“Forget it. We’ll talk later.”
I pressed the button disconnecting her, and then stared down at the instrument I was holding. I pressed the button that said Talk and listened to the dial tone, which was actually emanating from the telephone sitting on the office desk right above me. This was how Ned Lowe had managed to tap into my phone line without ever entering my well-fortified work space.
25
Monday, September 25, 1989
What I realized then, which was just as appalling in my opinion, was that in addition to his tapping into my phone line, he’d dragged in his aluminum-frame backpack and red sleeping bag. The man had been bivouacking under my office floor for nearly a week. I swept the beam of my flashlight across the area, focusing on a portable radio, a homely supply of canned goods, a can opener, and a small Coleman stove complete with wind baffles in case a hurricane blew through. All of this was neatly arranged on a wooden produce crate he’d toted in from outside. He’d set his hiking boots to one side of the crate and he was collecting his trash in a plastic grocery bag. How thoughtful of him. In addition, he had a small bottle of Tennessee whiskey and a Thermos with a twist-off lid he was using as a cup. I pictured him at the cocktail hour, propped on one elbow, surveying his dirt kingdom while he sipped his sour mash and reviewed his day.
When had he come up with this idea? It occurred to me that the day he’d broken my kitchen window, he might have been conducting an experimental mission to test the feasibility of the plan. The bungalows on either side of mine were unoccupied and the downtown neighborhood is scarcely populated at night. Once he moved in, all he had to do was wait until dark and he could come and go as he pleased. In the interim, he could nest under my office during daylight hours, safe from prying eyes. Except for his bathroom needs (which I was hoping he tended to elsewhere), he had a cozy little habitat with all the comforts of home.
I crouched and stuck my head in the vent opening.
To the left, there was a gasoline can that seemed odd unless he was using unleaded fuel in his little cook stove. There was another possibility, of course. The last time he was on the run, he’d set his recreational vehicle on fire and escaped on foot. I hadn’t seen any trace of the bright red Oldsmobile he’d stolen, but Erroll was right about its being too conspicuous to drive for long. Ned would torch the car. He’d probably ditched it somewhere and hoofed it here on foot. Burning the car seemed extreme when all he had to do was wipe down his fingerprints and abandon it. It might take a week, but someone would steal it, strip it, or a nearby resident would become suspicious and have the car towed off to the impound lot.
I checked the area to the right, where I spotted a Havahart trap suitable for groundhogs, raccoons, and other medium-sized beasts. The spring-loaded door had snapped shut and the trap was empty. Maybe he baited it at night in case a skunk decided to take refuge in the base camp he’d established for himself. I picked up a faint noise. I cocked my head and squinted. The sound came again; a metallic jingle that sounded like the rattling of a length of chain. It crossed my mind that it might be Ned, but I didn’t think so. There was no indication I’d interrupted him unless he’d heard me out on the sidewalk and had slipped into the shadows out of sight.
I pulled my head out of the opening and paused to study my surroundings. Had the noise come from outside the crawl space or from within? It was shady between the two buildings, almost to the point of being chilly. I let my gaze linger at the section of street I could see in the gap between the two bungalows. The neighborhood was quiet, which is why I like it. Ned must have liked it for much the same reason. So little traffic. So few pedestrians. He couldn’t have anticipated my being onto him, since I’d just figured it out myself. This put me one step ahead of him for once.
Now that I knew where he was holing up, all I had to do was call Cheney Phillips and have him stake out the location until Ned showed up again. Cheney, Jonah, or someone in law enforcement would rally the troops, set up the snare, and catch Ned Lowe in the loop. In the meantime, I intended to leave no sign that I’d been there. Let Ned proceed on the assumption that his lair was undiscovered. As long as he didn’t show up in the next ten minutes, I was fine. I had no fantasies about nailing him on my own. Forget a citizen’s arrest. I know when I need help and this was clearly a situation that called for the big guns. I thought about dialing 9-1-1 on the spot, but a police response with sirens wailing would tip him off if he were anywhere in the area. This had to be played with subtlety, without alerting him that I had discovered what he’d been up to.
My legs were beginning to ache from my crouching position: knees bent, buttocks resting on my heels. I eased my head and shoulders into the vent and let my gaze travel across the barren landscape. Beyond Ned’s diminutive settlement, the crawl space was enveloped in gloom, though the dark wasn’t absolute. Three other vent openings, one on each exterior wall, admitted a faint illumination, but no discernible air flow. The dirt sloped to the left, creating more headroom toward the center of the space.
I was still staring into the shadowy depths when a squealing ruckus erupted. I was so startled, I jumped, banging the back of my head forcefully on the wood-framed opening. Shit! For a moment, I thought I’d pass out. My heart thumped hard from the shock and I struggled to catch my breath. The throbbing was intense and I felt darkness close in on me and then retreat, leaving me cross-eyed with pain. I put a hand against the back of my head, where a knot was already rising in response to the self-inflicted blow. I pulled my hand away and checked my fingers, hoping I wasn’t bleeding, which I was not.
What the hell was that?