Buried Roots

by Cynthia Raleigh

  “Alright. Here’s what I’ll do. I will call the station and get someone onto the property issue. They’ll be closed or closing right about now, but we’ll get it one way or the other. Can you come on into the station with those documents?”

  “I can, but I need to get a bus or a cab or something.”

  “That’s right, yeah, look, I’ll send a car for you. Are you still at the library?”

  “Yes, I’m at the 9th Street entrance to the parking garage.”

  “Go to the front. I’ll send a car and it will bring you here. Thanks, I gotta start making calls.”

  “Ok, bye.” Perri hung up. Her heart was hammering and she felt short of breath. She was both thrilled and frightened by the information she had found. The implications of what she had read in the notes from the archives were dreadful and morbid, but the outcome could be even worse if they didn’t find Nina.

  Archer punched the phone to redial the station. As soon as the phone was lifted, he spurted out, “This is Vaughn. Urgent. First, I want you to call Bottomley House at the University and see if Dr. Graham is there, and if so, has he been there every night? Get me a name and number too. Now, please connect me to Max pronto.”

  Chapter 35

  It was finally 4:30. Tom hustled into the short line to board the flat-bottomed, open-sided boat. There was a canopy overhead to shield from the sun. He glanced around as he walked to a seat midway on the right side of the boat. There were two couples seated across the back and he wasn’t sure which couple were the police officers.

  After taking a seat, Tom settled the duffle in his lap once more and his phone squarely on top of the duffle, facing up so he wouldn’t miss a call or message if one were to come. He could feel the weight of the knife and scabbard against his thighs. He marveled at the unbelievable amount of discord this blasted piece of metal and leather had brought to their lives in only a few days. What could be that special about this particular knife that it was worth murder, kidnapping, and who knew what else? He quickly took in everyone who boarded after him, trying to assess which was the contact for the knife, but couldn’t tell by simply looking at them. They all looked like tourists, which was what they had expected.

  The tour guide boarded last and untethered the boat with the assistance of someone on the concrete walkway next to the canal. He fiddled with his microphone and settled into his swiveling seat at the rear. Tom wondered if they still call it a stern on a boat of this size and resisted the urge to rock back and forth a little in anticipation of the cruise starting, saying over and over in his mind, ‘Let’s get this going, let’s get this going.’

  The guide began his narrative, welcoming them all to Richmond and assured them they were about to learn a lot of the history of the city. Having taken the tour already, Tom knew that was true, but the present circumstances made the sound of the speech seem false and cheesy. He knew that was totally unfair and not at all accurate, but right now everything was subpar and would remain so until he had Nina back. He found himself fighting down anger, preventing it from becoming rage which he was pretty sure would spoil the transaction.

  The boat glided smoothly and slowly down the canal, the guide chattering away about this building, that lock, the history of a particular piece of ground where something once stood but had been razed to make way for something else that was also no longer there.

  His phone sat mutely, staring up at him, reminding him that he didn’t know where Nina was, he could not call her, and she could not call him without her captor’s permission. The anger threatened to get the better of him again. Beginning at the starting point, he inspected every foot of the banks, walkways, and docks along the side for signs of a police presence, but could see none. He knew they were out there though. There were people sauntering along the canal walkways on both sides, some people reclined on the grass of the occasional canal-side park, some rode bicycles, skated, or just sat on a bench enjoying the late afternoon sunshine.

  The boat turned and headed back to the dock, the guide continued his recitation of the historical significance of everything they passed. The time dragged by, the minutes stretching out further and further like taffy being pulled to the limits of its reach. Another interminable fifteen minutes passed and Tom could see the Basin ahead. Not far and the cruise would be over and whatever was going to happen would happen. He was clenching his teeth and gripping the duffle when his phone rang. They were within five hundred feet of the dock. He seized the phone and looked at the screen, ‘Private.’

  He answered, “He-ello?” Why was his voice all whispery and pathetic? It was a man’s voice, not Nina this time.”

  “Here’s what you are going to do. Listen very carefully because you don’t have a lot of time to do it and if you fail, this won’t turn out the way you want it to. You are getting ready to go under a building that spans the canal. Right after that, the canal becomes very narrow, before you go under the Virginia Street bridge. At that narrow section, just as the canal narrows, and you can see where that is right now, you are going to take that duffle bag and throw it up on to the walkway to your right. You got that? Throw the duffle onto the sidewalk on your right. If you throw it left, or you drop it, or you don’t do it, the deal is off.” The call was ended.

  Tom looked wildly around him, his breath becoming shallow panting. His reflexive action was to turn to the officers in the rear and tell them what had changed, but he caught himself in time. They would have seen him answer the phone. They would know something was happening. He couldn’t do anything about it, he had to trust they would know what to do.

  The tour boat cleared the shaded dimness of the building spanning the canal. Within about a couple of hundred feet, the canal narrowed to half its present width. This was it coming up, the place the man wanted him to toss the bag. Tom swallowed hard. ‘Don’t let me drop it, don’t drop it.’ He set his phone on the bench next to him and waited the eternal seconds until the boat reached the short, narrowed section. His seat was on the right-hand side of the boat, which was the side nearest the pathway he needed and he was extremely grateful for that. He wouldn’t want to have to lean over someone to toss the bag, probably causing considerable alarm that there was a mad man or a bomber on board. People were apt to think anything these days. He stood up.

  Through the haze of his thoughts, from behind him, he heard the guide telling him to be seated. He ignored him. The boat had floated into the narrow section and was only approximately ten feet away from the walkway. Tom gave the duffle bag a hearty swing, from left to right, and released it. He watched it, suspended in the air, sailing toward the walkway. He could hear people starting to comment and talk near him, the guide more forcefully telling him to please be seated before he or someone else was injured. The bag hit the walkway and made a grating sound as the momentum sent it sliding about three feet along the pavement.

  Tom let out an explosive exhalation; he had been holding his breath for some time. The guide’s incensed voice was rattling around in his ears when it was suddenly silenced. A woman had pulled the microphone away from the guide’s mouth and was talking rapidly to him, close to his face. Tom realized this must be Officer Malone. She had been seated just in front of the tour guide. She had leapt out of her seat as soon as she saw him sling the duffle to the shore.

  Tom returned his gaze to the shoreline walking path and saw a man snatch the duffle bag from the path and run. He was amazed that the man was trying to escape on foot. He was already up the shallow bank, but, surely, he would be caught quickly running through the streets. What Tom didn’t expect was to see the man climb onto a motorcycle that was parked in the nearest row of the lot immediately adjacent to the small park, not fifty feet away. Tom’s heart sank. Most of the police were waiting on the opposite side of the canal, the loading side. There were a few officers across the canal, but they were spread out and there weren’t as many roads running alongside the canal on the opposite bank. The streets there were more winding and many were dead ends w
hich had contributed to the belief the exchange would be made on the loading side.

  Tom turned to the back of the boat again. There was a man barking into a cell phone or radio, he couldn’t tell which. This was probably Cory Williams, “Leaving park at Virginia Street bridge. Black Kawasaki motorcycle, gray helmet, black jeans, gray t-shirt, pulling out of lot going northwest on Virginia toward 12th. Go, go!”

  The other passengers were twisting and turning on their benches, asking each other what was happening, staring at Tom in alarm, shouting at the guide to tell them what was going on. Officer Malone was pointedly encouraging the guide to speed up the last few hundred yards to the dock. The guide was nervously steering the boat and pushing the speed as much as he dared, his forgotten microphone dangling from the coiled cord.

  Archer heard the call. He tore out of the parking spot, flipped on the lights and siren, and streaked out onto 14th Street. He sped through the light at Cary and turned onto E. Canal Street, barely decreasing his speed. The motorcyclist very well may decide to continue straight ahead onto Byrd and go against the one-way traffic long enough to turn off, but he might take 12th Street and Archer wanted to be right there when he did.

  The bricks of E. Canal provided a rougher ride than usual, traveling at high speed. Cars were pulling over as best they could on the narrow road that skirted the canal. Archer arrived at the intersection of Canal and 12th and stopped, looking ahead and to both sides for a motorcycle. Nothing. He continued on Canal as he used his radio, “Anyone seen him? Where is he now? I’m still on Canal, just northwest of 12th, headed to Canal and 10th.”

  A voice came back to him, “No visuals, Detective.”

  Archer dropped the radio mic into the seat and turned left on 10th, crossing over the expressway and passing Byrd. He stopped at the intersection of 10th and Haxall Point, realizing there were too many ways the cyclist could have gone: roads, crosswalks, footbridges, all leading away from the canal area. The guy had most likely peeled off Virginia onto one of the many alleys or walkways almost immediately, while he was shielded by buildings and a concrete retaining wall. He stopped several times to ask pedestrians if they had seen a man speeding on a motorcycle, but no one had. If he’d taken the canal walk from the park through Haxall Point, he would have had access to the highways and roads going in all directions while Archer was still heading for Canal. Or he could have pulled into a garage, even the back of a truck.

  A BOLO was dispatched and the officers were to continue to search the area, but Archer didn’t hold out any hope for finding the guy lurking around waiting to be picked up. He drove back to the dock area to locate Tom who was, no doubt, wondering what was happening.

  Chapter 36

  Archer left his car in a restaurant’s small parking area under the expressway and walked across the street. He could see Tom sitting dejectedly on the low stone wall next to the flight of stairs leading down to the docking area. Archer sat down next to him without comment.

  “They haven’t called. I haven’t heard anything. What now?” Tom dazedly stared at the red brick walkway.

  “Now we go back to the station and I’d like to do that right away. The search will continue for the cyclist who picked up the duffle, but Perri has some information that I think may help us.”

  Tom’s head snapped up and he faced Archer, “What? What did she find?”

  Archer stood, “Why don’t you leave your vehicle here, or better yet, let me have someone else bring it back to the station. Ride with me and I’ll tell you what Perri told me over the phone. She is probably at the station by now, or very nearly there, with some documents.”

  “Shouldn’t I stay here? What if they let her go here and I’m gone.”

  “There are going to be officers here for a long time. Let’s go.”

  “Ok, but I can drive, I don’t …”

  “Just ride with me and I’ll tell you about this, ok?”

  Tom slid into the passenger seat of the police car while Archer passed off the keys to the Explorer to one of the patrolmen posted at the docking area. As he drove back to the state police station, Archer repeated what little information Perri had been able to tell him, because of the urgency, about the Grahams and the possibility of Orcenith Graham’s involvement.”

  “You mean the man I met in your office?” His voice got louder, “You mean the Dr. Graham who came in to examine the knife? That guy? The one we gave all the information to? The man I told where we were staying in Richmond? That’s the man who may have kidnapped my wife?”

  Archer nodded, “It could be. We can’t accuse him at this point, we have no evidence, not yet anyway. I am hoping to find out about the property issue as soon as we get back, and here we are.”

  As they hustled across the parking lot, Tom continued, “We showed it to him! Do you think after he saw it he decided he wanted it for a collection or something?”

  “No, if it was him, I think he has been wanting the knife all along. I think he may be the unknown buyer.” Archer looked back at Tom, who had stopped in astonishment. “Come on, Tom, I don’t have time to stand out here right now. We didn’t just pull the man off the street. He was recommended by the University, the only expert we had access to at the time. What reason would I have had for refusing him?” He continued to walk toward the doors, “If you want to sit in the lobby or go to the cafeteria, or whatever, that’s fine, but I have to follow up on several things and hopefully try to go get your wife.” With that, he turned back around and disappeared through the doors.

  Tom ran the rest of the way across the tarmac.

  ***

  After checking at the desk, making a stop in the rest room, and getting something to drink, Tom made his way to Archer’s office. He was on the phone, furiously scribbling notes over a pad of paper. Tom raised his eyebrows in question to see if it was alright for him to come in and have a seat. Archer nodded assent.

  “And not since then?” Archer listened. “Uh huh. What kind of car?” He jotted a note. “Alright. Thanks for your help.” He hung up. Using his notes as reference, he recited, “Bottomley House. Dr. Graham checked in last Saturday morning, the morning of our event. It is confirmed that he stayed there Saturday through Monday nights, but after that, even though his room was still booked and at least a portion of his luggage was still in the room, they cannot confirm that they saw him and his vehicle was not in the parking area. The staff made a point of checking Wednesday night and this morning since he hadn’t been in his room Tuesday night. Tuesday is when he was here to assess the knife. Looks like he didn’t go back there after that.”

  “It has to be him then!” Tom sat up straight, suddenly animated.

  “It could be him.”

  “Well, he was here, saw the knife, and then disappeared, right along with my wife.”

  “I can’t just put out a warrant for his arrest and go round him up without something, some indication to justify it. Also, I have to consider other possibilities and check them out too.” Archer said calmly.

  “Such as what exactly?”

  “Such as maybe something has happened to Dr. Graham as well.” He paused and let it sink in a bit. “The man did come here and see the knife, and he got information about it, and he has disappeared. However, his clothes, or at least most of them, were left in his room, as though he left for the day to the conference with a briefcase or whatever he needed but never came back.”

  “I see what you mean. I still think he did it, but I get why you can’t just go grab him.”

  The desk phone rang. “Vaughn?” He pulled the top sheet of paper off, setting it to the side, and began jotting notes, then stopped and listened. “Yes, that’s excellent news. Put those coordinates out to dispatch. Fax it to me right now, will you Max?” He tossed the receiver back into the cradle, ripped off the second sheet of paper and held it up, “This is where.”

  “What? What’s happening?” Tom stood, watching Archer check his service weapon and radio, and begin attaching other ite
ms to his belt. “Hang on, Tom, watch that fax machine for me. I want that fax as soon as it comes across. Be right back.” Tom could hear Archer’s voice echoing against the tile floor and block walls of the main hallway, shouting instructions. The fax machine came to life, the panel lit up, and after fifteen or twenty maddening seconds of warming up, it started printing a fax. Tom watched it jerkily advance, a little at a time, and finally spit a sheet of paper out into the tray.

  He had just picked it up when Archer returned. “Great!” He took the fax from Archer and looked it over. “We have a location for property belonging to Dr. Graham.” Before Tom could say anything, he continued, “Follow me, I need to get moving.” Tom followed Archer out of his office and back toward the lobby. “We do not yet know for sure this man has done anything wrong or that he isn’t a victim himself. We can’t just swoop in and haul him off. What we can do is swoop in and, if someone is in the house, get permission to search the property for Nina or any sign she has been there if we can, at least until the warrant goes through. We have a warrant in the works. The property is pretty rural, but lucky for us, it’s this side of Richmond. We’re getting ready to leave now. Please stay here and I’ll…”

  “Oh no way, no way. I have to come along”