With Cruel Intent (68 page)

DECEASED. “Can’t be him unless you’re

battling a ghost. Must be the last one,” he

said, as he entered the search field with

Ronald Philip’s name.

Seymour was hopeful that they

finally had their man, the thought of where

he would go from here and how he would

rescue Blanche still very fuzzy in his head.

Would sort that out once he found where

he had taken her. Information for Ronald

filled the screen.

“How old is he?” Seymour

anxiously asked.

“Looks to be 68, sorry Seymour.

Looks like we’re striking out,” he said,

slumping back in the chair and staring at

the younger man with disappointment

written on his face.

They sat together thinking of what

they could do. The information had to be

there they just weren’t finding it.

Something was barely beyond their

fingertips but they couldn’t see it.

“Bring

up

their

addresses,”

Seymour said. “The Sheriff’s Office thinks

the guy was raised on a farm or still lives

on a farm now.”

Dr. Camp did what he was asked,

the printer hummed again and a page

printed, this time with three names and

addresses. The amateur sleuth looked the

page over, only one had a rural address

but he was deceased. A flash of

inspiration hit Seymour like a bolt of

lightning bringing a smile to his face.

“What if The Stalker is Spencer’s

son? What if the glasses are his but his son

was using them as part of his disguise?

That’s the only thing that makes sense. Do

you have a way to see if you’ve ever seen

any of this dead guy’s family?”

“Sure, I’ll just input Spencer

Cummings as ‘head of household’ and it’ll

print out anybody linked to his account,”

the excited doctor said, as he punched the

keyboard one more time. “Lester and

Maureen Cummings have both been

patients here. This Lester must be the guy,

let’s see what his chart shows.”

“Lester Cummings. I’ve got you

now you piece of crap!” Seymour hissed,

his jaw clenched in anger.

“Lester Cummings has not been

here for about ten years but he’s now in

his thirties and does not wear prescription

glasses based on our last exam. This pair

has to be his dad’s,” Dr. Camp declared

with a sense of accomplishment, lifting the

pair in question and returning them to

Seymour.

“Do you know where this address

is or can you bring a map up on the

computer?” he asked the doctor.

He was typing before the young

man finished the thought. A moment later

the printer was brought back to life,

printing a detailed map of the Valdosta

area, with a purple line that ran from the

doctor’s location to the address on the list

of names. Seymour looked it over and

moved quickly to the door with the doctor

looking on.

“Thanks so much Dr. Camp, you

may have saved a life tonight. Call the

Sheriff’s Office and tell them what we’ve

found and that I’m on my way to

Cummings’ place. If I beat them there I’m

going for Blanche, tell ‘em not to shoot

me.”

“Will do, good luck son,” he

replied.

* * *

Beverly Davis slowly struggled to

clear the fog from her head, the events of

the past few hours lost from her mind until

she saw the body of Felix lying on the

floor near her bed. The ball still firmly

stuffed in her mouth prevented her from

screaming, yet she tried, her eyes filling

with tears and searching the room for

signs of the other man. The clock next to

the bed read 1:11 a.m., she’d been out for

a few hours, and the area of her head

where she had taken the blow, still

throbbing and sore but her memory was

bright. She struggled with the restraints on

both her wrists and ankles but was unable

to free herself. The phone sat in a charging

cradle near the bed on a nightstand. She

wormed her way to the table and tried to

pick the phone up with her hands bound

behind her, in the process the restrained

woman knocked the table, sending the

phone skidding across the floor, coming to

rest against the dead body of her lover.

With the frustration and anger

rising in her chest, she closed her eyes and

tried to think of what she could do. The

thought of crawling to the neighbors

entered her mind but it was a long way,

the phone was still her best option. She

eased herself onto her feet, then her knees

and finally onto her front, her head facing

the phone and the deceased Felix. She

scooted and shimmied until her face was

directly over the phone, thankfully it had

landed keys up. With her nose she tried to

depress the ‘on’ symbol but missed and hit

the ‘speaker’ button instead. Again she

tried with her nose and could suddenly

hear a dial tone coming through the small

speaker of the portable phone.

“Good,” she thought, “halfway

there.”

With her nose as a battering ram

Bev tried to dial 911 with repeated

failures. Each time having to start over

again with the sequence of, on, three

numbers, then off and over again. On the

eighth try she finally managed to get 911

dialed correctly.

Living outside the Valdosta city

limits her emergency call rang through to

the Sheriff’s Dispatch where the young

woman had been enjoying a quiet night

chatting with Deputy Guest and watching

Otis wrestle with a towel from the locker

room, eventually tearing it to shreds.

“9-1-1, what is the nature of your

emergency?” Bev heard clearly through

the phone.

The gag made it impossible to

utter any recognizable words so she

simply grunted into the phone, her cheeks

puffing in and out as she tried to be heard.

“I’m sorry I can’t make that out, do

you have an emergency?”

Bev grunted once, and then

stopped. It occurred to the woman

manning the phone that it was possible that

a mute was on the line so she reverted to

an auxiliary training procedure she’d

received some time ago.

“If you can understand what I am

saying I want you to grunt once. Go

ahead,” she said.

Beverly did as she was instructed

and grunted once. To confirm that they

were actually communicating she asked

Beverly to grunt twice when she heard the

word dog. The operator then listed a

number of random words, Bev was silent

until she heard ‘dog’, and then she grunted

twice as loudly as she could. By this time

the operator had pulled up the details of

the home where the call was coming from.

“Okay, I want you to use one grunt

for yes and two for no, do you

understand?”

Ms. Davis grunted once.

“Fine, am I speaking with Ms.

Beverly Davis?”

One Grunt

“Are you hurt?”

One Grunt

“Do you need us to send an

ambulance?”

One Grunt

“Do you need a Sheriff Unit

dispatched to your location?”

One Grunt

“Are you safe?” the operator

asked, her nerves on edge.

Two Grunts

“Deputy Guest, need your help

over here!” she said, calling for Natalie to

join her at the station.

“What’s up?” Guest asked.

“I’ve got a situation. A Beverly

Davis is on the line and unable to

communicate verbally other than grunts

and I can hear her breathing heavily, not

sure if she’s injured and can’t speak or is

bound and gagged. I’m sending an

ambulance right away but I’ll need you or

the Sheriff to run out there as well. You

two are all I’ve got tonight.”

“Shit, better not be due to us

releasing Wood this afternoon. I’ll see

what the Sheriff wants to do.”

“Ms. Davis, help is on the way.

Are you unable to speak because of an

injury?”

Two Grunts

“Are you gagged?”

One Grunt

“Natalie, she’s gagged, we need to

respond asap. Apparent intruder!” the

operator yelled across the office.

'The Wolf' had his service belt and

Glock 9mm on in a matter of seconds and

was running for his squad car.

He hollered back over his

shoulder, “Natalie stay with her and keep

me appraised, I’m on my way.”

The operator continued to ask

‘yes’ and ‘no’ questions to Beverly to let

her know they were still there and would

stay on the line until help arrived.

As the two women listened to the

grunts coming through the sound system

mounted on the desk the phone at the main

reception rang. Deputy Guest hustled to

the phone.

“Lowndes County Sheriff’s Office,

Deputy Guest.”

“Deputy Guest, this is Dr. Camp,

you don’t know me but I suspect you know

a Seymour Wood,” the optometrist said.

“We do, what’s he done?” she

said, expecting the worst.

“He dragged me out of bed tonight

and brought me to my office saying that

The Stalker had kidnapped his girlfriend, I

think her name was Blanche but I can’t be

sure. Anyway, he found some glasses and

long story short, we think we identified

The Stalker and Seymour’s on his way

there to help Blanche.”

“Damn it! Okay doctor, give me

the name and the location where Seymour

is headed.”

“The guy is Lester Cummings …..”

“How in the hell...never mind, I

know the location,” she said, cutting him

off. “Where are you now doctor and are

you safe?”

“I’m at my office and I’m fine.

That boys going to need some help, send

somebody as quickly as you can but

Seymour said to be careful and not to

shoot him.”

“Will do doctor, thanks for the

call,” Natalie said trying to decide what to

do next.

She called to the dispatcher, “I’ve

got to get out to Lester Cummings’ place

asap, can’t wait for anybody else to come

in. Get on the horn and get some officers

out of bed, send half to 'The Wolf’s

location and half to mine. The name again

is Lester Cummings - he’s The Stalker.

Make it happen! I’m on my way! Come on

Otis!” she said, running for the doors.

* * *

Seymour pulled the rusted-out

pickup within twenty feet of the drive that

led to the Cummings’ home. He could see

where the dirt lane cut through the trees

and weeds that would lead to the house.

The gun behind the seat offered some

comfort but the young man was scared to

death, the thought of Blanche being

harmed was the only thing that forced him

from the truck. He filled a pocket with the

shells from the glove box and slid the

heavy rifle from the hiding place, the ten

pounds now feeling like twenty. He

opened the breach to confirm that a shell

was still in place and slowly approached

the drive. Seymour knelt next to the

mailbox and looked down the lane. A

single light was on in the house and a

silver van was parked in the lane at the

side of the structure. He listened but could

hear nothing, just crickets and the

nocturnal country sounds that he was so

familiar with.

He crept slowly up the drive,

moving his eyes right and left to prevent a

flanking attack, his finger on the trigger.

Reaching the rear of the van he opened it

as quietly as he was able and examined

the interior. No Blanche. A camouflaged

hat and jacket thrown to one side, a bottle

of ether resting on top of the coat along

with a white rag but nothing that would

assist in his rescue of the woman.

Seymour slipped around the back of the

van and stood between the house and the

side of the vehicle, a window to his right

allowed him a view into the home.

Cautiously he peered through the lightly

curtained window and into the house. He