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Read books online Ā» Mystery & Crime Ā» A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (best selling autobiographies .txt) šŸ“–

Book online Ā«A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (best selling autobiographies .txt) šŸ“–Ā». Author Lynda McDaniel



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further, Iā€™d like to know more about him.ā€

ā€œFarther.ā€

ā€œNo, further. Itā€™s an idiom, not a real neck that can be measured.ā€ Alex was silent. He hated being wrong. I knew I was right because I used to joke, once I got my sense of humor back, that the best thing I took away from our marriage was Alex teaching me the difference between further and farther.  ā€œBesides,ā€ I said, changing the subject, ā€œarenā€™t you the one always questioning why Iā€™m working on this case? Maybe this will get me to stop.ā€

He agreed, and we talked about the store and Abit. I think he could sense I didnā€™t want to get off the phone, unlike my usual distaste for long conversations. He told me about his latest paying gigs (emphasis his), one in particular that involved research into the National Film Archive in Culpeper, Virginia, a charming town that was rapidly becoming a posh bedroom community for D.C.

ā€œWhy donā€™t you come up? We could stay in one of the B&Bs there.ā€

ā€œHow could you suggest that with Jake missing?ā€

ā€œHey, throw me a bone, er, I mean, help me out here. Iā€™m just trying to cheer you up. Once you find himā€”and I have a good feeling heā€™ll get loose or someone will find himā€”you could come for a visit. Get away for a while and let things settle down.ā€

I thanked him and told him Iā€™d think about it. A trip to Culpeper did sound nice. And the Southern Crescent train even stopped there. Or I could drive and bring Jake along. If we had time, I could take him into the city and show him Lafayette Park, Rock Creek Park, and all my old haunts, including the house I used to live in. I was feeling excited about the trip, but then remembered I had to find Jake first.

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image Chapter 46: Abit
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ā€œStop the truck,ā€ I shouted.

It was raining pretty hard as the Rollinā€™ Store headed through the Beaverdam community. Duane was grinding the gears, working hard to get us through some bad ruts. Weā€™d just left our stop near the Ledfordā€™s place when I saw something in my rearview mirrorā€”a blur moving round behind us.

ā€œI cainā€™t stop it here. Weā€™re in the mud.ā€

ā€œSTOP IT!ā€

ā€œWhatā€™s the matter with you, Abit? Cainā€™t you hear me?ā€

ā€œThereā€™s something in the road!ā€ Duane went a few more feet and found solid ground. He put the brakes on, and I was out before he fully stopped.

ā€œWhat the hell, are you ...ā€ 

I ran back the way weā€™d just come, and thatā€™s when I knew for sure what Iā€™d seen. A little skinny with a nasty old rope tied round his neck, but that was Jake, all right, coming about one hundred miles per hour straight at me. He jumped into my arms, and Iā€™d never felt anything so good in my life. He licked my face all over, and if he hadnā€™t been so covered in mud, I might have done the same back at him. I carried him to the bus, and Duaneā€™s face lit up. We walked back to the Ledfordā€™s to ask if we could use their phone to tell Della weā€™d found Jake. Mrs. Ledford welcomed us in and even gave us some coffee. Duane said Della was beside herself with happiness.

On the way back, Duane and I talked about how Jakeā€™d probably chewed through the rope when he heard the busā€™s gears grinding. Dogs are smart like thatā€”they knowed things we didnā€™t. He sure stank from being wet and all, but he stank good. I was able to get most of the mud off himā€”but Mama was going to kill me when she saw how much was still on my overalls, which were my best since I was working with the public. But I didnā€™t care. We pulled up and Duane just laid on the horn, toot-tooting it.  Della came running out the door, and I held up Jake to the windshield best I could since he was wiggling like a baby pig, and she came running alongside the bus as Duane drove toward the back where he parked it. What a reunion!

ā€œOh, Jake, honey, where have you been?ā€ Tears were streaming down her face, and truth be told, me and Duane had wet faces, too. We all huddled together and patted Jake. Duane had to get on home, so Della and I sat together for a while, just loving the way Jake felt.

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image Chapter 47: Della
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That night, Jake and I walked around our property well after dark. Iā€™d bathed him, fed him an extra helping of his dinner, and threw his favorite chew toy. We were venturing out together for the first time in a week. I knew I couldnā€™t be overly protective, but I sure wanted to keep him close.

While he was sniffing something mysterious in the meadow, I looked up at the sky sparkling with stars Iā€™d never seen before, city lights having stolen their luster my whole life. I felt a jolt run through me, a reminder that the power of nature was always available, though most of the time I was too worried or self-absorbed to notice. A visceral sense of gratitude and creativity took hold of me. 

In D.C., Iā€™d experienced something similar whenever I looked at the Jefferson Memorial or the U.S. Capitol. Glorious, imposing buildings. Or the astounding cherry blossoms along the Tidal Basin, when spring wasnā€™t too cold or wet for them to thrive. The inspiration they offered kept the mean old bastards in that city from blinding me to all we could be as a nation and as individuals.

Standing there, I felt my heart beat fast as I thought about how much I really did love my new life. I could see funky old Coburnā€™s in the moonlight, and I was struck by how my humble store drew on every skill Iā€™d acquired over my lifetime. I felt a sense of purpose like never before. And there was Jakeā€”running free. Home again. Happy. 

The next day, though, I returned to my usual troubles. Besides Gregg and what to do next, I woke up in the night worried about where Abit had found Jake. I was so relieved that he was safely home, Iā€™d forgotten to ask. And I wondered when Alex was going to get back to me about Gregg.

Two of those questions were answered later that afternoon, while Abit helped me put up supplies in the storeroom and stock the shelves out front. The phone rang when I was in the bathroom, so I shouted at Abit to answer it.

ā€œReally? You want me to answer the phone?ā€ he asked. I could hear how incredulous he was.

I cracked the door and shouted, ā€œYes, please. Iā€™ll be out in a minute.ā€ (Iā€™d learned that a small store offered little to no privacy.) ā€œAnd hurry upā€”the phoneā€™s about to go to the machine.ā€ I heard a voice so serious I thought, for a moment, that someone else had come into the store and grabbed the phone. Then his voice became more animated. He even laughed. Who in the world was he talking to?

When I came out front, Abit mouthed, ā€œAlex.ā€ He was really enjoying himself, and I didnā€™t want to break in. I was glad he no longer seemed suspicious of Alex. He recounted how heā€™d found Jake and then said, ā€œWe donā€™t know exactly. It wasnā€™t that far from the Ledfordā€™s, but we know they hadnā€™t taken him and tied him up.ā€

Then he said, ā€œHereā€™s Della,ā€ holding the phone out but suddenly grabbing it back. ā€œEr, when are you coming own here again? You promised me a ride in the Merc.ā€ I chuckled at him and took the phone.

ā€œHi there. Whatā€™s up?ā€

ā€œGreat news about olā€™ Jakey Boy.ā€

ā€œYeah, weā€™re all pretty happy about it. Thanks to Abit,ā€ I said, looking over at him in the canned goods. He was beaming and started juggling three small cans of creamed corn (a favorite hereā€”especially since the empty can made a dandy receptacle for tobacco juices). When did he learn to do that? I wondered.

ā€œI did that research on Gregg you asked for.ā€

ā€œAnd?ā€

ā€œWell, he must have lied on his Forest Service application, because after some digging, I found some youthful indiscretions.ā€

ā€œHow youthful? Were they sealed?ā€

ā€œYeah, teenage shit, Iā€™d imagine. So maybe he didnā€™t have to lie. I shouldnā€™t have made him sound like Kipland Philip Kinkel.ā€

ā€œWho?ā€

ā€œOh, some sick teenager in Oregon who went on a killing spree. You know how it is with journalistsā€”we know way too much trivia.ā€

ā€œSo nothing serious in his background, at least not beyond his teenage years? What did he do before the Forest Service?ā€

ā€œHe was involved in banking, of all things. Which could speak to his skill in forgery, if he kept up his delinquent ways, that is.ā€

ā€œOh, thatā€™s a stretch. But Iā€™d never pictured Gregg as a banker.ā€

ā€œWhich is probably why heā€™s not one any longer. You donā€™t seem like a bookkeeper, either.ā€ He was referring to my first job, right out of college, when that was all I could get, even with a journalism degree.

ā€œAnything else?ā€

ā€œHe was married for about five years in the ā€˜60s; they didnā€™t have any children and divorced in 1968. One thingā€”she did get a restraining order against him. I couldnā€™t find any violations of that, though, so I donā€™t know if he just lost his shit when she left him.ā€

That worried me, given what Kitt said and my own experience with his ill-tempered rejection. I didnā€™t want to talk about that with Alex, so I asked, ā€œWhen did he leave banking?ā€

ā€œAbout the same time as his divorce. Thatā€™s when he worked with runaway kids. Not sure how he qualified for that, but so many kids were in trouble then, he probably fell into it. I couldnā€™t find anything much after that and before the Forest Service. Heā€™s been a model employee thereā€”quickly rising to ranger in your Podunk town.ā€

ā€œHe doesnā€™t work in a town. He oversees half a million acresā€”or at least his district.ā€

ā€œOkay, heā€™s ranger of the year. Whatever. Thatā€™s my report. I still think you need to be careful around him. Looks can be deceiving.ā€ 

I thought to myself, youā€™d better believe it as I pictured Alex taking off his wedding ring so someone could run her fingers through his wavy hair with good conscience. ā€œThanks, Alex. I really appreciate your research. But I havenā€™t heard any reason to stop believing heā€™s the good guy we all think he is.ā€

ā€œNot ā€˜all.ā€™ If heā€™s been framed, someone in that wilderness you call home doesnā€™t like him.ā€

ā€œOr someone needs a patsy, and it has little to do with who.ā€

ā€œWhom.ā€ 

I felt like hanging up. He was right that time, but so what? Nobody used ā€œwhomā€ in conversation. ā€œOkay, I guess thatā€™s it,ā€ was all I said.

Abitā€™s head popped up like a whack a mole. He dramatically mouthed ā€œWhen?ā€ I knew what he meant, but I

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