Heartbeat of the Bitterroot

by Janice Mineer

  Jeremy started pacing, “Just remember. Just remember. Just remember that I am the one who watches over all of you. I am in control. I am in charge.” He punctuated his sentences with a fist slamming onto his chest. “Nothing happens without me knowing.”

  I stared at the gun in his hand. His finger twitched back and forth, moving ever closer to the trigger. I risked a glance toward the kitchen. If I came up with some distraction, could I get through to the back door in time? I struggled to come up with something to say or something to do that might make him lose his focus for a moment.

  Through the thin curtains on the front window, I saw headlights coming down the street. They flashed bright, and then blinked out. Oh, let that be them, I prayed. I jockeyed my position, spinning the space between us so that if Jeremy faced me, his back would be to the door. I edged slowly as he rambled on about how his supervisor never appreciated all he did; he had worked so much harder than any of the others. They were all against him.

  At last, he stood between me and the door, facing me. Behind him, I thought I saw the doorknob turn slightly, quietly. I realized with a shock of fear that it was locked! I had forgotten that I locked it when I came in.

  Suddenly, the door crashed open and slammed against the wall, splinters flying. Glass shattered across the floor from the window. Michael and Jack catapulted into the room, caught themselves, and charged the intruder as he dodged away from them, a look of sheer terror on his face. The gun fell from his hand and clattered across the floor. Michael lunged for the man’s knees, bringing him down hard on the floor. Jack threw himself across Jeremey’s arms and chest. A lamp and table fell on top of the pile of thrashing limbs. Fueled by adrenaline, the crazed man’s strength was astonishing. Outsized and outnumbered as he was, he nearly freed himself from their hold.

  I found my legs and dove for the gun, my heart pounding in my throat.

  I felt the cold steel in my hand as I laced trembling fingers around the butt of the gun. “Stop!” I screamed. “Jeremy, stop moving!” A metallic taste formed in the back of my mouth. Adrenaline, I thought. I shuffled to the right, nearly tripping over a pair of my boots that had been tossed out into the hallway. I steeled myself, took a firm stance, and steadied the pistol, directing my aim at the bodies brawling on the floor. Jack was bleeding from a blow to his forehead. Jeremy’s jacket was ripped and his nose was bloody. He screamed like a mad man. I didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting Jack or Michael, but waited, heart beating wildly for a clear shot.

  “Stop!” I yelled again, “Stop, Jeremy!”

  Wrestling to the top of the heap, Michael slammed his shoulder across Jeremy’s neck and arm while Jack pinned the other arm and a leg.

  Above Jeremy’s screams and obscenities, we heard sirens. Red and blue lights flashed through the front window curtains. Tires squealed, car doors slammed, and three blue-uniformed policemen stormed the door.

  “Put your weapon down, ma’am,” they commanded.

  Two of them covered the men on the floor and the third officer pointed his gun at me. I slowly put the pistol on the floor and backed away, pushing the hair away from my sweating forehead.

  One officer produced handcuffs, and before Jack and Michael relinquished their hold, they managed together to restrain the still-screaming intruder. A fourth officer entered the room, holstering her handgun, and helped the other officers drag the intruder away.

  Gasping for breath, Michael limped to my side. Taking my arm, he led me to a chair.

  “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?” he asked anxiously, searching my face.

  Jack crawled over to the couch and leaned on the cushions for a moment, catching his breath before pulling himself up and sitting on the couch. “What was that?”

  “Angry former employee.” I managed to say.

  “The door that was open a few days ago. Was that him?” Michael asked.

  I nodded, putting a shaky hand to my head. “How did you get here so fast?”

  I noticed that they still wore their basketball warm-up suits, and their hair was damp.

  “We just left the YMCA,” Jack explained. “I was taking Michael home. I got your call and heard enough of what was going on that I had Michael call 911 on his cell while I drove over here.”

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” one of the policemen asked me.

  I nodded my head. “I’m OK. I’m OK, I think,” I said with a weak smile.

  I was struck with a new concern. “You have to find out about Renae—if she is all right. Renae Wilson,” I told the officer. “He was rambling about her. He has some kind of obsession with her. Said he was going to take her. I don’t have her number. She lives on the east side of town. I know someone who can get you her contact information, I think.”

  I took my cell phone out and scrolled through the phone numbers on the screen. I gave the policeman Mark’s number. As he dialed Mark’s phone, a second officer went into the bedroom and then checked the kitchen for damage.

  Much to my relief, I overheard the policeman talking to Renae who was at home, safe.

  I looked gratefully at Michael and Jack. “Thank you. What would I have done without you guys?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. “You are pretty handy with that pistol. I think you could have taken him.”

  I smiled grimly and drew the back of my hand across my forehead.

  The policewoman came back into the house to take pictures of my house for evidence. Just as she took out a pad of paper to take a statement from me, Bobbie’s brother Grant Stephens walked in through the chaos at the door. He showed his detective badge to the officer in the foyer and crossed over to me, his face full of concern.

  “Jenna. Are you OK? I heard the call on the radio and realized it was you. What in the world happened?” His gaze took in the overturned furniture, the broken door and shattered lamp.

  I did my best to explain with Jack and Michael filling in details of their own.

  Grant shook his head. “What a nut. Well, he’s on his way downtown now. They had him wrapped up pretty tight from what I could see. Anything I can do for you?”

  “I just need a few minutes to pull myself together.” I pressed a hand to my chest, willing my heart to calm down.

  Grant seemed unconvinced. He hovered near me, his brow knit beneath his red shock of hair. “Maybe we should get you over to the hospital. I could go with you. Bobbie could meet us there.”

  “No, really. All I need is some sleep. I’ll be fine,” I insisted.

  Reluctantly, he went to speak to the officer in the kitchen as I answered questions for the policewoman. It was a tedious process, and I was exhausted by the time she closed her notebook.

  Jack put a hand on my arm. “You look beat. And your door is a disaster. Sorry about turning it into splinters, but it’s better that the door is a mess than you. Listen, we can kind of patch this together, but it won’t be that secure. How about you grab a few things and come and spend the night at our house. Elizabeth will want you to. Jordan will be thrilled.”

  A chilly night wind came through the broken door and made my decision for me. While I packed a bag, Michael and Grant helped Jack fix the door by nailing a wooden tea tray over the partially shattered window and boarding up the door.

  “That will do until tomorrow.”

  “My landlord is out of town, so I don’t know when I could get it replaced,” I worried.

  “I have a buddy that will come over and help me replace it,” Jack said, giving the door an extra tap with the hammer.

  Michael walked with us out to Jack’s car. “One of the officers said he can give me a ride home, Jack,” I heard him say behind me. “Go ahead and get her home so she can rest.”

  I reached out and took Michael’s hand. “Michael, thank you so much. I’m sorry I put you in a risky situation like that,” I swallowed hard, tears stinging my eyes, “but you guys probably saved my life tonight. Thank you.”

  “You sure you are all right?” Michael asked,
searching my face. “You want us to take you by the ER?”

  I smiled thinly. “Thanks. I’m OK. Some of Elizabeth’s chamomile tea will fix me right up.”

  He helped me into the car, reaching across to snap the seat belt when my hands shook. He laid his warm hand gently on my neck. “It’s OK. You are safe now,” he said, looking into my eyes.

  He closed the door and Jack pulled away. When I turned back, he stood at the curb looking after us, his tall figure bathed in the glow of the streetlight. I watched him until he disappeared from my view.

  Chapter 23

  dc

  I had a restless night at Jack and Elizabeth’s house. I found myself sitting bolt upright more than once, gasping in the darkness, looking around the room in the dim light of the hall lamp to make sure I was alone and safe.

  In the morning, I went into the kitchen to find that Jack had already left for work. Elizabeth was frying eggs with one hand and feeding the baby in his high chair with the other. Jordan grabbed my hand and chattered about my “sleepover.”

  “You sleep OK? Feeling OK?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I guess so. I’m pretty tired. And I have a big bruise on my hip. At least I seem to be all in one piece.”

  She shook her head. “What a crazy thing to happen. I hope they have that guy locked up tight.”

  I called Renae to see if she was all right. When she got on the phone, she sounded a little rattled. She told me the police had called and said they planned to send someone over later in the morning to take a statement from her. She said she told the policeman on the phone she had seen Jeremy Hunsaker a couple of times in the airport parking lot after he was fired. She had been on her way into work and had thought it strange, but he had not spoken to her. The only other incident was that a few days ago a note, mostly illegible, had been stuffed in her mailbox. It said something about the “day would come,” but she had thought it was a joke of some kind.

  Elizabeth tried to talk me out of going to work, but I knew they would be shorthanded. Besides, I wanted the comfort of feeling my life was back to normal.

  My phone rang as I drove into the airport parking lot and angled into a stall. I picked up the call to hear Michael’s voice.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Do you feel OK after that episode last night?”

  I brushed my hair out of my eyes. “Yeah, I think so. I’m pretty worn out, but I’ll be all right. Thanks again so much for all you did. How is your leg?”

  “I’m a little gimpy, but not bad. Kind of humiliated that he got the best of me for a minute there. You are working today?”

  “Yes, a short shift. Just filling in for a bit. I have to go to the police station later. They want more information and another signature. And while I’m there, I want to go over to the clerk’s office and look for more information on my father’s family. I found the title to my grandfather’s property last time, you know, but I couldn’t find any closing papers or documents with my father’s name on them. I haven’t been able to find anything on the Internet about him either. I just have the nickname that I got off of his note to my mother and I’m sure that’s part of the problem. If I just had his real first name …”

  I checked my watch and saw I was almost late. I juggled my bag and the phone as I locked the car and headed in to work.

  “Have you gone to the library?” Michael asked. “They have The Missoulian on microfiche for years back. I would think you could find an obituary for your grandfather. I know you don’t have a first name for him, but I’m thinking it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out who he was, especially since you know he died around the time you were born. An obituary would probably have names of surviving family members.”

  “I had thought about that. I think I’ll stop by there after work.”

  “Are you sure you are up to this today?” His voice sounded concerned.

  I sighed. “Yes, I’d like to get on with my research.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Maybe I can help. Is that all right?”

  I stopped at the door of the terminal. It felt so good to hear his voice on the phone—so comforting. But I worried that he was just trying to be nice, that he felt sorry for me because of the break in last night.

  “That would be great, but I don’t want to bother you. You probably need to get home to Emma.”

  “No problem. She has a sleepover at a friend’s house tonight. I’d be glad to help. What time?”

  “About five thirty, I think.”

  “I’ll see you then, down by the coffee cart.”

  “OK.” I hung up the phone feeling like a fresh breeze had swept through my tired body.

  When I got to the office, Kevin and Leslie cornered me, demanding an explanation. Renae had called them. I told the story with frequent interruptions of shock and dismay. They remembered the man who had worked there as a security guard. They shook their heads in disbelief. Leslie hugged me and said she was glad I was not hurt.

  As soon as I got to my desk, Mark came through the door. He insisted I sit down and tell him what had happened. Renae had called him last night after the police phoned her. He had hardly slept all night, he said, feeling responsible for not anticipating the danger Jeremy Hunsaker presented to me. Weeks ago, after I had told Mark that I saw Hunsaker staring at me in the restaurant and that Bobbie had seen him loitering in front of the airport, Mark had asked the chief of airport security about the man. But the chief did not have any substantial evidence that his former employee posed any real threat to anyone. Mark was sorry he hadn’t pressed the matter.

  I told him there was no way he could have known, of course. Me either. Just a crazy set of circumstances. He apologized until I held my hands up and told him to stop. He wanted to know if I needed the day off. I was OK, I told him. And work would get my mind off things.

  It was a wonder I got anything done at work at all. Devon and Lily cornered me for the story and then made me stand by while they told everyone else. I was relieved to have an end to all the attention by the time I left work.

  I headed to the police station to sign some additional papers and answer a few other questions about the events of the previous night. The officers reassured me Hunsaker would be safely behind bars for a very long time.

  The process was mercifully short, and I left the office feeling grateful to have the whole ordeal behind me. I hoped I would never hear Jeremy Hunsaker’s name again.

  I went upstairs to the clerk and recorder’s office and settled in at a computer. I pulled the piece of paper from my pocket with my cramped writing—the reference for the deed transfer I had found when I was in last. I typed them into the computer to pull up the book and page numbers I needed, then asked a clerk to help me look through the book and locate the microfilm number.

  I went to the red metal cabinet of microfilm I had been shown when I was in last, anxious to see the deed transfer at last, hoping for family names and the real first name for my father. Number 732. 734. 735. Where was 733? I ran my finger frantically over the long rows of gray boxes to see if the box had been misplaced.

  I went to the desk and waited, tension building in my stomach, while the clerk helped a man in a suede sport coat.

  “It should be there,” she said walking to the microfilm cabinet. She shook her head, puzzled, when she saw the box was missing. “It must be out for repair. Sometimes they break, you know. I can let you know when it comes back in.”

  I looked at the clock and realized it was too late to do anything else, so I gave her my number and reluctantly headed toward the door.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the thin, gray-haired woman I had noticed last time I was there. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe my nerves were just on edge from everything that had been happening, but I was sure she was watching me over her blue-rimmed glasses. It was a look that made me shiver without really knowing why.

  I walked through the door of the library and saw Michael, strikingly handsome in a dark blue shirt and gray sweater, leani
ng against the coffee cart. He walked toward me and I suddenly became self-conscious of my bulky airport uniform. My pants looked like a pair of bunchy, navy surgical scrubs. I wiped at a spot of dirt on my shirt I’d acquired from helping load baggage onto a plane.

  “Ready to kick up a little dust in the research room?” he asked with a smile.

  I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Wow, I’m just a barrel of laughs to hang out with, aren’t I? First, I nearly get you killed, then I bore you to death.”

  He laughed, and I was keenly aware of his hand on my arm as we walked up the stairs to the main entrance.

  We went to the reference area—a quiet part of the library he was familiar with, having done research for his work—and entered into an even quieter room in the north corner of the building. Michael asked the librarian how to get the correct microfiche to find an obituary for my grandfather, which would have been published shortly before I was born.

  I took in the surroundings. An intricately detailed clipper ship rested in a glass bottle beneath the stern gaze of Francis Lyman Worden, one of the founding fathers of Missoula. A huge book the size of a coffee table lay open. It was yellowed and sagged with the weight of its years.

  Michael handed me the microfiche roll, and I loaded it into the machine. My hands fumbled as I felt his arm brushing against mine and his aftershave filled my senses. The machine clicked and whirred. Michael tweaked the focus until we found the right issue of the newspaper and then the obituary page. We searched for an obituary for a Morrison who died just before I was born. My heart sped up as I saw, “Charles Walker Morrison, Local Businessman, Dies at Age Fifty-seven.”

  I scanned down the page. Life bio, community service, etc., etc…. predeceased by wife, Vera Ann … My heart sped up when I read the next line. “Charles Morrison was survived by a son, ‘Skip’ Morrison.”

  “No! Oh, I am so cursed!” I complained loudly. The librarian’s head popped up and turned in my direction. I sank my face into my hands and moaned. “How is this possible? I need a real first name. Didn’t he ever go by anything except his nickname? I already looked online and I can’t find anything under ‘Skip.’”