Never Ending Spring Page 7

  Back in the patrol car, he picked up the mike. "No, I'll take care of Lonnie Greggs," he said, smiling broadly, replacing the mike. Then a dark cloud settled in the sky.

  "What about Jack Johnson? The old man could get hurt."

  ****

  "Gram, when is Gramps coming home?" Emily asked between bites.

  "He'll be home real soon, sweetheart."

  "He didn't go to heaven, did he?"

  "Oh honey," Ruth said, gathering Emily up in her arms and hugging her. "No, Gramps didn't go to heaven."

  ****

  Lonnie's head was buzzing. He had been almost to the Indiana state line near Richmond when a semi picked him up a few minutes after midnight. He was grateful for the ride but the truck didn't have a muffler, only a rusted piece of pipe welded onto another pipe that disappeared under the cab. He tried to make small talk but had a hard time making the driver hear him.

  "How long you been driving a truck?" Lonnie shouted.

  The man took one hand off the steering wheel and cupped it behind his ear.

  "Huh?" he asked with an exaggerated expression.

  "How long you been driving?" Lonnie asked again louder this time.

  "Been a long time. Over twenty years," the man leaned forward and hung over the wheel, driving with vigor, increasing his speed. Lonnie watched the speedometer climb to seventy then seventy-five. The man smiled at Lonnie, laughing a high shrill laugh that soared over the roar of the engine. Lonnie braced himself, holding onto the seat as the big rig thundered through the night.

  Twenty miles back, Jack laid the .38 Eric had loaned him on the seat beside him, covering it with his heavy coat.

  "Jack, if you're going after Lonnie, you'd better have something to protect yourself with." Eric had said before handing the gun to Jack.

  "I can handle him," Jack insisted, trying to give it back. In the end, he let Eric persuade him to take the pistol. Now he wished he hadn't. As far as he could tell, Lonnie was unarmed. He had even left his bag behind with his few worldly possessions in it. Reverend Caldwell had insisted Jack take it. The bag contained two pairs of underwear, a shirt, a pair of pants, three dollars, and a gold pocket watch, which seemed to be the extent of everything the man owned. Rummaging in the bottom of the bag, Jack found a letter written in a tiny feminine hand. The letter had been forwarded to the Good Shepherd Mission from an address in Indianapolis. Jack felt relief wash over him. As big as Indianapolis was, Jack wasn't sure where to start looking for Lonnie. Now with the help of the letter he knew.

  Dear Son,

  I love you and miss you so much. Please come home. The police were here again today. They just want to question you. I know you didn't kill that minister and his wife. Come home Lonnie. I'll do all I can to help you. Please. I have forgiven you and God will too if only you'll ask. Love, Mom.

  Jack hurriedly stuffed the letter back in the bag, feeling guilty as if he had invaded Mrs. Greg's home.

  Slowing to seventy, the semi came into Greenfield. "Don't you think you should slow down?" Lonnie asked in a trembling voice, watching a fast approaching stoplight turn from green to yellow to red.

  "You trying to tell me how to drive?" the man growled. Distracted, the driver never saw the white Ford station wagon until almost too late. The rig whipped to the side, missing the station wagon by inches. Lonnie had a glance of a man and woman, their faces filled with horror as the semi flashed by. Losing control of the truck, they wiped out two parked cars, crushing them like tin cans. The back right wheel of the trailer came to rest on the hood of the second car.

  "Quite a ride, huh, boy?" the driver said smiling at Lonnie.

  Feeling behind him, Lonnie searched for the door handle. Finding it, he swung out onto the ground and ran into the night, the man's shrill laughter ringing in his ears. From the station wagon sitting crossways in the street, Lonnie could hear the woman still screaming.

  Chapter 11

  Jack drove around for hours, trying to find 685 Holt Street. Finally, he came across an old, run-down two-story brick apartment house. The wrought-iron railing, once black was now mainly rust and wobbled under his touch. Walking into the tiny lobby, Jack found the mailbox he was looking for.

  After receiving no answer at the door of the apartment, Jack returned to the pickup. He had parked on the same side of the street as the building. This afforded him a good view of its front and back. With parking places at a premium, he felt himself lucky to have found this spot. As soon as he switched off the engine, doubts began to assail him.

  What if Lonnie recognized Jack? Would he recognize Jack's pickup before he could get close enough to hold the gun on him? Maybe he should call the police; no, he was taking Lonnie back himself. Why worry about that now? Lonnie might not even show, but this was the best lead he had. Jack settled back in the seat, pulling his hat down over his eyes. A light snow started falling as if God was trying to cover the filthy street .

  ****

  Ruth awoke to the freshness of a clean winter day. A pink sun was just peeking over the horizon; she loved the winter almost as much as spring. The world seemed so unsoiled with its new covering of snow. No hint that a cruel world lay out there, a world that contained the murder of Kristie and Jim and that left Emily an orphan.

  "Oh Jack," she said to herself, looking out the window at the breath taking landscape. "I miss you so much, Lord, please protect him."

  Checking on Emily, Ruth found her still sleeping peacefully.

  Donning her heavy work coat, Ruth stepped out onto the porch into the crisp morning breeze. The air instantly filled with the lowing of the cattle waiting to be fed.

  Ruth smiled. "So much for the peace and quiet of the country," she said out loud. At the sound of her voice, the cattle paused, then resumed with greater intensity.

  Trudging to the barn, she climbed to the loft. Before leaving, Jack had stacked several bales of hay around the trapdoor over the feeding trough. Ruth pulled five of them from the dwindling pile, cutting the wires that held them together. As she dropped the last bale, Ruth lost her balance. She would have fallen to the floor below if it hadn't been for the rough frame of two by fours Jack had built around the opening for that very purpose. Falling onto the floor of the loft, Ruth twisted her ankle. Crying out in pain, she felt faint. After lying on the floor for a few moments, she was able to climb down the ladder, grimacing in pain.

  By the time she finished milking the cows and feeding the chickens, her ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. Back in the house, she filled a galvanized bucket with warm water and several teaspoons of Epsom salts. Sinking her foot into the soothing liquid, she groaned.

  At that moment, Emily entered the kitchen. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with the back of her fists, she ran to her grandmother and knelt down, tenderly touching Ruth's swollen ankle.

  "What happened, Gram?" she asked concern in her voice.

  "Oh nothing, honey, I just twisted my ankle. What would you like for breakfast?"

  "I'll get it," Emily shouted.

  Before Ruth could stop her, Emily ran to the refrigerator. Opening the door, she lugged the big glass jar of milk from the shelf. Struggling under its weight, she maneuvered it toward the table. Ruth reached out her hands to rescue the jar just as it slipped from Emily's grasp.

  With Emily's help, they finished breakfast and washed the dishes. With Ruth doing most of the work and Emily doing enough to feel as though she was helping. Ruth had just sat down at the table with a second cup of coffee when the phone rang. Hobbling over to the wall, she lifted the receiver.

  "Hello?"

  "Hello, Ruth, how are you?" Mary Turner asked.

  "I'm okay, Mary, just a little lonely," Ruth, sighed. It was too much to hope Jack would call this early in the morning.

  "Jack's still not back?"

  "No."

  "Gram hurt her foot," Emily said in a loud voice, standing at Ruth's elbow.

  "What happened, Ruth?"

  "Oh, I just twisted my
ankle, I'll be fine."

  "You stay right there. I'll have Jacob drive me over."

  "That won't be necessary; I've already finished the outside chores."

  "Not another word, I'll be right there."

  A half-hour later, Mary stood in Ruth's kitchen, mixing a poultice of yellow clay. Going to Ruth, she applied the mud to her ankle and foot.

  "My mother used yellow clay on me when I was a child," Mary mused. "She said God blessed Indiana with the medicinal properties of clay because it wasn't much good for farming."

  Not wanting to hurt Mary's feelings, Ruth did not tell her she had used the mixture all of her adult life.

  "How long should we leave it on?" she asked innocently.

  "Till it dries, I'd say about a couple of hours. Oh dear, I guess I should have asked you if you wanted to go into the living room with Emily and Jacob before I put it on."

  Before she could respond, Mary was helping Ruth to her feet, guiding her to the living room.

  "Lean on me," she said, putting her arm around Ruth.

  Jacob Turner was sprawled on the floor. Except for his gray hair and gnarled hands, he looked like an oversized boy. The colored pieces of a board game were spread out between him and Emily. As they entered the room, Ruth heard Emily exclaim in a small-lost voice, "Gramps don't play games with me anymore."

  ****

  In Indianapolis, Jack jerked upright. A man was approaching the apartment house. His long hair, scraggly beard, and filthy clothes almost obscured his identity. Mounting the steps, his head turned in all directions and then his gaze froze on Jack. Their eyes locked; it was Lonnie Greggs! In spite of his appearance, Jack recognized him from his picture in Lonnie's high school yearbook. Vaulting over the iron railing, Lonnie landed on a beer bottle, falling flat on his back.

  Scrambling up he was about to make his getaway when Jack's hand landed on his shoulder, spinning him around.

  "You murdered my daughter!" Jack howled.

  A terrified look splashed across Lonnie's face just before Jack's fist smashed into him, crushing his nose. Blood sprayed across the front of Lonnie's shirt.

  "Please don't hurt me," Lonnie cried, covering his face with his hands.

  "Hurt you? You rotten, stinking coward, I'm gonna kill you right here!" Jack said, pulling Eric's gun from his belt.

  Lonnie's face turned deathly white. "No, Mr. Johnson, I didn't kill them."

  "You filthy liar, you might as well tell the truth, you're gonna die anyway," Jack said, laying the muzzle of the gun on the bridge of Lonnie's bleeding nose.

  Staring straight in the quaking man's eyes, Jack deliberately cocked the hammer.

  "God help me," Lonnie said in a faint whisper.

  As he squeezed the trigger, Mrs. Greggs' last words rang in Jack's ears.

  "Mr. Johnson, if you find my son, tell him I love him, that God loves him too and will forgive him... forgive him...forgive him."

  Uncocking the pistol, Jack shouted, "Get to your feet!" When Lonnie didn't obey immediately, Jack hauled him up by the nap of his neck and pushed him toward the truck.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "You're going back to Sullivan County to stand trial for murdering my daughter and son-in-law," Jack said, shoving him into the truck.

  Reaching under the seat, Jack produced a rope made from bailer twine.

  "But I didn't do it, I wasn't even there. I was at home," Lonnie sobbed, big tears making streaks in the dirt on his face and getting caught in his beard.

  "Hold out your hands," Jack commanded.

  Lonnie held out his hands, palms up as a small child would when expecting a treat. Winding the rope around Lonnie's wrists, Jack secured it to his legs.

  Lonnie was silent until Plainfield.

  "Mr. Johnson, I want you to know, I didn't kill them. I really liked Jim and Kristie. They treated me like I was part of their family."

  Jack regarded him with contempt.

  "I ate with them, I played with Emily, I felt I was going to make it this time."

  "Sure, you had this wonderful time with them, took advantage of their good nature, then went and got drunk and ended up in jail. Then when you got out, you killed them!" Jack accused.

  "No I didn't, I was helping Pastor Jim in the garden one morning when I got a phone call. I thought it was my mom asking me to come home. But it was a man, he told me to keep my mouth shut; if I didn't, my mother would end up like Denny Brown. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't talk to Jim about it. I was afraid to confide in him or this guy would kill my mother. So I applied the same solution I used for years. I got drunk."

  "You expect me to believe that?" Jack asked

  "It's the truth, Mr. Johnson. When I heard they were dead, I knew he had killed them." Lonnie lapsed into silence.

  "Yah, the voice on the phone." Jack sneered, his tone implying he didn't believe a word Lonnie said.

  Chapter 12

  They were on U.S.41 a mile south of Farmersburg when the shots rang out. Lonnie slumped over in the seat, glass from the broken window showering him and Jack. A small hole in the side of his head oozed blood. Swinging the pickup into the northbound lane, Jack almost collided head on with a blue Oldsmobile.

  The next shot shattered the windshield, coming within inches of Jack's right ear. Whipping the truck back into a southbound lane, he accelerated as semi roared by, its air horn screaming.

  Jack pressed the pedal harder as the speedometer climbed to 70, then 80. He passed a milk truck on the shoulder and almost lost control. It wasn't until he entered Sullivan that Jack felt the danger was past. Stopping the truck on a side street, he removed the rope from Lonnie's wrists and legs. Lonnie seemed to be unconscious, his breathing shallow. Jack swallowed hard and fought back the urge to vomit.

  Pulling back into traffic, he drove to Mary Sherman Hospital, blowing the truck's horn as he came to the Emergency Entrance.

  "Here now, quit blowing that horn! This is a hospital!" a heavyset nurse said, exiting the building and walking toward the truck. She took one look at Lonnie and began shouting commands to the others who had followed her.

  Forty-five minutes later, Jack was sitting in the waiting room when Bob Curry came in, followed by Ike Harris and Billy Bob.

  "Jack, I want an explanation and I want it now! They tell me you brought in Lonnie Greggs with a broken nose and all shot up. You'd better have a good story or a good lawyer," Curry growled.

  Jack bristled. "Did you see the windows on the truck? If you had done your job, I wouldn't have had to bring him in myself. If you look at my pickup, you'll see I was shot at too. Now unless you're going to arrest me, I'm going home." Without waiting for an answer, Jack started to leave.

  "Don't you want to know how Lonnie Greggs is?" Ike called after him.

  "Why should I care? Just don't let him get away this time. I want him nice and healthy to stand trial."

  "He's not going to trial," Curry said.

  "What?" Jack shouted, turning toward them. "What do you mean?"

  Billy Bob placed his hand on his revolver. Bob put a restraining hand on Billy Bob's arm.

  "He's dead, Jack. He died five minutes ago," Ike said simply.

  Jack sunk into a chair, the color draining from his face. "I never meant for this to happen. Yeah, I wanted him dead, but not like this."

  "What did Lonnie say to you? Did he admit he was the one who killed them?" Curry asked.

  "No, he told me how much he liked Jim and Kristie."

  Jack didn't mention the phone call Lonnie said he had gotten at the parsonage.

  "I suppose you don't have any idea who shot at you either?" Ike said, giving Jack an icy stare.

  "No Harris, I was a little busy staying alive to ask the bullets who sent them. Why don't you go up there? Maybe they'll shoot at you."

  "Now don't get smart with me, I'll run you in."

  "On what charge? Doing your job?"

  "Ike, I want you and Billy Bob to go to Farmersburg and see what you c
an find," Curry interrupted.

  When the chief deputy and Billy Bob were gone, Jack asked, "What's he got against me anyway?"

  "Ike thinks you killed Jim and Kristie and now you're covering your tracks." "Me?" Jack said in astonishment. "Bob, we've known each other a long time. You can't believe I'd kill my own daughter."

  "I know Jack, but you're in a tight spot and I may not be able to help you if anything else happens. My advice is to go home. Only leave when you have to and do not, I repeat, do not leave the county for any reason."