A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗

“Hello. Hello? Anyone there?” Dead air.

I didn’t think much about a call like that. Lots of folks around there just hung up if the person answering didn’t sound like the one they wanted. Efficient, if not particularly neighborly.

That evening, I wished I hadn’t been so pigheaded about not getting cable. I turned and twisted the foil-draped rabbit ears, hoping something would make a difference. It didn’t. The steep mountains guaranteed varying degrees of television snow. But I couldn’t justify the cost of cable, given I was still working hard to make the store turn a profit.

I wasn’t one of those anti-television fanatics who made everyone feel guilty for seeking a little entertainment. Television had a lot of potential for sharing ideas and creativity. Okay, that potential hadn’t panned out—yet. But so what? At that moment, I was seeking only a nice, vacuous blur. I hated to admit it, but I was feeling lonely.

Jake had just curled up next to me on the couch when the phone rang again. And again. A hang-up each time. By the fourth call, I started to feel uneasy. I’d had my share of menacing phone calls over my career, and these felt similarly creepy.

“Hello,” I said. Dead air again. “Come on, pal. Either say something or quit calling.”

“Get out of our lives, bitch.”

“Who is this?” was all I could think to ask.

“None of your goddam business.”

“Well, then how can I get out of your lives?”

“Move. Go away. Stop what you’re doing, if you know what’s good for you. Go back where you came from,” he spat out before hanging up. At least I think it was a man. Sounded like something—a tobacco-stained red bandana popped into my mind—covered the receiver.

I couldn’t imagine the caller was referring to Duane and Abit’s successful first day with the rolling store. Even Brower’s father with his SuperMart wouldn’t care about that. And I’d lived in Laurel Falls too long to have the unwelcome wagon calling. Sure, early on, I experienced some animosity from those who resented a newcomer taking over “their” store, but that edge had worn off. At least I thought it had. 

I checked the locks on the doors and sat next to Jake. “Keep me safe, okay, Jakey Boy?” He looked me in the eyes, licked my face, and curled up again in the nest he’d made on the couch. I gave up on the TV and decided to turn in, as well.

As I lay in bed, I wondered what the caller hoped to accomplish. Was I going to stop looking into Lucy’s death just because some jerk cursed and threatened me? Move away? The amateur nature of the demands eased my fears. Just crazy thinking, I told myself.

But night demons began dismantling my newfound confidence, reminding me of the time I was cornered in the Dupont Circle Metro station by an irate interviewee. When he grabbed me, a Vietnam vet nearby literally picked the guy up and carried him to the tracks. I learned later that the vet had held him over the third rail until I could escape the station. On other occasions, I’d had to defend myself with mace or self-defense techniques.

Turned out, these memories actually had a fortifying effect on me. A few phone calls, I told myself, weren’t going to stop me. Finally, I drifted off to sleep, and the phone remained mercifully quiet.

Until the next night. And the next. I tried to imagine who was making these calls. I called Alex.

“It’s bound to be one of those yahoos from the Green Treatise. Maybe someone spotted you, or was aware of your inquiries,” he said. “Get that idiot sheriff involved; he speaks their language.”

“That sounds worse than receiving the calls. Besides, he’ll just deride my concerns.”

“Okay, hon. You’re probably right. I just don’t know what you see in that place. It’s time to come on home.”

“I am home, Alex. Besides, you make D.C. sound like Disneyland. I had plenty of troubles there, too.” I didn’t remind him that many of them were inside our home.

“Okay, but what did you expect? That they’d welcome your inquiries into their testosterone treatise? Or that the murderer wouldn’t mind your solving this case?”

“I underestimated how fast news spreads here. I worked under the radar in D.C., but here there’s no such thing.” It had finally struck me what I’d gotten myself into. I felt like locking the store and running away.

“Hey, I know you. You couldn’t not help someone, or her family. You had to do this. Just be careful. These folks may be more dangerous than the Armani-suited snakes in D.C.” 

“Well, at least there are less of them here.”

“Fewer.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not in the mood for your wordsmithing. Do you ever take a break from AP Style?”

“Not hardly, to quote Abit.”

“Leave him out of it.”

“Okay, we’re getting on each other nerves. Gotta go.”

“Me, too.” When we said goodbye, we both sounded sad.