A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗
- Author: Lynda McDaniel
- Performer: -
Book online «A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗». Author Lynda McDaniel
“Farther.”
“No, further. It’s an idiom, not a real neck that can be measured.” Alex was silent. He hated being wrong. I knew I was right because I used to joke, once I got my sense of humor back, that the best thing I took away from our marriage was Alex teaching me the difference between further and farther. “Besides,” I said, changing the subject, “aren’t you the one always questioning why I’m working on this case? Maybe this will get me to stop.”
He agreed, and we talked about the store and Abit. I think he could sense I didn’t want to get off the phone, unlike my usual distaste for long conversations. He told me about his latest paying gigs (emphasis his), one in particular that involved research into the National Film Archive in Culpeper, Virginia, a charming town that was rapidly becoming a posh bedroom community for D.C.
“Why don’t you come up? We could stay in one of the B&Bs there.”
“How could you suggest that with Jake missing?”
“Hey, throw me a bone, er, I mean, help me out here. I’m just trying to cheer you up. Once you find him—and I have a good feeling he’ll get loose or someone will find him—you could come for a visit. Get away for a while and let things settle down.”
I thanked him and told him I’d think about it. A trip to Culpeper did sound nice. And the Southern Crescent train even stopped there. Or I could drive and bring Jake along. If we had time, I could take him into the city and show him Lafayette Park, Rock Creek Park, and all my old haunts, including the house I used to live in. I was feeling excited about the trip, but then remembered I had to find Jake first.
“Stop the truck,” I shouted.
It was raining pretty hard as the Rollin’ Store headed through the Beaverdam community. Duane was grinding the gears, working hard to get us through some bad ruts. We’d just left our stop near the Ledford’s place when I saw something in my rearview mirror—a blur moving round behind us.
“I cain’t stop it here. We’re in the mud.”
“STOP IT!”
“What’s the matter with you, Abit? Cain’t you hear me?”
“There’s something in the road!” Duane went a few more feet and found solid ground. He put the brakes on, and I was out before he fully stopped.
“What the hell, are you ...”
I ran back the way we’d just come, and that’s when I knew for sure what I’d seen. A little skinny with a nasty old rope tied round his neck, but that was Jake, all right, coming about one hundred miles per hour straight at me. He jumped into my arms, and I’d never felt anything so good in my life. He licked my face all over, and if he hadn’t been so covered in mud, I might have done the same back at him. I carried him to the bus, and Duane’s face lit up. We walked back to the Ledford’s to ask if we could use their phone to tell Della we’d found Jake. Mrs. Ledford welcomed us in and even gave us some coffee. Duane said Della was beside herself with happiness.
On the way back, Duane and I talked about how Jake’d probably chewed through the rope when he heard the bus’s gears grinding. Dogs are smart like that—they knowed things we didn’t. He sure stank from being wet and all, but he stank good. I was able to get most of the mud off him—but Mama was going to kill me when she saw how much was still on my overalls, which were my best since I was working with the public. But I didn’t care. We pulled up and Duane just laid on the horn, toot-tooting it. Della came running out the door, and I held up Jake to the windshield best I could since he was wiggling like a baby pig, and she came running alongside the bus as Duane drove toward the back where he parked it. What a reunion!
“Oh, Jake, honey, where have you been?” Tears were streaming down her face, and truth be told, me and Duane had wet faces, too. We all huddled together and patted Jake. Duane had to get on home, so Della and I sat together for a while, just loving the way Jake felt.
That night, Jake and I walked around our property well after dark. I’d bathed him, fed him an extra helping of his dinner, and threw his favorite chew toy. We were venturing out together for the first time in a week. I knew I couldn’t be overly protective, but I sure wanted to keep him close.
While he was sniffing something mysterious in the meadow, I looked up at the sky sparkling with stars I’d never seen before, city lights having stolen their luster my whole life. I felt a jolt run through me, a reminder that the power of nature was always available, though most of the time I was too worried or self-absorbed to notice. A visceral sense of gratitude and creativity took hold of me.
In D.C., I’d experienced something similar whenever I looked at the Jefferson Memorial or the U.S. Capitol. Glorious, imposing buildings. Or the astounding cherry blossoms along the Tidal Basin, when spring wasn’t too cold or wet for them to thrive. The inspiration they offered kept the mean old bastards in that city from blinding me to all we could be as a nation and as individuals.
Standing there, I felt my heart beat fast as I thought about how much I really did love my new life. I could see funky old Coburn’s in the moonlight, and I was struck by how my humble store drew on every skill I’d acquired over my lifetime. I felt a sense of purpose like never before. And there was Jake—running free. Home again. Happy.
The next day, though, I returned to my usual troubles. Besides Gregg and what to do next, I woke up in the night worried about where Abit had found Jake. I was so relieved that he was safely home, I’d forgotten to ask. And I wondered when Alex was going to get back to me about Gregg.
Two of those questions were answered later that afternoon, while Abit helped me put up supplies in the storeroom and stock the shelves out front. The phone rang when I was in the bathroom, so I shouted at Abit to answer it.
“Really? You want me to answer the phone?” he asked. I could hear how incredulous he was.
I cracked the door and shouted, “Yes, please. I’ll be out in a minute.” (I’d learned that a small store offered little to no privacy.) “And hurry up—the phone’s about to go to the machine.” I heard a voice so serious I thought, for a moment, that someone else had come into the store and grabbed the phone. Then his voice became more animated. He even laughed. Who in the world was he talking to?
When I came out front, Abit mouthed, “Alex.” He was really enjoying himself, and I didn’t want to break in. I was glad he no longer seemed suspicious of Alex. He recounted how he’d found Jake and then said, “We don’t know exactly. It wasn’t that far from the Ledford’s, but we know they hadn’t taken him and tied him up.”
Then he said, “Here’s Della,” holding the phone out but suddenly grabbing it back. “Er, when are you coming own here again? You promised me a ride in the Merc.” I chuckled at him and took the phone.
“Hi there. What’s up?”
“Great news about ol’ Jakey Boy.”
“Yeah, we’re all pretty happy about it. Thanks to Abit,” I said, looking over at him in the canned goods. He was beaming and started juggling three small cans of creamed corn (a favorite here—especially since the empty can made a dandy receptacle for tobacco juices). When did he learn to do that? I wondered.
“I did that research on Gregg you asked for.”
“And?”
“Well, he must have lied on his Forest Service application, because after some digging, I found some youthful indiscretions.”
“How youthful? Were they sealed?”
“Yeah, teenage shit, I’d imagine. So maybe he didn’t have to lie. I shouldn’t have made him sound like Kipland Philip Kinkel.”
“Who?”
“Oh, some sick teenager in Oregon who went on a killing spree. You know how it is with journalists—we know way too much trivia.”
“So nothing serious in his background, at least not beyond his teenage years? What did he do before the Forest Service?”
“He was involved in banking, of all things. Which could speak to his skill in forgery, if he kept up his delinquent ways, that is.”
“Oh, that’s a stretch. But I’d never pictured Gregg as a banker.”
“Which is probably why he’s not one any longer. You don’t seem like a bookkeeper, either.” He was referring to my first job, right out of college, when that was all I could get, even with a journalism degree.
“Anything else?”
“He was married for about five years in the ‘60s; they didn’t have any children and divorced in 1968. One thing—she did get a restraining order against him. I couldn’t find any violations of that, though, so I don’t know if he just lost his shit when she left him.”
That worried me, given what Kitt said and my own experience with his ill-tempered rejection. I didn’t want to talk about that with Alex, so I asked, “When did he leave banking?”
“About the same time as his divorce. That’s when he worked with runaway kids. Not sure how he qualified for that, but so many kids were in trouble then, he probably fell into it. I couldn’t find anything much after that and before the Forest Service. He’s been a model employee there—quickly rising to ranger in your Podunk town.”
“He doesn’t work in a town. He oversees half a million acres—or at least his district.”
“Okay, he’s ranger of the year. Whatever. That’s my report. I still think you need to be careful around him. Looks can be deceiving.”
I thought to myself, you’d better believe it as I pictured Alex taking off his wedding ring so someone could run her fingers through his wavy hair with good conscience. “Thanks, Alex. I really appreciate your research. But I haven’t heard any reason to stop believing he’s the good guy we all think he is.”
“Not ‘all.’ If he’s been framed, someone in that wilderness you call home doesn’t like him.”
“Or someone needs a patsy, and it has little to do with who.”
“Whom.”
I felt like hanging up. He was right that time, but so what? Nobody used “whom” in conversation. “Okay, I guess that’s it,” was all I said.
Abit’s head popped up like a whack a mole. He dramatically mouthed “When?” I knew what he meant, but I
Comments (0)