Long Long Trail Read online

  Long, Long Trail

  A Novel

  By Dan Trumble

  For Justin, Austin, Taylor, Madison and Xander

  Grand Children

  Special thanks to my wife Barbara

  And to Greg Bertelsen

  Long, Long Trail

  Copyright 2012 by A. Daniel Trumble, Jr.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used without the written permission of the author except for brief quotations in works of criticism or embodied in reviews. Names and characters and some locales are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Similarity to events and some locales and persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “There’s a long, long trail a-winding

  Into the land of my dreams

  Where the nightingales are singing

  And the white moon beams.

  There’s a long, long night a-waiting

  Until my dreams will come true

  And that’s the day when I’ll be going

  Down that long, long trail with you.”

  “Long, Long Trail,” song lyrics by Stoddard King, 1915

  While the above was written and sung as a song of hope during WWI, the sentiments resound over the generations and reflect the yearning for a special moment when all the din and clamor are put behind and life begins again in a special way, in a special place, with a special person.

  It happens to the persevering—and lucky—few.

  Long, Long Trail

  ONE

  Never had Tom Flowers seen the newsroom in complete darkness. He left open the door to the second floor hallway to bring light into the shadowy scene. An open door was a no-no ever since the late evening raid by the Friends of Luke Fairly who destroyed so much of the editorial room that the Sentinel had to shut down for a day. Now, a locked steel door limited entry to staff only. Visitors were received in a room at ground level.

  Likely he could have found his way to his desk with his eyes closed, but it was no time for games. He wanted to collect his stash of paperwork and leave quickly. About 4 am the first staffers would arrive to prepare the afternoon street edition. By then, Tom hoped to be 100 miles down the road when he would have to stop to relieve his overactive bladder.

  For the past few days, since the visit with the publisher, he stole a few minutes here and there to assemble a plump sheaf of papers that would go with him. He emptied 10 reams of paper onto a storeroom shelf and stashed the sturdy box under his desk for Operation GOOD BYE—Get Out Of Dodge Before Your Execution.

  Ever since the Luke Fairly incident, managing editor Fred Samples had moved his flunky assistant to a desk by the only door to check for ‘suspicious’ packages or unknown persons coming in or going out. Surely that little cootie would stir up a stink about an overlarge box of outgoing material. This GOOD BYE had to be said with no one around.

  Tom worked by penlight. He unlocked his desk and nearly filled the box with his ‘personal’ papers. ‘Did this or that document belong to the employer or was it his own property?’ This week he favored personal ownership; borderline data he considered ‘borrowed’. The box weighed more than anticipated but he heaped on a fistful of Sharpies and scooped up some lined yellow pads.

  Left to do only was to put his story on the desk of Jimmy Vaughn. Jimmy was the only one Tom trusted to abide by his deadline and plea for silence.

  For Release at 12 noon

  News Man Missing

  By Jimmy Vaughn

  Sentinel columnist and feature writer Tom Flowers is reported missing.

  Initial checks into his whereabouts turned up no clues. He did not show up for work today. His apartment revealed no sign of foul play. Friends reported nothing unusual in his recent behavior. His automobile remained parked in his driveway.

  Flowers is one of the key figures engaged in the Luke Fairly controversy over missing tax information. His reporting broke the story in January. Police investigations since have resulted in the questioning of dozens of people, including several on the city payroll. Allegations of misconduct, denials and counter-charges surface almost daily from a variety of wide-ranging persons in the public and private sector.

  Sentinel managing editor Fred Samples expressed concern for Flowers and said that the newspaper would appreciate help in finding him. Leads should be communicated to the police department.

  Tom rolled the news release inside Jimmy’s coffee cup after first sticking a Post It note inside the rim. It read: I’m OK. Hush, you. Thanks, Tom.

  Leaving the newsroom, Tom heard the low singing of Amos Fender as he plodded up the front stairwell. The custodian and quasi night watchman had been a friend for more than a decade. Amos said he sang to keep himself company on his 8 pm to 5 am shift. Tom didn’t want Amos to see him leaving, due to their friendship. He would have been ‘the last man to see Tom Flowers’ and police would be all over poor Amos: what was he wearing and what was he carrying and was anyone with him and what was his mood and what did he say to you. He knew Amos would start to sweat and stutter and soon some detective would book him for ‘complicity’ in the case. Tom fled down the back steps, but had to double-back on the ground floor to use his front door key. The back door to the alley would trigger an alarm. And, his rented 2012 Lexus awaited him across the street.

  Tom looked around before stepping out of the newspaper’s doorway. He thought that if a hood from the Manlius Mob wanted to put a bullet in his ear, now would be a good time.

  At 2 am he whirred past the sign that read ‘Leaving Central City. Please Drive With Care so You can Visit Us Again!’

  The new Lexus proved to be as advertised, a magnificent machine compared to his seven-year-old Chevy Malibu. On cruise control, he poured a cup of coffee from his Thermos and slipped the plastic mug into a cup holder in the center console. It would be a long night and a longer morning but a short afternoon. He planned to drive for at least 12 hours, into and across Tennessee before resting. It was unlikely that an immediate police search of any intensity would extend 600 miles, unless at airports. As for the mob, he figured that they could be anywhere; even in the Cadillac he just passed and that now followed him.

  In two, maybe three days, he planned to turn-in the Lexus due to a ‘knocking noise’ and then in another day or so, simply abandon whatever new rental car he got. Then he would buy one of the most nondescript cars on the road, hopefully from a private party, and double back on the way his trail would appear to have him headed. Since he rented the Lexus for a week, there should be no reports on the missing vehicle for some time—time enough for him to get lost again.

  There was no fail-safe get-away plan—Tom knew this. But he had learned plenty about the criminal mind and the police ‘way-of-thinking’ over the past four months. Trails do turn cold. Evidence does get lost or tainted. Testimony does get cloudy. Ordinary people can be good actors. Laws do have flaws. And improbable people can be bought.

  He had 20 grand to prove it.

  Precisely $9,500 was sewn into a false bottom of the cloth trash bag that hung from a knob on the dashboard. Another $9,500 was near the bottom of a box of Kleenex that sat on the seat next to him. Roughly $1,000 in small bills was divided between his wallet and his pants pockets. The bag and the box were within reach if he had to leave the car quickly.

  When on a section of Interstate 40 that he had never driven before, he inserted the first CD into the slot in the dashboard. For a week he had looked forward to hearing Great Masters of Italian Opera. Tom understood not a word of Italian or French or German or any language except English. That’s why, he figured, he could enjoy opera so much. Meaning did not get in the way of the majestic music.

  At the end of one aria, he looked down to se
e that he was going 90 mph. Thereafter when inserting a CD he also set the cruise control. Before he felt the need to relieve himself, he had logged 140 miles.

  When a sign read “Next Rest Stop 44 miles,” he slowed and drove into a heavily lighted roadside filling station, restaurant and gift shop. His only fear was bumping into someone he knew, a doubtful scenario but not out of the question. With so few people in the place at this hour, many made eye contact; with more people around, it was easier to go unnoticed.

  Fugitives, and in a way he was one, were spotted “unmistakably” by dozens of people hundreds of miles in all directions, even in faraway countries where they had never been. He found this out twice in his early reporting days, once when he wasted several days following the lead of an ‘eye-witness’ who was simply a lonely man seeking some importance in his life.

  Tom Flowers was not Every Man. He was more than six feet tall, recently more than 200 pounds, and had thick, wavy dark hair, recently with some streaks of gray. In silhouette, he looked to be a younger man. But the lines in his face belied his true age of 48. He favored western cut clothing and wore boots. On casual, social occasions, he doffed the cowboy hat that he has owned since his mid-twenties. A police description would not be difficult. His photo atop hundreds of his daily columns for the past ten-plus years made his a popular face in Central City and all of Craddock County.

  Fortified by a charbroiled hot dog and a cup of yogurt, Tom and Pavrotti saw brilliant streaks of daylight in the rear view mirror. His Thermos was empty but his gas tank was full and only his bladder might necessitate another stop this morning. An hour after full sunlight, the Lexus powered across the Tennessee state line. As noon approached, Flowers felt the heaviness of a sleepless night. He let the singers on the third CD take a rest and turned to Public broadcasting. The trip odometer indicated that he would achieve his 600 mile goal nearly an hour ahead of his estimate. Motels started to reach out to him.

  “Could I get a room on the back side? I’d like to sleep all day, maybe until dark. Maybe on a wing where the maids have already finished?”

  A room in the back of a motel also provided some small cover from the ‘bad guys’ who may have tracked down the rental and license number in quick time. Dana might have been watched when he made the rental transaction or when he—or someone—parked the car across the street at the newspaper.

  The young day clerk was obliging. He ran a finger along a room layout sheet and said, “D-106. That’s on the other side of that building over there,” pointing. “That’s usually the last row we fill for our evening guests.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Hightower, we do ask those who check in between 11 and three to pay in advance.”

  Hearing the name ‘Hightower’ Tom flinched and stared at the doctored ID that shown his own photo. Damn, he said to himself. Charles Hightower, the accountant for Brooks Industries who was murdered during a home robbery—I have his ID! Given to him in an envelope, he but glanced at it before slipping it into his wallet. The name never ‘clicked’ until he heard the clerk say it aloud. Hightower’s murder had never been solved.

  “Of course. I’ll pay cash.”

  Weary though he was, he felt odd going to bed before two o’clock in the afternoon. He felt even more odd posing as a dead man whose murder eight months ago made headlines for a week. Why didn’t he look more closely, think more clearly? How could Dana do that to him? What could he do about it now, anyway? Bedraggled, he was inclined to ‘sleep on it.’ The canvas-like draperies couldn’t quite shut out the light around the edges of the window. Tom rolled on his side and covered his head with pillows, nearly the same position he found himself in at 9 pm.

  He was on the road again in 20 minutes, as if in a hurry to leave Charles Hightower at the motel.

  Driving long distances through the nation seemed like a wasteful journey to tackle in darkness. Even the boring sameness of an Interstate provided brief glimpses of farms, animals in pastures, a huddle of homes or quick views of a town on a hillside. Although the overall traffic count dwindled at night, the ratio of massive trucks to passenger cars and pick-ups greatly increased. Several times, Tom was surprised that the headlights rushing up behind him were not State Troopers in hot pursuit of him or someone, but gigantic 18-wheelers moving at speeds upwards of 80 mph. Speeding was easy to do and commonplace in the Midwest. Memphis and then Little Rock was behind him; Fort Smith was his next goal and by nightfall he hoped to be past Oklahoma City, maybe even in the Amarillo area. He couldn’t keep up with the trucks and risk being pulled for speeding. Neither did he dawdle.

  Tenors and sopranos, like cake and ice cream, did not suit the new day. Tom turned again to public radio, then to country music, and finally drove in silence. Last night he was successful in pushing away thoughts of the last four months of his professional and personal life. This morning he could repress it no more, further aggravated by the ID he was carrying. The problem, he soon discovered, was one of organization. Flashbacks assailed him in no order. Pieces of one conversation dissolved into another with a different person in a different place at a different time. No wonder computers crash.

  In the trunk was a box of papers chock full of papers related to the Luke Fairly Story in reasonable chronological order. All his life his mind had been trained to take in facts and make observations. Not until he put them in his own written word did they make some sort of sense. He could think about what was in his head for an hour or a day, but not much enlightenment occurred until words started to appear on his monitor. Mistakes or better ways of expressing himself surfaced only after his story was in print. This made thinking while driving in the dark rather miserable. The odometer going around, the gas gauge going down and highway mileage signs recorded the progress for another night of driving. His mind stood still.

  Tom decided he would have to get back on a regular routine of sleeping at night and thinking during daylight. To do that, he figured, would take two nights. If he stopped about 5 am and got back on the road by noon, the next day he could stop at about 7 pm and wake up with the rest of America who worked first shift.

  By the morning of the third day, he was a little punchy, but back on Eastern Standard Time, though he was now in the Mountain Time zone. He sped past Tucumcari and Albuquerque and into Flagstaff where he stopped to look in the phonebook for the nearest Hertz Car Rental. If the law or a member of the Manlius mob were on the trail of a flashy new beige Lexus, he wanted to throw them a curve as soon as he could.

  “First there seems to be a little knocking or pinging sound, then something like shimmying. I just don’t want to break down somewhere in the desert.”

  It took an hour, but Tom drove out of the rent-a-car lot in a new Buick La Crosse bearing Arizona plates. He figured the best place to leave this beauty was in a major hotel parking lot at his next destination, Tahoe. There he hoped that some down-on-his-luck fellow might be anxious to sell the car he impetuously bought when the cards were falling his way. The 700-mile drive to Tahoe took the rest of daylight and well into darkness.

  Most likely it would take a day, maybe two, even three to buy a used car from a private party. His story would be that he wanted to surprise his daughter when she flew into the resort town to spend a few days with him. His fictitious offspring lived in San Francisco and would drive her gift-from-daddy back to the Bay Area. He picked up the daily paper and an auto trading weekly then checked into the mid-priced Casino Royale Hotel, where local calls were free. So too was breakfast, his favorite meal and a treat he had missed for five days.

  Knowing he did not have to rush off in the morning, Tom luxuriated in the ambiance of his well-appointed room. He read the entire hotel packet of things to do while in town as well as the list of amenities offered by the hotel. One bulleted remark stopped him: Huge selection of out-of-town newspapers in the lobby. He partly unpacked, changed clothes, and took the elevator down.

  It was three days old and cost him five times the cove
r price, but Tom was thrilled to find a copy of the Sentinel. He remembered a year or so ago when Fred Samples announced to the newsroom gang that the paper now ranked in the nation’s top 100 in circulation, number 95 to be exact. It certainly didn’t strike him then as some major award. Tucking his copy under his arm, he allowed himself a warm little thought: that persons from all around the country have read his column—albeit two or three days late.

  Back in his room, he turned to page one of the second section and saw his photo by the heading for his column. His excitement diminished. It was a recent photo. Dana Dunnegan insisted that any staff photo be no more three years old. It was disconcerting to be on the run and have one’s photo in the lobby of the very place he was staying. On the other hand, he bought the only copy. Atop his image were the words ‘STILL MISSING’ and under the standing title of his column, which was Here’s My Point, a boldface paragraph leapt out:

  Our columnist, Thomas B. Flowers, disappeared sometime last Tuesday and, despite efforts by law enforcement and other agencies, he remains missing. This is of great concern to his friends and business associates and we pray for his safety. If you have any information that may be of help in finding Tom, please contact the police department.