The American Café Page 22

  About the time John stuck his nose back into his work, something snapped, and a piece of metal dropped into the grass below the bike. John cursed, then looked at Rosalee. “I guess I'll take you up on that ride. At least you know where I live.”

  “Oh, yes.” Rosalee could feel the blood draining from her face. What was she thinking? It was as if her mouth was working and words were coming out, all independent of her brain. Suddenly she wished like hell she had a drink. She dismissed him and his motorcycle and headed for the meeting hall. He followed and sat on the opposite side of the room. When the meeting was over, he followed her outside and stood beside her Jeep.

  Rosalee stopped and looked at the ailing motorcycle. “You're just going to leave it here?”

  “It'll be all right.”

  “Did you know it's leaking oil everywhere?”

  “If it didn't leak oil, it wouldn't be a Harley.”

  “Oh.”

  They both climbed into the Jeep. Rosalee started the engine and turned east toward the street that would take her back to Highway 82.

  “I just need to get back to the house and pick up a couple of parts,” he said, “then I'll catch a ride back down here and fix it.”

  “You act like this is a normal thing.”

  “It is.” John sounded unemotional about the whole thing.

  Rosalee decided to disregard any offer he might be fishing for to bring him back to Tahlequah. The two rode in silence for a few moments, then Rosalee abruptly turned south back into the heart of Tahlequah, the opposite direction of home. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding? I can always eat.”

  “Then if you don't mind, let's grab a bite. I'm starving.”

  He shrugged. “You're driving.”

  Rosalee drove east on Downing Street and pulled into the first slot available at the Sonic Drive-In. They scanned the menu and both ordered foot-long chili dogs with all the trimmings. John offered to buy, and Rosalee let him. Food, she thought, the eternal bonding mechanism.

  They ate in silence until every morsel was gone, then John got out and deposited their trash in a nearby receptacle. Rosalee started to feel easier about her passenger. When he got back in, they headed north toward Liberty. Finally, Rosalee began to work her way into a conversation.

  “I'm sorry about your mother.” She could sense John's muscles tighten and regretted her words as soon as they came out of her mouth.

  After a few moments, he seemed to relax. “I know you think my momma killed your friend, but she didn't.”

  “Goldie was my aunt,” Rosalee corrected him.

  “Whoever she was, Momma didn't kill her.”

  Rosalee couldn't stop herself now. “But they said she left a note.”

  “Yeah, but all it said was she was sorry for what she did. It didn't say she killed anyone.”

  “Oh.”

  John's voice began to rise in pitch. “My mother was a crazy old woman, but she never hurt anybody.”

  “How can you be sure about that if you say she was crazy? She threatened someone at the café, too, you know.”

  “You have no idea how many times my momma picked up a shotgun and pointed it at me. All I had to do was walk over and take it away from her. It was always empty.”

  “Damn, you are crazy,” Rosalee muttered under her breath.

  “What?”

  She could feel his level of agitation building but decided to go for broke anyway. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I'm adopted, and someone said your mother had twins when you were born, and—”

  John turned in his seat and stared at her.

  She gritted her teeth and punched the accelerator.

  “Slow down,” he barked. “You're going to kill us.”

  She hit the brake and slid to a stop. “Please, I have to know. How old are you?”

  “I'm thirty-six.”

  Rosalee gasped.

  “It is none of your business, but I did have a twin sister. She died at birth.”

  Rosalee's eyes widened. “Are you sure she died? I'm thirty-six, too.”

  John began to laugh. “You're the one that's crazy, lady. Who in their right mind would want to deliberately become part of the Mobley family?” He continued to laugh.

  “Were you born in Liberty?” she asked.

  “Somewhere around here, I guess. Out in the sticks, I think. I sure wasn't born in a hospital if that's what you're asking. I guess Grandma must have delivered me.”

  “Maybe we could ask your grandmother.”

  “You can.” He tilted his head and stared at her. “If you can talk to the dead.” Then he laughed again.

  Rosalee felt weak and had no idea what to say. As she began to drive north again, a brown paper sack rolled across the highway in front of the Jeep. She ignored it and drove straight ahead. John screamed, covered his head with his arms, and dove toward the floorboard. “Watch out!”

  Unnerved, Rosalee hit the brakes again and the Jeep slid to a stop on the shoulder of the road. “What's wrong with you?” Her voice climbed to a higher pitch. “It was just a paper sack!”

  John moved his hands and raised his head. He blinked his eyes a couple of times as if trying to focus. Slowly, he sat back up. “Oh, man,” he whispered. “I'm sorry.”

  “Are you okay?” Rosalee's voice trembled.

  “I thought it was a bomb.”

  Damn, Rosalee thought, he's having flashbacks. What did I get myself into this time? “Are you sure you're all right? Do you want me to call someone for you?”

  “You don't get it, do you?” he snapped. “Everyone's dead. They're all dead. I'm the only sucker left. Even my best buddy in the Marines bought the big one. And he did it while he was standing two feet from me. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have a friend's brains splattered all over your face?”

  Rosalee pulled the car back onto the road and drove as fast as she could toward Liberty. She thought about stopping and asking him to get out, but then he would probably hunt her down and kill her. She would just keep quiet, get to town as soon as possible, and never speak to him again.

  “Do you want to know why he did it?” John's voice calmed.

  Rosalee ignored him and continued to drive.

  “Do you know how hot it is in the Iraqi desert?” he asked. “Do you have any idea what it's like to have sand fleas crawling all over you?” He pulled his lips into a snarl. “They crawl in and out of your eyes…and your ears…and your—” He stopped in midsentence. “Forget it.” After a few minutes, he spoke in a normal voice. “I'm sorry. You don't have anything to drink stashed in here, do you?”

  She ignored his questions and they rode in silence until they reached the edge of town. “Do you want me to go ahead and take you out to your house?” she asked.

  “Just let me out by Maynard Johnson's garage. I need to buy a part.”

  She parked in front of the service station and John started to get out.

  “Wait,” she said. “I'll pay you.”

  John leaned back into the vehicle. “You want me to pay you for your gas?”

  “No, I'll pay you if you'll give me a blood sample so I can prove whether or not you're, uh, whether or not we're related.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You want me to what?”

  “Just a little sample. Maybe we can get Dr. Brown to do it. I already know where I can get the test done.”

  John looked as if he was sizing her up. “How much?”

  Rosalee searched her brain for an amount. She couldn't pay very much, mainly because she didn't have any money, and whatever amount she did offer would have to come out of her wages as a waitress, which wasn't a lot. She turned the tables. “How much would you want?”

  John started to get out of the vehicle again. “Well, when you decide, let me know.”

  “A hundred dollars,” she blurted.

  John smiled. “Just tell me where to line
up, Sister, I'll give you all the blood you want.”

  “Can I call you?”

  “It's listed in the phonebook under Pearl Mobley.” He slammed the car door and disappeared into the garage.

  30

  Lance Smith leaned against the passenger-side door of his truck, dividing his attention equally between the front door of Polly Gibson's house and a set of computer printouts. “I don't know how anyone can make heads or tails out of all these numbers.” He dropped the reports on the front seat beside him.

  Charlie sat behind the steering wheel, complaining. “This is a waste of good vacation time. I'm using time that would have been better spent stalking game. Deer season is less than six weeks away, you know.”

  Lance smiled. He was thankful his friend was willing to take personal time to help him.

  “Geez,” groaned Charlie. “Grandma was slow, but she was old. How long does it take to ask a few questions? Are you sure they said they didn't need our help?”

  “I don't think they used the word need. They said they didn't want our help.”

  Forty-five minutes earlier, two FBI agents had climbed out of the unmarked vehicle now parked in front of Charlie and Lance and entered the Gibson house. They were intent on collecting as much information as possible about the funny transactions the former teller had made at the bank and about what the connection might be between her and her friend, the illustrious George Stump.

  Lance tightened and relaxed his fist over and over in an attempt to exercise the muscles in his left arm. Every squeeze hurt, but he would rather work through the painful sensation than tolerate the pills the doctor gave him. He planned to do whatever it took to regain full use of his left arm in record time, regardless of the pain. As far as today was concerned, there was no way he would miss this event. He would savor every word when he got the chance to recite to George Stump his Miranda rights. In the meantime, Lance hoped Stump wouldn't show up at Polly's house before the FBI guys finished.

  “Those boys are slower than molasses,” Charlie complained again.

  Lance checked his watch, then glanced at the right rearview mirror. “I just hope they don't screw it up.”

  He knew the agents had gone in ready to make Polly an offer, armed with a stack of bank reports showing the illegal transactions she had made. She wouldn't know they mainly wanted information about the bigger fish in this scheme: George Stump. “Spill the beans and we'll let you go” was their MO. They would get what they needed, have her sign a statement, probably videotape the whole thing, then cart her off to jail, too. Lance didn't like the federal agents, but they were a necessary evil in this situation.

  “Why would Stump risk his career on a penny ante embezzlement deal?” asked Lance. “It doesn't make any sense. He doesn't appear to need the money.”

  “Being the only nag in a one-horse town might've gone to his head,” Charlie said. “Criminals rationalize all kinds of crap.”

  “Yeah, but he couldn't be so stupid as to think he could get away with it, especially pushing Sadie in the vault.”

  “Why not? It's a false sense of security. Some of these country law-dogs think they can get away with murder.”

  “I'm wondering if that isn't exactly what happened.”

  Charlie looked at Lance and frowned. “I can't imagine he would be that stupid.”

  “He took a cinnamon roll from a dead woman's house, Charlie.”

  “That doesn't mean he killed her.”

  “Yeah, but don't you think that's kind of sick?”

  Charlie chuckled. “You need to grow a thicker skin.” He stretched out his left leg as far as he could and dug around in his pocket for something. “Speaking of thick skin, I keep forgetting to give you this souvenir I saved for you.” He pulled out the red shotgun shell and handed it to Lance. “You'd better save this for good luck. Luck's the only explanation I can think of for you to still be alive and kicking.” Charlie looked into the distance. “Too bad about the girl. She was awful young to die.”

  Lance reached over and took the empty shell with his right hand. “I really hate what's happening to the young people around here. They get hooked on that junk, and it eats their brain cells. She could have killed her own kid.”

  “She damned near killed you.”

  “I know, but I took that chance when I signed up for a job wearing a badge. That kid didn't even ask to be born into a world like that.”

  “Don't start getting all soft on me. Because when you do, it's going to be time for you to start looking for another line of work.”

  Lance turned the red plastic shell around in his hand and examined it carefully. “You know, this looks exactly like the shell that Red brought in. He said he got it out of one of Goldie Ray's flower pots.”

  “What's the deal on that case? Wasn't it the prisoner who hung herself?”

  “She made a confession of sorts in front of Stump and the preacher and implied in her suicide note that she had done something she was sorry for. But remember, the shell didn't match back to the shotgun she had. Stump closed the file, but I don't think she killed Goldie.”

  “You know, Sadie made a similar comment when I showed that shell casing to her.”

  Lance looked at Charlie. “What did she say?”

  “I don't remember exactly. I think she asked if this shell could have come from the gun that killed Goldie, but I told her that chance was pretty remote.”

  “You should never question that woman's intuition.” Lance bounced the shell in his hand, then shoved it into his pocket. “I might just check that out.”

  The front door of the house opened and Polly walked out in handcuffs. The agents flanked her, each one carrying a briefcase. After they secured their prisoner in the back seat of their vehicle, one man got behind the wheel and the other walked to Lance's side of the car. “We've got what we need,” he said. “She rolled all over your police chief, including his little trick of locking the other employee in the vault. We're ready to pick him up now, but since you said you wanted the arrest, we'll defer to you. Bring him to Tulsa. That's where we're taking her.”

  Lance nodded and the agent left to join his partner. Charlie clicked on his seat belt and revved the engine. Both vehicles pulled away from the curb in tandem. At the end of the block, one headed out of town, the other toward downtown Liberty.

  When George Stump arrived at the police station, Lance was already seated at his desk with his feet resting on the corner. Charlie sat across from him in a chair facing the doorway.

  Stump dropped his keys on his own desk, picked up the phone and dialed. “Maggie, do you have any messages from Mrs. Gibson?” he asked. “We were supposed to have a meeting and she didn't show.” After a few moments, he grunted and hung up. As if seeing Lance for the first time, Stump walked toward him and raised his chin. “What the hell are you doing here? Do you have a release from the doctor?”

  Lance ignored the questions and lowered his feet to the floor. Charlie stood. “This is my friend, Charlie McCord,” said Lance.

  Stump plastered a smile across his face and shoved out his hand. “Nice to meet you. I hear you're quite a lawman.”

  Charlie ignored his hand. “Sorry I can't say the same about you.”

  Stump's smile faded to a frown about the time Lance pitched a videotape onto the center of his desk.

  “What's that?” asked Stump.

  “That's a tape that came out of the cash machine that sits in front of the Liberty branch of First Merc State Bank,” said Lance.

  Stump's face showed no emotion.

  “They installed a camera in that machine just about a week ago, about the time someone pushed a woman into the vault and slammed the door. I'm sure you remember that, don't you?”

  Stump continued to hold his stone face intact. “Oh, yeah, when your girlfriend locked herself in the vault. I do remember that. She caused a waste of law enforcement time as I recall.”

  “Well, the angle on the camera records everyone who enters an
d leaves the bank.”

  A bead of perspiration formed on Stump's forehead. “Well, that's great work, Lance, but I think you should still be nursing that gunshot wound of yours. Why don't you get out of here and get some rest? I'll have someone check out this tape.”

  “I can't. There won't be anyone to run this office.”

  Stump glared at Lance.

  “You see,” continued Lance, “the reason Polly Gibson didn't make your meeting is because she is on her way to Tulsa, with two men, in the back seat of an FBI car. And that's why I'm here without the permission of any doctor, and that's why my friend Charlie McCord is here to stand in for any physical limitations I might have due to a wounded shoulder. You see, George Stump, you are under arrest for obtaining money through fraudulent means, and assault and battery. You have the right to remain silent…”

  As Lance finished advising Stump of his Miranda rights, Charlie reached over, removed Stump's gun, and motioned for him to remove his holster. The color drained from Stump's face.

  “That bitch,” muttered Stump.

  Charlie handcuffed Stump and patted him down for any hidden weapons. “You can't go around pissing off women, man,” snickered Charlie. “It'll get you in the doghouse every time.”

  Lance picked up the phone and dialed. “Maggie, this is Lance…Yes, I'm okay…. Yes, I'm sure…. Listen, you're going to have to forward any emergency calls to either the sheriff's office or the Cherokee Marshals…. Yes, we have an agreement with them…. I've already talked to them. They are expecting your call…. The chief?…Oh, the chief is going to be gone for a while, quite a long while as a matter of fact.”

  31

  As Sadie drove toward Liberty in the early morning hours, she began to question how long she could keep it up. Driving back and forth to Liberty was beginning to take a toll on her. She never seemed to have extra time to spend with her aunt and uncle, not to mention Sonny and Joe. It was worse than the long hours she used to put in at the bank. She thought about Emma and how she had pitched in to help with the café and what a blessing it had turned out to be to have Rosalee to help, too. She thought maybe their mother-daughter relationship would improve the longer they worked together, and if it did maybe she could turn the café over to them to run. She hated to admit it, but trying to fulfill her childhood dream of owning a café may not have been one of her better ideas.