ONE CUP (Part 25)

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102

Ray Garrett

Southeastern Illinois had received above average rainfall this summer, and the ground was saturated. Mosquitos were in plentiful supply, enjoying the numerous puddles of standing water, accompanied by heat and humidity, and harassed me constantly as I trudged up the hill in ankle-deep mud to our family burial plot.

I took a seat on the ground, leaning back against the trunk of one of the many oaks casting shade over the cemetery. I pulled the bottom of my T-shirt up to wipe sweat from my forehead, and swatted for the millionth time at the bugs swarming around me. I wished for a nice breeze to cool me and keep the mosquitos at bay, but no such luck came my way. Still, I felt at peace.

This was the place I’d come as a boy to clear my mind, to think. From this spot I could look down upon the farm I’d grown up on. Below me were the hay fields, the pastures, the barns where my dad used to work me like a borrowed mule, and the house where my mother fed and nurtured me. Mom had no idea I was here. I’d deliberately left her out of it.

Dad was only a few feet away, right where we’d left him, buried in the southeast corner of the cemetery. And just beyond him, my brother, Zach.

I got to my feet and went to Dad’s grave. I hadn’t brought any flowers. It just didn’t seem necessary.

I got so close to playing in the major leagues. Even if it was just once, it would still mean something around here. Sumter hadn’t produced any major league players. I would have been somebody, around here, anyway. Maybe Dad would have been proud. Now, I was a suspect in the disappearance of a woman in Indianapolis, and I was on the run, hiding from the law. Dad would not have been proud of that.

I stood there silently a long time, listening for my father’s voice. Tell me what to do, Dad. Tell me what to do. Of course, just like when he was living, there was no response.

I walked the few steps to Zach’s tombstone.

There was a rustling behind me, and I became aware that I was not alone. Without turning, I said, “It’s more a memorial than a grave, technically. They never found my brother’s body after his helicopter went down a couple years back while he was attempting to insert a SEAL team. There were no survivors. We each placed something personal, like a letter or memento, some of his clothing, into an empty coffin. That’s all there was to bury.”

“And now it’s up to you to carry on the family name,” Ian said as he came to stand next to me.

“How long you been here?” I asked.

“A while. I just about gave up on you coming?

103

Ian McGregor

We’d trudged through the mud down the hill, and were now inside the machine shed behind the farm house. No one answered the door when I’d knocked earlier. I left my rental car parked in the driveway and on a hunch hiked up the hill to the cemetery. I’d been there maybe twenty minutes when Ray arrived.

The only illumination inside the shed came through light green corrugated fiberglass panels on the roof designed to allow sunlight in. I supposed if a man was planning on doing any repairs on equipment, more light would be provided by opening the sliding doors, or if that weren’t enough, plugging in the trouble light that was coiled and mounted on a peg on the south wall.

 I pointed to Ray’s old Buick. “What’s your car doing in here?”

“No one knows I’m here,” he said. “Except for you. Thought I’d keep it that way for now.”

“Not even your family?”

“No. I needed a little time to work things out, decide what I’m going to do. Didn’t want anyone else trying to interject. And I may as well be honest with you, Ian. The cops called for me to come in to talk with them. I don’t have a good alibi, so I’m laying low. I’ve slept in the car before. I can do it again.”

There were tools scattered on a work bench. More hanging on the wall. The shed contained a couple of tractors, a grain auger, and a large, fearsome-looking machine with cone-like projections on the front. Its front tires were nearly as tall as I. “What’s this?”

“That’s a combine,” Ray said, turning his back to me as he spoke. I eyed a rather long pipe laying on the work bench. I reached for it as Ray pointed to the machine. “That’s a corn header on the front. It comes off and can be replaced by another attachment, a reel that gathers the wheat and soybean stalks. They’re cut off and the grain is separated and stored in a hopper. From there, it’s off-loaded onto grain wagons or trucks.”

“Too much information mate.” I said, taking my hand away from the pipe. I couldn’t do it.

Ray turned to face me. “Okay, short answer, like I said, it’s a combine.” I spotted something I would not have expected. In the far corner of the building a single-engine airplane stood waiting patiently for someone to take her up into the sky again. “Hello! What have we here?”

“Cessna Skyhawk,” Ray said. “I learned to fly in this airplane.”

I looked at Ray. “Didn’t know you were a pilot.”

Ray changed the subject, saying, “While I was sitting up there at the cemetery, it came to me, I might be able to help the police find the girl.”

“How can you? You’re not psychic are you, mate?”

Ray chuckled, shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.” He hesitated, then said, “Okay, here’s the thing . . . Whitney, that’s the girl that went missing?”

I nodded. Ray continued. “I took her home from the party. What happened later, I don’t know.”

“Go on,” I said.
“She left her cell phone in my car.”

“Okay,” I said. “How’s that going to help them find her?”

“She mentioned something about her daughter having an iPad. And the iPad was in the trunk of her car.”

“Still not seeing how that helps, mate,” I said.

“We use her phone to track the location of the iPad. Use the FIND feature.”

“Didn’t know you could do that.”

As long as it’s charged. Problem is, her phone battery is all but dead, and I don’t have a charger cord that fits.”

“We’ll have to find one in town,” I said.

“I was thinking I’d just turn it over to the police,” Ray said. “They’ll have a charger, or know where to find one.”

“You might want to think that one over, mate.”

“Why?”

“Aside from the fact it could cause undo embarrassment for Mike and the team, it could keep you from getting your opportunity to play. And you’re in deep shit, Ray, let me tell you, mate. I were you, I’d call an attorney before I talked to the cops. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“But if I tell them where she is . . . ”

“Where she is, or where you think she might be? You send them off on a wild goose chase, they’re pissed for sure.”

“Good point.”
“You reckon they’ll jump right on it? You, the suspect, tellin’ ’em how to go ‘bout doin’ their jobs?” I said. “Or would they toss your arse in jail and wait until the girl to comes back or her body to be found?”

“You’re right,” Ray said. “Guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

“We will do it ourselves,” I said. “You’re not alone.”

104

Ray Garrett

We took Ian’s rental car, leaving my Buick in the shed, where nobody would be likely to find it. Finding a charger cord for the phone proved to be a challenge. I sat in the car while Ian went into the stores. Couldn’t chance running into someone who knew me. Nothing at Walmart matched the iPhone.

“Let’s try Radio Shack,” I said. “It’s not far. Hang a right when as you come out the parking lot.”

“You really think this will work? Finding her with the phone?”

“I don’t know, Ian. Take another right at the stop sign. I think it’s worth a try.” Ian braked to a stop, then made the turn. I pointed ahead and to the left, at the storefront sign.

“Ah, there it is,” Ian said, just as the ring tone on my cell phone activated. I started to answer automatically, but stopped myself, looked at the caller ID. I recognized the number. It was the detective from the Indy PD calling again. I put the phone back in my pocket.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Ian asked as he pulled into a parking spot.

“No.” I felt the phone vibrate in my pocket. I had a voicemail.

Ian’s luck at finding a charger cord was no better at Radio Shack. Finally, we stopped in at the truck stop out on the Interstate. Five minutes later, Ian came out, beaming like a schoolboy. “Found it,” he said. “Got one with a plug for the car’s power outlet.”

It took some doing, but I managed to finally get it out of the package. I plugged it in to commence charging.

“Where to, mate?”

“Let’s just stay here, at the truck stop,” I said. “They’ve got Wi-Fi out here in the parking lot, and we won’t risk crossing paths with a cop out on the road.”

“Good. Let’s get crackin’ on it,” Ian said. “I want you to show me how you find the iPad.”

“I’ll need a little time to figure out the password.”

105

I had to guess a six digit password in order to use the iPhone.

Rylee had five letters. Whitney had seven. Birthdays, maybe?

What did Whitney tell me? Rylee was about to turn seven. When? Next week. So I knew the year and the month. Seven chances at guessing the day.

Might as well start with Monday. No.

Tuesday. No.

Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, also No.

Saturday. No.

With the sixth failed attempt came a one minute lockout.

One last shot. Sunday.

Sunday it was. Once we were in. I showed Ian how to use the Find feature. Moments later, we had an address and a map showing the location.

“Page, Indiana,” Ian said. “Never heard of it.”

“I’ve been there,” I said. “It’s an hour, maybe more, on the other side of Indy.”

“So it’s what? Four, maybe five hours from here?”

I nodded. “More or less.”

“I need to drain the lizard first.” Ian got out and trotted inside. I looked at the location, jotted down the address, and then punched it in on the Google maps app. According to it, we were four hours, thirty-seven minutes away. No way we could drive there, get Whitney—if she was still alive—and get back to Indy before the game. I know. You’re right. The last thing I needed to be thinking about at the moment was a ball game.