Chapter 12 The Loner
Maria opened the screen door, walked down the porch steps, and put her hands on her hips. “I want to see the package.”
“Okay. Frankie Ray, go with her. Let her go in alone. Maybe she’ll be able to calm the old man down. He’ll probably think she’s his guardian angel.”
“You’re a funny man, Bobby Joe. Let’s go, Frankie. Let’s get this over with.”
Royce heard a shuffling of feet at the front door. He turned his head toward the wall and pretended to be asleep. He glanced at a small mirror on the wall, hanging on one nail. He could see the image of a beautiful woman, a far cry from the last human who had come through the bunkhouse door.
“What’s your name, Mister?” Maria grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Who are you?”
Maria laughed. “Someone just said I was your guardian angel.”
Maria leaned over him and checked out the bandage on his head. She used her left hand and pushed forcefully on his shoulder. She got up and returned to the center of the room. “You’ll live.”
She stopped in the doorway for a moment. The old man looked so defenseless. He reminded her of her father…a father she hadn’t seen in a year. The United States government has taken care of that. The man had been deported so many times she’d lost count.
The woman closed the door. Royce listened as he heard the footsteps of two people. He heard his guardian angel say, “You’re right, Frankie. He doesn’t know his name. It’s probably just as well.”
Maria entered the main house, and Frankie Ray followed. “Okay, guys. Who is this guy?”
Bobby Joe obliged, “His name is Royce Reirdon…some famous TV anchorman. I’ve seen his face on the tube many times.”
“Me, too.” Frankie Ray yelled. “I remember him. He’s covered a lot of Oakland games. He wasn’t bad. He certainly made his share of money, and we have a big piece of it already.”
“Shut up, Frankie.” That’s enough. Keep your mouth shut.”
“Forget it, Bobby Joe,” Maria said. “I told you I don’t care how much money you have. I have my own. What I do care about is getting out of this mess. Reynaldo and Rios will be here in a few hours. Your plan better work.”
“Oh, it will…it surely will,” said Bobby Joe, now with two shotguns, three handguns, and enough ammo on the kitchen table to do the job.”
Frankie Ray laughed. Maria rolled her eyes.
“Remember you two. Don’t panic. When they get here, stick to the plan. Do your assigned job, and we’ll roll out of here tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 13
Joan Reirdon put her apron on and checked the meatloaf in the oven. “Another fifteen minutes should do it.”
She continued to set the table for dinner. Her prayers had been answered. The doctors were positive on Friday. Dr. Ezra Hamilton had called for a meeting in his office, wanting to see her and Jake. “I need you both in the office at two o’clock if you can make it.”
“We’ll be there fifteen minutes early,” responded Joan. “We could use some good news, doctor.”
“I just may have some for you. See you then.”
She had held Jake’s right hand as tight as she could as they both walked into Hamilton’s office. “Sit down, you two. I’ll be with you in a moment,” as he quickly left the room and returned with the latest X-rays.
“I think we have a handle on this,” Hamilton said as he put the X-rays down and sat down at his desk. “There’s remarkable…I mean, remarkable improvement. Jake, I think you’re on the road to beating this thing.”
Jake smiled. Joan grabbed a tissue out of her purse. “That is great news, Doctor Hamilton.”
“We still have another four weeks of those God-awful treatments, but Jake, you seem to be flying through those treatments. They seem to be a piece of cake for you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I know how necessary they are. My goodness, what great news!” Jake said as he stood up and shook hands with Dr. Hamilton.
Joan had a smile on her face as she returned to the kitchen and pulled the meatloaf out of the oven.
“Mom, it’s Grandpa on television,” Samantha exclaimed.
Joan rushed into the den. Samantha was standing in front of the television. Tammy and Elizabeth were kneeling next to Samantha. “See,” Samantha pointed. “It’s about Grandpa Reirdon.”
Joan put both hands over her face and turned up the volume of the remote. “This is Isabel Fontaine, KATV news in Little Rock. “One of our own is missing…
The Associated Press is reporting from Tucson, Arizona, that one of our former sports anchormen, Royce Reirdon, was last seen in Santa Fe, New Mexico, on December 13th. He reportedly was heading to his residence in Tucson after spending the last weekend with his family in Jacksonville, attending the funeral of his ex-wife, Maggie Williamson, known to everyone in the Little Rock newspaper community as Maggie Haggerty, a former Arkansas Gazette feature editor.
Reirdon was last seen driving a 2012 Black Lexus, and it was reported by Tucson police detective Charles Drummond that a phone call was made to his family from somewhere just west of Santa Fe early Saturday morning. That was the last contact anyone has had with Reirdon…anyone with any information on the whereabouts of Mr. Reirdon, please call the helpline…the number at the bottom of the screen…in other news…”
Jake had just returned from a short fifteen-minute walk just in time to catch the tail end of the broadcast. He put his arms around Joan. “What’s happened to him, Jake? I just talked to him. He had read your mom’s letter and was so sorry; it sounded so sad reading the letter and learning about the news regarding you. He said he’d be back next week and couldn’t wait to see us, the girls…Josh, Bonnie, and the boys.”
“I don’t know, Joan. Dad’s a strong-willed man. He’s always been a fighter. I’m sure we’ll be hearing from him soon. He’s had his issues, but I have to admit I saw something in his eyes last week that made me feel so hopeful.”
“I did too, Jake. I did, too. He’s been a troubled man for so long. It would be wonderful to have him back in our lives, especially for Samantha. Look at her. She’s still staring at the screen. She’s always loved him so much.”
Samantha looked at her parents. Tears were coming out of her young eyes. “Where is Grandpa?”
Chapter 14
Bobby Joe was indeed cruel and vicious enough to pull off his plan. He had instructed Frankie Ray and Maria to hide both cars in the barn. There were plenty of holes in all four sides of the worn-down barn; the biggest gap was on the roof, and hopefully, the two tough guys from Juarez, or wherever they hailed from, wouldn’t notice the cars.
The important thing in Bobby Joe’s mind was to leave Maria’s Jeep out in the open. According to Maria, the two men would usually pull up alongside Maria’s vehicle and distract the money, which was lodged in a specially made compartment hidden underneath the Jeep's floorboard. They’d hand Maria her take, stuff the loot in their own hidden-away storage units, and take off south toward the mountains…probably another drop-off point near the Mexican border. The whole transaction would take less than thirty minutes.
Bobby Joe had yet to shoot anyone. Oh, he had come close now and then. But this would be a first, and he already had justified the killings. “These guys are from a cartel. Who’ll miss them? Certainly, not anyone in Arizona or anywhere in the country, for that matter, cares about them.”
Heck, a couple more beers and maybe a little of that white stuff Frankie Ray loves to put up his nose, and he’d be ready to rumble. He wouldn’t normally use the stuff, but this might be the one time when a little dab would do him good. Hell, it looked like Frankie Ray had already started.
Bobby Joe looked over at Frankie Ray. The man was propped up in a corner with a shotgun on his lap. He looked like he was dead, but when the time came, he figured Frankie Ray would come out of his doldrums and start wailing away with that sawed-off shotgun.
When it came down to it, Frankie Ray had more guts than he did. Although he would never let his little brother know that.
As for Maria, he will know soon enough if she can handle a .45. He had a feeling she’d be able to do just that.
As for the unknown…this Reynaldo…and this Rios fella, well…Bobby Joe had no idea who he was dealing with. The bottom line: hit them first, an old-fashioned ambush.
“Bobby Joe, I’m gonna check on your package.”
“Why?”
“The old man could make some noise. Screw things up. I’m going to level with him. Let him know what’s going down.”
Bobby Joe figured, what the hell. The old man in the bunkhouse will probably be hit in the crossfire or die of a heart attack. The two “goons” from Mexico had taken center stage. Everything else could wait.
“Alright. Go for it.” Bobby Jo checked his watch. “You said these guys are always on time. Hurry up. Get back out here and take your position on the steps.”
“Bobby Joe, I’m getting tired of you telling me what to do.”
“Get over it. Once this is over, you won’t have to worry about Frankie Ray or me. You can do whatever you want. I have a feeling if you survive this, you will have earned a new lease on life.”
“You got guts, Bobby Jo. I’ll give you that.”
Maria put the revolver in her shoulder harness and headed for the bunkhouse.
Royce could sense she was at the door. The young girl may not be his guardian angel, but she might be his ticket out of this mess. He planned to keep playing his only hold card — she didn’t know he had regained his memory, and those two goofballs up in the ranch house certainly didn’t have a clue.
Being a movie nut might work in his favor. He’d seen enough old Western movies…he’d seen characters in a jam like this before. Unfortunately, this was real life, and he hadn’t come up with a sharp object at his disposal, a sharp enough instrument capable of freeing his hands from the rope, which at that very moment was turning both of his wrists into raw meat.
The guardian angel appeared and closed the door behind her.
“Okay, old man, you’re gonna get an earful. So listen up.”
Maria informed Royce, “All hell is going to break loose within the hour. Two men will show up at my doorstep, and chances are the next thing you’ll hear will be gunfire…and plenty of it.
“Your two kidnappers have this crazy plan to take them down, pack up all the money, and get the hell out of here. One way or the other, I’ll be leaving, too. Dead or alive.”
“My God!” Royce said. “Who are you, people?”
“We certainly aren’t like you, are we, Mr. Reirdon?”
Royce stared up at her. He was never accused of having a poker face.
“You know who you are, Mr. Reirdon, don’t you?”
“Call me Royce.”
“Okay, now we’re on the same page,” Maria said.
“You’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”
Maria took a deep breath and shook her head. “Well, I’ve never been accused of that.”
She gave him a gallon of water. Maria reached into her jeans pocket and handed him a couple of slices of old jerky she had stored away in the kitchen. “When the time comes, turn this bed over and put that saddle over you…and mattress, too.”
Maria unfastened the rope.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Well, let’s just say you remind me of my father. He gave me a lot of good advice when I was young, but most of it I never took to heart. But the one thing I do remember. He told me once to be kind to my elders. So, we’ll let it go at that.”
Royce tried to say thank you, but his guardian angel was no longer there.
Chapter 15
“Drummond, they got a match downstairs,” Avery said as he hung up the phone.
“Let’s get down there,” Drummond said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
It took the two detectives less than two minutes to hurry downstairs and another two minutes to examine the prints.
“You know, John,” Drummond said. “After looking over these prints, I think I know what happened. The robber had wiped the desk clean, then focused on the wall safe, lost his footing, caught himself, and forgot to go back and wipe the desk clean again.”
“So, who is this guy?” John asked. Drummond pulled out the information sheet.
“Robert Joseph Johnson…goes by Bobby Joe. He’s got an arrest record a mile long. Picked up for petty theft a couple of times in…let me look again…in Ashland…Ashland, Kentucky, got some jail time in Chicago, this time for stealing a car…but as a juvenile, the rap sheet shows about a dozen instances.”
“What about family…relatives…single, divorced…married?”
“None of the above. Father not listed…mother died young…drug-related. Wait a minute, he’s got a younger brother. Franklin Raymond Johnson, 23. Bobby Joe is a year older. Franklin was in jail for thirty days in Chicago, got in a fight behind a bar, and roughed up a couple of college kids…the parents pressed charges…, and he ended up in the county jail…. He beat up an inmate and walloped him. The guy spent two months in a hospital.”
“Any addresses?” John asked.
“Nothing in Chicago. They were both born in Clay County, West Virginia. Last known address, there was some Home for Boys…that wouldn’t do us any good.”
“Here’s something interesting. It’s a newspaper clipping from an Ashland paper. The Johnson brothers’ address was listed as 401 S. Center Street #12…. It turns out the owner of the apartment building… James Andrew Call made news back in 2009 when a sting operation took him down…he was the head of a car theft business…one of those fast and furious operations like you see on television…where the car is gone in sixty seconds.”
“So they’re a couple of scum bags. Chances are, they’re the guys who have Reirdon. If I’m wrong, I’ll turn in my badge. I’ve never felt more sure about anything in my life,” Drummond said as he threw the Reirdon file on his desk. “I’ll tell you right now, they are not in Kentucky, not in Illinois…they are somewhere close…they could be in a motel room on Miracle Mile for all I know.”
Drummond thought for a moment. “Let’s beef up things around here. John put two more units on this…let’s check every sleazy motel along Miracle Mile and up and down Oracle Road…all the way to Stone. Maybe we’ll find these guys right under our noses. Let’s get these mug shots to the media. Somebody has got to have seen these thugs.”
“I’m on it, Charlie,” Avery said as he grabbed his coat and left the room.
Chapter 16
Pastor Williamson sat quietly in his church sanctuary. He stared at the wall painting just ten feet away — an image of the Last Supper. He felt a shiver run down the back of his spine. It had turned cooler…the sun had disappeared, and just a last-minute glow to the west was left on the horizon as he glanced out the window.
He stood up, threw on his Arkansas Razorback jacket, left his desk, walked down the aisle of his church, and took a front-row seat in the first pew. He eyed the image of the Lord, standing tall, just a few feet behind the pulpit. Just hours ago, he had stood there…preaching the word of God. His sermon ended just a few hours ago; his job for the day was done — his hour-long oratory focusing on the importance of family.
The Pastor thought of his boys, his two fine young men, back in Jonesboro, finishing up classes…before taking a well-deserved break and returning home for the Christmas holiday. He certainly needed them at his side.
He thought of Josh Reirdon and his family in North Little Rock…he thought of Joan, Jake, and the girls in Conway…his beloved Cassie in Heaven…and yes, Royce Reirdon, what a troubled man. “Where was he?”
Less than an hour ago, the Pastor had glanced at the small 26-inch television set in his office. Royce was still in the news…such a national figure to the sports world. He had admired his talent — his ability to face the lens of a camera and look as if he were sitting down to dinner and talking to a group of friends.
A national audience at his disposal. “How do they do that?” He admired men like Billy Graham, who could speak to thousands of people at once. Williamson shook his head and looked to the far wall of the church…the attendance this morning was 125.
Williamson never told a soul — not even Cassie —just how he fought to calm his nerves every time he clipped the miniature microphone to his left lapel and stepped up to the podium.
Ten miles away, Josh sat glued to the television screen, watching yet another news spot on the disappearance of Royce Reirdon. “Dad, where are you?” Bonnie brought Josh a cup of hot chocolate and curled up beside him… hugging him. The three boys were outside in the driveway bouncing balls off the rim…playing in a world of their own…pretending to be LeBron James, Carmelo Anthony, and Kobe Bryant.
Less than an hour away, Joan, Jake, and the three girls were just as transfixed…the nightly news was finishing up a forty-five-second spot, updating absolutely nothing…no new information on the whereabouts of the former Arkansas anchorman.
Thirteen hundred miles away, the sun had yet to set in the City of Tucson. Harriet had just finished dinner, and the nightly news had just started. She watched Charlie Drummond answer questions for two minutes straight. “Nothing to report. We are refining our search, focusing on specific areas of the city, and expanding our search throughout the state as well. Reirdon was last seen in Santa Fe, New Mexico, so we are working with the Arizona and New Mexico Highway Patrol and using all the services available to us — including special units of the FBI in both Arizona and New Mexico.”
Harriet felt sorry for Drummond. He looked exhausted. He was up against it, struggling to find the right words to say to the reporter, knowing full well that finding Reirdon was like looking for a needle in a haystack at that very moment.
A few miles away, Drummond had called it a day. He parked his car in his garage, pulled out his house keys, and entered his home at 701 S. Seventh Ave, an old historic piece of property he had paid dearly for.
Drummond loved the location. His home is within walking distance of downtown Tucson. Most of the residents of the laid-back town had scattered to the outskirts of the city, many of them settling north toward the Catalinas, some building homes far to the east toward the Rincon Mountains.
That was just fine with him. Sooner or later, the powers-to-be in town would wise up and turn the downtown area into a money-making proposition. He envisioned a time in the not-too-distant future when downtown Tucson would be the happening place, with new shops, restaurants, and streetcars — a project that is edging toward completion, a $197 million project scheduled to be up and running in 2018.
Drummond figured it wouldn’t be long before his investment would pay off. He was a handyman, loved to tinker with wood, and was skilled with his hands. It was therapy for him and took his mind off his job, which at times could — and would— drag him down to the depths of hell.
Time off didn’t occur very often, but when it did, he’d try to make the most of it. It was satisfying for him to spend his free time bringing a piece of antique furniture to life, mixing his woodworking expertise with a bit of tender, loving care.
Drummond’s job would drive anybody to drink. That had become a problem at times as well, and tonight was one of those times. He grabbed the remote and turned on the television. He reached into the cabinet for his bottle of Jim Beam, grabbed a glass, and hit the ice cube icon on the front of the fridge.
He fell into his recliner, poured himself a shot of whiskey, and watched a reporter on television question some worn-out cop named Lt. Drummond who was mumbling through an interview.
“Did I say that?”
“Where is this Reirdon?” Drummond mumbled to himself. Where are those two lowlifes, and just how far have they gone? What were they capable of? Is Reirdon already a dead man?”
Drummond finished his drink and shut his eyes. He was asleep long before the ice in his glass had disappeared.
Chapter 17
Rita Maldonado put in fourteen-hour days. A single mother with a teenage boy to feed, Rita worked at Motel 6 as the head desk clerk from six in the morning till two o’clock in the afternoon, then picked her boy up at school, made sure there was food for him for dinner, took a quick shower, got dressed and hustled to her night job at the Socorro Cafe from six in the evening until midnight.
She did this five days a week, but luckily, she had earned the weekends off at both jobs and could spend time with her young son, who was a budding track star at Socorro High. Jesus Maldonado was a blessing to Rita. Jesus stayed out of trouble and spent his spare time running. His best mile as a junior, four minutes and twenty-eight seconds — one of the top times in the state in 2012 and a cinch to win his division next May at the state finals in Albuquerque.
As for Rita, she worked hard and won the Motel 6 Employee of the Month three months in a row last winter. She spoke very good English, despite the fact that she was forced to quit school her junior year in high school to take care of a newborn. The father was long gone.
She loved to read the newspaper — especially the sports page, and during the track season, there were plenty of articles about Jesus. The proud mom made sure she cut out every one of the articles and placed them in the family scrapbook.
But on Sundays, it was her day of rest and a chance to make her son’s favorite dinner — beef and cheese Enchiladas, rice, and refried beans. Jesus would help with the cleanup and then sit with her as she watched the news while he finished up the homework he needed to turn in on Monday.
“Jesus!” Maria yelled as she pointed to the television. “Those two guys stayed in Room 6 for two days last week. I knew there was something wrong with those two.”
“Are you sure, Mom?”
“Yes, I’m sure. They were strange. They asked for towels only. Didn’t let us in to clean the room for two days. It was odd, but they told us the customer was always right. I told the girls, well, okay then. That’s less work for you. Give ‘em the towels and be done with it.”
“Mom, there’s a number to call.”
“I will…I will.”
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