Hasty Resolution Read online

  I gently place her on top of the layer of potatoes as if I am laying her in her own coffin. She is rather petite, so she fits in the wooden crate with plenty of room to fill in the space where potatoes once were. I gingerly place potatoes all around her body, leaving her face untouched. I examine the crate closely to make certain no blonde hairs or creamy-colored skin is visible to the naked eye.

  I set the lid of the crate back in place, but not before kissing her freckled nose and whispering, "I'm sorry.”

  I nail down the crate as tightly as the other crates so not to raise suspicions at the border. This also secures her for the remainder of the ride. I climb down from the crates, only to realize the plethora of potatoes lying at the side of the truck. I begin throwing potatoes away from the truck as if they are grenades, only these do not explode. There is only silence among the pines.

  I drive away from the ranch exit. I proceed with the utmost caution. I am not concerned with the unknown fate awaiting me at the border patrol. For the first time in my life, I have the most precious cargo in my care. I notice every bump and turn before lining up to the queue of cars at the border waiting to enter Canada.

  I have my driver’s license and passport in hand, ready to pass over to the man in uniform. My hands are not sweating or shaking. My heart is not fluttering; my nerves are not on edge. I am calm. I am trained to remain calm. When it is my turn to address the border patrol officer, I respectfully hand over my cards. I nonchalantly hang them out the window, keeping my eyes forward.

  "Good afternoon, soldier. Is this a joke? I know you, cocksucker. No need to prove anything to me," the border patrol officer says as he takes off his aviator glasses.

  I can't remember his name. My memory fails me. However, I cannot forget what happened to him in Iraq.

  I chuckle as I slap my hand on the steering wheel. "Good to see you, man. I thought you lost your eyesight and were completely out of commission.”

  "I was at first, but with surgery and time, my eyes recovered," he clarifies.

  No doubt, it was with the help of my friend Doug, the medic doctor.

  "No shit? Good for you. So, you're working border patrol now?” I make polite conversation.

  "It's under an umbrella of patrol jobs I do in the area. It's not as intense as it was in Iraq. It's also not like the Mexican border patrol with drug traffic checks on every vehicle. We get tourists, natives, and, oh yeah, cocksuckers like you." He laughs.

  I jokingly say, "You got me there. Not smuggling drugs; just touring our northern friends.”

  The uniformed officer looks at the crates in the back of the truck.

  "Are you stocking up on produce or marijuana?” He gives me a wry smile.

  "Again, you got me. Bring out the dogs. I'm guilty.” I chuckle.

  The officer lightly pumps his fist on my mirror. "Carry on, then, soldier.”

  I casually salute as I press the button to roll up my window and shove my cards back into my wallet, quite relieved at the outcome of the brief encounter.

  I hate the word “cocksucker.” Only my guys and close friends can call me that, not a review officer who knows paperwork better than any form of artillery. Why that man was patrolling in the heat of the desert with us, I still do not know. When we all knew how to duck, take cover, and stay shielded from any flying debris, he stood there like a stone statue, watching the explosion. I guess he was in a paralyzed state when the IED went off. Anyone under normal circumstances would be, but not us; only him. We rushed him to the medic team, which included my friend, Doug, and then returned to our patrol.

  We later learned the debris from the explosion left him without sight. He went home immediately with an honorable discharge. My guys talked about how he injured himself on purpose to get home sooner. I didn’t care to entertain a conversation of that nature. When the going gets tough, it's survival in whichever way works. If he needed to take things in his own hands to get out of there, well, that was his own demon to deal with, not mine. I have enough of my own.

  I drive north past Calgary and onto Edmonton. This route isn’t the best way to get to the cabin, but I take the long, windy way in case someone is following. I continue to drive with my precious cargo, only stopping one last time to top off both gas tanks. I do not feel comfortable doing more than swiping my card to refill at a gas station. People here know me, to a point. They know me well enough to identify me, if necessary. I keep my head low; avoid eye contact, especially with the gas station security cameras. I say a friendly “hello” to those I casually know and swiftly return to the cab so as not to raise any suspicions. I want to climb onto my cargo and check the crates when I stop for gas. I want to check on her, but I cannot. Not here.

  I turn on to the interstate that takes me home, to a cabin, cloistered in the mountains. The last stretch to the cabin is the roughest and I know my precious cargo is taking a beating in the wooden crate. If I get her out now, people who live near will talk.

  The private main road to the cabin is not maintained due to heavy winter snowstorms that wash the road away by melting, runoffs, and spring rain. It constantly has to be graded. It’s my responsibility and I haven’t taken care of the road in a while.

  I take it slow, slower than I ever have before. My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel. My back is rigid, as if I am nailed upright in place to a board. I haven’t felt so scared about cargo spilling, tipping, or rocking as I am now. I wish I had a Halliburton driver in my place so I could walk alongside, making sure nothing spills, but that would look more suspicious than if I climbed and pulled her out. I can't risk anyone seeing me doing something suspicious. I cannot reveal any trace of her. Not today.

  An hour after being on the rugged road, I finally arrive at the cabin. To my regret, my neighbor to the north of me, Frank, is sitting at the fire pit with ashes floating into his beard. I secure the parking brake and quickly hop from the cab.

  "Hi, neighbor. Are you here to nab some freebies?" I holler.

  "You betcha! Well, and to check up on you. Make sure you arrived home safely. Your grandpap would have wanted that.”

  He walks toward the back of the truck to unlatch the tailgate. I quickly place my hand over his.

  "I don't know what came ajar on the road. Give me a chance to inspect and unload it all," I insist.

  "I can help you unload it. That's only being a good neighbor," Frank says.

  I run my hands through my hair. "I know. You're here to help. I would normally love and welcome your help, but I just pulled in. Give me a chance to stretch my legs, grab a drink, and use the bathroom."

  "Ah, I know you don't need my help. You're like a gladiator. You can unload this heap in the fraction of the time it would take me.”

  I smile, trying to patronize him.

  "It’s the wife. Well, she's just a bit anxious this year 'cause I ain’t been hunting well lately and she is doing worse than ever."

  I gently unlatch the truck bed before running to grab a cardboard box left on my wraparound porch at the cabin. The crate closest to the edge of the bed holds apples. I climb to the top with a box in one hand and a crowbar gripped under my arm. I pry open the apples. As I do, I hear a rustling in a crate, the potato crate…her crate. I furiously load the box, then toss it for Frank to catch.

  "Have your wife start on some applesauce. I'll bring more things. I promise."

  "I know ya will. You're a good man, Jake. They broke the mold when they made you, son; no one better. You'd make your grandpap proud, real proud."

  Frank hobbles off to his ATV, leaving the fire pit to dwindle on its own. “Jake, your puppy was real good while you were gone. I left him in your kitchen.”

  He drives to his property with the box of apples gripped in one hand.

  As the dust rises behind his back wheels, I leap to the potato crate, crowbar in hand, to release the intense pressure off my hidden cargo. Before the lid comes off, I scan my property for any other unexpected neighbors. I frantically throw the
potatoes away from her body. I inspect her condition. She looks more than just dirty from the potatoes; she looks dead. I wait, anticipating signs of life. Her chest remains flat. I lean in, relieved to hear her shallow breathing. I raise her out of her coffin crate and throw her over my shoulder. I climb down the crates as if I am on a rescue mission. I run straight to Grandpap’s old cabin, not the main cabin. The door of the small cabin flings open. I carefully lay her down, wiping her face to reveal her freckles. I comb the dirt out of her hair with my fingers to see the blonde streaks.

  As I gaze over her, I notice the impact of the rough ride. This is going to leave her with lasting effects when she awakes. I run to the main cabin to get some acetaminophen and water to force pills down her throat. I prop her weak body against my shoulder to get the medicine into her. She chokes down the water and dozes back to sleep. I keep her nestled in my arms to warm her from the exposed journey. I check her vitals. She looks frail, but no evidence of major harm done in the transport. We made it. She is here with me.

  I run to the main cabin to retrieve wool blankets and a pillow. I sit on the floor next to her, placing the pillow under her head. Now what do I do? Abducting her and bringing her here was never what I planned to do, ever. How could something so wrong feel so right?

  Chapter 3: Mike

  Monday morning, I step out the back door onto the covered patio with my cell phone in hand. I close the door quietly. I do not want to wake the kids, who are sleeping in their beds. Yesterday, I lied all day. I do not know what to tell them, since I don't know myself what happened to their mother.

  I call the local police department to speak to the operator.

  "Hello. My name is Mike Parker. I'd like to report a missing person."

  "Okay, sir. Who is it and how long have they been missing?"

  "My wife, Elizabeth Parker. She has been missing since seven o’clock, Sunday morning."

  "It has been more than twenty-four hours. Give me your name and address. I will send two officers to your home immediately, sir."

  "Thank you."

  After providing the necessary information over the phone, I walk to the front of the house to wait for the officers, hoping I can meet them in the driveway. I pace the driveway, mentally taking inventory of everything Liz left without. The officers park their patrol car in the street. They walk toward me, papers clipped on a clipboard in their hands. I glance down at what they hold. It appears to be all my personal information and Liz’s, along with a brief log of public records.

  The first officer is looking down at the papers. "Mr. Parker, you called to report that your wife is missing?"

  The reality sets in for me. Tears roll down my face. "Yes.”

  Am I sad Liz is gone? Sadly, I don’t think I am. Maybe I’m just nervous talking about it with police. Actually, I am.

  "Can you tell me what you remember about yesterday morning?" the first officer asks.

  "My wife, Elizabeth, went out for an early morning walk and did not come home," I state solemnly.

  "Did she say where she was going?" the second officer inquires.

  "No. I was still asleep when she walked out the door. I assumed she walked her normal route. I took the kids to church. We returned home from church around noon to find she had not come home. I drove the route Liz walks a dozen times,” I lied. I only drove the gravel roads one time.

  “I thought maybe Liz came back early to go for a bike ride. Her bike is hanging in the garage.” I point to the garage door that I opened to prove its existence.

  "Can you verify you were at church with your kids yesterday?" the first officer resumes questioning.

  "Yes, ask any one of my neighbors. We go to the same church at the same time around the corner.” I point to the steeple that is peering above the rooftops of our house.

  "Sorry, sir. We have to ask."

  "I understand. Her parents and sisters live nearby. I thought she stopped at one of their homes. They, too, have not seen or heard from Liz. Her parents and sisters went out looking. They made several phone calls, just as I did yesterday. We called her coworkers, thinking she snuck away for a casual Sunday brunch, but they have not seen or heard from Liz either. The cars are still parked in the garage.”

  I point back to the open garage, where both our vehicles remain parked.

  “Her wallet is still buried deep in her purse on the kitchen counter. Nothing is missing. Her driver's license and credit cards are still in her purse. Her passport is still in her upstairs bedroom drawer. Everything is left untouched."

  The second officer informs me, "We will need the names of all her extended family members, friends, co-workers, and neighbors.”

  "Of course.”

  "Do you remember what she was wearing?" the first officer asks.

  "I was still asleep when she left. I can tell you what she normally wears. She has a dozen mid-calf spandex pants; a few are cotton, all of them black. She has short sleeve cotton T-shirts in a rainbow of colors. I'm not sure which one she put on yesterday. She always wears ankle socks with a pair of pink running shoes. She has three pairs of pink running shoes. One pair is missing from her closet."

  "Anything else missing?"

  "Her iPhone. She always listens to music on her iPhone while she is walking," I say, rubbing my forehead. "Along with her car and wallet still being in their proper place, so is her medicine."

  "Medicine? Is she depressed, anxious, bipolar? Does she have any kind of mental disorder?" the officer asks.

  "No, nothing like that! A few weeks ago, she started medication for...” The first officer’s walkie-talkie unit, which is attached to his shoulder, cuts me off.

  The officer returns to the patrol car. He speaks to someone while typing on his laptop propped in the patrol car.

  The uniformed officer returns to the driveway and asks, "Can you come with us, sir?"

  "My kids are in their beds, asleep. Am I a suspect? Am I being arrested? I can't just leave my kids!” I appear quite panicked. I am not going to be falsely accused or arrested for anything on account of Liz.

  "No need to worry. You are not a suspect. Something was found two miles from your home. We want to see if you can identify it. It shouldn't take long. Would you like a moment to contact someone to attend to your kids?"

  "I'll call Liz’s sister to stay at the house.”

  I briskly walk to the back door of the patrol car, phone to my ear. The second officer opens the back door for me. I continue with the phone call as we drive out of the cul-de-sac, past the new subdivisions and onto a gravel road near the planted fields.

  "Is this where your wife goes walking?" the officer asks over his shoulder.

  "Yes, this is her exact route. I have walked it many times with her,” I lie.

  The police officer slows to a stop next to a pair of women awaiting the police officers’ arrival on the side of the road. Being as I am unable to open the patrol car door, the officer speaks to me via the rear view mirror.

  "Did you say your wife was wearing pink running shoes?"

  "Yes, pink is all she owns."

  Once my door is opened for me, I follow the two officers, who are walking toward the women waiting in the road. They quickly approach the officers in their coordinating spandex attire. Both point to the ditch area in the field. I glance to where they are pointing. One pink running shoe lies dirtied with tire markings from possibly being run over too many times. There is also a device case on the side of the road in a hundred speckled pieces. Nearby is an iPhone, her iPhone, the one I called a hundred times yesterday. The one I called, but is now too shattered to function properly, but the gray ear buds are still intact. How could I have not seen her things yesterday? Dumb, lazy me; I should have walked where she walked. I could not have seen these things from where I was sitting in the car.

  "Oh-my-gosh, officer. There were so many oversized farm trucks kicking up dust while we were out running this morning. We were about ready to turn around...”

  The secon
d woman interrupts. "But then we saw this stuff on the side of the road. We first saw the phone. We thought we should report it in case someone lost it, but then we noticed the shoe. Just the one shoe; it seemed unusual.”

  The first lady cuts back in, distressed by the workers’ presence interrupting her morning training routine. “Looks like it has been run over by one of those monstrous farm trucks or thrown around by migrant workers.”

  The officer surveys the area, speaks into his walkie-talkie, then asks us to step aside. A second patrol car quickly approaches and stops ten feet away from where we stand. A third, then a fourth police car lines bumper to bumper along the gravel road. Police officers are talking among themselves, walking back and forth from each patrol car, typing furiously on the laptops propped in their cars.

  The officer from the patrol car parked the farthest away from the discovery approaches the spandex-clad women to offer them a ride home. I wait in an empty patrol car. The police direct farm trucks to turn around as they close and barricade the gravel road with yellow tape.

  A pick-up truck speeds down the gravel road and screeches to an abrupt halt two inches from the yellow police tape. An irate man wearing a tattered ball cap and dirty jeans jumps out of the truck cab. He continues to walk, not breaking his pace as he lifts the yellow police tape over his head.

  "I support you boys one hundred percent, but when you slow down production and don't give me a heads up...well, that's when I lose it. I have every right to kick you off this property. This is the first day I have workers out in the fields. We have to get stuff done. I wasn’t planning on picking today, but you get what you get with these workers and now you boys are interfering with it all!”

  His arms wave midair as he speaks loudly. His voice carries across the fields.

  "Calm down, sir. We just found out ourselves. I'm sure you'll understand what we need to do once we explain what is happening in your fields. I’m more than happy to fill you in on what we can. Let's step over by your truck so I can get you up to speed and talk about where we will go from here.”