THE ELSON LEGACY (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 6) Read online

  THE ELSON LEGACY

  An Alton Rhode Mystery

  By

  LAWRENCE DE MARIA

  The Elson Legacy, a novel by Lawrence De Maria

  Copyright © Lawrence De Maria 2015

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this

  book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information, email [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by St. Austin’s Press

  www.lawrencedemaria.com

  Special thanks to my website designer, Nancy Kreisler, and to

  Maryellen Alvarez and Deborah Thompson,

  whose sharp eyes and insights have improved my work.

  Dedicated to my wife, Patricia, without whose love, support and faith this book

  – and others –

  would not have been possible,

  and to my sons,

  Lawrence and Christopher.

  Good men, both.

  THE ELSON LEGACY

  “The quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart.” -- Robert A. Heinlein in Stranger in a Strange Land

  CHAPTER 1 - DOUBLE VISION

  Atlas, Virginia

  April

  Colver Elson picked up the remote and started flipping through his cable channels. He scrolled through a series of cop shows: CSI, NCIS, CSI Miami, NCIS Los Angeles, Law and Order, NCIS New Orleans, Castle, The Mentalist, Rizzoli & Isles, Law and Order SVU, Criminal Minds, Blue Bloods and a couple he did not recognize. He often joked to his golfing buddies that they should be happy they lived in a small town because everyone in America’s big cities was apparently murdered or raped. He’d stopped watching such shows. As someone who dealt with crime himself, Elson found the police and forensic expertise of TV sleuths unbelievable.

  With almost 700 cable shows to choose from, Elson couldn’t believe he was having so much trouble finding something to watch on his brand-new, 55-inch, wall-mounted plasma TV set. The cop shows were bad enough, but for the $100 a month extra he was paying for “premium service” he’d be damned if he’d watch retards wrestle alligators, idiots chasing tornadoes or disgusting obese people compete to see who lost hundreds of pounds the fastest!

  Finally, he found something he liked on The Blitzkrieg Channel, which was devoted to German operations during World War II. It was 10 PM. The show, Wehrmacht: In Living Color, was just starting.

  Elson reached over to make himself another mint julep. A frequent visitor to the Kentucky Derby, he considered his juleps superior to any he’d ever had at Churchill Downs. It was now his standard drink and he was very particular about its makeup. Cracked ice was a necessity. And not the shaved ice that came out of the ice maker on the refrigerator door. It wasn’t the right consistency and smelled of freezer food to boot. No sir. He bought spring water chunk ice from the supermarket, chopped it up and double bagged it separately, and then put what he needed each night in an ice bucket on a sturdy table next to his chair in the den. He rendered that ice down to chips, using an antique jade-handled ice pick that had been in the family since the War of Secession. Next to the bucket was a half-full bottle of Evan Williams Single Barrel bourbon that he’d opened when he sat down. Close by was a small bowl with fresh mint and a glass mesh soda siphon.

  Elson was still a good-looking man, six-foot-two with a full head of white hair, piercing blue-gray eyes and the ruddy complexion of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, either on a golf course or in the saddle. Of course, he wasn’t a spring chicken any more, and some of the ruddiness of his 69-year-old visage could be attributed to all the bourbon he drank. He still cut a swath with the ladies of a certain age, although he now often needed a boost from the little blue pills his doctor prescribed. And for a small town, Atlas, Virginia, provided a surprising number of willing bedmates, mainly widows and divorcees who felt sorry for such a vital man whose wife had passed on and who suffered the tragedy of a mentally disturbed daughter. Colver Elson felt absolutely no compunction playing the sympathy card. “Pity fucks”, as he called them, were still fucks, and he knew that some of his paramours were hoping to become the next Mrs. Colver Elson. His dance card was so full now he no longer needed to lure female lawyers and court-appointed “experts” to his bed with promises of fees from his nursing home connections. Elson had a jaundiced view of the legal profession in Atlas. My God, he often thought, if he was bisexual he would never have gotten any sleep!

  Elson was having a hard time focusing on the TV screen. As usual when he drank too much, which was whenever he drank, Colver Elson was afflicted with double vision. His ophthalmologist said it was caused by a weakness in one of his optic nerves. Nothing could be done and it was only a minor irritation, except when he played golf or drove one of his cars. Putts were a bitch when aiming at two holes. And driving on a two-lane road that became a four-lane road was a challenge. But Elson was a lousy golfer even when sober, anyway. And as for driving a car while impaired, well, he was not concerned about being arrested. All the cops knew his car. None would have the temerity to stop him, or in the case of an accident, suggest a Breathalyzer or blood test.

  Three more mint juleps later, the Nazis invaded France. Elson struggled to keep his eyes open. He enjoyed watching the Frogs getting their clock cleaned by Hitler’s Wehrmacht. There was a flash of lightning outside, almost immediately followed by a sharp crack of thunder that drowned out the artillery barrage on his TV screen. Elson looked out the large bay window of his study. The small grove of Eastern White Pine trees in his front yard began swaying in the wind and rain began to splatter against the window. Elson hoped the early spring thunderstorm would dissipate by morning. Sunday was the opening-day tournament at his golf club.

  Well, the rain would be good for the Highbush Blueberry, Sweetfern, Partridgeberry, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, and Wild Sarsaparilla shrubs and plants he’d carefully planted in his yard around the pines. They were hardy enough to flourish in shade. Elson was proud of his gardens. He was always bragging about his green thumb.

  ***

  Elson awoke with a snort. He’d fallen asleep. He glanced out the window. The rain had slackened off to a steady drizzle. He was not crazy about playing golf in the rain, but knew it would take a monsoon to cancel opening day.

  Elson frowned. On wet grass, he would probably be allowed to “lift, clean and place” his ball on the fairway. That would negate his main advantage and strategy. Which was to cheat. He always improved his lie when no one was looking. Now everybody could do it!

  He turned back to the TV screen. The images were now very blurry but he could still see that the Germans were still on the move. They seemed to have a hell of a lot more tanks. Elson laughed. Probably my double vision. The Krauts would have won the war with that much armor. But they were raising a lot of dust and the huts the Wehrmacht soldiers were torching seemed too dilapidated for France. The Nazis were apparently invading Russia. Elson looked at his watch. He had to bring it almost to his nose to read it. It was after midnight. He’d been out for almost an hour. I should go to bed, he thought. We tee off at 8 AM. Clyde is picking me up at 7:30.

  But he wanted a nightcap julep. He lifted the lid off the ice bucket. There was just enough ice for another drink. His hand swept the tray for the ice pick. Where the hell was it? Must have dropped it.

  Elson began pull
ing himself up so he could lean down to see where it had fallen when he noticed that he couldn’t see the TV screen anymore. He looked up and was startled to see two figures, dressed all in white, standing between him and the screen. He almost screamed in fright at the ghostly apparition. For a moment he believed he might be dreaming, or hallucinating. But the sounds of gunfire and martial music emanating from the TV behind the two spectral figures convinced him he wasn’t.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  He closed his right eye and squinted. It was a trick he used on the highway. What he lost in depth perception he made up in missed trees.

  The two specters merged into one and moved toward him. He sat up and leaned forward and emitted a harsh laugh.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.”

  He was no longer afraid, and despite his inebriation Colver Elson felt an erotic stirring. The feeling was more intense for the forbidden memories it recalled. He stretched out his arms.

  “Come here,” he said huskily.

  The eight-inch ice pick entered his open eye and only stopped traveling when its hilt jammed into the bone that surrounded the socket. The solid steel shaft pierced his eyeball and then plunged five more inches into his brain. The first inch blinded the eye and caused excruciating pain. Now he did scream, and then was silent, as the damage caused by the next two inches of steel paralyzed him, although his other eyelid reflexively popped open. He slumped back in the chair as the ice pick severed more billions of neurons and insured that he would never leave the chair alive. Blood shot out of the ravaged eye and sprayed over the ice pick handle, as well as the hand that wielded it. The hand let go of the hilt, almost reluctantly.

  The gruesome wound was not necessarily fatal. The human brain needs more oxygen to function than any other organ and is thus well supplied with blood, much of which now traveled down the shaft and ran off the end in a steady, crimson stream. Elson might have survived had quick and expert medical attention been available. In 1940 an assassin sent by Stalin to Mexico plunged an ice pick into Leon Trotsky’s head. Trotsky was lucid enough to tell his bodyguards to keep the assassin alive for questioning, but died the next day in the hospital from brain injuries and blood loss. Modern medicine might have saved Trotsky, although he probably no longer would have been a rival that Stalin feared.

  But nothing would save Colver Elson. With its nerve pathways to his damaged brain severed, his diaphragm was now only working spasmodically. He would suffocate or bleed out, whichever came first.

  Ironically, the ice pick had cured his double vision. With his one operative eye he could see quite clearly now.

  Unable to move, speak or even blink, Elson watched his life drip off the end of the ice pick in living, or, rather, dying color.

  CHAPTER 2 - GRAVEYARD SHIFT

  The report was vague. A trucker called 911 and said he saw a naked woman walking across Clayton Turnpike. The caller said she appeared to be disoriented. He stopped, but by the time he went back to see if she was all right the woman had disappeared into the woods.

  Officer Richard Melore was diverted from his regular patrol route and told to check it out. New to the Atlas Police Department, Melore often caught the midnight-to-eight shift. He didn’t mind. Melore wanted some action, and a lot of it happened during the graveyard shift, although in a quiet town like Atlas, the worst usually involved a traffic accident or some high school kids getting out of line. So, he didn’t expect much when he drove to the spot indicated by the trucker. At 2 AM, traffic was expectedly light. Melore got out of his cruiser and searched the embankment where the woman supposedly was last seen before heading into the woods. For all he knew, the trucker had been mistaken. It had been raining. A tired trucker, a misty windshield — who knew what the man really saw, if anything?

  But, Melore, still learning the ropes, wanted to be thorough. He took out his flashlight and scanned the dirt and grass. He was about to give up when he spotted what appeared to be a small footprint in the mud and indentations in the grass leading into the woods. He pointed his flashlight into their direction. All he saw were trees and brush. He called out. Nothing. He ran back to his car, got in and swerved it so that its headlights and spotlight also illuminated the area. His patrol car was partially blocking the road and a car slowed, then stopped. A man got out.

  “Need any help, officer?”

  Why not, Melore thought.

  “Yeah. Would you mind pointing your headlights like mine?”

  The man quickly obliged and then got out and joined the cop.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Got a report of someone wandering around, maybe lost,” Melore said, not wanting to elaborate. “You see anything in there?”

  “Nah. Pretty dense in there. A drunk, maybe?”

  “Could be. I’m going in. Can you stay a while?”

  “Sure thing, officer. Be careful.”

  Melore started down the embankment, which was slippery with the recent rain, which had let up. The illumination from the two cars helped but he still trained his flashlight on the ground ahead of him to see if he could pick out a decent trail to follow. There wasn’t one, so he started to cautiously move through the brush. His foot caught on a root and he fell forward, almost losing his flashlight.

  “Shit!”

  He brushed himself off as best he could. His uniform pants were both soaked at the knees.

  “Are you all right, officer?”

  “I’m fine,” Melore said, getting to his feet.

  After about another 30 feet, the woods really got thick. He called out again.

  “Anybody there! Do you need help?”

  There was no answer.

  “The hell with this,” he muttered.

  Melore decided to call headquarters. Maybe someone else besides the trucker saw something, or reported a missing person. He didn’t know what else he could do, other than call for whatever limited backup might be available that time of night. But he also knew that any search would probably have to wait for dawn. And lacking further confirmation of the trucker’s sighting, he wondered if any search was in the cards. Of course, there were the footprints — if that was what they were.

  “False alarm?” the other man said when Melore came out of the woods.

  “Probably.”

  “Maybe you should check where the woods come out,” the man said. “Over on Doswell Road. Runs parallel to Clayton. It’s only about a half mile to the other side.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Melore said.

  “Want me to follow you?”

  “No, thanks. You’ve done enough. Been a great help.”

  He shook the man’s hand and gave him a wave as he drove off. Melore was city-raised and liked the fact that country folk were usually eager to help out a cop. He got in his cruiser and drove two miles to Cedar Plank Lane, the road that could take him to Doswell. His car clattered across the small bridge that gave the road its name and traversed Braxton Creek, one of the small tributaries of the much-larger Rapidan River. Anyone traversing the woods from Clayton Turnpike to Doswell Road would have to ford the creek at some point. Melore knew that it was barely a stream at some points but wondered how wide and deep it flowed where the person he was looking for might have encountered it. Not too deep or wide for an old lady, he hoped, if indeed she did exist.

  When he got to Doswell Road, Melore headed toward the area most likely to be an exit point for anyone walking in a straight line from the spot he searched on Clayton Turnpike. He knew, of course, that the mysterious woman might have become lost in the woods and might just be wandering aimlessly. He didn’t want to think about her ending up in the creek. His was the only vehicle on the winding road, in either direction. A light mist rose up from the road, which was still slick from the rain. His radio crackled. It was his dispatcher, Lois, wanting to know what was going on. When could he be expected to resume his normal patrol? Some kids were acting up in the parking lot outside a
bar at a small strip mall. Melore keyed his mike.

  “I’m almost done, here. Nothing to report. Do me a favor and check … Jesus Christ!”

  The woman appeared out of nowhere, directly in front of his squad car. Melore slammed on his brakes and slalomed on the wet road, narrowly missing her and sliding onto the shoulder.

  “Richie! What happened! Are you all right? Do you need assistance?”

  He took a deep breath and looked back. The woman was indeed naked and was now walking into the woods on the other side of the road.

  “I’m fine,” he shouted into the radio. “I’ll call you back.”

  Melore jumped out of the car and ran toward the woman, catching up to her just as she was about to enter the brush. She was indeed completely naked. He grabbed her arm and spun her around. Her white hair was plastered around her face and had small bits of foliage in it. There were scratches on her forehead and cheeks, and on her breasts, which Melore assumed came from collisions with trees and bushes. Her feet were also cut up. She was shivering and looked at him with uncomprehending eyes — eyes, however, that were startlingly clear and green. She was not a young woman, but behind all of the trauma Melore could see remnants of one-time beauty.

  “Please, ma’am, come with me.”

  Melore started leading the woman back to his police cruiser but she began to sag. He immediately threw his arms under her legs and back and easily picked her up. She could not have weighed more than 90 pounds. She put her head against his chest and began to cry. When he reached his car, he managed to get her to lie down in the rear seat. Opening his trunk, he took out a blanket and covered her, securing her as best he could with two seat belts. Shaken by the whole situation, he did not want to wait for an ambulance. Instead, he drove straight to Atlas General Hospital. He tried to start a conversation with the woman, but she was unresponsive. He called it in and told Lois to alert the Emergency Room. Ten minutes later, the poor woman was wheeled into the hospital and Melore went to the desk to fill out some forms.