With Cruel Intent (66 page)

working to bring things back into

perspective. His head ached and he could

see dried blood on his hands and the area

where his head had lain. He tried to

recreate what had happened but could not

remember the events, just the sudden

incredible pain not once, but twice, and

then nothing. He tried to stand up but

wobbled, crashed into a bookshelf that

gave way and almost tipped over before it

supported his weight. He brought his hand

to his head, he could feel his scalp matted

with blood but his eyes were coming

around and the fuzziness in his brain was

clearing.

“Blanche. Where is Blanche?” he

said, looking at his watch, almost

midnight.

He looked around and realized he

was alone. The library lights were still on

but no patrons. He went to the lower floor

and found the same thing. Seymour looked

for Blanche’s things and found her purse

behind the counter on the shelf where she

always left it. It became readily apparent

to Seymour, even in his confused state,

that whoever had busted his skull had

taken his love.

“9-1-1, what is the nature of your

emergency?” the operator at the Valdosta

Police Station asked.

“My

girlfriend’s

gone,

somebody’s taken her!”

“Where are you and who has taken

her?”

“I’m at the library but they’re

gone! He’s taken her!” he said, still having

trouble filtering information through his

aching head.

“Sir, it’s midnight, I suspect the

library has been closed for hours. You’re

not making much sense. Who is missing?

Can you give me a name?”

“Yeah, Blanche, her name is

Blanche. I don’t know where he’s taken

her.”

“Last name, can you give me a last

name?”

He was having a difficult time

staying focused and the pain was ebbing

and returning making it hard to think

clearly. Seymour searched but could not

pull Blanche’s last name from his

memory. He could see it plainly but could

not speak it.

“Excuse me sir, is this a joke or

something? This is an emergency service

and you can be arrested for misusing it,”

she warned.

“No, I know. She is missing I just

can’t think of her name. It’s Blanche D.

D.... or something like that, I got hit on the

head and I can’t remember. You’ve got to

believe me!”

“Okay, so your girlfriend is

Blanche DD and you can’t remember it

cause you got hit on the head, is that

right?”

“Yes exactly.”

“K, I’ll play along, and your

name?” she asked.

“Seymour, ah ah Wood,” he finally

got out.

“What did I tell you?” she said

authoritatively. “This is not a service for

pranksters. My heavens, Seymour Wood

and your girlfriend is Blanche Double D?

Couldn’t you be a little more creative than

that?”

“I’m telling the truth, my head is

killing me, I’m just not thinking clearly.

Call the Sheriff; he’ll vouch for me.

You’ve got to send help, there’s no one

else I can call!” he said, emphasizing his

need for help.

The operator knew that Seymour

Wood had been arrested earlier in the

week and, was indeed, sitting in the

county lockup as they spoke. She would

confirm that with the Sheriff’s Office

when she had time and she wrote a quick

reminder on a sticky note and sat it aside.

“Oh, I’ll confirm it alright but I’ll

caution you again, this is not a line for fun

and games.”

The line suddenly went dead when

the dispatcher got tired of the caller’s

antics and hung up.

“Crap, now what do I do?” he

questioned himself. “Look for clues.”

The things he’d learned in his

hours in classes were pulled involuntarily

from his memory. His strength somewhat

rejuvenated he returned to the second

floor and the blood spot where he had

lain. He opened the nearby emergency

door, noted that the alarm did not sound,

and looked to the ground. Nothing there

but his old truck parked in the lot and no

Blanche to be seen. He turned his attention

back to the library and the items on the

floor. A cane with blood and hair on it, as

well as a spectacle case, rested on the

ground near where he woke up. He

followed a trail of blood from the spot

near the exit, across the floor that led him

to the table where he had been shelving

books. His memory was coming back, he

remembered conversing with the vet, put

some books away, then ‘crack’, the first

blow to his head. He had turned to see his

attacker, the veteran directly in front of

him before ‘crack’, the second blow to his

head and lights out. The Gulf War Vet,

who was he and how could he find him?

The authorities would obviously be no

help tonight. He would find her on his

own. If it was the last thing he did, he

would find Blanche and rescue her from

the cane wielding maniac!

Seymour picked up the wooden

cane and inspected it closely. It appeared

to have been hand carved from a piece of

natural wood, the grain ran the length of

the medical device, alternating dark and

light bands of wood fibers. There were no

plaques or identifying marks, it would be

no help. His own blood and head had

marred the workmanship, along with a

crack in the material near the impact point.

"Hit me pretty damn hard, jerk!"

Seymour said.

He laid the cane aside being

careful not to handle it too much in case

some fingerprints could be raised from it

later, if needed. He next picked up the

spectacle case, opened it and inspected

the contents. The glasses were single

vision, of the convex variety, meaning the

lenses were thicker in the middle and

thinner towards the edge. The frame itself

appeared to be older with some wear

marks on the metal and the lenses slightly

scratched. He remembered seeing the

frame on the disguised veteran earlier in

the night. Seymour put the glasses back in

the clamshell style case and slipped it into

his pocket but just as he did something

caught his eye.

He opened the case again and in

very faint gold lettering on the blue lining

of the case there was some text. He

strained to see the print but could not

make it out completely, only a letter here

and there but nothing that made any sense.

Seymour moved to where the lighting was

brighter and tipped the case back and forth

but could still not read the emblem. It

occurred to him that the glasses inside the

case would possibly help, convex lenses

should magnify the image, he remembered

from his high school science course. The

glasses, once on his nose, caused

everything across the library to blur and

distort, but when he looked back to the

case the smallest details were brought into

view. The very fibers of the backing were

visible and the gold that clung to them.

Straining to make it out he managed to

identify the words Dr. D Camp, and under

that, Optometrist. An address was listed

below, in much smaller print, that was

completely faded away and he could not

read it.

His mind raced. What could he do

with the information he'd gleaned from the

only items available? The phone book

was down under the counter next to

Blanche's purse. He flipped to the yellow

pages and found a listing for a Dr. D.

Camp located just a few blocks from the

library but the home address was not

shown, however, he was able to find a

local listing in the white pages. Seymour

ripped the page from the book, galloped

up the stairs and exited the library the

same way Blanche and Lester had a few

hours before, sliding down the escape

chute to the parking lot below.

The college student was familiar

with the area where Dr. Camp lived, as it

bordered the university and he'd passed

the street often on the way to school. The

old truck roared to life and he slammed

through the gears, ignoring the lights and

signs, hoping that a cop would show up to

give him a hand, but as was usually the

case, never one around when you really

needed one. He pulled up to the

immaculate home, not quite sure what he

would do but knew he had to try

something. With the case in his hand he

approached the door of the two-story

home. A new Lexus was parked in the

driveway and the yard was well

maintained with mature trees and beautiful

rose bushes lining the walk from the curb

to the front door.

Seymour stood at the front door,

case in hand, and knocked. He waited, but

his patience was non-existent so he

rapped and kept knocking until a

disheveled man swung the door open and

grabbed the young man by the collar,

shaking him violently.

"What do you think you're doing,

you dipstick? Are you insane?" the

agitated doctor said.

Seymour stared into the eyes of a

man pulled from his bed in the middle of

the night, bloodshot, and full of anger. Dr.

Camp stood a few inches taller than

Seymour even in his bare feet. His blonde

hair was graying at the temples but

retained its youthful color even though he

was well into his fifties. He wore a

housecoat, which he had failed to do up,

his undershirt and boxers visible, the

undershirt pulled tight from too many

dinners out and nights snacking on peanuts

and M&M's in front of the television. The

mature man shook the younger and once

convinced he'd shaken some sense into

him allowed Seymour to answer his

question.

"I'm Seymour Wood and I need

your help."

"Are you a moron? Do you know

what time it is?"

"I'm sorry, but my girlfriend has

been taken by a madman and all I could

find that might lead me to her is this case

of yours."

Somewhat

calmed

from

his

original disposition the doctor told

Seymour to show up at the office first

thing in the morning and he'd be happy to

help him with his problem, but for now he

better be on his way before he called the

police. He released the younger man and

slammed the door in his face before

Seymour could say anything more.

Undeterred and with blood crusted

to his face and hands, Seymour returned to

the truck, pulled the Sharps rifle from

behind the seat, leaned through the

passenger window and took a cartridge

from the glove box and loaded the

weapon. The long, powerful shell slid into

the chamber with a solid sheathing of the

brass and a finality that came when the

chamber was locked closed. Seymour

made the walk back to the door and

rapped loudly again. The doctor answered

more quickly this time but was startled to

see the young man standing with a large

bored rifle pointed at his chest.

"Hate to do this to you but you've

really left me no choice. You're coming

with me, now!"

"But I'm not even dressed."

"There's no time, I need you to

look up a prescription on these glasses

and tell me whom they belong to. Is that

possible?" Seymour asked.

"You sure you want to do this son,

you're going to be in a world of trouble

come tomorrow morning."

"I'm sure."

"Then yes, I can figure out whose

glasses those are but it'll take some time.

Let me get my pants and keys but I’d be a

lot more inclined to help if you’d put the

gun away."

"You promise you'll give me an

hour before you call the cops?" he said,

the gun still pointed at his chest.