrawn her hand. I reached across the counter and took her hand into mine. “Oh, Katharine, I’m so sorry. Take your time.”

  Sucking in a deep breath of air while again withdrawing her hand from mine, she said, “No, Jack. It’s good for me to talk about it. That’s the only way I’ll ever put it behind me.” She sat up straighter as if stiffening her spine with resolve. “I don’t know how far we drove with the guy lying over me, but eventually he sat up and just kept his hand on my hip as if holding me down. I was sorta pushed into a ball on one side of the seat, and he was on the other side. From the way the truck was swaying, it felt like we were making a lot of turns or following a twisting route. He didn’t speak again until I heard him say to the guy driving, ‘You got any idea where you’re going?’ I couldn’t hear what the guy driving said, the truck was noisy, I think it was a diesel. You know, one of those big diesel pickup trucks.”

  Katharine paused, withdrew a tissue from her sleeve, and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. I waited for her to continue. “Finally, we stopped, and they pulled me out of the truck. I still couldn’t see anything because of the bag on my head. They each grabbed an arm and started walking me, but I kept stumbling, so they pulled the bag from my head so that I could see where we were going. We were out in the woods somewhere. I asked where they were taking me, but the guy who had originally grabbed me kept squeezing my arm and telling me to shut up or I would die. His hand was like a vise. We went down a path in the woods and came to an old cabin. When I saw the cabin, I was sure they were going to rape me and probably kill me.” She sniffed and dabbed at the corners of her eyes again.

  “Oh, Katharine. You poor thing. You must have been terrified.”

  Nodding slowly, she continued, “I was terrified. I was really terrified. I kept thinking, why me? Why me?” She paused as if expecting me to say something, but I didn’t. I waited in silence, and she picked up her story. “We got inside the cabin, and they pushed me down in a chair and tied me to it. The first guy took out a phone and took several pictures of me. I recognized the phone as mine. I had it in my hand when he jerked me out of the car. He must have grabbed it then. I don’t even remember that part. Anyway, he took the pictures and then they untied me and led me back to the truck. It was as if they were only posing me in the cabin. When we got to the truck, I tried to ask what was going on, but they jammed the hood over my head again and told me to shut up. They pushed me back onto the back seat with the guy holding me down again. I don’t know how long we drove, but part of it must have been on a highway because the tires made a consistent humming noise.

  “Finally, we got to one of those small old motels. You know the kind. Single story with parking right in front of the doors. They jerked the hood off and walked me into the room. It was dark, and I didn’t really have a chance to look around, but I had the sense that it was late and no one else was around. Anyway, we got inside, and they cut the binds on my wrists and pushed me down on one of the two beds. One of them made a big show of taking out a large knife and cutting the line to the phone on the nightstand. He pointed the knife at me and said, ‘Try anything funny and I’ll use this on you.’ From the look in his eye, I knew he meant it.”

  Katharine hesitated and took a drink of her coffee. My mind was racing with questions but knew enough about interview techniques to keep my mouth shut and let her tell her story. After a second drink of coffee, she continued. “That bed became my world the entire time we were at the motel. The only time I could leave the bed was to go to the bathroom, otherwise they made me sit on the bed. One of them would sit or sleep on the other bed, and the other would sit in the only chair in the room that they had moved to a spot directly in front of the door. Every so often one of them would leave and return with food — fast food junk. They kept the TV on for background noise all of the time. Any time I tried to ask anything, they would just tell me to shut up. Most of the time, when they wanted to talk to each other, they would go outside. I had the impression that they were standing just outside the door, but I was too scared to get off the bed even when they weren’t in the room.

  “I did know that they were asking you for ransom because at one point they asked me who was at the lodge with me. From that, I figured out that they must have been watching me awhile. Anyway, I told them your name, and they found you in my phone. I saw them text you a couple of times but had no idea what they were saying until at one point one of them said, ‘Sounds like your boyfriend is playing games with us. Guess we’ll need to send him an ear, or maybe a nipple, so he knows we’re serious.’”

  That statement shook me. I started to defend myself by telling my side of events but thought better of it. “I’ll explain later. Please, tell the rest of your story.”

  Katharine gave me a weak smile. “I didn’t think you were doing anything less than everything physically possible to meet their demands. I never doubted you, Jack. I was terrified, though. One of them kept leering at me as if he was going to jump me at any second. After the comment about cutting me, I was so scared I thought I was going to throw up.” She shuddered as if the memory had physically grabbed her
by the shoulders and was shaking her, but quickly regained her composure. “At one point, they were outside the door talking, but hadn’t closed it completely, and I heard them say that they had asked for fifty-thousand dollars in cash. That gave me a little hope because I believed you would find that kind of money.” Another smile that was more of a grin. “Of course, I was a bit insulted to think that’s all they thought I was worth.”

  I returned the smile but remained quiet. I really wanted to hear the entire story. I wanted to know why they suddenly changed their minds and released her. I also wanted to assess if there was a connection between her abduction and the theft of the files from the lodge. The fact that they had been watching us enough to know that two of us were at the lodge didn’t mean they knew about Benjamin’s files.

  Katharine restarted her story. “I completely lost track of time. They kept the drape covering the small window drawn tightly shut and had unplugged the clock as soon as we arrived, when they cut the phone line. They had my phone, so I was blind to time. A couple of times when they opened the door, I knew it was daylight outside, but between dozing and my general terror, I was completely disoriented. The TV was on one of those channels that shows back-to-back old movies, so that was no help either. Anyway, all of a sudden after they had one of their little meetings outside, they came in and bound my hands. Putting the sack over my head, they drug me back to the truck. We drove for a while, I really don’t have any idea how long, and then stopped. The guy in the back with me cut the binds on my wrists, jerked the hood off, and pushed me out of the truck. The last thing I heard him say was, ‘Tell anyone about this, and we’ll be back to kill you. We know where you live. We found you once, and we’ll find you again.’ They roared off. It was dark, but I figured out that I was on the edge of a ramp leading to a rest area. I walked to the building. The sign said it was the Belleville rest area on I-94. There were a few people around, most looked like truck drivers, but I was too terrified to approach anyone. I found a pay phone in the building and placed a collect call to Phillip. He came and got me. That’s when I called you.”