Jones, Beverly R Read online

  “Nope. You’re fine where you are. Isn’t that right, Jackson?” Casey turned to look at him.

  “It’s okay with me,” Jackson responded. He looked over at Kendall and grinned. “Tom and I have learned it’s easier just to do whatever she says.” He picked up another biscuit and added, “Although I’d think she’d be somewhat less demanding, for someone who can’t even make a decent biscuit.”

  ≈≈≈ He was getting annoyed again, feeling that his time was being wasted. He had checked the media websites of the major cities closest to Logan City and had come up with nothing. Perhaps he should quit fiddling with the computer and just head to South Carolina and see if he could find her there. But he didn’t care to make the long trip from Nevada and arrive at a dead end. Because if he didn’t find her in South Carolina, more than likely he would never find her. She could be anywhere, probably living some obscure life, being a model freaking citizen, where no one knew her or recognized her. She could even be out of the country, for all he knew. She certainly would have been able to go wherever she wanted with his five hundred grand.

  He pushed away from the computer, sighed, and looked around the room. God, but he was getting sick of staying in this dump. He had wasted so much time already, when he should be safely tucked away in St. Lucia. The only thing that was keeping him here now was his determination to find her. He had a need to find her now. He no longer wanted to find her to merely get his money back. He wanted to kill her afterwards. And he would take such immense pleasure in doing so.

  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror above the scratched, dilapidated dresser.

  Seeing the red hair was still a shock to him. He hated it. His black hair had been his greatest asset. Women had loved it. Now he looked like Bozo the Clown. He had cut his hair shorter, then purchased a hair coloring kit at the drug store at the end of the block. Light Honey Blonde, the package had stated. “Light Honey Blonde, my ass,” he mumbled to himself. The dye had turned his hair into something that resembled an Irish Setter on acid. His red, short-cropped hair now stuck out all around his head. He supposed the scant auburn highlights in his previously dark hair had caused his whole head to turn into the ugly, orange mass he now saw in the mirror.

  Auburn highlights. It reminded him of her again. It was definitely the only thing they had in common, but she was too stupid to realize it. She’d thought he was just like her, as if they shared the same dreams, ideals, goals. How ignorant some women could be. He could see her, as he’d seen her on that last day, her long, dark auburn hair whirling about as she turned anxiously toward him in the car, a look of feigned innocence on her face. He grunted. She hadn’t looked so innocent after he’d brought the knife out. He remembered the look on her face then. Sheer terror when she finally realized that he was serious.

  He laughed at the memory of her frightened face as he’d held the knife against her smooth cheek. It was as if she were more in shock than anything else. As if she were surprised to realize that he wasn’t going to let her get away with it, that he’d kill her if he had to, and that he couldn’t have cared less if it had come down to that. After all these years, she was still living in her dream world about him. God, she was pathetic. But maybe he’d been even more pathetic on that day, to have let her get away from him. How could he have let that happen? Well, it wouldn’t happen again. This time there would be no opportunity for her to escape him. He would make sure of that.

  He reached a hand up and touched the wiry spikes of his carrot-colored hair and looked once again into the mirror, enraged anew at the sight. He wondered what they put in those hair dyes. When he washed it, it felt like the consistency of bubble gum that had already been chewed and spat onto his head. Well, this was just another reason he would take such delight in finding her and making her pay.

  The thought invigorated him and he pulled his chair back up to the computer and began searching other South Carolina cities. He clicked on Charleston, then Columbia, and read through press releases that all turned out to be useless information. He was getting pissed again. Then he thought of Athens, closer to Logan City than Charleston or Columbia, but he doubted Athens would have a website of anything, much less media sources. A city like Athens had probably yet to catch up with the rest of the world in computer technology. He might as well look, though. He hadn’t come up with anything anywhere else in South Carolina. Then he found it. The Athens Daily News website. Shit. That little dump of a city had its own newspaper and website. You could have blown him right out of his chair. He went to the archives section and searched through the articles.

  He scanned an article titled Missing Woman Found Dead, about a woman who had crashed her car into a bridge abutment, then disappeared. She had been found dead three days later in an alley behind a crack house. Her family mourned her loss. Blah, blah, blah. Who cares? It’s not her.

  He clicked the article closed and moved back to the archives list. Identity of Jane Doe Sought. He clicked it open, preparing for yet another misguided attempt at finding her. There was an accompanying picture of ‘Jane Doe’ situated at the top of the article. A nearly orgasmic shiver ran from his groin to his throat. He stared in disbelief for a second or two, numb, before his mind fully comprehended what he had just seen. A deep smile slithered across his face. He leapt from his chair then and began dancing around the room like a madman praying for rain, whooping and hollering and stomping his feet.

  He stopped suddenly and ran back to the computer chair, lunging for it, as a drowning man would reach for a life preserver. He’d better not get too excited before he read the article first. But the picture. It was her, all right. She looked kinda beat up, a bandage at her right temple and bruises on her face, but there was no denying it was her. His eyes began jumping all over the page, his first anxious instinct to scan the article for pertinent information. He stopped and closed his eyes for a moment, steadied his breathing and forced himself into a quiet calm, so that he could start at the beginning.

  Identity of Jane Doe Sought

  >By Riley Baker

  Staff Writer

  Athens—A young woman who stopped to aid another woman being accosted is now caught in the midst of her own dilemma. “Jane Doe” is now left with no memory, not only of the traumatic incident, but of her life prior to that day.

  The young woman had intervened when she spotted Casey Anne Coley being attacked by an unknown assailant on Highway 42 near the town of Logan City. The nameless woman suffered severe injuries at the hands of the assailant, who then escaped in her vehicle, leaving no trace of evidence to her identity. She is now in stable condition at Athens General Hospital. Ms. Coley was treated and released the day of the incident.

  A hospital spokesperson announced that doctors had termed Jane Doe’s condition as retrograde amnesia, normally a temporary and short-lived condition. Yet, “Jane Doe” has still not recovered her memory, though she is due to be released from the hospital soon.

  Ms. Coley expressed her gratitude for the woman’s selfless act of bravery in coming to her aid. “If it were not for her, I most likely wouldn’t be talking to you now. We owe her a great deal and intend to see that she’s taken care of until her memory returns,” Ms. Coley was quoted as saying.

  He couldn’t believe what he’d just read. He had to laugh at the absurdity of the information in the article. He wondered if she were still in the area. Surely, she wouldn’t hang around there long, knowing that he would eventually find her there.

  He immediately searched further and located the Athens, South Carolina, Police Department website and found a press release similar to the Daily News article he’d just read. There were no updates. Perhaps she was still there. He might have a chance of catching up to her after all.

  That didn’t explain, however, what she’d done with the money and how he was going to get it out of her if she couldn’t remember anything. Amnesia. Yeah, right. The whole thing was probably a ruse on her part, but it didn’t make sense that she would pre
tend memory loss, especially considering where she was. None of that mattered right now, though. The only thing that mattered was getting to her as fast as he could, praying that she had not left South Carolina yet. He would leave first thing in the morning.

  He printed out copies of the press release and newspaper article, then turned off the computer. He smiled and looked around the shabby room, uttered, “Goodbye, shithole,” then walked to the tiny kitchen and retrieved a cold beer from the refrigerator.

  He sat at the small table by the window and took three long gulps of beer, making mental preparations for his departure tomorrow. He couldn’t believe his luck. He had a gut feeling that she was still there, probably figured she was safe from him, since so much time had passed. Well, he had a big surprise for her.

  This was the happiest he’d been since the day he realized she had disappeared. The thought of finally catching up to her, getting his money back and making her pay made him smile for the first time in a long while. Who did she think she was, anyway? Did she think he owed her something? Well, he owed her nothing. She meant nothing to him. And very soon, he hoped, he would show her how little she meant and the grief he would bring her for crossing him. He couldn’t wait. The thought made him giddy.

  He leaned his head back, took another long swig of beer and laughed as the liquid ran down his throat and spilled out of the corners of his mouth.

  Chapter 6

  >The days that followed went rather smoothly for Kendall as she managed to maneuver her crutches throughout the house. She had not attempted to venture beyond the area that included her bedroom, the kitchen and den. After having been bedridden for so long in the hospital, she still felt a bit weak and walking with crutches tired her easily. Casey Anne had insisted on bringing her breakfast in bed each morning, though Kendall was embarrassed by the fuss.

  Tom and Jackson rose regularly before dawn and headed out for their day’s work, returning for lunch promptly at noon, then heading out again. They were often away from the house until five or six in the evening, though they sometimes would return early in the afternoon and work around the barn and stables. Kendall couldn’t imagine what they did every day that required so many hours of their time. She also noticed that some days Tom and Jackson rode out in the pickup truck, but on other days they chose to saddle up and ride the horses. Casey Anne had explained to Kendall that they all loved riding and although the pickup truck was usually more sensible, Jackson especially loved to ride his horse throughout the property.

  “We’ll get you saddled up, too, once that cast comes off. It’s really beautiful country out there,” Casey Anne had said to her. “We’ll go for a picnic when you’re able.”

  Kendall was almost at a loss as to what to think of these people. They treated her as though she were one of the family and admonished her for her polite requests, no matter how large or small. She was instructed repeatedly to stop requesting permission for everything, to just do or get whatever she wanted, unless of course she needed help. Although Jackson remained somewhat aloof, rarely saying more to her than his usual greeting, Tom and Casey Anne entertained her regularly with their jovial moods of nonstop talking and laughing.

  On the third morning of her stay, Kendall decided she would rise earlier than the others and see if she could manage to cook breakfast for everyone. Though maneuvering with her crutches was still awkward at times, she was determined to make the best of it. She wanted to contribute something, anything, to these people who had been so kind and selfless. She also needed to feel useful, not only to redeem her waning sense of her own capabilities, but to repay Tom, Casey and Jackson any way she could. She knew cooking breakfast wasn’t much of a contribution, but it was a start.

  She was standing in front of the kitchen stove with one crutch propped under her left arm, the other crutch leaning against the kitchen wall, when Jackson entered from the bedroom hallway. He wore a pair of jeans, no shirt or shoes. He entered the kitchen yawning and running his hand through his hair.

  At the sight of Kendall in front of the stove, he stopped abruptly, mid-yawn.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, startled.

  “Making breakfast,” Kendall answered him with an energetic smile.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Jackson said to her in a mildly reproachful tone. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”

  “I don’t mind, really. Do you like Eggs Florentine?”

  “I don’t even know what that is,” Jackson answered. “I also didn’t know you could cook.” He eyed her suspiciously and wondered if it was something she remembered from her past.

  “I found a cookbook in that drawer over there and thought I’d give it a try,” Kendall replied, oblivious to his hint of mistrust. “If I can read, I ought to be able to cook.”

  Jackson snorted. “Try telling that to Casey Anne. Anyway, you don’t need to be doing that. Casey will be down in a few minutes and put on a pot of grits.”

  “Grits?”

  “Yeah, that’s what we usually have for breakfast, along with bacon and eggs, toast, whatever.”

  “That’s funny. Casey’s never brought me grits for breakfast before.”

  “She probably figured you weren’t the grits type,” Jackson said as he looked at her with a half-smile.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know, not Southern. We can tell by your accent, or lack of, I should say, that you most likely aren’t from the South.” He laughed and added, “Casey Anne doesn’t like to frighten visitors with her grits. Although I don’t know what difference it makes. Her cooking usually frightens most visitors, anyway.”

  “I think her cooking is just…fine,” Kendall lied. With the exception of the meal Darlene had brought from the Logan City Café, everything Kendall had eaten during her stay here had been overcooked and hard. She thought the world of Casey, but unfortunately Casey had been right in her self-assessment. She couldn’t cook very well at all.

  Jackson looked at Kendall with a knowing expression. “Uh-huh,” he said and winked at her.

  Kendall blushed, turned back toward the stove and continued with her task.

  Jackson gave up his attempts at convincing Kendall that neither should she be cooking, nor was it necessary. He walked over to the counter near the sink where the coffeemaker stood and peered at it.

  “Fresh coffee?” he asked.

  “Yes. It just finished before you came in.”

  Jackson poured himself a cup, took it over to the kitchen table and sat down. He noticed the breadbasket sitting on the table in front of him, its contents covered by a red-checkered cloth. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Oh. I made biscuits. They should still be hot.”

  Jackson sighed, as if he weren’t expecting much, and pulled back the cloth. He picked up a biscuit and took a timid bite, then turned to Kendall.

  “When does your cast come off?” he asked her.

  “Next week. Monday morning at ten.”

  “Good. The job’s all yours if you want it.”

  Kendall pivoted on her cast and turned to look at him. “What?” she asked, not understanding.

  “If you want to replace Casey as cook, be my guest.” Jackson smiled, popping a piece of the biscuit into his mouth. “This is the best damn biscuit I’ve ever eaten in my life. Even better than Darlene’s.”

  Kendall turned back toward the stove, smiling. She was pleased that she would indeed be able to contribute something to this family while she stayed here, no matter how small. Later, when her cast came off, she would help Casey with the other chores. Though she hoped her memory would soon return to her, in the meantime she was eager to learn more about the farm and the tasks Casey undertook every day, even if it meant going into that dreaded henhouse.

  Jackson interrupted her thoughts with a question. “What did you say you were cooking over there? Eggs?”

  “Florentine,” Kendall finished for him.

  “Florentine,” Jackson repeated, nodd
ing his head. “Well, hell, let’s give ‘em a try.”

  Tom and Casey soon joined them and after helping themselves to breakfast, unanimously designated Kendall as the household chef. Though Casey voiced concern over Kendall taking on too much, Kendall assured her that she was more than capable of handling the cooking. She warned them, however, that she wasn’t sure how far her cooking abilities expanded. None of them seemed concerned with that, however, knowing she must possess a natural talent if her first try at it was as palatable as breakfast had been. Jackson was merely satisfied that she could make a decent biscuit.

  Later that morning, after Tom and Jackson had left to start their workday, Casey and Kendall stood in the kitchen cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Suddenly they heard, “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?” as the back door opened and in walked an attractive young blonde woman. She stopped and looked, with a haughty glint in her eye, at Kendall drying the dishes. She then faced Casey and said in a soft, lilting voice, “So this is your mysterious savior.”

  Casey spoke up immediately, “Kendall, this is Cynthia Gamble. She lives on the farm next to ours, about three miles farther down. She’s a lifelong friend and neighbor.”

  Kendall hobbled over to her on her crutches and held out her hand. “Hi.”

  Cynthia ignored Kendall’s outstretched hand and instead patted her on the shoulder. She looked at the dishtowel in Kendall’s hand and said in a sweet but condescending tone, “Well, I’m glad to see they’ve made quick use of you. I’ve been telling Casey Anne for years she needed a maid to take care of this big old house.” Cynthia smiled at her insincerely as her eyes swept down the length of Kendall and then back up again.

  Kendall blushed and tried to smile back.

  Casey, horrified at Cynthia’s words, corrected her, “Kendall’s not our maid, Cynthia. She’s our guest here.”