A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (best selling autobiographies .txt) 📖

“Hello. Hello? Anyone there?” Dead air.

I didn’t think much about a call like that. Lots of folks around there just hung up if the person answering didn’t sound like the one they wanted. Efficient, if not particularly neighborly.

That evening, I wished I hadn’t been so pigheaded about not getting cable. I turned and twisted the foil-draped rabbit ears, hoping something would make a difference. It didn’t. The steep mountains guaranteed varying degrees of television snow. But I couldn’t justify the cost of cable, given I was still working hard to make the store turn a profit.

I wasn’t one of those anti-television fanatics who made everyone feel guilty for seeking a little entertainment. Television had a lot of potential for sharing ideas and creativity. Okay, that potential hadn’t panned out—yet. But so what? At that moment, I was seeking only a nice, vacuous blur. I hated to admit it, but I was feeling lonely.

Jake had just curled up next to me on the couch when the phone rang again. And again. A hang-up each time. By the fourth call, I started to feel uneasy. I’d had my share of menacing phone calls over my career, and these felt similarly creepy.

“Hello,” I said. Dead air again. “Come on, pal. Either say something or quit calling.”

“Get out of our lives, bitch.”

“Who is this?” was all I could think to ask.

“None of your goddam business.”

“Well, then how can I get out of your lives?”

“Move. Go away. Stop what you’re doing, if you know what’s good for you. Go back where you came from,” he spat out before hanging up. At least I think it was a man. Sounded like something—a tobacco-stained red bandana popped into my mind—covered the receiver.

I couldn’t imagine the caller was referring to Duane and Abit’s successful first day with the rolling store. Even Brower’s father with his SuperMart wouldn’t care about that. And I’d lived in Laurel Falls too long to have the unwelcome wagon calling. Sure, early on, I experienced some animosity from those who resented a newcomer taking over “their” store, but that edge had worn off. At least I thought it had. 

I checked the locks on the doors and sat next to Jake. “Keep me safe, okay, Jakey Boy?” He looked me in the eyes, licked my face, and curled up again in the nest he’d made on the couch. I gave up on the TV and decided to turn in, as well.

As I lay in bed, I wondered what the caller hoped to accomplish. Was I going to stop looking into Lucy’s death just because some jerk cursed and threatened me? Move away? The amateur nature of the demands eased my fears. Just crazy thinking, I told myself.

But night demons began dismantling my newfound confidence, reminding me of the time I was cornered in the Dupont Circle Metro station by an irate interviewee. When he grabbed me, a Vietnam vet nearby literally picked the guy up and carried him to the tracks. I learned later that the vet had held him over the third rail until I could escape the station. On other occasions, I’d had to defend myself with mace or self-defense techniques.

Turned out, these memories actually had a fortifying effect on me. A few phone calls, I told myself, weren’t going to stop me. Finally, I drifted off to sleep, and the phone remained mercifully quiet.

Until the next night. And the next. I tried to imagine who was making these calls. I called Alex.

“It’s bound to be one of those yahoos from the Green Treatise. Maybe someone spotted you, or was aware of your inquiries,” he said. “Get that idiot sheriff involved; he speaks their language.”

“That sounds worse than receiving the calls. Besides, he’ll just deride my concerns.”

“Okay, hon. You’re probably right. I just don’t know what you see in that place. It’s time to come on home.”

“I am home, Alex. Besides, you make D.C. sound like Disneyland. I had plenty of troubles there, too.” I didn’t remind him that many of them were inside our home.

“Okay, but what did you expect? That they’d welcome your inquiries into their testosterone treatise? Or that the murderer wouldn’t mind your solving this case?”

“I underestimated how fast news spreads here. I worked under the radar in D.C., but here there’s no such thing.” It had finally struck me what I’d gotten myself into. I felt like locking the store and running away.

“Hey, I know you. You couldn’t not help someone, or her family. You had to do this. Just be careful. These folks may be more dangerous than the Armani-suited snakes in D.C.” 

“Well, at least there are less of them here.”

“Fewer.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not in the mood for your wordsmithing. Do you ever take a break from AP Style?”

“Not hardly, to quote Abit.”

“Leave him out of it.”

“Okay, we’re getting on each other nerves. Gotta go.”

“Me, too.” When we said goodbye, we both sounded sad.

Chapter 37: Della

The following Tuesday, I was working in the back of the store when the bell over the door jingled. I came out front but couldn’t see anyone. As I headed over to check the cash register, a deep voice made me jump. Tattoo Man was standing behind a tall display in the canned goods aisle. He was still clean-shaven, but his hair had grown out since the funeral.

“Have you been calling me and threatening me?” I barked at him, surprising myself as much as him. He winced and waved his hand in that universal motion meaning “no way.”

“No ma’am. I’m not here about that.” Did he even know what I was talking about? I couldn’t tell. He looked over his shoulder and asked if we could go in the back.

“What for? I like it right here, out front.”

“Yeah, but I don’t.” I tried to outwait him, but he won. As we settled into folding chairs in the back, I asked him what he wanted.

“Look, I didn’t kill that girl,” he said in a hushed tone, as though he was afraid of being overheard. Or that my store was bugged. Conspiracy theories did that to people. He looked over his shoulder and asked, “That retard outside? He seen me come in. Will he talk like everybody else in this town?”

“Start over, pal. Abit is my friend, and he’s no retard. I’m more concerned about his safety than yours.”

“Yeah, yeah, that didn’t come out right. I’m just scared, you know?”

“Yeah, I do know—those phone calls are giving me the creeps. Is that why you’re here? Getting me to stop looking into this mess?”

“No!” he said, pounding on the table. “Just the opposite. I was set up for that murder, and I didn’t do it. I barely knew that girl. I’d seen her at a few of the GT meetings, but she didn’t do no harm, that I saw, anyways.”

“Okay, back up. You don’t want me to stop looking into this?”

“Right. Word is out that you aren’t letting this thing go the way Brower is. Fine with me. I want you to find whoever did it, because it weren’t me, and I don’t like the idea of this hanging over my head. Sure they say it’s a suicide, but the statue of limitations don’t wear out for murders. That means somehow, sooner or later, someone could try to pin this shit on me.”

“Statute,” I said, ever the wordsmith.

“Huh?”

Never mind. “What shit are you talking about?”

“Her death. Why else would someone call me and tell me I was needed out at that clearing. I thought the call was some GT prank, you know? Like some kind of initiation rite or test. Grissom, our leader, is always asking folks to prove their allegiance. I was told to go meet with some gov’ment guys who were trying to ‘broker a deal.’ They said dress nice, so I pulled my hair back and found that shirt in the back of my closet. I showed up, and there’s that girl. I touched her to see if she was dead, and she was cold. And looked a mess and ...”

I motioned for him to move on. I remembered all too well what she looked like. He stood and started pacing. “So my prints are probably on something—if that lazy-ass sheriff had bothered to look into it. I was glad he didn’t. Well, at first. But now I figure I want the shit who did this to get caught. That would clear me—and my conscience.”

“So you’ve got a conscience?”

He nodded, as though my question deserved a legitimate answer. Maybe he was telling the truth. “This GT crap is out of control,” he said. “I don’t want no part in it anymore. I think that’s why I was sent out there. They don’t like it that I’m questioning Mr. High-and-Mighty Grissom Wells. And they