Gone in a Flash (11 page)

I talked to Brother Joe, and told him what I’d found out.

‘She must have run into someone she knew,’ he said, ‘and left for some reason. I’m sure she meant to come back, but something came up. Hopefully she’ll call soon and let us know.’

I agreed with him and, after practice, headed to my room to get ready for dinner. It was then I noticed that Rachael’s suitcase was gone. As were her toiletries from the bathroom and her hang-up clothes from the closet. On my bed was a note:

Dear Vera,

So sorry I just ran off, but I saw a friend who I haven’t seen in a long time and she’s going through a divorce and is having a rough time. I couldn’t leave her alone. I hope you understand. Please tell Brother Joe and the rest of the choir how sorry I am to have just walked out like that, but it was an emergency. Have a wonderful meeting!

Best,

Rachael

Well, that’s rude, I thought. She could have at least called. And since she came back to the hotel, why didn’t she come talk to someone? If not me, then Brother Joe? Whatever, I thought, remembering that I hadn’t liked her that much anyway before this trip. I just hoped she didn’t try to get her money back on the room.

The sketch artist was gorgeous. I wasn’t the only one to notice it. Megan forgot about her new short bob and kept trying to flip her hair. Bess had the hair and was flipping it like mad. Only Alicia seemed impervious to Calvin Hedley’s charms.

Yes, Calvin Hedley. Horrible name for such a stud. Well over six feet, more like six and half, broad shoulders, round bottom, black hair, olive complexion and blue eyes to die for. And a smile that … Well, it was a heavenly smile.

Calvin and Alicia sat in the formal dining room, working away at the sketch, while we three ‘girls,’ and I use that term loosely, sat in the formal living room and watched. They’d been at it for an hour when I heard Willis’s truck pull into the driveway. I sighed and left the living room. I wasn’t up to giving my husband ammunition with which to tease me for the next ten years. ‘Drooling over a kid half your age,’ etc., etc., ad nauseum.

While he nestled his truck all snug in the garage, I got out a pan and some food and pretended I’d been cooking. ‘What are we having for dinner?’ he asked, kissing me and looking down at the assortment of crap I’d removed from the refrigerator. I looked too. Not good. The meat I’d had on the top shelf defrosting was fine. Even the bag of unsnapped green beans was OK. But how I would manage to make something tasty out of those two ingredients mixed with marshmallow fluff, lemon curd and hummus I didn’t know.

Willis raised an eyebrow at me. ‘The sketch artist is here,’ I said, having already filled him in by phone on the latest catastrophe. I got the desired effect. His mind was off the mess on the counter and onto the activity going on elsewhere.

‘Where are they?’ he asked.

‘Dining room,’ I said and followed him out – after putting away everything except the chicken and the green beans.

Megan and Bess were still on the sectional sofa, gazing dreamy-eyed at Calvin, who had yet to notice them. Alicia was busy saying take this out, add this, etc.

‘Hi,’ Willis said, extending his hand. ‘I’m Alicia’s dad.’

Calvin stood up and shook hands. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Brooks,’ he said.

‘Ah, the name’s Pugh. Willis Pugh. I’m Alicia’s foster father.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ Calvin said and showed a terrific smile with dimples and oh-so-white teeth. I heard sighs from the living room. ‘We’re almost finished here, I think,’ Calvin said, turning to look at Alicia. ‘What do you think, Alicia?’ he asked.

She looked at the sketch. ‘That’s as close as I can get,’ she said. She nodded. ‘Yes. I think that’s him. Megs, Bess, come look.’

They didn’t really need an invitation. They were off the sofa and in the dining room in a flash, elbowing each other to get closest to Calvin.

‘At the picture, y’all,’ Alicia said and grinned.

Bess blushed but Megan just tossed her invisible hair again. Bess looked at the photo. ‘Yeah, that’s the tall one, right?’

Megan looked. ‘Yeah! He’s always riding shotgun.’

‘Did you get a decent look at the short one?’ Willis asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ Alicia said. ‘I think between us we can do him. If Calvin has time?’

Calvin smiled and I sighed. When Willis turned my way I coughed to cover up. ‘All the time in the world. My wife has taken the kids to her mom’s in Dallas for a week, so I’m free.’

The temperature in the room fell by several degrees. Shoulders slumped. Hair did not get tossed.

With very little enthusiasm, the three girls got to work on a sketch of the shorter stalker.

They could have walked back to BCR; they were very close to it. But since the BCR police were hot on their tails, they decided to walk to Codderville instead. Mr Smith’s shirt was torn in several places and his skin ripped on his right arm near the elbow and on his left arm near the wrist. The knee had torn through his jeans on impact; all the other injuries, to both body and attire, had come from the mesquite. Mr Jones had a scratch on his hand. And, of course, the divot in his foot, but that wasn’t from this accident – or the mesquite trees.

‘I hate walking,’ Mr Smith said.

‘Who hates walking?’ Mr Jones asked.

‘Me! I hate walking! That’s what I just said!’

‘I meant, what a dumbass to hate walking!’ Mr Jones clarified.

‘Shut up!’ Mr Smith said.

‘
You
shut up!’ Mr Jones said.

‘God, I’m gonna kill you first chance I get!’ Mr Smith said.

‘Not if I kill you first!’ Mr Jones said.

A blue-and-rust pickup truck pulled in front of them as they walked down the shoulder of the highway.

‘Hey, you boys need a lift?’ the old man inside the truck asked.

Mr Smith and Mr Jones both smiled at the old man. ‘Thanks! Our car broke down,’ Mr Smith said. He and Mr Jones jumped into the bed of the pickup.

‘I’m only going as far as Codderville,’ the old man said.

‘That’s fine,’ Mr Smith said. ‘Thanks!’

As Calvin Hedley left, Willis turned to us and said, ‘How ’bout I take my favorite girls out for dinner?’

‘You don’t have to ask me twice,’ I said, going to the kitchen and putting away the chicken and the green beans.

‘Mexican!’ Megan shouted.

‘Pizza!’ Bess shouted.

‘Why don’t we go to the cafeteria so we can all get what we want?’ I suggested.

The gagging sounds coming from all three girls were a bit nauseating.

‘How about Mike & Mary’s?’ Willis suggested. ‘Y’all can get burgers or tacos or pizza, and Mom can get a salad.’

‘And you’re going for red meat, right?’ I asked as we headed out the back door for the minivan.

‘Sixteen-ounce T-bone, slap it on the ass and call it done,’ he said, going to the driver’s side.

‘Uh uh!’ Bess said, shooing him away from the door. ‘This is our car! You don’t get to drive! You and Mom have to sit in the back seat, too!’

Alicia called shotgun before Megan did, so Willis and I had the joy of listening to her bitch the entire way to Mike & Mary’s, a local café owned by the parents of one of Graham’s friends.

I myself am not adverse to a little red meat every once in a while, so I ordered the filet mignon, with the house salad and the vegetable medley. Willis, of course, got his T-bone, plus the house salad and a baked potato all the way. And I saw the twinkle in his eye when he spotted the dessert tray. Yes, I know. He’s going to make me a young, and beautiful, I might add, widow.

By the time we got home, it was time for baths and bed. Luckily the girls had not been assigned any homework that night, so we were all out by eleven.

As I was getting ready for bed, I realized my hands were very dry and, rather than go all the way back to the bathroom to get my hand cream, I decided to open the bedside table drawer to see if Rachael had left any behind.

She hadn’t. But what she had left was all her contact lens stuff, and her glasses. That didn’t seem right, not after what she’d told me. Of course, lots of people say they’re as blind as a bat when all they really mean is they just don’t see as well as they used to. I picked up Rachael’s glasses. The lenses were as thick as the bottom of a Coke bottle. OK, I believed her. She
was
blind as a bat.

Then why would she pack up all her stuff but leave this very important part of her daily wear behind? Answer? Well, I
am
E.J. Pugh’s mother-in-law, you know. The answer was simple. She didn’t. Someone else packed her stuff up for her. And the note? I was going to find an answer to that question first thing in the morning.

‘So, Bert, is it?’ Mr Smith said to the old man. The old man nodded. ‘This should teach you not to pick up people off the side of the road. We weren’t even hitching, Bert!’ Mr Smith shook his head as Mr Jones wound the duct tape around Bert’s legs and the ladder-back chair he was attaching him to. ‘We’re not going to hurt you, OK? You’re gonna be fine. We just need to borrow your truck tonight, OK? We’ll bring it back safe and sound in a couple of hours and, if all goes well, we’ll be out of your hair in no time flat. Sound good, Bert?’

Bert nodded his head as speaking was pretty much discouraged by the duct tape covering his mouth.

‘You’ve got a nice little place here, Bert,’ Mr Jones said. ‘How many acres?’

Bert shrugged. Mr Jones laughed at his own stupidity. ‘Oh, man, I’m sorry!’ He uncovered half of Bert’s mouth.

‘Three hundred,’ Bert said.

‘Wow, that’s great! What do you grow?’

‘Feed corn mostly, some cotton, and some soy beans – that’s a new crop. Trying it out.’

‘Well, good luck to you,’ Mr Jones said and refastened the tape over Bert’s mouth.

‘OK, you got all the information you need about acreage, there, Mr Jones?’ Mr Smith asked, his tone sarcastic.

‘Don’t start!’ Mr Jones said, heading for the front door.

‘Who’s the one dragging this out asking stupid questions?’ Mr Smith said.

They went down the steps and climbed into the pickup truck, Mr Smith driving.

‘So what’s your dumb plan this time?’ Mr Jones asked Mr Smith.

‘We’re going after that satchel. Into the house this time. Even if we gotta kill every last one of them, we’re taking it!’

There was a mist in the air, caressing the grass, making the pavement shine. The blue-and-rust pickup truck chugged through the night, through empty streets, under the umbrella of illumination from the street lights. As the old pickup hit the highway and sped up, darkness swallowed all but their headlights as they crossed the blackened river that separated Codderville from Black Cat Ridge.

The windows on the old pickup were down, and the men inside could hear the chirping of insects and the crunch of their tiny bodies as the pickup’s tires smashed them into the pavement. BCR was as quiet as Codderville. Security lights were all that could be seen – in stores, in homes. Streetlights shown down on the wet pavement, a siren’s song to the crickets that would meet their death under the pickup’s tires.

Mr Smith doused the headlights as he turned onto Sagebrush Trail. Second house in, that’s where the prize was. Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of a prize. He would get the whole amount if he killed Mr Jones
after
they got their money from Mr Brown. Something to think about, he told himself. If Mr Jones would stop getting on his nerves for a while, he might be able to keep him alive a little bit longer.

He drove down the street, made a U-turn, and came back, parking two doors down from the house they wanted, on the side away from that crazy broad that claimed to be a cop. That was freaky, Mr Smith thought.

He sat in the pickup truck, lights off, staring up at the second story of the house in question.

‘What are we doing?’ Mr Jones asked. He was sick of watching the Pughs’ house.

See? Mr Smith thought. That’s why he wanted to kill him
now
. Anybody would under the circumstances!

‘We’re scoping out the place,’ Mr Smith said as calmly as possible.

‘For what?’ Mr Jones asked.

‘I wonder which room is the brown-haired girl’s room?’ Mr Smith asked, ignoring him.

Mr Jones shrugged. ‘Does it really matter?’

‘Yes, Mr Jones, it does matter,’ Mr Smith said, gritting his teeth and turning in his seat to stare at his partner. ‘If we’re going to break in and steal the satchel, we can only assume it’s with the brown-haired girl, and that the brown-haired girl
and
the satchel will both be in her room!’ He added, ‘Dumbass,’ under his breath.

‘Don’t call me a dumbass!’ Mr Jones hissed. Mr Smith was getting on his last nerve, and that was the goddam truth, he thought to himself.

‘I’ll call you worse than that, you dumb moth—’ Mr Smith started, but Mr Jones’s fist came out of nowhere and landed on that little space between Mr Smith’s upper lip and his nose, managing not only to bust his upper lip, but start a nosebleed to boot.

Mr Smith jerked backwards for a beat, then came bursting forward, his hands going for Mr Jones’s neck. There commenced a quiet struggle with both men whispering epitaphs at each other, and flinging each other’s arms about. The only sound was the squeaking of the shocks on Bert’s pickup truck.

‘Stop!’ Mr Smith hissed, quite out of breath.

Mr Jones reluctantly sat back in his seat, as did Mr Smith.

‘OK, we’ll finish that later. Right now we need to go in there and find that satchel,’ Mr Smith said, breathing hard.

‘How are we gonna do that?’ Mr Jones asked.

‘Break a window, crawl in, go upstairs and find the right girl. The satchel will be with her.’

‘OK,’ Mr Jones said, reached under his seat and brought up a tire iron. ‘Think this’ll do for smashing the window?’

Mr Smith shrugged. ‘Should do the trick,’ he said getting out of the truck. ‘Let’s do it.’

Alicia awoke, not sure what had awakened her. She sat up in bed. Mr Jones saw her sit up at the same time she saw him standing by her desk. She opened her mouth to scream but Mr Jones was on her in a flash, a large hand over her mouth.