Waters owns Saint Mary’s?
On a hunch, I asked Garner if he’d ever heard the name ‘Harold Simpkins?’
“Uhm… It seems like Elizabeth brought a man named Harold to the hospital a few times. But I’m positive she said his last name was Simpson, not Simpkins. He was a small guy, balding a bit. Said he lived in Taylor, Texas, with his mother. I think he was some kind of actor, like a bad TV spokesman or something.”
After the conversation with Garner ended, I was no longer sure of anyone or anything. Why had Waters led me to believe that Garner had written Keyes’ recommendation? And why had he said Keyes was qualified to be a medical office manager when her training was as a medical technician? It had been the letter of recommendation that had gotten Keyes the job in my office. Why did Waters want Keyes in my office?
I started thinking that I was paranoid, like Frances Fowler, Andy’s wife.
I sat staring for a long time at the half-shredded business card. Emmaus Church Road. I searched Google Maps with my phone. It was local — in Chapel Hill, just eighteen some odd miles away.
Harold Simpkins.
I sat and thought for no more than five minutes.
I walked to one of the nearby strips of thrift shops that dotted Keyes’ neighborhood, and with what money I had, bought a cheap mountain bike. I purchased an old baseball cap and sunglasses, as well, and began pedaling to Chapel Hill.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The sky was overcast and the sun was setting as I biked north on Fordham Street and then turned west on Emmaus Church Road. With the waning light and poorly marked houses in this rural area, I had to look hard to find the address, 4360, which was barely visible on the dilapidated mailbox. The yard was so overgrown with small pines and untrimmed hedges that I had a hard time even seeing the house.
I slowly pedaled by the property and saw a dim light in one of the first-story windows. The blinds were partially drawn. I couldn’t really make out anything from the street. I kept riding until I reached a dirt road about a quarter mile away, where thick woods stood on both sides and afforded good concealment. I stopped and quickly stashed the bike in a thicket.
I began trekking back toward the house. A hundred yards short of the property, I left the road and ducked into the tall weeds. I crept up to the house, and, hiding behind an overgrown juniper next to the window, peeked in. The large living room was furnished with only an old sofa, an end table with a small lamp on it, and a television sitting on a crate. The sofa was at an angle in front of the TV, with part of the sofa’s back facing the window. I had to position myself at the corner of the window to see who it was that was sitting there. It was a man, reclining on the sofa, and watching TV. He wore a sleeveless undershirt, black boxer shorts, and sandals. He had dark skin and black, closely cropped hair. Lying next to him on the couch was a phone — a landline.
I moved carefully around the exterior of the house, looking in all the other windows, but it was too dark to see in. When I reached the side of the house, I noticed that the door to the detached garage was partly open, and I quickly walked the twenty paces or so over to it. Two vehicles were parked inside: a gold Cadillac and a black pickup. I moved past the Caddy to the Ford F 150, noting its tinted windows, chrome running boards, whitewalls, and fog lights.
The truck faced outward, like it was ready to go. Standing in the dark, letting my eyes adjust, I noticed that mud covered the truck’s rear license plate.
A license plate number. Hard data. Something I could take to the authorities, along with all the rest I knew.
But to read it I’d have to creep around and lean over to wipe it clean.
That’s when it all went wrong. I crept closer to the license plate and felt my foot squish into something soft and wet, like pudding: a plastic bag, I could see, with the outline of a decomposing human being in it — a disintegrating body, slowly turning to liquid.
My head jerked upward! I knocked a metal pot from a shelf! It hit the ground with a loud clang!
Dammit!
I started to run. Lights began to come on — illuminating the yard. I heard a door slam. Five men who looked a lot like the television watcher ran from the house. The first three had guns.
I bolted across the brightly lit yard and down the road. I tore down the road as fast as I could, headed for the protection of the thick woods where I’d stashed the bike. I could hear them after me, on foot, and then there was a boom! — a shot — just as I reached the protection of the trees.
Suddenly I felt a sharp burning sensation in my left shoulder and reflexively put my hand over my ripped shirt and felt the warm, sticky blood oozing from a fresh wound. I glanced over my shoulder. The men were close behind. I darted to the left, away from the bike. They followed. I kept running, pumping my legs as hard as I could until I reached a ravine. Without breaking stride, I jumped in, changed direction, and doubled back toward the bike.
Behind me, I could now hear the men shouting at each other in confusion. They’d gone past the ravine and I’d apparently disappeared.
The bike was only fifty yards away. I could get on it and escape. I yanked the bike out of the bushes and jumped on and started pedaling down the road. My heart was thumping in my chest by now and I was panting like a triathlete racing for the finish line. I pedaled as hard and as fast as I could, standing on the pedals to get optimal thrust with each rotation.
In the distance, back toward the house, I heard the truck fire up and charge out of the garage. It’s wheels squealed as it hit the road and turned in my direction.
I could hear it coming from behind. Just seconds before the truck’s headlights illuminated the road, I swerved hard into the woods and darted left and right through the thick stands of trees. I was in the dark and veering around fallen logs and rocks. I was trying to take routes I thought no one could follow. Briars ripped my arms and low-hanging limbs slapped my face, but I kept going.
I could hear the truck turning into the woods. It’s lights came on and cast a flying, flashing light through the trees. The men on foot had clearly regrouped and were somehow in coordination with the truck now. I could hear them moving in the forest.
Then I heard it: the sound of a flowing creek. It was the best way.
I raced toward the sounds of the creek. It was my only hope. I found an opening in the trees and flew down the bank and into the water. The flowing creak reached the middle of my wheels but the bike kept moving. Within seconds I’d crossed the water and had pedaled up the bank, dismounted, and was now carrying the bike.
I glanced over my shoulder. On the opposite side of the creek, the front end of the truck had come barreling down the slope and was in the water, but its rear end was still up on the bank. I could hear the wheels spinning in the mud. It was stuck.
I came to a path on my right. I hopped on the bike, and hoped it led to a main road. A few minutes later, miraculously, I came out on Emmaus Church Road.
The house was no more than 100 yards away, on the opposite side of the street.
I heard an engine turn over.
Shit! The Caddy!
Hopping off the bike, I ran into the bushes and hid by the side of the road, my head down. The Caddy whizzed by. I waited until it was out of sight, then pedaled as fast as could, taking country roads and back alleys all the way back to Keyes’ apartment.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO