The Devil's Highway
Read The Devil's Highway Online
Authors: Timothy C. Phillips
THE DEVIL’S HIGHWAY
The Roland Longville Mystery Series #7
Written by Timothy C. Phillips
Kindle: 978-1-58124-460-1
ePub: 978-1-58124-298-0
©2012 by Timothy C. Phillips
Published 2012 by The Fiction Works
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
This one’s for Doug, my dearest
friend, through thick and thin.
Prologue
They were coming for me. They had taken a few minutes to regroup and reload after the firefight earlier, and they were coming in now to make sure I didn’t leave this battered building alive. The people who had fought alongside me were either dead, or hiding somewhere out there in the wreckage of what had been a town, one short hour before. Cushman’s men would find them, and kill them, one after the other, if they hadn’t already. First, though, they wanted me.
“Check that building over there!” I heard someone yell, and then many booted feet were running, crunching through the broken glass that filled the street.
“There’s no one in here!” came an answering voice.
“Keep it moving!” the one in charge commanded. “Find Longville! Then we’ll mop up the rest!”
I had seen them all in the earlier fight. They were all wearing flak jackets and carried assault rifles. I had even met their leader. They were a militia. I knew they had trained for this day for a long time. They had trained to hunt men, and it was just a matter of time before they found where I was hiding.
I checked the magazine in my Colt .45. I had three shots left. Giving up wasn’t an option. The sun hung still in the glassless window; the day was long past its prime, out here in this barest dot of a town in the West Texas desert. I wondered if I would see the sun set. The sedate parlor in Atlanta where this journey had started seemed impossibly far away, a part of some other distant place and time.
Chapter 1
The telephone rang several times before I picked it up.
“Is this Roland Longville?” a woman’s voice asked before I could speak.
“Yes, it is.” I was still not quite awake.
“Mr. Longville, I need to speak with you. It’s about my son.”
“What’s the trouble?” But I knew already, of course. It was almost always the same.
“He’s missing. My husband and I are beside ourselves. You come highly recommended, Mr. Longville. Can you come to Atlanta? We live in Buckhead, 447 Washington Road. Do you know it?”
I held the telephone away from my head and groaned quietly. I had touched down on a redeye flight at 3:00 a.m. and hadn’t gotten to bed until after four. It was just 8:35 by the red light of the alarm clock by the bed.
“Sure. I’ll be on my way shortly,” I said. I rubbed my eyes, rolled out of bed and walked to the bathroom. I stepped into the shower and let the hot water wash the rest of the cobwebs from my still weary mind. I took a long shower, the kind you take when you are trying to feel human after a long weary day and a short rest.
I didn’t know it as I came back into the bedroom, got dressed, and walked to the door, but I had just taken the first step in a journey of two thousand miles, one that would take me many places and bring me face to face with some very dangerous people before I was done. If I had known, I wonder if I would ever have dared start on such a journey. But, yes, knowing what I know now, I suppose I would have, after all.
Chapter 2
Two and a half hours and about one hundred and fifty miles later, the GPS on the dashboard guided me to the Caldwell’s address on Washington Road. The house was back from the road, a white two-story faux Georgian castle that peeked demurely out from behind a high wall of carefully sculpted hedge. A stately chestnut tree loomed over the yard. The Caldwell home suggested that this was a well-to-do family with a beautiful house in an upscale enclave, but on closer inspection, things were slipping; the yard looked a little untended. As I walked up to the front door, I noticed the place also needed a new coat of paint.
A Mexican maid let me in, but didn’t greet me or announce my arrival to anyone. She just let me walk on into the house. The Caldwells were waiting on me, though. Mrs. Caldwell greeted me and ushered me into a sitting room off to the side of the entryway.
The Caldwells were an attractive couple, who looked to be in their early forties. Mr. Caldwell at first glance was aging well, but at second glance seemed a tad thin, and had a sickly pallor, Mrs. Caldwell, a bottle blond, looked fit and energetic. They both looked me over with barely suppressed surprise—I am a big, brown man; I used to be a linebacker for the University of Alabama, in another life. No one ever expects an African-American private investigator, it seems. They just hadn’t read any of Walter Mosley’s novels, I guess. Easy Rawlins is one of the best.
The Caldwells welcomed me graciously enough, though, and offered me a seat on a comfortable armchair in their living room, which did not look very lived-in. They sat across from me on a matching sofa. Between us was a coffee table, and on it was a large bowl, filled with butterscotch candy in tiny yellow cellophane wrappers.
“Our son is a very bright young man, Mr. Longville,” Mr. Caldwell opened up. “He graduated near the top of his class from Emory. He had several job offers from good firms straight out of school, and offers from two prestigious Grad Schools. The world was just opening up for him. Young men just don’t walk away from promising lives like that.”
Actually, they do, I thought, but I didn’t say anything at the time. Young Brad had a sweet setup there in Atlanta. He had a wealthy family, and it did look like the future that lay ahead of him was a rather inviting one. But there was always something lurking beneath the surface when people ducked out like Brad had done. I asked them the questions that most people didn’t want to think about in this situation.
“I don’t mean to be indelicate, but there are certain things we need to consider. Did Brad ever do any gambling? Does he have a drug problem?”
Brad’s mother rose from her chair and came over to me. With a bitter smile she held out several sheets of paper. Clearly, she was way ahead of me. I knew, of course, she’d probably been over all of this with the police. “We wondered, too. This should answer your questions in those areas, Mr. Longville.”
I looked at what she had given me. It was a bank statement, for an account in Brad Caldwell’s name. According to the balance sheet, which they had apparently printed out just before calling me, Brad had just over $45,000 in a savings account in his name. Yes, that answered my question, all right. Junkies and people in deep Dutch don’t usually have any money in the bank, let alone forty-five large. But of course that raised other questions. Was he on the run from something or someone? People on the run, though, made frequent withdrawals. Brad hadn’t made any in two months.
“That’s a lot of money for such a young man to have in the bank.”
Mrs. Caldwell nodded. “It was a trust fund, set up by my parents. The fund matured upon Brad’s graduation from college. As you can see, he hasn’t touched it since he vanished.”
“Can you tell me exactly, when
did
your son go missing, Mr. Caldwell?”
He looked slightly embarrassed. “We don’t know, precisely.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
Mrs. Caldwell came to the rescue again. “We aren’t sure about the
time,
though we do know the
day.
He left with some of his friends—fraternity brothers—on a trip to Southern Florida the day after their college graduation. They stayed several days, and then, on the way back, he insisted that they drop him off in Jacksonville, Florida.”
“Where in Jacksonville?”
There was an awkward pause. Mrs. Caldwell actually looked away, and Mr. Caldwell rubbed his leg in an anxious manner, and colored slightly.
“In a supermarket parking lot,” Mr. Caldwell said finally.
“You mean these friends actually dropped your son off in a parking lot, in a city hundreds of miles from home and left him there?”
Mrs. Caldwell looked embarrassed for her husband and her absent son. “They told us—he had told them a story, while they were vacationing in Florida. He said that he’d met a girl there, also a recent college graduate. Brad told them that this girl wanted him to come visit her, in her home town.”
“And her home town was Jacksonville, Florida?”
“Yes, that’s correct. I can’t imagine what he told them to induce them to leave him. I understand that they tried to talk him out of it. Brad was very persuasive, however, from what they told us. Which I believe, because I know my son. He gets an idea, and he won’t let go of it. His friends, also, are lovely young men, but not as sharp as Brad, if you follow me.”
“Does this young woman have a name?” I ventured, sensing the response already.
“I’m afraid that Brad never told his friends her name,” Mrs. Caldwell said sheepishly.
“I see. So how much time has passed since Brad convinced his friends to leave him in Jacksonville?”
“Around six weeks,” Mr. Caldwell answered for his wife.
“Did you inform the police immediately?” I asked them both.
Again, the cross-glance of the long married. “No,” Mr. Caldwell said. “We talked to his friends, and we thought it was just Brad sewing his wild oats after graduation. After a week passed and we heard nothing, though, we called the police, although it seemed there was little they could do. We’ve heard nothing from Jacksonville police, and the police here in Atlanta feel the case belongs to the Jacksonville P.D. After a time we grew frustrated, then angry. At last we decided to employ our own investigator, which is why we called you.”
“So mine is the first private agency that you have contacted?”
“That’s right,” the Caldwells both said, nodding in unison. They were distraught, confused, and out of their depth, but they were getting their act together, now. They were keeping each other strong through this strange ordeal, I could tell, though I was betting between the two of them, Mrs. Caldwell was the tougher customer. Brad’s father didn’t just look weak, I thought after taking another look at him. To put it bluntly, he had death in his face. I’d seen it before.
Mrs. Caldwell looked at me, and there were tears in her eyes, but she was holding together fairly well. Maybe it was just a brave face she was putting on for me; if so, it was a damned good show. She was a strong lady, I could tell. Life hands you things, sometimes, and you just have to soldier through them. She was soldiering through, because she was a mother and that’s what real mothers do.