“I know. That was Jasper. I was there! That was my friend that I told you about; he was the one that was shot. Seymour, please tell me you really don’t know anything about this and you didn’t have anything to do with shooting Jasper! It would just break my heart if you were involved somehow.”
“Blanche, of course I’m not involved! I would never do anything to hurt you. Somebody is setting me up and I don’t know why. Please believe me! I need someone to trust me. I need your help. I don’t know who else I can phone, you and my mom are the only people I can trust.”
“Seymour, I do believe you. What do you want me to do?”
The cell phone rang a dozen times; he looked at it in the palm of his hand, knowing who was at the other end. He was so ready to be done with Felix, and whoever, but he also knew he would not see his money if he didn’t do the one last ‘outing’ they required of him.
“Yeah,” he said, a lack of excitement in his voice.
“Lester, you ready to conclude our business arrangement?” Felix asked.
“Absolutely, I’m ready to move on to bigger and better things,” he said, thinking of Blanche.
“Your info packet will be there Thursday morning when you get up, just as before. This one has to be specific, on time, and nobody gets hurt. The info will be in your packet.”
“What do you mean ‘on time’?” Lester inquired.
“We’ll have the occupant away from the house from 8:00 p.m. to about 10:00. You’ll have the house to yourself, do this one up right, tear it apart like you were in a frenzy. This one has to put the police and the media over the top,” his handler informed him.
“They obviously don’t know about Seymour’s arrest and the implications,” he thought. “Okay, I’ll be there at 8:00 p.m. and out before 10:00. Anything you want left at the scene, pictures or anything like that? I could do some more artwork if you like.” Lester’s plan would move ahead regardless of how it would impact his employer’s scheme. He wasn’t stupid, not by a long shot, he knew it was just a matter of time before they figured out that Seymour had nothing to do with the shooting or the break-ins, but before that revelation came he would need to be on his way with Blanche.
“Nope, you just keep doing what you think is working, you’ve been very good at what you do. Your money will show up when the job is done,” Felix assured him.
“It better! Don’t want to have to track you guys down. So this will be the last time we talk, I’m abandoning my place after Thursday, don’t try to find me,” he concluded.
“Oh, I’m sure we won’t need to, thanks for your help. Good luck!” Felix hung up, a wry smile twisted across his face.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Blanche left the library as soon as she was able to secure front desk help. Marcus had been kind enough to offer a ride to the overwrought young lady, and they were on their way to the Wood farm, following the directions Seymour had given her. The ride was a quiet one, she had much to think about and sort out in her own mind. Marcus was cautious, but comforting with his words of hope, he spoke with assurance and clarity that brought peace to her mind. He knew Seymour as well as anybody at the library and knew that he was not the person he was accused of being. It was not in his nature. His confidence in a speedy resolution would make it easier to break the news to Mrs. Wood, and having the older, wiser Marcus there couldn’t hurt.
They rolled up to the modest, unassuming farm. A small country home sat at the end of the drive, the old pickup truck parked there, a couple of hay bales in the back. A barn with red, peeling paint could be seen a ways behind the house, the doors hanging loosely from the worn hinges, and a rusty old tractor just visible inside. It was not what Blanche expected, but she could see signs of the hard work and labor that had fashioned the character of the man she had fallen for. A woman in her late fifties walked onto the porch, an apron around a well worn blue dress and a mixing bowl tucked inside the curve of her left arm, with a spoon handle in her right that extended into the bowl.
The two got out of the Galaxy 500, Marcus’ pride and joy, cherry red and in mint condition.
“Mrs. Wood,” Blanche said, walking toward the woman on the porch and extending her hand.
“Yes, and you must be Blanche.” She easily recognized the librarian from her son’s description. “You are even more beautiful than my son described. It’s no wonder he’s so taken with you. And who’s your friend?”
“Mrs. Wood this is Mr. Marcus, he works at the library with Seymour and me.” The two shook hands.
“Well, what brings the two of you this far out in the middle of the day?” the puzzled woman inquired, looking back and forth between her two visitors.
“I’m afraid we’re bringing some bad news, Mrs. Wood. It seems that Seymour has gotten into some trouble at school.”
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, not allowing Blanche to finish her statement.
“Pretty serious trouble. He’s been arrested for having a concealed weapon hidden in his locker.”
The older woman staggered back, bumped her left elbow against the screen door and dropped the bowl, shattering it into a hundred pieces, shards covering the front porch. Mr. Marcus stepped quickly to catch the woman before she went down as well. Blanche also bolted forward to assist, as she was able. The three moved into the living room and Marcus led Mrs. Wood to a chair where she sat, putting her head in her hands.
“What does this all mean? My Seymour would never do anything like that. He doesn’t own a gun, where would he get one?” Her mouth was speaking the first things that were coming to her mind.
“Now, now Mrs. Wood, we know as well as you do that Seymour isn’t capable of hurting anybody. This is just some sort of practical joke, the authorities will get to the bottom of it and he’ll be home in no time,” Marcus offered.
“I hope you’re right,” she said, taking a hold of Marcus’ wrist and holding it tightly.
“I think we should go see him,” Blanche said.
“Absolutely! My boy must be a mess,” she said, knowing him well. “Give me a minute to get my things together and we’ll go. Should we go together?” she asked.
“You bet mum, I’m at your disposal today. We’ll get this done together.” His upbeat and optimistic attitude helped to lift the women.
The trio arrived at the Valdosta Police Station in the late afternoon and entered the front doors, arm in arm. Mrs. Wood approached the front desk and spoke with the Sergeant that was manning the station.
“Yes, young man, I believe you have my son in custody here, and we would like to see him,” she said, motioning to the others with a sweep of her hand.
“I’d love to let you speak with him Mrs. Wood, but we’ve just transferred him to the Sheriff’s Department. You should be able to catch up with him there,” the officer said, understanding the anguish the accused mother must be feeling.
“The Sheriff’s Department, why have they taken him over there?”
“The Sheriff has jurisdiction over The Stalker case and we positively identified the gun found in your son’s locker as the one stolen from a crime scene, and the one used to shoot Jasper Jackson on the weekend,” the police officer clarified for the group.
“That’s impossible! Seymour was with me at home on Saturday night. He could not have shot anybody. This is ridiculous! Somebody is railroading my boy and I won’t put up with it!” The older woman suddenly became very angry and defiant. She turned, stormed away from the desk, took the other two by the hands and led them from the police station.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand for this bullshit!” the enraged farmwoman hissed through clenched teeth. “We’re going to the Sheriff’s Office.”
The drive took about ten minutes and no one said a word. Mrs. Wood simmered in her seat, a torrent of anger building inside her. She’d survived the death of a husband, the near collapse of her farm, and she was not going to let her son be incarcerated for something he could not have done. She was angry! No, furious! And somebody was going to hear about it.