Oblation: A Spine-Tingling Crime Thriller set in Small-Town California, page 14
Sarah answers, “I can’t speak for the professor, but I seldom miss a meal.” While not a big lady, Sarah has a large frame that indicates that she is not completely joking.
“I had a power drink earlier,” the professor says, looking as skinny and healthy as ever.
I laugh. “Did you go for a run?”
“Yes, but they have some serious hills here. I am so used to running around Chicago, which is so flat that the hills here are a killer. I’m going to have to find an excuse to run more hills somewhere.”
“Well, as I said before, you are always welcome to come out to Alturas. We have some hills, though most are not as steep as these. Though they are probably higher.”
The professor and Sarah are each carrying satchels, most likely filled with notes and pads of paper. I do not have one, and it makes me feel naked. “Excuse me, I’m just going to get something. I’ll be right back,” I say as I make my way into the lobby.
The woman at the front desk is the same one who prepared the breakfast area earlier, and she greets me with a smile. “Excuse me,” I say, “do you have a pad of paper I can borrow?”
Without saying a word, she looks down at the top of the desk, shakes her head, and then opens a drawer just below her computer keyboard and begins rummaging around the various items. Finally, from under a calculator, she pulls out a small 2x3 pad and hands it to me. On top of the pad in bright green letters are the words, “Holiday Inn Express, Beckley, WV.” I smile at her. “I suppose you probably don’t need this back.” She doesn’t seem to understand the reference, so I put the pad in the inside pocket of my jacket. “Thank you,” I say and walk down the hall to my room.
There is one more thing I need which is in the room’s wall safe. I take the stairs to my second-floor room, and upon entering, I am greeted with a beautiful view of the forest-green mountains surrounding the city, now clearly visible through the thin sunshades of the window. Sadly, I realize that I will not have a whole lot of time to explore or appreciate this magnificent geography.
I had stashed the gun in the room safe the night before and had reset the combination to four digits that no one would be able to connect to me: the last four digits of my sixth-grade boyfriend’s phone number. I don’t even remember his name, but I do remember his phone number. I had spent many hours sitting in the chair of our entrance hall, trying to keep my little sister from eavesdropping and begging my parents for my own phone. Which I never did get. I smile at the memory, thinking that I need to call Briny. I haven’t talked to her in a couple of weeks. Taking the gun and a box of bullets out of the safe, I place them both on the bed.
I retrieve my shoulder holster from the suitcase stowed in the closet and put it on, then adjust the buckle so the gun pouch sits comfortably just below and to the side of my left breast. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a bunch of keys. The realization hits me, I won’t need most of these keys once the election is over, and I feel a twinge of regret but know it’s the right choice. Fingering through the keys, I locate the one I want and remove the trigger guard from the gun. The gun is a standard police issue .40 caliber Glock with a fifteen-round magazine. I place one clip in the gun, and the other I place in my jacket pocket opposite the one holding the notepad. Checking to make sure the safety is on, I secure the Glock into the holster. Putting the jacket back on, I feel the weight of the gun against my side. There is something comforting in the balance it gives me. I’ve never had to use my gun, but just having it sitting there against my ribs gives me a sense of wholeness. I check myself in the mirror. The gun isn’t readily visible. I don’t want people to get nervous, though; given what the sheriff said about West Virginia’s gun laws, I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.
I make my way downstairs, remembering that I left the car sitting in the passenger loading zone in front of the hotel. Another car of four college kids has pulled up behind it, and they are eyeing me as I come out. Obviously, they were annoyed that they couldn’t get any closer to the door. You’re young. You can walk.
I smile at Professor Gaus and Sarah Burnhart, who are leaning against the car talking. “Ready?” I ask.
“All set,” says the professor. “Should we take one car, two, or each take our own?”
“I think we can all go in one,” I say. “And since I am going to have to move mine anyway because I am blocking traffic, we can go in mine.”
“We came to the same conclusion,” Sarah adds as she glances over my shoulder at the college kids and gives me a knowing smile. “You can drive, but I’ve got shotgun,” she announces, opening the passenger door and getting in.
“I guess that means I’m in the back,” the professor says as he settles into the seat behind Sarah.
The ride from Beckley to Sophia is only about fifteen minutes, but it is like entering a different world as we head deeper into the mountains. Sophia can only be described as a stereotypical coal town. There is one main road, and most of the stores do not appear to be doing enough business to stay open. Streets with beaten-up pavement from coal trucks come off the main road, and two-story wooden houses in various stages of disrepair are visible along the side streets. Most have ladders leaning against the siding where repairs or painting is either in process or has been abandoned as people prepare for the coming winter months. Maybe it is because it’s not quite ten o’clock in the morning, but the only evidence of activity along the main road are the pickup trucks parked in front of what appears to be the only diner in the town. A rusted-out sign announces the restaurant as Uma’s Diner. Though Alturas is larger, the American-made pickup trucks parked along the main street are a familiar sight to anyone who has spent time in a small town. Uma’s would be the place where farmers gather after doing their morning rounds, joining retirees from the area to talk about important things like the price of grain or gas. There were no farms visible during the short drive from Beckley, so maybe the talk is about coal instead of grain. Having spent my share of time in towns like Sophia, I know that if I want to find out what’s going on, all I would have to do is sit in Uma’s for an hour or so and simply listen.
Two doors down from Uma’s is a small windowless, cinderblock structure with a weathered sign in front that announces this as the location of the Sophia Police Department. I pull into a spot in front of the building next to a Raleigh County Sheriff’s car and turn off the engine. “I’m going to go inside and see if they can direct me to where we can find Lt. Dillon. I’ll be right back.”
As I get out, I am greeted with the smell of green trees still wet with the morning dew. Alturas is in a high desert, so the heavy smell of dew is pleasant, but it also has a hint of mold. I walk toward the solid-looking wooden door when I hear a door slam down the street and look up the sidewalk toward Uma’s, where a man emerges from the setback entrance of the diner. He glances back at the door as if wondering why the door made so much noise and stumbles slightly as he makes his way to a red Ford pickup truck parked directly in front of the diner. Yep, just like every small and big town. Some people just need to start early.
I turn back toward the cinderblock structure and walk up to the door. There’s no glass on the door, but there is a camera mounted just above the door frame that allows anyone approaching the door to be seen from the inside. Given the condition of the building, I’m not sure the camera even works. Grabbing the door handle, I push. Nothing happens. Stepping back from the door and taking a closer look around the doorframe, I locate what appears to be a doorbell. It is the old kind with a black button in the center of a gold disk. Exposed electrical wires run up the doorframe and disappear into the peeling paint of the doorjamb just below a boarded-up transom. Pressing the button, I don’t hear any sound, but I wait a few seconds before pushing the button a second time. After a couple more seconds, a disembodied male voice from a speaker that I can’t locate says, “Can I help you?”
I guess the doorbell does work. I step back so the camera can get a good look at me. Just in case it is also working. “I’m Sheriff Phylis Tarpley from Alturas, California. I and my associates are here concerning the missing children’s case. Sheriff Pullen said I should contact Lt. Dillon. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
A ten-second silence is my only answer. Finally, a buzzer sounds that I take as an invitation to come inside. Pushing on the door, I find it now opens easily, and I enter a remarkably well-lit and decorated outer office which catches me off guard given the general disrepair and neglect of the outside. A man sits at a desk in the center of the room about five feet from the door. He’s leaning back in a chair with his fingers locked behind his head and his feet resting on top of the desk. He eyes me from head to toe before standing up. He’s tall, and I estimate him to be somewhere around 6’5”. His head appears to almost scrape the ceiling. Had he been wearing the sheriff’s cowboy hat sitting on the desk, I don’t think he could walk around the room without bending over.
Despite his initial attitude of disinterest, his smile is friendly and inviting. “Sheriff Tarpley, I’m Lt. Dillon, but you can just call me Max.” He takes my hand to shake it, and I feel my hand disappear. I have always been told that I have big hands for a woman, but his hand engulfs mine, and I cannot help but look down. I picture those hands deftly controlling a basketball as he maneuvers smoothly around a defender and slams the ball through the net to the delight of all the girls in his high school class. I look back up at his face, and he has a smile that says he enjoys the fact that people tend to look down at the size of his hands when they shake. This man likes being the center of attention, but he reached his peak in high school. Maybe college.
“Okay, Max. Glad to meet you. You were easier to find than I thought.”
“Well, Sheriff told me you were come’n, so I figured I’d wait for ya here.” His West Virginia accent reveals he is descended from mountain folks going back multiple generations. But he is not difficult to understand, nor is it harsh on the ears. “No sense in you wander’n around the mountains look’n for me. Don’t want you gett’n lost on the back roads. You might run across some Hatfields or McCoys and get yourselves in trouble.” He smiles after this last statement, indicating that it is a joke. He probably uses the line on most out-of-towners.
I smile back with a short giggle that is a little too girlish. “I appreciate that. Looks like a nice town. Smaller than mine. And I thought mine was small. But I’m glad to see a restaurant. At least I know I’m not gonna starve.”
“Yeah, Uma’s pretty good food. But the best part is the homemade pies. Sometimes, I’ll just have a couple of pieces of pie for dinner and call it a meal.”
“I do like some pie. I’m going to have to try to get some before leaving.” I say this in an attempt to get on his good side rather than my particular interest in pies.
Recognizing a get-up-and-move phrase when he hears one, Lt. Dillon gives me another one of his smiles that spreads even wider than his earlier ones. “No time like the present.”
I’m taken aback by his response, so I stammer, “Shouldn’t we get on with our investigation? I mean, I don’t know, but aren’t there people out searching for the kids? Perhaps we should join them?”
He grabs his hat off the desk and makes his way toward the wooden door, quickly covering the distance. He looks back at me. “Naw. I mean, yes, we should start, but I need to fill you in on a few things first, and Uma’s is as good a place to do it as any. As far as the search goes, I’ve got other deputies tak’n the lead on that, and they’re already a couple of miles into the hills. They started at eight o’clock right after first light, so you’re not goin’ to find them today.” He gestures me out the door, so I step outside. The door closes behind him, and I hear an audible click as the automatic lock engages.
“Okay then. Let me get the other two members of our little group, and we can go on down to Uma’s.” I gesture toward my rental, where my two colleagues are relaxing.
“Sounds good. I’ll just stroll on down there and secure us a table.”
“All right. We’ll be right behind you.”
He places the sheriff’s hat on his head and strides down the sidewalk, looking like the marshal in an old Western.
Professor Gaus and Sarah Burnhart are outside the car, having decided that enjoying the morning air was preferable to the inside of the car. The professor has made himself comfortable lying across the hood of the car with his back resting on the windshield. Like Deputy Dillon, his fingers are locked behind his head. Only his eyes are closed. Must be something in the air. Sarah is leaning against the car with her arms crossed and looking down at the pavement, just shaking her head and giggling to herself. “What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You and him,” she replies, pointing at the back of Max Dillon, who disappears inside the door of Uma’s. “You are no small woman, but he just towers over you. And with that hat on, he’s even taller. It was just kind of a funny sight. I assume that’s Lt. Dillon?”
“That’s him. All six foot whatever.”
“Not a bad-looking man.”
“True, but I’m about thirty years his senior, so I don’t think that is going to be an issue.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you,” Sarah adds with a sly smile.
While not knowing Sarah’s age for sure, I guess she is in her mid-forties. I shoot her a sideways glance. “Hey,” she says in defense as she gives a little shimmy, “girls just wanna have fu’un.”
“Okay, Counselor, but your first date is going to be over pie. We are meeting him at Uma’s to go over a few things and have some pie.”
“Did someone say ‘pie’?” the professor chimes in from behind his closed eyes.
“I thought you were asleep,” says Sarah.
“Nope, just resting my eyes and allowing my mind to wander. The air out here is so clear and feels good in the lungs. I’m just taking it all in. I forget how nice and fresh things can be when you get out of a large city.” He still hasn’t opened his eyes. “I could just lie here in the sun and enjoy it.”
“Well, Professor, if you want your pie, you’re going to have to get off the car and go into Uma’s, and if I’m charged for scratches on the hood because you decided to relax in the sun, you’ll be getting a bill from the Alturas Sheriff’s Department.”
“All right, officer, I’m moving.” He swings his feet over the edge of the hood and, using only his arms, lifts himself completely off the car. Then pushes off and clears the hood before landing squarely on his feet. Looking back, he leans over, examining the paint on the hood. “No scratches,” he smiles back at me.
“Okay, Jack LaLanne, let’s go,” I say.
“I don’t know if I should be insulted or impressed that I understand the reference. But right now, I could use some pie. Lead the way,” he says.
I start down the sidewalk, shaking my head and wondering how I ended up with this group of misfits. Take them out of the city; they lose control of themselves. My mood is definitely better.
TWENTY-FIVE
Having eaten in my share of small-town diners, Uma’s is exactly what I expect. Because the restaurant shares its side walls with the buildings on either side, the only windows are the curved square block glass windows that serve as the upper half of the walls at the recessed entrance. The interior is illuminated by a series of hooded metal fixtures with weak bulbs that run in two rows the length of the restaurant. High-backed, wooden booths flank the walls of the restaurant, and a row of Formica-topped metal tables, each accompanied by four metal chairs with plastic-covered cushions, runs down the center. Along the back wall of the diner is a four-stool counter that covers about three-quarters of the wall. I’m sure the metal pedestal stools are bolted to the floor and, because of years of corrosion, probably could not be removed without a blowtorch.
When we enter, Lt. Dillon is holding court at the very last table of the restaurant, just in front of the counter. To the left of the counter, I can see the kitchen, which is accessed through two louvered half-doors reminiscent of saloon doors that even swing both ways. From the front door, I can see through the kitchen pass-through where two women, both appearing to be in their seventies, are busy. Most likely preparing for the lunch crowd.
Lt. Dillon leans over the table with one foot propped onto the cushion of a chair and a cup of coffee in his hands. Six men huddle around him, listening to the latest news. Three are seated at the table, and the other three are perched upon stools at the counter, leaning in to listen. Each appears to be older and most likely retired, which explains why they are hanging out in Uma’s in the middle of the morning. One has a can of Bud Lite in front of him. Lt. Dillon sees us come in and waves us over to the table. Making our way around the tables, I’m surprised to see that even though it is mid-morning, about half the booths are occupied. There are a few mothers with younger children, and one father is having a father-daughter breakfast with a girl around eight years old. She is all smiles, and while he is dressed smartly in a suit and tie, he doesn’t appear to be in any rush to end this time with his daughter. I wonder why he isn’t working and she isn’t in school, but I recognize a special bond and a special moment taking place. The little girl will remember this moment long after she forgets whatever math lesson is being taught in school today. I smile and dodge a metal chair jutting out at an angle from under one of the tables before joining the gathering at the far end of the restaurant.
“Sheriff Tarpley,” Lt. Dillon proclaims, clearly enjoying the spotlight and gesturing to the interior of the restaurant, “welcome to Uma’s.”
“Thanks for having us,” I reply and include the gathering of men in my response.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your comrades,” he says, glancing past me at Sarah and the professor.
