A Dead Red Oleander (The Dead Red Mystery series)

by RP Dahlke

  Assured the boys had their lunches, and were okay to hang out in the shade for another hour, I decided to drive over to the aero-ag flight school to see if the owner's son was still taking personal inventory of his dad's place.

  The office was locked, but a figure slowly moved around in the pole barn. That would be Alvin, the one with the look of a ferret with his sharp little nose and moist brown eyes. My initial evaluation of the man had been off by a mile—it was the other one, Clark Sullivan, who'd sent me in the wrong direction.

  "Miss Bains, isn't it?" It wasn't Alvin who greeted me, it was the owner's son, still in a starched dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "I didn't expect to see you again."

  He put aside the shovel he'd been leaning on, and held up his dirty hand to show me he'd have to pass on a friendly handshake. "I heard about Burdell Smith. I'm so very sorry, Miss Bains."

  For whatever reason, I didn't explain to him that the ballistics for the bullet in Burdell Smith didn't match Clark Sullivan's gun.

  "Did you know Burdell?" I asked.

  "Nope. I guess he didn't get to enjoy much of his retirement, did he?"

  "No, he didn't. Is Alvin around?"

  "He was finished with the inventory, so I laid him off." Seeing me notice the shovel, he said. "My knee has been giving me fits today, and the only thing I could find for a crutch was this," he said, patting the wooden handle. "Pretty pathetic, huh?"

  I thanked him and left. Coming to a stop sign at a country intersection, I patted my jeans for my new cell phone, then tore through my purse looking for it. I'd put it in my backpack, hadn't I? Yes, backpack, not my purse, and the backpack was with my lunch and cell phone in my airplane back at Burdell Smith's place.

  Exhaustion explained why I was putting things in the wrong places and forgetting details. I stopped looking and sat back. I wanted the cell because I'd forgotten to ask Caleb if the jailbird he had in custody had a gunshot wound on his left leg.

  There was that niggling feeling I was forgetting something, a connection between Clark Sullivan, Nancy's attempted kidnapping, the leg wound, the… something. Oh, hell, I was just too damn tired.

  Reaching down, I shifted into first, let up on the clutch, pressed the gas pedal, and eased into the empty intersection. That was when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a huge truck coming at me. Too late to get out of his way, I felt the force of the impact and the crunch of metal, the squeal of my truck tires bitterly complaining as my dad's antique truck was shoved violently sideways.

  The last thing I remembered, before it all went black, was me praying that the puny lap-belt my dad always made me wear, and the heavy iron of his old truck frame, would save my life.

  Chapter Twenty-three:

  There was a smell I couldn't quite identify. Heavy loam, green plants, and something else that had a sweet, if oily, scent.

  My head was pounding an uneven rhythm and my mouth was dry. I put my tongue out to lick my cracked and bleeding lip, and decided that wasn't a good idea. I opened one eye; the other refused. When I tried to roll out of my uncomfortable position I came to an abrupt halt. One of my arms wasn't cooperating. With my good eye, I peered up to my wrist. It was shackled with a police-issued metal handcuff. My hand in the cuff was attached to the strut on the bumper under my dad's truck.

  I also noted that the radiator was leaking fluid. That was the sweet smell. The loamy smell was recently turned soil in a field of cotton. Now how in the hell had I gotten in a field of cotton? Hadn't I passed some cotton fields between Burdell's place and the flight school? Then how did I get … oh yeah, that huge truck. It hit me, hard. Not the Escalade; that behemoth was now in police custody. Then who …? My head hurt too much to think about that and besides, I was thirsty.

  How long have I been here? What time is it?

  Wait a minute. Why're you asking all this dumb stuff when the real question is, who handcuffed you to a truck and left you here?

  I wriggled and pushed with my feet, but still couldn't get enough purchase to move up enough to see the watch on my left wrist. I gave up and lay back down looking to the west. It was maybe three or four in the afternoon. Surely by now my dad had tried to call my cell. My cell. It was in my backpack. I'd left the two local boys at Burdell's while I took the thirty-minute drive to the flight school around ten. I left the flight school around eleven after a short visit with the owner's son. They must be wondering, everyone must be wondering where I was by now, but who would think to look for me down here in a cotton field?

  I was wishing for help, water, a key, a cell phone. A nice cold Pepsi would do.

  At the distant whine of a single engine airplane I tried to scoot out far enough to see if it was looking for me, but it passed over the field and kept on flying north.

  The field sat below the road, probably on an old riverbank, and unless someone made an effort, I didn't think they'd see the truck.

  About the time I was thinking I might have to be here all night, I heard a car slowly rolling to a stop. A door slammed and clods of dirt rolled down hill to where I waited. For a moment, my heart rate picked up and light shudder of fear ran through me. Friend or foe? Was this the killer back to finish me off, or had help arrived at last?

  Tan pants with a blue stripe down the leg and black brogues said California Highway Patrol. His knees popped when he squatted. He removed his hat, his eyes followed the handcuffed wrist down to the woman with cotton balls in her hair lying under an old Ford truck.

  "Lalla Bains," I croaked to the officer, then flinched at the pain those two words caused my split lip.

  "Lalla Bains?" he said, looking a little closer at what couldn't possibly match the picture he must've been given of me. "We've been scouring the county for a plane crash, not a car wreck. Let me get you out of these cuffs, and I'll call for an ambulance."

  "No amb'lance, pease. Jus' wawer."

  He nodded at my feeble efforts to communicate, and hitching up his pants, he took a little key off his belt, gently removed my wrist, and slowly lowered it to the ground. "Your eye is swollen shut and I see some bruising on your cheekbone. Do you think anything is broken, miss?"

  I rubbed the wrist and moved my shoulders around. "B'uised shou'der, tha's all."

  "Uh-huh. Can you tell me who assaulted you, miss?"

  I put a hand up to feel the swollen eye. "Accident."

  He made a sound like he didn't believe me. "How about the person who handcuffed you to the truck?"

  I had been lying here for several hours trying to figure that out, and why he hadn't finished me off when he could. Of course, I could've died of dehydration before anyone actually found me.

  Maybe I should shut up and thank my lucky stars. As Pearlie said, nothing for this guy has gone right. I giggled, which hurt my lip all over again. I was dehydrated and exhausted and becoming hysterical.

  "Miss Bains? You all right?"

  "Yeah, sorry, an' no I don' know who cuffed me to the truck."

  "Then I'll get you that water."

  When he came back he twisted off the cap of a plastic bottle and handed it to me. "I called it in and the EMTs are on their way. Sorry, Miss Bains, but it's SOP for us. I told them your situation, and based on your injuries, you can drink the water, but we're to wait for them to pull you out. Then it's their call as to clear you for home or a hospital."

  I accepted the water bottle and as I drank, he squatted down on his haunches, his long arms hanging over his knees. "You know, we don't usually start looking for missing persons in the first twenty-four hours but the sheriff in your county was very persuasive."

  Caleb must've been beside himself with worry, and I'd treated him so badly it was a wonder he didn't completely write me off.

  "And your cousin has been combing the area for hours. She flew over the field and saw the truck, insisted we take a look. Glad we did."

  My eye, the one that would open, filled with tears and my heart swelled with pride at the determination of both Caleb and Pear
lie.

  When he saw that I'd finished the water, he took the empty bottle and said, "They're here."

  In another couple of minutes, two EMTs squatted down next to the truck. After putting a neck brace on me, they told me how they were going to pull me out. I nodded and gritted my teeth for the extraction.

  "One—two—"

  No way was I going to allow them to take me to the hospital for tests and prodding. I was pretty sure I knew who our Jack Lee Carton was, and where I could find him.

  "Three."

  I pushed with the heels of my work boots and together we were able to get me out from under the truck. He helped me stand, hanging on long enough to see that I wasn't going to collapse. I took one look at my dad's old truck and sank back down to my knees.

  "Yeah," he said, pulling me to my feet again. "They don't make 'em like that anymore."

  <><><><><>

  With a patch on my bad eye and my arm in a sling, I sat on a stool between Pearlie and Caleb, and repeated everything I could think of about the last few hours.

  I got as far as my talk with the owner's son at the aero-ag school when Marshal Balthrop interrupted. "What did you say his name was?"

  "He said his name was Don Upton, but Jim, Don Upton is also Jack Carton."

  Jim cocked his head to one side as if listening to a conversation in his head. "The owner's son is Kyle, not Don, and he's not a lawyer, he's a farmer."

  Pearlie fished around in her purse, came out with a card, and shoved it at him. "Lalla here got hit on the head, she's obviously concussed. Here's his business card. Says right here his name is Don Upton, an attorney in Sacramento. Give it a call if you don't believe me."

  I kept quiet on Pearlie's need to vindicate Don Upton's reputation.

  I asked Jim, "You've met the owner's son?"

  "Yes, he came into our office in Sacramento when his dad died. Young guy, a big-boned Swede."

  Jim took the card, pulled out his cell, and punched in the numbers. He closed the phone.

  "It's the number for the downtown library," he said, looking from Pearlie to me.

  "And to think I went there again to ask about Alvin," I said. "He was leaning on a shovel because his leg was bothering him."

  "I remember, he had a limp," Pearlie added. "He said he got it in Afghanistan."

  "Alvin said Clark Sullivan bragged about being in Afghanistan."

  Pearlie sucked in a breath. "They were in cahoots, the two of them."

  Jim shook his head. "He could have killed you when you went to the aero-ag school this morning but he didn't. You interrupted something he felt was more important than killing you."

  I thought it was odd, Don Upton with a shovel in his hand instead of a pencil. "He told me he had laid off Alvin. He told me that while he had a shovel in his hand."

  Jim expression was grim. "Remember when I told you this guy always has two plans? He could've killed you after he hit you in that intersection. Instead, he rolled your truck into the cotton field and handcuffed you to the bumper. You could've died from dehydration, but I suspect he's betting you made it out. Miss Bains, I believe he feels he has to finish you off, but he's just compulsive enough to want to do it on his terms. If you're up to it, I'd like for you to go back to the aero-ag school office."

  Caleb put out a hand. "He'll be long gone by now."

  Jim shook his head. "I don't think so. Remember what I said about his profile? This is a man who is very set in his ways. He plans, executes his job by his rules, and then leaves. You have thwarted his plans, cost him his kill on Nancy and Mad Dog. He has a bone to pick with you, Miss Bains, and now that you know who is responsible for the death of your father's friend, he figures you will want to prove it."

  "After ramming her truck and trying to kill her? She's not going back there, Jim."

  "She won't be alone."

  "Jim, do you have a plan?" I asked,

  "He's a psycho, playing games." Caleb stood. "She's not going."

  Jim Balthrop ignored Caleb. "With your help, we'll flush him out. What do you say, Miss Bains?"

  I turned to Caleb. "I don't see any other way of doing this, do you?"

  "I'm coming too!" Pearlie said, standing.

  Caleb gave up on me, but pointed a finger at Pearlie. "Only if you promise to stay in a vehicle."

  "Yeah, sure," She said, giving me a quick wink.

  Caleb, Jim Balthrop, Pearlie, and I followed the county sheriff and his crew to within a half mile of the flight school. From there, the county sheriff and his men fanned out to keep watch on any backroad escape routes.

  We took Caleb's cruiser through the gate and into the quiet yard of the flight school. A white Chevy Impala was parked next to the office. Sandwiched between Caleb and Jim Balthrop, their weapons at ready, I stepped on the welcome mat and hesitated. Something bulky had been stuck under it, I could feel it under my foot. I looked up to Caleb, but before I could say anything, I heard Don Upton's voice say, "Come in, Miss Bains."

  I reached for the door knob and Caleb's hand closed around my wrist. With a finger to his lips, he cautioned me to wait. Looking behind him, he stepped back and picked up an old wood box leaning against the building. He took off both of his boots, and his police belt, and stuck them in the box.

  I stood nervously waiting for directions. I whispered, "What …?"

  Jim nodded sharply, then added his shoes and held up his sidearm in question. Caleb waved it away. Then Jim quietly directed Caleb to hand him the box.

  Caleb hesitated, then handed it over as Jim crouched down, the box at ready between his thighs. Caleb held me by my waist, keeping me steady as he showed Jim three fingers and started a countdown.

  One … I stood stiffly waiting, now sure that something was going to happen and soon.

  Two … Jim edged the box closer to my feet and just slightly above the mat.

  Three … In one deft move, Caleb lifted me off the mat and Jim replaced the pressure of my body with the loaded box.

  Caleb took off running with me in his arms, Jim's feet grabbing for purchase in the dust as he scrambled after us.

  The blast hit us at thirty feet away, knocking Caleb to his knees and flattening Jim beside us.

  The resulting explosion shot burning debris in all directions, but fortunately missed us.

  When we'd dropped to the ground, Caleb had covered me with his body. He rolled off and squeezed my good shoulder. "You okay?"

  "Some welcome mat."

  "You're okay," he said, pulling me to my feet.

  Jim got to his knees, shook his head, then opened his mouth wide to pop his ears. "Damn near got us. That was some quick thinking, Caleb. What alerted you to the bomb?"

  Caleb helped Jim to his feet then moved us further away from the fire. He rubbed the back of his hand across my cheek. "Lalla saw it first."

  "I was watching the door," Jim said, staring at the building going up in flames. "What'd she see?"

  "When you've been around a woman as long as I've been around Lalla Bains," he said, his eyes roving over my body for injuries, "you get to read each other pretty well."

  Pearlie ran up and grabbed me in a tight hug. "I could feel that blast all the way back to the deputy's car. Are y'all okay? Did you get him?"

  Caleb said, "He had a bomb rigged to the doormat."

  I said, "As soon as I stepped inside, it would've gone off."

  "Then—"

  Another sound caught my attention. A single engine aircraft was revving its engine for takeoff.

  Pearlie pointed at the airstrip behind the hangar. One of the flight trainers, a Piper Cub, sped down the flight school's runway and lifted off with just enough room to clear the hangar. "That bastard! He stuck around to see if you'd take the bait!"

  Jim Balthrop's shoulders slumped. "All we can do is put a BOLO on the aircraft and hope for the best."

  "A ball?" Pearlie tilted her head and put her arm around me. "Never mind. You boys go on and get out your ball thingy, or whatever, and I
'll see to Lalla here."

  Jim, anxious to get to the business of capturing the killer, strode off with Caleb.

  Pearlie pulled me in the direction of the pole hangar. "My Cessna's parked here. Now don't fuss. Nobody was around when I landed, I checked."

  "You can't follow him. You don't know which way he went."

  "The marshal gave me an idea. That is, if you think you can see well enough for what I got planned. If you can, I think we have a chance to nail this bastard."

  "I can only see out of the one eye, and my balance isn't too hot right now, besides—"

  "That's good enough. Now let's scoot outta here before they see what we're up to."

  We got into the Cessna, and she did a quick preflight, then taxied to the end of the runway, kicked the rudder and did a 180 turn, revved the engine, pulled back the yoke, and took off. And because she felt a little guilty about our subterfuge, she banked and swooped over the tops of the police cars.

  I looked down and saw Caleb's upturned face, his mouth open. I could almost hear him say, "Oh shit!"

  Pearlie climbed high enough so that we were in legal air space for private aircraft and flew north while I searched for the smaller and slower Piper cub. "Why do you think he went this way?"

  "Air traffic west of here will be thick with commercial aircraft, and east are the Sierras. That little ol' Piper Cub ain't got the stuff to cross a mountain range. South is filled with police coming this way. So, I'm guessing north, probably got a landing field and, and like Jim said, the guy's always got two plans. He's probably got a car hidden for his getaway."

  She was right about the direction, and within minutes I saw the tan wings of the Piper Cub and pointed. "Now what? Chase him until he runs out of gas?"

  Pearlie's grin was about as evil as I could hope for. "I dated the cutest boy from MIT. He taught me all about trajectory and rate of descent for bowling balls. We practiced on an old abandoned car, and both of us got good enough so we could hit that car dead-on center. The Cessna's faster than the Cub, and he's a high-wing same as us, so he won't see us till it's too late."

  "You have a bowling ball in your granny's Cessna?"

  "Two of 'em. Granny and I take our own with us. Behind the seats in bags. You reach over and get one out, and when we're close enough, bombs away."