Steve’s shorts: Your Past Will Find You, Part Two of Three…
Your Past Will Find You
Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore
Part Two
Rena watched Will’s pickup pull away, bothered about two things. First, she had liked his gentle touch, his patience, and his conversation. You’re a lonely woman! Second, Will was a mystery. She wanted to know more about him. He doesn’t seem to belong here either.
She entered her house, glanced at the studio, and decided “Moon Madness” would wait until tomorrow. She found a pint of pistachio ice cream in the freezer and sat down at her laptop.
She was still worried about the strange call to her agent. The gun was some comfort, but she had no confidence in her ability to use it yet. Maybe I could scare a person off by just waving it?
These days she didn’t have many emails. There was one from her agent that repeated the message he had left on her answering machine. There were two from Will, the first confirming the meeting at Curly’s, and a more recent one telling her to be careful with the gun by guarding it in a safe place and keeping the safety on. A bit condescending, but probably well-intentioned.
The third caused a cold sweat and her skin to crawl. It was disguised as a message about a MoMA exhibit.
“It’s only a matter of time and I will find you,” it said.
I need to get another email account. But she knew that the damage was done if the sender had any hacking skills.
That night she tested all the doors twice and vowed to get a guard dog. She was afraid of the gun, but she kept it handy in her nightstand drawer.
***
Will lay awake thinking of Rena. He had given up on finding the right person to share his life with, but she was definitely intriguing. There wasn’t any doubt she was running from someone, though. An abusive husband? There was no wedding ring, but a jerk can still be abusive after a divorce. What about the distance she created between the Big Apple and where she ended up? What was that about? And why the gun? In her situation, he would have to describe the desire to learn to shoot as a response to fear. But fear of what?
He wanted to help her, but he didn’t want to get involved. He had his own devils to contend with. Fooling around with a famous artist might put him in the spotlight. He didn’t need that. He was content with his life, as lonely as it was, because he had some security. No one would be suspicious of a horse trainer from the middle of the country.
He figured Rena would be the last person to tell him to meet his demons head on. They were both in hiding. Hopefully their demons were different so he could keep them separate.
I’ll do the ride-along with her tomorrow and then forget about her.
***
Will followed Rena. In some flat areas, they let the horses gallop, but they slowed them down to pick their way through rough areas and hilly terrain. She pulled up in a grassy area bordered by a copse of trees. Will saw the other end of the brook sparkling between the trunks.
“Probably good to let the horses sun themselves and cool down, right?” she said, dropping from the saddle and tying Max to a tree trunk.
He patted his steed; she was named Rosa. “They didn’t work up much sweat. Let me walk them down to the brook where they can get some water too. There’s plenty of grass for them.”
She nodded and stretched out in the sun.
When he returned, she was napping. He clapped his hands.
“Don’t do that!”
“You were going to get burned.”
“It’s cloudy.”
“You can still get burned.”
“I have makeup on with sunscreen.”
He shrugged, sitting down near her. “OK. Sorry. Go back to sleep, then.”
“I had a bad night. I have a stalker. I might have to move again.”
“A stalker? No wonder you wanted a gun. When he comes around, shoot him. It’s the best solution.”
“That’s pretty violent. I don’t believe in capital punishment.”
“Call it self-defense then. I can’t imagine anyone I know around here being a stalker.”
“Back in New York. Obsessions.”
“Your paranoia or his perversion?” Will said that with a smile.
“Both. A whole bunch of pretty explicit emails describing what he’s going to do to me.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“NYPD Special Victims Unit. They tried to trace the emails. When he sent my pic of mine Photoshopped with a hatchet in my head, and the message said, ‘If you don’t want me, no one else can have you,’ they began to get worried. I thought he might also be the person who killed my boyfriend. They called that a gang feud gone bad.” She shuddered. “I got a stakeout for a week, but there were no more emails. I wasn’t going to take any chances, though. I can paint anywhere.”
“Makes sense. So, why the gun?”
“The motivation for that came from someone from the Midwest insisting on meeting me before buying one of my paintings. Fortunately, I have my New York agent well-trained. And he can’t say where I live because he doesn’t know. Only a PO Box.”
Oops! That was me. His interest in Rena had fed her paranoia. “After we finish our ride, let’s go over to your place and take a look at that email.”
She sat and leaned over. Her lips brushed his cheek. “Thank you. That would make me feel like I’m doing something proactive.”
“It’d be more proactive if we talk to Sheriff Jolly about it.”
She frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t want anything to go public.”
***
The email had been sent from a smart phone. Will didn’t know how to trace that.
“I want to establish a history, a timeline of how this has progressed. Also, were you seeing anyone at the time who broke up with you and might have a grudge?”
She blushed. “I haven’t been lucky in finding that one special person. It was looking like Jake might be, but then he was killed. I dated more in Spain—the Spanish are so gregarious and enchanting—but nothing came of it. I also dated some in college.”
He held up a hand. “No need for more details. You’re so nice that it’s hard to imagine someone having a grudge, but it might also be a case of transferring identities.”
“That sounds like psycho-babble. What does it mean?”
“Some guy—hell, these days, maybe even a gal—lost someone special and identifies you with that person. In other words, the rejection could have originated with someone else. Or, there was a car accident and a special someone died. People go off the deep end for multiple reasons.”
“You sound like a cop.”
He frowned. “Remember, I read mysteries. Call me an amateur psychologist who studies criminal and insane minds—fictional ones, of course.”
She shuddered again. “OK, so someone could become obsessed with me without me doing anything. What next?”
“From the email, it looks like he or she still can’t find you. That means you successfully escaped from the Big rotten Apple. I’d get a new email account and don’t use your real name. Do you have many people in your list of contacts?”
“Maybe a dozen.”
“Send them all an email from your new account with the message to use that new address. Do you use social media?”
“Not anymore.”
“Good. You don’t need it here. I assume your agent is trustworthy.”
“I’d trust Harry with my life. ”
“OK, but keep him in the dark. He’s probably trustworthy, but you don’t want him leaving your personal info lying around either.” He tapped the laptop’s screen. “I can’t see that we can do anything more. Other than go to Sheriff Jolly. It might come to that.”
“I’d like some more shooting lessons.”
“You certainly don’t need more riding lessons. Tomorrow we’ll drive to the range and get you started there. I’ll be away for a week meeting potential customers after that.”
***
Rena liked most of the people at the gun range. Every day that Will was gone, she went there, dropping by to visit old Curly on the way home.
“Didn’t figure you for a gun enthusiast,” he said once over the brim of his mug.
She pushed the plate of cookies back to his side of the table. “Didn’t figure you could bake cookies.”
“Got all my wife’s recipes. It’s not hard when you get the hang of it. She always had a plate of cookies around.”
“Well, they’re going to make me fat.”
“Riding Max will tighten up that butt and shake off a few pounds. Draggin’ that hose around the yard will too. You should get a sprinkler system. That lawn’s big.”
“How’s that work with a well?”
“Don’t know. Fellow over yonder is a truck farmer. He sprays veggies with an overhead sprinkler system. You’ll have to ask him. Proves you can do it, though.” He eyed her. “Back to the gun. Does Will shoot as well as he trains horses?”
She laughed and turned red. “Maybe better. He’s been a great help.”
“He done give you a good deal on Max, for sure. Might be sweet on you. Makes me a bit jealous, you know.”
“I’m here with you now,” she said with a wink.
“So you’re afraid of something or someone? No one around here is going to bother you, kid. We’re decent folks. You left the perverts back in New York City.”
“Maybe I’m afraid one will follow me here,” she said in a whisper.
The gray eyebrows raised. “Maybe you should talk to Sheriff Jolly then. Will seems to know a lot about police procedures and all, but Gerald Jolly is a real pro. Nothing gets by them eagle eyes. He had you pegged as a city slicker from day one. ‘Course, when he heard you can ride old Max like a seasoned cowhand, he had to eat his words a bit.”
“So Will was talking about me?”
“Not Will. Me. You can trust Will with the President’s nuclear codes. Will knows how to keep a secret. I suspect he has a few himself. Jolly often wonders about him. Thought he might be in witness protection or something. You know, that FBI thing.”
Yes, I’ve heard about that! She had often thought she needed to be in that program. But maybe Will was right about the stalker. If he couldn’t find her, he was harmless.
***
Rena woke up in a cold sweat. The phone’s ringing! She checked the clock. 9:50 a.m. Another nearly sleepless night had ended in exhaustion and sleeping in. She put her slippers on, went to the kitchen, and checked the number. She didn’t recognize it. Fear gripped her. No, it can’t be!
She picked up the receiver.
“Rena, Will.” She relaxed. “I’m in a bind here. I’ve almost made a sale. The owner wants to see a copy of the horse’s history.”
“You mean his pedigree?”
“Not much of a pedigree. He’s just an ordinary quarter horse, but I keep ancestry records. Name’s Gadfly. The papers are in my room at my boarding house. Mama Dora will let you in when you explain. If you could fax copies to me, I’d appreciate it.”
“OK. I was going into town anyway before going to the shooting range. I want to cash some more checks and make a transfer to my New York account. Give me the fax number. I didn’t know anyone uses faxes anymore, by the way.”
“You’re in the West, kid. The attitude here is that if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Thanks a million. I’ll make it up to you by treating you to dinner at Big Mike’s.”
“That’s too much like a New Jersey diner.”
“I know, but Mike makes a mean T-bone and lots of other goodies. You’ll be pleased.”
“OK. I’m sure Mike has you on retainer for PR and marketing.”
“Mike might know what a retainer is, but I doubt he knows or cares about PR and marketing. Thanks again.”
***
After doing her banking, Rena went to Mama Dora’s. Dora Hutchins was a big woman with a ready smile and good humor. Maybe eats a lot of her own cooking? She wondered if the food was better than Big Mike’s.
Dora opened the door using a key from a huge ring. Rena was surprised at how neat the room was.
“Will keeps a tight ship, not like some of my other guests. I—” A bell ring interrupted her. “Someone’s at the front desk. You just rummage around, dear. Not that many places to look. Don’t know why he don’t keep things out at Curly’s, but maybe he does bookkeeping here at night. All that old man does is talk, talk, talk, so it’s probably hard for Will to add two to two and get four out there.”
After she left, Rena had to decide where to start. Damn Will. He should have told me where the papers are. She looked around the room. The bureau was a possibility.
But the bureau only had clothes. She wasn’t about to search through his underwear either. She smiled when she noted he wore boxers, though. When she was young, the girls would always try to guess.
The nightstand was only a table. She opened the closet. Two old cardboard filing boxes on the shelf looked promising. She lowered the one labeled A-M and carried it to the bed. Gadfly had his own file containing three sheets of legal paper; his ancestry was written in longhand by two different people. Probably Curly and Will. She then saw the old wallet standing on edge at the end of the box.
I wonder why he didn’t toss this? It looks pretty beat up. Was Will a hoarder? He didn’t seem to be.
She opened the wallet, finding a few credit cards and a driver’s license, all in the name of Richard Wills. The NY state license was long expired, but the picture was Will’s—a much younger man with a fuller face and intense blue eyes. Aren’t Will’s brown?
She put the wallet back like it was a hot potato. I don’t want to know Will’s secrets! He just wants copies of Gadfly’s papers.
***
That night, between popcorn and glasses of cabernet, Rena tried to resist temptation. She couldn’t. She figured that Richard Wills was too close to Will Richardson for Will to be in witness protection. So what is going on?
She went to her laptop and began a search for Richard Wills. It was a common name. Among the persons she found, there was a killer cop and a Baptist minister. She kept searching. A series of articles caught her eye. They were about a cop killer, not a killer cop. NYPD sergeant Richard Wills had burned to death in a car crash on the Cross Bronx freeway. They had ID’d the charred body by the remains of his badge. The police expected foul play because cell phone forensics had shown a mob hitman was in pursuit of Wills. His killer was still at large, according to newspaper articles.
That doesn’t make sense. Will is very much alive. Could he be the hitman? Impossible!
She gulped another handful of popcorn and washed it down with wine. She glanced at her studio. Her painting was waiting.
Finishing a painting was like finishing a book. You just had to go after it and get it done. You also had to know when to quit. Sure, you could make a few touch-ups here and there, but you always ran the risk of making it a muddy display of your indecision.
She worked for an hour but then stopped in the middle of a broad brush stroke. What if Will is the cop and he doesn’t want the mob to know he’s alive? He seemed to know a lot about police procedures and could shoot like the Lone Ranger. Of course, that could describe the hitman too, but Will seemed like too nice a guy to be an ice-cold murderer.
She heard the ping from her laptop and froze. Incoming email. Was one of her few remaining correspondents her stalker? She hurried back to her desk to see the message.
“Glad to see you’re still selling paintings. I’m coming for you, my sweet.”
She shut the laptop down and hurried to her bedroom. She took the gun out of her nightstand drawer and took off the safety. Does ‘I’m coming for you’ imply he’s close?
***
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