Chapter 40
As we left the room for the drive to the Sheriff’s cabin, the guy from the motel office walked down the sidewalk carrying a large envelope. He thrust it toward me.
“Came in the mail,” he said, then spun around to return to the office.
It was addressed to me in care of the motel. The return address was Joseph Custer, and the postmark was Willow Run. So he had stuck something in the mail before he vanished. It had to be about what he discovered and wanted to talk to me about. He never got the chance, wherever he went. The letter had certainly taken a long time to reach me, but then it might have sat in the motel office undelivered since the desk clerk was not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. I wanted to rip it open and read it right there. But Jeff was already climbing into the passenger seat of my car and waving me to hurry up. So I threw it on the dashboard to read later, after talking with the Sheriff. The information could then be added to the pile.
Jeff directed me where to drive. We went into Willow Run, and turned north on a gravel road, which climbed upward into the woods. Jeff indicated it was the only road to the Sheriff’s place, a quiet spot up near the top of the hill. As we drove away from town, the spacing on the few scattered houses got farther apart. Jeff told me some of the cabins up this way were rentals used by tourists. If I weren’t in my current unemployed state of poverty, I could be staying in one of those, rather than the run-down motel that I now called home. That kind of up-grade would be welcome.
That reminded me that I needed to extend my stay at the motel. I was supposed to check out today. Or I needed to find a camping area, at least until the cold weather arrived and made sleeping in my car impractical. Or perhaps there was a low cost sleeping room in town that I could rent. I would have to consider my financial situation carefully. How long could I afford any of these options? Regardless, I knew I was going to stay longer in Willow Run, even if I wasn’t certain where I would reside. I also had to do some laundry. I was down to my last few clean garments. Funny how such mundane chores crept into mind even during this high I was riding. And this high was making me feel good about myself, my future, my affection for Allison, and even my improving relationship with Jeff. I was coming back from the brink, and it felt good.
In a heavily wooded section of the road, a car sat in the ditch with its right rear jacked up. A man sat on the rim of the open trunk of the car, his arms folded. When he saw us approach, he stepped out in the road and waved his arms over his head.
Jeff said, “Duty calls. Better stop so we can give him a hand.”
I wanted to press on to the Sheriff’s cabin and get this legal ball rolling. But I knew he was right. We couldn’t just drive on past a stranded motorist. I pulled in behind the car and killed the engine. Jeff got out, and I followed as soon as I set the parking brake.
“Good morning. No spare?” Jeff asked.
“Thanks for stopping. No spare. I guess I should rent from a better agency next time.”
“Up here on vacation?” Jeff asked.
“Yeah. Just going up to check into my cabin,” he said.
Then all of us did what men are supposed to do with mechanical things. Go look at the problem, the flat tire, as if that alone would be sufficient to fix it.
“We can take the tire off, throw it in our car, and give you a ride to a service station. Can probably have you back on the road in thirty minutes,” Jeff offered.
That would delay meeting with the Sheriff. I was still churning inside, wanting this thing to get going. I had found a thread and started pulling it. I wanted to see the whole thing unravel. But we had to do the right thing by this hapless tourist also.
Just then Deputy Powell pulled up behind my car. This seemed like an unwelcome coincidence. If he was really part of the activity in the valley, I didn’t want him anywhere near when we talked to the Sheriff. But then again, since Deputy Powell was on duty, and there was a stranded motorist here, we could just let him handle this situation. We could then go meet the Sheriff.
“Hey, Jeff,” Enid said in greeting. “Mr. Parker,” he said with a heavy dose of animosity. “Can I help?” He came up beside Jeff to inspect the flat, joining our group.
It was then I noticed something out of place. There was no luggage in the vehicle. There hadn’t been any in the open trunk, and there was none on the seats or the floor in the passenger compartment. Even a minimalist tourist about to start a vacation would have at least one bag. This didn’t seem right.
I had made many traffic stops as a cop and was always on the lookout for the inconsistencies in the situation. On several occasions, what started out as a traffic stop ended up with an arrest for other violations involving drug possession, illegal firearms, and once even a kidnapping. Jeff stood next to me. I turned toward him to point out this inconsistency.
A hand firmly grabbed the left side of my face and rammed the right side of my head against the top edge of the car. A streak of pain shot through me, and my knees buckled as I started to feel faint. The hand that had grabbed my face pulled me back from the car and rammed my head again into the car. Since my knees were giving out, this time the blow was against the car window. I struck outward with my left arm to knock away my attacker, but my swing had no aim and no strength.
Though pain was echoing in my skull, I heard commotion around me, lots of commotion. Jeff had been next to me, and I felt him pushing up against me. While someone was pounding me, Jeff was involved in a struggle of his own. It had to be a struggle with Enid. That meant the guy pretending to be a tourist was attacking me. There were grunts as fists landed on flesh and the shuffle of feet on gravel trying to get solid footing.
I hadn’t yet seen my attacker. That strong hand still had a firm grip on my face, covering my left eye, and I couldn’t see out of my right. The blow against the car opened a gash in my temple. Blood flowed into my right eye, blurring my vision. I used my right hand to push myself away from the car to face my opponent, but he brought a knee up into my gut that doubled me over, expelling all the air out of my lungs. His hand came free from my face as I fell to my knees, but I was helpless to do anything. I was gasping to take a breath. My diaphragm wouldn’t respond.
The roar of a gun nearby deafened me. Had I been shot? I didn’t feel any new pain. But there was loud ringing in my ears. Then there was a second shot. And a third. But they seemed muffled, as if they were far away. I turned my head to see who was shooting and who had been shot. I hoped it was Jeff shooting the attackers. There was another shot. But before I could turn completely, a fist struck downward onto the left side of my face. I fell face down onto the gravel. All I could see were boots inches from my eyes before everything went black.