by L C Hayden
“Harry Bronson!”
Bronson grabbed her hand and pulled her along. “Come on, let’s go sign in.” While Carol signed the guest book and browsed around the small shop, Bronson stepped back and watched other people.
No one looked him directly in the eye, but also, no one avoided him. Maybe Carol was right. His being in a working mode had caused him to think someone lurked behind the bush, or in this case, behind the statue.
Carol glanced through the postcard selections, and Bronson helped her select two. With her purchases in hand, she read aloud the information on the postcard as they walked back to the camper. “Says here this cross is visible up to twenty miles. It contains seventy-five tons of steel and. . .”
Bronson stopped listening.
He noticed a piece of paper stuck to his windshield. None of the other cars in the parking lot had notes. He grabbed it and quickly opened the door for Carol.
He walked around to the driver’s side of the camper and looked down at the paper. He stuffed it in his pants pocket and climbed into the driver’s compartment.
“What’s with the paper?”
“Nothin’. Just a pledge card, askin’ for donations for this place.” He started the engine and carefully pulled away.
His thoughts turned to the card he had stuffed in his pocket. On it, using large block letters, someone had written, “CASEY WOULD HAVE LIKED THIS PLACE.” It was signed S.
Chapter Five
Bronson eyed the sign that read Amarillo eighteen miles. “We can eat in the camper or we could stop at a restaurant. Amarillo is about twenty minutes from here.”
Carol looked at her watch. “It’s a bit early for dinner, but I guess we could stop at a fast food place. I’m not in the mood for a large supper, and I really rather not cook while we’re rolling.”
Bronson spotted a McDonald’s sign. “Mickey D’s okay with you?”
“Sure, why not?”
Bronson pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot. They got out and ordered their food.
“I forgot my cell,” Bronson said. “I’m going back to the camper. You wait here and get our food. I’ll join you in a minute.”
He hurried toward the camper, his shoes echoing his urgency.
Once inside, he retrieved the note from his pocket and placed it in a plastic bag. He stuffed it in an envelope, addressed it to Paul McKenzie, sealed the envelope, put a stamp, and placed it back in his pocket. He would mail it tonight from the campground.
He locked the door behind him and rushed back to McDonald’s. Halfway there, he stopped and headed back to the camper. He had forgotten to get the cell.
Soon as they sat down to eat, Carol opened the atlas. “I definitely want to stop in Albuquerque. There’s a place called Old Town where we could. . .”
Bronson bit into his hamburger and washed it down with coffee. McDonald’s coffee, not the best, but not bad at all. At least he was glad to be drinking coffee. What he wasn’t glad about was that he hadn’t taken the time to call Paul. He had assumed the letters had been a sick practical joke, and that nothing else would happen.
He had assumed—something a veteran cop should never do. He knew better. First chance he had, he’d contact Paul.
They finished eating and as they headed back to the camper, Carol was still discussing Albuquerque.
“Shiiit!” Bronson said.
Carol stopped and grabbed her husband’s arm. “What?” Her gaze bounced from object to object.
“We have a flat.”
Carol looked at the camper.
“The car,” Bronson said.
Carol saw it and nodded. “We have a spare, don’t we?”
That, they did. “Yeah,” Bronson grumbled. He hated to fix flats. “You go inside the camper and read your book while I fix this thing.”
“You sure, now? Nothing I can do to help?”
“Fixin’ a flat is a one person job. You go on, make yourself comfortable in the camper.”
Carol’s lips brushed Bronson’s cheek. “Thank you, honey.” She turned and headed for the camper while Bronson retrieved from the trunk all the items he would need.
He sat in front of the tire and looked at it.
Someone had slashed it.
Bronson looked all around, but he couldn’t tell if S was watching him.
* * * * *
As soon as they settled in the campground, Bronson said, “Why don’t you take your shower first? I think I’ll go outside and enjoy the cool evenin’ breeze.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Carol said and headed to the bedroom.
Bronson waited until he heard the water running before he stepped out of the camper and headed for the public phone the campground was gracious enough to provide. From memory, he dialed Paul McKenzie’s home phone number.
The phone rang and rang.
Bronson gently hung up. His thoughts strayed from the message on the pledge card to the slashed tire. Someone was definitely playing some game with him. He wished he’d been able to talk to Paul. He headed for the office, mailed the envelope, and returned to the phone stand. Knowing Paul, he was probably still at work. Bronson dialed Paul’s work number.
Paul picked up on the second ring. “Lab. McKenzie speaking.”
“Hey, Paul. How’s it goin’?”
“Not so good, buddy. I have nothing useful. From the envelope we lifted a couple of fingerprints. Yours and several unknowns. I ran them through AFIS. No match. I tried the letter. I thought maybe I could match one of those prints with the ones from the letter.”
“And?”
“And the letter didn’t have any prints. Not a one.”
“The stamp?”
“No prints there.”
“D.N.A.?”
“There was a trace of D.N.A. but nothing to compare it to.”
“And the type on the letter and envelope?”
“Comes from a common printer sold at all WalMarts and similar stores nationwide. Office Depot and Office Max carries them. So does Best Buy and Staples. Independent computer stores sell them. Then there’s the used market, and we haven’t even mentioned the Internet.”
Shiiit.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure you didn’t find out who sent you that letter.”
“I noticed.” It had to be someone familiar with police procedure. Maybe one of the guys at work had sent it after all, but that didn’t explain the note on the windshield, and certainly no one from work would ever slash a tire. But he’d check, just in case. “You know anybody in my old unit takin’ vacation time around now?”
“Not a one.”
“Personal time off?”
“Bronson, you’re thinking it’s someone from here?”
“Not too many choices there. Had to be someone who was familiar with the case.”
“Bronson, you know us. We like to play jokes on each other, but nothing like this. Never.”
“I’ve received another note.”
A slight pause followed, then, “Damn. Where? When?”
“This mornin’. Someone left it on my windshield at a tourist stop.”
“Oh, God. That means he’s following you.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“Should make it easier to track. Soon you’ll see the same car, the same person showing up wherever you go.”
“Thought so, too. Thing is, we’re at a campground. Only saw one camper at the parkin’ lot this mornin’. Driven by an elderly couple. They’re not staying here. I checked. As I drove in, I scoped the campground. Not one car, not one camper was familiar. I plan to walk the area as soon as I finish talkin’ to you, but I doubt I’ll find a familiar car or camper.”
“And the note?”
“It’s on the way to you, but I doubt you’ll find anythin’ useful.”
“It’s worth a try.”
“Yep, it is.” Bronson momentarily paused. “Son of a bitch also slashed my tire.”
“Are you and Carol all right?”
>
“Oh yeah. At least he had the decency to do it while Carol and I were eatin’ at McDonald’s.”
“At least that’s something.”
They chatted for a bit longer, then Bronson hung up.
On his way back to his motor home, he took the long way around and studied each camper and its tow vehicle.
He found nothing new, but he hadn’t expected to find anything. Yet someone was following him. How was that possible? He headed back to his camper, but instead of going in, he slowly walked around the camper. Then he got on all fours and looked under the camper. Nothing there.
The car, then. That would make more sense. He walked around it and once again got on all fours. It didn’t take him long to find the tracking device. He looked around. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him. He placed the transmitter on the car next to him. He hoped they were heading in the opposite direction.
* * * * *
Across from the campground, Sam sat in the car. A pair of binoculars lay on the passenger seat.
Sam smiled. One thing about Bronson, he always had a unique sense of humor.
But in spite of that, Bronson looked agitated. He hadn’t used his cell phone to make his call. Chances were he didn’t want the little misses to find out what was going on. He wouldn’t want her to feel threatened. He had to make sure she was safe. Not by a long shot, Sam thought.
“Game’s over,” Sam said to the driver. “Bronson found the tracking device. I knew he would eventually. I was just hoping he wouldn’t find it so soon. No matter. Let’s head for Safford. We’ll wait for him there.”
Chapter Six
Ah, Albuquerque. A most delightful town, especially in its older section. Quaint little stores lined the streets of Old Town. Too many shopping temptations for Carol, Bronson thought. He wrapped his hand around hers, partly to hold her, but also to keep her from running inside each store.
Carol stopped, looked at a window display, dropped her husband’s hand, and dashed inside the store. He found a little coffee shop and waited for Carol to rejoin him. Half an hour later, she came out carrying a small bag. That was good. Couldn’t have spent too much. Then he remembered that diamonds come in very small packages. Better not to ask. Sometimes ignorance was bliss.
“The cashier told me about the National History Museum. It sounds very interesting.” Carol looked at her husband and smiled with her eyes.
When she did that, Bronson couldn’t resist her. He’d tame a dinosaur, if she asked him to. Bronson got instructions to the museum and drove them there.
Once they reached the museum, Carol delighted in the historical displays. Bronson felt more compelled to study the visitors. Two, he noticed, were the same middle-aged couple he had seen this morning at Old Town. Bronson watched them until they walked out of the museum, fifteen minutes later.
Bronson kissed Carol on the cheek. “I’m goin’ to find the Little Boys’ Room. See you in a while.” Bronson walked past the restroom and out the main door. He watched as the couple approached their car, a ’56 Chevy. Unless this couple drove two cars, the vintage Chevy had not been one of the cars parked at the large cross parking lot in Groom, Texas, or in the campground.
Bronson made a mental note and rejoined Carol.
* * * * *
At exactly two in the morning, Bronson’s cell rang. His eyes snapped open. Emergency at work? Or, worse, one of the kids? Where was he? Certainly not at home. Where, then?
Oh, yeah, the camper parked at a campground in Socorro.
He no longer worked.
The kids!
In two long strides he reached the phone. “Hello?”
Silence.
Bronson sucked in his breath. “Who’s this?”
The answer came in the form of a whisper. “Casey.”
Bronson felt the impact of the word like a punch to his stomach. He kept the telephone glued to his ear even though he knew the connection had been broken.
S has my cell number. How’s this possible? Bronson looked at his cell phone. He was in an analog zone, not a digital zone. That meant his caller I.D. would not register the call. Had S known that?
Bronson called customer service. “I’ve just received a call, but my caller I.D. didn’t pick it up. Can you please give me that number?”
The employee explained that would be impossible. “I’m really sorry, but there’s no way we can get that number for you.”
Bronson thanked him and hung up.
“What was that about?” Carol sat up in bed, her open hands rested on her upper chest, like the heroine of a silent movie.
“I thought you were in the habit of ignorin’ calls in the middle of the night.”
“I was when you were working. Was that one of the kids?”
“No. It was. . .an obscene caller. I tried to get his number from the company, but the guy I talked to said that was impossible. Wonder if I could have gotten it if I were still a detective?”
“You sure that’s all it was—just an obscene call?”
“Believe me. It was obscene.” Bronson walked over to Carol and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep. Sorry the call woke you up.”
Carol smiled, lay back down, and covered herself. Within minutes, Bronson heard her snore gently. He lay beside her and made sure he didn’t move so he wouldn’t wake her. As he listened to his wife’s gentle breathing pattern, Bronson wished luck would visit him. He tried to force himself to sleep, but instead, he remained wide-awake, staring at the darkness that swallowed him.
Chapter Seven
Bronson sat in his motor home parked across the street from the Sun Lodge. His unblinking eyes stared at the lodge. In all of his years working as a detective, he had never once stayed in such a luxurious place. It was always the smallest, least expensive places that he registered for. This, on the other hand, well, what could he say? Except maybe this retirement life, he could get used to it.
He smiled and realized Carol had been talking to him. “Huh?”
“I said, why are we just sitting here?”
“I was . . . just checking the parking lot. Remember, I don’t like to drive, especially a big monster like this, but I’ve got to admit: I’m gettin’ used to it, and I’m almost likin’ it.” He checked out the parking lot. “Reckon I could park over there, on the side.”
“You do that. I can’t wait to see the inside and then relax.”
“Be careful now. I don’t want you too relaxed.” Bronson wiggled his eyebrows.
“In that case, let’s hurry up and get in there.” Carol pointed to the motel and wiggled her eyebrows.
Bronson looked at his wife and flashed her his bone-melting grin.
* * * * *
An hour-and-a-half later, Bronson and Carol lay in bed, a broad smile plastered on both of their faces. Carol snuggled in closer to her husband. “I know you’ve got work to do, so let me tell you my plans. First, I’m going to do a couple of laps in the indoor pool, hit the exercise room, and then take the longest shower in history. Afterwards, I’m going to read the new Bill Crider mystery.”
“That sounds nice.” Bronson kissed Carol, got up, and headed for the bathroom. “Unfortunately, I’m a workin’ man and have no time for such luxuries. I’m goin’ to take a look around.”
“Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you. You’ll enjoy every minute of it.”
Probably would, if S wasn’t around. “You know me too well.” He threw her a kiss and stepped into the shower.
Twenty minutes later, he headed toward the lobby, stopped at the registration desk, and asked directions.
The woman behind the counter at the motel’s lobby told Bronson that Staghorn Avenue intercepted U. S. Highway 191.
“Lookin’ at a time frame, what does that mean?”
The receptionist shrugged and smiled. “Maybe ten minutes at the most.”
Bronson nodded. “Reckon everythin’ over here is ten minutes away.”
Without smiling the receptionist looked at
Bronson. “Not necessarily. Some places are fifteen minutes away.”
Bronson extended his index finger and moved it as though saluting her. “Gotcha,” he said and walked out.
* * * * *
Bronson didn’t reach Dolly Secrist’s house in ten minutes. It took him a full thirteen minutes, Bronson noted. As he turned down Staghorn Avenue, Bronson recalled that it had been over twenty years since he had last seen Dolly.
Shortly after Casey’s death, Bronson had kept in touch with Dolly, but gradually the days turned into months and the months into years. Except for an occasional Christmas card, Bronson had not heard from Dolly. He wondered if she would even recognize him.
Here goes nothin’. He rang the doorbell and while he waited, he tried to calculate Dolly’s age. Probably in her early seventies, he reasoned.
The door swung opened. A petite woman, barely five feet tall with short, stylish, white hair, looked up at Bronson. Her eyes squinted as she focused on him.
Bronson smiled. “Hello, Dolly, ma’am. I’m—”
“Harry Bronson.” She smiled.
“Yes, ma’am. That would be me.”
Dolly threw the screen door open and hugged Bronson. For a second, Bronson imagined his mom doing the same thing. He hadn’t thought of his mother in ages. A pang of loneliness hit Bronson.
“Come in, come in. It’s so good to see you.”
Bronson stepped inside and closed the front door behind him. The living room wasn’t anything like he expected. Instead of an orderly home, Bronson saw bright throw pillows and toys scattered throughout the room. An unfinished crossword puzzle and a pencil rested on the couch.
Bronson’s gaze traveled from one framed picture to the other. Portraits of Dolly’s children with their families adorned the walls. An eight-by ten color print of Casey—the same one Bronson carried in his wallet—rested on the mantle. On the coffee table sat a picture of Dolly as a child, wearing her ballerina outfit.
