One Desperate Life: A gripping thriller, page 12
We reached town, and my driver finally spoke.
“Is this the spot?”
I nodded, and he pulled up in front. He helped me down, and I entered the hotel, passing several patrons as I walked through the foyer. I nearly bumped into one gentleman. He was a massive man with a long beard and an animal-skinned jacket. He looked like he’d be more comfortable spending the night in a teepee than in a hotel. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, reached my room, and fumbled with the key. My hands were shaking as I tried to fit the key in the lock, and I had difficulty shoving it in the hole. I stopped, took a few deep breaths, then tried again. The key turned, and the door opened. I stepped inside the room and closed the door behind me. I collapsed on the bed, forgetting how uncomfortable it felt to lie on my belly. As I turned over, I saw a man standing over me.
“Richard?”
His hand clamped over my mouth. “This doesn’t look like Chicago, Louise.”
Chapter 31
Louise
I opened my eyes as I heard horse hooves shuffle to a stop outside the dank cabin I’d been sleeping in. Sunlight streamed through the uneven boards that acted as walls in the shelter Richard had put me in. After surprising me in the hotel last night, he taped my mouth and bound my hands and feet at the wrists and ankles. He left me lying on the bed as he sat in a chair opposite me. We glared at each other for hours, neither speaking, until he finally stood and left the room, locking the door behind himself. After several minutes, I rolled to the edge of the bed and considered my options. I knew I could roll off, but decided against it. Bound as I was, with my arms behind my back, I wouldn’t be able to catch myself and would likely land on my stomach, injuring the baby. Eventually, I gave up and rolled back to the middle of the bed and prayed. I asked God to send someone to the room. I begged him to save me. But he didn’t.
An hour later, long after the sun had gone down, Richard returned. He walked to the bed, and I cowered away from him, afraid of what he might do. He held a knife and pointed it at me. I held my breath as he lowered it from my chest to the ropes that bound my legs. After freeing me, he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to the edge of the bed, then helped me stand. I stood before him, petrified and uncertain. He looked down at me, and for the first time in hours, he spoke. The words were low and sharp.
“We’re leaving. Louise, I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if you force me.”
I believed him. He had killed a wife before. He held up the knife, the light beaming off the tip. He waited, staring down at me, looking for an answer. I didn’t hear a question, but I nodded. He grabbed my arm, moving me to the door. He opened it, poked his head around the corner, then pushed me out, the knife pressed against my back. I could feel the tip threatening to cut me. He walked behind me as I descended the stairs, his large hand wrapped around my bicep. I considered trying to break loose, making a run for it, but I knew it was futile. He was bigger, stronger, and faster. Even if I weren’t pregnant, I’d be no match for him. He could do what he wanted to me, and I’d be powerless to stop him. My lip trembled below the tape at the thought.
When we reached the main floor, I looked at the registration desk with hope, but saw it was unoccupied. It must have been at least two a.m., and everyone except us was asleep. We exited through the side door to a waiting horse and buggy. I turned to look at him, but he just pushed me toward the stairs leading to the seat. He joined me, snapping the reins and guiding the coach through the deserted streets.
Before long, we were outside of town, gliding along the dirt path. The only sound was the clip-clop of hooves as we moved further into the country. His cold, emotionless demeanor scared me more than anything. I would have preferred he scream and yell and hit me.
After what must have been thirty minutes, he turned off the road and followed an overgrown path to a small wooden cabin near a creek. The area was dark, other than the bright, full moon. At the cabin, he stopped and pulled me with him as he descended the steps. He pushed me toward the structure, and that’s when I started to fight. I turned and kicked him, then struggled to get free. I did all I could to break loose of his grip, but he was too strong.
He dragged me toward the structure with no doors or windows. I knew I was going to my death. He had killed before, maybe more than once. The setting was eerily similar to his first wife. He had left her body in a shallow grave in a field in Colorado. I imagined he would take me inside, kill me, then either leave my body until the grave was dug or skip town. It could be days or weeks before anyone would find me, if they ever did.
Once inside, the roof of the structure blocked the moonlight, and my heart beat so fast I thought it might pound out of my chest. I wondered how he might do it—a slice to the neck or a blade to my heart. I wondered if it would hurt, or if it would be so quick that the pain wouldn’t register before I stopped breathing.
I stood, waiting, anticipating the blade, but it never came. Instead, he led me to a corner and began rebinding my legs. I was over allowing him to mistreat me and kicked my feet. I struck him, and he cursed before gripping my leg and punching my quad muscle right above the knee. The pain was so sharp it made me gasp and cry out. I fell back against the wall, crumpling to the ground. He grabbed my legs again, sitting on my feet, and finished tying them at the ankles. The fight was out of me.
He stood, and I listened in the dark to his footsteps moving away. His shadow filled the door frame, and I thought he might say something, but he just turned and walked out. Moments later, I heard him climb aboard the buggy and drive away, leaving me alone in the dark, dusty cabin with packed-dirt floors, gasping in pain from the punch to my leg and the tightness of the ropes around my ankles and wrists.
With my back against the cabin wall, my thoughts went to what might become of me. I wondered if any animals might be in these woods. If a pack of wolves might circle the structure, their howls growing louder as they closed in. Before long, I stopped worrying about what might come from outside the cabin to what was already with me. I imagined spiders crawling up my dress. Snakes and rats eager to sample human flesh.
Eventually, exhaustion overcame my fears. I gave up worrying, shifted my weight to reduce the pressure on my bound arms, and drifted off. When I woke, it was morning, and someone was outside. I assumed it was him, but allowed myself to hope that it could be someone else. Maybe they saw the tracks and came to investigate. I heard footsteps approach the cabin, and when I saw who it was, the disappointment was so sharp I could almost taste it. Richard filled the doorframe of the cabin. Our eyes met, and I rolled from my side to my back. Dried grass and dirt covered one side of my face. He approached, and I cowered in fear as he extended his hand. I expected pain, violence, but he brushed the dirt from my cheek and chin and picked the grass from my hair. Fear gave way to curiosity and surprise. I no longer saw the same anger as the night before.
He reached for the tape over my mouth and pulled at the edges. I flinched, and he watched me before ripping down in a lightning motion. My lips erupted in pain, and I could feel myself breathing hard as he supported my back and helped me to lean against the wall. Once I was settled, my arms and legs still bound, I noticed he had water and food. He had left it on the floor when he came in and now went back to retrieve it. He poured the water into a cup, then held it to my lips. I savored the taste, not realizing how thirsty I’d become. After I drained the cup, he pulled it back and sat on the floor a few feet away from me.
“Better?”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, and nodded.
He watched me, his blue eyes dark and hooded. “I have some questions I want to ask, and I don’t want any lies. I want honesty.” Hate filled my eyes. “Okay?”
“No.”
“No? Louise, you’re not in the position to negotiate.”
“You want answers from me?”
He nodded.
“Untie my hands and feet.”
He shook his head.
“What? Are you afraid of me?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Hardly. I just don’t want to chase you when you run. Plus, you have the baby to think of.”
With one word, he had crystallized why I was still alive. Why he was feeding me. I carried his baby, and that’s what he wanted. I was only useful to him until the baby was born. Strange as that might sound, it was a comfort. I had time.
“At least untie my arms. I still won’t be able to run with my legs bound.”
He raised an eyebrow, considering it. Shrugging, he came forward. I moved to the side so he could access the rope at my hands. After a few seconds, I felt the release of pressure at my wrists as he pulled away the rope. The fronts of my shoulders were sore as I brought my arms forward. They’d been locked in the same position for so long, they were numb. He returned to his spot on the floor opposite me, and I placed my hands on my knees.
“How did you know to come here?”
I stared back at him, considering my options. I knew I could never trust him again, but I also had to be smart. I needed to play his game and wait for the right moment to strike.
“I found a picture of you with your father. On the back, it had your name and Colorado Springs.”
He nodded. “What did Aunt Bea tell you?”
“That you murdered your wife.”
His eyes didn’t even blink. He gave no reaction. “And you believe her?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what to believe. I hope it’s not true. I can’t imagine you doing that.”
He continued to watch me closely. “I didn’t. She was sick, not physically. It was in her head. She changed. All she wanted, all she cared about, was having a baby. For months, we tried, but she couldn’t get pregnant. She couldn’t handle it. Depression overcame her. She blamed me. She was angry with me, with her life. I didn’t realize how bad it was until one day I came home. She had cut her own throat. Blood covered the floor. It was awful. When I approached her lifeless body, I found bruises covering her. She had beaten herself with the iron rod we kept next to the fire. I realized then that her hate for me was complete. It wasn’t enough that she killed herself, she wanted me to suffer. She wanted me to be blamed.”
“What did you do?”
He shook his head. “The only thing I could think to do. Bury the evidence. I loaded her into the back of a wagon and drove her to a secluded field. I dug a hole and left her there, hoping nobody would find her.”
“Well, they did.”
“Is that what Aunt Bea said?”
I nodded.
“Believe me, Louise. I did nothing wrong. I know I should have gone to the police and told them what had happened, but they wouldn’t have believed me, and I was scared. I couldn’t take that chance.”
“I believe you.”
He sighed in relief.
“But why didn’t you tell me this before? Why so many secrets?”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I should have. I just…she hurt me so badly. It’s hard for me to trust another woman.”
He came toward me and untied my legs. I stretched them, moving them back and forth, happy that I had fooled him.
“Are you hungry?”
I nodded. He handed me an apple, and I bit into it. Juice ran down my chin, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. “Let’s go home,” I said.
He agreed and helped me to my feet. He picked up the food, and we walked out to the buggy. Once we were seated and headed back to the road, I rummaged through the bag and pulled out a slice of bread. As I brought it to my mouth, I stopped. I recognized the smell. Before that moment, bread had always seemed so common, so usual, that I wouldn’t consider its scent. Although it smelled good, I couldn’t smell the difference between one recipe and another. I thought it was all the same. That’s when I realized I was wrong. Different bakers used different ingredients. No two loaves were the same. Every loaf had its unique smell, its unique flavor. This was the same bread I had smelled yesterday. The same bread I had tasted fresh from the oven.
I knew now where he had gone when he had left me last night. I could see it from the mud on his shoes and the dirt on his hands. He had eliminated loose ends. The only people who knew who I was and where he was living.
I took a bite of the bread and relaxed back on the seat. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. I turned and looked at the mountains in the distance, pretending to marvel at the scene. But my attention wasn’t on the jagged peaks. My focus was on three months. I had three months to plan my escape. After that, I’d have done what he wanted, and he’d have no more use for me.
Chapter 32
Michael
Michael looks down at the note in his notepad, then back up at the two-story house nestled in the wealthy suburb of Chicago, called Oak Park. This must be it; he thinks. The street number on the house matches the note. He walks along the circular drive, up the stairs, and knocks on the door. Nobody answers, but before he knocks again, a middle-aged woman opens the inside door. They look at each other through the screen.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Mrs. Clifford?”
The woman shakes her head. “No, Mrs. Clifford is resting inside. What’s this about?”
“My name is Michael Delaney. I need to talk to her about her daughter.”
“Barbara?”
“Yes.”
“Has something happened?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’d feel more comfortable talking with Mrs. Clifford directly.”
The woman comes forward and opens the screen door for him. He can see from the tremble in her lip and the lines around her eyes, he’s worried her.
“Come inside, please.” She ushers him through the entrance, and his eyes are drawn to the staircase. He can’t remember seeing anything like it. He imagines it might be something you’d find in the White House. “Wait here.”
The woman, obviously the housekeeper, ascends the stairs and disappears while he stands gazing at the large chandelier hanging above his head. While he waits, he counts the number of lights. Although electricity isn’t new, it isn’t cheap, and he wonders about the cost of running a light like this. Not to mention how tall the ladder must be to replace each bulb.
The housekeeper returns, walking toward him down the stairs. “Mrs. Clifford will see you in the library.”
She leads him down a hallway, then stops beside the fourth door on the left. She opens the door, and light fills the room. A large window sits on the opposite wall, the drapes open, allowing daylight to flood the room. A solid, round table sits in the middle of the space. On either wall, floor-to-ceiling bookcases house hundreds of books.
The woman points to a chair around the table. “Please, sit. She’ll be with you shortly.”
Michael does as he’s told, and the housekeeper leaves the room. He squints at the bookcases, trying to read some titles on the spines of the books.
The door reopens, and Michael stands as Mrs. Clifford enters the room. He guesses she’s in her mid to late forties. Her hair is light with gray mixed throughout. She’s thin with a delicate curve to her body. She’s a beautiful woman now. He can only imagine what she looked like twenty years ago. She has impeccable posture, and if he knew anything about clothing, he’d guess her attire was expensive.
“Mr. Delaney?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please, sit back down.”
He follows her command, and she walks to the other side of the table and sits. She looks at him, and he can see by the tremble in her hand, her housekeeper has warned her.
“Ma’am, I’m not here about Barbara.”
Her eyebrows raise with surprise.
“I want to talk about your other daughter.”
Mrs. Clifford takes a sharp breath. “Louise?”
So that’s the name…
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you found her? Where is she? Is she okay?”
Michael holds up a hand as she rises out of her seat. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t know where Louise is. I was hoping you might help me locate her.”
Mrs. Clifford sits back down dejectedly. “You don’t know where she is?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
She frowns, and even though she’s half his size and older, her look frightens him. “Then what are you doing here asking me about her?”
“Ma’am, I’m trying to find her. I hoped you could tell me where she is.”
A hardness enters her speech. “And what makes you think I know, Mr. Delaney? Who are you, and why are you looking for Louise?”
Michael tells her he’s a detective from Denver. That he’s been tracking a man named Thomas Slater of Colorado Springs. He tells her about finding him in a jail in Kansas City. About learning of his other identities, Ernest Johns, Richard Amhurst, and Charles Watson. She nearly jumps out of her chair at the last name.
“Charles?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He’s in Kansas City? Not Houston?”
“That’s correct.”
“And Louise, was she with him?”
Michael hesitates. “It appears she might have been. In Austin.”
“Texas?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Michael pauses, unsure of how to say the next part. “Ma’am, it looks as if she married him. She was pregnant with his child.”
Mrs. Clifford looks away. “I know,” she whispers.
“You know?”
Mrs. Clifford exhales a slow breath and doesn’t meet his eyes. “That’s why she left here. It’s why she chased after him. I knew she was pregnant. I can recognize the signs.”
“Forgive me, ma’am. You knew she went after him?”
Mrs. Clifford looks up. Her green eyes sparkle, and Michael is taken aback by her beauty. “We went to New York City for a family funeral. My sister and her husband died unexpectedly. Charles went with us. He was a business acquaintance of my husband’s. When we came back, he stayed in New York. I could tell by Louise’s reaction that something was going on between them. I took my time confronting her. She could be difficult.” Mrs. Clifford shakes her head. “Not long after our return, she snuck away one night. We hired an investigator to find her, but he made it to Houston and no further.”
