A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (win 10 ebook reader .txt) đź“•
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- Author: Lynda McDaniel
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Of course, word got out that I was “entertaining” Gregg, as though I had to be more than just a friend helping another friend. (I didn’t understand why most people limited their circle of friends to those they’d never go to bed with.) Anyway, we shared a chaste evening, with Gregg leaving about eleven o’clock.
The next day, after I’d closed the store, I stopped to chat with Abit. Given my busy schedule lately, we hadn’t had much time to talk. We caught up on how well the rolling store was doing, and I thanked him for being such a good employee. He gave me that crooked smile again. When he shared some ideas he had for managing the inventory based on what people bought, I realized he had the makings of an entrepreneur. He saw trends I hadn’t seen, and, even with more time on my hands, likely wouldn’t have noticed. We talked for a while longer, and then I remembered I needed to run by the hardware before it closed.
“I’ll take care of Jake for you—no charge!” Abit said.
“Thanks, Mister. I won’t be gone long.”
When I drove back, I parked the truck and I headed upstairs, so ready for my day off tomorrow. I imagined a quiet evening with a long soak in my claw-foot tub, but when I unlocked the door, Jake didn’t greet me.
“Jake! Jake! Come on, boy, time for dinner.” I called and called but he was gone. We were out back playing, and then he ran to the front of the store. I thought Della was home, and he’d heard her truck. By the time I got there, though, I couldn’t see him, just a cloud of dust from a car or truck driving fast.
We’d had a good Saturday. I say we because I’d been helping Della and spending more time in the store. Well, mostly the storeroom, but still. People were coming in and saying thanks for the Rollin’ Store, and they were buying more things from Coburn’s, so it was working out real good, all round.
When Della closed up, she went off to do an errand, and I took Jake out for a good romp. He’d gotten used to me, and seemed to look forward to a different kind of play than Della could give him. I liked to roll round with him in the back and throw his toy—especially his knotted rope we played tug of war with. I threw it toward the meadow in the back, but he ran round front. And then he was gone.
Mama had supper on the table by the time I got up to the house. I wanted to spend more time trying to find Jake, but I knew better than to keep Mama waiting. All I could do was hope he’d turn up before Della came back. I didn’t tell Mama or Daddy about Jake. Daddy might’ve popped me one upside the head, though he was doing less of that these days. He was even taking an interest in my job. It didn’t take long to tell him what I did all day, but still, that felt good. And my passbook was up to $246. The way I saw it, it was a savings account in case the family needed anything or ran short one month. And maybe, someday, it would be my ticket out of town. I didn’t even have to spend money on sodas anymore. “On the house,” Della said, though she was always trying to get me to switch to healthier drinks I wasn’t crazy about.
During dessert, I kinda picked at Mama’s coconut cream pie, my favorite. “What’s the matter with you, son?” Mama asked.
That’s when we heard Della calling “Jake, Jake, Jake!” and running round the store. She sounded so sad, calling his name, I nearabout started crying. I asked to be excused and didn’t wait for permission.
“I’m so sorry, Della. I was just throwing his rope, and then he was gone,” I said, after I’d run down the steps and caught up with her. I told her about the dust in the driveway and how I’d heard some kind of vehicle. “How can I help?”
She sat down on the bench and said, “I don’t think we’re doing any good here. He’s gone. Tomorrow, if he hasn’t come back, you can help me put up signs.”
I didn’t sleep much that night. I was worried sick. I replayed and replayed what happened, until I wasn’t sure of anything. The following morning, Sunday, the store was closed, but I headed out to my chair and tapped it against the store. At first that didn’t work, but after a while, she came down with coffee for the both of us.
“I’ll help with those signs, though I don’t write so good—but I can put them on posts and poles for you.”
“That won’t be necessary. I got a call last night.”
“I thought they’d stopped.”
“Those calls have. But I guess I stirred things up when I kept trying to help Gregg. To me, this new call really proves he didn’t do it. I know Brower won’t agree—and especially not now that the state is more involved.”
“What did the caller say?”
“More of the usual threats. Though this time he said they’d kill Jake if I did any more investigating—or snooping, as the caller said.” She paused, then kinda shouted, “This is such bullshit. We don’t have a sheriff worth the cost of that cheap badge he wears. None of this should be happening.” She stopped, her anger spent, for now. In a quiet voice, she added, “And I miss Jake!”
We sat together without saying a word. Eventually, she pulled out some Kleenex and headed back upstairs. I sat there till it turned dark, hoping I’d see that golden fur crest the hill behind the store.
No sign of Jake after three days. I couldn’t think of anything else to do for Gregg, so I was passively complying with the caller’s demand that I stop “snooping.” When the phone rang, I was expecting a return call from a supplier, so I was surprised to hear that now-familiar voice congratulate me on staying quiet. He told me Jake was in good spirits. I doubted that. I said something stupid about returning my dog, that kidnapping was a crime. I doubted that cruelty to animals was a crime in North Carolina, but that was all I could think to say. I hung up.
The phone rang again, and I’d had all I could stand. “Listen here, you son of a bitch, bring back my dog or, or ...” I stopped, sensing an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line.
“Um, did I call at a bad time, dear?”
“Nigel?”
“Yes. I was just calling to see how you were doing. Sounds as though things could be better.”
Just hearing the voice of a dear friend made me burst into tears. He let me sob, then sniffle, then blow my nose. “I’ve been better. But I really appreciate your call, Nigel. I’ve been thinking of you, and I should have let you know how things have progressed. Or maybe I should say devolved. And thank you for looking at the latest notes.”
I rambled on about the sheriff not believing Nigel’s earlier findings (I heard him tsk) and the unfolding situation with Gregg. And Jake. “I know you don’t know Jake, but he’s a lovely golden brown dog, and now he’s been kidnapped or whatever you call it when a dog is involved. I miss him and fear for his life.”
“What kind of Wild West are you living in down there?”
“Oh, usually it’s really quite nice. A lot nicer than those outlaws in D.C.”
“Well, you’ve got me there. Yes, I can imagine. But when things go wrong down there, it sounds like the O.K. Corral.”
Under different circumstance, I would’ve laughed. I was often amused by how fascinated and knowledgeable Brits, and maybe folks from other countries, were about our frontier history. Nigel once told me he admired our bravado, but he’d rest easier when it was tamed by a touch of civilization.
“What are you going to do, dear?” he asked.
“There’s not much I can do. They told me if I keep investigating, they’ll kill Jake. And I believe they would.”
“Well, surely they don’t know about this phone call, so let’s talk a bit about those traced forgeries you sent me. Of course, I haven’t seen the originals, but no self-respecting forger—not one of the quality you showed me earlier—uses tracing paper. That forged suicide note definitely was not traced. I suppose one could argue that he was just practicing for the real forgery, but in my experience, that doesn’t happen. You’ve either got the touch or not. It would be like Monet tracing his water lilies. Never!”
The idea of Gregg as a forger in the making was ludicrous, but as Nigel and I talked, I remembered my earlier concerns. I didn’t know the first thing about Gregg. Maybe he has a second life, I thought.
Nigel and I talked a bit longer, before he ended the call with, “Sorry about your little dog. Let me know when he comes home safely. And come see us up here. We’ll treat you to a break from those, uh, bandits!”
I felt even lonelier when I hung up. I picked up the receiver again and dialed Alex. By some miracle, he answered before the machine picked up. “Jake was stolen,” was all I could get out before breaking down again.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Tell me all about it.” He waited while I got it together and told him what I knew. “Jesus, I don’t know why you live there. Seriously, why do you stay?”
“We’ve been through this before, Alex. Remember the guy who stalked me in D.C.? Or that article I wrote—the way after it was published I had to change my phone number? This is just life anywhere these days. Man’s inhumanity to man—and dog.”
“Okay. Okay. What can I do to help?”
“I can’t think of anything more to do for Jake. I’ve got folks looking for him, and that’s about all we can do. I’m lying low until he gets home. I don’t want to jeopardize his safety.”
“Well, don’t forget about yours!”
“I won’t. Oh, wait,” I said. “There is a way you can help. Could you look into Gregg’s past? I don’t know anything about his life before he moved here, and hell, he could be another one of those guys who has all the neighbors scratching their heads, saying what a nice boy he was.”
“Really? That park ranger I met?”
“Forest service.”
“Whatever. Hard to imagine.”
“I know. I’m grasping here, but who knows? Before I stick my neck out any
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