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

No sign of Jake after three days. I couldn’t think of anything else to do for Gregg, so I was passively complying with the caller’s demand that I stop “snooping.” When the phone rang, I was expecting a return call from a supplier, so I was surprised to hear that now-familiar voice congratulate me on staying quiet. He told me Jake was in good spirits. I doubted that. I said something stupid about returning my dog, that kidnapping was a crime. I doubted that cruelty to animals was a crime in North Carolina, but that was all I could think to say. I hung up.

The phone rang again, and I’d had all I could stand. “Listen here, you son of a bitch, bring back my dog or, or ...” I stopped, sensing an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line.

“Um, did I call at a bad time, dear?”

“Nigel?”

“Yes. I was just calling to see how you were doing. Sounds as though things could be better.”

Just hearing the voice of a dear friend made me burst into tears. He let me sob, then sniffle, then blow my nose. “I’ve been better. But I really appreciate your call, Nigel. I’ve been thinking of you, and I should have let you know how things have progressed. Or maybe I should say devolved. And thank you for looking at the latest notes.”

I rambled on about the sheriff not believing Nigel’s earlier findings (I heard him tsk) and the unfolding situation with Gregg. And Jake. “I know you don’t know Jake, but he’s a lovely golden brown dog, and now he’s been kidnapped or whatever you call it when a dog is involved. I miss him and fear for his life.”

“What kind of Wild West are you living in down there?”

“Oh, usually it’s really quite nice. A lot nicer than those outlaws in D.C.”

“Well, you’ve got me there. Yes, I can imagine. But when things go wrong down there, it sounds like the O.K. Corral.”

Under different circumstance, I would’ve laughed. I was often amused by how fascinated and knowledgeable Brits, and maybe folks from other countries, were about our frontier history. Nigel once told me he admired our bravado, but he’d rest easier when it was tamed by a touch of civilization.

“What are you going to do, dear?” he asked.

“There’s not much I can do. They told me if I keep investigating, they’ll kill Jake. And I believe they would.”

“Well, surely they don’t know about this phone call, so let’s talk a bit about those traced forgeries you sent me. Of course, I haven’t seen the originals, but no self-respecting forger—not one of the quality you showed me earlier—uses tracing paper. That forged suicide note definitely was not traced. I suppose one could argue that he was just practicing for the real forgery, but in my experience, that doesn’t happen. You’ve either got the touch or not. It would be like Monet tracing his water lilies. Never!”

The idea of Gregg as a forger in the making was ludicrous, but as Nigel and I talked, I remembered my earlier concerns. I didn’t know the first thing about Gregg. Maybe he has a second life, I thought.

Nigel and I talked a bit longer, before he ended the call with, “Sorry about your little dog. Let me know when he comes home safely. And come see us up here. We’ll treat you to a break from those, uh, bandits!”

I felt even lonelier when I hung up. I picked up the receiver again and dialed Alex. By some miracle, he answered before the machine picked up. “Jake was stolen,” was all I could get out before breaking down again.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Tell me all about it.” He waited while I got it together and told him what I knew. “Jesus, I don’t know why you live there. Seriously, why do you stay?”

“We’ve been through this before, Alex. Remember the guy who stalked me in D.C.? Or that article I wrote—the way after it was published I had to change my phone number? This is just life anywhere these days. Man’s inhumanity to man—and dog.”

“Okay. Okay. What can I do to help?”

“I can’t think of anything more to do for Jake. I’ve got folks looking for him, and that’s about all we can do. I’m lying low until he gets home. I don’t want to jeopardize his safety.”

“Well, don’t forget about yours!”

“I won’t. Oh, wait,” I said. “There is a way you can help. Could you look into Gregg’s past? I don’t know anything about his life before he moved here, and hell, he could be another one of those guys who has all the neighbors scratching their heads, saying what a nice boy he was.”

“Really? That park ranger I met?”

“Forest service.”

“Whatever. Hard to imagine.”

“I know. I’m grasping here, but who knows? Before I stick my neck out any