Chasing Ally

"Thanks for your help Mr. Dawkins," I said and started to leave the office.

Thomas stepped closer to Dawkins and said, "I know you said Bill doesn't have a phone but we wouldn't like it if we found out you got hold of Bill and warned him we are looking for him." He put his hand around Dawkins' neck, squeezed a little. "Understand?"

Dawkins nodded so hard I thought his head would fly off. "Yes sir. Don't care if I even talk to him again. I knew Bill had some trouble down home, but he's my wife's cousin or somethin. So, you know?" Dawkins shrugged his shoulders and went back to the car he'd been working on.

I started the truck and headed for the apartment building listed as Bill's home address. It was in a less than a prosperous area. The two story building had once been a fine residence but apparently hard times had befallen the owners because it was just a few years away from being a dump.

"Wouldn't be a bad place with some work and renovation," I told Thomas as we walked to the manager's office just inside the entrance.

"Yeah, nothing a bulldozer starting at one corner and going to the opposite one couldn't fix," he answered.

I knocked on the manager's door, waited about twenty seconds and knocked again. A man came down the stairs from the second floor. "He ain't at home," the man said.

"Thank you," I replied. "Do you know when he might be back?"

"Naw, he's downtown at the court house; somethin about a license for the building." The man coughed for several seconds. "Too damn many cigarettes. Anyway this place is falling apart and the city inspector is threatening to keep the owner from renewing his license to run an apartment building."

"Do you know which apartment is Bill Dixon's?" Thomas asked.

"Yep, but he ain't here either. Left yesterday morning early and ain't been back."

"Which apartment please," Thomas repeated.

"He lives in the basement apartment at the back." The man looked at us for a bit and asked, "Anything else?" I shook my head and he continued out the door.

We walked around the building and saw the entrance to the basement apartment. I knocked on the door two or three times and then tried turn the doorknob; apparently the door was locked.

"Guess we'll have to come back when the manager is here," Thomas said with a grin.

"Guess so," I replied and put my shoulder to the door. "No wait its open," I said as I pushed my way through the lock and into the apartment.

The old man had been right, Bill wasn't at home. From the looks of the place he'd left in a hurry. There were some clothes scattered around the one room apartment. The bed hadn't been made but then again it didn't look like it'd ever been made. The kitchen was a disaster area with stacks of dirty dishes in the sink and the trash can was overflowing.

"Not something you'd see in House Beautiful, is it?" Thomas said. "Hell, I'm a slob and my place never looks this bad." He grinned and added, "That's why I have the lovely ladies come over; to clean my place."

That was another sort of inside joke. The only person I'd ever met that was as concerned with things being clean, neat, and tidy as Ally is Thomas. In the Army, he cleaned his weapon daily, even if it had never been out of our quarters. His rack and foot locker were always inspection ready. Thomas even had a local woman tailor his clothes because he didn't like the way the G. I. issue hung on him.

"There's sand and stuff in the air that can damage my weapon and I might need it one day," was his reasoning. He may have been right because his rifle never jammed or misfired; others who were less concerned couldn't say the same thing.

"Yeah, you and Ally are the two biggest slobs I know," I said and laughed.

"Why are we in Bill's apartment when he isn't home?" Thomas asked.

"Might be something that will tell us where he went. If he took Ally, we'll need an idea of where he took her," I replied.

"When did you get all detective like?"

"It's just common sense. Don't take a Magnum P I or Mike Hammer to figure that out." I walked over to a beat up wooden dining room table that had a lot of papers and mail on it. "So let's see what we can find."

Leafing through the stack of papers on the table I came across three or four letters from an Emily Swanson. It was apparent from the content that this was Bill's mother. The return address was Clinton, Arkansas. I called Jim Dawkins.

"Who's this Emily Swanson?" I asked. With what I'd read in the letters I knew the answer but I wanted to double check.

"That's Bill's mother, she remarried after Bill's father died. She lives outside of some hick town in Arkansas." Dawkins answered. "Bill's a real red neck type, you know."

We got back into my truck and Thomas said, "By the way, have you checked Ally's credit card records for usage?"

"I knew you were good for something," I replied as I shook my head.

"I can do it on my smart phone but let's get back to your place where I can use your computer; it'll be easier and faster. We'll find out pretty quick."

Credit checks, back ground checks, and financial information wasn't in my wheel house but apparently it was easy for Thomas. It only took him about five minutes on my computer to get into the credit card files. It showed several charges on Ally's card.

Thomas ran up Google maps, input a request for directions from St. Louis to Clinton and then pointed at the screen. "Looks like she's heading south," Thomas said. "The first usage was at a McDonald's in Rolla, the next time it was in Springfield for gas." If Ally's with Bill, looks like they're on the way south back to his hometown, back to Clinton."

"So are we," I replied. I stuffed a couple of changes of clothes in a duffle bag and walking over to a cedar chest located against the far wall of the living room I opened it. Reaching inside I pulled out my Glock 21C in its paddle holster and fastened it to my belt. My concealed carry permit allowed me to be armed. The cool spring weather made a good excuse for the jacket I threw on to hide the pistol. "C'mon," I said.

"If we start looking for Bill in a small town and people tell him about it he might recognize your truck. He's never seen mine." I nodded and he said, "My apartment is on the way, I'll grab some stuff and we'll head out."

Thomas' truck is a wolf in sheep's clothing. Once you've met or spent time around Thomas, you'd never forget him; his truck was just the opposite. The twenty year old, 1992 Ford, pickup looked like it was ready for the junk yard. At one time the truck had been a two tone blue; now the main color was rust red/brown.

It's under that nondescript, forgettable body that made the truck special. The Police Interceptor engine generated over 400 HP with a top speed of over 150 MPH. The chassis, suspension, exhaust, and brakes had also been beefed up. Thomas' truck could compete, power wise, with a lot of the Nascar Sprint cars.

After stopping at Thomas' apartment, we were very quickly on I-44 South, pushing the speed limit. Thomas set the cruise control and sort of leaned back in his bucket seat.

"Once we get outside the city, I'll pick up a little speed," he said. "No need to get stopped by a State Trooper. It'll take a little under five hours to get there and Bill has a full day's head start, but we'll find him and Ally," he said with conviction.

"That's pretty quick," I offered. "It's better than 300 miles to Clinton."

"Yeah, but we're in my truck. Once we get on those secondary roads I can let the horses run," he replied.

After a couple of hours on the road, Thomas pointed at my Glock and asked, "You plan on killing him?"

"All I want is Ally back safe and sound." I looked out the window for a minute. "If he's hurt Ally all bets are off though." Turning toward Thomas as he drove I said, "If that bothers you, let me off at the next place I can rent a car and I'll go on alone."

"Doesn't bother me," he replied. "If he's hurt Ally, I'll want a piece of him too. Just don't want to lose my best employee; got too much time and money in you for you to go to jail." He glanced at me and then back at the road. "If need be, I'll help put him away and dig half the hole."

I reached over and patted Thomas on the shoulder. It felt good to know that he had my back; no matter what.

We stopped at the service station just south of Springfield where Ally's card had been used. The Hep U Sef station was small with only four gas pumps and a convenience store. The clerk didn't remember a man fitting Bill's description, but using Ally's credit card there would have been no need to go inside. While Thomas filled up with gas, I made a pit stop.

The two restroom's doors were outside on one side of the store. The door to the ladies room was propped open with a trash can. Coming out of the men's room, when I passed the open door I glanced in. There was something written on the mirror above the sink. It looked like lipstick was used.

Help. I've been kidnapped. Am in blue Chevy sedan, license TXW 554. Headed south on 65. Call police.

Ally Delahome

I was excited for two reasons. First it proved I'd been right; Ally hadn't left me. And second, it was the first indication that we were on the right trail. I called Thomas to show him the note.

"Guess he's heading for Clinton like we thought," he said.

"C'mon," I told him. "We can't be more than a day behind them."

********************

I should have let John handle the situation with Bill, Ally thought as her captor tied her hands again and pushed her into his car. Course I never thought Bill was crazy enough to kidnap me. Ally had never meant for the mechanic to be fired; she'd only wanted him to leave her alone.

Ally had been upset with John the morning after she'd talked to Dawkins. John said he was the husband and the man and should have confronted Bill about the problem. Ally argued that she was fully capable of taking care of herself. Their talk escalated into a heated argument. It wasn't five minutes after John left for work that both he and Ally regretted the spat.

She took the trash out to the trash cans in the alley before she left for work and forgot to lock the door when she returned to the kitchen. As she began to clean up, the back door opened and Bill stomped in with a large hunting knife in his hand.

"Why did you talk to Uncle Jim?" Bill asked. "The old fool fired me." His face and the tone of his voice showed that he was upset. "I know you secretly want to be with me instead of that pretty boy you're married too." Bill stopped for a few seconds; seemingly lost in thought. Then he smiled. "I know, I bet that punk husband of yours made you talk to Uncle Jim and get me fired. Yeah, that's it; he made you do something you didn't want to do. I should kick his ass for that."

"You're wrong Bill, I love my husband and don't want to be with anyone but him," Ally said trying to keep calm. As she edged away from the angry man and picked up a small skillet she'd been cleaning. "I suggest you leave before I call the police."

"No, you want to be with me. We'll go to my home town; my Mom lives there on the farm. She'll take us in."

"You're crazy if you think I'm going with you," Ally responded.

Bill took two strides toward her and backhanded her, knocking her to the ground before she could use the skillet. "Don't call me crazy," he yelled. "The people at the hospital called me crazy and I had to hurt them; I'll hurt you too."

While she was dazed, he picked her up, almost like a rag doll, and took her to the alley where his car was parked. He threw her in the passenger seat and tied her hands and feet.

Ally drifted in and out of awareness for the next 30 minutes; although she never did fully lose consciousness. In one of her waking moments she looked out of the car's windshield and the side window she saw a big green and white sign that said "Eureka, next 5 exits". She realized the car was headed southwest on I-44.

After a little over three hours on the road, Bill stopped at a little station just south of Springfield to put gas in his car. He swiped my credit card through the reader. Great, he's using my own credit card to kidnap me, Ally said silently.

"I need to use the restroom Bill." He shook his head. "I need to put some cold water on my eye and go to the bathroom." Bill shook his head again. "If you don't let me I'll pee all over your car."

Bill stared at me for several seconds as he kept filling the gas tank. As the pump shut off, he nodded. "I'll pull up in front of the door and wait for you. Don't try nothin," he ordered.

Parking the car right in front of the door to the ladies room, he came around to the passenger side and untied me. The door to the ladies was propped open with the trash can. I took my purse, got out of the car and entering the bathroom closed the door. Soaking some paper towels with cold water, I put the compress on my face.

As I started to leave I had an idea. Taking a lipstick from my purse I wrote a note on the mirror asking for help and giving a description of Bill's car and his license number. I peeked out the door and Bill was on the far side of the car. Propping the door open, the same way it had been, I quickly climbed into the car. Bill got in and motioned for my hands which he tied but at least this time they were in front of me. I hope someone sees my note and calls the cops before it's too late.

********************

"I need to drive," I told Thomas. "If I don't I just sit there thinking bad thoughts." Thomas tossed me his keys and we left the Hep U Sef station headed south on U.S. 65.

"Should we call the police and try to get their help?" He asked.

"You can if you want, but it's too late. If Bill is headed for Clinton he's already there. And even if we can get the Missouri cops to notify the Arkansas police, it may be too late for them to do anything."

U.S. 65 is a very wide two lane highway. It widens to four lanes for exits to the towns but then returns to a two lane through the country side. I had to slow down sometimes for traffic around the exits but I put Thomas' Interceptor engine to the test once we were in the clear. The highway cut through the valleys between the high hills where it could and sometimes climbed through the hills. There were only a few times we even saw another vehicle so we had the road pretty much to ourselves.

It's a little over five and a half hour drive to Clinton from St. Louis at the speed limit. We pulled into the small town four hours and ten minutes after we left St. Louis.

"Glad we brought your truck," I said. "We made good time."

"I was beginning to think we'd get here before Dixon and Ally did," he replied with a grin.

Clinton is a typical small community of 2600 people. This doesn't include the outlaying farms and houses that aren't within the city limits but have a Clinton mailing address. There are older residential areas spreading back into the surrounding tree covered hills from the main road and a lot of business sites lining the highway for a couple of miles on either side the town. McDonalds, Hardy's, Taco Bell and other fast food places were prominent on the main thorough fare.

"So what do we do now?" Thomas asked. "Bars are usually a good place to get information but I don't see any."

"I used your smart phone to find out a little about Clinton while you were driving," I replied as I slowly cruised through the small town. "It's in a dry county so there are no bars or even a place to buy liquor."

Thomas asked, "What'da you do if you want a drink? How the hell do you live if you can't get a beer now and then?"

"According to what I read, if you want beer or liquor you go to the next county. Closest place seems to be about 20 miles east."

"Twenty miles over back county roads just to get a beer? Don't think I could handle that," Thomas offered with a grin. Turning to look at me he said, "Let's find a barber shop; those are usually a good place to get information."

"Or, instead of sitting around a room with a bunch of men, who don't know us and wouldn't trust us, we could go to the post office," I suggested. "The Post Master or whatever can tell us where Emily Swanson lives."

********************

"This place is like something out of Deliverance," Ally said aloud as she walked around the bedroom she was lock in for the hundredth time. "I can almost hear the banjos playing."

The room was about 12 by 12, with a double bed against one wall. There were two doors, one was the entrance to the room and one led to the bathroom, plus one window; the wooden shutters outside had been closed over the window. Ally opened the window and pushed against the shutters. "I'll never force that open," Ally said. "This room looks like something that was added on". The walls had faded and peeling wallpaper and there were no other decorations.

"Hell, even when it was new, that wall paper sucked," Ally said.

She hadn't had a chance to get a good look at the house when Bill parked in front of it. He had spent three hours or so driving the back roads around the area, so it was dark when they came to the house.

"Gotta make sure no one is following us," Bill had told her.

Not going to help you, Ally thought as she hung her head. "When John finds us, he'll rip your head off and crap down your neck," she told Bill. "Take me back to town and let me go. I'll catch a bus or whatever back to St. Louis and persuade John not to follow you."

"Bullshit, Cousin Jim won't tell him anything and he can't find us. Beside, you belong to me now."

When they stopped in the front yard of the house, Bill came around to help her out of the car. Her hands were still tied but her feet were free. Ally kicked Bill in the groin and when he huddled over she started to run. She made it about twenty yards before he caught up to her. For the second time he backhanded Ally, knocking her to the ground.

"Don't try that again," he yelled as he helped her to her feet.

Ally's Irish temper showed itself and she tried to kick him again. Bill caught her leg and pulled her in close where she couldn't use her feet.

"Guess I'm gonna have to teach you some manners," he threatened as he drug her toward the house.

Bill walked her into the house and into the bedroom where he untied her hands. Watching her carefully, he backed out of the room and Ally could hear the door being locked.

"Things don't look good for the home team," Ally said.

********************

"Why y'all want to know where Miss Emily lives?" The clerk behind the counter at the post office asked. The name plate on the counter read "Bertha Smith". Bertha was somewhere between 50 and 65 with gray hair worn in a French roll gathered at the back of her head. In spite of her age and appearance, she was full of life and gave the impression that she didn't take sass from anyone.

"Mrs. Smith," I began.

"It's Miss Smith. Never been married; came close a couple of times. Seems somethin always got in the way of me gettin hitched. I caught one of them squiring around a waitress from over to Greenbrier and the other one got on my nerves. Sent both of them packin."

I smiled at Miss Smith, impressed with her directness and attitude. She appeared to be full of life and enjoying it.

"Well, Miss Smith," I continued. "My name is John Delahome and this is Thomas. We're on our way to Greers Ferry Lake and thought we'd stop by and see Bill. He did some car repairs for me and I never got a chance to pay him before he left St. Louis. So if you could give me directions to his Mother's place, it'd be helpful."

Bertha stared at me for several seconds and snorted. "Sonny, just cause I live in a small town in Arkansas don't make me stupid. That story is just like the cow patties out in the pasture; it's bullshit. Now why do you want to see Bill?"