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Brett started, “Where did you two meet?”
“We met amid anarchy. We watched public education falter, a deteriorating climate, collapsing economy, splintering governments, crushed hope, and a broken society. She worked as a quasi- manager at the cafe we all recently ‘visited’ in the barrio. I worked there occasionally, and it was there we connected. Spent free time together sharing our love of reading. We both had a secret cache of books, hidden. We read and talked and kept a low profile.”
“So those with resources hired teachers as tutors to teach their children reading, math, but honestly little else. That provided a steady income.”
“Stacy worked as a waitress. When not teaching, I would do odd jobs in the pub. At the end of each day, we sat around and chatted, enjoying each other’s company.”
“And.”
“Finally, shared a common space. We lived in a studio on the second floor of the pub. Convenient and we worked and ate in the cafe. Room and board. No rent, room and meals exchanged for work.”
“Then.”
The air felt heavy as I continue, “And, you know, that old story, fall in love, eventually children added to the mix. First, a girl, Susan, then unexpectedly another, Sandra.”
“I continued to tutor. Stacy worked tables and sort a managed the shop. The world continued to crumble, as did the owner. I cooked when needed, mostly nights. The pub scraped by, profitable but struggling. When the owner died, Stacy became the quasi owner. Not sure who actually owned the building.”
Life, compared to most folks, was tolerable. We made due.
“Susan was the vivacious one, like her mom, while Sandra, two years younger, introspective. Both average, strawberry blond hair, brown eyes, pleasant to be around, capable of interacting with peers and adults. Eleven and thirteen years old when they went missing, kidnapped. That makes them… fourteen and sixteen. We did our best to isolate them from the craziness in the world.”
Images formed as I tried to picture them now, older, but unable. Their voices have faded. “The last contact was when you all found me down the road, rescued me, at the old PCC site.”
Removing a card from my wallet shared, “the last I have is the name Susan Tucker, looking for Jesse Tucker, currently living in the valley.”
“What did you find that night…?” Cord probed.
“The room trashed, my wife bruised/beaten…dead, and the girls gone.”
I hated this, recalling sounds and images.
“Any witnesses?”
“No, we had a private entrance. If someone knew anything, they never came forward.”
“Where were you that day?”
I told already you, “That afternoon I was tutoring,”
Brett asked, “This is important. Who were you tutoring for, what time, and was there anything unusual?”
“Been a long time,” I sat thinking. “It was one of the local landowners, Mr. Eldridge, a couple of miles out of town, mid afternoon. Normally, I tried to schedule tutoring sessions in the morning. Or maybe… definitely the afternoon, the sun was low in the sky and I recall wanting to get home soon, before the evening dinner rush. Dinner rush, that is a bit of an exaggeration. Still. Later than usual. The sun was setting. The name of the ranch, Luna A Ranch? Crown D Ranch? I remember it was North.”
In the background voices of folks filled the silence, going about their daily business. The sounds of birds, now rare.
“What else can you remember?”
Irritated, “Like I said, when I walked in my wife… laying on the bed, beaten, the room tossed… sorry… for weeks that visual haunted me, she was…, the girls gone.”
“Tossed? How tossed, be specific,” Cord asked.
Closed my eyes visualizing, “Chairs overturned, a few drawers opened, stuff on the counter top askew, books once on the table thrown on the floor, closet left open, just little thing out of place.”
Look around, “Other than your daughters, anything missing?”
“We had few items worth much, there was a jar of loose change… the money gone… next to the change a ceramic mug holding various writing materials, pencils, used pens, also gone…, beyond that stuff just out of place.”
As I relived that moment, my chest tightens, hate aroused. So many emotions are stuffed, now resurface. I had worked for years to compartmentalize those images, feelings. My head spinning. No one claimed to have seen or heard anything. A sign of the times. Humanity obliterated, and local law officers were never helpful, indifferent, or bribed.
“Think, the day before, that day, even the next day, week, anything unusual, anyone whose behavior caught your attention. Details.”
“It’s been over two years… A month later, heard a rumor that the Eldridge sons had moved the cattle north to some ranch in… Wyoming… Montana…?”
The older child, Max, was not all that academic, actually thinking back. He left the tutoring session early, claimed he had some chores to complete. The other two, more interested in learn’in, stayed and continued to ask questions, engaged until it was time to leave. Collect my due, mounted and spurred my horse homeward.
The sun fully set, darkness encompasses the land. Images are now painful. It will be hours if not days before I can push away these newly released feeling. I see Emily, fearful, huddled on the ground, abused, afraid, and remember wondering how my daughters were being treated, or even alive.
Brett breaks the silence. “We’ll be gone for a couple of days. Maybe as long as a week. Tell no one. Will return with either with good news, no news, or bad news. We’ll be back.”
“One last question, no witnesses, so why was she not at work that evening?”
Thinking, “She worked mostly mornings and into the afternoons. She would have been off work.”
“Who would know her schedule?”
“Anyone capable of reading the weekly schedule posted in the office?”
Addison sat, listening intently. A sadness enveloped her. Speechless. “I’m sure the guys will locate them.” She stood and excused herself. “I need to visit the med center and see if they have something for this nagging headache.”
Everyone dispersed, leaving me with my thoughts. Now, sitting alone, feeling abandoned, just my memories keeping me company.
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