Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (21 page)

He backed out of the driveway, heart a little lighter despite the gloom that pervades a murder investigation.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Elliot avoided town and entered Donegal using the back roads, not knowing the area, but figuring he’d seen enough on his first visit to muddle his way through. The caper cost him half an hour, cruising up and down gravel roads that were all too similar, but eventually he found what he was looking for: the empty houses the waitress had told him about.

They were the kind constructed in the late 1940s to accommodate young families after the war, and sat deep on their lots, at least fifty feet back from the road, beneath a thick canopy of trees and surrounded by brush.

He pulled off the road and parked in an area that had once been a driveway, and when he climbed out, the sound of the truck door closing behind him spooked a couple of crows out of the treetops. When the birds were far enough away that Elliot could no longer hear them, he listened for any other sound. There was none. It amazed him that small towns like Donegal, less than thirty miles from the city, could be so quiet.

As Elliot walked toward the houses, tiny clouds of dust from the gravel road puffed around his footsteps. Dust coated the mailboxes, the fence posts, the leaves of trees, every available surface area, as though the cluster of houses lay in the path of a crop duster.

A slab of corrugated steel the size of a refrigerator covered the doorway of the southernmost house, and it was this one that Elliot chose to search first. He climbed onto the small concrete porch and paused, again listening for anything out of the ordinary. Hearing nothing of interest, he grabbed the edges of the steel and pulled the makeshift door to one side, then peered into a chasm of darkness. An earthy smell, like that of rotted wood, drifted out of the darkness.

The windows had been boarded over, and the only light—which wasn’t much, due to the trees and brush—came through the opening where he stood. Nothing about this felt right, but he’d come too far to turn back now. He stuck his head through the doorway and called out. “Anybody home? The waitress at the diner said I might find you here. I mean you no harm. I just want to talk to you.”

The lack of a response did not sit well with Elliot, but he stepped into the house anyway and started across the floor. The wooden planks bowed under his weight, but they held, and when a sensation of being watched waved over Elliot, he pulled a small flashlight from his coat pocket and directed its beam about the room, going from corner to corner. He saw only a collection of spent wine bottles and a few empty soup cans.

Boards creaked behind him.

Before he could react, he felt the impact of something hard smashing against the back of his skull. Then he heard a thump, the clatter of footsteps, and the bang of metal against wood.

Elliot’s knees buckled, and his consciousness wavered, but he fought to regain control, refusing to go down like that, not knowing who or why. Still standing, he twisted around, dragging a right hook complete with flashlight as he turned, hoping to connect with something, or someone, but all he saw was the metal rod that’d hit him lying on the floor. He wondered if it had been the old man, frightened into attacking him, only to flee through the front door as soon as he’d delivered the blow, but another sound, coming from the kitchen, quickly dispelled that notion.

Instinctively, Elliot stepped to his left as a steel bar came down, missing his head, but catching his shoulder. The flashlight dropped from his hand and thudded uselessly to the floor. Elliot tucked and rolled as the attacker whipped the weapon through the air, barely missing him each time as he rolled across the wooden planks. Suddenly, Elliot heard the bar clang to the floor, and again he seemed to be alone in the room. It was like trying to fight a ghost.

Panting, Elliot scrambled to his feet and backed into a corner. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and though he could not see well, he could detect movement. In this position, with walls preventing an attack from behind him, whoever came at him would have to do it head-on. He hadn’t been there long when a form erupted from the kitchen and barged straight for him.

Elliot slid his hand around the handle of the Glock and pulled it free of the holster, then held it in front of him and aimed just above the attacker’s head. He squeezed off a warning shot. Amplified by the enclosure of walls, the weapon sounded like a cannon. It did the trick. The attacker changed course and ran out of the house through the front door.

Elliot took off after the assailant, though he harbored little hope of catching him. He was still winded from the gymnastics of avoiding a beating with the metal bar, and the guy had too much of a head start. But as soon as Elliot burst outside, he caught sight of the man disappearing into the wooded area behind the houses.

He wasn’t alone.

There were at least four of them, all male and all dressed the same: long-sleeved khaki shirts with matching pants.

Elliot holstered his weapon, then cautiously checked the back of his head. It hurt, but there wasn’t much blood. He decided he was okay to search the other houses.

A few minutes later, having found the other houses empty, he went back to the first house and left his business card beside the empty wine bottles. He had a pretty good idea who the men were, or at least who had sent them. Thugs of that nature wouldn’t ordinarily attack a police officer, or anyone in a position of authority who could bring heat down on them, which in Elliot’s mind meant only one thing.

Someone knew he was going to be there and had ordered the ambush. Had it been the waitress? He didn’t think so. She’d been frightened herself. And in the diner, she’d been closely observed. No, she had not betrayed him. She’d been overheard, probably by the same man that’d had words with her after he saw her talking to Elliot.

This, of course, brought up another problem. If the waitress had been overheard telling Elliot where to find the old man, and the idea of that disturbed someone enough to send in a mini-army, they would probably be pretty angry at her as well.

Pulling his phone, Elliot punched in the number for the diner. It didn’t surprise him when the waitress answered. He figured whoever had listened in the first time would be hoping to gain more information. “Don’t say anything,” he said. “When I get through talking, cough once for yes, and twice for no. Do you understand?”

One cough.

“Is the line bugged?”

Two coughs.

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do. In about five minutes, an old green pickup truck will stop in front of the diner. You come out and get in the truck, and I’ll get you out of there. If that’s what you want.”

One cough.

“Good enough. Watch for me.”

A few minutes later, Elliot saw the diner ahead on the right. Scenarios of Chief Washington driving up at the wrong time kept going through his head. He’d hoped that the waitress would be standing outside waiting for him to come along, but the sidewalk was empty.

When he came to the diner, he slowed to a stop, but neither the waitress nor anyone else came out of the place. Luckily he didn’t see Chief Washington either. He considered his options, and he was leaning toward the decision to leave when he saw the front door of the diner open partway to reveal a flash of pink fabric, then close again. Through the glass, he saw someone forcing the waitress back into the restaurant.

Elliot got out of the truck. He figured he’d live to regret his actions, but he couldn’t just leave her like that, knowing she was in trouble. He walked quickly to the door. Pushing it open, he stepped inside.

The same man who’d argued with the waitress earlier stood behind the counter. The waitress was there, too. The man held her in front of him, his hands clamped around her arms.

The restaurant was not empty. Customers sat at some of the tables, but none of them looked up as Elliot walked by, nor did they seem to be paying attention to what was going on behind the counter. As if it were just another day, the customers looked though the windows or at their food or at each other, but they refused to acknowledge that something not-right was happening in their presence.

As Elliot drew near, the man tightened his grip on his hostage and said, “This ain’t your concern, mister. So why don’t you just get out of here.”

Elliot’s high school football coach had once told him that there was a time for talking and a time for walking. At the time, he wasn’t sure what the coach meant by that, but he couldn’t imagine that anything he might say right now would do any good. He stepped behind the counter and started toward the couple.

The man’s eyes widened and he backed away, heading for the door leading to the kitchen, dragging the waitress with him. Elliot figured he’d better stop him. There would be pots, pans, and knives in there, lots of weapons the man could use. He stepped around the man and blocked the kitchen entrance, but each time he reached for his adversary, the man swung the waitress around, using her as a shield. At the same time, he began backing toward the other end of the counter. Presumably trying to reach the phone to call for help.

Elliot heard the front door opening, and when he turned in that direction he fully expected to see Chief Washington ambling toward him, but it was just another customer who bowed his head like the others.

It was only a matter of time until the big cop showed up. Elliot had to do something. He stepped toward his adversary, but when the man maneuvered his shield, Elliot raised his right hand to get his attention then drove his left beneath the arm of the waitress and grabbed a handful of the man’s T-shirt.

Surprised by the action, the man released his grip on the waitress. He shoved her aside, and she stumbled.

Elliot stepped in front of her. “Get in the truck,” he said, but he’d no more than gotten the words out when the man lunged at him. Elliot’s initial reaction was to sidestep, but the lady was still on the floor behind him. He snapped his left arm forward, as if to jab, but instead of making a fist, he clamped his hand around the man’s throat. The unexpected move gave him a half-second window, and Elliot used the delayed reaction time to grab the man’s hair with his other hand. Using both hands, he drove the man’s head into the counter with a satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage.

The man dropped to the floor, but he wasn’t through. He grabbed the counter to pull himself up.

Elliot didn’t have time to finish the job. He grabbed the waitress by the arm, the irony of her being dragged around by yet another man not escaping him as he pulled her along.

Outside, Elliot opened the passenger door and loaded the waitress into the truck. With that done, he started for the other side, but again he found himself facing the man from the diner.

He grabbed the lapels of Elliot’s jacket and shoved him toward the truck.

Elliot whirled around, using his attacker’s momentum, and threw the man to the sidewalk.

Again he staggered to his feet.

Elliot popped a couple of jabs to the man’s face, then bashed a right hook into his temple.

He didn’t wait around to see what happened after that. He climbed into the truck and sped out of town.

As soon as they reached Highway 75, he opened the throttle, pushing the old truck for all it was worth, keeping the pedal to the floor until the front wheels started to shake and the waitress gripped the dash with both hands. The speedometer showed a hundred and ten.

“Sorry.” Elliot backed off until the wheels stabilized, then continued for a few miles. Seeing a promising exit, he left the highway and made his way to Tulsa using the back roads.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A few miles from Tulsa, with the heat off, Elliot turned to the waitress. “Sorry it turned out so rough.”

She remained silent.

“I know you’re frightened right now, but could you tell me your name?”

Still nothing.

Elliot nodded. “It’s all right if you don’t want to talk. I understand. If you could help me out with a few things, though, I’d appreciate it. Do you know anything about Gary Sullivan, the psychologist?”

Nothing.

“How did Franklin Taylor know the fire was no accident?”

Her eyes widened, but still no words came out.

Elliot stared through the window. It was as if he’d picked up a shell, an animated corpse, infused with a life force, but possessing no awareness of the outside world. He’d done the right thing. Even so, the captain would take his head off, if he found out. He didn’t think that would be a problem, though. The church was a cult that kept its members in line through force and intimidation. Groups like that tend to keep to themselves, iron out their problems in their own way with no help or intrusion from the outside world. They wouldn’t go to Jed Washington just yet. Not until they’d exhausted all other avenues, which meant they would be looking for the waitress. He needed a safe place for her.

Elliot made a few calls. A few minutes later, he pulled into a local shelter for women. After getting out of the truck, he went to the passenger side and opened the door. The waitress didn’t move, but continued to stare straight ahead. “This is just temporary,” Elliot said. “But right now we need a place where you’ll be safe.”

She sat in the truck and stared through the window.

Elliot closed the door and walked to the shelter, a one-story building that resembled a school more than it did a place of refuge. Once inside, he went to the counter and showed his badge. “Detective Elliot. I have someone in the car, a woman who’s been abused. She’s terrified.”

There were two women behind the counter. One of them identified herself as Leslie Combs. “What would you like for us to do, Detective?”

Elliot stretched the truth a little. “The man who abused her is on the loose. We’re looking for him, but if he finds her first, and you can bet he’s trying, she’s in big trouble. I need a place where she’ll be safe. Of course we could lock her up, but that wouldn’t be right. She’s done nothing wrong. Can we count on your help?”