Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (parable of the sower read online .TXT) 📕
Greg heard a man shouting in the background, then a commotion. The phone went dead. He felt sick and helpless, like a kid who had just been spun on a merry-go-round at breakneck speed until he flew off. And the dizziness would not soon go away.
Greg wanted to call the police, but what would he tell them? And why did she call him instead of 911? He would call her back. No, he couldn't--he didn't have her number.
Then he felt something on his leg. The ice cream was melting beneath the chocolate shell, and it had collapsed under its own weight, and fallen onto the bed of napkins in his lap.
Still dazed, he sat for a full minute studying the ice cream as it dripped down the sides of the cone onto his hand and arm. Gradually the streams of white turned to pink, then to red-- running down Cynthia's face! A cold chill ripped through his body, and jolted him back to reality. He dropped the cone onto t
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“And Buford couldn’t have that. So, he had him murdered.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just kill Kantrell Jamison?”
“Yeah. Why he didn’t do that? And what about Dorothy Spokane? She knew that Buford was the one who was behind the murders. But the killer got to her before she could tell her story to the D.A. At least she was able to give me Buford’s name before she died.”
Cynthia thought about that for a few seconds. “If Dorothy knew what Buford was up to, why didn’t she go to the police sooner? She waited until Arabeth and Troy had been killed.”
“I don’t understand that either. Maybe she believed Arabeth Albertson’s death was an accident. But then, after Troy was murdered, she realized Mrs. Albertson had been murdered too.”
“Well, I just hope the Coreyville police can protect us. Because we’re not going to be safe until somebody takes Buford down.”
*
Greg and Cynthia were on FM-182, approaching Quitman. It would take at least two more hours to get home to Coreyville. Greg stopped at a convenience store, and started pumping gas. Cynthia walked into the store, and went into the bathroom.
Just as Greg had returned the nozzle to the pump, and was walking toward the store, Cynthia rushed out and stopped him. There was a look of fear in her eyes. “We’re on the news.”
“What?”
She grabbed his arm, and directed him back toward the car, as she whispered frantically, “They’ve got a little TV in there. And the reporter was talking about two fugitives, wanted by the Coreyville Police Department. It was us, Greg! They’re showing our pictures! We’re wanted for murder!”
“No.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
They jumped in the car and sped away.
After she had caught her breath, Cynthia said, “You did pay for the gas, right?”
“Yeah. At the pump.”
“Good. If not, they’d be after us for theft as well.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“I shouldn’t have paid with my debit card. Now the police can track us. What was I thinking?”
*
John X was driving at the fastest speed that would not get him pulled over. He did not want to kill a cop. The officer would check the vehicle registration, and find out John X was not the owner. He would not allow himself to be arrested. But he didn’t want the heat that comes with being a cop killer. Over his brief career, he had done a good job of maintaining a low profile.
He had only driven a few miles when he checked the fuel gauge. It was nearly empty. He stopped at a convenience store, started pumping gas, and then went inside. He had just eaten a big pile of ribs. Now he wanted dessert for the road.
First, he’d do a quick survey of the pastry goods. Hostess Chocolate Frosted Donettes. One of his favorites. A little bit of donut, surrounded by a lot of delicious chocolate. He loved the way it felt when he bit into one of them. The chocolate coating was ‘al dente’, like properly prepared pasta—firm to the tooth.
A state trooper entered the little store. John X saw him, but acted uninterested. As he continued to peruse the selection of pastries, he heard the trooper talking to a man who was standing in line at the counter.
“Is that your Mustang out there?” the trooper asked.
“No, Sir. It’s not mine,” the man replied.
Surely the car had not already been reported stolen. The trooper walked to the back of the store, to the refrigerated area, and reached in for a bottle of Diet Pepsi. Then he walked into the isle next to John X’s, and grabbed a bag of Fritos.
John was ready. He was pretending to study the ingredients on the package of donuts in his left hand. But his right hand was in his pants pocket, holding a Kel-Tec P-32, semi-automatic pistol. At a mere five inches in length, it was always with him, no matter what other weapons he might be carrying.
The trooper started to walk off, but then he turned to John X and said, “Is that your mustang out there at the pump?”
John X slowly slipped the pistol out of his pocket. The trooper could not see the gun from across the top of the shelves.
“Yes, Sir. That’s my mustang. Is there a problem?”
He would hit the trooper with a couple of shots to the head in rapid succession. The cop would be dead before he had a chance to drop the Coke or the Fritos to go for his weapon.
“Yes, there is a problem—”
John wondered how many people he would have to kill to get away. He had seen a couple of men at the register, and a female clerk. Did he have enough bullets?
“—your right rear tire is low. Better put some air in it.” The trooper walked away.
John X breathed a sigh of relief as he slid the pistol back into his pocket.
The Bonneville had been scraped and dented all along the passenger side, although not enough to keep the door from functioning properly. The condition of his car, however, was the least of Greg’s worries.
He and Cynthia were in panic mode, after learning they were wanted for murder. They were on FM-182, headed toward Quitman, on their way back to Coreyville. But now the idea of going home, and getting police protection sounded a lot less attractive. The police would protect them, all right—by putting them behind bars.
Greg said, “Maybe we should hide out for a few days.”
“But wouldn’t we be safe from the killer if we were in jail?”
“I guess so. Of course, we don’t even know if he’s still alive. But if he is, he could be waiting for us in Coreyville. And this time, he might shoot us. We don’t want to walk right into a trap.”
“What I don’t understand is why he didn’t shoot us back there on the highway, instead of trying to run us into that 18-wheeler? Was he trying to make it look like an accident?”
“Probably so. Like with Arabeth Albertson.”
“Hiding out for a while might be a good idea,” said Cynthia. “But where?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t pay with plastic—that’s for sure.”
“Hey—I know a place.” She opened the glove box. “You got a Texas map in here?”
“Yeah.”
She unfolded the map and searched. “Yeah. There’s a place not too far from here. They have cabins for fishermen.”
“But don’t they book those places way ahead of time?”
“Yeah. But we might get lucky. If they don’t have any vacancies, we can look for a hotel. But this would be perfect, if we can get one. We’d be off in the woods—a lot harder to find. I think we should try. And don’t worry—I have cash.”
“Okay. Let’s give it a shot. Where are these cabins located?”
“On Lake Fork. Troy and I took a vacation there last summer. I hated it.”
“Then why do you want to go back there?
“No—the cabin was fine. But I went there to spend time with Troy—as a last ditch effort to fix our marriage. But he spent every day fishing and drinking—and ignoring me. At least he didn’t hit me while we were there. But I was bored and miserable the whole time.”
She pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s right in here somewhere. We need to go north to 515. We should make it in twenty minutes or so.”
*
Greg and Cynthia were nearly to FM-515, when Greg said, “Cynthia, how did the killer figure out where we were? We took back roads, but he still managed to find us.”
“I don’t know. I guess he followed us all the way from Buford’s office.”
“But I never saw his pickup behind us until a few minutes before he tried to kill us. How could he follow us if he couldn’t see us?”
“What are saying? You think he put a bug or some kind of tracking device on the car?”
They looked at each other, and made an unspoken agreement. They would not talk until they had checked the car for surveillance devices. Greg pulled into the next gas station, parking away from the pumps. He got out, and began to look under the car. Cynthia searched under the dashboard, and under the seats.
Greg slid out from under the car, stood up, and showed Cynthia what he had found. It was some type of electronic box. And although neither of them had ever seen one before, except on TV, they knew it had to be a tracking device.
Without saying a word, Greg walked to a minivan that was parked at a pump. Its driver and passengers were apparently inside the store. He squatted to tie his shoe, and to attach the device to the underside of the vehicle.
*
It was about 2:30 PM when Greg and Cynthia finally saw the billboard for Johnson’s Cabins on Lake Fork. They turned onto the small paved road, and drove for three or four miles at 30 mph.
Greg was not encouraged by the sign in front of the office. “It says they only have seventeen cabins. What are the chances one is available?”
“All we can do is try.”
The young lady at the desk didn’t seem to notice or care that Greg and Cynthia were not wearing wedding rings. “What can I do for you?”
“I know this is a crazy question, but—do you have a cabin available for tonight?” Greg felt ridiculous. It was the middle of summer. This was a great place for fishing. How could they possibly have any vacancies?
“As a matter of fact—you’re in luck.”
Greg and Cynthia looked at each other. They had driven all the way to Buford’s office, only to be added to his hit list. They were nearly killed on the highway. And now the D.A. wanted them for murder. They were due for some good luck.
The young lady explained, “Some folks were staying in Cabin 17. They had it booked through next Friday. But they got a call a couple of hours ago about a death in the family, so they went home. In fact, they just drove off, five minutes ago.”
Cynthia said, “Then we’d like to take their place, and rent that cabin through next Friday. How much is it?”
“Sixty dollars a night, plus tax.”
Cynthia reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet and retrieved five $100 bills.
Greg’s eyes widened. Then he tried to act as though it was no big deal. Cynthia signed some papers, took the change and keys, and they were off to their cabin.
The cabins were lined up along a dirt road. Greg wished the houses on his street in Coreyville had this much space between them. Cabin 17 was at the far end. It was the size of a small hotel room. Two double beds, two chairs, a small table, a TV, a little closet, and a bathroom. Greg carried their bags inside.
Cynthia turned on the TV and found the Tyler station.
They watched for any news about themselves.
*
Andrea Newly was not in her office, so Angela Hammerly walked down the hall to the kitchenette. She found Andrea there, getting a cup of coffee.
“Just a got a call from the Sheriff. They got a hit on Greg Tenorly’s bankcard. He used it to buy gas over on the other side of Quitman.”
“Sounds like they’re headed back here.”
“Yeah. They’re taking the long way around. But it’s only a matter of time now. We’ve got ‘em.”
*
John X had been driving
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