by Mike Nappa
Was that a tail wag?
I decided to test something.
I moved back to the entryway, and the dog lifted up onto its haunches. It flashed its teeth at me, once only, then waited. I stepped in front of the door, and immediately that animal started growling again. I stepped away from the steel door, and the dog quieted itself right down. I walked all the way down the shelves to the other corner of the room, and that blamed dog actually seemed to relax, laying itself all the way onto the floor again. For the first time on this crazy morning, the dog seemed to almost forget I was even there.
I took a quick step toward the front door. Nothing. I took another step, still nothing. Then I got within a foot or two of the tunnel, and that dog sat up quick, growling at me.
“You don’t want me to stand by the door?” I said. Don’t know why I said it, ’cause I know dogs can’t talk. But it made sense at the time.
I walked back down the supply shelves to the other corner of the room, and the same thing happened as before. Dog settled itself down, looked like it was preparing to take a nap.
“You’re a pretty smart dog,” I muttered. “Maybe you are trying to protect me or something.”
I felt suddenly tired and wished I’d walked over toward the bunk beds instead of down here by the supply shelves. I sank down to the floor and stared at the dog underneath the table. It closed its eyes, and that seemed like a good idea to me too. I pulled up my knees and put my head down on ’em.
It was surprisingly easy to fall asleep right then. I guess nearly getting your fingers chomped off, getting sick on the floor, and getting abandoned by your uncle all before breakfast will do that for you. So I slept, right there on the floor, in that cramped corner of the room, putting an awful ache in my neck the whole time but not noticing it until I finally opened my eyes again some hours later.
It was hot when I woke up.
7
Trudi
Thursday, September 3
It took six full days before Samuel Eric Douglas Hill bothered to return Trudi’s “urgent” call, and even then he didn’t actually call back. He just appeared in her office on the morning of the sixth day, acting like he still belonged there, pretending nothing had changed after more than two years since the divorce papers had been finalized.
“Get out of my chair,” Trudi said when she flipped on the lights to her office. This little place was her one-room, PI sanctuary. She wouldn’t have it fouled without a fight.
Samuel grinned and slid his feet off the desk. He nodded toward the room across the hall. “Sorry, but it looks like my office has been turned into a storage shed or something.”
He looked good. The pig.
His skin was nicely tanned, almost like a loaf of pumpkin bread pulled fresh from the oven. Been somewhere with sunshine, she thought to herself, which could mean either a beach resort in Spain or a desert somewhere. His eyes were smiling, eyes that always reminded her of cookies, a light chestnut color with slivers of chocolate sprinkles scattered satisfyingly through the pigment. Trudi stopped herself there. Why do I always think of him in terms of baked sweets? she wondered.
She swept over him again, disciplining herself to think in facts, not foodstuffs this time. She noted that he’d kept his hair reasonably short—not a military cut, but nothing lower than his ears either. He wore a suit coat over a collarless shirt that favored his lean, muscled torso, and denim jeans. And as always, worn black boots finished his ensemble. He looked ready for either business or pleasure, and Trudi knew from experience that was always the case with Samuel Hill.
She wanted to ask how he’d managed to break into her office before working hours, but she knew that was a stupid question. For a guy like Samuel, locks and office hours rarely meant more than a minor inconvenience. So instead she asked, “Why’d you stay?”
He stood and moved out from behind her desk, surrendering the prime real estate without a fight. This time.
“You called me, Tru-bear, remember?”
Trudi wished for the hundredth time she’d never revealed that childhood pet name to him. Her daddy had called her that, rhyming it with Christopher Robin’s nickname for Winnie the Pooh in A. A. Milne’s classic children’s stories. It had been sweet for Samuel to call her that when they were married. Now it was just another scrape across the chalkboard of her heart.
“Yes, I did,” she said. “And a week later, you’re here in living color.”
“We aim to please.” He gave a mock bow.
“So why are you still here? You broke in before office hours, knowing I wouldn’t be here, knowing my receptionist wouldn’t be here.” She glanced at her watch: 7:51 a.m. “Judging by the creases in your jacket, I’d say you sneaked in about two hours ago. Give or take.”
“Good. Always the detective. Nice. But I didn’t break in.” He dug into his pocket and produced a key chain. So, he still kept a memento of their failed business partnership. She wondered if he also kept a key to her house.
“My desk is undisturbed,” she continued, “except for these unsightly boot prints next to the telephone. But the books on my shelf”—she nodded behind her as she took the seat at her desk, dropped her briefcase to the floor, and faced him—“are a bit jumbled. Couldn’t remember the exact order after digging through them, sweetums?”
She saw his eyes betray him first. A flash that reminded her of an adorably naughty boy caught on the couch with his girlfriend on the one day when Mom comes home early from work. She grinned to herself. That was a look she liked on him. She was on the right track.
“You were looking for something and you didn’t find it, and that’s why you stayed.”
Samuel eased himself into one of the guest chairs and threw his hands up in mock surrender. “As I said, Tru, you called me.”
Trudi repeated in her mind the message she’d left on Samuel’s voicemail nearly a week ago. Hey, it’s me. I had a visitor today, asking about a Ford F-150 for sale. Since I don’t own a Ford of any kind, I figured he must be looking for yours. So call me. Then she’d marked it “urgent” and hung up, knowing that if he didn’t call back in the next five minutes, there’d be no telling when he’d respond. And, of course, he didn’t call back.
“All right then. Why didn’t you call back?”
“I was out of the country. On business.”
“For one of our government alphabets this time, or out on a freelance gig for some other international power?”
He let an amused grunt escape his lips and then leaned back in the ornate metal chair.
“If I told you,” he said with a grin, “I’d have to kill you.”
Now it was her turn to snort. “You could try. We both know how that would end.”
She didn’t know for sure if she could take him in a fight, but she did train regularly in mixed martial arts so she felt fairly confident in that regard. And she knew he had a soft spot for old lovers. He’d hesitate before delivering the final blow, and that’s when she’d strike without mercy. It almost made her feel warm inside to think about the possibilities.
“I think we digress,” he said. “I got your message. I came to see what it was about.” He glanced around the room. “Are we clean in here?”
She nodded and rolled her eyes. Bug checks were a standard part of her business. The room was clear and had been for the entire two and a half years since they’d been divorced. Apparently she didn’t anger people as easily as he did.
“All right,” Samuel said, ignoring her petulance. “I assume we’re talking about Truck. So what happened?”
She told him about the old man who had visited, about the picture, and about his mention of Samuel before he left.
Her ex-husband looked thoughtful, then asked, “Did you save the video? Can I see this man?”
Just then Eulalie Jefferson poked her head through the door. “Mornin’, Ms. Coffey! I brought crumb cake and—oh! Sorry, didn’t know you were in a meeting.”
Samuel stood at the sight of the rece
ptionist, so Trudi stood as well. “No worries, Eulalie. Please, meet my ex-husband, Samuel Hill.” The pig, she finished to herself. “Samuel, Eulalie Jefferson.”
Eulalie dimpled and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hill.” She exchanged a knowing glance with Trudi when she said, “Ms. Coffey has told me a lot about you.”
“Well,” Samuel said, still holding her hand, “don’t believe everything you hear, Ms. Jefferson.”
He winked, and even from behind the desk, Trudi could see Eulalie’s cheeks flush underneath a shy smile. Trudi almost groaned out loud, but instead said, “Thanks, Eulalie. Crumb cake sounds great. Just give me a few more minutes with Mr. Hill, please. Thank you.”
Eulalie pulled her hand away from Samuel and said, “Of course. I’ll be out front.” Trudi caught Samuel checking out the receptionist when she turned to exit. Three years ago, that would have made her angry. Today, it just reminded her of the sadness she felt when she finally knew their marriage was over. She sat heavily back into her chair, tired of the little games that she and this man constantly seemed to play with each other.
“Is that Eulalie Jefferson?” Samuel said to the door. “From your church? Wow, she’s really grown up, and . . .” He turned back to his ex-wife and let that thought go unfinished.
Trudi tapped the mouse on her computer and in short order had pulled up the surveillance footage of the mysterious Dr. Smith. She didn’t bother speaking, she just twisted the monitor so her ex-husband could see it. She ran it once, and then a second time before he finally spoke.
“I don’t know this guy,” he said, and the way he said it made her believe it.
“Well, he knows you. Says his name is Dr. Jonathan Smith and has ID to back it up. He also knows you’re connected to Truck, and he was very interested in uncovering Truck’s current whereabouts. So now you’ve been warned. I’ve done my duty, both to you and to Leonard Truckson. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”
She pulled the monitor back toward her and began busily tapping the keyboard, hoping he’d take the hint and just walk away. Again. For however long it would be this time.
Samuel stood up, but he didn’t move toward the exit, not yet.
“Say, Tru,” he said, “you remember Christmas a few years back, I gave you a book for a special present?”
“Collector’s edition of the Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. Yes, I remember.”
“You think I could borrow that, just for a day or so?”
Finally. She suspected that was what he’d come for, why he’d broken in to his old workplace. Her shuffled bookshelf was testimony to that. It was a small victory that he admitted it at last.
“Couldn’t find it on the shelf this morning, huh?” she said.
Samuel said nothing, but his silence confirmed the accusation.
“Get a copy from the library,” she told him. “I don’t have time to dig it up today.”
“Tru,” he said. “I need your copy. You know that. Why not make it easy on both of us and just give it to me. I promise I’ll return it, tomorrow at the latest. Okay?”
Trudi glowered, but she knew it was time to give in. Besides, she still had a secret or two up her sleeve. She reached down to her briefcase and produced the thick, hardbound edition of Poe’s complete works. It was a beautiful tome, really. Fashioned with old-style precision that included lavish ink illustrations, a sturdy, sewn-in binding, and quarter-inch-thick cover plates on front and back. Trudi would have loved the book even if Samuel hadn’t given it to her. She loved it more because he did, for a while, then after he left, she just loved the book and memory-moment it brought back to her.
She held the book out for him. He reached for it, brushing her fingers when he took the spine. She couldn’t tell if that fleeting touch was for his sake or for hers.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, then he smiled. “You still read it?”
In response, she started reciting her favorite of Poe’s poems.
“It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee; and this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me . . .”
She choked involuntarily on the last words, tried to cover with a cough, but couldn’t stop just a little moisture from leaking at the edges of her eyes. There was a familiar tenderness in Sam’s face when he leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“I was a child,” he recited softly in her ear, “and she was a child . . .”
He straightened and caught her gaze, and there was a singular silence between them, an aphasic moment that neither felt like breaking, not yet at least. She loved his eyes, she decided. Not just the chocolate flecks sprinkled in the amber settings, but the fact that his eyes knew her, saw her soul, even now, even years after. She missed those eyes.
But not enough.
She finally broke the moment, looking first toward the ceiling, then down at her desk.
“Thanks, Tru,” he said quietly.
She waved him away, and he left. She switched the surveillance monitors to the reception area, then to the camera outside, watching as he wished Eulalie a cheery good-bye, then walked out the front door, across the parking lot, and off into the day.
After he was fully gone, Trudi sat at her desk, just breathing. In-2-3, out-2-3, she counted the breaths to herself. In-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. She let one long exhale finish, then reached back into her briefcase.
First she pulled out the morning edition of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and dropped it on her desk. Next she recovered a silver key and a small half sheet of paper with enough wrinkles to indicate it had been carefully folded twice and placed flat in a quarter-inch-thick hiding place for a number of years. Hidden, she knew, sometime before that Christmas day when her husband had given her an expensive Poe collectible edition as a “special present.”
Eulalie Jefferson stepped into the office carrying a stack of phone messages along with a nice slice of cinnamon crumb cake.
“So that’s your ex-husband,” she said warmly. “Handsome fella. Bet he’s something of a lady-charmer, that one.”
Trudi smiled in spite of herself. “Yeah, he is that,” she said.
“Still, I’m guessing you wouldn’t mind seeing him come around time and again. A girl always appreciates looking at pretty things, right?”
Trudi slipped the silver key and half sheet into her top desk drawer, then looked absently toward the surveillance monitor.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. He’ll be back. You can bet on that.”
8
Annabel
Date Unknown
When I woke up, I found I’d somehow slid my head and body down onto the hard floor. I’d also managed to give myself a royal pain in the neck that brought shooting sparks into my shoulder when I tried to twist my head too far to the left. Lying there on the nubbed carpet, I didn’t want to move ’cause it hurt to do it. I found I had a perfect view of the underside of the table and of Truck’s dog across the room.
They was a drawer . . . no, that’s not right. I am an educated girl. Not no illiterate redneck. Truck says I got bad habits from living in Alabama all my life, surrounded by rednecks who’re proud of being illiterate. But that I shouldn’t let that be me.
So I mean to say, there was a drawer on the underside of that table, a wide, shallow space on runners. I hadn’t noticed it before, in all the ruckus.
It felt stuffy in here now. An uncomfortable heat that seemed to be comin’ down on me from the ceiling. The floor where I lay was still cool, but the air around me was like when somebody turns the furnace up too high during a cold winter day.
I took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of stale carpet and dried vomit.
Oh yeah. Sooner or later I’d need to clean that spot by the door. I felt a burning in my stomach, reminding me that I still hadn’t eaten since . . . yesterday? Today? Before my last awake time.
I snuck a peek at the dog an
d saw it was watching me, waiting. It was still lying in the same place where it had been when I went to sleep. Its face looked pained, if a dog’s face can look like that. I saw the dog wiggle uncomfortably.
Suddenly I really needed to pee. Was there a bathroom in this place? There had to be something, right?
The dog gave a short whimper. Not a begging type of sound, more like a “can I have your attention, please” kind of noise. I sat up, and it raised its head to keep my eyes in line with his.
This dog want something from me? Why didn’t the animal just take it?
Its body was tense, hind legs pulled up tight beneath its torso. The tail swung, just once, and held still.
“What?” I said out loud. “What you want from me, Dog?”
In response, the animal gave that same whimper.
“Fine, go ’head on and do whatever you got to do.” At this point, I needed to pee so bad, I was almost ready to let go right in my denim jeans. I didn’t want to have to mess with this dog any longer.
But the dog just stared, waiting. Waiting? Oh, waiting!
I tried to remember my German vocabulary again, and it was easier now that Truck wasn’t pressing my knuckles into the face of a beast. Let’s see . . . well, duh. Some words are the same in English and in German.
I looked hard at that dog and said, “Okay.”
It sprang up so fast it made me jump, sprang up like it’d been tied to that spot on the floor and I’d just cut the twine that held the dog in place. It started pacing and sniffing at the walls and floor.
Great, I thought. Now I’m gonna have to clean up big doggie urine.
Then the dog trotted into the wall opening nearest to me. It disappeared in there, and a few seconds later I heard the sound of animal spray. It lasted longer than I would have thought possible. Apparently old Dog really needed to go.
Well, at least it didn’t go on the table.
I stood up and was rubbing at my neck when it came out of that opening. The dog sniffed the air, then trotted over to the main entryway and settled comfortably beside that door. It watched me again, but this time it was calm, almost disinterested. No growling, no bared teeth, not even tensed muscles.
