The Watchman (25 page)

For the next ten minutes, I sorted the documents into neat stacks. In one section, I found utility bills for an address in Rapid Bend, California. If Marshall paid the utilities, he probably owned the place. Not much to go on, but for the moment, it was the only lead available. Stuffing the invoice in my pocket, I returned to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and went back to the den to wait for Bonehead.

Minutes later he emerged from the bathroom a different man, albeit somewhat swamped in his new attire. His gray hair hung long and wet above the jumpsuit collar.

I nodded an appreciative smile at the improvement. “Do you have another name I can call you besides Bonehead?” I knew the answer but wanted him to confide in me.

He finger-combed his beard and his watery blue eyes met mine. “Bonehead's been my name for more'n twenty years. It'll do, I guess, for the next twenty.”

I shook my head. “No, it won't, Truman Marchant. Bonehead is not a name for a man created in the image of God.”

His grip tightened on the edge of the sofa, and he lowered himself with shaky hands. “How'd you know my name?”

“It doesn't matter. But a decorated war hero shouldn't let anyone hang a moniker like Bonehead on him.”

He raised his chin and tears pooled in his eyes. “Big deal. A hero from a war nobody wanted. You psychic?”

“Not exactly. You hungry?”

He nodded and his gaze wandered around the room. “This your place?”

I shook my head. “It just became the property of a very nice lady who, I hope, won't mind us using it until the worst of the storm passes. When I leave, I'll take you to my place. You can stay there. I'll trust you to take care of my home. If you make a mess or destroy anything, I'll hunt you down. That clear?” I settled my hand under his elbow. “Let's stop playing twenty questions and eat.”

We stepped into the kitchen, and he attacked the food like a ravenous bear. Through a mouthful of pancakes, he said, “I've done things I'm not proud of,” he swallowed. “Been trying to drown out the war for a long time. Never been able to do it. Doctors gave a fancy name to my condition, a war related stress syndrome of some kind. Couldn't handle stateside. Took to the streets like many of my comrades. Haven't been able to make my way back to where I was before the war. Thought sure the storm tonight would put an end to my problems.”

I wasn't really worried about leaving the old vet in my home. The Lord knew I didn't have the answer to the homeless situation. He also knew no way would I put that poor soul out in this weather. Besides, the tiny homeless shelter in Hebron was filled to capacity this time of year.

The snow had lessened, but a white world surrounded us on the drive home, and Truman fell asleep soon after we started. In the silence, a gentle voice reminded me McKenna had not been my only source of hope. An unseen hand guided me to Ben Marshall's place, and led me to a clue to his possible destination. God answered in His own time, in His own way.

 



 

Noah's Home, Hebron Wyoming

At home, I showed Truman around the house and to the guest room. The pups took to him right away. That was a good sign. Truman shuffled his way around, getting the feel of the place. He licked his lips, and his fingers twitched. He wanted a drink, and I couldn't help him.

“Truman, sit.”

The paper-thin creases around his eyes deepened, pain in his weak blue gaze. He rubbed his hands against his thighs, limped to a chair and plopped down hard.

I went to the kitchen, poured two cups of fresh coffee, and handed one to him. “I don't have any liquor. I'll give you some pain medicine to help you through the night. Tomorrow, I'll ask a friend to take you to the nearest detox center. That's the only way you can beat this thing—get your life back. Will you go?”

“Yeah, I know. I know. Just for the record, I've done that before.” His shoulders raised and dropped in quiet desperation.

“How long ago?”

“Ten...twelve years.”

“Tell me how you came to be in the mountains in the dead of winter.” I knew most of it from my earlier touch, but I wanted to keep him talking to take his mind off his habit.

“You know where Evanston is?” he asked.

“Yeah, it's on Highway 80 a couple of miles from the Utah border.”

He nodded. “Every spring a bunch of old hippies and tree-huggers go up there to commune with nature.”

I grinned. “The locals call them Rainbow People.”

“I've come with them a couple of years and stay in their camp. They give me food, liquor, and a little weed from time to time. It's a vacation of sorts. Gets me away from the smog in L.A.”

I arched an eyebrow at him. ”Evanston is a long way from that mountain cabin.”

“Yeah, don't rush me. I'm coming to that.”

I shut up and listened.

“The day the group headed back to California, I was drunk and they left without me. So I hung around Evanston, working a little here and there until it started to get cold. I hate cold weather. Then I made the stupid decision to see if I could hitch a ride to see my mother in Nebraska.” Truman shivered and took a sip of coffee. “I caught a ride with a fellow who called himself Oscar something. He said he'd take me as far a Hebron. His cell phone kept ringing, and the last call came about two miles from the cabin. I know because I walked it. That last conversation riled Oscar. He pounded on the steering wheel and started swearing.

“When I asked him what was wrong, his face turned a shade of dark red I didn't like, and he said his job description had just changed. Then the sorry sod pulled a gun and made me get out of the car.

“I tried to explain I'd freeze to death out there in the middle of nowhere. He just waved the gun and told me it wasn't his problem, but if I could make it that far, there was a cabin that shouldn't be too far ahead. He turned the car around and drove back the way we came.”

I rubbed the stubble on my chin. It was inconceivable someone would drive that far just to dump a homeless man in the mountains. “Truman, did he seem to be headed for that cabin? I didn't notice any other homes in the area when I drove in.”

“Yeah, I gave that a lot of thought on my long walk. I think he set out for the cabin until that call. Then he changed his mind. I heard him ask the person on the phone if he still wanted the job done.”

Could it have been one of Marshall's cronies headed to meet him there? Marshall could have changed his mind when he discovered the authorities were looking for him.

“What did the guy look like?”

“Typical hunter type. Wore a loud red plaid coat and a stupid red hat with earflaps. You know the kind hunters wear.”

Truman, the fashion police.

“What was he driving?”

“A silver sedan.” Truman ducked his head and stared at the floor. “I didn't pay a lot of attention. Oscar had a bottle of whiskey he shared with me.”

“Your guardian angel was riding on your shoulder. Accepting rides from strangers in desolate country like this can get you killed.”

“Now you tell me.”

“Your mom's still alive?”

His head jerked up. “I...I think so.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Christmas. Three or four years ago.”

“So you're not sure. You have a phone number?”

“Y-Yeah.”

That made me angry. “How can you not let your mother know you're alive and well? You ever consider how many nights she might worry about you? Go call her now. There's a phone upstairs if you want some privacy.”

His face wrinkled like an accordion. He closed his eyes and took two short breaths. Finally, he nodded, turned, and trudged upstairs. In the quiet of my home, a soft cry of
Mama
drifted down the stairs followed by the quiet echo of sobs.

 

 

 

 

21

 

Noah's Home, Hebron, Wyoming

With Truman in bed, I warmed up a cup of Mabel's hot cider and took it to the den. Bella jumped up beside me on the sofa and nudged my hand, her signal she wanted some attention. I scratched her ear and then slid her head off my lap and grabbed the phone.

Detective Rena Chavez answered.

“Rena, this is Sam.” I didn't have time to explain my false identity.

“Yeah. What do you need?” Her voice sounded strained—noncommittal.

How much had she found out about me? “I need to find a residence in Northern California that belonged to Harold London. I could try to track it down on the Internet, but time is an issue.”

The phone line became silent for a moment. “I checked you out,
Sam
. I know your name isn't Sam Spade. The FBI warrant—”

“They dismissed that yesterday.”

“I know, but I still can't help you. I won't jeopardize my job for a stranger who lied to me once already.
”
A click and she was gone.

I drew in a deep breath. I liked Rena and wished I could make her understand why I lied. But I knew she wouldn't listen. So much for the fast way.

I called Amos and gave him the information I'd tried to give Rena.

“Do you know what county the residence is in?”

“No, but I have the city name, a post office box, and a zip code. Amos––I also need to know if there's an airport close where a small plane could land. One more favor. Call the sheriff's office there and tell them to get to the place ASAP. I'm pretty sure Marshall's on his way there with Cody.”

“Give me the zip code.” In the background papers shuffled and someone hacked a cigarette cough. I expelled the breath I'd been holding and gave him the number.

“I'm on it. I'll call you right back.”

Thirty minutes later, I had the physical location of the cabin and the name of the closest airport.

I called George and told him what I needed.

“That's at least an overnight trip. Let me clear it with Norma.” He called a few minutes later.” Meet me at my plane in fifteen minutes.”

Everything settled, I began to get antsy. Had Marshall driven? Had he found someone to fly him to Rapid Bend? Wanted by the police, Marshall wouldn't take Cody on a commercial flight against his will. He would either charter a plane or drive. I was betting on driving since George had the only local charter service.

Upstairs, I shook Truman awake.

I placed my hand on his shoulder and held it there to ensure he gave me his full attention. “I have to leave. Something important has come up. There's plenty of food in the house. Don't let your friends show up here. My hospitality extends only to you.”

He stared at me for a moment, taking in what I'd said. “My buddies are too smart to come this far north. No heat grates to sleep on in the mountains.”

I asked him to look after the dogs and rushed to meet George. On the way to the airport I flipped open my cell phone. “Amos, sorry to bother you again. See if you can find out if a small plane left here for Rapid Bend, California. I think Marshall is headed to the place. If he's flying, I may already be too late. How soon can you check the outbound flights?”

“We may have it already. It's standard procedure to track all escape routes he might've taken. Let me see what we have. I'll call you back. FYI, we put out an Amber Alert.”

My phone buzzed ten minutes later. “No flights have logged to that area from anywhere near here in the last forty-eight hours. You going up there?”

“Yeah. George and I leave within the hour. Thanks, Amos. You're the man.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I fight it, but it's bigger than I am.”

I jumped into the SUV and headed to the airfield.

I prayed my hunch was right, and Marshall had decided to drive. Cody disappeared ten hours ago. I calculated it would take Marshall about fourteen to make the trip if he drove straight through. By the grace of God, we could get there about an hour before Marshall. The ETA would depend on headwinds, the weather conditions, and the distance to London's place from the airfield. But if I'd guessed wrong, I would have wasted a lot of precious time. If so, I could only pray the Amber Alert would turn up something.

I opened my cell and called George back. “George, does your kid still have the motorcycle?”

“Yes, why?”

“When we get to California, I may need transportation to Marshall's place. A small airport won't have a car rental agency. Can we take the bike on the plane?”

“I load small fishing boats sometimes, so it won't be a problem.”

“I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one, pal.”

I dialed Emma's number, and Bill answered. “Don't get your hopes up, but I think I know where Marshall may have taken Cody.”

Bill whispered a soft, “Thank God.”

“Exactly. I'm almost at the airport now. I'll leave it up to you how much you tell Rachel.”

“Where is Cody?”

I explained my theory. “George and I will leave as soon as I reach the airport. Keep praying.” I punched the off button and slung a wide arc of snow as I sped onto the airfield. George waited inside his truck. My SUV slid in beside the plane. We unloaded the bike from George's truck, tied it down in the back of the plane, and then climbed aboard. Gaze glued to the tarmac, George called the tower.

The radio squawked bad news. “I'd postpone this trip, George. We've got blizzard conditions headed east when you enter Utah. The bad weather's expected to last throughout the night, and you'll be meeting it head on.”

George looked over at me. “I hope you're caught up on your prayer life. I'd hate to think we'd risked our lives on a wild hunch.”

“If I'm behind, I'll catch up by the time we reach Rapid Bend.”

The Uinta Mountains loomed high and bleak as we flew into the fierceness of the storm. Brutal winds tossed the plane like a ping-pong ball in a tournament. Gripped by anxiety over Cody's desperate situation and the hazardous flight ahead, memories of my last combat mission surfaced.