The Final Shortcut (16 page)

There was over half a pot of coffee left when she emptied it into the sink. She cleaned off the counter before stopping at the mirror behind the register to check her face.

The reflection was ragged and tired and she felt very old. Only forty-nine, but her past showed itself in the lines on her face. A semi braked hard just outside and loudly geared down to make the corner turning onto the shortcut. The noise grabbed her attention and she watched the big rig kick up dust as he turned. Chills ran up her spine as an image of Junior, smiling, popped into her head. Only now she accepted the vision with muted concern. It was just the residual effect of her drug laden past and she would have to live with it. Either that or she was really going crazy. Neither answer gave her any solace. All she wanted now was to go home and go to bed. Junior would show up later. He always did. And she could relax then knowing it was all a bad dream. The long afternoon shadows crept across the parking lot as she locked up and went to her car. Thankfully it less than a mile home, down the shortcut a quarter mile and then left up their private driveway. The next turn only fifty yards further on. A road that cut off twenty-three acres of their land from the rest, a corner of the property she never visited. Junior said that the best hunting in the hills was in that shielded dell.

As she drove home her mind wandered and before she realized it she had gone past her driveway and onto the trucker’s short cut. Cursing herself for not paying attention, she turned left onto the next turn so she could turn around. Up ahead she thought she heard a truck, and she stopped for a moment to look. The road curved around a large clump of rocks and disappeared but she saw dust rising about a quarter mile away. She eased forward slowly to investigate. Her anxiety began to return making her upper lip sweat. There was no reason for her to be afraid. This was her property and she had a right to know what was going on, but she was a coward at heart. And today of all days she was feeling particularly fearful. So she crept down the gravel track so easily that she didn’t stir any dust. As she rounded the curve, she could see Junior on a backhoe pulling a truck backwards out of a gully just around the next corner. He was still several hundred feet away before she stopped and put it into reverse and backed around the narrow turn before heading away.

She felt very much better now. She had found the reason for her odd feelings. A trucker must have had an accident and Junior had to pull the truck out. He must have made the wrong turn, got stuck and called Junior. She had been told to stay off the back roads because they weren’t always safe. And she knew if anyone was hurt Junior would have called her on the cell phone and sent for Sheriff Clyde. So everything must be just fine, she even began to smile a bit as she shrugged off the weight of her weary afternoon. It was easy to convince herself that there was no real danger. She just felt things deeply sometimes and that gave her the anxiety. Maybe she was clairvoyant or psychic. Or maybe it was something else. She really didn’t want to know. She had an acceptable answer for now and that was the end of that.

It was dusk when she pulled in the drive. Glad to be home, glad to have seen Junior doing a good deed. He would be home when he got ready but she would most likely be asleep. He liked to work in his leather shop at night. Almost every night, and his crafts filled the shelves. She would see him at breakfast and they would talk about what chores needed to be done and they would talk about their day. In every way Junior was a good son, he kept the restaurant, her home and her car all in great working order. He would do any kind of work she asked of him without a grumble, and he was very good with fixing electronic things.

She honestly couldn’t think of how she could survive without him, yet down in her heart she was terrified of him. If he had any affection for her he never showed it, they would hug and even kiss on special occasions but he felt cold and disinterested. Every since that horrid day in the hospital after Woodstock when she first felt his dark eyes boring into her soul. She had thought there was something wicked about him.

And when he lost his temper, she could sense an evil about him that she couldn’t explain. Every thing had to go along with his plans or he got furious. Thankfully he always fled to the woods to vent his anger, and when he returned it was as if nothing had ever happened. But while he was away releasing his anguish, she would often have an episode like the one she just had today. Only this was the worst one yet. She felt as though they were dark warnings, premonitions of her future, or maybe she was just going crazy after all.

But not today, she had found her answer and it was good enough for her. Something in the back of her mind told her not to mention to Junior that she had seen him. A tingling feeling that he might be angry with her for spying on him. It was made well known that all their family property was his private hunting club and no one was allowed to go wandering about, even her. He had always maintained that it was a safety issue as he could be shooting a high-powered rifle at any given time. Whether she completely believed in that reasoning or not, she would not say. But she would listen to her inner voice and keep it to herself.

Halfway across town in the historic district, Sheriff Stokes walked into his office picking the remnants of a chicken sandwich from his teeth. The fast food place couldn’t compete with Ellen’s cooking but it was on his way. He sometimes liked to take an extra patrol through the Mayor’s neighborhood. The force had three other officers but it didn’t hurt to apply polish to the apple once and a while. He was fifty-eight years old this year and he wanted to glide onto retirement with as few ripples as possible. Rosa was still ruling the roost as the office manager, dispatcher and emergency response coordinator. She was truly one of a kind. She had left a note for him stuck to the computer monitor that simply said. “Turn me on!” Just below was another note that said. “Check your e-mail.” The police department had stood in the same spot for more than fifty years, but as with everything in life renovations had to be made. Even though Bontonville was still a sleepy town in the mountains, it had grown into a popular stopping spot for travelers and a thriving community. All his officers and staff were computer literate and he was proud to say that he had a competent understanding of them himself. But he couldn’t type three words a minute. For most of his career he could hand Rosa a notebook and get a typed report in return within a few hours. Now he had to enter information himself and he hated it. He had gotten into the habit of staying after dark to catch up, and it was the only time he could get away with smoking inside. There was something about a good cigar that made his paperwork less frustrating. Tonight he had a lot of catching up to do so he pulled out his ashtray, turned on the computer and lit his cigar.

As his machine was coming up, he sorted through the mail and some official bulletins. Two postings about runaways, a warning about rabid raccoons, the FBI’s most wanted list and a stolen wheelbarrow report. He leaned up and opened the window a few inches as he scanned through the rest of the repetitive mailings. Nothing like the old days when the marijuana farmers were funding the town, his mail was full of wanted posters and warrants. Now that it all was a thing of the past and he found Bontonville a slow boring little town where nothing ever happened. The monitor lit up announcing it was ready for action so he wasted little time opening his e-mail. Most of it was from Rosa. Sweet, indispensable Rosa. She had checked all his outgoing mail, updated his schedule and retyped his official reports. Her last mail was a reminder that he had a spell checker on his machine, and she would be happy to show him how to use it, again. He was glad that she was not due to retire until after he did, her devotion to her job went beyond any attachment to him or the city. She was driven by the true desire to help people, to do her best to make a difference.

The rest of his mail was notes from other city council members and some state officials. Half of which only wrote to have an excuse to use the computer. Some of the schoolteachers had put together a collection of pictures from the last field trip. Among them were several shots of him in some unflattering poses. He would be sure to avoid the cameras in the future. Then he stopped cold when he read the subject heading on the next e-mail. FBI investigation/encrypted/oo4klp/.

It was almost a shock to see something so important looking in his mailbox and it was dated two days ago. It took him a minute to fetch his password book from the safe. While the file was downloading he puffed anxiously and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

His cigar was getting hot, so he dug out a bottle of brandy to cool the fires, the only rare time he drank anymore. A short shot to cool his throat and a good dunk to cool the cigar, an intoxicating mix but a welcome friend when pouring into wordy government documents. You almost need an interpreter to explain the jargon and double-talk they use to say nothing. The effects of his brandied smoke had sufficiently removed his intimidation of the federal government and he began to read his mail again with amazing clarity.

The gist of the message was that an investigation had been opened a few weeks ago and it may branch out into his area, all cooperation will be appreciated and expected. The FBI and other federal agencies were cooperating to work on a case which involves a twenty-year long string of truck and driver disappearances covering four counties. There was a short summary of some of the missing items and a list of the driver’s names. Also a map showing the areas where most of the trucks were last seen and their estimated routes. He was shocked to see that Bontonville was nearly dead center of the map and most of the routes ran right past on the interstate. The most recent one had been just over a year ago involving a load of assorted weaponry that belonged to a private collector. Everything from rifles to bows and arrows, also dozens of historic relics dating to the 1600’s. So far very little physical evidence has surfaced, all of which turned up in swap meets and flea markets over several counties.

The report went on to explain that none of the trucks or their driver’s had ever been found. At last count there were seventeen unsolved disappearances. The Government office in Washington that sent the mail assured him that they would give any support to the local Police.

“Now that is interesting,” Clyde pulled hard on his cigar and leaned back in his worn leather chair. “Imagine that, seventeen missing trucks and drivers.” The night air blowing through the window had turned cool and he moved to close it as he pondered the news. “How could you get rid of seventeen trucks without leaving some kind of trail?” He stroked the gray hair in his temples and stared out the window, finishing his cigar. “I bet that private collector is well connected and that‘s why, all of a sudden, they start investigating.”

He still had a little typing to do, but a lifetime as a policeman caused him to stop and wonder about the new investigation. Carefully reexamining the list of drivers, he found seven names he recognized. “I know some of these guys!” His mind raced trying to recall if there had been any suspicious activity that he may have overlooked, some strange goings on that might give him a clue.

Over an hour passed before he snapped out of his concentration. As far as he could remember everything in Bontonville was just like it had been for many years. Nothing ever happened around here. Folks rarely got into a fight or a bad accident. It had been nine months since the big robbery, which resulted in a drunken teenager spending the night in jail for stealing a carton of cigarettes. All of the calls he got were usually traffic related, and almost always near the interstate. There hadn’t been a real crime in nearly eight years. The only real mystery of his entire career, the case of Celeste Ray and Wesley Groomes, would go down in the history books as unsolved. They just drove off into the night and were never seen again.

After another hour he managed to finish his work and was ready for a good night’s sleep. He couldn’t resist taking another short patrol around the downtown area before heading for home. Everything was in its place, the same cars at the same night spots. The same lights burning on the same porches. But he would look at them all differently now, look at everything with a heightened sense of awareness. He couldn’t believe that anyone in his town would be involved in hijacking trucks. But if the feds were doing a four-county investigation then it’s very likely that he could have clues staring him in the face. He had been a policeman almost thirty five years and it had taught him a lot. One thing he knew better than anything else was to look outside the obvious. Most things, even in a small town, are different under the surface.

It was just after nine when he pulled in his driveway, and just a moment more before he was on the couch with his feet up. He stifled a yawn and decided that he should just go on to bed before he fell asleep on the couch. But something in his mind told him he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight.

Chapter 11

The official operating hours of the “Sandbox” were 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. but the doors were never actually locked. You could find companionship any time of the day or night. The secluded business district had grown along with the other areas of the county, and with growth comes pain. Several strip clubs were dotted along the roadway, along with adult video parlors, motels and nightclubs. A varied crowd frequented “Kitty City,” ranging from truckers and travelers to pimps, drug dealers and other undesirables. The nearby town of Brayton was a scant three miles away at the intersection of The Confederate Highway and the interstate. It was just eleven miles in the opposite direction to Bontonville, if you took the shortcut. A profitable little nest that still fed money, through unofficial channels, to almost every council member in the county. The county Police were also on the payroll so everything outside of the worst crimes was ignored. The reputation for a relaxed enforcement attitude had spread far and wide. It was not unusual to see people having sex in the parking lot or smoking dope in the open. So it didn’t look unusual for a crowd of hard partying rock and roll types to have been drinking at the “Sandbox” until eight in the morning. Most of the legitimate patrons had gone on their way hours ago, but this gang of twelve was known to have the best smoke available. And a direct line to all the crack, cocaine and crystal meth. All but two of them were asleep strewn around the club, some inside some out. A few of the dancers were snoring along with their party partners, having passed out in their seats. One big burley man, with a bandanna around his head and a leather jacket bearing the name “The Wanderers” across the back, stood up slowly and staggered toward the door. He bumped into two chairs and nearly fell onto the pool table before making it to the door and outside.