The Return of Cassandra Todd Page 4

  “Any more problems, let the front office know,” Turner replied. This was a standard line he frequently used, but this time he hoped the offer would remain unredeemed.

  “I’m sure things will be fine. We’re leaving tomorrow morning anyway.”

  “We’re on an adventure,” Justin said, his bright, blue eyes widening in excitement.

  “Sounds fun,” Turner said. “Where are you going?”

  Cassandra spoke before her son could answer. “We shouldn’t keep the nice man from his work, Justin. I’m sure he has lots to do.” She took Justin by the hand and hurried to the top of the stairs. With a backward glance at Turner she disappeared down the walkway.

  Turner paused, mulling things over. Adventure! What sort of adventure? He didn't know. But it had to involve more than coming to stay at the Mountain View Motel, recently rennovated though it was.

  He descended the stairs, still in thought. Despite the uncertainty, there was one thing he did know for sure. Cassandra was the hinge upon which the floodgates to his memory swung. And the sooner she left the motel, the sooner he could close them again. Hopefully for good.

  As he dropped off the light bulb in the maintenance room, something caught his eye. A stuffed monkey sat in the junk box—a large cardboard box filled with lost and found items left by occupants.

  He pulled the monkey free. It wasn’t a teddy bear, but perhaps the little boy would regard it as an adequate substitute for the night. Cassandra may have triggered painful memories, but that was no reason to withhold a degree of comfort from the little boy.

  Minutes later Turner knocked on the door to Room 21.

  Muffled sounds came from within, like someone rushing across the floor. Then everything became quiet.

  He could feel an eye peering at him from the peephole, scanning him like an electronic device at airport security. Then the safety chain rattled and the door opened a crack.

  “Yes?” Cassandra asked with noticeable tension in her voice.

  Turner held out the stuffed monkey. “I noticed this in our lost and found. It’s not a teddy bear, but I was wondering if it might work.”

  She opened the door wider and called to Justin. “Sweetie, look what the nice man brought you.”

  Justin sucked in his breath and rushed forward.

  Turner dropped to one knee and handed him the stuffed monkey. The little boy’s eyes glowed as he clutched it. "This is for you," Turner said. Then to Cassandra: "It looks brand new, so it should be sanitary.”

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “That’s so thoughtful of you.

  I—we—really appreciate it.” She turned to Justin. “What do you say, sweetie?”

  “Thank you,” Justin replied, cradling the stuffed monkey against his cheek.

  “You’re welcome, little man.” Turner backed into the walkway. With nothing more to offer, he turned to leave.

  Cassandra smiled in gratitude again and slowly closed the door. This was followed by the muffled sound of the safety chain being engaged.

  He headed for the next job. There were still two items on the list, and he hurried to finish them so he could get to his afternoon classes. Some days were like that. He worked until it was time to go to school. Other days he could actually relax while waiting for a tenant to damage something. So far, this morning had not been an example of the latter.

  Mercifully the final jobs were easy, and by one o’clock he had cleaned up, eaten, and was on his way to classes.

  In outdoor education the instructor showed a PowerPoint presentation sponsored by the Colorado Wilderness Coalition, supporting a bill to protect Colorado’s mountain wildlands and preserve the natural wildlife. It was proposed that some two hundred thousand acres be designated as a sanctuary. A stirring soundtrack accompanied the message, and the presentation was a slick, professional production.

  Turner thought of his experiences at Camp Kopawanee, with its majestic mountain scenery, the crystal-clear lake, and the fresh scent of pine and spruce. He had loved hiking and canoeing and working with troubled youth in order to help them grow in self-confidence and appreciation for nature. The participants were taken far into the mountains, away from the convenience and familiarity of their world, and allowed to experience hunger, fatigue, and deprivation. They were pushed to the breaking point and then were helped to rebuild new attitudes and outlooks. It was rewarding to see phoenixes emerge from the ashes of teenage angst and confusion.

  It was a time of personal growth for Turner too. He had received some initial training, but the first trip into the mountains had been more difficult than he had expected. But by the time of the next camp, he had prepared himself better. He read a pile of outdoor education books, watched endless hours of instructional videos, and attended sessions on survival training. For the first time in his life he felt like a person of worth. And it felt good.

  Until the church budget cutbacks. Then he returned to feeling like a nobody, and this had jolted his faith severely.

  But the fatal blow occurred a short time later when his mother was diagnosed with cancer and died within six months. And to make matters worse, his father remarried soon after to a woman half his age, sold the family house, and used the money to go on a permanent vacation, far from the memories. Turner was not invited along. His father and stepmother occasionally sent him postcards highlighting their travels. But at no time did they write: Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.

  Bitter and in need of temporary accommodations Turner checked into the closest motel he could find, the Mountain View.

  Harvey Jones was attempting to fix a broken chair when Turner entered the front office that May morning, over two years ago. The seat had become detached, and Harvey wasn’t having much luck. With his experience doing maintenance at the youth camp, Turner knew immediately what needed to be done. So while Loretta checked him in, Turner helped Harvey put the seat in place and fasten it with four screws. A simple task but his gesture impressed the Joneses.

  Loretta drew her husband to one side and conferred with him. Following the one-sided discussion, she approached Turner and explained that the motel was in need of help because the former handyman had just moved away. A nudge from her left elbow brought a nod from Harvey. Turner was offered a suite on the ground floor, rent free, and a salary commensurate with his experience as a handyman.

  The perk was a standing invitation to dinner with the Joneses every Sunday afternoon. Loretta described menus consisting of southern fried chicken, roast beef, lamb chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, vegetables dripping in butter, homemade rolls, and an impressive list of desserts. Turner accepted the Joneses’ offer and moved in to Room 13, the former handyman’s suite.

  The following year, at Loretta’s urging, Turner enrolled at Red Rocks Community College. He had only this semester to go before gaining his two-year degree . . . and figuring out what to do with the rest of his life.

  Now as the PowerPoint presentation continued and his thoughts focused on his experiences at Camp Kopawanee, bitterness welled inside him. It was bad enough that Cassandra Todd had returned, reawakening painful memories. But it was even worse to know that God had pulled the rug out from under him and swept the remnants of his self-esteem under a corner of it.

  Turner gathered up his books and slipped out of the room in the dimness and was gone.

  CHAPTER 6

  LATER THAT EVENING, as Turner watched the late news in an effort to distract himself from the memories, a knock, soft and urgent, came on his door. He hit the mute button and crossed the room, grimacing as he thought of Harvey, list in hand, requiring another job to be done.

  Right away!

  When he opened the door, he gawked in surprise. There stood Cassandra, holding her suitcase in one hand and Justin with the other.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but can we come in?” she asked breathlessly, glancing back down the walkway. Without waiting for a reply, she stepped into the room, pulling Justin behind. “Quick, close the door
,” she begged.

  She dropped the suitcase and folded her son into her arms.

  Sitting on the couch, she slowly rocked back and forth.

  “What’s the matter?” Turner asked.

  His first thought was that something was wrong with her room. He had visions of an electrical short shooting sparks in all directions or a backed-up toilet flooding the bathroom. Something told him though that there was no physical problem with the facilities.

  “They found me!” she said, her eyes wide in alarm.

  “Who?”

  “Some men, hired by my husband.”

  Instinctively Turner glanced toward the door, as though expecting the men to suddenly appear.

  “I don’t know how they found me, but they did,” she said, as her shoulders slumped noticeably.

  Turner could guess how. She had paid for her motel room with a credit card. The paper trail was as evident as a path indicated by notched trees, colored flag markers, and rock cairns. “What do they want?” he asked.

  “Me.” She drew Justin closer. “Us.”

  “Why?”

  She placed a hand to her forehead as though trying to squeeze a migraine into submission. “It’s a long story,” she said vaguely.

  Turner swallowed hard and waited. There was desperation in her eyes and uncertainty in her expression that disarmed him. His gaze wandered to Justin, who sat sucking his thumb and clinging to the stuffed monkey.

  We’re on an adventure. The words echoed in Turner’s head. “Shall I call the police?” he asked, reaching for his cell phone.

  “No!” she replied. “I can’t go to the police. It’ll just be my husband’s word against mine.”

  Turner had checked the motel register and noticed she’d signed in using her maiden name: Cassandra Todd. Whether she was trying to maintain anonymity or had elected to keep her maiden name, he wasn’t certain. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  They were interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

  The situation was becoming increasingly surreal, and Turner found himself reeling. Events were unfolding faster than a child going through presents on Christmas morning. Only this wasn’t morning or Christmas, and there certainly were no presents.

  His thinking became cloudy as a desperate thought crossed his mind. He could end his part in the matter by flinging the door open and letting events take their natural course. But explaining the woman and boy’s presence would be a problem. If she were in trouble with the law, he might be painted with the same brush that colored her situation, and the colors were growing increasingly murky. He would be guilty of harboring fugitives, although it was hard to think of the little boy as a fugitive.

  Turner had to make a split-second decision: reveal their presence and claim they had invaded his room unexpectedly, which was true, or hide them until he could get more facts and work things out in his mind.

  Cassandra looked at him imploringly as another loud knock sounded on the door. Holding her son protectively, her arms a womb of safety and love, she sat on the couch like a small child herself, desperate and frightened.

  This was not the Cassandra Todd he remembered from high school. She had been Miss Popular—cheerleader, homecoming queen, and center of the teenage universe. Laurels and bouquets were hers. The world lay at her feet. Turner could only wonder what life with her husband had done to bring her to this point. But there was no time for contemplation.

  Lurching into action, he pointed to his bedroom door.

  “Quick, in there.”

  She took Justin by the hand and hurried toward the bedroom.

  “The suitcase,” Turner whispered urgently. “And close the door.”

  She grabbed the suitcase and Justin and rushed into the bedroom.

  As the knocking grew more urgent, Turner ruffled his hair to make it appear as though he had fallen asleep on the couch, watching the news. “Coming,” he called, reaching for the doorknob.

  Harvey’s windswept countenance appeared in the doorway. He looked worried. His wrinkled forehead resembled a topographical map. “The woman in Twenty-One,” he blurted.

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Yes, when I fixed the safety chain.” Turner spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, afraid that a change in pitch or a nervous squeak would be a dead giveaway. He also hoped a calm reply would help calm himself.

  “What about today?” came a deep voice from behind Harvey.

  A stocky man stepped into the opening. His hair was slicked back and glistened dully in the hall light. He had a permanent scowl, and his eyes bored straight into Turner. There was an air about him that conjured up images of car trunks, docks at midnight, and cement shoes. “Did you see her today?” Slick repeated.

  Turner tried not to squirm. A bug sandwiched between glass plates under the glare of a microscope would have felt less conspicuous.

  Deciding to be as truthful as he dared, he said, “Yes, I passed her on the stairs when I was heading to the maintenance room.”

  “Did she say anything about leaving?” came another voice, almost a whine. A second man, taller, with black hair and a scruffy beard, appeared behind Slick. He had a tic and continually twitched his head to the right as though constantly needing to check over his shoulder. Slimmer than the oily-haired man, Twitch was still someone Turner wouldn’t want to go nine rounds with, mostly because he suspected the taller man would knife him in the first round to save himself the trouble.

  “No, sir,” Turner replied.

  Slick and Twitch had now muscled Harvey off to the side.

  All Turner could see of his boss was his anxious face, peeking between the two men when the opportunity presented itself.

  “Did she say anything about where she might be going?”

  Slick asked.

  Turner shrugged. “She didn’t say. Why?” He hoped the casualness of the question would bolster his pretense of innocence.

  “We need to find her, that’s all,” Twitch replied, shifting restlessly.

  “Is she in some kind of trouble?” By playing it cool and at least appearing to be willing to help, Turner hoped to tease additional information from them.

  Slick was having none of it. His jaw tightened, and his voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “Curiosity killed a rat, my friend.”

  Turner decided not to remind him that it was cat. Slick’s version was probably more accurate.

  “We just need to talk to her,” Twitch said, his head jerking again.

  “Sorry, I haven’t seen her.”

  Slick made a face reminiscent of a glowering mask in a Japanese Noh drama. And Twitch looked like he was ready to end the round by drawing his knife.

  Harvey peered over Slick’s beefy shoulder. “You didn’t notice her again after meeting on the stairs?” he asked. Undoubtedly Harvey wanted to make certain the facts were established. Cooperation meant that the men would go away and unnecessary repercussions would be avoided. Bad publicity was bad for business.

  “She must have left while I was at class,” Turner replied, sidestepping the question.

  Slick looked at him narrowly and then let his eyes wander around the room. Turner followed his gaze and noticed the oily-haired man's eyes come to rest on the stuffed monkey lying on the floor. Justin must have dropped it in the mad rush from the room.

  “That yours?” Slick asked dryly.

  “I found it in one of the rooms this morning,” Turner replied, willing himself to remain composed. “It’s going in the lost and found.”

  Slick grunted. “Maybe you’d better pick it up so you don’t trip over it in the dark.”

  “Thanks,” Turner said as calmly as possible. There was something intimidating about these two men. He worried that they could see through him well enough to read the inside label of his boxers.

  Slick held out a business card. “If you see or hear anything, give me a call. My number is at the bottom.”

  Turner studied the card like he was preparing for midterms. It was easie
r to focus on it than maintain eye contact with him or Twitch. There were truths behind his corneas waiting to blaze forth like twin beacons from a lighthouse.

  Harvey escorted the men outside and gave Turner a parting glance. He was not happy. Turner knew that it was because he had not been more helpful in getting rid of them. Remember your blood pressure, sir, he wanted to call after Harvey, as he closed the door and waited for his blood pressure to stabilize.

  He entertained visions of Slick and Twitch standing outside, ears pressed against the door, waiting for him to make his first mistake. If he hadn’t made it already. He’d once read that someone who commits a crime makes twenty-five mistakes in an effort to cover it up.

  Exhaling slowly, he considered the possibility that he had exceeded that number and was approaching triple digits. There had to be more red flags waving than those at the Chinese embassy.

  CHAPTER 7

  CASSANDRA FLINCHED AS the bedroom door swung open and her host, the handyman, stood silhouetted in the light from the living room. She was sitting in the darkest recesses of the room, cuddling Justin. Looking up at the man anxiously, she whispered, “Are they gone?” She couldn’t believe she’d intruded on this stranger, but she’d had no choice.

  He nodded and turned on the lights.

  “Thank you,” she said in relief. “I didn’t know where else to go. I had gone downstairs for some ice this afternoon and saw you come out of your room, and I remembered your room number. I hope you don’t mind.”

  The handyman sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her solemnly. “They saw the monkey,” he said, holding it toward her. “I told them someone left it behind and it was going to the lost and found.”

  She caught her breath. “Do you think they know I’m here?”

  Justin climbed out of her lap and reached for the monkey, cuddling it against his chest and talking to it.

  “I don’t know how much they know,” the handyman replied.

  “Or how little.”

  “But you told them you didn’t know where I went, right?” She was frustrated at having to entrust her life to a stranger. A kind stranger, true . . . about her age and handsome enough. But one who certainly didn’t owe her anything.