The Lovers' Lane Murders

by Cynthia Hickey

  “Sit down.” Frank waved the gun to a corner of the room. “I sure wish you could have grabbed a plate of that food. All I have here are chips and gas station sausage.” He sat on the crate and pulled a sausage stick from a nearby grocery bag. “I’d offer you one, but I saw you eat a hot dog.”

  Keep talking, crazy man. As long as he talked, he wasn’t hurting her. She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and fought to keep fear at bay. Hurry, Jackson. She glanced around for something to use as a weapon. Nothing except the crate Frank sat on. It might work if she could reach it without him shooting her.

  “You’re awfully quiet for a nosy woman.”

  She shrugged. “You aren’t exactly the type of person I care to have a conversation with.”

  “Aren’t you curious about why I’ve been killing like Roy did?” He grinned.

  Fine. She’d humor him. “Okay, why?”

  “It started as nothing more than you ruining my good family name. Turns out, I enjoy the killing, messing around with the girls before I shoot them. It’s a strange sense of power to see the fear in their eyes.”

  “Roy was shell-shocked. You’re simply insane.”

  “I’d say it runs in the family, wouldn’t you?” His grin widened as he popped the last of the sausage in his mouth and grabbed a bag of chips from the bag. “You be nice, and I’ll make your death quick. You’re real smart for such a pretty thing. Too bad you messed with the wrong people.”

  “Yeah, too bad.” Pressley rested her chin on her knees and kept her gaze locked on him in case he made a move toward her. She felt strangely calm for someone about to die.

  Frank must have thought so, too, because he narrowed his eyes. “Why aren’t you hysterical?”

  “I’m not that type.”

  “Most women would be crying and pleading for their life.”

  She shrugged. “You’re bigger than I am, have a gun, and have no qualms about killing. What good would it do for me to beg?”

  “See? I said you were smart. Maybe I’ll keep you around for a while.”

  That thought scared her more than the thought of him killing her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Where’s Pressley?” Jackson approached Marley at a run. “She was supposed to stay with you.”

  The woman glanced around. “She took out the garbage a while ago. I thought she was with you when she didn’t return.”

  Jackson’s heart stopped a mere second before he dashed around the corner of the church. No sign of her. Why would she have gone off alone?

  He whirled as footsteps pounded behind him. The chief and one of the other officers stopped next to him. “Marley told us Miss Taylor is gone.” Chief Stone ordered the other cop to search the church.

  “I shouldn’t have left her to stop that fight.” Jackson ran his hands through his hair, not caring if he looked like a porcupine. He’d failed to keep Pressley safe. “If her cell phone is on, we can track her. Get someone on that.”

  Chief Stone called for another officer to take over that task. “Don’t worry, Hudson. We’ll find her. If he wanted her dead right away, we’d be standing over her body.”

  Small consolation, but the man was right. Pressley was more than likely still alive, hopefully unharmed. Wait for me, sweetheart. I’m coming.

  He returned to where a tearful Marley cleared off the serving table. “I’m sorry,” she said, sobbing. “It’s my fault. I asked her to take out the garbage.”

  “It isn’t your fault.” Jackson put a consoling hand on her shoulder. “He would have found her another way.”

  “But I made it easy.” She buried her face in his chest. Although he patted her back, it was Pressley his arms wanted to hold.

  Once the woman calmed down and returned to work, Jackson went in search of the chief. “Anything?”

  “We’ve pinged her phone at an abandoned motel. Let’s go.” They raced for the waiting vehicles.

  The signal ended before they pulled into the driveway. No cars sat in the parking lot. A quick search of the rear of the building yielded fresh tire tracks. They were gone.

  Jackson sagged against the wall, knowing Pressley’s time was limited. Wherever she was now, she had no cell service. She was on her own.

  Trying not to panic, he studied the ground to determine which direction they’d gone. Impossible once Frank was on the highway. Usually, Jackson kept a clear head in intense situations, but Pressley had turned his world around. He almost lost all reason, thinking he’d lost her before he had a chance to tell her how he felt. Jackson prayed in those minutes more than he’d prayed in years. “Where could they have gone?”

  “You know this man better than we do, Hudson,” the chief said. “Think.”

  “Where do the teens hang out? Is there a special place they like to go parking?”

  “There’s a spot up the mountain and tons of country roads with ponds and lakes. Without a signal from her phone, we’ll be going around like headless chickens.”

  “Get a chopper in the air. It’s something. It’s the middle of the day, so visibility shouldn’t be too bad if they’re around water.” If they were in the woods, only a ton of luck would lead to spotting them. Hope started to trickle through his fingers like water. “I’m going to start at the nearest possible place and keep widening the circle. How fast can we organize a group of volunteers to help us search?”

  “An hour minimum. We’ve a phone chain that will spread the word fast enough. We’ll have everyone meet back at the church.”

  Jackson nodded. “Let’s get started and pray Pressley has that long.”

  A little less than an hour they had twenty volunteers, all armed, all dressed in camouflage as if they were going deer hunting. He shrugged. They were hunting. The only difference was the one they sought walked on two legs.

  The chief spread a map over the hood of a squad car and sent people to every spot he could think of where teens went parking. Jackson and the chief would start with a small lake named Evergreen because of the algae. Please, God, shower them with some luck.

  Each team was handed walkie-talkies. “Give a shout out if you see Beckett or Miss Taylor, and help will come running,” the chief said. “Under no circumstance are you to engage with the suspect. Do not shoot unless your life is in danger. If this man is not with Miss Taylor, and you kill him, we might never find her.”

  Her body he meant, sending ice through Jackson’s veins. The more time that passed, the less likely they’d find Pressley alive.

  ~

  Frank stared at the woman in the corner. Beautiful and brave. Now that he had her, killing her seemed pointless. His life had become worthless other than his thirst for murder. With Pressley dead, he still couldn’t return to the life he’d once had.

  He pushed to his feet and paced the small room, her eyes warily watching his every move. But then again, getting rid of her, much like Roy wanted to do with his former fiancée after the woman had broken up with him, would be a period at the end of a very long sentence that started in 1946. Both women had upended the Beckett men’s lives to the point nothing could return to normal. Shooting her outright was boring. “Get up. We’re going to the lake we passed on the way here.”

  “Why?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “To play a game of chase.” Excitement reared its big, beautiful head. He’d be at a disadvantage since she knew the area, but oh, what fun the reward of killing her would be.

  ~

  Frank nudged Pressley toward the water’s edge. “Strip down to your underwear.”

  She glared. At least he wasn’t having her completely disrobe and the spring temperatures wouldn’t have her succumbing to the elements. Other than mild embarrassment, she’d be fine. Grateful she wore modest underwear, she disrobed and tossed one of her shoes into the water, wishing she could somehow keep her phone with her. Hopefully, the shoe was enough for Jackson to know she was around.

  Cursing, Frank gathered up her other clothing items and put them in the tr
unk of the car. “With you barefoot and not fully clothed, we’ll be more equal.”

  “Then I should have a gun.”

  “Not a chance. I’ll give you to the count of ten. When I find you, I’ll shoot you. Then we’re finished.”

  At least he’d changed his mind about rape. She’d take whatever small favor he offered. She knew the area due to many evening parties as a teen. Before he said one, she was sprinting through the trees, mentally counting to ten, knowing her white bra and panties would shine like a beacon. She needed a hiding place and a weapon.

  Spotting a fallen tree limb the size of her wrist, she bent and retrieved it before plunging through thick underbrush. The landscape had changed a bit but not enough for her to feel lost. She knew where the highway was and headed in that direction, hoping to flag down a passing car.

  Ten. He’d be coming. She’d hoped to have put more distance between them. Without slowing her pace, she veered right toward a thick stand of trees and plastered her back against the trunk of the largest one. Clutching the tree limb like a club, she waited, her heart pounding so hard she feared he’d hear her. Lord, give me strength.

  She tensed and held her breath every time a twig snapped or a leaf rustled. Each time a squirrel or rabbit crossed her path, her breath hitched. Come on, Frank. She’d left a trail a blind man could follow.

  A chopper circled overhead. She fought the urge to run into the open and wave her arms.

  A white-throated thrush whistled nearby, or was it Frank? Her heart hammered in her throat. The snap of another twig, louder this time. Pressley raised the tree limb over her head. She refused to die in these woods at the hands of Frank Beckett.

  He stepped into view and she brought the limb down on his head with all the strength she could muster. He crumbled to the ground, dropping the gun, and grabbed her ankle, pulling her down with him.

  She screamed and kicked, aiming for his head.

  Cursing, he fought to get on top of her, switching his hand from her ankle to her neck.

  Spots swam in front of her eyes. She screamed and raised the limb again, bringing it down as hard as she could, striking him in the side of the head. She shoved him off her and scrambled to her feet, her gaze searching frantically for the weapon.

  Pressley dropped the limb and plucked the gun from a pile of decaying pine needles. “Get up.” She aimed the weapon at his head.

  “You won’t shoot me.” He glared up at her.

  “Don’t try me. I didn’t take shooting lessons for nothing. Now, get up. Don’t make me say it again.” Her hands shook.

  He struggled to his hands and knees, then pushed to his feet. “Go ahead and shoot.”

  “I’d rather you spend the rest of your life in prison. Back to the car.” She jammed the barrel into his back.

  Frank marched back to the lake, keeping his hands over his head. Once there, he asked, “Now what?”

  “Get my clothes.”

  He unlocked the trunk and handed her the clothes.

  “Get in.”

  “What?” His brow lowered.

  “You heard me.”

  Cursing, he climbed into the trunk, not an easy feat for a man his size. Pressley grinned down at him before slamming the trunk closed. She dressed and retrieved her soaked shoe before returning to the car and pounding on the trunk. “Thanks for the fun.”

  Another curse was the response.

  Pressley climbed on top of the trunk and held her phone up, trying to get a signal. One bar. It was enough. She dialed Jackson, pressed the speaker button, and held the phone up.

  “Pressley?”

  “It’s me. I’m all right.”

  “Where’s Frank?”

  “I locked him in the trunk. Tell the chief I’m at Evergreen.”

  “I’m almost there.”

  When his car came into sight, she set the gun down and raced toward him, throwing herself at him when he exited the car and wrapped her arms and legs around him. “How did you know where I was?”

  “My heart led me here. I said I’d start at the closest spot.” He squeezed her tight. “I didn’t expect it to be this easy.”

  “Speak for yourself.” She cupped his face and kissed him. “I am so glad to see you,” she whispered against his lips.

  Jackson slid her down the length of him, never losing contact with her lips. He raised his head. “No more so than I am.”

  Chief Stone cleared his throat. “Mind giving me the key to the trunk so I can take Beckett into custody?”

  Pressley laughed and dug the keys from her pocket, tossing them to him. He caught them in one hand and headed for the car.

  “It’s over,” she said.

  “Yes.” Jackson grinned. “You gave me quite a scare.”

  “The sound of a white-throated thrush will send shivers down my spine every time I hear the sound.”

  “At least you’re alive to hear it.”

  “There is that.” She peered into his eyes wanting very much to tell him how she felt. Now was not the time or the place. It could wait until they were home.

  The chief hauled Frank from the trunk and cuffed him before putting him in the backseat of the squad car. “That white car was reported stolen a couple of days ago. Why don’t you two drive it to the church? I’ll have the owner retrieve it there.”

  “Sounds good.” Jackson wrapped his arm around Pressley’s waist. “Let’s take this back, pick up my car, then take you home.”

  “I’m ready.”

  On the drive to church, she told him how Frank had captured her, took her to the motel, then gave her to the count of ten to chase her through the woods. “I clubbed him with a tree branch, then took his gun.”

  “That’s my girl.” Jackson reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’re amazing, Pressley Taylor.”

  “I come from good stock.” His words dispelled the last of the day’s tension. She was safe, and Frank would go to prison for the rest of his life if he didn’t receive the death penalty. Either way, he would not kill innocent people again.

  At home, Jackson sat her on the sofa and took both her hands in his. “We need to talk.”

  “About?” This was it. He was going to tell her he was leaving. She stiffened, then steeled herself for heartbreak.

  “I love you, Pressley. I don’t care if you want to stay here or go to Texarkana. As long as I’m with you, the where doesn’t matter.”

  She glanced around the living room of her grandmother’s house. “I love Applewood, but I love you more. Wherever you want to go, I want to go.”

  His gaze searched her face. “Then we stay. If I can’t get a job with the police department here, I’ll find a different one. I’d like to give small town life a chance if you’ll be my wife. Say you’ll marry me.”

  “I’ll marry you.” She smiled. “I’d be a fool to let you go.”

  “And a fool is one thing you’re not.” He gave a crooked grin. “I don’t have a ring. We can pick one out together.”

  “Why don’t you stop talking and kiss me before I change my mind?”

  He laughed and pulled her into his lap. “I’ll be kissing you until my last breath.” His lips claimed hers.

  The End

  Dear Reader,

  In 1946, as soldiers returned home from the Second World War, a killer terrorized the southern town of Texarkana but was never apprehended. Some say he was a petty car thief who died in prison a year later. Others say the killer was a young man just out of college.

  This is my version of what might have happened had The Phantom not disappeared. My version of my theory, then continuing the story into the present. While the killings are based on actual historical facts, much has been fabricated in my story. There was no Pressley Taylor or Mary Ann Warren who tried to find the answers. We don’t know what the young lovers thought or talked about in the hours leading up to their deaths. True victims and law enforcement names have been changed out of respect for the dead and the families of the victims.

>   As a teenager, I watched the partly true movie, The Town that Dreaded Sundown, and have always wondered whether The Phantom could have been a shell-shocked soldier returning from the war. That is the angle I’ve taken with this story and ask forgiveness for any fiction inserted into the reality of that horrible time.

  I hope you enjoyed this first book in a series of unsolved crimes and urban legends set in Arkansas. If you did, please leave a review for The Lovers’ Lane Murders and wait for the second book in Secrets of the South.

  Thank you,

  Cynthia Hickey

  Don’t miss the next story featuring Pressley and Jackson, coming soon, The Prom Night Hitchhiker, an urban legend about a dead girl who comes home once a year.

  Arkansas Highway 365

  Years ago, a young man was driving down Arkansas 365, south of Little Rock when he saw a young girl on the roadside. He offered to give her a lift and draped his coat over her shoulders because she was cold and soaked from the rain. She gave him directions to her house. When the young man got out and circled the car to the other side to help her out of her seat, no one was there. Confused, the man walked up to the house and knocked on the door. A woman answered, and he explained what had occurred. She said, “That young girl is my daughter, who was killed years ago. She hitchhikes back home once a year." The young man then drove to the cemetery to see the young girl’s grave. There he found his coat draped over her tombstone.

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  Multi-published and Amazon and ECPA Best-Selling author Cynthia Hickey has sold close to a million copies of her works since 2013. She has taught a Continuing Education class at the 2015 American Christian Fiction Writers conference, several small ACFW chapters and RWA chapters, and small writer retreats. She and her husband run the small press, Winged Publications, which includes some of the CBA’s best well-known authors. She lives in Arizona and Arkansas, becoming a snowbird, with her husband and one dog. She has ten grandchildren who keep her busy and tell everyone they know that “Nana is a writer”.