“That’s my friend Seymour. I can call him and see if there’s an investigation going on. But Dad, this sounds like dangerous business. I hope you’re staying clear of the mine. Let the professionals deal with it.”
Charles was quiet for a moment. It was hard to hear that he was no longer one of those professional that people let deal with it.
“Sorry, Dad. You know what I mean. You don’t have an entire department behind you now. You can’t put yourself out there alone.”
“That’s true,” Charles conceded. They talked a while as Charles sipped his coffee. He agreed to continue his own investigator of the local robberies and wait to hear what Seymour might be able to find out about Mickelson’s. He could only hope Abernathy wasn’t involved in anything at the mine. He’d be better off being the small-time crook!
As he was driving toward the next town on his list, he felt a sudden urge to keep going. He had just passed a road sign indicating he was pointed toward Fort Stewart, Kentucky. He pulled over and checked his map. It looked like a likely town if Abernathy was actually making the rounds. He queried his GPS about police stations in Fort Stewart and two came up. “Bigger town that I realized,” he said aloud. He chose the one closest to the highway and continued up the road.
The highway was essentially empty, so Charles set the cruise control. He needed time to put the pieces together. If Sarah were here, he thought, I’d simply lay the facts out and she would listen, and somehow it would all come together. He thought about pulling over and calling her, but he still wasn’t ready to tell her about the robberies.
In an attempt to gain some perspective, Charles decided to go through what he knew so far. First of all, he told himself, the consensus seems to be that Abernathy is Beaver Creek’s small-time crook. Turning that thought over in his mind, he added, but it just doesn’t sit right with me. Everything I know about the man says this just isn’t his style. “On the other hand,” he said aloud, looking around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, “I never even met the man, so how can I say what he’s capable of?”
Several trucks had joined him on the highway, so he turned off the cruise control. He continued to mull over the facts in his mind. Sarah has total confidence in the man, he told himself, but the fact is she doesn’t know him either!
Charles realized there was sweat running down his forehead. He wiped it away with his shirt sleeve and decided to stop at the next opportunity. And why am I driving from one robbery site to another asking if this is the man? They all say they think it’s him. What am I doing? Am I trying to catch a crook or find a father? And if I do find him, will I turn him in? Sarah is expecting me to bring him back to his family.
He was experiencing that odd feeling of confusion again and was having trouble focusing on the road. Is something wrong with my glasses? He slipped them off and looked at them, but they appeared to be fine. He again wiped the sweat from his eyes.
He spotted a sign for a fast-food restaurant at the next exit and moved over to the right-hand lane. A deep horn sounded behind him and he saw the driver struggling to maintain control of his truck. I didn’t see him at all. Shaking, Charles pulled onto the shoulder to apologize, but the truck flew past him. I can imagine the language that man is using right now and I don’t blame him!
“So, here’s my plan,” Sarah began, sitting in the visitor’s chair next to Jack Slocum’s desk. “I want to help Addie May make a quilt to give to their father when he returns. The other kids can help, and it would be a really positive family project. They’re getting a little doubtful about his return, and I think this would give them a boost.”
“I like the idea, Sarah, but how can we help?”
“I need fabric, and I know the instructors have baskets of scraps, and I’m going to ask Brenda if they would donate a few pieces for the children’s project. Also we need a back, and I’m hoping you can spare a sheet from the lodge’s linen supply.”
“Absolutely,” Jack replied. “In fact, I have a few flannel sheets that the guests don’t seem to like. Would one of those work for a back?”
“That would work perfectly, and perhaps we could have one more to use as batting.”
“Not sure what batting is, but you’re welcome to as many as you want. Let’s walk over to the classroom and talk to Brenda about the fabric.”
As they were leaving his office, Slocum stopped and looked at Sarah. “Sarah, you’ve got to be a very special person to set your own life aside and help this family. You don’t know how much we all appreciate what you’re doing.”
“I’ve grown to love this little family, Jack. Charles and I really want to help them.”
The class was in session with machines buzzing away. Slocum motioned for Brenda to come out into the hall. He told her about Sarah’s project and Brenda was immediately excited about it. “I have baskets and baskets of scraps, Sarah. Come on in and take what you need.” Sarah followed her into the classroom, and together they pulled several baskets out of the closet.
“What are you girls up to?” one of the students asked.
“Tell them what you’re doing, Sarah.”
Sarah, no longer shy about speaking in front of a group after all the classes she’d taught at her quilt shop, explained what she had in mind. They wanted to know what pattern she would use, and she said that she thought the children would understand a simple four-patch better than the more complicated blocks. “And it will be easy for the thirteen-year-old to sew.”
“How will you quilt it?” someone asked.
Before Sarah could respond (she actually hadn’t thought this far ahead), another student spoke up saying, “Why don’t you tie it?” She reached into her enormous tote bag and pulled out a skein of yarn and handed it to Sarah. “You’re welcome to this; I brought more than I need.”
Sarah thanked the woman profusely, but had to admit she hadn’t tied a quilt and wasn’t sure how. “Let’s have a quick lesson in tying,” Brenda said. She directed the class to come up to the front of the room, and she quickly stacked two layers of fabric with a piece of batting in the middle. She then demonstrated how to pin the quilt and then how to make a secure square knot. “Leave some of the yarn dangling,” she added. “It looks pretty.”
“This will be a good job for the boys,” Sarah commented as she watched.
As she was leaving the room, everyone wished her good luck with her project and one woman handed her a plastic bag filled with safety pins. “You’ll be needing these,” she said with a smile. Sarah was reminded what generous people quilters are.
Before she reached the elevator, Jack Slocum came out of his office carrying a manila envelope. “This is for you,” he said handing her the envelope. “The photo came out really nice on the fabric.” She thanked him and took it to her room.
Laying the fabric photograph next to her fabrics, Sarah realized she had chosen well. The photograph was of her two children, Martha and Jason, with her granddaughter, little Alaina, curled up in Jason’s arms. Martha was wearing an aqua dress which perfectly matched the aqua in the turquoise and aqua fabric she intended to use as a border. “This will make a perfect wall hanging,” she told herself, “but that project will have to wait.” She quickly dialed Coby’s cell phone and left him a message, “I’m ready whenever you are.”
As she was hanging up, there was a knock at the door and a voice called, “Sarah, it’s Mary Beth with your flannel sheets.” She opened the door and invited her in. She excitedly told Mary Beth about the project she had planned for the children.
“What have you heard from your husband?” the young girl asked. “Is he having any luck?”
Sarah’s face fell a bit as she began telling Mary Beth what little she knew about the search. “He seems to be onto something, but he’s not very forthcoming about it. I think he doesn’t want to upset me, but not knowing upsets me even more. I’m just hoping for some good news soon.”
Sarah’s phone rang and Mary Beth headed quickly toward the door. “Gotta get back to work,”
she said as Sarah answered the phone while nodding her thank you.
“I’m on my way back to the lodge,” Coby reported. “I can take you over to the Abernathy’s in about twenty minutes.”
“Perfect. I’ll wait on the porch.”
* * * * *
Charles was entering the city of Fort Stewart, just over the border into Kentucky. It had been a long time since he’d experienced busy streets and urban sprawl. As he came into the downtown area, traffic became heavy and he was relieved to hear his GPS announce that the police station was immediately on his left. He spotted a car pulling away from the curb and quickly grabbed the parking place. I don’t think Abernathy would have spent any time here, he told himself, knowing this was certainly not what the mountain man was accustomed to.
He went inside and told the desk sergeant what he was after. Frowning, the officer placed a call and an aging detective made his way partway up the hall, motioning for Charles to follow him to his office. “We hear about this kind of crime, but, you know, we can’t do much about it. We’ve had two murders just this week over by the park. Our guys are working round the clock.” He thumbed through some papers and added, “Nah. I don’t have anything for you.”
Charles thanked him and was heading for the door when the detective added, “But I heard about a bad situation just over the line in Virginia. It was a simple nickel-and-dime-type robbery gone bad. I heard there was a shooting.”
“Where was that?”
“Down in Caraway, Virginia. It’s about twenty miles below Beaver Creek heading south.”
Charles remembered seeing the sign when he was driving up from Tennessee. “I’ll check it out on my way back home,” he said and he thanked the man for his time.
“Bradford’s Bait & Tackle Shop,” the detective called after him as Charles was heading down the hall. “Don’t know how I remembered that … just thought it was a strange place to think about robbing. What’s the guy hope to get, worms?”
Charles was getting tired. I don’t know how I did this for all those years. I’m worn out. He drove back to the motel in Beaver Creek and decided to go ahead and spend the night. “I’ll be checking out early in the morning,” he told the desk clerk as he settled up.
“Hi, sweetie,” he said when Sarah answered the phone. It made him feel relaxed to hear her voice. He had showered and hoped to get a good night’s sleep. He’d be glad to get back to their comfortable life in Middletown.
She told him about the quilt she was making with the children. “I’ve taught the boys how to make square knots and they can hardly wait for Addie May and me to finish the quilt. Baby Girl spent today choosing fabrics from the basket. Her daddy’s quilt will have lots of owls, bears, and kittens,” she said laughing.
“He’ll love it.” Charles realized his tone lacked enthusiasm; he was beginning to doubt that Richard Abernathy would ever be returning to his family. The disappearances at Mickelson had crept back into his mind, and he wondered if Abernathy had simply become one more man who vanished from the site. He contemplated all the possible places a body could be hidden at a mining operation.
“Where have you gone?” Sarah asked, aware that he had drifted off.
“Just detecting, sweetheart, in my mind.”
“No luck finding him, I guess?”
“No. I’m coming on home tomorrow. I have one stop to make, but I should be home by midafternoon.”
“Home. When did we both start thinking of Ten Oaks as home?” she asked rhetorically.
Aroad sign indicated that Caraway was thirty-two miles from the exit.
Charles didn’t realize Caraway was that far off his route. He pulled over at the exit to consider whether the detour was worth it. Why do I need another person saying “yeah, that looks like the man” unless he can also tell me how to find the man? But then he remembered the officer had said this one involved a shooting. What if Abernathy’s been sitting in jail all this time!
Feeling suddenly hopeful, he started up the rental car and turned onto the exit ramp. Traveling to Caraway was slow. A two-lane road crawled up and down the mountains ultimately coming to a small town nestled in a secluded valley. Abernathy would have been a fool to drive all this way to hold up a tackle shop, he told himself.
“Caraway Population 386,” the sign announced.
There were only a few stores on the main road through town—the post office, a market, a service station that appeared to be closed down, and Bradford’s Bait & Tackle Shop on the corner. He parked and went in. The tingling of a small bell brought an elderly man in overalls out of the back room. “Kin I hep ya, young feller?”
Young fellow. Charles smiled. “It’s been a while since I’ve been called a young fellow,” he responded.
“Everyone’s a young feller to me,” the man said in a gravelly voice. “What kin I do fer ya?”
“I’m up from Gatlinburg looking for a man. I heard you had a robbery here, and I was hoping …”
“You betcha I had a robb’ry. The guy didn’t get nothing though.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Well, sir, I’ll tell ya. This guy comes in and says he has a gun, an’ I should give him my money. Well, sir, I don’t see no gun, and I told him so. He put his hand in his pocket. I told the police all this before.”
“I know. I’d just like to hear what happened. So he reached for his gun?”
“Don’t know. Put his hand in his pocket. My grandkids were playin’ in the back room. I won’t take no chances with them young’uns. I pulled my gun out from under the cash register and I shot him.”
“Dead?” Charles asked with a sinking heart.
“Deader than an old rusty door nail. I told them cops all this. They said I didn’t do nothin’ wrong. I was protectin’ my place and the young’uns.” He was becoming defensive and Charles quickly spoke up to reassure him, hoping not to get shot himself.
“You were right. You were protecting your family. Do you know who this guy was?”
“Never heared his name. It was in this paper here.” He pulled out a well-worn newspaper which had obviously been passed around among many customers. Charles read aloud, “Man killed during robbery attempt at Bradford’s Bait & Tackle Shop in Caraway, Virginia.” Charles quickly scanned through the details which were presented much like the old man had told it to him. Several paragraphs went into the fact that this was the first criminal fatality in the past twenty-five years, and two more paragraphs told about other crimes that occurred in the quiet town of Caraway over the past years. Charles searched for a name. Finally, toward the end of the article, he read, “The victim, Robert Mattington from Richmond, Virginia, was said to have an extensive police record for robbery, breaking and entering, and assault.”
“I’d like to ask you a question, Mr. …”
“Hessen,” the man responded. “The name’s Hessen.”
“Okay, Mr. Hessen …”
“Not Mr. Hessen. Just Hessen.”
With a deep sigh, Charles continued. “Okay, Hessen. I’d like to show you a picture. Is this the man you shot?” He pulled out the driver’s license he was now carrying in his shirt pocket.
“That’s him,” he said, looking at the picture. “Wait a dang minute,” he said as he reached behind the counter and pulled out a large magnifying glass. He studied the picture again. “Nah. That ain’t our guy. Looks like him, but ain’t him. Different nose.”
Charles went back to the car, not sure what to believe. Richard Abernathy may well be dead, he told himself sadly. He went back in and asked for the name of the police officer Hessen had dealt with. He then drove up the street a few blocks and parked in front of an abandoned trailer. He placed a call to the number on the card Hessen had given him.
“Michaels,” the officer answered on the first ring. Charles explained who he was and why he was calling. He asked if the victim in the Bradford tackle shop shooting had been positively identified.
“Absolutely,” Officer Michaels
responded. “His sister came down and personally identified the guy. Long history with the police she told me. Fingerprints on file. It was a positive ID.” Charles sighed with relief. I may not know where he is, but at least Abernathy didn’t die in a bait and tackle shop.
“Any chance he’d been up around Beaver Creek.”
“Good chance,” Michaels responded. “Sister said he’d been visiting friends up in West Virginia.” Charles gave him Sheriff Miles’ number and suggested he give him a call. “You might be able to close a few cases for the guy.”
“Happy to,” Michaels responded. “Not much going on around here now that our only criminal in twenty-five years is dead.”
Charles turned the car around and began the thirty-two-mile drive back to the highway. “So I’ve wasted several days tracking down the wrong man,” he admonished himself. I’ll go back to the drawing board and ask the question I started out with: what happened to Richard Abernathy when he left his work site over six weeks ago, assuming he actually did leave the site alive.
Over the past week, Charles reminded himself, he had talked to police stations and hospitals. He’d called the morgue in several jurisdictions just to be on the safe side. Nothing. He then followed a hunch which lead him through four states and ended at a bait and tackle shop in a town with a population just under four hundred.
When he reached the highway almost an hour later, he sat at the ramp contemplating his next step. Do I go north and demand answers from Mickelson’s or do I go south and back to Sarah?
“Sarah wins, hands down,” he announced and he headed south.
* * * * *
Sarah dialed Charles’s cell phone again. She had left several messages and was getting worried. It was after 9:00 and he still hadn’t arrived. “He said he’d be here in the midafternoon,” she told Sophie, “and he’s still not here.”
“He’s a big boy. He’ll be along soon. You said he had a stop to make. It must have taken longer than he expected.” To help Sarah get her mind off worrying, Sophie asked about the children again. “Tell me what you and the kids did today.”
Moon Over the Mountain Page 13
