Dangerous Undertaking (3 page)
“Where’d that come from?” asked Tommy Lee.
“Out of the blue. We’d never talked about an afterlife in the group sessions.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I believed each of us has to find God for himself, and that as for me, I tried to be a good person, treated others like I wanted to be treated, and tried not to harm anyone. If I did that, then I felt sure God would take care of me when I died.”
Tommy Lee chuckled. “Billy Graham can give thanks you won’t be taking over his ministry. What did Dallas say then?”
I paused, remembering the scene in the hallway of the mental health clinic. Dallas had backed away from me and smiled the same strange smile I had seen right before he shot me.
“Well?” prompted Tommy Lee.
“The last words Dallas said to me at the clinic were, ‘You’re a good man, Mr. Clayton.’”
Tommy Lee jotted something in his notepad and asked, “Do you remember the last words he said to you in the cemetery?”
“Remember them? I’ll never forget them. He’d just shot Lee and Norma Jean, and he shouted, ‘They’re goin’ to Hell, and so am I. You tell Grandma I’ll save the land. Tell her I love her.’”
Tommy Lee gave a low whistle as we both reached the bizarre conclusion.
“Dallas meant to send me to Heaven as a personal emissary to talk to his grandmother. He was sending me because he thought he was going to Hell for killing his brother and sister.”
“I know it sounds crazy, my friend, but it looks like being a good man nearly got your head blown off.” His pencil scribbled across the page. “‘I’ll save the land.’ He’d never said anything about the land before?”
“Never.”
“I’ll look into it, but the first thing I’ve got to do is find Dallas,” he said, flipping the pad shut.
“And do me a favor,” I said as he headed for the door. “Keep me posted.”
Tommy Lee and I enjoyed a special kinship. At fifty, he was twenty years my senior, a bridge between the generation of my father and my own. He had led countless funeral processions for Dad in the eighteen years since he was first elected sheriff, and during the past two years, he and I had forged our own friendship. He knew I had given up my own law enforcement aspirations in order to help Mom cope with one of the most painful, heart-wrenching situations a family can face. Alzheimer’s is a cruel and malicious disease, stealing the person and leaving the shell as an ever-present reminder of the loss. Tommy Lee understood sacrifice, and for all his teasing, I knew I had his admiration. He didn’t have to tell me he was upset that Dallas Willard had nearly gunned me down. I felt confident that when Tommy Lee said “I’ll look into it,” his one eye would see more than any other two in the county.
The nurse came in so quickly that she must have been waiting outside the door. She carried a tray with a hypodermic syringe and a menu for tomorrow’s meal selection. I checked off an assortment of bland options and let her assist me in rolling over on my good side.
“Now, Mr. Clayton,” she said, “that ought to take the edge off and let you sleep.”
She came around to help me lie on my back. “Nurse…” I left the word hanging as I struggled to see her ID badge.
“Carswell, but I go by Millie.”
“Millie, would you hand me the phone?”
“I’ll be glad to dial for you.”
“Just the hospital switchboard.”
She punched zero and gave me the receiver.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be all right.”
Millie left as the operator came on the line.
“Is it possible to order flowers out of the hospital?” I asked.
“You have flowers in your room you don’t want, sir?” The woman was clearly surprised a patient would make such a request.
“No, I want to order flowers to be delivered elsewhere.”
She connected me to the hospital floral shop where the elderly proprietor complimented me on my thoughtfulness. I had him repeat the message for the card. “For Dr. Susan Miller, at the O’Malley Clinic—Patient Barry Clayton is grateful for her loving care.”
I hung up the phone and rewarded myself with sleep.
I awoke to a Saturday morning much like the day before. Low clouds coated what little scenery was visible from my hospital window with a scrim of white. The shoulder still hurt, but the pain had leveled out to an even plateau. There was a creak in the shadowed corner of my room, and Dr. Alex Soles stood up from the visitor’s chair. A big bag of Snickers dangled from one hand and a magazine was curled in the other.
“Brought you something to eat and read.” He laid his gifts on a table under the window, then pulled the chair closer to the bed but didn’t sit down. He grabbed my wrist and gave a gentle squeeze.
“Glad you’re in the hospital and not your own funeral home,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Alex stood for a few seconds, not saying anything. He and I did not know each other well. Outside of the sessions on dealing with Alzheimer’s, I had only crossed paths with him a few times at social functions. I pegged him in his late forties. Cordial, professional, and dedicated were adjectives that best described him. Especially dedicated. He had the reputation for being a therapist who calmly and confidently steered others through their own trials.
“Any word on Dallas?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Why in the hell did he do it, Barry?” Alex’s eyes locked on mine, and I knew he had submerged his personal feelings for the moment and was professionally struggling for an answer. “You must have some idea. My secretary played the answering machine tape yesterday when I came in at ten. Of all days to have a damn Rotary breakfast meeting.”
“What did he say?”
“Dallas just rambled on about how you had to talk to his grandmother. Tell her he’d been cheated. Cheated by his family. I phoned Sheriff Wadkins immediately, but it was too late. The call had just come in from the cemetery.”
Again he reached out and squeezed my wrist. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could have gotten to him. He sounded so agitated. Extremely paranoid. So much so that I’d have to say his actions were in keeping with his mental state.”
“Can I hear the tape?”
“I turned it over to Sheriff Wadkins. But you’re in no condition to worry about it right now.”
“I’m in no condition to forget it. The man tried to kill me, Alex.”
Alex smiled and sat down in the chair. “We’re alike, Barry. You know that?”
“In what way?” I asked.
“We’ve got to know why people act as they do. That’s why you were studying criminal justice before your father’s illness, isn’t it? Curiosity as to why people behave as they do, and how anti-social, illegal behavior can be modified. Psychology and criminal justice are linked because when psychology fails, the criminal justice system usually inherits the problem. And you and I both feel guilty that we didn’t do enough for Dallas Willard in time.”
“Nobody could find him, Alex.”
“I mean earlier, before Martha died. Linda Trine mentioned Dallas to me several weeks ago. She handles the social services for a lot of the migrant workers. Seems Dallas kept coming down into the camp accusing them of taking his land. Like they were some foreign invaders. The migrants have been picking for forty years or more. Nothing new about them being here, and Dallas doesn’t even have any cleared land in production. Linda thought Dallas needed some help because he’d never acted that way before. That last Alzheimer’s session wasn’t the appropriate time, and I was swamped with other cases and didn’t follow up with him.”
“I know other members of the staff must also have people they can’t get to, Alex.”
“But how many shoot three people?”
“I was afraid these beauties would die if left solely to my care,” announced Susan Miller as she came in carrying a basketful of wildflowers, the multitude of blossoms arranged in a kaleidoscope of colors.
“That’s comforting,” I said. “Do you feel that way about your human patients?”
She ignored the question and cleared a spot on the table by the bag of Snickers and the magazine. “Who thought you needed
Psychology Today
?” she asked.
“Alex Soles was by earlier. Must be from his waiting room. Probably from the last century.”
She laughed. “No, for a doctor’s office, it’s current. Last April.” Susan set down the basket of flowers and turned the arrangement to catch what little light came through the window.
“Good. This way I can take care of both of you at the same time,” she said. “And thank you. Saturday deliveries aren’t cheap.”
“I’m billing that portion to my ex-wife.”
She came over to the bedside and gave me a kiss. “I know she means well. I stopped by the funeral home and gave your mom an update. She hopes to drop by after lunch. Now let me take a look at my handiwork.” She laid her hand on the bandage, testing the security of the wrapping. “O’Malley been in yet this morning?”
“Yes. About an hour ago. He said you had the morning off and I may have to go home today.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Room service here is better than my cabin. I had to let the butler go. And I don’t know where the chauffeur parked my limo. Actually, Mom will insist I come to the funeral home. You know she already spends most of the day waiting on Dad, and I’d just as soon stay here until I can fend for myself.”
“Okay, I’ll let you rest up one more night, but I’m afraid tomorrow your insurance company throws you out on the street.” She winked. “Maybe I’ll leave my condo door unlocked.”
Standing in my kitchen, I watched the pure spring water turn the color of dark molasses as it flowed out the coffee filter and splattered against the glass bottom of the Pyrex pot. Steam swirled off the trickling stream and carried the invigorating aroma of freshly ground beans. I took a deep breath and stretched, one hand nearly touching the rough hewn rafters overhead, the other wriggling helplessly against my stomach because that arm was securely taped to my body.
I filled a mug of coffee and took it out on the back deck of the cabin where I could watch the sunrise boil the mist out of the valley below. The morning light seemed touchable, a golden shroud resurrecting life with its soft glow. A pair of gray squirrels chased each other through the branches of a nearby hickory tree, their chatter blending in with the caws of unseen crows who sounded hell-bent on driving some intruder from their territory. I felt just as possessive of my mountain retreat. Growing up, I had taken these ancient hills for granted. It’s when you lose something that it becomes more precious. A part of me had always remained here. Even when I rejected my father’s funeral business and moved away, I couldn’t reject the Appalachian heritage fused to my soul.
I had purchased the cabin and the five-acre tract of land from a psychiatrist in Charleston, S.C., whose own health kept him from making use of what he had planned to be his summer home. Logs had been culled from at least four original cabins scattered across western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee. Their century-plus heritage created a rustic atmosphere that I found rejuvenating after a day of toil at the funeral home. To think that a hundred and fifty years ago a living, breathing man felled the trees and hewed the logs that now gave me shelter put my problems in perspective. These reassembled walls with modern mortar chinked between the timbers enclosed conveniences my woodsmen forefathers could never have imagined.
As I sat in the cool, gentle breeze, I thought about Dallas Willard’s final words to me—“I’ll save the land.” So far, nothing had come to light. A week had passed since the slaughter in the cemetery. Dallas had not been captured, and the reasons for his murderous rampage were no clearer than when I lay bleeding under the shattered gravestone. Speculation grew that he might have committed suicide, except no one had seen his truck and a truck is harder to overlook than a dead body.
It was nearly nine when I went back inside for the last cup in the pot. I had just finished refilling the filter with fresh grounds, no easy task with one hand coming out of your belly button, when I heard footsteps on the gravel outside. My first thought was of Dallas Willard and the sound he made walking across the gravel to his grandmother’s casket. With my heart in my throat, I turned to the open front door as the footsteps trod heavily across the porch. Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins’ familiar face peered through the screen, his one good eye scanning the room. He was in full uniform with the holstered .38 Smith & Wesson revolver prominent on his hip and a smile forced across his lips.
“Good morning, Barry. Sorry to drop in unannounced. How you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” I said, hoping I didn’t look petrified. “Though I itch like crazy under this tape.”
“Anybody else here?” he asked in a whisper.
“Just spit it out. You mean is Susan shacked up with me?”
At least my question drew a laugh. “Hey,” said Tommy Lee with a shrug, “you know I turn a blind eye to you and Susan cavorting in sin.”
“She had hospital rounds, and for your information, she does not cavort. I just have an occasional night-time medical appointment. I am injured you know.”
“If you’ve found a doctor who still makes house calls, then more power to you. So, you’re doing okay?”
“Yes and no. Yes, I’m doing okay because I’m healing like I’m supposed to and Uncle Wayne told me not to worry about the funeral home. No, because I’m going nuts cooped up here while Dallas is out there somewhere. What’s happening, Tommy Lee?”
“Well, the department is too small to keep working the hours we’ve been putting in. Yesterday, I decided to return to normal schedules with Dallas being a top priority yet not consuming all our resources. At least, that was yesterday’s plan.”
“Something changed?”
“Of course. Always happens when you set your mind in one direction. You get it yanked in another. Dallas Willard’s truck showed up.”
“Where?”
“Dirt road about five miles from here. Hikers found it and must have remembered it from the description on the news. My deputy Reece Hutchins got their cell call this morning.”
“Any sign of Dallas?”
“That’s what I’m going to see. Reece is at the scene. Thought maybe you’d like to ride along, if you don’t mind missing Oprah.”
“Don’t worry,” I joked. “I set the VCR first thing every morning. So, how come y’all missed the truck?”
“That’s the interesting part. We’d already checked and re-checked that road. As recently as yesterday afternoon. Seems like our boy Dallas went for a little drive last night.”
I wedged my knee against the dashboard as the patrol car took another sharp jolt from an exposed boulder. The dull ache in my shoulder was beginning to sharpen.
“Dirt road?” I grumbled. “This ain’t much more than a two-rut footpath.”
“Shouldn’t be much farther. Dead ends at the railroad bed. That’s how the hikers found the truck. They were walking the tracks.”
Another rough and tumble quarter mile passed, then the road curved and we emerged from the forest shadows into the brighter light of a clearing. In the sunshine stood Dallas’ rusted red pickup. Beside it was parked another patrol car. Deputy Hutchins stood beside a young man and woman who wore small backpacks and looked rather bewildered. Their fall foliage hike had turned into quite a different outing.
We got out and Reece introduced us to Shane and Liz Colbert. They had started walking the rails from a more accessible crossing a couple miles to the south.
“Glad you folks recognized the truck and phoned us,” said Tommy Lee.
“We heard the description on the TV, and we didn’t see anybody around,” said Shane Colbert. He looked at his wife sheepishly. “We kinda hid in the bushes in case that crazy man came back.”
His young wife nodded in agreement and reached out to take his hand.
“You were good to stay. And you were smart to be cautious,” said Tommy Lee. He turned to Reece. “What have we got?”
His deputy shook his head. “I walked the tracks a hundred yards in each direction, Sheriff. There ain’t no sign of him. It’s like he vanished into thin air again.”
“I work for a god-damned power company and have no electricity. Otherwise I could offer you some coffee.”
The man who introduced himself as Fred Pryor stood outside the door of the construction trailer and made the apology.
“Who backed into it?” asked Tommy Lee.
“I don’t know. Happened overnight. I discovered it this morning when I arrived. Just one more thing to deal with.” He glared at the nearby utility pole lying askew with its black snaking cable dangling in the dust. Then he looked at my hand dangling from the front of my shirt.
“You were shot up at the Willard funeral, weren’t you? Saw it on the news. Damndest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
I studied him more closely. Fred Pryor didn’t look like a power company senior executive. He wore a green wind-breaker with an “R P & E” insignia, jeans, and black cowboy boots.
“What the hell got into that boy?” he asked.
“We don’t know,” said Tommy Lee. “Still looking for him. Something about their land. Borders this project, doesn’t it? You had any dealings with the family?”
Pryor’s face flushed. I didn’t know whether he was insulted or embarrassed that Tommy Lee thought he might associate with the Willards. “Not me. Our real estate division might have talked to them. Their property is part of the watershed, and it could be affected should we decide to raise the lake level.”
I looked at Tommy Lee and saw his eye squint. Fred Pryor had gotten his attention.
Tommy Lee and I had driven to the construction project when a search around Dallas’ truck proved fruitless. The site was within a few miles of the main rail line and would be a logical destination if Dallas were on the run. I looked beyond our powerless host and down the bulldozed valley to the mammoth wall of gravel and stone rising up at the narrow point between the steep ridges.
Just yesterday, I had read an article in the newspaper about the Broad Creek excavation. The first phase of the hydro-electric project had progressed on schedule and under budget. Soon Broad Creek would be dammed, and as the new lake began to form, Ridgemont Power and Electric would focus on the construction of the facilities, turbines, generators, and network of transmission lines necessary to convert nature’s aquatic energy into electricity for the power-hungry consumer.
The article announced Senior Executive Vice President Fred Pryor was personally overseeing the project. It was a challenge that skipped all the political headaches of a nuclear facility, but there were still the environmentalists and EPA inspectors to deal with. “Keeping the project on time and on budget is the company’s top priority because Broad Creek is good for the public and good for the shareholders.” So said Fred Pryor in the newspaper.
“Ridgemont Power and Electric was buying the land?” Tommy Lee asked.
“Not that I know of. Not my area. I think I saw a memo at the home office that the family didn’t want to discuss it while the grandmother was alive. That’s understandable. Ol’ timers get so attached to their memories.”
Except Martha Willard didn’t have any memories. Not at the end. But Dallas had so strong an attachment that he murdered his brother and sister. Was that the reason Ridgemont Power and Electric had only gotten as far as inquiries? Had Dallas refused to sell?
“Any leads on where Willard might be?” Pryor asked, changing the subject. “You think he came on our property?”
“We don’t know that,” said Tommy Lee. “It’s just that we found his truck on an old logging road a few miles away. It dead-ends next to the main rail line. You’ve got a spur running in here. We thought he might have taken it.”
The engine whistle broke through the sheriff’s comments. We looked up the valley to the track running along the water. The power company’s own yard engine rolled along hauling out several carloads of debris to the truck loading zone at the main highway. From there it would bring back more gravel or other construction supplies directly to the dam site.
“That’s the old Pisgah Paper Mill’s abandoned spur,” said Pryor. “Activating it was my idea. It’s proven to be a real asset for transporting materials in and out of the valley. We never go all the way out to the main line, and we chain a gate across the track each night. I’ll alert the crew to keep their eyes open. Good luck, Sheriff. Nice to have met you, Mr. Clayton. Hope you’re on the mend.” Tommy Lee and I had been dismissed.
As we walked back to the patrol car, Tommy Lee said, “I don’t like him.”
“Pryor? Why not?”
“See that blue Mercury parked by the trailer?”
I turned around and stared at the car, one of several parked by the edge of the mobile office. When I noticed the “Cain for Sheriff” bumper stickers plastered all over the rear, I thought I understood why Tommy Lee disliked the man. Cain was challenging him in next month’s election. “Maybe it’s one of his employees,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” said Tommy Lee. “And it’s not Pryor’s either. That’s my esteemed opponent’s car. Bob Cain himself. He does security consulting. Explains why Fred Pryor hustled outside to meet us.” Tommy Lee smiled. “The son of a bitch is aiding and abetting the enemy.”
“What now?” I asked. “We don’t even know which direction Dallas may have headed.”
The sheriff leaned in the open car door and yanked the mike from its cradle. “I’ll have the deputies organize search teams. We should walk the tracks.”
I looked up at the hills surrounding the excavated valley. Dallas Willard was out there somewhere, mentally unstable, exposed to the elements and dangerous. He had reached out to me for help by phone, and then tried to kill me with his gun. I couldn’t stand the idea of being out of the action. A part of me still was and always would be a law officer.