Jacob's Ladder (13 page)

Once she had adjusted her eyes to the electric lights outside, she could make out the interstate in the distance, only a few cars and trucks snaking along the highway. She could see the signs of gas stations and a few fast-food restaurants.

She thought at first that perhaps they had pulled into a truck stop, that maybe the two men had gotten hungry or needed to relieve themselves—something she was realizing she was needing to do—but as she glanced around through the tiny openings through the curtains, she realized that they were parked in the rear of a motel. From the other window, the one by the kitchen sink, she could see the long, straight row of rooms—most of them darkened, shades drawn, with no movement from within.

Rose grew excited about the possibility of an easy escape. Apparently, she surmised, the men had stopped to get a room and she was going to be able to get out of the camper without being noticed.

She crept toward the door of the trailer and was just about to push it open when she heard a vehicle driving up. She dropped down and crawled toward the rear of the camper, pushing through the fallen and broken debris. She rolled into the storage compartment again, pulling the door closed behind her.

It was a truck, a big one; she could tell by the sounds of the engine and then the brakes. She heard a door open, a few grunts as the driver seemed to get down from the seat, and then the door close. She heard footsteps that seemed to be moving away and then nothing. It grew silent again.

Rose waited a few minutes and then slowly cracked open the door. When she did, the light hit something that shined on the wall beside her. She reached over and saw that it was two keys on a small silver ring, hanging on a nail. She grabbed them, not sure what they fit, and then crawled to the camper door.

She unlocked the handle, opened the door, and peeked out. She saw no one, just the recently arrived eighteen-wheel truck parked close beside the trailer.

She stood up on the top step, stretched her back and hips, remembered the keys in her hand, climbed down the steps, walked over to the truck with the New Mexico plates, the truck that belonged to the dead man, and, just because she was feeling incredibly lucky, stuck one of the keys in the door.

It didn't fit. She glanced around again nervously. She tried the other key, and much to her surprise, the door unlocked. Rose opened it, jumped inside, and slid down in the seat. Carefully, she reached up and put the other key into the ignition. It was a perfect fit. She sat up, glancing in all directions, and still saw no one. Without having any idea where she was or how she would get back to West Memphis, Rose started the truck, and gradually, easily, pulled out of the parking lot.

She came to the driveway of the motel, looked left and then right, then pressed her foot hard against the gas pedal. Gunning the motor, Rose drove the stolen vehicles toward what she hoped was an interstate.

FOURTEEN

“Who is this?” The gruff voice called out into the receiver after Rose had dialed the sheriff's home number and awakened him from a deep sleep.

“Collect call from Rose Franklin,” the recording from the phone company reported.

“Rose Franklin?” he asked, surprise in the tone of his voice.

There was a pause.

The recording started to repeat itself.

“Yes, yes,” he replied.

Rose was put through.

“Rose?” he asked, sounding very disoriented. “What time is it?”

“About six-fifteen,” she said, “in the morning.” She had found out the time from a radio station in the truck.

“You got some good reason for calling me this early in the day?” he asked. He rubbed his eyes and sat up a little in the bed. “Collect, I might add.”

“I … I think so,” she stammered, unsure of how to explain her situation. There was another pause.

“Well, I'm waiting.” He had put on his glasses and sat up in his bed.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Checotah,” she replied.

“Oklahoma?” he responded.

“Yes, that's right.”

“You want to tell me why you're in Checotah, Oklahoma, and why you decided to call me?” he asked.

Rose could tell that Sheriff Montgomery was not a morning person.

“I was kidnapped,” she said, thinking that a little drama might ease the rest of the story she was going to have to tell. She was hoping for some sympathy.

“Kidnapped?” he asked, not sounding quite as sympathetic as she'd been expecting. “From where?”

“Shady Grove,” she told him. She waited.

“How come nobody else reported this?” he asked.

She hadn't thought of that.

“It just happened,” she replied. “Last night.” She hesitated. “Well, more like this morning, about midnight.” Would that be last night or this morning? she wondered. “I haven't been missed yet,” she said, thinking that sounded very believable. “Nobody knows I'm gone.”

“From your place?” he asked, now interested.

“What? Uh, well, no, not really,” she said.

“From the office?”

“Uh, well, no not there, either.” She wasn't sure the drama idea was turning out to be such a good one.

“Rose, are you all right?” he asked, sounding very fatherly.

She liked that.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm pretty sure I lost them.”

“The kidnappers?”

“Right.”

“And you're in Oklahoma?”

“Checotah,” she said again. “Is that the name of an Indian tribe?”

He wasn't going to answer her question. “Rose, have you called the police there?”

“No, I called you first.”

“Then hang up and dial nine one one,” he replied. “Tell them what's happened. Then call me back.”

“Well, I kinda think you might want to hear the story first,” she said timidly.

“Okay.”

Rose hesitated.

“I'm listening.” He was sounding perturbed again.

“Okay, last night I went over to the camper,” she began.

“Your camper?” he asked.

“No, the dead man's camper.”

“After I told you to quit snooping around,” he said.

She waited. She didn't have a good response.

“Yeah, well, I needed to see about something,” she replied, trying to figure out a way she could get around having to tell him about the bracelet.

“And what time was this that you had to go out to a sealed crime scene and see about something?”

“About midnight.”

There was no reply.

“I'm still listening,” he said.

“So, while I'm there, I hear two or three men coming toward the camper,”

“The dead man's camper, the one sealed off with police tape that says ‘Do not enter.'”

She could tell he was angry with her.

“That would be right,” she replied.

“Go on,” he instructed.

“So, I hear them coming in my direction and I jumped in the camper and locked the door.” She felt her voice grow in excitement. It was a good story, she thought.

“They tried to get in, but the window was duct-taped. I guess Deputy Roy did that.” She waited, but the sheriff did not reply.

“So then I hid in the storage compartment under the bed and waited for them to come in, but they never did.”

There was still no answer.

“But they drove off with the camper, with me in it.”

“In the storage compartment,” he finally said.

“Right,” she said, deciding not to add the part about the secret area she had fallen into. She didn't want to overload him with too much information. Then she remembered the dream, or parts of the dream, but she decided not to share that, either.

“And they drove you to Checotah, Oklahoma, and let you out.”

“No,” she said loudly, thinking he didn't appreciate the danger she had just faced, the courage she had displayed, the brilliant escape she had created for herself.

“They drove to Henryetta, Oklahoma, parked at a motel, and got out. When they were gone, I jumped out of the camper, found an extra set of truck keys, and drove down the interstate for about an hour and then stopped in Checotah to call you.” She took a breath and continued. “I think that if we call the police in Henryetta, they could probably catch the men. It hasn't been that long since I drove off. They're more than likely still asleep in the motel room.”

Sheriff Montgomery sighed. At least Rose thought it sounded like a sigh. She wasn't sure.

“Can you identify these two men?” he asked.

She hadn't thought of that. “No,” she replied. “I only heard them talk.”

“So, you think I should call the Oklahoma police.”

“In Henryetta,” she said.

“I should call the Henryetta, Oklahoma, police and tell them to go to the—Do you know the name of the motel?” he asked.

She hadn't thought of that, either. She had been in such a hurry getting out of the parking lot, she had forgotten to notice the name of the place where they had parked.

“It … it was the something motel,” she said.

“Okay,” he replied, trying to get her to see how ridiculous her story was now becoming. “I call the Henryetta police and tell them to find ‘the something motel' and search for two men who checked in late last night.”

“More like this morning,” she said, thinking it was actually a fine story. “That can't be too hard; it had to have been really late.”

“Two men who checked in this morning,” he continued, “who can't be identified.”

“Oh,” she said. “I guess that might take some time.” She was beginning to see the difficulty in her plan.

“Yeah, I think we need a little more information before we go knocking on the doors of every room of every motel in Henryetta, Oklahoma, searching for two men who stole a camper but then stopped along the way to sleep.”

Rose then understood that Sheriff Montgomery didn't believe the story she had given him. “You think I'm making this up?” she asked incredulously.

The sheriff blew out a long breath. “No,” he said. “I think you've been messing around with something I told you not to and now you've gotten yourself mixed up with some people who could be very dangerous.”

She didn't respond.

“Where are you exactly in Checotah, Oklahoma?”

“A rest stop, off of I-Forty,” she told him, starting to feel a little weepy.

“Just wait there,” he instructed. “I'll call somebody to come for you.” He hesitated, expecting her to respond. “Okay?” he asked, trying to sound a little more understanding.

There was still no reply.

“Rose, okay?” he asked again.

She mumbled, “Okay.”

“Do you remember the exit number?”

“No.”

“It's a highway rest stop in Checotah?”

“Yes.”

“And you're in an old Ford pickup pulling a tan motor home, both with New Mexico plates?” he asked, not sure his memory was correct.

“Gray,” she said.

“What?”

“The camper,” she said, “it's a gray Coachmen.”

“Okay,” he said, now in a softer tone. “I'll call Highway Patrol. It may take a little while,” he added. “You going to be all right?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” she told him, hoping that he wouldn't recognize the vulnerability in her voice.

“Okay, go to the truck and lock the doors.”

She was about to hang up the phone.

“And Rose,” the sheriff added, “call me back if you need me.”

“Thank you,” she said.

She placed the receiver in the cradle, and after glancing in all directions and seeing no one around, she quickly left the phone booth.

FIFTEEN

Rose went inside the rest area to use the bathroom. She saw only one other car parked in the lot, and she watched a man walking to it as she was entering the facility. He got in the car and drove away. He hadn't seemed to notice her, and there appeared to be no one else around.

She headed inside the ladies' room, then, after exiting the stall, moved slowly over to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. She studied herself in the mirror and wiped her face with a paper napkin. She knew that she was lucky to have gotten away from the men who stole the camper, but she wondered how much trouble she would be in once she returned to West Memphis.

She pulled on the sides of her face, giving herself a lift, thinking she had grown old in the last forty-eight hours. Using her fingers, she tried to straighten her hair, fix herself up a little before facing the firing squad of police officers that Sheriff Montgomery was sure to send her way. She knew that she was in for another long day.

When she walked out, she was surprised to see that there was a uniformed officer standing beside the truck. He was peeking inside the cab when she walked up, looking in through the driver's window.

She glanced around for the police car; but she saw only a dark SUV parked behind the camper. Remembering that the Highway Patrol often drove unmarked vehicles, she thought nothing of it.

“Rose Franklin?” the man asked when he saw her coming near.

She felt him watching her as she moved closer. He seemed to be sizing her up, trying to figure out the situation.

“You Rose Franklin?” he asked again. His hand was positioned on the top of the weapon that hung from his belt.

He was nice-looking, about thirty or thirty-five, she guessed. He was tall, of medium build, had short brown hair, and was wearing a crisp navy suit with a badge over the left front pocket of his shirt. He carried his hat under his arm.

He had on dark sunglasses, which Rose thought was a bit over the top, since it was so early in the morning. He held a clipboard next to his hat. There were handcuffs hanging off of his belt and the gun, a small pistol in a holster attached to the right side. He was standing straight, at attention, appearing ready for police business.