Joy Express Page 3

  “We’re almost there.” He pointed up the road, which narrowed with each mile, extending farther and farther into the woods.

  “Good, I’m starved.” I wanted to ask if he’d take me home after our “talk”. But it might set him off. How could he take me home after what he’d done? An arrest surely awaited him. I’d have to convince him I wouldn’t press charges. One of the little ones kicked me in the ribs. “Ouch, whoa there, sweetie, that hurt,” I said with a forced laugh. Would a semblance of normal chit-chat keep him calm?

  “How far along?” He said, looking at my swollen tummy.

  “Any minute now. This unseasonal warmth is killing me. I never did like the heat, and being pregnant makes it worse. I appreciate the air conditioning.” Whatever this white car was, its a/c worked great.

  “Yeah, I remember you didn’t like to play outside in the summer. Chubby, and all that hair, you were always red in the face.” A chuckle escaped smirking lips. The car stopped suddenly. He motioned for me to get out and then gently helped me into the front seat.

  I slid over, hugging the passenger side door. A fast rewind to the day he left us rose like illness in my stomach. “Fat little kid.” Door slam. No more daddy. Mom left alone. My fault. Why did I feel like unloading twenty years worth of unsaid anguish? Hadn’t I already dealt with it? Where was all that healing and forgiveness? I forced my breathing to remain steady. Not now. Could he want to apologize? Make things right? He sure went about it in a strange way.

  He drove farther into the woods then turned down another dirt road, almost hidden by trees and brush. The car came to a clearing where he pulled into the dirt driveway of a small, white-washed cabin.

  “Yours?”

  “Yeah,” he said, with a lilt of pride.

  “Nice.”

  He got out but left the keys in the ignition. Could I scoot over and peel out before he reached for me?

  Don’t think. Just do it.

  7

  My phone radiated heat from my having called every person in my contacts list to see if anyone knew where Bailey was. I must have phoned the police station a hundred times. For hours and endless miles I drove with my eyes peeled for Brown’s black sedan.

  When I returned to the diner, the place was buzzing with the chatter of a swarm of people.

  “Scott, you’re back. Any news?” Tracy rushed to me, her eyes red.

  Javier hovered an inch away from her.

  “No.” My lips pressed hard together, my jaw set. I had to keep it together. Where was she? Was she all right? Were the babies OK?

  “What’s all this?” I waved a hand toward the group in the corner.

  Mandy and Macy sat in the center, taping pictures of Bailey onto a poster board. Many of the others who’d come had their cell phones out.

  I froze. Bailey’s sweet face staring back at me made the perpetual lump in my throat rise. A giant, gaping hole opened in my heart. I could not lose her.

  “Scott,” Tracy said. She put her hand on my arm and shook it a bit.

  “Yeah, OK,” I managed to whisper.

  “The most recent picture we could find is your wedding photo. The girls cropped you out and printed a bunch on their computer. They’re making posters to put up everywhere.”

  Cropped out, cut off, separated. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Pastor Jack and Phoebe organized a search team. Every trucker within CB radio earshot drove in and they’re searching the woods-just in case she went for a walk and got lost or something.”

  “She wouldn’t do that. She could barely walk. The only thing you’d find out there is...” I stopped. I would not speak the unthinkable.

  “The police suggested it.” Tracy put her arm through mine. “She’ll be all right, Scott.”

  I nodded. Her confident smile calmed me a bit. What to do next?

  “Here, sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “I don’t want to sit down, Tracy.” I shoved my hands into my pockets.

  She hurried off toward the counter.

  Javier didn’t follow, but took a step toward me. “Mr. West, you might remember me from the work site.” He extended his hand.

  We shook hands. “Of course, Javier. Call me Scott.”

  “I just got here. That Miss Phoebe said you were looking for a black sedan.” He motioned me to sit, crossed his arms and rattled off the make and model.

  Why did everybody want me to sit down? Every nerve in my body jangled for action. “I’m fine standing. Yes, she said she saw one tearing out of here. I must have just missed it when I came down to pick Bailey up for the ceremony. The detectives say Kevin Brown has one registered in his name. Her father must have taken her.”

  “I kind of have a thing for classic cars,” he said.

  Really? He wanted to talk about cars now? My raspy breath and lack of response must have triggered realization.

  “Sorry, I mean I always notice them. Over these last few months of the Retreat project, Dad sent me to Dallas for supplies a lot. I always passed this abandoned gas station about twenty miles up the highway. It’s just off an exit at the overpass. I’d often see a black vehicle like the one Miss Phoebe saw parked in the back.

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. They said they’d check it out.”

  Where were they, anyway? Were they even looking? Had they bumped her up to missing status, or were they waiting a day since she was technically a grown woman, free to leave if she chose to?

  “I don’t even know if he took I-20 toward Dallas or the other way to Shreveport. He could have gone I-59 toward Carthage or the other way to Jefferson. I have no idea.” I ran my hand through my hair.

  “The police said he doesn’t own the property. I thought I’d go check it out. Can’t imagine why he’d park at an abandon building, unless it’s a bathroom break.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  Javier nodded.

  “I’m at a loss of what else to do, and I can’t just sit here. I’ll go with you.”

  “Come on,” Javier said.

  Hope energized me. Not much to go on, but at least something to keep me from going crazy.

  We headed for the door as Tracy approached with my coffee. I took a gulp. The strong scent and steam braced me. “We’re going out to follow a lead. Javier’s seen the black car down the road, parked near an old gas station several times.”

  “Really? Good idea.” She beamed at Javier. “Scott, I’ll make sandwiches for everyone. Is that OK?”

  “Certainly.” I gave the sweet girl a hug. Javier looked as if he might hug her too, but I pulled him away. “Let’s go.” I clung to the one lead that gave me hope. My heart thudded.

  We drove down the freeway in silence. My mind reeled with the possibilities. Was he holding her there? Why had he taken her in the first place? Would he hurt her? Was she all right, were the babies OK? Guilt racked my soul. Why didn’t I tell those good women about that no account showing up at the wedding? It might have caused them some consternation, but at least Bailey might’ve been more cautious.

  He had probably knocked on the door, and she’d innocently answered. What might have happened after that made my heart race, my temples throb.

  “There it is,” Javier said, pointing to the exit.

  I surely passed that old, white-washed gas station a million times without noticing. I took the exit and turned into the parking lot, barely turning off the gas before jumping from the truck.

  Javier shaded his eyes from the sun as he looked in the windows.

  I yanked on the door.

  “Let’s go around back. That’s where I always saw that car.” Javier motioned around the corner.

  I followed. There must be a clue here. There must be.

  No black vehicle. I scanned the perimeter for anything to help me find her. The pounding in my heart rushed to my ears.

  “Look, the bathroom door’s been kicked in.” He ran his hand along the splintered door frame.r />
  I barged in looking for some sign of my Bailey. It could have been my imagination, but I thought I detected her cinnamon and vanilla cologne. My eyes marked every inch of that room.

  “Here it is!” Javier shouted. “The black car!”

  I found him raising a garage door revealing the car. We pulled on doors and peered in windows. There was no sign of Bailey.

  “Mr. West, we should...” he started, his caramel face darkening. “We should open the trunk. Or maybe we should call the police to come and open it.”

  The trunk. Oh, God, please no. Terror socked me in the gut, and I stumbled back a few steps. My knees buckled, and I squatted to keep from falling over.

  Javier’s hands gripped my shoulders. “Don’t think the worst. Please, Mr. West.” He squatted next to me.

  His grip anchored me back to the task at hand, and I stood to my feet. My hands shook as we both fiddled with the trunk. I tried every key in my pocket.

  “They’ll get it open. We just need to wait, look around for any clues.” He reached for his cell phone, hands shaking. “I’ll call them.”

  “Yeah, you go ahead.” I sprinted to my truck and grabbed a hammer from my tool chest. Thirty seconds later I was beating on the trunk latch. “Bailey! Are you in there?” I yelled between each blow. I pounded until my shoulders ached, and finally the trunk popped open.

  No Bailey. Just three or four zippered suitcases.

  I opened one. Full of cash. Relief washed over me, yet the gravity of this situation made my head swim. I had to acknowledge the dread that I’d find her dead in the trunk. But if she wasn’t there, where was she? I slid to the ground, propping my back against the trunk. Where is she? I bit my bottom lip against the fear. Took a deep breath. Tried to pray. Where can I go from your spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?

  Yes, wherever she was, God was with her. He could see her. He could see the babies. I had to hold on to that.

  Lord, help me to help her.

  Something shiny caught my eye.

  8

  I held my swollen stomach with one hand and pulled myself across the seat. I let go of my babies and turned the key in the ignition. Before I even got behind the wheel, Brown’s shocked face morphed to anger. My bulging belly wouldn’t let me fit, but I would not be deterred. I pushed on the gas with my left foot and the car lunged forward.

  Brown jumped out of the way, sprinted to the driver side, grabbed the open door and propelled himself into the car headfirst. He shifted the car into park, switched off the engine, then yanked the keys out and stuffed them into his pocket.

  Epic fail.

  What was I thinking? I’d put my babies in danger with each attempt to escape. I’d have to see how this played out. I’d surely broken his trust now.

  Rage glowed on his red face, veins protruding from his neck and temples. Without a word he grabbed my arm.

  “Please, you’re hurting me!” I swiveled, drawing my legs up as far as I could on the seat so that when he pulled me out, I slid on my back. I didn’t want my stomach scraped across that steering wheel. As soon as I was out of the car, he kicked the door shut. He pulled me behind. Each stumbling step I took caused more pressure below my babies.

  He plunged a shaky hand into his slacks pocket and retrieved his keys again. His fingers fumbled until he found the one he wanted and he shoved it into the front door lock.

  I tripped over the threshold as he yanked me into a dark room.

  He threw me onto a dingy, dark colored couch. Stale cigarette smoke permeated the atmosphere. Brown locked the front door and then sat in a tattered recliner perpendicular to the couch. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. Was he trying to calm himself or fueling his angry thoughts?

  I surveyed the room. Sparse furniture, just a square wooden table and two chairs a few feet from the couch. Stove, refrigerator, and sink along the north wall, heavily draped windows on the east side. Two doors, probably bedroom and bathroom lined up on the west side. No pictures on the wall. I craned my neck to look back at the entrance. Just the front door and another, larger draped window.

  He raised his head and looked at me. “I guess you must be starving by now. How about a bowl of chili?”

  Seriously? Drag me into this secluded place where no one can find me and then say “how about a bowl of chili?” Calm down. Keep your head. I took a deep breath. “I’m not hungry, but it’s the babies I’m concerned about. This whole thing’s not good for them. Besides, the longer I’m gone, the more trouble you’ll be in.”

  “Well, then. Let’s feed those babies, have our little talk, and then you’ll be on your way.” He stood and walked to the kitchen area.

  “Chili might be a little hard on my system at this point.” I hadn’t been able to eat much lately. I certainly didn’t want to get sick in this situation.

  “It’s beef stew, then.” He opened the cabinet above the sink, revealing rows of canned food.

  “Please, and some water.” Keep thinking, keep thinking. Even if I could make it to the bathroom or bedroom, I didn’t know if there was a lock on the door, or whether I could get out of the window.

  “Can I go to the bathroom, please?”

  It’s over there.” He motioned toward the bathroom door. He faced away as he twisted a can opener around a stew can.

  Pushing off the couch, I made my way across the room. I expected him to say something like “don’t try anything funny.”

  Silence.

  Why should he say anything? No lock on the bathroom door. One small window near the ceiling, opened an inch. No way out. In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. Giving thanks might quell my growing panic. I could be thankful that I was not in labor. I was alive, the children were alive. Certainly, Scott was looking for me. Probably he had the police on it as well. My heavenly Father knew where I was. Thank you, Father.

  Music. I heard piano playing and the faint strains of Joy to the World. Was Brown listening to music on the radio? No, it was coming from outside, but distant. Someone must live near. Hope blossomed in my heart.

  “You gonna stay in there all day?” Brown knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Almost done.” Brown would certainly know about a neighbor. If there was help nearby, I didn’t want him to be aware that I knew it. I decided to keep my ears open, physically and spiritually.

  The warming stew masked the rank smell of the cabin. Another reason to be thankful. My children needed nourishment in a big way. I walked to the little table and took a chair. The hard wooden seat caused pain in my lower back. “I’m sorry, I can’t sit here. Can I have my bowl on the couch?” Had I just said, “I’m sorry,” to a kidnapper? I needed to gain his trust.

  “All right. I’ll bring it.” He waited for me to lumber back to the couch and then handed me the hot stew in a large cup. He walked back to the kitchen area for a spoon and bottled water and then brought them to me. He sat at the table and watched me eat. Awkward.

  “You’re not eating?” I had to keep my voice sounding normal.

  His moods seem to mirror mine, unless he got angry.

  “No, you go ahead. There’s more if you want it.” He lightly tapped his knuckles on the table, his brow pensive. Was he ready to talk?

  “So let’s have that conversation,” I said, between spoonfuls. I tried not to sound desperate. Would he let me go after this discussion?

  “After you eat.” He wiped his trembling hands on his jeans.

  Perhaps he wanted to apologize for his treatment of me and my mother. This was a load of trouble for something like that. Realization dawned on me. He thought I had money. He must have learned about the fire at Pinewood Manor. Maybe he saw the news reports about the Barkley house. I only had a living allowance from Gran. The insurance money was tied up in the Barkley house and the scholarship. He would be angry if I told him I didn’t have any money. I debated whether I should pretend I’d give him what he wanted or tell the tr
uth. Either way, he would go to jail. He probably had no plans to let me go. My mind refused to consider what he would do to us.

  “So how much did you get?” He put his cup down on the floor between his feet. He leaned toward me as though his life depended on it.

  “What do you mean?” I had to buy time.

  “I thought you wanted to get out of here. Don’t play dumb with me. I know the old lady left you that ancient mausoleum. How much did you get?”

  “Is that what this is about? You want Gran’s money?” I stared at those hands that had bruised my arms. They shook now. “I’m not sure, exactly,” I whispered.

  He stood, his fists balled. His face reddened, the veins flared at his temples.

  Fear weakened me. A hard contraction rocked my senses. I puffed short breaths, holding my stomach with both hands. I never took my eyes from the angry man. Why didn’t the terror that creased my face have any effect on him? I felt a little foot or elbow under my hand. Enough was enough. My children were in danger. “If you don’t want to deliver these babies you’d better get me out of here.”

  My anger surprised him. He stumbled a few steps back and tripped into his chair.

  “I mean it. Kidnapping is one thing, but if anything happens to these babies, you’ll never get out of prison.” The contraction subsided. I took a deep breath and attempted to sit erect.

  He dropped his head into his hands, his whole body shaking with broken sobbing.

  “So, you need money, that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Not me, my daughter needs it. She’s sick. She’ll die without some expensive treatment. My insurance won’t cover it, and I don’t have any more.” He slid his hands over the top of his head, interlacing his white knuckles.

  A daughter? One he cared enough about to put my life, my children and his own freedom in danger? Cast an unloved daughter aside, but then ask her for money to help the one worthy of his love?