Missing

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-seven

            The weekend passed. Nelson arrived home early on Monday morning. Charlie was not there, and there was no indication as to whether he had left early or that he, too, had spent the night away. Nelson reviewed the kitchen and smiled as he started to make coffee. Outside, the stormy weather had passed and the day promised to be a fair one. While the coffee brewed, he showered and dressed. He sat enjoying a cup of coffee when his cell phone rang.

            He answered and said, “Fine. I got home fine. No, I haven’t left yet.” He listened and said, “Going to interview the missing girl’s mother.” He listened again. “No. Out in the county, but she attends Connerville High.” In a moment, he laughed and said, “Maybe she didn’t mention that fact to a lot of her classmates. I’ll ask.” He listened longer. “No,” he said. “Don’t make it a research project. I just want to know what sort of reputation the place has in the medical community.” He nodded. “Some of your colleagues must have heard stories about the place.” He listened again. “That’s would be fine.” This time he smiled and opened his eyes wide. “You are a bad girl,” he said. “Sure I’ll be over. What man could resist an offer like that … oh yes, I did too, very much. Tonight … I promise.” He punched the phone and put it in his pocket, shaking his head and smiling.

            The morning drive took him to a semi-rural area on a state highway south of Connorville. The terrain comprised a mixture of pastures dotted with decrepit and long-abandoned milking barns with fairly new houses laid along the right-of-way, each with its own driveway jutting like escape routes toward the highway. Yards were manicured and most had fishing boats parked alongside. The scene was one of strict conformity created by those seeking the individuality of country living.

A worn and faded sign announced the entrance to the development Nelson sought. The street leading into the subdivision lay in deplorable condition. Nelson dodged pothole after pothole until he reached the proper address. It was a modest home with a brick façade. The drive led to a garage, the front of which extended beyond main structure and welcomed at least two vehicles. A late model Nissan Altima sat on one side of the drive and Nelson parked beside it.

            As he approached the front door, he retrieved his ID from his pocket. He knocked, stepped back, and waited. He heard soft footsteps and the door opened to reveal woman wearing a white blouse and dark pants. Her brunette hair was expertly fashioned and her makeup was sparse, but effectively applied. She wore dark-rimmed glasses that set off her olive complexion well. She was apparently dressed for work. She examined the ID that Nelson extended toward her as he introduced himself. After comparing his face with the one on the ID, she said simply, “Rose Thompson, please come in.”

            Nelson followed her into a living room decorated with tasteful, but worn furniture. A large cabinet contained a collection of trophies, most for swimming although including some for track, basketball, and tennis. Nelson stood before the cabinet and nodded in admiration. “Someone is quite an athlete,” he said.

            “They all belong to Bridgette,” Rose said. She ushered Nelson to a couch. She pointed to a photograph of a young girl on an adjacent table. “That’s my most recent picture of her.”

            “She’s beautiful,” Nelson said studying the portrait.

            Rose beamed. “I think she takes after her dad,” she said as she pulled chair to a position facing Nelson and sat. “He died in Iraq … six years ago.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss.” Nelson said.

            “He was one of the last,” she said. “We thought it was just peacekeeping at the time, but some suicide bomber thought otherwise.”

            When Nelson didn’t speak, she continued. “I understand you know something about war.”

            Nelson still didn’t speak, only looked at her with a questioning gaze.

            “I checked on you,” she said, “after you called. Sheriff Love and I have become good friends within the last month.”

            “I’ve some military experience,” Nelson said, “but I can’t imagine losing a father or husband.”

            “It’s been tough,” she said, “but we manage. I have a good job, and thanks, by the way, for coming early. I told the guys I would be in by noon.”

            “The guys?”

            “I work for a law firm in Little Rock as a paralegal. It’s a fairly laidback place.”

            “Thank you for seeing me,” Nelson said. “I won’t take long.”

            “I’ve pretty much told the Sheriff all I know,” Rose said. “And that isn’t much. Bridgette simply disappeared and I’ve not received a word from her … nothing at all.”

            “She disappeared from the Ransom Center, as I understand it,” Nelson said.

            “Just vanished, three days before she was to come home.”

            “How did they discover she was gone?”

            “When she didn’t show for breakfast one morning. She had been allowed to move into what they call ‘The First Class Suites.’ That’s separate living quarters, a private room, for those who respond well in treatment—sort of a reward.”

            “So she disappeared during the night?”

            Rose shook her head. “We don’t know. Bridgette usually went out running in the morning. She’s tough and fit, like her dad.” She gestured at her body. It verged toward being full. “Not like me at all.”

            Nelson stuck to the conversation. “So she may have gone out exercising?”
            “Maybe,” Rose said. “Along with the separate quarters, those in the First Class Suites are allowed a great deal of freedom. They can even leave the premises for short periods.”

            “No one saw her?”
            “No. Early rising and ‘before-breakfast runs’ aren’t that common at the Ransom Center.”

            Nelson considered his next question carefully, then spoke. “I understand from the reports, that she was at the Ransom Center on account of drug abuse, a somewhat mild case.”

            “Mild but getting worse,” Rose said. “She sprained a muscle while over-training for her swimming competition and the doctor prescribed painkillers. I’ve always suspected they overdid it a bit at the school’s request so she could resume training for her other sports as quickly as possible. When her injury healed, her addiction didn’t and some kids at school started slipping her drugs. She apparently thought they improved her performance. Anyway, I found out, confronted her, and we had a row. Her dad’s parents stepped in and agreed to fund her treatment. That’s how she wound up at the Ransom Center. I couldn’t have afforded the cost.”

            “And she responded well to treatment?”

            “Yes,” Rose said. “They were able to make her see what an addiction could cost her, including her only chance at college. She can be extremely determined when she wishes. She weighed the facts and opted in favor of education.”

            Nelson nodded.

            “She wants to be a teacher, actually a coach. So she’s been applying to schools with a scholarship program for sports.” She looked toward the awards. “She excels in several but swimming is her real passion.”

            Nelson said, “As I understand it, that’s how she became friends with Abbey Stubblefield, the girl found murdered.”

            “That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it?”

            “That’s what started me off,” Nelson said, “but your daughter’s disappearance becomes more in tandem with the murder each day.”

            Rose thought, and then said in a soft voice, “It’s odd, isn’t it? I mean the two of them becoming friends. This area isn’t exactly known for racial tolerance. Racial mixing is just below child molestation or skipping church in terms of unacceptable behavior around here.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Bridgette suffered for the friendship. I would have taken her out of this school system, away from the taunts and snide comments, had I been able to afford it. She took after her dad, you know.”

            Nelson didn’t answer and she continued. “He didn’t have a prejudiced bone in his body. We didn’t know about the area when we left the University of Arkansas. Jeff had just gotten his engineering degree with his military tuition credits and I had been accepted into law school in Little Rock. We bought this house because it was close to the grandparents and then we found out about the prevailing culture. We had planned to move when our careers took off.” She stopped, reached into her purse, and pulled out a handkerchief. She sniffed once and dabbed at her eyes. “Then he got called back up, and … here we are. Here I am at least.”

            “Was Bridgette ever threatened because of her friendship? With Abbey Stubblefield, I mean.”

            “Threatened?” Rose appeared puzzled and thought. “No, not threatened. Just the taunts and spiteful comments that teenagers are so good at. ‘N-lover’ and such. She ignored them. The coaches kept them to a minimum because of her contributions to the teams and Bridgette is a strong person. It would take more than snide comments from Connorville rednecks to unsettle her.”

            “As I understand it,” Nelson said, “Bridgette never attended that large church in Connorville.”

            Rose leaned back in surprise. “The so-called ‘Tabernacle’? Lord no. We’re not a churchgoing family. Why do you ask that?”

            “Her friend Abbey made a couple of trips there before she was murdered,” Nelson said. “What I’m finding so far suggests that Abbey may have been trying to find out what happened to Bridgette.”

            Rose slanted her head into a quizzical pose, then said, “Well she wouldn’t have found out there. Bridgette won’t go near that place. She made us research the connection between the church and the Ransom Center before she would even consider being treated there.”

            Nelson’s face snapped to a position of attention. “And what did you find?”

            “Very little connection,” Rose said. “The place employs advanced psychological and medical practices. No religious bullshit at all.” She reddened and paused. “Excuse my language.”

            Nelson laughed. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ve heard worse. But you are satisfied the center is legit?”

            “The guys I work for had it checked out through some connections they have. The place is as separate from the church as it can possibly be.” She stopped and thought. “There is one connection. Those hoodlums, the ones that hang out at the church, help provide security from time to time.”

            Nelson nodded. “The Soul Warriors?”

            This time Rose laughed. “Your words. Not mine.”

            Nelson moved as if preparing to leave. “Mrs. Thompson, I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me, and I know you have been through this before. But is there anything, anything at all, that you have recalled, since you last spoke with the Sheriff, that might shed light on Bridgette’s disappearance, or Abbey’s murder?”

            Rose took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “No,” she said, but stopped. “Maybe,” she said. “It’s probably nothing, but if you have a moment …”

            “I do.”

            Rose stood and walked away. She disappeared down hallway and was gone for several minutes. When she returned, she held a single sheet of paper, torn from a writing tablet. She sat and held it toward Nelson.

            “I clean Bridgette’s room every night,” she said. “I want it to be clean-smelling and spotless when she comes back. Two nights ago I decided to put a tablet of paper into a bookshelf when this fell out. I had never seen it before.” She motioned for Nelson to take it. The page was half-filled with beautiful cursive handwriting that flowed gracefully until the last sentence, which had been obliterated with a sharp line. “It’s Bridgette’s handwriting,” Rose said. “I would know it anywhere. She got a ‘B’ in handwriting in the third grade and was so appalled that she has practiced 30 minutes or so each night since. She’s that stubborn. She never got less than an ‘A’ in penmanship afterwards. This was the second page of a letter,” she said, “so I can’t tell you for certain who the recipient was. She evidently decided to change something, so she started a new page.”

            Nelson read:

            “As for whether or not two people in love should attend college together, I don’t think so. The hormones and all that.” An emoticon resembling a smiling face followed. “Now if the colleges were far enough away to allow the couple to enjoy one another infrequently (and, as Rodney Dangerfield once observed, that’s one word and not two) …,” Another emoticon followed. The writing then resumed, “I could see that there would be no harm, perhaps even a therapeutic value in easing the stress of advanced academic study. That is something that the two would have to decide between themselves. I know that you would be mature and analytical enough to make the right decision but as for the other person involved ...” Here the writing stopped with a sharp line reversed through the sentence.

            Nelson looked at Rose. “And you don’t know for whom the letter was intended?”

            Rose shook her head. “You speak the language well for a deputy,” she said, “and no, I can only guess who she ..., to whom she sent it.”