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Act II
*BANG!*
The sound of the muffled explosion directly beneath him caused him to flinch in startled reaction, and in the same instant he felt the front of the bike take an unexpected, heart-stopping dip. With the front wheel suddenly immobilized, the back end of the bike flipped up, launching him into the air and over the handlebars with startling abruptness. With fascinated eyes, he watched the asphalt as it rushed up to meet his face.
Just before impact, he closed his eyes tight, brought his arms up to protect his face, and allowed his body to become limber, for he knew that if he skidded at this great speed, it would peel the skin from his body. An instant later he made bone-jarring impact, his padded elbows striking the pavement first. He rolled to one side as his left arm folded beneath his body, and pain numbed his left shoulder as it collided with the hard asphalt. Rolling and tumbling down the highway, he felt another sharp pain in his right hip and at the same time heard a strange “popping” sound. His sunglasses leaped from the bridge of his nose. Behind him, he could hear the clanging and banging of the bicycle as it cartwheeled down the highway, end over end. Without making it a conscious thought, he hoped it did not land on top of him.
After what seemed a much longer time than it actually was, he came to an abrupt stop and silence settled over the desert again. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was lying on his belly, spread eagled on the highway. Somehow, he had turned around so that he was facing his bicycle, which had come to a stop behind him only a couple of yards back.
J.R. lay still for several moments, taking a mental inventory of all his body parts. Slowly, he moved his arms and legs and turned his head from side to side, gauging the degree of discomfort with each movement. There was some minor pain in his elbows, which had struck the pavement first, and his left shoulder ached, as did his right hip, but everything else appeared to be intact and relatively undamaged. The helmet and the knee and elbow pads had effectively done their job of sparing him serious injury.
Slowly, he pushed himself into a seated position, wincing at the pain in his shoulder that intensified with the movement. There seemed to be a strange squishing feeling at his hip, so he reached back and pushed his fingers into his pocket. He immediately grimaced with the realization that his bottle of sunscreen had popped open from the pressure of landing on it, and the white creamy liquid had been released into his pocket.
“Oh, man!” he exclaimed as he withdrew the messy bottle and tossed it aside, then attempted to rub the cream off his fingers on the asphalt with little success, but he knew that was the least of his concerns: He was stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to call for help.
Reaching up, he unfastened the helmet and removed it, then thumped it down on the asphalt beside him, a gesture of frustration. The mild breeze instantly cooled the sweat that dampened his unruly hair. Pausing there on the pavement, he rested for a few moments, gazing at the bicycle, which lay on its side. The rear wheel was still turning slowly as the well-oiled chain moved through the guide, but the front wheel seemed to be hanging lopsided from the rim.
Finally, with considerable effort, he struggled to his feet, picking up the helmet with his left hand while his right hand pressed against his left shoulder in an attempt to ease the throbbing pain that persisted. He rolled the shoulder back and forth, and determined that it was not broken or dislocated, but almost certainly sprained and probably contused. But it would heal. His swan dive over the handlebars at such a high speed could have left him with worse injuries than a few contusions. Instinctively, he knew he would experience greater soreness when he got up the next morning.
Slowly, he began walking back toward the bicycle. Halfway there, he stooped to retrieve his sunglasses. The earpieces were askew, and the lens on one side was shattered. Useless. Dropping them into the helmet, he went to the disabled bicycle.
Grasping the handlebars, he pulled the bicycle upright again. It seemed to groan in the process, like an injured horse struggling to its feet. Pushing down the kickstand, he squatted down to assess the damage. A gaping four-inch rip in the front tire indicated that he had probably run over something sharp which had pierced the tube, resulting in the blowout. The frame displayed a few new dents, several spokes were bent, and some paint was scraped off, but it could be repaired, once he managed to get back home. Humorously, the water bottle and the pump were both still firmly attached to the frame in their respective holders, intact and unharmed.
Rising to his feet again, he looked up the long stretch of highway that led toward Los Angeles. He saw only the endless gray-black ribbon of highway and the dirt and sagebrush and rocks that made up the desert on both sides. Placing his hand on top of his head in utter despair, he turned to look behind him, but there was nothing to be seen in that direction, either. He had left the abandoned rest stop behind miles ago.
With a dejected sigh, he refastened the chinstrap of his helmet and draped it on the handlebars by the straps so that it hung upside down. Next he removed his knee pads, elbow pads, and cycling gloves, and he stuffed them inside the helmet with the sunglasses. While riding the bike, he had barely noticed them, but on foot, they seemed hot and cumbersome.
Feeling extremely helpless, he glanced up and down the highway again, trying to decide what to do. He had only two options: he could start walking toward the Traveler’s Stop convenience store, or he could return to the abandoned rest stop. If he went toward the convenience store, he would at least be moving forward, rather than backtracking over ground he had already covered. However, unless he came upon some trees as he neared the populated areas, he would have no shade except for the scattered creosote bushes.
Turning, he looked behind him again in the direction of the Desert Oasis. It was a lot closer in distance than the convenience store, and the shade from the awning and the cool cement of the sidewalks would offer some relief from the heat. Either way, when he failed to show up at the store on time, Betty would come looking for him. The question remained: Did he want to go forward, or retrace his path back to the Oasis?
Severely discouraged and lacking enthusiasm about the walk that lay ahead of him, he folded his arms on the handlebars of his bicycle and rested his head on them. Closing his eyes, his tired and frustrated mind attempted to come up with some alternative, but no other option was presenting itself. As he pondered his options, he could feel the sun’s heat relentlessly beating down on his head and back, reminding him that it was going to be a long, hot afternoon.
In his mind’s eye, he formed a mental picture of the group of buildings that formed the Oasis. Except for the empty phone booth, he had not seriously looked around the area for a pay phone. It was unlikely, but perhaps there had been another one nearer the service station, left there as a courtesy to stranded travelers like himself.
On the other hand, he did not relish the idea of backtracking. If he set out for Los Angeles, he would be nearer when they came looking for him. Hopefully, he could find some brush to rest under when he needed to stop and rest.
Reaching a decision, he lifted his head from his arms. He needed to do something about his bicycle. Realizing that the flat tire would make it difficult to push, he knew he would have no choice but to leave it behind. However, he did not want to leave it in the open, where anyone who happened by could steal it. He needed to find a secure hiding place for it.
His eyes shifted to the surrounding landscape. Desert sage, Mojave yuccas, ocotillo, creosote bushes, and a host of other desert plants were growing in abundance. He could hide the bicycle behind a clump of brush and retrieve it later, when help arrived. A car going past would never see it.
Gripping the handlebars, he pushed the bicycle off the asphalt and onto the dry ground of the desert floor. The flat tire made it difficult to push on the dirt, so he simply picked it up and carried it behind the nearest clump of brush and set it back down again. He leaned on it briefly to catch his breath again, then pushed it as close to the brush as he could, effectively concealing it from the road and anyone who might try to steal it. He felt the absurdity of what he was doing, for there was no one around to steal the bicycle anyway, but hiding it made him feel better. As he rested for a moment, he noticed the bottle of water in its holder, and he reached down to remove it. For his long walk to the Traveler’s Stop, he would need it to stay hydrated.
Emerging from the brush, he returned to the highway and picked up a chunk of soft sandstone, which he used to mark a large X on the surface of the asphalt to mark the location of his bike so that it could be recovered later. Then he tossed the rock aside and started walking
A half hour later, he paused, panting and sweating at the top of a rise of ground that would have seemed insignificant on the bike. His hair and his shirt and jeans were damp and all three clung to his moist skin. Lifting the hem of his shirt, he used it to mop the perspiration from his face, then taking it in both hands, he began a fanning motion with the fabric to cool his torso. The cool breeze felt good on his bare skin, and for just a moment he considered removing the shirt completely. But that would be foolish, he knew, for that would invite a serious sunburn.
Dropping the hem of the shirt back into place, he uncapped the bottle of water and placed it against his lips, but he only took a short drink and he was careful not to waste any of it, for very little remained in the bottom of it. After recapping it, he dragged his fingers through his wet hair to push it off his forehead as he scanned the horizon, marveling at the fact that he had not seen one vehicle the entire day. No wonder the Oasis had gone out of business. Something in the back of his mind told him that he should have inquired about the rest stop before embarking on this outing, but in his enthusiasm it had been overlooked. He felt rather foolish about that now. It was the one detail he had not worked out properly.
Gazing ahead of him from the summit of the shallow hill, he focused on the distant horizon, hoping to see the first indications that he was nearing the city. Instead he saw only the highway itself disappearing into the distance. Hopelessness surged inside him, and his shoulders slumped, severely discouraged. But as his eyes slid along that seemingly endless black ribbon of highway, he saw something that made him blink with disbelief, something that seemed distinctly out of place along this deserted stretch of highway. He closed his eyes tightly for several seconds, then opened them again to make certain he was not seeing a mirage. When he looked again, it was still there. A car! Slate gray in color, it had been easy to overlook on first glance.
Squinting in the strong sunlight, he looked at the vehicle carefully. It was parked on the road in the eastbound lane, facing him, and he could see a man in the driver’s seat, just sitting there. Listening carefully, he could hear the sound of the driver attempting to start the engine. A stranded motorist. J.R. tinkered with his Mustang on occasion, and if he could help get that car started, it would hopefully be his ticket back to civilization.
Picking up his pace with a newly found burst of energy, he walked down the slight slope toward the vehicle. It was not a newer model vehicle, but apparently well cared for. The shiny finish gleamed in the sunlight. Finally, the man got out and opened the hood, so focused on his dilemma that he was apparently unaware of the man who was walking down the highway toward him.
As J.R. came up behind him, he spoke in a cheerful voice, “Hey, I’ll give you a hand with that if you’ll give me a ride back to civilization.”
The man flinched, startled by the sudden appearance of another person, and he rose up so quickly that he barely missed banging his head on the hood.
J.R. was instantly taken aback by the vaguely familiar qualities of the motorist’s face, as if he had seen him before; recently, in fact. He was a big man, not so much tall as he was husky and barrel chested, like a linebacker. His face was stubbled with a salt and pepper beard that had not been shaved in a couple of days, and the gray eyes that stared back him were cold as steel. He was wearing an ill-fitting tank top and dirty gray fatigues, and there was a foul odor about him, but J.R. shrugged it off. As hard as he had been sweating all day, he probably smelled pretty ripe himself.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that, boy,” the man growled, irritably. J.R. saw that several of his teeth were missing. Most of the rest were rotting, and he could smell the man’s bad breath across the four or five feet that separated them.
Feeling a bit uncomfortable under the scrutinizing stare of the other man, J.R. gave an apologetic shrug and said in a friendly tone, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He extended his hand in the universal gesture of friendship. “I’m J.R. Jones. I’m stranded too. I’ve been walking for quite a while, and you’re the first person I’ve seen all day!”
The man stared at him long and hard, so long in fact that J.R. was convinced that the man had detected the vague recognition he had felt. Slowly, he extended his grimy hand and grasped the hand that was offered. “Name’s Carl.”
J.R.’s eyes dipped slightly toward the grimy hand that held his in an uncomfortably tight grip. A rattlesnake tattoo, its mouth open to reveal its fangs and forked tongue, slithered its way down the beefy forearm, and Carl seemed to be watching J.R. closely as he glanced at it. Again, traces of a memory stirred at the back of J.R.’s mind, not coming completely to the surface.
Again, that foul breath wafted toward J.R., so rank that J.R. had to resist the urge to take a step backward. Instead, he pulled his hand out of Carl’s grip and forced a pleasant smile. “I am really glad to see you, Carl. Looks like we can be of mutual service to one another. My bike had a blowout a few miles up the road, and I could sure use a lift. It’s a long walk back to L.A.!”
Carl continued to regard him with more distrust that he would have thought, under the circumstances, and to J.R.’s surprise, he didn’t bother asking why anyone would be riding a bicycle on this lonely stretch of highway. Clearly, he wasn’t interested. “Ain’t goin’ that direction,” he said. Dismissing J.R. entirely, he reached under the hood again and his hand started moving over the engine.
J.R. instantly recognized the fact that the man had no idea what he was looking for. The moving of his hands around the engine was hesitant and uncertain, apparently hoping to stumble onto something obvious that would fix the stalled car. Again, J.R. frowned. He was not one who typically cast stereotypes, but Carl was clearly not an office worker of any kind, judging by the clothes and general appearance. He looked to be more of a laborer sort, the kind you often found working on vehicles, and it seemed odd that he would be so uncomfortable under the hood of a car. Even he, a law student and part time private detective, was apparently more knowledgeable about cars than this man.
Still, Carl’s helplessness was encouraging. They clearly needed each other’s help, so J.R. pushed ahead determinedly. “I might be able to help you get this car started. I could make it worth your while to take me to the Traveler’s Stop convenience store just up the way a bit.”
This caught the man’s attention, and he rose up to stare at him again. “How much ya got?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” J.R. admitted. “Just a twenty and a couple of ones I brought it with me to have a bite to eat at the Desert Oasis, but I didn’t count on it being closed. It should be enough to pay for the gas with some left over for your trouble. What’ya say?”
At the discovery that J.R. was not carrying much money, Carl lost interest again and turned his attention back to the engine. “Told ya, I ain’t going back that way.”
J.R. sighed, wishing he had more to negotiate with. Betty would not be thrilled with this, but he plowed ahead, “All right, tell you what I can do. When I get there, I’ll call someone to come pick me up, and I can borrow another twenty from her. That should make it worth your while.”
Carl seemed to be pondering the option, weighing what he could do with forty dollars. Apparently it still wasn’t enough to entice him into making the trip. “Make it a hundred and I’ll think about it.”
“A hundred!” J.R. echoed. “It isn’t that far!”
“Then I guess you won’t mind walkin’ it.”
After a moment’s indecision, J.R. decided to call his bluff. The man clearly had no idea what to look for under that hood. If he wanted to stay out here in the heat for hours trying to figure out what was wrong with his car while J.R. walked to the convenience store, then it was fine by him. Raising his hands as if in surrender, he started walking away from the car. “Okay. I’ll send someone back to get you, because it looks like this car isn’t going anywhere.”
“No!” Carl said just a bit too quickly and a bit too harshly.
J.R. turned back around to face him, a puzzled frown creasing his handsome features in response to that abrupt, almost panicked order.
Carl seemed to be weighing his options again, and J.R. wondered if he was just slow, or if there was some reason he didn’t want to drive back to the convenience store. Or maybe both.
“Can you get this car started?”
“Maybe,” J.R. replied. “Depends on what the problem is.”
“All right. You get this car started, and I’ll take you back up the road and drop you off a half mile from the convenience store. It’s still a long way out of my way, but I reckon it’s the least I can do.”
Apprehension nudged its way into J.R. mind, a silent warning that something was very wrong here. For some reason, Carl did not want to drive all the way back to the convenience store, and he suspected it had nothing to do with the distance. An extra half mile in a char was hardly any time at all. Why did that face and that tattoo look so familiar?
Experiencing an almost overpowering sensation of imminent danger, J.R. stood there for several moments, pondering this new concern. What would Carl do if he told him “no deal” and kept walking? Had he committed some crime that he was running from? Was that why he didn’t want to go back?
There’s no proof of that, J.R. reminded himself. The guy’s acting a bit suspicious, but that doesn’t make him a criminal.
Seeing his hesitation, Carl changed his tune to one that was more pleasant. “All right, all right; you keep your money. Get this car started, and I’ll take you back to that convenience store.”
J.R. still hesitated. Instinct was screaming like a claxon that something was very wrong with this situation. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get inside a car with this Carl person.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Carl said. “You’ve been offerin’ to help me ever since you showed up, and I’ve been actin’ like a jerk.” After a moment, he said one of the most painful words in the English language: “Please. I don’t know much about cars, but I guess you already noticed that. And you’re right, unless you help me it ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
With the warning bells still sounding in his head, J.R. walked slowly back to the stranded vehicle. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” As he passed the doors to the car, he glanced in the back seat casually and noticed a pair of pants and a shirt that looked like prison fatigues. Was Carl a prison escapee? Was that why he didn’t want to go back? If it was true, it was unlikely that he would keep up his end of the bargain. Still, to back out now would make Carl suspicious. Working on the vehicle would give him some time to try to think of something.
Moving to the front of the vehicle, he set his bottle of water down on the ground, then leaned under the hood and began examining the engine. From the side, Carl leaned over to watch, their heads almost touching, and J.R. became aware of the sickening smell of his breath and body odor again. He tried to ignore it as his hands moved over the engine, checking fluid levels and hoses, and his mind was working furiously to remember where he had seen Carl.
It struck him right out of the blue, and he felt his pulse quicken. He had seen that face and the tattoo in one of Lieutenant Biddle’s case files. He had glimpsed it lying open on the desk just yesterday when he had accompanied Barnaby for a brief visit that was tied to a case they were working on. Seeing his interest, Biddle had replaced the papers and photographs and closed the file, but not before J.R. had gotten a good look at it. A prison escapee. What was his name? He concentrated on that file, trying to see the label in his mind. It came to him with a jolt. Jessup! Yes, that was it; Doyle Jessup; in and out of prison most of his life, but most recently imprisoned two years ago for the brutal rapes of three women and the murder of one of them.
His lips parted slightly as his gaze was irresistibly drawn to the harsh face, and his breathing accelerated with the confirmation that this man was extremely dangerous. Jessup was a hardened criminal who had somehow managed to escape from prison two days ago, fatally injuring one of his guards. Another murder on his record. One more wouldn’t make much difference. He knew now, without a doubt, that he would not be getting a lift to the Traveler’s Stop.
A frown puckered Jessup’s brow, detecting the recognition on the younger man’s face. “You know me, boy?”
J.R. looked away, quickly, focusing on the hose clamp that he was tightening. “No.”
“Then why are you starin’ at me like that?”
“I – I just . . . I’m sorry.” That was a lame thing to say, he thought. He’s already suspicious, and you go and apologize for looking at him! He tried to put a pleasant tone to his voice. “No offense.” Turning his attention back to the engine, he made some adjustments. “Here, I think I found the problem. Why don’t you go see if it’ll start?”
Jessup stared hard at him a few moments longer, then went to the drivers seat and sat down. Leaving the car door open, he inserted the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life, leaving J.R. with a dilemma. What should he do now? Get in the car with a hardened criminal? Or make some excuse and start walking? Neither option was looking very smart, but he knew for certain that he would not be getting into that car.
He lowered the hood and closed it firmly. Jessup was still waiting in the driver’s seat, the door wide open as he watched him, and J.R. knew that he was trying to decide what to do as well. Stooping, he picked up his bottle of water.
Moving around to the passenger door, J.R. saw that the passenger window was rolled up, so he opened the car door and said, “Listen, Carl, I appreciate the offer of a ride, I really do, but I know you’re probably late for wherever you’re going, so I won’t take up any more of your time. Have a safe trip.”
Without giving Jessup time to respond, he pushed the door closed and started walking along the shoulder, praying silently that the prison escapee would just leave him alone and drive away. But even as the thought passed through his mind, he was listening intently, hoping to hear the car shift into drive and pull away. Instead, he experienced a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach when he heard the engine shut off, and heard the crunch of gravel under Jessup’s foot as he got out of the vehicle.
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Act III
At the sound of the gravel crunching under a heavy footstep, J.R. spun around to face the criminal and instinctively started to assume a defensive position, but he barely had time for his eyes to register the sight of the club swinging directly at his face before it struck him on the forehead.
A brilliant light exploded inside his head, and he felt his body twisting in the air from the force of the impact, and then he was falling away from the highway, toward the rocky ground and desert shrubs. He landed on his knees and elbows, his face only inches from the ground as he struggled to fight off the unconsciousness that was attempting to seize him in its grasp. He felt unnaturally weak, as if completely drained of energy, and his vision swam in and out of focus. Unable to maintain the effort to stay on his hands and knees, he slowly allowed his body to sink lower, so that his abdomen was resting on his thighs, which were tucked under him. His forehead rested on his hands, which were balled into fists on the ground. He knew that he was in a posture very similar to a fetal position, but he did not have the strength to alter it. It was as if every muscle in his body had ceased to function.
“You recognized me, didn’t you?” the man snarled. His voice sounded abnormal to the injured P.I., like it was coming to him from the end of a long metallic tunnel, but the volume and sharpness of it roused him slightly from the fog of oblivion that had nearly overtook him. “If you hadn’t’ve, I might’ve just let you hike on down the road, but I can’t do that now. You’ll tell the cops which direction I’ve gone, and I can’t have that.”
J.R. wasn’t sure what he expected to feel like after being hit over the head, but somehow, this wasn’t like anything he had ever imagined. The one other time he had been hit over the head, unconsciousness had been abrupt, with no time to consider how it felt. Not that he had ever sat around thinking about what it might feel like. There certainly wasn’t that funny little circle of stars floating around his head like in the cartoons. In fact, there was nothing funny about this at all. His ears were ringing and there seemed to be a dark veil drifting across his eyes. He blinked rapidly and shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but that made the throbbing start.
With a groan, he reached for the place on his forehead where the throbbing was most intense, and gingerly pressed his fingertips against the soreness. There was no indication of a laceration, so he withdrew his fingers to verify that there was no blood present.
As he stared numbly at his fingertips, he was aware of the other man slowly circling him. Without moving his head, he shifted his eyes toward the figure that shuffled slowly around him, watching the pair of heavy duty work shoes as they were placed one in front of the other, crunching the gravel as their owner walked.
“Hurts, don’t it?” the man asked, menacingly. “I’ve been hit with one o’ these things often enough to know that they can be a pretty formidable weapon. Yup, I can do a lot of damage with one o’ these.”
J.R.’s eyes focused on the club and noticed that it was a policeman’s baton or night stick, probably taken from the prison guard he had killed during his escape.
The man continued to circle him, something which was making J.R. feel decidedly nauseated. He thumped the baton in the palm of his hand, repeatedly, a steady rhythm intended to intimidate. It was working. J.R. was no coward, but his body refused to cooperate with the commands his brain was issuing. He wanted to get up and defend himself, but he was totally helpless. His fingers were trembling, and in an effort to steady them he closed his hands around fistfuls of dirt, sand, and gravel, holding them tightly.
“We got ourselves a predicament here,” Jessup said, clearly enjoying the dread he saw on his victim’s face. “You did fix the car for me, and I’m eternally grateful for that, but you know I can’t let you go, don’t’cha?” There was a mocking tone to the harsh voice that told J.R. he wasn’t grateful at all, except that his vehicle was now running, enabling him to escape the law. And J.R. had helped him. “Since you was so kind an’ all, I’ll try to make it as painless as I can, but I’m afraid I don’t have much to work with here. Just this here club. Too bad that guard didn’t have a gun on ‘im. Would’ve made things a lot easier.”
Jessup paused to look up and down the road, as if making certain that no one was approaching. He didn’t want any witnesses.
“I could just kill you here and leave you here at the side of the road. This is a deserted stretch of road, from the looks of it. But the best thing would be to take you out there,” he gave a broad sweep of his hand toward the desert, “and kill you there. That way it will be some time before anyone finds you, and I’ll be long gone.” His taunting voice told the young P.I. that he would just as soon torture him slowly. “Either way, you’re a dead man.”
J.R. had already figured that out, but it didn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat as his mind processed the information it had just received. Dismissing the thought, he tried to concentrate on the quivering in his muscles, willing the strength to return to them. He had been badly stunned by the blow, and unless he was able to gain some mobility in his body, the criminal would most likely beat him to death with that club. Damn it, why can’t I move?
Jessup laughed. “What, you don’t have nothin’ to say about that? Well, I done learned my lesson about leavin’ witnesses who could identify me. Thought I’d scared ‘em enough that they wouldn’t want to testify. Too bad about that one chick, though. I didn’t really mean to kill her, but she wouldn’t stop screaming. Had to shut her up. And you know what? I learned it weren’t all that hard to kill someone. They never did figure out who killed that boy in the prison.”
J.R. felt his insides clench. Another murder?
Jessup laughed heartily, apparently very comfortable with revealing his past crimes, since there would be no witnesses to repeat them. “Yer scared o’ me, ain’t‘cha?” He leaned closer to J.R.’s face, so close that his foul breath nearly made the younger man wretch. He turned his face away, seeking more breathable air. “Well, for what it’s worth, I ain’t happy about havin’ t’ kill ya, boy. Just wanted you to know that. You done me a favor, and I ain’t had too many o’ those.” He leaned even closer, only inches from J.R.’s dark hair, and he seemed annoyed that the young man’s face was turned away from him. Grasping a handful of hair, he wrenched J.R.’s head around so that he was facing the convict. J.R. gasped in pain. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, boy.”
J.R. stared into the convict’s face, knowing fully well that Doyle Jessup enjoyed inflicting pain on his victims. He was already sampling that violent tendency as the convict continued to hold his hair in a tight grip that he feared would pull it right out of his head. The pictures in the file flashed into his mind; pictures of the women he had raped, displaying the bruises and bite marks on various parts of their bodies, and he felt revulsion at the man’s nearness.
The convicted criminal stared at his victim’s wide brown eyes, but J.R. saw no pity or remorse in them. Roughly, he released his grip on his captive’s hair, allowing J.R. to shrink down again.
Tearing his eyes away from that ugly face, J.R. closed them tightly and pressed his forehead against his fists again and his mind worked frantically to formulate a plan. He would not submit willingly to being murdered. The sensation of numbness was wearing off, a welcoming sign that he was beginning to regain some control over his body. As his forehead touched his hands, he became aware of the gravel and dirt that was still clutched in them. A twinge of hope stirred in his heart. It would have to count. He only had one shot; one chance to save his life. Opening his eyes again, he gauged the convict’s nearness.
Abruptly wrenching his body upright, he flung the contents of both hands directly into Jessup’s face as hard as he could. Dirt and gravel sprayed into the convict’s open mouth and eyes with enough force that it made his head jerk backward away from it.
With a bellow of pain and surprise, Jessup tumbled backward on the ground, clawing frantically at his eyes and coughing and spitting the dirt and gravel at the same time.
Scrambling to his feet, J.R. rushed for the driver’s side of the car and climbed in the driver’s seat, but his hand reached for an empty ignition. Jessup had taken the keys with him, apparently anticipating that his victim might not go down easily. J.R. had no intention of getting close enough to the guy to try to find them. Quickly, he tipped the visor, hoping to find a spare key, then opened the glove compartment. He found a flashlight, a pack of cigarettes, a folded California road map, and the car’s insurance and registration, but no spare key. He grabbed the flashlight, thinking it might come in handy, then looked up to check Jessup’s progress.
The convict had climbed to his feet and staggered after him several steps, but then stopped and placed one hand on the trunk of the car while he used the other hand to rub his eyes. Bent at the waist, he shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the debris, and he bellowed again in rage and pain, but he was clearly in no condition to give chase.
Flinging himself from the seat, J.R. quickly reached up under the wheel well, feeling around for a magnetic key case, but did not really expect to find one. Casting one final glance at Jessup, he ran across the highway and into the desert. Once Jessup regained his faculties, it would be too easy to find him if he remained on the road. His only hope was to get into to the desert, where his young age and speed gave him an advantage over the much larger convict.
“I’m gonna kill you!” he shouted at the footfalls that retreated rapidly up the sloping ground. “Hear that, boy? I’m gonna hunt you down and kill you!”
J.R. heard the chilling threat, and when he was a safe distance away, he chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. Jessup was still bent over at the waist trying to dig the debris out of his eyes with his grimy fingers, but it appeared he was only making it worse for himself, for he was groaning loudly in pain and frustration as he rubbed the dirt and gravel that was trapped beneath his eyelids. It was obvious that he had been completely disabled by J.R.’s offensive maneuver, and it appeared he could not even get his eyes open. Eventually, he would recover as his own tears washed the dirt from his eyes, but by that time J.R. hoped to have a comfortable distance between them.
Dismissing the criminal’s physical agony as an unfortunate necessity, the price paid for his criminal behavior, J.R. sprinted away from the vehicle and across the rugged terrain. But in the heat, he knew he could no keep up the pace very long.
Glancing up at the sky, he stopped abruptly, realizing that if he ran too far into the desert, he risked getting lost. Altering course, he turned toward the direction of the cluster of buildings that made up the Desert Oasis, hoping he could find refuge there until help arrived.
J.R. was uncertain how long he had been running when he finally slowed down and stopped to rest. Turning, his eyes scanned the area behind him, searching the desert for indications that he was being pursued. The desert was calm and quiet, with no sign of his attacker. He hoped it would be a while before Jessup was able to overcome the effects of the dirt and gravel in his eyes.
The adrenaline rush that had provided J.R. with the strength for his getaway was beginning to dissipate, and intense fatigue settled in its place. Panting in his exhaustion, he leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, and willed his pounding heart to slow down. It was thudding loudly in his heaving chest, and he could feel it throbbing painfully in his temples and pulsing at the point of injury on his forehead.
What were the odds that the convict would follow him into the desert? His mind focused on the probabilities. He might decide to just get back in the car and drive away. On the other hand, he had caused painful injury to the convict by throwing the dirt and gravel into his face. That defensive maneuver had given J.R. a chance to get away, but he also knew he had made Jessup furious, and that fury might entice him to carry out his threat. How could you get into the mind of a convict?
He stared at the ground between his sneakers and noticed that it was hard and dry and covered with tiny bits of gravel. He had left no distinct footprints for him to follow and he had altered direction, both plusses. Jessup would have to be an experienced tracker to follow him, and tracking was a fine art. Still, he was determined not to let his guard down this time. He had made that mistake once; next time he would be ready. The flashlight he had taken from the glove compartment was still clutched in his hand and could serve as a weapon, if necessary.
His legs felt rubbery, but he resisted the urge to sit down, fearful that he would not be able to get back up again. Instead, he took deep breaths, trying to ease the throbbing in his head.
Gradually, his pulse and his breathing began to slow down to a more comfortable level. The throbbing in his head continued, but seemed to ease up a bit as his heart settled into a slower rhythm. Trying to ignore the headache, he stood up straight again and looked around at the terrain. Everything looked pretty much the same as it had at the beginning of his bike ride: dry and hot and desolate.
J.R. gazed longingly in the direction of the highway, wishing he had managed to take Jessup’s vehicle. Or more likely, the vehicle Jessup had stolen from someone else. He could only wonder if that person had become another of his murder victims.
He put his fingertips to his forehead again. Still no sign of blood, but it was tender enough that he knew he would have a contusion, at the very least. Maybe a minor concussion. His throat felt dry. A sip of water would sooth it.
Water! At some point, he had lost his bottle of water. He could not even remember when or where he had dropped it. He remembered picking it up after closing the hood of the car, so he must have dropped it when he had been struck with the club. Well, the end result was the same. Regardless of how he had lost it, he had no water. Damn!
His eyes scanned the desert again, recalling the words Jessup had shouted after him – I’m going to hunt you down and kill you. He had lingered too long. Drawing a deep breath, grateful that he was still able to do so, he set out again, hoping that Jessup had done the smart thing and just drove away.
The desert conditions would have made even the most carefully thought out hike difficult, but with no water and his injuries, it was difficult. His well-worn sneakers made almost no sound on the hot, dry soil, merely a slight crunching sound whenever he walked over a gravelly portion of ground. There was only a slight natural breeze to cool him, far different from the stronger breeze generated by the speed of his bicycle, and he frequently reached up to mop the perspiration from his brow. The sun was continuing its gradual slide toward the western horizon, and he knew that the hottest portion of the day would be with him for a while before evening began to cool the atmosphere.
With that thought in mind, he decided to take a brief break, collapsing on the hard ground beneath the meager shade of a creosote bush. Wearily, he leaned his throbbing head in his hands, wishing he could lie down for a while. But he didn’t dare. As he rested, he kept his ears alert to the sounds around him, listening for an approaching footstep, but for the moment it seemed he was safe. He heard only the silence of a desolate landscape.
While he rested, he thought about Betty, who would be waiting for him at the Traveler’s Stop in a few hours. He had told her that he might arrive a bit late, so he could not count on anyone to come looking for him for an hour or so past the scheduled rendezvous time. She would probably drive the stretch of road looking for him, and that concerned him greatly. He could only hope that she would not encounter Jessup along the way.
After five minutes, he struggled to his feet, fighting off the dizziness that threatened to send him reeling back to the ground. The shrub that had provided him with shade did not offer any support at all, but he clutched at it anyway in an attempt to steady himself. Taking deep breaths, the dizziness faded, and he checked the position of the sun and started walking again.
The headache began to ease up a bit, and as he walked, he observed the rugged terrain that surrounded him for many miles in any direction, noticing that some of the desert flora was still in spring bloom, but as they were nearing summer, the biggest part of the colorful flowers had already dried up, scattering their seeds for the next generation of bloom. A cluster of barrel cactus was midway though its spring bloom, still showing off their yellow-orange flowers, while a small flock of birds fed on the fruits of the older, spent flowers.
The birds scattered when they saw him, resettling after he had passed, and he turned around to watch them, curiously, having been unaware of the diets of desert wildlife. Briefly, he wondered if the cactus fruits were safe for human consumption. It was tempting, but if he was unable to tolerate it, then the sickness would leave him badly dehydrated. Turning to face front again, he thought of a nice meal of hamburgers and French fries when he got home. His stomach rumbled approvingly.
A whirring, rattling sound caught his attention, and he came to an immediate halt, knowing what it meant. His eyes searched the ground, and it took a few moments for his eyes to find the well camouflaged rattlesnake that was curled up in the shade beneath a thorny shrub. Its eyes watched him intently as its forked tongue flicked in and out, testing his scent. He could see its rattle, poised beside its head at the top of its coils, issuing its warning to stay away, and he was only too happy to comply.
Giving it a wide berth, J.R. proceeded on his way. He walked down a shallow embankment and emerged onto a dirt road that intersected with Highway 13. He had passed it during his walk down the paved road, but did not follow it. There was no way of knowing where it led, or if it ended up anywhere except perhaps an old abandoned mine or some other long-forgotten place from the past. He barely glanced down the road as he crossed it and continued his journey on the other side.
Fifteen minutes later, a vehicle turned off the highway and moved slowly down the dirt road that J.R. had just crossed a short time earlier. Pulling over to the side, Jessup paused briefly to look into the rear view mirror. His eyes still burned from the dirt and gravel that had been flung into them, and as he observed his reflection he saw that they were terribly bloodshot. Fortunately, he had found the bottle of water that Jones person had dropped, and had used it to help flush out his eyes. But even though the pain had diminished, his rage had not. J.R. Jones would pay dearly for that!
The agony he had endured had been such that he had not actually seen Jones coming this direction, but he had heard his footsteps running. At first, upon recovering from the eye injury, he had attempted to follow the young man into the desert, but knew he risked getting lost, so he had returned to the car and began making periodic stops along the way, looking for signs that his prey had passed this direction.
Pulling out the road map that was in the glove compartment, he examined it carefully. The dirt road he was on now wound its way back into the hills, where it terminated in a dead end. No city or town for Jones to seek help. Tracing a grimy finger along the gray line that represented Highway 13, he quickly found the Desert Oasis rest stop, and gave a slight nod. Yup, that’s where he was headed. There would be people there. He would have to find him before he reached it, or Jones would alert the other patrons that he was an escaped convict, and they would call the cops.
Tossing the map on the passenger seat, he opened the door and got out, glancing both directions. It was impossible to tell if Jones had come this far or not. He walked away several yards, scratching his head. After several moments, he turned to go back to the car, but a brief glance down at the road revealed his own footprints in the dusty dirt road. If Jones had crossed this side street, he would have left tracks.
Getting back into the car, he drove very slowly, examining the banks on either side, until he finally saw what he had been seeking: a single line of footprints made their way across the road, from one side to the other, before disappearing into the desert again.
“There you are,” the man muttered to himself.
Leaving the car parked there, he set out on foot, hoping to overtake his prey.
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Act IV
Parked in a shady spot behind the Traveler’s Stop convenience store, Betty Jones stood silently beside her car, her elbow resting on the top of it while her fingers worriedly stroked her forehead. A paper cup sat on the hood, holding the melting ice and the last few sips of the fountain drink she had purchased earlier. Her position offered her a clear view of the final length of highway 13 where it connected with a more heavily traveled cross road, and over the past hour, she had frequently looked up that stretch of asphalt, waiting for a solitary figure to materialize. Civilization was encroaching on the desert, and a housing development was being constructed on the highway near the convenience store, but none of the few vehicles that she had occasionally seen coming and going was the bicycle she was looking for.
A store employee had seen her standing there and had come out a half hour earlier to ask if she needed assistance, and she saw him approaching again carrying a bag of trash. “Any sign of him?” he asked as he heaved the large bag into the dumpster. It struck the bottom with a resounding clang.
“No, no sign at all,” she replied, shifting her eyes briefly to his friendly face, before returning her attention to the empty highway again. “Something’s wrong,” she said, her brow furrowed in worry.
The young man paused beside her to look up that stretch of road. “That’s a pretty deserted stretch of highway.”
“That’s what worries me. He could have had an accident or . . . “ She stopped abruptly, and altered course. “No. I’m not going to think anything like that. But I am going to take a drive up there and see if I can find him.”
“Good idea,” the young man said. “Be careful. It’ll be getting dark soon. Well, I’d better get back to work.”
She gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, deciding that she should let Barnaby know what was happening. Opening her purse, she fumbled with the coin pocket, searching for change as she strode swiftly across the parking lot toward the phone booth that stood at the corner of the building.
Stepping inside, she lifted the receiver and placed it over her shoulder as she inserted the coins and dialed her father-in-law’s home number.
After two rings, it was answered, and an authoritative voice on the other end said, “Hello.”
“Barnaby, this is Betty. I don’t want to worry you, but I’m at the convenience store to pick up J.R., and he hasn’t shown up. I’ve been waiting for more than an hour.”
A brief pause ensued, and she could easily envision him glancing at his watch to verify the time. “You were supposed to pick him up at five-thirty, right?”
“Yes, and its six forty five now.” Betty’s eyes drifted up the abandoned highway again, hoping beyond hope that she would see a bicycle approaching, but saw nothing except the dirt, rocks, and desert plant life beyond the housing development. As she watched, a construction crew was wrapping things up for the evening, getting into their vehicles and driving away. “He should have been here long before now.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone as Barnaby pondered the information that Betty had just provided. She knew her father-in-law had been worried about this trip, but he hated to jump to conclusions where J.R. was concerned.
“Well, that was a long trip to make on a bicycle. Maybe he miscalculated the length and duration of his trip,” Barnaby suggested.
“I don’t know, Barnaby. J.R.’s pretty good with figures and calculations. You know, it’s going to be dark soon. I’m worried.”
“Okay. Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet,” Barnaby advised in his slow drawl. “The highway he’s on is rarely used, so I doubt if there has been any kind of vehicular accident involving anyone else. He might have had some other kind of problem with the bike, or maybe the mileages listed on the map he made his calculations from were incorrect. Have you back-tracked his route to see if maybe he’s stranded somewhere?”
“I was just about to do that, but I wanted to let you know what was going on first.”
“I’m glad you did. Let me know what you find out.”
“Okay.” Betty returned the phone to its hook, terminating the call.
Exiting the phone booth, she walked swiftly back to the car and snatched the paper cup off the hood. It was quickly dropped into the dumpster, then she opened the car door and got into the driver’s seat. Fumbling slightly with the keys in her haste, she started the ignition and pulled out onto the lonely stretch of highway that led toward Las Vegas.
After hanging up with Betty, Barnaby sank down onto his sofa and quietly considered everything Betty had told him. Most likely, Jedediah’s bike had broken down somewhere along that stretch, and he was probably sitting at the side of the road waiting for someone to come and get him. But on the off chance that foul play was involved, it was better to be ready to proceed with an investigation.
Reaching for the phone again, he dialed the home phone number of his old friend, Lieutenant Biddle, and after three rings it was answered. “Biddle.”
“John,” he said. “I hope I didn’t get you at a bad time.”
“Just having a quick hamburger, nothing important. You sound a bit stressed. Is something wrong?”
“It’s probably nothing, but . . . . Then again, it could be something. With Jedediah, you never know. For the past few weeks, he’s been worked up over this bike ride he’s been planning. Something to do with a sponsored endurance thing that’s coming up at Smith and Ferguson. It’s all he’s been talking about.”
Biddle smiled fondly. After a rather shaky start, he was starting to like the inquisitive law student who had moved to Los Angeles and joined Barnaby’s detective business a few years back. But then, most people seemed to like the handsome young man. “A bike race? That doesn’t sound like something J.R. would be involved with.”
“Well, there’s a cash prize to the winner, enough to help with his tuition.”
“I see. So is he driving you crazy with it?”
“I’m afraid so. Anyway, he decided he wanted to take this preliminary bike ride all alone down old state highway 13, of all places, to prepare for the race.”
The long pause on the other end of the line suggested that Biddle had failed to comprehend the significance of that.
“You’ve never heard of it?” Barnaby asked rather incredulously. “People who are familiar with that highway call it ‘Satan’s Ribbon’. It used to be a fairly common route between L.A. and Las Vegas before they built the Interstate, but now it is the most desolate, unused stretch of road in the state.”
“So why did J.R. pick that particular stretch of road to ride on?”
“He said he needed to test his endurance. Anyway, Betty was supposed to pick him up over an hour ago at a designated place, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”
“Think something’s happened?”
“I don’t know. He probably just had a problem with the bike. Betty’s backtracking his route now to see if he’s sitting on the side of the road somewhere.”
“Do you need someone to help look for him?”
“I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Betty will let me know what she finds. I just wanted to let you know in case . . . “ He didn’t finish, but Biddle completely understood.
“All right. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
“Thanks, John.”
Driving alone on that narrow, abandoned stretch of highway was enough to give anyone the creeps, but in her current state of worry and the growing dusk, Betty was especially anxious
“I’m sure he’s okay,” she said aloud to herself. “He probably just broke down out there somewhere, and is waiting for someone to come pick him up.” Then she sighed heavily and gave a small groan, wishing she felt as confident as her words had sounded. She squinted through the windshield, her eyes carefully scanning the road and the areas alongside it, taking note of each shrub in case J.R. was resting in the shade beside it. The sun was sinking lower in the sky behind her, and after a short time, she removed her sunglasses so that she could see the objects in a more natural setting. The heat and desolation was very concerning, knowing that heat exhaustion could be a factor. Not to mention dehydration.
“Don’t go expecting the worst,” she reprimanded herself sharply. “He has a jug of water. If he’s been using it sparingly, it should last him until I get there.”
Traveling well below the speed limit, Betty searched the desolate landscape for any signs of the missing law student. She saw only the dry, dusty terrain and the desert plant life, and by keeping her eyes riveted on the areas at the sides of the road, she passed right by the large X on the road without ever seeing it. All the while, the sun was setting lower in the sky behind her.
Finally, she saw the cluster of buildings and the rather dilapidated sign announcing The Desert Oasis, the place J.R. had said he planned to stop and rest and grab a bite to eat. She turned on the blinker to announce her intention to turn into the parking lot, even though there was no one around to see it. Slowly, she pulled alongside the bank of pumps at the service station, and turned off the engine. For several moments, she sat in silence and gazed at the abandoned establishments.
It had clearly been vacant for a while, and the ravages of time had not been kind to the place. Barnaby had said he had been there about a year ago, returning from a fishing trip, but it looked like it had been abandoned for years. The heat and the dry desert were doing their best to destroy the man-made items.
After her brief perusal of the buildings, she opened the car door and got out. “J.R.?” she called. “J.R., are you here?”
When there was no answer, she leaned back inside the vehicle and pressed the car horn. The sound it made was loud beneath the awning, yet it seemed to dissipate quickly, carried away by the heat and the breeze, and as it faded, it was replaced by the light wind whispering in the rafters.
Betty nervously dragged her fingers through her hair and turned slowly in a circle, waiting for the expected reply from her friend. After several long moments, her heart sank with the reality that J.R. was not present. Had he been close enough to hear it, he would have responded.
“J.R, where are you?” she asked aloud. She pressed the car horn once more, and listened carefully as the sound of it faded away again. Worriedly, she turned toward the east, toward the direction she had dropped him off. There was no way of knowing if he had actually made it as far as the rest stop.
It was almost dark now, and she did not want to drive several more hours to the east on this lonely stretch of road, but by the same token, she did not want to leave J.R. out there all night by himself.
With a sigh of despair, she glanced at the western horizon, willing the sun to stay in place a while longer, long enough to find J.R. Ignoring her silent pleas, the sun continued its downward drift.
Somberly, she got back inside the car, and after one final visual inspection of the abandoned rest stop, she turned the car to the east toward the place where she had left J.R. on the highway, determined to search every inch until she found him.
The sun had slipped over the western horizon, leaving only a faint yellow glow in its wake. Behind it, the long blanket of darkness stretched across the landscape, chasing away the last remnants of daylight. Soon, it would be dark. Spending the night in the desert with an escaped convict on the loose was more of an adventure than J.R. had bargained for.
Stopping to rest for a few moments, his eyes studied the heavens. Twilight was a difficult time of day for navigating. The sun was gone, and the stars were not yet out. He had hoped to be at the Oasis by now, but the uneven terrain and exhaustion were slowing his progress, and he was starting to wonder if he had somehow missed it. With many shallow dips and small rises of ground to block his view, it would not be too surprising if he had passed behind it without seeing it.
As he had done many times, he glanced behind him to make certain he were not being followed, scanning the desert for signs of danger lurking nearby. In the dusky shadows of the rough topography, there were many bushes, rocks, and other natural geographic features, but this time he was startled by something that moved slightly. Squinting through the growing dusk, he saw that it was an upright figure, and as he watched, it reached up with an arm to scratch its head as it, too, examined the topography in search of something.
J.R. instantly dropped to the ground, trying to ignore the stab of pain that jarred his sore shoulder. Flat on the ground, he lay still and quiet for several moments, his hand pressing against his shoulder until the pain began to ease. He knew better than to even hope that the person out there might be someone besides Jessup.
After several minutes had passed, he rose up on his elbows, peering over the rocks and dry desert shrubs to verify whether or not he had been spotted. In the distance and the fading light, it was difficult to see the face of the man who stood there, but his bulk left no doubt in his mind that it was Jessup. The criminal was turned slightly away from him, his hands on his hips as he scanned the desert with his eyes, searching for indication that his prey was nearby. Jessup had obviously been serious in his threat to hunt him down and kill him.
J.R. watched as the convict reached up to scratch his dirty salt and pepper hair again, but could only wonder what kind of parasites his fingers were chasing around his scalp; probably lice, he decided. Maybe fleas. Jessup scanned the desert in all directions, turning a slow circle, but in the dusk he failed to notice the young man who watched from the slight dip in the desert terrain. After a moment of indecision, he turned around and began walking again, moving away from the P.I.
J.R. shrank back down, satisfied that he had not been seen, and lay quietly for several more moments. He doubted that the killer had followed him all this way on foot. More likely, he was stopping the car at intervals and walking a short distance into the desert in an attempt to find him. That meant that J.R. was staying on course, a fact which lifted his heart somewhat, for hit meant he was not wandering aimlessly into the desert. The Desert Oasis, then, must still be somewhere ahead of him. Unfortunately, it also meant that Jessup was headed that direction.
When it felt safe, he got up off the ground and, stooping forward in an attempt to make himself less conspicuous, he began moving once again in the direction of the rest stop.
It was completely dark when Betty finally reached the spot where she had left J.R. on the highway. She pulled the car off the road onto the hard ground and sat quietly for several moments, looking out across the dark, barren landscape. The headlights illuminated a narrow path in front of her, but there was no sign of J.R. anywhere, in front or behind. She recalled watching him as she had returned to the Interstate for the faster trip back to the city, and now relived the apprehension she had felt at leaving him in the desert all alone.
Finally, she opened the car door and stepped out, leaving the vehicle idling, its motor a steady rumble in the otherwise quiet desert. The air was hot and dry and very still, and the darkness was nearly overwhelming. Somewhere along this stretch of road, something had happened to J.R.
“J.R.!” she shouted.
As her call faded away, it was followed by silence. There was not even a breeze blowing now. Stars were beginning to come out, more stars than one could ever see in the city, but she could not appreciate them now. She did not bother pressing the car’s horn. She knew that J.R., wherever he was, could not hear it.
She had found no sign of him along the highway. There should have been something, she reasoned. There should have been some sign of what had happened. But there was nothing. It was as if the desert had just swallowed him and the bicycle, leaving no trace of them anywhere.
In the distance, she heard the yammering cry of a desert coyote, a sound which made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
With nothing else to do, she got back in the car and turned onto the road which led back to the Interstate. There was no need to take the long way back again. It was too dark to see anything.
Upon reaching the Los Angeles area, Betty turned off the Interstate and pulled into the first convenience store she came to. She did not want to wait until she got home to call Barnaby, knowing that he would be waiting anxiously for word, so she stopped beside the phone booth and got out of the car again.
With nervous fingers, she inserted the coins in the slot and dialed Barnaby’s number.
“I drove all the way out to the spot where I left him, and there was no sign of him,” she said when her father in law answered. “I stopped at The Desert Oasis too, to see if he made it that far. It was completely deserted, Barnaby; boarded up and out of business. I wanted to keep looking, but it was getting dark and that is a long stretch of highway. I had no idea where to start looking!”
“No, you did the right thing in coming back, Betty,” he assured her. “In the dark, it would like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”
“I should have come across him on the road, or at least some sign of what might have happened to him. Do you think someone might have picked him up?”
“I have no idea, but I can’t rule out that possibility. Did you see much traffic on that highway?”
“Not a single vehicle. You can’t imagine how creepy it is out there, especially after it got dark.”
Barnaby sighed, trying to think of what the next step should be, especially in regard to the darkness. “It’s too late to get a search team in place tonight. I think you should start heading back this way.”
Betty hesitated. “I just hate to give up like that. Maybe we could drive out there together.”
“As much as I would like to, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do until daylight,” Barnaby told her. “As you said, that’s a long stretch of highway, and in the dark it would take us half the night to travel it and we still might miss him. We’ll head out early in the morning.”
“That means he’ll have to spend the night out here. Alone.”
Barnaby grimaced at the thought of his young cousin spending the night in the hostile environment, particularly on the chance that he might be injured. “I don’t know what else we can do. I’ll call John Biddle and ask him to start getting a search party organized.”
Betty was forced to concede that her father in law was right. She squirmed uncomfortably in her concern for her young friend and colleague. “You’re right. I just feel so helpless.”
“I know,” Barnaby agreed. “So do I.”
Betty hesitated briefly, reluctant to even speak the words, but knew that they needed to be said, “Barnaby, what if he had an accident? Maybe someone happened by and struck him, or maybe they came across him hurt. They might have taken him to the hospital. That would explain why I didn’t see him on the road.”
“I was thinking the same thing, but didn’t want to say it,” Barnaby admitted. “I’ll notify the local police departments to be on the lookout for him and check with the area hospitals. Just in case. If he’s not at any of them, we’ll head out at daylight.”
“All right. I’ll head on home for now. And if you find out anything, please let me know.”
“I will,” Barnaby promised. He hung up the phone, and immediately lifted it again and dialed John Biddle’s number. When the lieutenant answered, he said, “John, Betty just called. There was no sign of Jedediah. I hate to ask, but is there any chance of getting a search party organized tonight?”
“I can set the wheels in motion, but there is no way I can send men out in the desert in the dark. I know you’re worried about him, but it’s just too dangerous. I can’t risk someone falling off a cliff or down a ravine that they couldn’t see because of the dark. I’ll head into the office and start making some calls.”
“I’ll join you,” Barnaby told him.
“There’s no need for that. You stay home and get some rest. I’ll call you when everything is in place.”
“I couldn’t rest, knowing that Jedediah is out there somewhere. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Before Biddle could protest, Barnaby hung up the phone and fished his keys out of his pocket.
Act V
Darkness had overtaken him, and the stars came out, winking and twinkling overhead. Without the sun’s path to guide him, J.R. tried to maintain as straight a path as possible toward the rest stop, nearly impossible in the rough terrain. Like most people, he was familiar with only a few of the constellations, but he knew that Polaris, the North Star, was at the end of the handle on the Little Dipper, and that offered some aid in direction.
He knew it was dangerous to travel in the desert after dark. Wild animals aside, there were always things to trip on and arroyos and ravines to fall into. He was tired, thirsty and very hungry, and it was starting to seem prudent to just bed down under a shrub. But that was not without risks as well. Snakes and scorpions were common in desert terrain, both with bites or stings that could cause great illness or death.
So he plodded onward, placing each step carefully, turning on the flashlight whenever necessary, but he preferred to save the batteries. Occasionally, he stumbled over a chunk of sandstone or a tangled clump of shrubs, but mostly the surface was not difficult or obstructed.
A small dark shape, moving across the landscape, stopped in front of him, and he knew it was watching him with interest. J.R. felt his pulse step up a bit. Were there cougars or bobcats in the Mohave Desert?
Nervously, he flipped on the flashlight and shone it in the animal’s direction, and felt a shiver run up his spine when he saw the eerie, luminous eyes reflecting the light. The animal was small and shaggy, with grayish brown fir and large upright ears that flicked forward and back, listening to sounds the human could not hear. A desert coyote, searching for an evening meal.
Its mouth was open wide, panting in the heat, and seemed to be regarding him with watchful curiosity, determining if he was prey or predator. They stared at each other for a long time, neither one moving, and it occurred to him that the coyote was as cautious of him as he was of it. Finally, the creature turned and trotted away.
With his path clear again, he resumed his journey, and soon reached the summit of a small rise of ground. To his tremendous relief, he saw the dark shapes of the abandoned buildings below him.
His heart lifted at the sight of them and his first instinct was to move quickly toward them, to get out of the open where Jessup might stumble upon him, but a sense of caution was holding him back. Barnaby had told him over and over again that he must not rush in, that prudence must be applied to certain circumstances, and this was one of them. He had no idea where Doyle Jessup was at that moment, and that warranted an attentive look around without rushing blindly into an unknown situation. He came to a stop at the top of the rise.
Squatting down to make himself less conspicuous against the skyline, he turned his attention to the group of buildings, studying them intently. Darkness had thrown its cloak over the desert and there were no street lights to illuminate the small cluster of buildings, but the stars cast just enough reflected light to see the darkened structures with moderate clarity. Although he had no idea what signs he should be looking for, he began studying the buildings.
First, he examined the restaurant, the farthest building from his position, squinting into the shadows beneath the awning where he had rested earlier that day, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Sliding his gaze across the empty parking lot to the nearer building, he focused on the service station. Like the restaurant, it was quiet with no sign of movement, but as his eyes moved toward the gas pumps, something attracted his rapt attention; something that he knew with absolute certainty had not been there when he had stopped for lunch.
There, in the deep shadows beneath the awning, he could just make out the dark shape that was the front end of a vehicle. A tiny bit of starlight reflected on the dark headlights.
For several long moments, he continued to gaze at the car, pondering the possibilities and listening intently for the sound of a familiar voice calling his name. No such inquiries came back to him. It was possible that whoever it was, Barnaby, Betty, or even Lieutenant Biddle, might have walked around the building, out of view and out of hearing range, but he knew he could not just walk down there blindly and risk encountering the prison escapee. Jessup could be lying in wait for him. Or, he might be out in the desert looking for him.
The area remained still and quiet, with no sign of movement. Behind him, he heard the yammering cry of a coyote, possibly the one he had passed only a few minutes before, and the sound lifted the hair on the back of his neck. Turning his head, he scanned the desert with his eyes, pausing briefly on every clump of brush, imagining it to be the convict.
Satisfied that the path down to the station was clear of immediate danger, J.R. slowly and carefully picked his way down the gentle slope and walked toward the service station, keeping a wary eye on the desert all around him.
When he reached the stone wall of the station, he crept along the side of the building until he reached the front. Pausing there, he peered around the corner at the vehicle that waited beneath the canopy. It was parked in the space between the boarded up door and the nearest bank of pumps. Inching forward, he looked cautiously down the concrete drive. Jessup was nowhere in sight. All he had to do was cross several yards of open space to reach the vehicle.
J.R. cast another wary perusal in the direction in which he had seen the convict nearly an hour earlier, then pushed himself away from the wall and approached the vehicle.
Directly above his head, something asked, “Ho-hoo?”
J.R. nearly leaped into orbit, and he dropped the flashlight on the concrete. Spinning around quickly, he looked up and saw an owl perched on the edge of the awning, watching him with its large round eyes. It was a big, beautiful bird, silhouetted against the night sky, and it blinked and hooted again.
He gave a shaky laugh at his own jumpiness, and his hand went to his chest to steady his pounding heart.
The owl moved its head from side to side, observing the human with curiosity, then it ruffled its feathers and turned its attention elsewhere, presumably looking for a field mouse or a jackrabbit.
J.R. bent to retrieve the flashlight, making sure that the battery cover had not popped off, but he did not dare turn it on to see if it worked. If Jessup was nearby, he would see the light. Casting another wary glance around him, he crossed the remaining distance to the vehicle. Pressing his nose against the passenger side window, he squinted through the darkness inside the car, but it was impossible to determine if the keys were in the ignition. His hand grasped the door handle, but lingered there for a moment, realizing that if he opened it, the overhead light would come on.
Concealed in the shadows beneath the awning, he glanced toward the open desert again. Jessup was still nowhere to be seen, so he gripped the door handle, he pulled on it, intending to open it just a crack.
Locked.
He exhaled sharply as he shifted his gaze to the driver’s door, trying to determine if the lock button was up or down, but in the dark, he was unable to see it. Quickly, he walked behind the car and approached the driver’s side door, but just as he reached for the door handle, he glanced toward the desert again and saw a dark shape emerge from behind a clump of brush, walking along the road toward the station.
J.R. instantly crouched down beside the vehicle, hoping the darkness beneath the awning was enough to conceal him from the criminal. His pulse accelerated again as he watched the solitary figure walking toward him.
He figured he had two choices: Open the car door on the chance that the keys were in the ignition, or back away. The odds were fifty-fifty that the keys were there; either they were or they were not. If they were there, he could start the car and drive away before Jessup was close enough to do anything about it. If they were not there, the overhead light would betray his presence. Indecisively, his hand crept toward the door handle.
Fifty-fifty.
J.R.’s gaze went from the door handle to the desert again. Jessup was getting nearer, and in the moonlight he could see the man’s head turning from side to side, still scanning the dark landscape, searching for his victim. Jessup was near enough that he would not only see the overhead light, he would probably hear the car door open as well.
Fifty-fifty.
While he delayed, Jessup was continuing to advance. He was getting close; dangerously close; close enough that J.R. could see the baton that he still carried in one hand. Make a decision! he thought to himself.
Jessup had not left the keys in the car before, when he had attacked him from behind. And he knew that J.R. was moving toward the rest stop. It was not likely he would leave the keys in the ignition this time.
Finally, he pulled his hand away from the door handle and, remaining in a crouched position, he slipped around the rear of the car and squatted down behind the trunk, wondering if he would be seen if he darted for the safety of the wall. Rising up, he looked over the trunk to check Jessup’s progress, and found that he was alarmingly close now.
Sweat popped out on his brow and dampened his palms as he turned his head to look at the corner of the wall farthest from the criminal. If he made a dash for that corner, would Jessup see the movement? Facing the convict again, he silently willed the man to turn around, thus providing him with a few moments of relative safety to run for the corner.
After a long tense moment, during which Jessup was getting closer and closer, the owl hooted again, and J.R. felt a tremendous amount of satisfaction when he saw the convict’s body jump violently on startled reflex. He staggered several paces backward, nearly falling to the ground as he looked up quickly to see what had made the noise. Spying the owl there, he raised the baton in a threatening gesture. “Get outta here!” he said, gruffly.
The owl apparently decided to seek a more accommodating perch elsewhere. It took flight, passing so close to Jessup that the convict actually ducked to avoid the beating wings, then he turned to watch it as it disappeared into the night, shouting a curse at the retreating bird.
Using the moment of distraction to his advantage, J.R. shoved himself away from the car and dodged around the east corner of the building.
Safely concealed, he peered around the edge of the stone wall. Still looking around, Jessup slid his hand into the front pocket of his grimy trousers and withdrew the keys to the car. They had not been in the ignition, and J.R. felt an inner trembling with the realization of what would have happened had he opened the car door. Jessup would probably be chasing him across the parking lot at that very moment.
Unaware that his prey was only a few yards away, Jessup opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. Inserting the key in the ignition, he turned it and the engine cranked over with a roar and a puff of smoke from the exhaust pipe. J.R. saw the head and tail lights come on, and shrank back behind the corner as Jessup applied a little pressure on the foot-feed and revved the engine. Then he shifted into drive and slowly pulled out from under the awning.
The part-time detective remained pressed against the wall, listening intently as the car eased slowly along the parking area, apparently still searching for his victim, before finally turning onto the highway heading east toward Las Vegas.
Fully exposed, J.R. remained motionless, his body pressed against the building, hoping the shadows concealed him from the driver of the car, and he watched with renewed hope as the taillights disappeared into the desert.
J.R. heaved a loud, weary sigh. The convict had apparently given up, deciding it was best to simply get out of the area.
With Jessup gone, he knew that he could breathe a bit easier. Now, he needed to decide what to do. He figured he could either find a place to bed down for the night, or he could start walking back toward the convenience store. That meant covering a lot of ground he had already traveled previously, but he had the advantage of the cooler nighttime temperatures, plus he would be easily seen if Betty should happen to drive this way looking for him.
In fact, it seemed odd that she had not shown up yet. It was possible that she had come looking for him before he reached the Oasis, and had missed her. A moment of concern gripped him. Had she encountered Jessup along that road somewhere?
The mere thought of it made him want to run along the narrow black ribbon of highway looking for her, but decided that would be pointless. If Jessup had harmed her in any way, he likely would have taken her vehicle in the hopes that it was better maintained mechanically than the other one. Betty was fine, he decided. She and Barnaby would come out tomorrow morning to pick him up, and all would be well. He would try to find some place safe to stay the night.
The service station was quickly discarded as a place suitable for sleeping. Even though it had been a long time since the place had been boarded up, he imagined that he could still smell the oil and grease that was synonymous with service stations.
His eyes moved to the restaurant building. With a little luck, perhaps he could pry up one of the plywood panels enough that he could get inside the building. He should be safe there. Pushing away from the corner of the building, he jogged across the parking lot toward the restaurant. When he reached the awning, he paused again to look up the highway, but there was no vehicle in sight. Jessup was gone, and likely would not return.
Turning his attention to the plywood panels that were nailed over the glass windows and doors, J.R. crept along the front of the restaurant, testing for weaknesses in the nails or in the wood itself, working his way along the street-facing wall, then moved around the corner. As with the front of the building, the plywood on the side wall seemed secure until he reached a side entrance near the back corner. Here, one side of the plywood had been released from the nails and bent back easily when he pulled on it. Behind it was the door, which should have been locked against intruders, but curiously the knob felt loose when he placed his hand on it. Obviously, someone had pried the door open at some point over the past few years. This was not too unexpected. Vagrants and transients often found a way inside abandoned buildings, and this one was no different. He just hoped there was no one inside who might resent his presence!
As with most exits, the door opened outward, and he pulled it as far open as it would go. It strained against the plywood panel that had been pulled loose but he was careful not to force it too far, for he did not want to pull the plywood completely off. Opening it just enough for his slender body to slip through, J.R. squeezed into the restaurant.
It was nearly pitch black inside, and he raised the flashlight and flipped it to the “on” position. At first, it flickered uncertainly, a residual effect of being dropped on the concrete. J.R. gave it a forceful shake, and the light came on, pushing back the total darkness inside the building. He was standing in an entryway that resembled a short corridor. No doubt, this was the service entrance, where incoming supplies were received.
On his right was a dark room, and he turned the flashlight toward it. The beam found a small room, but there was no furniture with which to identify its purpose. Most likely, it was an office of some kind, perhaps where the receiving clerk or restaurant manager had been stationed. Beer cans and whiskey bottles littered the floor, along with some old bones that might have been left over from a chicken dinner. Whoever had been living here, J.R. hoped they were long gone, for transients were generally territorial.
Passing the office door, he reached for the wall on the other side of it and felt his way along it until he reached the kitchen. It was open and empty. The ovens and grills and even the sinks were long gone, the hookups sticking out of the wall where they had once stood. Turning to his left, he found a closed swinging door which separated the kitchen from the main restaurant area. He pushed through it.
With the flashlight beam leading the way, he stepped into the dining room. The large open space had been cleared of the tables, chairs, and booths that had once accommodated hungry travelers. Fondly, he recalled traveling with his parents as a boy and stopping in similar places, and it was easy to imagine the red-checked table cloths and the clinking of silverware mingled with conversation.
The only furnishing that remained in the room was a long service counter, a permanent fixture which had probably been constructed on-site and ran parallel to the wall, but the bar stools that had accompanied it had been removed. The far end of the counter had probably held the cash register. During its operational years, he knew that it probably had also displayed packs of cigarettes, candy, and chewing gum. Beyond the end of the counter and opposite the main door was an open doorway leading into a darkened room, and he presumed that it had probably served as the gift shop.
His sigh was loud in the quiet building, wishing for one of those candy machines that sometimes stood in the entryways of such establishments. A water fountain would be even better, but knew that the water had been turned off ages ago.
Deciding that this was as good a place as any to spend the night, J.R. moved between the wall and the counter, and sat down on the floor, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible. He would have time to explore the rest of the building in the morning, while he waited for a ride home.
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Act VI
“All right. Thank you very much,” Barnaby said into the telephone. Replacing it on its cradle, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his weary eyes with his fingers. “Nothing,” he announced to Lieutenant Biddle, who sat on the other side of the desk from him. “He’s not at any of the area hospitals.” There was relief in his voice that J.R. was not lying injured in one of the hospitals, but also a note of disappointment that his young cousin had not been found.
They were in Biddle’s office, and the lieutenant had kindly set up a second phone for Barnaby, so they could both make the calls necessary to locate the missing man.
Still looking crisp and fresh in his gray suit and striped tie, Biddle glanced at the clock on the wall. The hands had moved past twelve-thirty, and were slowly making their way toward one o’clock. They had been hard at work for hours, calling all the hospitals, morgues, and precincts in and around the Los Angeles area, inquiring about accident victims. It was unknown if J.R. was carrying any identification on him, so they covered all angles, including unidentified patients or victims in their investigation, but always the answer was negative. No one matching J.R.’s description had been found.
Turning his attention back to his friend, Biddle watched as Barnaby closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingertips, as if nursing a headache. The aging detective, usually impeccably groomed and elegant in his manner of dress, was dressed in a white fishing shirt and khaki pants, his personal choice for casual wear. Opening his desk drawer, Biddle removed the bottle of aspirin that he kept there and passed it across the desk. “Barnaby, you’re exhausted. Why don’t you try to get some rest? I’ll wake you if anything turns up.”
Barnaby looked up, his fingers pausing against his temples, and stared at him as if he was out of his mind for even suggesting such a thing, yet he understood that John was concerned about him. He was very tired, his head was throbbing, his eyes felt like fried eggs, and he knew he probably looked like something the cat had dragged in, but he knew that sleep would be impossible to achieve, so he shook his head as he picked up the aspirin bottle and shook two of them onto his palm. “My cousin is missing and may be hurt, maybe even kidnapped. There is no way I could rest until I know he’s okay.” He popped two white tablets in his mouth and washed it down with a cup of coffee that had gone cold, inspiring an expression of disgust.
John nodded his understanding. “I’ve checked the area police departments that might have been notified of an accident, and they have no information to give us either,” he said. “No one, civilian or otherwise, has reported an accident of any kind on or near Highway 13.”
“I didn’t expect there would be. No one travels that highway anymore, so the chances of him being struck by another vehicle or someone happening by and finding him are pretty remote.” Leaning back in his chair, Barnaby’s eyes drifted to the map of Southern California that Biddle had pinned to the bulletin board, taking particular notice of the huge expanse of the Mojave Desert. “No, I think he’s out there, somewhere.” After a long moment, he glanced appreciatively at his long-time friend. “I appreciate your help, John. It would have taken me all night to get through all these phone numbers by myself.”
Biddle shrugged and waved away the comment. “Hey, I didn’t have any plans for tonight, and I’m glad to help. So where do we go from here? I’m fresh out of ideas.”
Barnaby shook his head slowly, his eyes still fixed on the map. After a few moments, he rose from his chair and went to the map and inserted a push-pin to mark the location where Betty said she had dropped J.R. off. “Okay, we know he started around this point,” he mused, speaking as much to himself as to Biddle. Another push-pin was inserted at the location of the Traveler’s Stop. “And this is where he was supposed to meet Betty, but never made it.” He placed another push-pin at the halfway mark. “He was going to stop here for lunch, but Betty says it’s out of business. There was no sign of him there, so she traveled the entire stretch of road, but saw nothing to indicate what had happened to him.”
“You’re still thinking an accident of some kind,” Biddle guessed.
“It’s the only thing that makes any sense. Something must have happened with the bike. It might have broken down, or maybe an animal ran across the road and caused him to lose control of it, or some other mishap. Traveling at a high rate of speed, it could have been a pretty serious accident.”
“Which brings us back to the same question; where is he? And why didn’t Betty find him or the bike on the road?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Barnaby mused in his casual drawl. Trying to solve the mystery, his eyes continued to study the map, following the thin gray line that represented Highway 13. “If he was not incapacitated, he might have tried to walk. If he had an accident before reaching the Oasis, he might have tried to walk to it to find help, not knowing it was closed.”
“In which case, he probably would have waited there for help to arrive,” Biddle suggested.
“As I recall, the restaurant had an awning that would have provided him with shade,” Barnaby agreed. “But if he had made it past the Oasis, he most likely would go on toward the Traveler’s Stop.”
“Unless he was much closer to the Oasis,” Biddle added. “In which case, he might have backtracked to wait under that awning you mentioned.”
Barnaby nodded his head in silent agreement, his brow furrowed with concentration. “None of these scenarios explain why Betty missed him on the road.”
“Unless . . . . “ Biddle began, then fell silent again, reluctant to say it.
Barnaby turned to face him. “Unless what?”
“Maybe he was disoriented and wandered off into the desert.”
Barnaby’s sigh was loud in the quiet room, indicating that the thought had also crossed his mind. “He would have to be disoriented for him to do something like that. He knew someone would be coming to look for him when he didn’t show up, so he would have stayed on the road, no matter which direction he was walking. I keep coming back to the bicycle. If there was an accident, what happened to it?”
“Accident? Do you think J.R. had an accident?” Betty asked from the door to Biddle’s office.
Both men turned around, surprised to see Barnaby’s daughter in law standing there. Barnaby glanced at the clock, taking quick note of the time. “Betty, it’s almost one o’clock. You didn’t need to come down here.”
“Did you really think I could sit at home doing nothing when J.R. is out there somewhere? When I called your house and you weren’t there, I took a chance that you might be here. What’s this about an accident?” she asked, ignoring the question as she stepped into the office. “Have you found something out? Did J.R. have an accident?”
“We’re not sure,” Biddle replied.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked. It was obvious that she was offended that she had been left out of the efforts to find him.
“I’m sorry, Betty,” Barnaby apologized. “I should have called, but I was hoping you had managed to get some rest.”
“I went by J.R.’s place to feed his cat, then I went home and started making some phone calls,” she told him. “There was a construction site out there not too far from the convenience store where I was supposed to pick him up. I’m afraid I woke a few people up, but I wanted to find out if maybe one of the workers had seen or heard something that might be helpful. What about you two? What have you found out?”
“We haven’t found out much, I’m afraid,” Biddle told him. “We’ve been calling all the area hospitals and other facilities to see if someone matching J.R.’s description was brought in, but that turned out to be a dead end.”
“Since no one travels that road any more,” Barnaby added, “I would have been surprised if someone had found him and brought him in.”
“Well, according to some of those construction workers, kids routinely go out on that highway to drag race. None of them saw anything like that today,” she added quickly when she caught the attention of both men. “Still, from what I’ve been able to determine, at least two cars did go out on that highway today. One of the sightings was probably me when I went looking for him, but the other . . . .” She shrugged.
“So there was one other car driven by someone who might have seen something,” Biddle said. “Any description of the car?”
“No, no one I talked to noticed any details. They just remember he was driving very fast, like he was in a hurry to get out of town.”
“Do you think he could have run J.R. off the road?” Biddle asked.
“He would have been going the wrong direction to come up on him from behind, and if Jedidiah saw him coming into his lane, he would have gotten out of the way,” Barnaby said.
“What about a kidnapping?” Betty suggested. “Like with that street gang a few years ago. Maybe J.R. saw something, and . . . “ Her voice trailed, reluctant to finish the thought.
“That’s pretty remote,” Biddle told her.
“It’s as good as anything we’ve come up with,” Barnaby said.
Betty moved closer to study the map, her eyes moving along that narrow gray line, stopping on each of the push-pins. “So what did you come up with?” she asked.
“We’re wondering if he had an accident on the bike and was perhaps disoriented and wandered out in the desert,” Biddle explained.
Betty nodded, slowly. “Maybe. What about the bike? Even disoriented, I don’t think he would push it through the desert. Why didn’t I come across it on the road?”
“That’s where our scenario breaks down,” the lieutenant admitted. “The one thing it would explain is why you didn’t come across him on the road.”
Betty continued to look the map with a worried frown. “There is a lot of wilderness there, and he had only one bottle of water.”
To calm Betty’s worry, Biddle said, “If he’s been using the water sparingly, he may be okay for a while yet. At first light we’ll drive down that highway and start searching the area. With any luck, we’ll come across him this time.”
“And if we don’t?”
“If we don’t, I’ll have a chopper scour the area between the drop-off point and the convenience store for any sign of him.”
“What if he’s hurt? In the desert, people die of dehydration. It will be worse if he’s hurt. He may not be thinking clearly.”
Barnaby placed a fatherly grip on his daughter in law’s shoulder. “We’re going to find him, Betty.”
Betty looked back at him through fearful eyes, wondering what condition they would find J.R. in.
It was very dark in the abandoned restaurant. The boarded up windows and doors blocked the light from the moon and stars as effectively as it blocked easy access to the structure by unwanted visitors. A cricket was chirping forlornly outside the main door, the only sound in the quiet desert night.
With the flashlight beside him within easy reach, J.R. lay quietly on his side on the cool linoleum floor, his arm folded beneath his head to form a pillow, but found it difficult to get comfortable in that position. His arm was going numb from the weight of his head resting on it, and the floor was very hard against his shoulder and hip. Shifting position, he rolled over onto his back, seeking a more tolerable arrangement of his body, but without a pillow, it was not much better.
For hours, he had shifted position over and over, all the while keeping an attentive ear toward the highway, listening for the sound of a passing motorist, but was not surprised that he had heard no vehicles at all. The good news in that was that Jessup had not returned. Most likely, the convict was in Las Vegas by now, holed up in some seedy motel off the Strip. With an air conditioner, he thought, wistfully.
The headache that had plagued him for most of the afternoon was gone. He had not really noticed when it had faded away, but it had apparently been forgotten during the tense moments at the gas station, when he could have been discovered beside the car. Raising his hand, he pressed the tips of his long slender fingers to his forehead, wincing as they probed the contusion left there by the baton.
A strange snuffling sound outside attracted his rapt attention and his hand froze in midair as his head turned toward it. It stopped abruptly, apparently sensing his movement, and for several moments, he heard only total silence, aware now that the cricket had stopped chirping in what it perceived as danger.
Slowly and quietly, J.R. rose up and peered over the countertop, listening intently. In the nearly total darkness, he could see nothing except undefined shapes that marked the boundary of the countertop and the front door handles, but he dared not turn on the flashlight for a better look, fearing that Jessup might have done the unexpected and come back for him. Maybe he had gone in search of a better weapon than the club. Maybe he had returned to carry out his threat.
The snuffling sound began again, followed by a low whine and a scratching sound. It was an animal of some kind, probably a coyote, sniffing and scratching at the cracks between the plywood. It had probably been trotting past when it had detected his scent. J.R.’s experience with coyotes was primarily limited to his amused viewing of the Wile E. Coyote in the cartoons, a highly unreliable source, he knew, but he had heard from others that the animals were one of the most adaptable species in the desert. The cities had encroached so far into their territories that the versatile coyote was occasionally spotted well within the city limits. He had only spotted a few in the distance, but Barnaby had assured him that they were always there, usually hidden from view.
The sounds of the animal trying to get inside the building lifted the hair on the back of J.R.’s neck, even though he knew it favored smaller prey, like rabbits and mice. Even if it got inside, it would not likely attack something the size of an adult human. It was merely investigating an unfamiliar scent. After several moments, the noises stopped and the coyote trotted away.
J.R. began to relax. Settling down behind the counter again, he rested his back against the wall. Stretching his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, he raised his wrist and pressed the button on his watch to illuminate the face. It was almost two o’clock. Lowering his arm again, he rested his hands lightly on his abdomen. It was going to be a long night.
The temperatures were cooling down a bit, providing him with welcomed relief from the oppressive heat, but other discomforts were even worse. His stomach was a hollow void that gnawed hungrily, demanding to be filled. He had eaten nothing substantial since breakfast, and he had eaten sparingly then, eager to be on the road. His mouth felt uncomfortably dry, and he cursed himself again for failing to pick up his bottle of water.
With the coyote gone, the cricket began chirping again, and he listened to it fondly. It was a sound he did not hear much since moving to Los Angeles. His apartment was well up from the street, and if they chirped below, he was not aware of it. In fact, he had not thought anything of it, but as he listened to it now, he recalled the summer vacations in which his family had traveled from Chicago to visit his father’s parents in Tennessee. They had spent many nights in Grandpa’s back yard enjoying hamburgers or watermelons and talking as families do, while the crickets were a barely noticed background noise.
Now his parents were both gone, and his family was Barnaby and Betty, and he knew they must both be worried about him.
With nothing else to do, he began to formulate a plan. Rather than wait until daylight for someone to come looking for him, it might be a good idea to set out while it was still dark, traveling in the cooler pre-dawn. It was just after two now. He could leave around four o’clock, and should make good time by hiking down the highway. Any vehicle he might encounter coming from Los Angeles would be potential help, while a vehicle coming from Las Vegas might be Jessup coming back to carry out his threat. He would easily be alerted to approaching vehicles by their headlights, providing him enough time to step off the road and hide.
His stomach growled again, and as he placed his hand over it in an attempt to sooth it, his thoughts went to Napoleon, the kitten given to him by Cleo, the quirky medium with a menagerie of homeless, injured, and orphaned animals. For some reason, she had decided that the kitten was a perfect match for him, even though he had protested to the contrary. Napoleon was grown now, and he had to admit that the cat had been good company, and even though he was not home enough to give the animal the attention it deserved, it seemed content and was usually glad to see him. Sometimes it lay curled up on his lap while he studied or watched television; other times, when he actually wanted to pet it, it totally ignored him.
The night was passing, and he was beginning to grow drowsy. Finally, his head nodded forward, his chin resting on his chest. Betty and Barnaby both had keys to his apartment, in case of an emergency, and just as he dozed off, he hoped one of them remembered to feed the cat.
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Act VII
For Barnaby and Betty, the time had never crawled by more slowly. Frequently, their eyes strayed to their watches or to the clock on the wall, discouraged by the snail’s pace at which the hands ticked around the face, inching their way toward daylight. Their minds were constantly on J.R., praying silently for his safety.
In spite of the hour, or perhaps because of it, there were other people milling about, mostly detectives using the relative quiet of late night to catch up on their cases, using fax machines, telephones, copy machines, comparing notes on various crimes.
Barnaby and Biddle continued to discuss the plans they intended to put into motion as soon as it was light enough to see. Betty had briefly wandered down to the snack room for coffee and had reluctantly accepted a doughnut offered by a sympathetic detective who was aware of the situation. She now sat quietly but restlessly in an uncomfortable chair near Biddle’s desk, frequently shifting in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, sipping the cup of coffee, and ignoring the doughnut for which she had no appetite.
A harsh buzzing sound on the desk startled her out of her thoughts, and her body flinched at the abruptness of it. As Barnaby’s receptionist, it was a sound she was well accustomed to, but it had never sounded harsher than it did in those overnight hours of waiting. John snatched up the telephone before it could buzz again.
“Biddle.” He listened for a moment, then said, “Excellent. Tell him we’ll be right down.” He slammed the receiver back on the hook and stood up. “That was the receptionist down in the lobby. The paramedic has arrived.”
Betty turned startled eyes to Barnaby. “Paramedic?”
“Yes. John and I were talking while you were getting coffee, and we agreed that it might be a good idea to bring a paramedic along with us when we search for Jedediah. The fire department helped us locate an off-duty paramedic who has agreed to go out with us in case Jedediah needs some medical attention.”
“And don’t forget, there’s a chopper standing by if we need it,” Biddle added. He reached for his suit coat, then changed his mind. It would be hot in the desert, so he began rolling up his shirt sleeves. He turned over his wrist to glance at his watch for perhaps the one hundredth time during the night. It was forty fifty. “Okay, let’s roll. We’ll start seeing some daylight soon, and with any luck we’ll be at the Oasis shortly after sunrise.” He turned to Betty, who had stood up with Barnaby. “Why don’t you go on home? I’ll call you when we find out something.”
“No! No way!” Betty objected, visibly annoyed that Biddle would even suggest such a thing. “I’m going with you!”
Biddle sighed heavily and exchanged a worried glance with the aging detective. If J.R.’s condition was poor when they found him, he knew Barnaby would rather that she was not there to see it.
Betty looked from one to the other, understanding what they were trying to do, but she was not going to stand for it. “No! I know you’re trying to protect me, but I won’t stay behind! I brought my own car, and if you refuse to let me ride with you, I’ll just follow you. Don’t think I won’t do it! You and J.R. are the only family I have left, and I’m going, one way or the other, whether you like it or not!”
Barnaby knew she would do it too, and nothing short of placing her under arrest would keep her from joining the search. He glanced at Biddle, who lifted his eyebrows and shrugged, determined to stay out of the family discussion. When Barnaby made no objections, he said, “All right. Let’s go.”
Barnaby, Betty, and John Biddle took the elevator down to the lobby where Biddle approached a man who was dressed in black slacks and short sleeved blue shirt with a fireman’s shield on the breast pocket. He carried a sizeable kit with a medical emblem embossed on it. “I’m Lieutenant John Biddle.”
“Wade Gordon,” the paramedic said as he shook hands with the lieutenant, and then with Barnaby and Betty. He hefted the medkit. “You mentioned that the patient might have gone an extended time without water, so I brought along drinking water as well as other supplies that might be useful.”
“Great,” Biddle said. “I really appreciate the Department doing this for us. We’ve been worried about what condition he might be in when we find him. We know he had some water with him when he started out, but only one bottle, so it’s a sure bet that he’s run out by now. We also don’t know if he’s injured, so we’re very glad that you’re going with us.”
“Glad to help.”
The four of them walked out the door and turned toward the parking lot. Then, with everyone seated in Biddle’s car, they pulled out onto the street and drove toward old highway 13.
J.R. was startled awake by a peculiar sound that he could not immediately identify.
Blinking rapidly in an attempt to drive away the remnants of sleep, he lifted his head from where it had been resting against the wall behind him and cringed at the discomfort caused by the movement. He had known the previous day that he would be stiff and sore this morning, but he was unprepared for the pain that gripped the shoulder he had banged on the pavement during the accident. It had limbered up a bit yesterday as he had walked toward the Oasis, but now, after hours of inactivity, it had stiffened up painfully.
In addition to the accident related discomforts, his mouth was very dry, his neck was stiff, and he realized with a jolt that it was daylight. He had missed his chance to set out down the highway in the cool predawn.
Then he heard it again; a sound that chilled his blood and brought him fully awake as he realized what it was. It was the crunching of gravel on concrete beneath human shoes.
His head swiveled instantly toward the direction of the sound, trying to pinpoint its precise location. Turning toward the main entryway, he focused on the narrow gap between two strips of plywood and saw what appeared to be an eye pressed against it, peering into the restaurant.
His body gave an involuntary shudder in reaction to the startling presence of the other person. Silently, he pressed his back against the wall, staring with wide eyes at the orb that was still peering between the two pieces of plywood. The eye shifted as the man who owned it pressed to one side and then the other, trying with apparently little success to see into the dark, shadowy interior of the building.
Slanted stripes of light penetrated the gaps between the plywood, but apparently the gap was too narrow for the person to adequately see through it. The eye disappeared, and J.R. listened as he moved around the corner to the front of the building. Occasionally, he stopped to test the viability of the plywood that was nailed over the windows and doors. He knew without a doubt that Jessup had returned, anticipating that his prey would seek shelter in the abandoned buildings, and apparently hoped for the element of surprise, knowing that J.R. would have thought him long gone by now.
Eventually, he would make his way around the east side to the service entrance, and he would surely notice the loose piece of plywood hanging there. He would know that he had taken refuge inside.
This was very bad news, for it also meant that Betty and Barnaby or anyone else who might come searching for him was in potential danger as well.
Seeking an avenue of escape opposite the direction the convict was slowly working toward, J.R. turned to his right. The gift shop was just around the corner through the entryway. Perhaps there was another exit there, a door through which he could escape and make his way into the hills where he could hide.
As he stood up, J.R. sucked his breath in sharply in response to the twinge that went through his sore hip. Like his shoulder, it had not troubled him too much the previous day, but now, after sitting still throughout the night, it had become stiff and sore. Grasping the edge of the counter to steady himself, he pressed his hand against the injury and waited for the discomfort to pass.
Finally, he released his grip on the counter and with his hand still pressed against the bruise, he went through the lobby area, then around the corner toward the rear of the building. The restrooms were positioned there, as was the door of the room that had once been the gift shop. It was not a large room, but like the restaurant area, the windows had been boarded up with thin slivers of daylight penetrating the cracks. As his eyes quickly scanned the walls through the dusky interior, he quickly located a rear door, and opened it.
His sigh of disappointment was loud in the quiet room. Instead of an exit, it was an employee lounge. A square of tile on the floor that was slightly off color indicated where a soda machine or perhaps a refrigerator had once stood. Scuff marks were visible on the floor where a small table and chairs had been, and an old porcelain sink was still in the counter, with cabinets built above and beneath. Another doorway stood opposite him, and he went to it and opened it. A closet, presumably for the employees’ belongings.
With no other option, J.R returned to the front entrance, where his eyes fixed on the glass double-front doors, now boarded up on the outside. Moving toward it, he placed his hands on the handles, as if preparing to open them. They were the type of doors that opened both directions, inward and outward, but a slight tug told him that they were locked. He had known they would be, but if there was a chance of getting them open, he might be able to break through the plywood. Jessup would hear it and undoubtedly give chase, but J.R. was confident that he was younger and stronger, and the likely winner of a foot race.
Reaching under the handles, he located the deadbolt and gave the knob a twist. He heard the “click” as the lock disengaged, but still they would not open. Shifting, he looked closer and found a heavy chain wrapped around the handles on the outside with a sturdy lock.
“Damn it,” he breathed.
Jessup was almost to the side entrance now; there wasn’t much time, and unfortunately, it appeared that he was trapped. His only hope was to find some way to secure the service entry door before Jessup reached it.
Quickly scooping up the flashlight from the floor to use as a weapon if necessary, he made his way along the inside area of the long service counter until he reached the end of it. The front and side of the restaurant had been constructed of glass, offering splendid views of the desert to the dining customers. Now boarded up with plywood, J.R. could see the man’s shadow through the gaps as he proceeded along the east side of the building, still testing the plywood. Momentarily, he would find the door.
With a slight limp in his gait, J.R. stepped carefully to prevent his sneakers from crunching on the debris that littered the floor, and pushed on the swinging doors that separated the dining area from the kitchen. After moving through them, they fell quietly back into place. He had not gotten a good look at the kitchen the night before because of the dark, but now, in daylight, the room was darkly shadowed but viewable. Hookups for the ovens and grills lined one wall, and across from it was the space where the industrial sinks had once stood. A slightly discolored area on the linoleum indicated where the large freezer had once stood.
Outside, he heard Jessup grasp another board and tug on hit, then he cursed, indicating that it was secure. Slowly, J.R. crept toward the door, hoping to find some way to secure it before the convict reached it. He had turned the knob last night to lock it behind him when he came inside, but the knob was loose. A firm blow from the baton should be all that was required to knock it off.
As he reached the entrance, his eyes fell immediately upon the round door knob, but it was too late to try to find anything to block the door. Jessup was there. He had already found the loose plywood, and J.R. could hear the sounds of it being ripped from the outer wall. Then, abruptly, the noises stopped.
J.R. backed up quickly, returning to the kitchen area, and moved behind the protection of the wall. Peering around the corner, he watched the door knob, waiting tensely for it to turn. He was uncertain what he would do to protect himself when the convict entered, but one thing that was in his advantage was the fact that his eyes were already adjusted to the dim light and Jessup’s were not. Coming inside out of the bright sun, it would initially be difficult for him to see inside the dusky building, and that would give J.R. a huge advantage.
He hefted the flashlight, comparing it to the baton that Jessup carried, and decided that it was coming up decidedly short, so he looked around quickly again, seeking something a bit more substantial. His eyes came to rest on the steel pipes that protruded from the wall. Perhaps he could pry one of them loose.
Quietly, he moved across the darkened kitchen to the hookups, and placed his hand on the first one. It was securely fastened in place with steel nuts, and he did not have the tools to remove them. He turned a helpless circle in the middle of the room, searching for something, anything that he could use as a weapon; a rock, a brick, even a discarded frying pan, but found nothing.
It was then that he realized that it was quiet outside. Enough time had elapsed that Jessup should have been inside the building by then.
Creeping back to the door, he leaned against it, listening intently, but there was no indication that Jessup was there. Would he have given up? J.R. felt that was unlikely, given the ease with which he could have breached the loose door knob. Something else must have happened. Then another thought sprang into his mind. Perhaps Jessup had seen Barnaby’s car approaching along the highway, and had been scared away! That must be it! Barnaby was here!
Excitement surged through him, and J.R. eagerly turned the knob and poked his head out the door. An instant later, a hand reached from behind the door and grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him completely off his feet.
J.R. yelled in pain and surprise as his battered and bruised body sprawled onto the hard ground. He instantly flipped over, watching with horrified eyes as that smooth baton swung at his head once more with great force. This time, he rolled to the side and scrambled to his feet as the club slammed on the ground with a loud thud where he had been lying an instant before. Spinning away from the convict, he began to run, hoping to put some distance between him and the criminal.
Jessup was startled by J.R.’s agility, but recovered quickly. In a foot chase with the younger, more nimble man, he knew he was at a disadvantage. Hefting the baton again, he flung it at the fleeing private detective, aiming at his head, but it fell well short, tumbling against his ankles. To Jessup’s surprise, it achieved its purpose any way.
J.R. stumbled when the club struck his ankle, and he pitched forward on his face on the rocky ground. Before he could react, Jessup grasped both hands full of his shirt and roughly flung him over on to his back. Wide eyed with terror, J.R. could only watch helplessly as the criminal straddled him, effectively pinning him to the ground with his weight. A moment later, Jessup’s huge, filthy hands were at his throat. Struggling to breathe, J.R.’s hands gripped the man by the wrists, attempting to wrench them away from his throat, but he was no match for the convict’s strength. Instead, Jessup bore down harder.
“Yer a smart little feller, ain’tcha?” Jessup taunted as he continued to bear down on J.R.’s trachea. “Thought you could hide in there and I wouldn’t know it. But I had a pretty good idea you was in there. See, I saw yer bike stashed down by the highway yesterday ev’nin’, so I knew you’d be comin’ here to wait for help. And I knew you’d be able to see better in there than me, since I was comin’ in outta the sun, so I figured if I waited long enough, you couldn’t resist stickin’ yer head outside to see if I was still around!”
Barnaby’s voice resounded in his ears: Jedediah, didn’t I tell you not to rush in?
Reaching toward that surly face, J.R. desperately attempted to press his thumbs in Jessup’s eyes and at the same time he brought his knee up swiftly, slamming it into the man’s back. Jessup grunted as the knee struck him in the middle of his back, and he jerked his head to the side to avoid the probing thumbs. Enraged that his victim was fighting back, he pressed down on J.R.’s throat with one hand and backhanded him across the face with the other.
J.R. was unable to utter any kind of exclamation of surprise or discomfort, for there was no air coming in and no air going out. He was beginning to feel lightheaded from lack of oxygen.
The bright sunlight seemed to be fading at an alarming rate. Darkness was drawing across his eyes like a deepening shadow, and he knew he was losing consciousness. And if he did, it would be the end.
J.R. turned his eyes toward the road, hoping desperately to see Barnaby’s car pulling into the lot, but his eyes were met only with the rugged desert terrain; the shrubs, the rocks, and the hot asphalt of Satan’s Ribbon. It was here in this desolate place that he was going to die, far from home and family. Soon, Barnaby would arrive and find his lifeless body lying in the desert, murdered by a demented killer.
He felt his body growing weaker and weaker. His arms fell limply to the ground, and his right hand fell against something hard and smooth. With a jolt of cognizance he realized that it was the baton. It must have landed there when he had thrown it at him. His hand closed around it and, gathering all his remaining strength, J.R. swung at the back of Jessup’s head as hard as he could. It was not a fatal blow, but it was certainly enough to render him temporarily senseless. With a low groan, Jessup slumped over.
J.R. shoved the groaning, barely conscious man off him, scrambling out from under him at the same time. He managed to stagger to his feet, dropping the club at his feet, and with his hands at his throat, he coughed and gasped, trying to fill his lungs with air.
Holding his head in his hands, Jessup attempted to rise, but fell back and lay still.
Once he had managed to catch his breath again, J.R. bent down to pick up the baton again, making certain it remained out of Jessup’s reach. After a grateful glance at it, considering it a form of poetic justice that he had defended himself with the weapon Jessup had used on him, he tossed it aside. Kneeling down beside the convict, keeping a sharp eye out for signs that he was coming around, he slipped his hand into the man’s front pocket and felt around until his fingers closed on the key ring, and he withdrew it from the pocket.
He paused briefly to look for the car. He had not heard it approach, but decided it must have been the sound of the door closing that had awakened him, so he knew it wouldn’t be far away. It was parked in the main lot, just inside the entrance, so he sprinted toward it and yanked the door open. But as he inserted the key in the ignition, he glanced back at the convict, still lying in the sun, apparently unconscious. If he woke up, he might get away. Better to secure him first.
Removing the key again, he went to the trunk and opened it, searching for a length or rope or something that he might use to tie up the convict. He was not surprised to find that there was no rope, for most people did not carry ropes around in their vehicles. His eyes finally settled on a pair of bungee cords ticked behind the wheel well. Yanking them free, he ran back to Jessup.
Jessup was still lying where he had left him, so he knelt down beside the felon and pushed him over onto his stomach. Seizing him by the wrists, he pulled them together behind his back, where they were securely bound with the bungee cord. Moving to his legs, he used the other cord to tie his ankles together as well.
Satisfied, J.R. rose up again, brushing his hand across his throat, trying to rub away the feel of the man’s fingers. As he gazed down at the convict, he knew the man was vulnerable to the elements. Reaching down, he grasped him by the ankles, determined that he would not lower himself to the level of the criminal by leaving him senseless under the blistering sun, but it was difficult to find the strength to do so. He was severely weakened from hunger and thirst, but mostly from the ordeal of almost being choked to death, and Jessup was very heavy. Tugging and straining, he managed, little by little, to drag the limp form under the awning and into the shade. There, he allowed the man’s legs to drop unceremoniously onto the concrete. Humane treatment was one thing, but there was no need to be excessively gentle.
The jolt revived the criminal, and Doyle Jessup’s body jerked fully awake. Startled to find himself trussed up, he began to thrash.
J.R. jumped backward, putting a safe distance between them as the convict rocked back and forth on his abdomen and pulled with his arms, attempting to free himself from the tethers. “You might want to avoid struggling,” he advised. “If you keep pulling on them like that, it’ll just make it worse.”
Jessup bellowed with rage, forming no coherent words, just enraged roars. Ignoring J.R.’s advice, he squirmed and struggled even harder, screaming louder as the bungee cord tightened around his wrists. Finally, realizing that his struggles were only causing additional discomfort, he rolled onto his side and became still, except for the rapid in and out motion of his heavy breathing. His face was flaming red with rage, and J.R. wondered briefly if he was about to have a stroke. Focusing vicious eyes on the disheveled man who stood a short distance away, Jessup demanded, “Let me go.”
“Sorry, but I can’t do that,” J.R. said.
“Untie me, boy!” Jessup shouted.
“Do I look that stupid to you?”
He and Jessup glared at each other for several moments as the convict slowly began to accept the reality that he was at the mercy of J.R. Jones. “What are you going to do?”
J.R. showed him the car keys. “I’m leaving.”
Panic flickered in Jessup’s eyes at the thought of being abandoned, and his raised his head off the concrete, grimacing at the pain it caused. “No! Wait! You’re not going to leave me here like this!”
“Yeah, I am,” J.R. replied. “However, unlike you, I’m not a killer, so I pulled you into the shade so you won’t blister or die of heat stroke or something like that. Even though you probably deserve it, after all the things you’ve done. You’ll be all right until I can send someone back for you.”
Jessup understood the consequences of being picked up by the authorities. He began pulling and tugging again, trying to free his wrists of the cord. When the effort failed, he raged, “You let me loose right now, boy! I aint goin’ back to prison!”
“Yes, you are, but I’m afraid you’re in even bigger trouble than before. That guard you beat up died. And you confessed to me that you killed a man while you were in prison. You’re going back to prison for a long time.”
Jessup understood the significance of that; another trial, two more life sentences. He’d never be paroled. “At least loosen these ropes,” the convict pleaded. “They’re biting into my wrists; they’re cutting off my circulation.”
J.R. shook his head, understanding that the criminal wanted the cord loosened so that it would be easier for him to get out of them. “I’m sorry, but I warned you about thrashing around like that. It’s a stretchy cord, so I had to tie it pretty tight. You’ll just have to tolerate it for a while. Maybe for a few hours,” he added. “Who can say how long it’ll take someone to get out here to pick you up. So if I was you, I’d just settle back and try not to move around too much.”
“My head feels like its splittin’ apart!”
“Now you know how I felt yesterday,” J.R. retorted without sympathy. “I’ll send someone back as soon as I can.”
J.R. picked up the flashlight he had dropped when he was yanked from the building, then he turned toward the car, but this time, instead of running, he walked, satisfied that the situation was under control. And as he walked, he could hear Jessup, escaped convict, convicted killer, begging him not to leave him behind.
Act VIII
J.R. opened the driver’s side door and slid into the car, settling back on the bucket seat with a loud exhale of relief. He was safe. Jessup was securely tied up, and there was no longer a need to rush. First, he turned to look into the rear seat and on the floorboards, hoping to find some bottled water, a bottle or can of soda, or a box of cookies, anything to fill the empty space in his stomach and soothe his dry throat, but found only the empty water bottle that he recognized as his own, a wadded up hamburger wrapper, and an empty paper cup.
Facing the front of the car again, he inserted the key in the ignition and turned it, feeling the power of the vehicle as it roared to life. As the engine idled, his eyes sought out the gas gauge, and he observed it curiously. The tank was nearly half full. That was good; at least he would not run out before he reached civilization. A tape was protruding from the deck, and he pulled it out to look at it with a strange sense of curiosity. It was a homemade tape, probably someone’s favorite songs, for it was labeled in handwritten script, 1960’s Rock. It looked like a woman’s writing, he noted, with its small, precise lettering.
He opened the glove compartment to return the flashlight to its owner, and saw the car’s registration tucked into the small space, so he removed it curiously. Trisha Bennett,” he read aloud. Unless Trisha Bennett was a friend of Jessup and was aiding and abetting, it was obvious the car was stolen.
Shoving the papers back into the glove compartment with the flashlight, he closed the glove compartment and shifted the car into drive and depressed the accelerator. The vehicle responded by moving forward, and he turned it back toward the highway.
Coming to a complete stop at the edge of the highway, he looked up and down the road to verify that no cars were coming. It seemed a waste of time, given the total absence of vehicles on this road, but with his luck it would have been the one time a car was coming. Through the open windows he could still hear Doyle Jessup shouting at him, pleading with him to come back and loosen his tethers. J.R. ignored him, concentrating on the long ribbon of asphalt, then, deeming it safe, he pulled the car out onto the road headed west.
He accelerated quickly, eager to reach civilization. A speed sign flashed past which read 55 miles per hour, and he automatically lowered his eyes to the speedometer. He was traveling at 50 miles per hour, and depressed the accelerator a bit more, bringing it up to the limit.
Exhilaration surged through him as the wind whipped in through the open windows. He was surprised that Barnaby hadn’t showed up yet, but he would stop at the convenience store and phone for help. And buy a large drink to quench his thirst.
“Wait! What was that?” Betty called out abruptly. Her head whirled around to look out the back window. “Stop!”
Responding to the urgent request, Biddle immediately braked, and the car tires squealed in protest on the asphalt. Barnaby pressed his hand against the passenger side dashboard to stop the forward momentum of his body, which threatened to send him to the floor. The medkid slipped from the backseat between Betty and Wade Gordon, but the paramedic caught it before reached the floor.
“What is it?” Biddle asked.
“There’s something on the road back there.”
Biddle glanced up in the rear view mirror, observing the road behind them as the car idled quietly, but saw only the long stretch of highway that faded into the distance. “I don’t see anything.”
“What did it look like, Betty?” Barnaby asked.
“I only caught a glimpse of it as we drove past, but it looked like some kind of mark on the road. Maybe J.R. left it there as a message. Back up!”
Shifting the car in reverse, Biddle drove backward until the large X came into view beside the car in the westbound lane. “You’re right,” he said, looking down on it from the driver’s door. “Someone has clearly been here, and logic suggests that someone is probably J.R.” Putting the car in park, he opened the door and stepped out to view the letter that had been written in sandstone on the pavement.
All four of them quickly exited the vehicle and gathered around the mark, observing it with interest.
Barnaby looked up at Betty. “Was this here yesterday when you came by?”
She shrugged. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice. It was getting dark, and I was looking off into the landscape searching for J.R. I almost didn’t see it this time for the same reason.”
“Well, given the fact that no one ever travels on this road, I think it’s a pretty safe bet that it was him,” Barnaby said. “The question is, why?”
Biddle walked slowly around the letter, examining it. “Well, judging from the size of it, he wanted to make certain it could be seen, like a signal of some kind.”
“X marks the spot,” Betty mused.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Think it could be seen from the air?” she asked, looking up. “Maybe he put it there to make his location?”
“If a chopper was low enough, it could probably be seen,” Biddle replied. “But if he was marking his location, then where is he? Why didn’t he wait for someone to come and pick him up?” He lifted his eyes to the clumps of brush just off the side of the road, then moved slowly toward them as if searching for something.
”What are you looking for?” Betty asked.
“Anything that looks like he might have --- “ He broke off suddenly, and stepped behind a clump of brush.
“What is it?” Barnaby asked with sudden alarm, realizing that Biddle had found something. Was it Jedediah? Had he crawled off the road badly injured? “Is it Jedediah?“
Biddle emerged from the brush with the bicycle.
Betty felt her heart leap into her throat, instantly recognizing the familiar vehicle. “That’s J.R.’s!”
Biddle placed the bike on the asphalt and knelt down to examine it for damage. “Looks like he had a blowout,” he said, indicating the gaping hole in the front tire. His eyes scanned the frame, noticing the dents and the scuffed paint, and his fingers reached out to touch one particularly glaring scraped area.
With somber expressions, the others crowded close to examine the damaged bicycle.
Wade, the paramedic, was shaking his head slowly. “Traveling at a high rate of speed, a blowout could cause some pretty serious injuries, especially on the front tire. When it locks up, it would typically send the rider over the handlebars. I hope he was wearing his helmet and pads.”
“He was putting them on when I left him,” Betty told him.
“His equipment is here,” Biddle said as he stood up again. He indicated the helmet that dangled from the handle bar by its straps. The gloves and pads were tucked inside it.
“He couldn’t have been too badly injured, since he was cognizant enough to take them off and hide the bike,” Wade said. “That’s a good sign.”
“You were right about him having an accident on the bike,” Biddle said to Barnaby. “He put the X on the road so he could locate the bike again once he was picked up.”
“Looks that way,” Barnaby agreed.
“Okay, let’s get going,” Biddle said, glancing at his watch. “That traffic jam on the interstate has put us behind schedule.”
“Yeah, can you believe that?” Betty asked. “Of all the days to get stuck behind a six car pile-up!”
“What do we do about the bike?” Barnaby asked.
“I don’t think it’ll fit in my trunk, but I can strap it in with a bungee cord,” Biddle suggested.
After retrieving the keys from the ignition, Biddle opened the trunk of his car and lifted the bicycle in. The handlebars and front wheel stuck out, but he used a bungee cord to secure it. The helmet, pads, and gloves were placed beside it.
Then they climbed into the vehicle again and sped away again.
They had not gone far when Biddle noticed a sedan driving toward them. It was not doing anything out of the ordinary and appeared to be traveling within the traffic laws, but the presence of the vehicle itself on the deserted stretch of highway seemed unusual, and attracted his attention. He watched it carefully as it approached, and as the two cars passed, both drivers glanced at each other.
Biddle’s head instantly whirled around as the car passed. “That’s J.R.!” He immediately applied the brakes.
In the back seat on the driver’s side, Betty had also recognized the driver, and her head spun around for a better look.
Driving the other car, J.R. had also recognized the lieutenant, and slammed on the brake so hard that the tires squealed loudly and left twin streaks down the asphalt as they ground to a halt. He opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement, watching as Biddle maneuvered the vehicle into a U-turn on the narrow highway and accelerated toward the now parked sedan.
When the car reached him, it screeched to a halt behind him, and all four car doors flew open as the occupants leaped out of the vehicle, instantly noticing that J.R. was a bit worse for wear. When they reached each other, Barnaby placed a welcoming hand on J.R.’s shoulder, and was startled when his cousin uttered a grunt of pain as he shrank away from the gesture, his hand immediately going to the injured area. Concern flashed across the older man’s face. “Jedediah?”
“I’m okay, Barnaby,” J.R. assured him. “Just a bit sprained and bruised. My bike bucked me off at a high rate of speed.”
Barnaby’s eyes had fallen on the bruises that were beginning to form on his neck; bruises that faintly resembled fingers, and he reached out and gently lifted J.R.’s hair from his neck, frowning at the marks that completely encircled his throat. “The bike didn’t cause these bruises. Who did this to you?”
“Doyle Jessup!” J.R. told him. “He tried to strangle me.”
Barnaby’s eyes snapped up to his cousin’s face. “Jessup? You mean the escaped convict?”
“Yeah. The very same.”
Barnaby turned toward Biddle, who looked skeptical. “Jessup?” the lieutenant asked. “Are you sure? We had witnesses who have seen him heading for Mexico.”
“Then he took a detour, because this is definitely him. If I hadn’t seen his file on your desk, I wouldn’t have recognized him, but we were up close and personal, and I don’t mean in a friendly way either.” His fingers automatically went to the bruise on his forehead. “He hit me with a baton, probably taken from that guard he killed at the prison.”
Before he could say more, the paramedic approached him with his medkit. “Here, let me take a look at those bruises.”
J.R. took a step backward, avoiding the paramedic’s hands. “No, not here. Jessup is tied up back at the Oasis. We need to get someone out there to pick him up before he manages to get away. All I had to tie him up with were a couple of bungee cords I found in the car. I’d hate for him to escape again.”
“Bungee cord?” Biddle asked, surprised. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that you captured Doyle Jessup?”
“Yeah. I tied him pretty tight, but he was really struggling, so I don’t know how long they’ll hold him. If you want to take him into custody, I’d suggest we not waste too much time.”
“And when we get there, you’ll let the paramedic take a look at you, right?” Betty asked, firmly.
J.R. nodded. “Sure.” He turned and started back toward the car, which was still idling in the road, but Biddle clamped a hand on his shoulder – fortunately, the uninjured shoulder.
“Where did this vehicle come from?” he asked, curiously.
“Jessup was driving it.” J.R. replied as he turned to face him again. “It belongs to someone named Trisha Bennett. I think it might be stolen.” A hint of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. “Are you going to arrest me because I left my driver’s license at home?”
“We’ll let it slide this time,” he replied with a wink. “Extenuating circumstances. Just don’t make it a habit.”
They dispersed, J.R. returning to the gray car, everyone else getting back in Biddle’s larger vehicle. The lieutenant turned his car around first and took the lead, with J.R. falling in behind him.
Hey, they found my bike, J.R. thought, noticing the damaged bike that was nestled forlornly in the trunk. It would have to be repaired before he could ride it in the race.
As they pulled into the parking area beside the restaurant, Biddle’s eyes fell upon the criminal, who was still struggling against his tethers. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “That’s Jessup, all right.” He stopped the car near the awning, and turned off the ignition.
J.R. parked beside Biddle’s sedan, and as he got out, Biddle and Barnaby approached the escaped convict, one on each side, their hands resting lightly on their guns, prepared to draw them if necessary. However, it quickly became apparent that J.R. had done an adequate job of securing him. While Barnaby covered him, Biddle bent over to check the cords.
“They’re secure,” he said. “He’s not going anywhere.”
“Please loosen these things!” he pleaded, feeling genuinely glad to see them. “My hands have gone numb! I swear, I ain’t gonna try nothin’! Just loosen these ropes!”
“How ‘bout I replace the cords with handcuffs,” Biddle suggested.
“Please! Yes!” the killed begged. “Anything; just get these ropes off me!”
“First time I’ve ever had a criminal begging me to cuff him,” Biddle said as he removed the restraints from the cuff case on his belt. He squatted down and placed the cuffs on Jessup’s wrists and fastened them securely. Then he attempted to untie the ropes, but they were too tight. “Idiot,” he muttered. “You’ve struggled so much that you’ve tightened the knots. You should have known better than that. I’m going to have to cut them off. Hang on. I think I have a knife in my car.”
Jessup was in so much discomfort that he was actually near tears. “Just hurry, please! I can’t stand this much longer.”
Biddle stood up and walked to the trunk of his vehicle and reached under the bicycle for opened one of the cases of police equipment that was kept there. He quickly located a knife, and walked back to the criminal. It was apparent to all that he was in no hurry, but most of all to Jessup, who by now was moaning his discomfort.
Biddle knelt down beside him again and applied the knife to the rope. After a few moments, the cords fell free.
Jessup flexed his hands. “I can barely move my fingers!”
“They’re moving just fine,” Biddle told him as he slapped the cuffs on his wrist. Then he moved to his feet, where he removed the cord that bound his ankles.
Then, with Biddle on one arm and Barnaby on the other, they hauled the criminal to his feet and escorted him toward Biddle’s car. He was placed in the back seat, and Biddle put leg restraints on him to keep him from trying anything foolish.
“That man there!” Jessup said, gesturing with his head toward J.R. “He assaulted me! Hit me over the head with a club! Damn near knocked me senseless!”
“And what have you done to him?” Barnaby snapped. “Your finger marks are visible on his throat where you tried to strangle him! He has a bruise on his forehead where you hit him with the club! Don’t you get any ideas of trying to make an issue out of this, because I’m making sure his injuries are well documented! You’re not going to get any sympathy from anyone, plus you’ll be doing extra time for assaulting him and for killing that prison guard.”
“He also killed a man in prison,” J.R. said. “He confessed it to me, since he was planning to kill me anyway.”
“He’s lying!” Jessup shouted.
“We have you on the prison guard, Jessup,” Biddle told him. “There were witnesses to that, and I’m sure a little negotiating could come up with someone on the inside who would be willing to tell us if they saw you or if you bragged to them about what you did.”
Jessup shut up, and with a scowl on his face, leaned against the backrest.
Barnaby took J.R. by the arm. “You promised to let the paramedic have a look at you,” he reminded him.
J.R. nodded, submitting to his cousin’s gentle tug on his arm, and allowed himself to be led to the curb in front of the restaurant. Wearily, he sank down on it. Wade squatted down in front of him and as gently as he could, probed at the contusion on his forehead with experienced fingers.
“That is one nasty bruise,” he said. “How hard were you hit?”
“Hard enough to knock me down,” J.R. answered.
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No, but it was close. It sort of paralyzed my whole body. I couldn’t move for awhile. You wouldn’t happen to have any water on you, would you?”
“Sure do,” he said, opening the medkit. He withdrew a bottle of water from his kit opened it for her. “Slowly,” he cautioned. “I know you’re thirsty, but if you drink it too fast you’ll get sick.”
J.R. took the bottle, intending to take only a couple of swallows, but once the swallow reflex was engaged, he found it difficult to stop as well. The water was warm, but it was wet and very refreshing, and he had swallowed four or five times before Wade finally grasped the bottle and forced it down.
J.R. grinned, sheepishly. “I can’t remember ever being this thirsty.”
“You’re badly dehydrated. I ought to put an i.v. on you, but if you sip slowly I think you’ll be okay,” Wade said, removing a small penlight from his shirt pocket. “Look straight ahead,” he said.
J.R. forced himself to still while the paramedic flicked the penlight in his eyes, testing them for the proper reaction to light.
“Any nausea? Changes in vision? Headaches?”
“I had a headache for a while yesterday pretty much all day, but no, no problems with my eyes. The only time I came close to hurling was when that scumbag was in my face, and I had to smell his rotten breath.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Like a dead skunk!”
Wade chuckled. “That’s pretty bad!” He clicked off the penlight and returned it to his pocket. “Looks good,” he announced. “Both eyes are equal and reactive, and I couldn’t feel any indications of a fracture. You might have had a mild concussion, but there doesn’t seem to be any lingering damage. I’d have your doctor take a look at it, though, just to be safe.”
“I will make sure that he does,” Barnaby said.
“It’s a well known fact that he’s got a hard head,” Biddle quipped. To Barnaby, he said, “I’m going to call this in.”
Biddle got back in the driver’s seat and lifted the microphone from the police radio to notify headquarters that Doyle Jessup had been apprehended.
Barnaby joined him, and when the call was completed, Biddle said, “The car was reported stolen night before last by a resident of Palmdale. She had been working late, and stopped for a stop sign on the way home when he pulled open the driver’s door, yanked her out, and then drove off. She was lucky he didn’t take her hostage.” He scowled at the criminal in the back seat, who looked away. “I guess the sightings we had of him going south were incorrect, since he obviously took a detour.” Biddle leaned against the car and watched while the paramedic examined J.R.’s sore shoulder. “You know, Barnaby, your cousin solved three cases in one day! The escaped prisoner, the stolen car, and the prison murder. Not bad for a law student!”
Barnaby smiled. “He never ceases to amaze me.”
Sensing Barnaby’s eyes on him, J.R. looked up and their eyes met. Barnaby gave a slight nod, but no words were necessary. The expression said it all: Good job, Jedediah.
Act IX
The examining room was quiet, so quiet that J.R. could hear the soft rustling of trousers and smocks whenever a member of the emergency room staff walked past the door, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the emergency room’s waiting area, where sick children wailed their misery, their parents complained about the delay, and sick or injured men and women demanded to know why it was taking so long to see a doctor. In here, away from the chaos, the staff tended one patient after another, like a medical assembly line. Occasionally, the air conditioner came on, filling the room with cool air, a welcomed relief from the heat he had endured in the desert. The adrenaline rush that had carried him through his escape from Jessup had faded, and he had not realized until then just how tired he was.
He was seated on the vinyl covered examining table, legs dangling, posture slumped, and eyes drooping with fatigue that had fallen over him so suddenly that he wanted to lie down on the cushioned table and allow it to consume him. He did not really want to be there at the hospital emergency room, but the clinic he normally visited for minor emergencies would not open until tomorrow, for today was Sunday, and the paramedic, Wade, had insisted he be checked out immediately.
It had been hectic for a time at the Oasis. Biddle had notified his staff that Jessup had been apprehended, and a team of investigators had arrived to take charge of the criminal and to search for forensic evidence in the stolen car. Betty, Barnaby, J.R., and Wade had been driven back to the police station to pick up their vehicles, while Biddle brought Jessup in personally. Betty’s car was still at the station, for she had ridden with J.R. in Barnaby’s car to take him to the hospital to be examined.
They had given him an examining room gown to wear while the technician took X-rays, and it was tied behind his neck, and draped over his lap. It was soft and faded from the many washings it had seen during it’s presumably years of use. The doctor had allowed him to keep his jeans and sneakers, but his shirt was lying beside him on the table in a crumpled heap, for he had not bothered to fold it. A soft smile turned up the corners of his lips, recalling the time as a child when his shirt had been removed for a pediatrics exam. Mom had carefully folded the small shirt as neat and tidy as she did her freshly washed clothes. Perhaps it was that way with most mothers.
Before the X-rays had been taken, all of his sore places had been poked and prodded until he was determined to deck the next person who touched him. Didn’t they have any idea how painful that was? he wondered glumly. The doctor had even taken him by the arm and rotated his shoulder, a decidedly painful procedure. J.R. knew the doctor was making sure it wasn’t dislocated, but he had been using it without too much discomfort, so that should have told them something. Sometimes he was convinced that they wanted to inflict as much pain on their patients as possible.
Somewhere down the hallway, he heard the jingling sound of a telephone, rousing him slightly from his drowsy thoughts, and a moment later it was answered with the muffled voice of the receptionist. It was impossible to make out the words, but she spoke with well practiced efficiency and generic politeness.
He was still thirsty, and had finished the bottle of water that Wade had given him at the Oasis. The doctor had filled a paper cup for him, urging him to continue drinking to re-hydrate himself. Without looking, he reached for the paper cup that sat beside him. His hand felt like a lead weight, and the cup toppled over before his fingers managed to close around it. Jolted awake again by the act of knocking it over, he snatched it up to keep it from spilling, but a quick look revealed that it was empty anyway.
With a yawn, he placed the cup back on the exam table and folded his hand into the other in his lap. His mouth was uncomfortably dry and his stomach was grumbling impatiently to be fed, but that would have to wait a while longer. All he wanted to do now was go home and sleep.
What is taking so long? he wondered. He had waited an hour in the waiting room with Barnaby and Betty before being brought to the examining room, and the X-rays had been taken forty five minutes ago! How long did it take to read them?
As if in response to that unspoken query, the door opened and the doctor came inside with a generic smile. Typically, he offered no apology for the duration of time that had passed. “Good news, Mr. Jones. There are no fractures and no dislocations, just soft tissue trauma and a mild concussion. You’re still pretty dehydrated, though. It was tempting to keep you overnight for observation and i.v. fluids, but I think you’ll be okay at home. Keep drinking fluids, preferably water and juice, to get yourself re-hydrated. Avoid alcohol and sodas for a few days. You can eat lightly; soup would be a good choice. I think you’ll be feeling better tomorrow, but I’d like you to stay home from work for a couple of days. Do you need a doctor’s note?”
“No.” He did not go into the details of his employment, but he knew Barnaby would not object to a few days off.
“Okay, you can get your shirt back on, and get out of here.”
“Thanks, Doc,” J.R. said as he slid off the table.
“Here’s your paperwork,” he added as he placed the clipboard on the examining table. “Take it to the receptionist up front, and you’re free to go.” The emergency room physician then stepped back outside and closed the door, presumably to greet the next patient.
J.R. untied the strings at the back of his neck and removed the gown. It was wadded up and placed on the examining table. The tee shirt was quickly pulled over his head, and he picked up the paperwork that the doctor had left, and opened the door to the exam room. There, he paused to look up and down the corridor, getting his directions straight. Turning left, he made his way back to the front of the hospital emergency room and presented the paperwork to the receptionist, who informed him that the “distinguished gentleman in the waiting room” had paid his insurance deductible.
Betty saw him first as he came through the door into the waiting area, and placed her hand on Barnaby’s arm to alert him that J.R. had reappeared.
“I’m okay,” he told them as they joined him. “Just some bumps and bruises. I have to drink a lot of water and eat soup for lunch and supper, and he wants me to stay home for a couple of days, but I’m expected to make a full recovery.”
“That’s good news,” Betty said with obvious relief, and added with maternal authority, “You’ll take as much time as you need to recover from this.” She cast a quick glance at her father-in-law, the employer of both of them, and said quickly, “I’m sure you agree, don’t you Barnaby?”
Barnaby lifted an amused eyebrow. “I think I can spare a few days.” Turning to J.R., he asked, “Do you think you’re up to answering a few questions? I hate to ask you to do that, but Lieutenant Biddle needs some information about what happened out there, and we have to go back anyway to get Betty’s car, so he thought while we were there, we could stop by for a few minutes.”
J.R. sighed again and stifled a yawn. All he wanted to do was go home and rest. “You just had to call him and fill him in, didn’t you?”
“I know you’re tired, Jedediah, and I’ll take you home just as soon as you answer a few questions for Biddle. He wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
J.R wasn’t so sure, but chose not to comment. He and Lieutenant Biddle had gotten off to a rather shaky start that had continued over the years. Although both wanted to believe the best of the other, certain incidents had aroused suspicion between them that was difficult to overlook. They had gradually grown to trust one another, but even now they were occasionally a little snippy at each other. He didn’t really feel up to going a round with the lieutenant today, but he understood that the detective wanted to put the case behind him. So did he. “Its okay, Barnaby. If I fall asleep on my feet, just prop me up against the wall.”
Barnaby smiled fondly at his much younger cousin as they made their way out the door. “Your father said that very thing to me once when we were young. It was on this fishing trip that we were taking, and it was a tree instead of a wall, but I’m afraid I was a bit more enthusiastic about being there than he was. When we went fishing, I always liked to get up before dawn . . . . “
J.R. tried to listen to the rest, but his foggy mind simply could not make sense of the words. So he nodded and smiled at what seemed to be the appropriate places.
J.R. took the back seat of Barnaby’s car, and leaned his head back against the head-rest. Barnaby was still talking about his fishing trips, but he had moved away from remembrances of Monroe and was talking about some kind of large mouth bass that had given him one doozy of a fight. Warm drowsiness drew him into a soothing embrace, and Barnaby’s voice became a wordless drone.
Lieutenant Biddle was at his desk on the telephone when the three entered his office, and he gestured for them to come inside and sit down in the three chairs that had been arranged in front of him. J.R. plopped down in the nearest one, feeling almost as if he could not take another step. Betty sat down beside him, with Barnaby taking the third chair.
A few minutes later, Biddle hung up the phone. “Thanks for coming by. I know you’ve been through a lot, J.R., but I want to get this mess cleared up as soon as possible. I just spoke with Booking, and Jessup is securely locked away. He’s headed back to State Prison in the morning.”
“That’s good news,” J.R. said. “Hopefully he won’t find a way out again. If ever a man needed to be permanently behind bars, that’s the one.”
“No argument there,” Biddle agreed. He leaned back and spread his hands. “So, what happened out there?”
“Well, if it hadn’t been for the blowout on my bike, he and I probably would have just passed each other on the road somewhere close to the Traveler’s Stop,” J.R. began, and he spent the next few minutes relating to them how he had set out on foot for the convenience store following his bicycle accident, and coming across Jessup stranded on the highway. “I don’t know many men who don’t know a little something about cars, but this guy knew absolutely nothing! My dad taught me the basics when I had to stand on the bumper to see under the hood!”
“I think that’s a typical bonding thing between fathers and sons,” Barnaby said. “Hal and I used to tinker with the cars too, even when he was a small boy.”
“Jessup apparently didn’t have time for mundane things like that,” Biddle said. “He was too busy getting in trouble. Believe it or not, he came from a good family, had plenty of positive attention as a child, but was a bully from the first day he started kindergarten. He started his life of crime in grade school stealing lunch money from the other kids, and eventually worked his way up to bigger things. He spent most of his early life in juvenile correction centers, and then his adult life in jail for one thing or another. The man has a record that would span the length of that highway you were on!” Biddle shook his head, looking at J.R. with respect in his eyes. “I still can’t believe you managed to overpower him and tie him up!”
“Well, I’m afraid I have to chalk that up to a lot of luck,” J.R. admitted. “When he had me down on the ground, strangling me, the baton just happened to be right where it needed to be for me to find it. If it hadn’t been there, I’d probably be dead right now.”
During J.R.’s account of his ordeal, Betty had placed her hand affectionately on his wrist. “I should have stayed at the Desert Oasis longer, when I went searching for you last night!” she said, regretfully, giving his wrist a motherly squeeze. “We couldn’t have missed each other by more than a half hour!”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” he told her. “Jessup got there before I did, so if you had been waiting . . . “ He shuddered to think what would have happened. “Well, let’s just say it would have put you in a lot of danger.”
“If he saw my car there, maybe he wouldn’t have stopped at all, just kept going down the highway.”
“That is a big maybe,” Barnaby told her. “Jessup is not the kind to be scared off by a woman alone, especially when he had an agenda. He’s a hardened criminal, and he’s capable of anything.”
“He had made some confessions to me when he was getting ready to kill me,” J.R. reminded her. “He knew my testimony could get him extra time in prison, so he wouldn’t have let you stand in his way.”
“I called the owner of the car just before you got here to let her know that she can pick it up in a few days. Our people will have to finish going over it first. We know that Jessup was driving it, but we’ll need physical evidence for when it’s presented in court. It’s too bad the car has been contaminated,” he added, turning his gaze to J.R. “We should still find some of Jessup’s prints, but there are two additional set of prints to rule out. The owner’s, and yours, J.R. It’s going to take time to separate them.”
J.R.’s dark eyes darted to Biddle’s face and seemed to get even darker with mild resentment, feeling that he was being put on the defensive. “I had no choice but to use that car to get away!” he said with an edge of anger in his voice. “What was I supposed to do, sit there and hope that Jessup didn’t manage to untie himself while I was waiting?”
Biddle raised his hand to cut him off. “We were on our way. All you had to do was sit tight until we got there.”
“I had no way of knowing that!” J.R retorted. “That guy nearly killed me, twice! The only thing on my mind was getting away from there, to put as much distance as I could between me and him!”
Betty had been listening to the exchange with surprise, and jumped to J.R.’s defense. “Why are you attacking J.R. like this? He didn’t have many options!”
“I know that,” Biddle said. “And I’m not attacking J.R. These were rather unique circumstances, and I understand he had little choice but to use the resources that were available. I’m just saying it would have been a lot simpler if standard procedure could have been followed.”
“That isn’t always practical,” Barnaby said in his typically quiet drawl. He rarely raised his voice, but something about him always made people stop to listen. “I know its extra work for your forensics team, but when you are in a life and death situation, sometimes you just have to do whatever is necessary.”
Biddle sighed heavily and rubbed his fingertips against his forehead. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve offended anyone. That wasn’t my intent. The Jessup case has been a tough one and the crime team wants to get as much evidence as they can in the hopes of putting him away forever. That means collecting as much data as we can.”
J.R. shifted in his chair. “I’m tired, Lieutenant, and my nerves are on edge. I really just want to go home and get some rest.”
“Just a few more questions,” Biddle pressed. “The car really isn’t as significant as his confession to you about killing a fellow prison inmate. He actually confessed this to you?”
J.R. nodded affirmatively. “Yeah, when he was preparing to kill me. I guess he figured he didn’t have anything to lose, since he didn’t count on me getting away.”
“Well, what did he say?” Biddle prompted.
“Not much, really. Just that they never figured out who killed him. The guy must’ve been young, though. Jessup called him a boy.” He lifted his shoulders in a weary shrug. “But then again, he called me ‘boy’ too, so who knows?”
“No name? Did he give you any other clue that we could go on?” Biddle was clearly exasperated. “We need to know the identity of that person he killed.”
“There can’t be that many people killed in prison by fellow inmates. Surely the prison keeps records of incidents like that.”
“My people are looking into that right now, but a name or even a description would help speed things up. Prison deaths don’t always make the headlines, and those that do tend to get buried on the back pages. Think, J.R. Did he say anything else about this boy or young man that would help us identify him?”
“No, he didn’t. He didn’t say anything other than the prison officials never figured who killed him. That’s it, Lieutenant; that’s all he said.” J.R. stood up, abruptly, indicating that the interview was over. “Look, you’ve got my statement, and I’m too tired to answer any more questions. I can barely think straight. Barnaby, will you drive me home?”
“We’re not finished yet,” Biddle objected.
“We are for now,” J.R. told him. “Right now, I’m going home and I’m going to rest.” Without waiting for comment from Biddle, he turned and walked to the door.
“Talk to him, Barnaby,” Biddle urged as J.R. turned back to face them, his hand on the door handle. “He’s going to have to do this sooner or later.”
“Then it’ll have to be later,” Barnaby said as he rose slowly to his feet. “Jedidiah will contact you in a day or two. He’s been through a lot, John. Cut him some slack.”
With little alternative, Biddle spread his hands in defeat. “All right. Just don’t wait too long, or we’ll be coming to you.”
J.R. gave him a long, wordless stare, then opened the door and walked out.
As the door closed behind him, Barnaby turned to his friend. “John, Jedediah is not the enemy here.”
“I know that, Barnaby, but he’s a key witness – my ONLY witness, and he hasn’t given me all the information I need to wrap up this case.”
“He’s been through a terrible ordeal!” Betty told him. “Can’t you see he’s exhausted?”
“I understand that, but I also know that events are best recovered while they’re fresh in a witness’s mind. After time, things start to fade or blend together, and key pieces of information can be lost forever.”
“Jedediah is not going to forget the things you need to know between now and tomorrow.”
Biddle looked away, and Betty thought he looked ashamed. “Barnaby, the governor wants to be re-elected next term, and he’s running on this ‘tough on crime’ strategy that the public wants to hear. He’s applying a lot of pressure on my department. When Jessup first escaped, he thought we should have been able to recapture him right away, and when our leads didn’t pan out, he made sure the press understood it was our fault. This isn’t anything personal against J.R., but try to look at this from my point of view; I need results fast to get the governor off my back.”
“Passing that pressure on to Jedediah isn’t going to get you the results you want. He agreed to come down here to answer your questions, but putting him through the wringer isn’t fair. He needs to rest for a while. He’s tired, hungry, and dehydrated. Give him until tomorrow, and he’ll be happy to answer your questions. And an apology and an explanation from you might help.”
“All right,” Biddle finally relented. “Have him come by first thing in the morning.”
Barnaby smiled. “He’ll see you then.” With a friendly wave of his hand, indicating that all was forgiven, he opened the door and he and Betty walked back to the front of the building, where they knew J.R. would be waiting. They found him standing on the sidewalk just outside the door.
“Sometimes, I don’t think the lieutenant likes me,” J.R. said when they joined him outside.
“He probably thinks the same thing about you,” Barnaby replied.
“He was interrogating me like I was the bad guy!”
“Jedediah, I know you and John have had some problems in the past, but I hope you can put that behind you, even if that means you have to be one to take the high road. I told him you’d be by first thing in the morning to answer some more questions. The governor is on his back about this case.”
J.R. sighed, heavily. Clearly he was not looking forward to more interrogations. “All right. Right now, I just want to go home.”
“I’ll follow, and I’ll make you some homemade soup,” Betty offered.
“Sounds good.
J.R. was so tired that he fumbled his key as he tried to insert it in the lock, and it nearly slipped from his fingers.
Betty took it from him. “Here, let me do that,” she offered.
He mumbled his thanks and stood back while she inserted the key in the lock and turned it. Withdrawing the key, she handed it back to him and pushed the door open, then stood back to let him enter his home first.
Ordinarily, he would have gestured for the lady to enter first, but he was too tired to remember manners and protocol. Stepping inside, he tossed the key ring on a lamp table and made his way to the sofa, where he dropped onto it with a low groan of comfort as he sank deep into the softness of the overstuffed cushion.
Betty and Barnaby followed him in, and Barnaby pushed the door closed behind them.
“I’ll fix you some soup, J.R., then we’re going to let you get some sleep,” she told him as she went to the small kitchen and opened the refrigerator door to search for the items she would need to make some homemade soup, but came up well short of necessities. The refrigerator had not been stocked in several weeks, so she closed it and opened the cupboard. It was almost as bare, but the red and white label of a popular brand of soup adorned several cans at the back of the cupboard, so she picked up one and rummaged through the drawers looking for the can opener. “I was going to make something homemade, but you don’t have any vegetables.” She held up the can. “Is chicken noodle okay?”
“That’ll be fine.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes to heat this up for you.”
“Thanks, Betty.”
An orange and buff colored ball of fur hopped lightly onto the sofa and stepped onto his lap, purring happily as it pressed its whiskered face against J.R.’s chin, genuinely pleased to see him. After several minutes of greeting, Napoleon the cat walked a circle on his lap, seeking the most comfortable spot, then laid down and curled up.
Absently, J.R. stroked the soft fur, deep in thought.
“Jedediah, you seem a bit depressed,” Barnaby observed. “Is anything wrong?”
J.R. sighed, heavily. “I’ve just been thinking about what’s going to happen after I graduate law school. I’ll probably get a job in the public defender’s office.”
Barnaby nodded his agreement. The public defender’s office was the starting ground for many graduates to gain experience before moving into other areas of law.
“They’ve been looking at my grades and have already expressed an interest in me. I was excited about it at first, you know, helping people who can’t afford to hire an attorney. But now . . . “ He paused, shaking his head slowly as if disappointed. “Now I’m not so sure it’s what I want.”
“What changed?” Barnaby asked.
“I won’t be able to pick and choose my cases. I’ll have to take whatever cases they assign me. What if I’m required to defend someone like Doyle Jessup? Barnaby, I just don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can work as hard to get someone like that off as I could for someone I know is innocent.”
“It isn’t your job to judge them, Jedediah,” Barnaby reminded him. “Your job will be to represent them in court. Under our laws, everyone is assumed to be innocent until proven guilty.”
“I know that, Barnaby, but I also know that Jessup is guilty of the crimes he’s been accused of. He even admitted them to me. This incident has tainted my ability to be impartial, and the very thought of having to defend someone like him and treat him as if he’s innocent just makes me feel sick.” He sighed heavily, feeling severely deflated and less enthusiastic about his career choice. “I’m thinking about dropping out, Barnaby. I could go to work full time at the office, take more of the load off you.”
“That is an option,” Barnaby agreed. “However, this is not a decision to be made in haste. Let me offer a piece of advice.”
J.R. respected Barnaby’s opinions, even if he did not always agree with them, so he listened carefully to the older man’s sage advice.
“You’ve invested a lot of time and money in law school. My advice would be to go ahead and finish.”
J.R. looked away. That was the answer he had expected. But Barnaby wasn’t finished yet.
“When you graduate, if you feel the same way you do now, if you decide that a career as an attorney is not what you want, then you have some valuable knowledge to apply to your detective career. What I’m saying, Jedediah, is that the agency will be here for you, if you decide it’s what you want.”
J.R. understood that there was more to Barnaby’s statement than just an offer of a job. It was a family business, passed down from father to son. But his son, Hal, had been killed years earlier, and in his quiet way, Barnaby was offering to eventually turn the company over to him if he wanted it. ”I appreciate that, Barnaby,” he said, sincerely. “And you’re right; I shouldn’t make a hasty decision. All right. I’ll finish law school, and see where it takes me.”
“When the time comes, I’m sure you’ll make the decision that is the best one for you. Being an attorney is a profitable career choice, but it isn’t for everyone. Just take your time and think about it.”
“I will,” J.R. promised as Betty placed a bowl of chicken noodle soup on the coffee table in front of him, and the aroma immediately awakened his empty stomach.
Pushing the protesting cat from his lap, he leaned forward to pick up the spoon and sampled the hot soup. Canned chicken noodle soup had never tasted so good.
“You need to make a grocery run,” Betty told him. “You don’t have much to eat in there.”
“I know. I’m waiting for payday.”
Barnaby reached for his wallet. “If you need a loan, Jedediah –“
J.R. looked up. It wasn’t often that his cousin made the offer of a loan, but he was independent enough to wave away the suggestion with his hand. “Thanks, Barnaby, but I’ll make due with what I have until then.”
Barnaby removed his hand from his wallet and smiled. J.R. had been given his fair share of the Jones family pride. “Very well, then. Payday is only a few days away. Well, we’ll leave you to finish your lunch and get some rest.”
“Thanks, both of you,” J.R. said sincerely.
Barnaby and Betty made their departure, closing the door behind them. J.R. finished his soup in silence, then reclined on the sofa, too tired to make his way to the bedroom. Within moments, he was fast asleep with Napoleon napping beside him.
Epilogue
Three weeks later . . . .
Wearing shorts, sneakers, and a Smith and Ferguson tee-shirt, J.R leaned low over the bike’s handlebars and pedaled faster. His eyes were fixed intensely on the one bicyclist that remained ahead of him, a strong, powerfully built student, several years younger than him. Born into a moderately well-to-do family, he guided his sleek, expensive bicycle with confidence and expertise. J.R. did not know his name, but he had seen him training, and knew that he would be a strong contender. He was seeing that athleticism now, and was suitably impressed. Approximately four lengths separated the two bicycles, and the other student was not giving an inch to the older student who tailed him.
After obtaining a clean bill of health from his regular doctor, J.R. had quickly resumed his training on the newly repaired bicycle. For his own sense of completion, he had asked Betty to drop him off at the Desert Oasis once more so that he could finish the trip he had started, but Betty had insisted on driving along behind him just to assure herself and Barnaby that this time, everything would go smoothly.
Meanwhile, Doyle Jessup had been returned to prison, where he would await trial for the murder of the prison guard during his escape and the young inmate he had killed, whose identity had been tracked down via the prison officials. He had been moved to maximum security and the privileges he had been granted during his previous incarceration had been revoked.
But these thoughts were far from J.R.’s mind as he tucked his head lower and focused on pedaling, watching as his knees, protected by the knee pads, moved rapidly up and down in steady rhythm. His legs were getting tired, but the breeze that was generated by the rapid speed was pleasant. It cooled the sweat on his body and whipped the dark curls that peeked out from beneath the helmet. He could hear the new tires humming softly against the concrete, and his old bicycle was performing like a champion. Who said new and expensive was better? When he looked up again, the gap between him and the other student seemed to have closed a bit. His pulse increased with anticipation.
Faster! the voice inside his head shouted, encouragingly.
His brow was furrowed with concentration as they flew past the marker which designated the final mile of the race. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, gauging the proximity of the riders behind him. The nearest bicyclist was nearly a quarter mile back and losing ground. He was no longer a threat. All the others were in the distance. It was J.R. against the wealthier student. One or the other would win the race, and J.R. wanted nothing more at that moment than to be the first one across the line.
The gap continued to close as J.R. advanced along the right side of the other student, who looked over at him in surprise when the smaller man pulled alongside. They were side-by-side as they went around a curve in the road, and they could see that the crowd of spectators was larger near the finish line. A cheer rose up from the students, faculty members, families, and bystanders as the two competitors came into view.
Standing just behind the rope that kept the spectators safely off the street, Betty’s heart pounded with excitement when she saw the familiar helmet coming around the bend. “Is that J.R.?” she asked, shouting to be heard above the roar of the crowd.
A pair of binoculars hung by its strap around Barnaby’s neck, and he raised them to his eyes and rotated the focus with his finger. “Yeah! Yeah! It’s him! COME ON Jedediah!” he yelled at the top of his lungs in a totally uncharacteristic fashion, completely forgetting that he was typically regarded as a quietly reserved and dignified gentleman.
Betty grabbed the binoculars from Barnaby’s hands, nearly yanking him sideways with the neck strap, and raised it to her eyes. “COME ON J.R.!” she yelled.
“Betty! BETTY! You’re choking me!” Barnaby protested, tugging on the strap.
“Oh! Sorry!” She flipped the strap over Barnaby’s head and yelled again.
Beside her, John Biddle grinned at them caught up completely in the excitement of the race. He had been surprised when J.R. had invited him to attend, and understood that it was the equivalent of an olive branch, and although it had not been his first choice of ways to spend a Saturday afternoon, he was glad he had come and was even enjoying himself.
J.R. could not have heard his family’s exuberance, even if he had been close enough. His level of concentration had reached that pinnacle where nothing else could penetrate. He was focused on only one thing, and that was attaining a greater degree of physical stamina. Mind over matter.
The other student’s wheel inched ahead of J.R.’s as the other student gave one last burst of determination in an attempt to put a comfortable distance between him and his opponent, but he was unprepared for the resolve of the part time detective. The two men fought valiantly for the lead, but a half mile from the finish line, J.R. surged ahead.
The law school’s students and faculty screamed with exhilaration, and J.R. absorbed the energy from their enthusiasm, allowing it to fuel his endurance.
A quarter mile from the finish line, J.R. glanced to his left and discovered that the other competitor had fallen back. A quick glimpse over his shoulder revealed that nearly a length and a half separated them. The other student had run out of steam and had apparently decided to concede the race. He did not need the money; he had only wanted the trophy, but this time he would settle for second place. The roar from the crowd grew louder.
Taking nothing for granted, refusing to become complacent, J.R. gave it everything he had. He was still pulling ahead when he broke the colorful ribbon that was stretched across the road. The long crepe paper streamer fluttered behind him as he released the handlebars and thrust his fists triumphantly into the air. His own yell of victory was lost in the sheer volume of the pandemonium that surrounded him. Over the loudspeaker, he heard the announcer shout excitedly into his microphone: “And the winner by five lengths is J.R. Jones!”
Betty and Barnaby flung their arms around one another, slapping each other on the back, unable to contain their excitement. When they parted, Lieutenant Biddle, a huge grin on his face, high-fived Betty and then Barnaby in succession.
“Now aren’t you glad you decided to come?” Barnaby shouted above the din.
“I am!” Biddle shouted back. “That was one hell of a race!”
J.R. began to allow himself to come down off his physical and emotional high. His hands returned to the handlebars, reducing speed as he guided the bike to the side of the street to provide ample room for the riders and bicycles behind him. As he dismounted, he was mobbed by a crowd of students from his classes, who embraced him, slapped him on the back and on top of the helmet, congratulating him.
He was unable to hear any of the individual words that were spoken to him due to the enormity of the noise and the expanse of the crowd, so he just grinned happily and nodded his head in response to the voices that surrounded him.
As he unstrapped his helmet and removed it from his head, the cyclist who had fought him so hard came to a stop beside him and offered his hand. “Well done, Jones,” he said, shouting to be heard. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. You made me work for it!” J.R. shouted back, accepting the handshake.
The other student coasted away, and J.R. was escorted through the crowd of faculty and students to the microphone for the presentation, enduring their slaps on the back and handshakes with a broad grin.
Someone placed the shiny silver trophy on a table beside the podium, and a school administrator moved to the podium with the winner’s check in his hand. With a broad smile, J.R. made his way up the steps to accept the award that would help him reach graduation. What would come after that, he had not yet decided, but thanks to Barnaby, he had more than one option. And he was considering each one carefully as the older man had advised. Whatever he chose to do, he knew it would be the right decision.
~ The end~ | | | | |
