Remembering Dresden (Jack Turner Suspense Series Book 2) (26 page)

He got out of the car, walked across the street and down the sidewalk until he reached the spot where the stone wall turned into the woods. Glancing back and forth down the street to make sure he was still alone, he backed into the shrubs until they completely covered him. He turned and hurried along the edge of the stone wall until he found a tree with low-hanging branches standing adjacent to the wall. On the other side, a row of hemlock trees would hide him nicely from the neighbors. He climbed until his head cleared the top of the wall then waited till it was obvious no one was looking.

In no time, he was over the stone wall and landed in a patch of mulch. He walked through the hemlock trees toward Turner’s building like he was just any resident out for a walk.

He passed an elderly woman across the street walking a poodle and waved. She waved back and kept walking.

Turner’s unit was on the left. He walked through a breezeway between two buildings, turned right and came to his building. He stopped long enough to confirm Turner’s car wasn’t in either of his assigned parking spaces. Vandergraf had said Turner rode a sporty blue BMW. Two minutes later, Strickland was standing in front of Turner’s door. Good, just a regular deadbolt. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for any signs of life. Nothing. He took out his tools and had the deadbolt sliding away in less than a minute.

He opened the door, stood and listened. The only sounds were bubbles floating up through the filters of a large aquarium. He waited in the hall a full minute, just to be sure. Certain he had the apartment to himself, Strickland set about searching for the journal and scrapbook.

Most people called Jack’s next-door neighbor Mrs. Carlson. At the moment, she sat in her late husband’s favorite chair, a sagging recliner, watching a movie on the Hallmark channel. Her aging poodle, Ralphie, was sound asleep on his favorite spot on the sofa. Mrs. Carlson was thinking about hitting the pause button and fixing herself something to eat.

In any case, she needed to get up. An alarm had gone off twenty minutes ago reminding her to take her dinner-time dose of heart medicine. She’d better do it or she’d forget. Some days she struggled taking the medication at all, especially her before-bed dose. Maybe if she didn’t, she’d die quietly in her sleep and finally get to join her husband Bill. Then she wouldn’t have to sit there every night alone, missing him.

As she walked into the kitchen, she remembered the pain from the heart attack she had last year, and how terrified she felt lying there before the paramedics came. Which is why she kept taking the medicine, even at night. Otherwise, what if she just lay there in her bed, suffering alone for hours?

That would be awful.

She walked over to the fridge resolved to keep taking her medicine. She reached for the freezer door. That’s when she noticed it. A yellow post-it note she had put there herself. “
Don’t forget—feed Jack’s fish before dinner
!”

Why had she agreed to do this?

Why? Because Jack had asked her so nicely, that’s why. And he had the sweetest eyes, almost like her son Robbie’s. “But what if one of the fish dies while you’re gone?” she’d asked him. They were such fragile little things. “That’s fine,” Jack had said. “I won’t blame you. I know that happens with fish.”

“What if they all died?” she’d said. “Then you won’t have to come over and feed them anymore,” he’d said smiling. He was such a nice young man.

“God,” she prayed as she walked over to fetch the jar of fish food, “You can take me anytime you want, just not his fish.”

She picked the jar off the counter and walked back into the living room. “Darn.” She looked at the TV. She’d hit the mute button instead of the pause button. Now she’d have to backtrack and figure out where she’d left off in the movie.

Jack’s fish would have to wait a few more minutes.

Strickland had quickly walked through Turner’s whole apartment—twice—and hadn’t found what he came there for. That either meant Turner had the items with him, like in his car, or he’d hidden them somewhere in here. Strickland doubted that, but he couldn’t face Vandergraf empty-handed. He had to be sure. The easiest thing would be to tear up the place, make it look like a break-in. That way he could leave without having to clean up or try to remember where everything went.

Turner had left all the drapes closed, so it was fairly dark. Strickland had turned on all the lights, rather than open the drapes and chance being seen. He started searching in Turner’s bedroom. First, he rummaged through the closet, then he emptied a few drawers on the bed. Nothing. Turner had a desk over in the far corner. He went through that. Still, nothing. He went through the second bedroom, clearly a guest room. Everything in there was empty.

He walked through the darkened hallway into the living area. His eyes shifted to the big screen TV. It sat atop a nice hutch with drawers running down both sides. He looked through all of them. Nothing but DVD’s. He pulled out a small pile and tossed them scattershot across the living room rug. Just for effect.

He slowly panned the room until his eyes rested on a closet in the hallway he hadn’t noticed before. There’s a possibility. He slid open the closet door. Just a row of coats, a vacuum cleaner, an umbrella, and a box of sweaters on the shelf. The least he could do was throw the sweaters all across the room.

This wasn’t done for effect. Strickland was getting frustrated. He had to find those items. They were paying him a lot of money, and the only way they’d keep doing that is if he got results. He’d never failed them before.

He wasn’t about to start now.

Mrs. Carlson walked over and, still standing, grabbed the remote to get the TV situated. She knew if she sat down, she wouldn’t get up again.

Well, better go feed the fish, she thought. Get it over with. She tightened up her robe as she walked to the front door. She took a look at herself in a hallway mirror. “Hope nobody sees that,” she said aloud.

So what if they did, what would they think? Just an old lady in a robe, right? Who did she care to impress at her age? She reached for the doorknob, then remembered—the key. Where had she put the key? For crying out loud, she had put it somewhere special so she wouldn’t forget, and now she couldn’t remember. See? More proof she had lived too long. When you start forgetting things like that, you’ve been on the earth too long.

Then she remembered. It’s on the windowsill above the sink.

All the way back into the kitchen.

Oh well. The fish have waited this long. They could wait a couple more minutes.

Strickland set the glass down on the kitchen counter. He was so thirsty. He had been wearing gloves so there was no chance of leaving fingerprints. But he wondered … what about
lip prints
? There’s no such thing, right? But there was DNA. They could snag him with that. So, he’d bring the glass with him. The ice tea tasted so good, he poured himself another.

As he drank, he opened the refrigerator door to put the pitcher of iced tea back. For a second, he thought he heard something in the hallway. He stopped drinking. Now, silence. He started to drink again—there it was again. He froze. Someone was putting keys into the front door. The door was opening.

Quietly, he set the glass down, then squatted on the kitchen floor. He couldn’t see the door from where he was, but there was no doubt about it—someone had just walked in. He heard the front door close over. He reached behind him and pulled his gun out of his waist band.

He suddenly became aware of how many lights were on in the place. He wished he could flip the switch in the kitchen, but that would immediately give him away. He felt so exposed standing in that bright kitchen. Why hadn’t he worn a ski mask? He’d gone to the trouble of dressing in black, of wearing gloves, but he had forgotten all about a mask. Now, whoever it was would probably see his face, so he would have to shoot them.

He really didn’t want to kill anybody today.

“What a mess!” someone said, the voice of an old woman. At least it wasn’t Turner.

“I take all those nice thoughts I had about you back, Jack,” she said. “I never took you for being such a slob.”

He heard her footsteps shuffling across the carpet. “Okay, little fishies,” the woman said sweetly. “Anybody dead in there? You better not be.”

What terrible luck. He knew things had been going too smoothly. She was there to feed the fish. He tried to calm himself down. Maybe he should sit tight. Maybe she’d just feed the fish and head back out again.

“You boys were hungry, weren’t you?” she said.

A few moments of silence. Was she done? Was she leaving?

“Why are so many lights on?” she said. “It’s such a waste.”

That did it.

She was going to walk around the apartment now, turning out all the lights. Which meant she would be in the kitchen any second. It was time to make his move. He stood and walked quietly across the kitchen floor. His finger rested gently on the trigger.

As he came to the doorway, he couldn’t hear where she was, but saw she wasn’t in the living room. He turned the corner and peered into the dining area. She was standing no more than fifteen feet away, next to a hutch, reading something. As he looked more closely, he saw a stack of mail on the hutch beside her. The old lady was just being nosy, reading Turner’s mail.

Her nosiness might have just saved her life.

She was facing away from Strickland, toward the bedrooms. He knew he couldn’t walk through the living room and rush out the front door without being spotted. But he had an idea. If it worked, he wouldn’t have to shoot her.

Putting his gun back in his waist band, he readied himself for the plunge. In a flash, he leaped from his hiding place and ran toward the woman. He grabbed her by the shoulders. She shrieked. “Be quiet old girl,” he muttered, as he manhandled her toward the master bedroom. He kept her face looking away from him.

“Oh, God. Please, no,” she said.

“Open the door,” Strickland demanded.

She obeyed. “Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded.

“I’m trying not to.” He threw her on Jack’s bed. She landed face down, on top of the pile of clothes Strickland had tossed there earlier. Before she had a chance to turn around, he quickly backed out and shut the door. “Don’t come out for fifteen minutes,” he yelled through the door, “and you’ll be fine.”

Strickland had to get out of there. He started down the hallway, then remembered he’d left the glass with his lip prints on the counter. He ran into the kitchen, grabbed the glass then headed for the door.

Once outside, he walked briskly down the sidewalk toward the section of the stone wall where he’d come in, trying to look much calmer than he felt.

Back on Jack’s bed, Mrs. Carlson slowly turned over. Her heart was racing, she could feel the pounding throughout her body, especially in her chest and head. Suddenly, a surge of pain shot up from her chest and through her arm. She knew what was happening.

“Oh, Jesus. Please help me.”

She reached for her heart, as if grabbing her chest would somehow relieve the intense pain. Surprisingly, it did. In the next moment, all her pain subsided, giving way to a deep and relaxing joy. She hadn’t felt this good in years. A smile came across her face.

The thought came:
This is it
.

But it didn’t scare her. She uttered a quiet prayer. “Jesus, this isn’t so bad. It’s really quite nice. Will I be seeing Bill soon?”

Then she closed her eyes.

Rob Strickland drove through a Wendy’s in the downtown area of Culpepper, then pulled into a shady parking spot in the town center to eat. He rolled down the windows to take advantage of the nice breeze. He was also buying a little time before calling Vandergraf with the bad news that he still hadn’t found what they were paying him to find.

By the time he’d finished off his burger and fries, he had still not figured out what to say when he called. Was it time to break into Turner’s car? Should he follow him a few days, see if he was carrying the items around with him?

He took out his phone, stared at it a few moments then made the call.

“Mr. Strickland. I’ve been waiting for your call.”

He sounded cheerful enough. That was about to change. “I don’t have good news for you. I’ve searched the professor’s cabin and his condo and haven’t found any trace of the scrapbook or journal. He must be keeping them in his car or something.”

“Hmmm. I was hoping for a quick resolve to this,” Vandergraf said. “No matter. We have to fix this. There’s no other choice.” He paused a moment. “I thought for sure you’d find them in the cabin. That’s where the Senator thought they’d be. You sure you looked everywhere for them?”

“In the cabin? Yeah. Of course, there wasn’t much to look at. Just one big room. Looked more like a shack to me.”

“What are you talking about? It’s a pretty nice cabin.”

“I beg to differ,” Strickland said. “I’m a pretty basic guy, but I think even I’d like something nicer than that. It’s rustic times two.”

“Wait a minute,” Vandergraf said. “You said shack. There is a shack on the property, in between the main road and the cabin. When you turned off the paved road, did you keep driving down the dirt road until you came to the clearing where the cabin is?”

“I’m not sure. I came to a dirt road on the left, turned down that, drove through some woods and came to a little clearing. That’s where I saw this shack. It was right on the water, like you said.”

“Strickland…that’s not the cabin. You turned too soon. I didn’t say turn left at the first dirt road. I said keep driving till you come to a clearing on the left, and you’ll see the cabin right there by the water. You haven’t even searched the cabin yet.”

“Oh. Guess I got a little mixed up with your directions. But that’s good news, right? I can head out there now. Won’t take me more than twenty minutes. Unless the guy’s there. That happens, I might have to wait him out. But that probably means I can still finish this thing. Maybe even today.”