Ted didn’t respond.
The trucker went on. “It used to be my job to help people, but I got tired of helping so many who didn’t need it. Didn’t have time for those who did.” The man looked thoughtful for a moment. “I guess you looked like one of the ones who needed it.”
Jesus. What was he, a doctor? “What did you do?”
“Pastored a church.”
Huh.
“For eighteen years. It was good work, right-thing-to-do type stuff, you know. It felt nice to bring comfort to people in need. Real need, now. Not want. I didn’t want to give so much time and effort to people who could do for themselves but wouldn’t. Seemed like all I did was hold peoples’ hands. The people I actually helped? You know, so they could get back on their feet?” The trucker laughed softly and said, “There just weren’t enough of ’em to make the rest of it worth the effort. Over time, I guess I got angry at what I did. Started to resent it, you know? That’s no way for a pastor to be. Not sure what the Lord thinks of it, but I just got tired of the whole damned business.
“So now I drive a truck. And hell, the funny thing is, even though I drive a truck? I have more time for my family. Ask me if I feel bad about it.”
Ted didn’t ask.
“It’s still nice to help, though,” the trucker went on. “You look like one of the rare birds. So tell me. Did I do the right thing?”
It took a moment or two, but Ted finally said, “Yes. And thank you.”
“You do something wrong?” The trucker glanced into a side-view mirror.
“More things than I can count. But illegal? No. Not since I was a kid.”
“Then there you go,” the trucker said, reaching to tweak one of the radio knobs. “That’s why I helped you.”
CHAPTER 35
The political talk poisoned the air Ted breathed: friendly banter, not-so-friendly banter, adulation, skepticism, point-counterpoint diatribe. For the first time in days, he fought sleep.
Finally, the talk seemed to go away. The dash lights dimmed, the knee pain took a break, the pit bull hanging off his left flank released its grip. Ted felt a little warmer.
“Hogwash,” the truck driver said, startling Ted. “Pardon my French. But I don’t buy this guy. Denton McDaniel. Denny. I should be more forgiving, but how can I when he’s just like all the rest of the politicians?” The trucker laughed as he said, “He’s hidin’ somethin’. They’re all hidin’ somethin’, right?”
Ted affirmed generically.
The trucker’s coffee had taken hold. “Guarantee he’s got a secret somewhere. And just like all secrets do, his’ll bubble up.” He chuckled for a second. “Talk about chickens coming home to roost!” The trucker belted out a throaty laugh. “Nuthin’ like running for president!”
A couple of quiet minutes passed. Chickens. Ted realized he never understood how the image became the metaphor it did, but he knew what it meant. Somewhere, wondering why the chickens might leave home in the first place, Ted’s sleepy mind traversed the disappearing margin between past and present. Police lights blinked in the eyes of black squirrels. The pleasant sounds of White Birch campers playing in Loon Lake drowned the political talk. The manufactured scent of the truck’s air freshener mingled with the pinesap at camp.
… coming home to roost…
The double standard between Buck’s luxury and Ted’s current situation weighed on him, as though telling him—no, screaming at him—something he couldn’t understand. He kept picturing a mugger hurting Neil, and a disgruntled defendant hurting Kathryn. What had they done wrong? Why had they deserved…
… It was your truck, Ted…
Some distant voice interrupted. “Oan all uh-eep, ’other…”
The political talk reappeared. Ted’s knee complained, and the pit bull reset its jaws. He felt a pat on his shoulder. “Huh?”
“Don’t fall asleep, brother. You’re supposed to help keep me awake, remember?”
Ted sat up straight and checked the makeshift compress he’d fashioned out of his shirt and tie. “Sorry,” he said.
He tried to stay awake. The radio talk blinked in and out of his awareness. He even tried to concentrate on his pain, but all sensation faded. Every now and then, the CB squawked and startled him. Trucks passed and blinked their lights. The trucker passed others and blinked his. Interstate signs went by. Lima. Findlay. When the artificial light of Bowling Green rolled away to the south, Ted knew they were close to Toledo. Far enough from Ironman to be safe, anyway. Or so he hoped. He didn’t have much of a plan.
He didn’t have any plan. Who could he call?
Joni.
No. Frank’d have an eye on her, wouldn’t he?
Where would he go from Toledo? And how would he get there? The surges of anxiety were so common they’d begun to lose their meaning.
Leaving the country was out of the question. They’d have him flagged at all the borders.
Zeke.
Of course. He’d call Zeke. No one would ever connect him to Zeke.
Static sliced through the radio and into Ted’s wavering awareness. “There goes the signal from Dayton,” the trucker said, his hand on the tuning knob. “Time to find something in Toledo.”
Soon, Bob and Hayley rehashed an argument from an hour before. Ted almost groaned as he realized the Toledo station was playing the show an hour behind the one in Dayton. The only thing worse than listening to that shit was having to listen to it again.
He wanted to find a way to stay awake and allow the truck’s cab to transform into a warm grove of white birches, a haven for summer campers playing in the sand and water. A place with seven cabins and a headquarters, where a beautiful girl pecked on the keys of an old typewriter, writing her first sloth story. Just for Ted.
Then Hoss appeared. Then Buck.
Ted remembered liking Buck. Before Hoss’s behavior destroyed him, anyway. Buck had the smile of a true politician, complete with a strong handshake. Ted’s first conversation with McDaniel repeated in his mind.
Call me Buck. What should your nickname be?
Ted.
But that’s your name.
You can call it my nickname if you want.
Nicknames.
Buck thought everyone needed a nickname. Almost everyone in the cabin had one.
I don’t know their real names.
The white birch grove in Ted’s sleepy mind was beautiful. The leaves of the bluff’s cottonwoods waved at him. Sunlight flashed in a million slivers off Loon Lake’s surface and glowed in Karen’s red hair.
I have a secret she doesn’t know.
A sign for Toledo passed, and Ted sat up straight. It didn’t help. His eyelids drooped, no matter how far he lifted his brow.
You have a secret Karen doesn’t know, Ted. You have a secret nobody knows.
The trucker’s voice: he’s got a secret somewhere… Nothin’ like running for president… Chickens… Home to roost.
Kathryn died before Ted could tell her his secret.
Who wanted to hurt her? Dad. Cancer. Is somebody… trying to hurt Dad? Neil died, too. That’s no secret. Ironman probably has secrets. Ironman. Trying to kill me. ‘It was your truck, Ted.’ Ironman. And the other guy. They’re trying to kill ME, not…
An exhausted, mental dome light lit more than the fresh memory of Kathryn’s blown-apart head and the red rivulets.
If only I told Dad when I… nunna of this woulda ever—
Something grabbed Ted by the neck and squeezed.
I killed Kathryn. If I’d only told Dad…
It took thirty years, but Ted’s chickens were coming home.
CHAPTER 36
In western Ohio, Lewis and Mr. Gray found a suitable pick-up truck parked outside an all-night pharmacy.
“Bonus,” Mr. Gray said. “I always wanted an extended cab.”
“Good for you,” Lewis mumbled.
“You think it has leather seats?”
A young man left the pharmacy alone, carrying a s
mall white paper bag.
“Looks like a prescription,” Mr. Gray said.
“Yep.”
“But if it’s a three-pack of rubbers, somebody’s gonna miss him pretty damn quick.”
“Let’s just hope it’s cough medicine,” Lewis said.
The man got into the truck and took off.
Lewis followed.
~~~
Frank’s cell phone rang before he even made it back to the department. The call came from a detective with the Broadbent police. Frank learned of a car chase and some shootings right outside Kathryn Gables’s funeral home. It vaguely sounded like what Ted told the judge in his hospital room. Frank faxed a picture of Ted to his Ohio brethren and removed all the guesswork. Two people IDed Ted in a matter of minutes: the kid whose muscle car was hijacked and a bartender.
A little later, Frank had another conversation with the same detective. The man called with some troubling news.
“All I know at this point in time,” the detective said to Frank, “is, whether or not your Ted Gables killed his wife, he’s garnered himself a reputation around here.”
“Already?” Frank asked.
“Yeah. He attacked John Radiford in the funeral home.”
“What?”
“Right in front of several officers. And attorneys. Sounds like anger management trouble to me. Impulse control. And John Radiford—look, the guy’s kind of a windbag, but he’s a prominent attorney in our county—he’s convinced your man killed his daughter.”
“I don’t think he did.”
“You sure?”
“He’s our only real lead right now, but I still—”
“Is the man prone to physical violence?” the detective asked.
Frank puffed out his mustache and ran his tongue along the inside of his upper lip, feeling the scar. “Not that I know of.”
“All right. Fair enough. But so far, our witness puts Gables at the scenes of both crimes in our area this evening.”
“Both crimes?”
“Eeyyeaahh. Your boy. Let’s, uh, just say he commandeered a kid and his car at gunpoint”—
Frank’s mouth dropped open.
—“and discharged a weapon in the middle of our downtown.”
Frank couldn’t believe it.
“Sawed-off shotgun. We’ll count all that as one crime for the sake of brevity in this conversation.”
“Okay. Then what’s the other crime?”
“Your man’s wanted for the murder of an Ohio State Trooper.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It can’t be…”
“It can. The kid saw Gables talk to the trooper and leave the minimart right as the trooper walked in. Kid said Gables threw the shotgun into a retention pond but couldn’t swear your guy didn’t have another gun. Gables disappeared, and in under a minute, the trooper left the store in a hurry.”
“In a hurry? When he heard about the trouble in town there?”
“We presume so. He put eyes on the minivan pretty soon thereafter.”
“The minivan was there? At the gas station?”
“It was.”
“What about those men? What if they shot the officer?”
“Possibility. They’re wanted, too. But look. The kid saw Gables talk to the trooper. Said your man had taken on this funny walk, was clearly trying to get away with something. We think it’s plausible Gables could’ve hidden outside the store, and when he saw the trooper suddenly doing more than stop for a coffee, shot him.”
Frank shook his head. “The plate on the van’s gotta lead you somewhere, doesn’t it?”
“It would, but the van’s gone.”
“It’s gone? Then might that mean the guys in the van shot the trooper to escape?” Frank was incredulous.
“Sure it could, Detective, uh, Bruska, is it?”
“Bruska. That’s right. Frank Brus—”
“Look, Detective Bruska. We didn’t fall off the goddamned turnip wagon yesterday. We’ve gone through your thought process. But that doesn’t make the state police want to find Gables any less. Especially since he’s the only one we’ve been able to identify.”
Frank took a deep breath.
The Broadbent detective kept the edge in his voice when he said, “Our downtown, and that truck stop, are crawling with sheriff deputies and police, local and state. From me to you, I’d expect a call from somebody. Ohio State Police, U.S. Marshals, FBI? Somebody.”
The two detectives finished their conversation. Frank ran his tongue across the scar again and wondered about how violent Ted might actually be. He decided not to mention the old, blood-stained knife he found in Ted’s cigar box.
CHAPTER 37
Mewling and feather ruffling sounds filled Ted’s head, even when he wondered why he was thinking about chickens.
Kathryn… it was s’pose to be me… Dad, Kathryn. Neil. Mugged. MUGGED?
Ted sat up again, waking quickly. He ignored the pain.
Somebody’s been after me the whole time. Not Kathryn. Neil was murdered. He was—
Buck’s running for president. Buck’s the one who killed Lloyd.
They’re… THEY’RE COVERING IT UP!!
“Zeke,” Ted whispered. “ZEKE!”
The trucker looked over, open concern on his face. “Zeke? Who is Z—”
“We have to stop.”
“You fall asleep and have a bad dream?”
“I need to make a phone call. Do you have a phone?”
“All I have is the CB.”
“That’s not gonna work.”
“All right. The next stop’s ours, friend. Dropping the trailer. Be a phone there. Just a couple minutes.”
Ironman and Trashcan Face. Ted realized for the last three days, he’d been half asleep, three-quarters crazy with grief and anger, and completely blind. He hadn’t connected Neil’s death to Kathryn’s at all. That’s because Neil’s and Kathryn’s murders would never be connected. But Neil’s and Ted’s?
How could I have been so stupid?
Ted mouthed a string of curse words. His focus darted around him. He didn’t know if he could wait ‘just a couple minutes’ or not.
~~~
Frank called the U.S. Marshals, hoping they might find Ted before the Ohio State Police. When he did, he learned the authorities in Ohio had beaten him to the call. Frank didn’t tell them about the nonsensical paperwork in front of him, the stuff he found in the old cigar box. A typewritten story, a handwritten letter with a cartoon drawn at the bottom. He’d already sealed in a manila envelope the third and final article in the box, the hunting knife sporting a bloody fingerprint. If Ted had a violent past, no one needed to know about it just yet.
Ted could be anywhere. Probably charmed his way into a ride out of that truck stop. Frank could hardly imagine Ted hijacking a kid and his car at gunpoint, but he flatly refused to believe Ted had killed the trooper. Law enforcement in Ohio would ransack the credit card record from the truck stop and do their best to ascertain the semi-truck routes. They’d watch through security camera footage and talk to any witnesses they could find, but Ted was gone. It might take hours, even days, to find him.
Subjectively, Frank was convinced Ted didn’t do it. According to the kid, Ted wasn’t armed when he spoke to the trooper and was pretty sure Ted was gone by the time the trooper was shot. But that kind of hearsay wouldn’t fly with the state police, at least not in the heat of a manhunt. Some of those guys might shoot Ted on sight.
Minutes shy of two in the morning, Frank was in a holding pattern. The only suspect in his local murder investigation didn’t do it and was on the lam anyway. Under federal jurisdiction. For new crimes. Frank had The Itch worse than ever, but he’d scratched it every way he knew how. This Itch was also very different. He wanted to talk to Ted but had no way to predict where he might be.
Could I find him before they do?
He flopped down on a nearby couch to look through the old letter and story he’
d found in Ted’s safe. The handwritten letter’s return address was from someone—LLS—in Lake Ann, Michigan. The postmark was from August 26, 1970.
Love, Karen, it said at the end. Ted had saved the letter all these years. Had he saved the knife for all those years, too? How old was that print, anyway?
The letter itself was dated the day before the postmark. Its lower case Is and Js were dotted with circles and smiley faces and hearts, suggesting Karen was at the low end of adolescence when she wrote it. The wording, however, told Frank this girl was intelligent. Its message was sweet and sad. This Karen, whoever she was, was a lovely girl. At the bottom of its last page, a couple of hand-drawn flowers with big petals leaned in opposite directions. A happy-looking cartoon rabbit gazed at him sideways, its eyelashes half as long as its ears.
Love, Karen.
In the letter, she told a disturbing story Frank read two or three times in a row.
On Frank’s other side sat a beyond-ancient story—dated June 6, 1953—about a monster called the Loon Lake Sloth.
Maddox had recognized the creature’s name, said there was a book or books about it somewhere. Said his kid read them, and he’d bring one of them in the morning. Frank doubted the Sloth-thingy held any answers, but he meant to get up and search the internet for the books. Just for the heck of it.
The Benzie County sheriff’s department in Michigan promised over the phone to look into who currently lived at Karen’s 1970 return address. It’d be a long-shot to find anything relevant there, but it was something. For that, Frank would have to wait. Zeke and Betsy Yasko hadn’t called back from Montana, either.
The sloth story entertained Todd Maddox no end, but it was the handwritten letter that knocked Frank over. He couldn’t stop reading the horrible parts about the dead guy. Lloyd. Karen’s uncle, it turned out, as well as Ted’s camp counselor.
Each time Frank got to the part describing how Uncle Lloyd made a sexual advance toward Karen, he scowled. According to the letter, Lloyd did what he did to Karen, got fired from the camp, got drunk, died that night of some alcohol-induced heart problem, and burned up in a fire.
White Birch Graffiti (White Birch Village Book 2) Page 15
