“Yes exactly.”
“K, I’ll play along, and your name?” she asked.
“Seymour, ah ah Wood,” he finally got out.
“What did I tell you?” she said authoritatively. “This is not a service for pranksters. My heavens, Seymour Wood and your girlfriend is Blanche Double D? Couldn’t you be a little more creative than that?”
“I’m telling the truth, my head is killing me, I’m just not thinking clearly. Call the Sheriff; he’ll vouch for me. You’ve got to send help, there’s no one else I can call!” he said, emphasizing his need for help.
The operator knew that Seymour Wood had been arrested earlier in the week and, was indeed, sitting in the county lockup as they spoke. She would confirm that with the Sheriff’s Office when she had time and she wrote a quick reminder on a sticky note and sat it aside.
“Oh, I’ll confirm it alright but I’ll caution you again, this is not a line for fun and games.”
The line suddenly went dead when the dispatcher got tired of the caller’s antics and hung up.
“Crap, now what do I do?” he questioned himself. “Look for clues.”
The things he’d learned in his hours in classes were pulled involuntarily from his memory. His strength somewhat rejuvenated he returned to the second floor and the blood spot where he had lain. He opened the nearby emergency door, noted that the alarm did not sound, and looked to the ground. Nothing there but his old truck parked in the lot and no Blanche to be seen. He turned his attention back to the library and the items on the floor. A cane with blood and hair on it, as well as a spectacle case, rested on the ground near where he woke up. He followed a trail of blood from the spot near the exit, across the floor that led him to the table where he had been shelving books. His memory was coming back, he remembered conversing with the vet, put some books away, then ‘crack’, the first blow to his head. He had turned to see his attacker, the veteran directly in front of him before ‘crack’, the second blow to his head and lights out. The Gulf War Vet, who was he and how could he find him? The authorities would obviously be no help tonight. He would find her on his own. If it was the last thing he did, he would find Blanche and rescue her from the cane wielding maniac!
Seymour picked up the wooden cane and inspected it closely. It appeared to have been hand carved from a piece of natural wood, the grain ran the length of the medical device, alternating dark and light bands of wood fibers. There were no plaques or identifying marks, it would be no help. His own blood and head had marred the workmanship, along with a crack in the material near the impact point.
"Hit me pretty damn hard, jerk!" Seymour said.
He laid the cane aside being careful not to handle it too much in case some fingerprints could be raised from it later, if needed. He next picked up the spectacle case, opened it and inspected the contents. The glasses were single vision, of the convex variety, meaning the lenses were thicker in the middle and thinner towards the edge. The frame itself appeared to be older with some wear marks on the metal and the lenses slightly scratched. He remembered seeing the frame on the disguised veteran earlier in the night. Seymour put the glasses back in the clamshell style case and slipped it into his pocket but just as he did something caught his eye.
He opened the case again and in very faint gold lettering on the blue lining of the case there was some text. He strained to see the print but could not make it out completely, only a letter here and there but nothing that made any sense. Seymour moved to where the lighting was brighter and tipped the case back and forth but could still not read the emblem. It occurred to him that the glasses inside the case would possibly help, convex lenses should magnify the image, he remembered from his high school science course. The glasses, once on his nose, caused everything across the library to blur and distort, but when he looked back to the case the smallest details were brought into view. The very fibers of the backing were visible and the gold that clung to them. Straining to make it out he managed to identify the words Dr. D Camp, and under that, Optometrist. An address was listed below, in much smaller print, that was completely faded away and he could not read it.
His mind raced. What could he do with the information he'd gleaned from the only items available? The phone book was down under the counter next to Blanche's purse. He flipped to the yellow pages and found a listing for a Dr. D. Camp located just a few blocks from the library but the home address was not shown, however, he was able to find a local listing in the white pages. Seymour ripped the page from the book, galloped up the stairs and exited the library the same way Blanche and Lester had a few hours before, sliding down the escape chute to the parking lot below.
The college student was familiar with the area where Dr. Camp lived, as it bordered the university and he'd passed the street often on the way to school. The old truck roared to life and he slammed through the gears, ignoring the lights and signs, hoping that a cop would show up to give him a hand, but as was usually the case, never one around when you really needed one. He pulled up to the immaculate home, not quite sure what he would do but knew he had to try something. With the case in his hand he approached the door of the two-story home. A new Lexus was parked in the driveway and the yard was well maintained with mature trees and beautiful rose bushes lining the walk from the curb to the front door.
Seymour stood at the front door, case in hand, and knocked. He waited, but his patience was non-existent so he rapped and kept knocking until a disheveled man swung the door open and grabbed the young man by the collar, shaking him violently.
"What do you think you're doing, you dipstick? Are you insane?" the agitated doctor said.
Seymour stared into the eyes of a man pulled from his bed in the middle of the night, bloodshot, and full of anger. Dr. Camp stood a few inches taller than Seymour even in his bare feet. His blonde hair was graying at the temples but retained its youthful color even though he was well into his fifties. He wore a housecoat, which he had failed to do up, his undershirt and boxers visible, the undershirt pulled tight from too many dinners out and nights snacking on peanuts and M amp;M's in front of the television. The mature man shook the younger and once convinced he'd shaken some sense into him allowed Seymour to answer his question.
"I'm Seymour Wood and I need your help."
"Are you a moron? Do you know what time it is?"
"I'm sorry, but my girlfriend has been taken by a madman and all I could find that might lead me to her is this case of yours."
Somewhat calmed from his original disposition the doctor told Seymour to show up at the office first thing in the morning and he'd be happy to help him with his problem, but for now he better be on his way before he called the police. He released the younger man and slammed the door in his face before Seymour could say anything more.
Undeterred and with blood crusted to his face and hands, Seymour returned to the truck, pulled the Sharps rifle from behind the seat, leaned through the passenger window and took a cartridge from the glove box and loaded the weapon. The long, powerful shell slid into the chamber with a solid sheathing of the brass and a finality that came when the chamber was locked closed. Seymour made the walk back to the door and rapped loudly again. The doctor answered more quickly this time but was startled to see the young man standing with a large bored rifle pointed at his chest.
"Hate to do this to you but you've really left me no choice. You're coming with me, now!"
"But I'm not even dressed."
"There's no time, I need you to look up a prescription on these glasses and tell me whom they belong to. Is that possible?" Seymour asked.
"You sure you want to do this son, you're going to be in a world of trouble come tomorrow morning."