The Night Stalker_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 24

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

Tim Small lived outside of Melbourne, a seaside town an hour east of Orlando and two and a half hours north of Fort Lauderdale. Driving north on the Florida Turnpike, I pulled off at the first town I came to, went into an outlet store, and purchased a pair of khaki cargo pants and a lime-green Tommy Bahama shirt that was on sale for half-price. My old clothes smelled like death, and I did not regret parting with them.

Small lived on a street lined with ranch homes painted in vibrant Sun Belt hues. As I pulled down the driveway, I saw Sally Haskell leaning against her car. Sally was a honey-blond, blue-eyed Florida native who spent her free time running marathons. She was dressed in chinos and a pale blue sports shirt with the Disney logo embroidered on the pocket. We hugged as I got out of my car.

"You look like h.e.l.l," she said.

"It's nice to see you, too," I said.

She gently pushed me back and put on her serious face. "I want you to know something before we go inside. Tim Small is a very dear person to me. I'm very protective of him."

"I'll be on my best behavior," I said.

"I know you will," she said. "But you're also going to push him. It's your nature. And if you push too hard, I'm going to put my foot down. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Do you think he'd mind if I let Buster run in his backyard? He's been cooped up in the car for a few hours."

"I don't see why not. Tim adores animals."

I got a plastic dog bowl out of the trunk and filled it with water, then put Buster and the water in the backyard. My dog seemed happy with the situation, and began chasing a squirrel in a tree. I found Sally standing by the front door.

"You still haven't gotten back together with your wife, have you?" she asked.

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"That dog acts like he owns you."

Sally rang the bell. The door opened, and a male nurse wearing a white uniform ushered us inside. He introduced himself as Danny, and we followed him into a s.p.a.cious room off the foyer that was decorated like an old-time soda fountain.

"I'll go get Tim. Please make yourself comfortable," Danny said.

Danny disappeared into another area of the house. Sally took a stool at the shining Formica-topped counter, which contained several penny licks, a Hamilton Beach malt maker, and an old-fashioned root beer dispenser. Hanging on the wall were colorful signs for different ice creams and sodas, plus a photograph of a smiling man sitting atop a Good Humor delivery tricycle.

A minute later, Danny pushed the man in the photograph into the room in a wheelchair. Despite the mildness of the afternoon, the man was swathed in blankets and wore a knit hat.

"I'm Tim," the man said hoa.r.s.ely.

Sally hopped off her stool, and kissed Small on the cheek. I smiled into the dying man's face. To my surprise, he smiled broadly back.

"I'm Jack Carpenter," I said.

"Nice to meet you, Jack," Small said. "Sally tells me you're looking for an abducted little boy, and that you're hoping I can help. I'll be happy to try, but I must warn you, my eyesight and memory are not what they used to be."

"I understand, Mr. Small," I said.

"Please call me Tim," he said. "Now, let's see the photograph."

I froze. I had forgotten to bring the photograph of Sampson Grimes. Sally came to my rescue, and fetched her laptop computer from her car. She retrieved the photo from her e-mail, and Small spent a long moment studying it.

Small shook his head, and I felt my spirits crash.

"The resolution is too weak for my eyes," he explained. "Perhaps you could send the photo to the computer in my bedroom. I just purchased the screen, and the resolution is much sharper."

"What's your e-mail address?" Sally asked.

""

Sally typed in the e-mail address, and sent the photo to Small's computer. At Small's request, Danny left to check and see if the e-mail had arrived.

"Not yet," Danny called from the other side of the house.

"It should be here soon. I have high-speed Internet access." Small rested his hands in his lap and looked at me. "I saw you admiring my collection of ice cream memorabilia. Did you see anything that struck your fancy?"

My face reddened. Had Small sized me up as a petty thief and thought I was going to steal something from the room? I started to reply, only he spoke first.

"My question is a sincere one," Small said. "I have no family to bequeath my things to. I've donated the soda fountain to the Smithsonian, and Sally's agreed to take an ice cream maker, but there are many pieces that have no place to go. I want them to have good homes, where they'll be used and appreciated. Please tell me you'd like something."

"I live in a small apartment," I said. "I wouldn't have anywhere to put something."

Small twisted his head and spoke to Sally. "It looks like I've offended your friend."

"He's got a tough skin. He'll get over it," Sally said.

"I'd like to show you something," Small said to me. "Would you mind pushing my chair to the other side of the room?"

"Not at all," I said.

I wheeled Small across the room. He pointed at a door marked "Employees Only," and I opened the door and pushed him into an air-conditioned garage that housed more of his collection, including an old telephone booth, a row of antique gumball machines, and practically every Wurlitzer jukebox ever made.

"Those are my babies in there," Small said. "When I die, they'll either be auctioned on eBay, sold at a yard sale, or thrown away. Do you know how sad that makes me feel?"

"It must be hard," I said.

"I'd like you to have something. Please."

The final wish of a dying man was hard to ignore. Out of respect I took my time looking around, and I found myself drawn to a wall-mounted jukebox. It was filled with 45 records by Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, and dozens of other old-time rock and rollers. I punched in a selection, and we listened to Roy Orbison singing to the lonely.

"This is a nice piece," I said.

"Would you like it?" Small asked expectantly.

"I live above a bar. The place could use some music."

"Take it," Small said.

"You're sure you want to part with it?"

"Nothing would make me happier."

A toolbox sat on the floor. I found a screwdriver and unscrewed the jukebox from the wall. There were tears in Small's eyes as I carried the jukebox out the door.

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Sally was waiting when I came back inside. She led me to a bedroom in the rear of the house, which had been set up with a hospital bed. My host was facing his computer, and I came around his wheelchair to see the photo of Sampson sitting in a dog crate on the screen, the resolution much sharper than Sally's laptop.

"Recognize anything?" I asked.

Small nodded while staring at the screen. "The carpet and wall coverings are from a defunct hotel chain called Armwood Guest Suite Hotels. Most of their properties were located in the southern United States. Armwood tried to capitalize on the corporate business traveler and fell victim to the last recession. If I'm not mistaken, the entire company was sold off."

"Did they have many hotels in Fort Lauderdale?" I asked.

"Yes. They were quite big in Broward County."

Small's voice had grown weak, and he paused to gather his strength. "Now, there are some little things that this photograph is telling me. I don't know if they're significant, but I'm happy to share them."

"Please," I said.

"The carpet is frayed, and appears to be quite old. I'm guessing it's original, and was never replaced. That's unusual, even more so if the property is in south Florida, where you have to replace the carpets every few years because of mold and mildew. The wall coverings are probably original as well."

"Excuse my ignorance, but what does that mean?" I asked.

"More than likely, whoever bought the hotel in this photograph is not presently using it as a hotel. It's too downtrodden."

"What would it be used for?"

"It could be used for a variety of things. Perhaps to house welfare recipients, or maybe a religious organization bought it to lodge their members. It might also be empty, and your kidnapper is using a room without the owner's knowledge."

"Anything else jump out at you?" I asked.

"There was one other thing," Small said. "Behind the boy there is a night table, which is next to a wall. I believe that was where the telephone in all Armwood rooms was placed. In this photograph, there is no phone."

I looked at the screen and saw the empty night table. "Are you sure there was a phone there?" I asked.

"I believe there was. However, there's one way to know for certain."

"How?" I asked.

"Print the photograph, and we'll see if there is a phone jack on the floor."

With Small's help, I printed the photo off his computer onto a laser copier, and we both scrutinized the spot on the floor beneath the night table. There was something something there, but neither of us could be certain what it was. there, but neither of us could be certain what it was.

"Danny, please get my magnifying gla.s.s," Small said.

The nurse went into another room and returned with a magnifying gla.s.s. Small held the magnifying gla.s.s up to the photo with a trembling hand.

"I was right," Small said. "Have a look."

I took the magnifying gla.s.s and looked for myself. It was small, but I could see a phone jack screwed into the baseboard on the floor.

"Someone removed the phone," I said.

"It certainly looks that way," Small said.

His voice had dropped to a whisper. Sally shot me a look, and I realized it was time for us to leave. I folded the photo into a square, and put it in my pocket.

The nurse pushed Small into the foyer. Sally kissed him good-bye, and I thanked him for his help. Small looked like a mummy in his sheets and his sickly state, but when he gazed up at me, the expression on his face told me he was still very much alive.

"Good luck finding the boy," he said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

I followed Sally to a Cracker Barrel near the turnpike, and we got a booth. After our waitress delivered our coffee, Sally spoke up. followed Sally to a Cracker Barrel near the turnpike, and we got a booth. After our waitress delivered our coffee, Sally spoke up.

"I never ate at a Cracker Barrel until you told me about the waitress who helped you find that missing little girl. Then I started eating at them, and decided I like the food."

There were fifty-four Cracker Barrel restaurants in Florida, and all of them were located near major highways. Whenever a child had gone missing in Broward and a vehicle had been involved, I'd sent a Be on the Lookout e-mail to every Cracker Barrel. The BOLO had included the child's photo and physical description, plus a description of the abductor if one was available. The waiters and waitresses had spotted so many missing kids in their restaurants that it had become standard procedure.

"Are you still seeing Ralph?" I asked.

Sally rolled her eyes. "What day is it? Friday? Yes, I'm still seeing Ralph. Ask me tomorrow, and you'll probably get a different answer."

"The last time we talked, it sounded like you guys were getting serious."

"That's an understatement. Ralph asked me to marry him."

When Sally had lived in Fort Lauderdale, she'd dated an a.s.sortment of guys, with each one being a bigger loser than the last. I'd been hearing about Ralph the subcontractor for a while, and had been rooting for it to work out.

"So what are you going to do?" I asked.