Cross Country

“And that, class, is why we always wear our protective eyewear!”

The class erupted in a round of applause as David Jones, high school science professor, took an impromptu bow. The mangled remains of a class project stood humbly in the deserted front row.

After an anti-climactic cleanup, punctuated by the ringing of the final bell, David packed up his briefcase and headed for the door.

“Mr. Jones!”

David turned to find himself face-to-face with Jason, a bright sophomore who had started out the year quite shy but had, as of late, begun to come out of his shell.

“Jason! What can I do for you, son?”

“I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed that experiment,” Jason gushed, and David beamed in response.

“Always fun to make things blow up in class,” he replied with a wink, eliciting a chuckle from his student.

“Hey Mr. Jones, how come you’re taking everything home with you?” Jason asked, noticing the empty desk behind them.

“I always do,” David responded easily. “I like to get a head start on grading over the weekends.”

Jason nodded, evidently finding satisfaction in this explanation. With a small wave, and the assurance of “See you Monday”, teacher and student parted ways.

David drove the speed limit on his way home and, as was his custom, passed his house in an intentional loop. On this particular day, however, he spotted something out of the ordinary. A black SUV sat parked just down the block from his duplex, on the other side of the street.

David sighed. He had thought there would be more time.

Signaling his intention to change lanes, David Jones melted into traffic and slipped away.

***

Marianne McFarlane had never been in an interrogation room before.

She’d been in classrooms, and in hospital rooms, and every Sunday morning she sat in the biggest room in church, praying harder than anyone. But this interrogation room was foreign to her, and she didn’t like it. What she liked even less was that as of yet, no one had told her why she was there.

Fixing her eyes on the window that late night crime dramas had taught her must be a two-way mirror, Marianne folded her hands neatly in her lap, straightened her back the way her mother had drilled into her for so many years, and made her displeasure known in the only way she knew how. Silently.

***

Gregory Langtham did not appreciate having a warrant waved in his face.

“Woulda opened the door for you without the paper,” he grumbled, searching his keyring for the right key. “Got nothin' to hide.”

The man in the suit did not respond, but his face betrayed impatience. His partner was outside, walking the perimeter, but the sinking feeling in the air was evidence that they both believed they had already missed their chance.

“There’s the one,” Gregory said gruffly, unlocking the door and allowing the suited man inside David Jones’ apartment. “Don’t disturb nothin’, now.”

Gregory was a no-nonsense man, but a fair landlord and a generous neighbor. His distrust of outsiders was likely a byproduct of spending nearly seven decades in the small town of Morris, Alabama, population less than 2000.

The suited man - Special Agent Jim Randall, he’d introduced himself as - glanced around the apartment, noting the lack of personal effects. All the necessary furniture was present, but no pictures hung on the walls, the fridge held only a few day’s worth of necessities, and even the usual hiding places (under the bed, the toilet tank) offered no surprises.

“What kind of tenant is Mister-” Agent Randall checked something on a notepad, “-Jones?”

“Quiet guy,” Gregory replied. “Pays his rent on time. Everybody likes David. He teaches science down at the high school.”

Randall’s head snapped to attention. He muttered something into an earpiece, then spoke once more to Gregory Langtham.

“High school? The paperwork we subpoenaed from your office says he works at a sawmill.”

Gregory’s ears turned pink. “Oh, well, David asked me to do that. He needs to keep a low profile, you see.”

The agent’s eyes narrow slightly. “And why is that, exactly?”

“Well he had this wife, back home. Do you know she tried to kill him? Poisoned him. David said she might send a detective. Or worse. Someone to finish him off. He paid his rent in cash and asked me to change the workplace on his records, just in case anyone came snooping around.”

Hearing his own words out loud, Gregory suddenly eyed Randall with suspicion. “Can I see that badge again? I don’t want to be causing any trouble for David.”

Ignoring him, Randall swore under his breath and hurried out of the duplex. Meeting his partner at the perimeter, they shared a worried glance towards the horizon before speaking.

“I just called the school,” Agent Jacob Thomas informed his partner. “The final bell was a half hour ago. Multiple witnesses saw Harding leave the premises.”

Randall swore again. “We had agents at the sawmill,” he said angrily. “We were ready for the bastard.”

“He was one step ahead of us again. He probably saw the SUV and turned tail.”

Randall spoke rapidly into his headpiece. “I want an APB on a vehicle registered to David Jones. And roadblocks on every street out of this damn town. He is not getting away from us again!”

***

Agent Lewis was finding it hard not to be impressed by Marianne McFarlane’s composure.

She’d been watching through the two-way glass for nearly two hours - off and on - while combing through her records. During that time, Marianne had not cried, yelled, closed her eyes, or even asked to go to the bathroom. The woman was the picture of Christian martyrdom.

Agent Thomas entered the room and glanced at the window.

“She still hasn’t moved?” he asked, his voice betraying a slight admiration.

“Not an inch,” Lewis replied. “I hope you’re here with good news."

Thomas shook his head solemnly. “I wish. The car was found abandoned just inside the roadblocks, at the head of an old logging trail. They’ve got SWAT out there, but Randall isn’t holding out hope. Harding obviously had a escape plan. He was ready to run at any time. Just like always.”

Lewis groaned. Taking a moment to compose herself, she gathered the files in her hands. “I guess I’ll see where I can get with her, then.”

When the interrogation room door opened, Marianne looked up haughtily.

“Are you finally going to tell me what this is all about?”

Agent Lewis tossed a photo on the table in front of Marianne. “Tell me about this man.”

Marianne picked up the mugshot and eyed it closely. “This looks like David. My god, have you arrested David for something? Is that what this is about?” She laughed. “This is ridiculous. What is it you think he’s done?”

Sitting across the table from Marianne, Lewis spoke calmly. “That man’s name is Matthew Harding, and he is wanted for grand larceny, grand theft auto, forgery, identity theft, and fraud.”

Marianne rolled her eyes. “Oh, is that all?”

Lewis continued, unphased. “No, as a matter of fact. He also murdered six people.”

Startled, Marianne swallowed hard. “This is ridiculous,” she repeated, but the vigor was gone from her voice. The word murder seemed to have shaken her.

Carefully, Lewis laid out six more photos. Each depicted a body, bloody and beaten, but most notably, headless. All the color drained from Marianne’s face.

“Now wait a minute-” she began, but Lewis pushed onward.

“This,” she pointed to the first photograph, “was his wife. He killed her first. For ten days, he siphoned all the money out of their joint accounts while her body was decomposing in their bathtub.”

“That can’t-”

“Then, when their friends and family started to get suspicious, he made his getaway. He stole a car, stole an identity, and walked right out of his old life. We’ve been tracking him ever since.”

“We tracked him to New Mexico.” Lewis pointed to the next photo.

“Then Louisiana.” The next.

“Then Texas, Utah, New Jersey,” Lewis pointed at each of the remaining photos in turn. “And finally, we tracked him here. You were his next target.”

Marianne put her hands on the table to steady herself.

“I…”

“You slept with him,” Lewis finished for her, causing Marianne to bristle.

“Now listen here!” Marianne retorted, some of her fire returning. “Just because you show me pictures of some bodies, it doesn’t mean David is the one who...who...made them dead!”

Lewis nodded gently, switching tactics. “I can’t imagine how difficult this must be to hear.”

Marianne laughed again, humorlessly. “Difficult? It’s absurd!”

Pulling a piece of paper out of one of her files, Lewis continued. “Did you cash a check yesterday for five thousand dollars?”

Marianne appeared speechless. “What?”

“How about last Tuesday, for seven thousand?”

“What are you talking about?” Marianne demanded.

Lewis slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is your bank statement,” she informed Marianne, causing the other woman to sit up a little straighter.

“That is my private-”

“I can assure you, I have a warrant,” Lewis replied coolly. “And I would encourage you to focus on the transactions I’ve highlighted.”

For a moment, Marianne stared silently at the paper in front of her. “What is this?” she asked softly.

“He’s been stealing from you,” Lewis told her flatly.

Marianne shook her head gently, but Lewis couldn’t tell if it was an indication of disbelief or simply shock. Another moment passed in silence. Then, slowly, Marianne reached out and touched the first photograph gently with her fingertips.

“He told me his wife tried to kill him…” she whispered, possibly to herself.

“He lied,” Lewis responded gently. “He lied to you about a lot of things. He probably knew you had money long before he approached you. Then he took things slow, right? Didn’t push too hard? Charmed you until you threw yourself at him. You never even suspected it was a trap.”

Marianne’s face burned hot with shame. Finally, she looked up, meeting Agent Lewis’ eyes instead of boring holes in the top of her head. Taking a deep breath, she tried in vain to keep the tears at bay. Finally, she posed the question that had been hanging in the air.

“Why didn’t he kill me?”

“Because we got here in time.”

***

After an hour of fruitless questioning, Agent Lewis returned to the adjacent room. “She doesn’t know anything.”

Agent Randall grunted but did not look up from his computer. The open tab showed a state map, with all roads leading away from Morris highlighted.

“Do you want me to arrange a stakeout of the house?” Lewis asked. Randall waved her question away.

“Go ahead and set it up,” he responded dismissively, “but it won’t matter. He isn’t coming back here.”

***

Three months later, a stranger walked into the Main Street Pub in Granby, Vermont. Most of the room payed him no attention as he sidled up to the bar and ordered a drink.

“What’s a pretty lady like you doing here all alone?”

The blonde woman looked up from her drink and into a pair of deep brown eyes. The drawl caught her off guard, as did his smoldering gaze.

“You’re not from around here,” she stated, but immediately she blushed. What a silly thing to point out.

“No ma’am,” the man responded. “The name’s Dan. Dan Willoughby. I’d like to buy you a drink, if that’s alright.”

“Margaret,” the woman introduced herself, holding out one delicate hand for the stranger to take. “Margaret Rose.”

How refreshing, she thought to herself as she sipped the drink in front of her, to meet a man who likes me before he finds out about the money.