She said the answer is exactly fourteen miles from the bus stop. So all we’ve got to do is get in the car, drive to Newell Creek Apartments and drive fourteen miles. We watch the odometer, and when it shows fourteen miles, we stop and see what we can find.”
Linda laughs. “I was with you for a minute, but fourteen miles in which direction, Maria? East? West? South? Which side of the Willamette? I don’t think this can possibly help the situation. Maybe we ought to politely ignore this Irene and her candles.” Linda pauses. “But…well, maybe I’ll check her theory.” She sighs, “That shows you how frustrated I am.”
“Well, I better get going, Suzie’s watching her brother for me and I promised I’d be back by four. Oh Dad, one more thing before I take off. Could you help me organize a video of Ashley with whatever video clips we can round up? You know we took a lot of home videos when we used to go camping on the boat. And Lori never had a video camera of her own, but I remember you used to loan her that old VHS a lot of times, so she has some stuff, and I think you probably do too, don’t you?”
Philip nods, his face serious. “I’d be honored to help you put together something. When can you have the footage all rounded up?”
“I’ll do it as quick as I can, but give me a week.”
“Call me when you’re ready and we’ll burn the midnight oil in the editing room together.”
Maria gets into her van and begins backing out when Linda approaches the open driver’s window to interject a final comment. “Don’t worry, Maria. I will look into this Harry Oakes and his dog as soon as possible.”
Maria waves and drives off.
Two days later, April 9, Linda is cruising by the Newell Creek school bus stop in her car, checking out where Ashley and Miranda were headed preceding their disappearances. Linda drives very slowly. She presses a button that zeroes the vehicle’s trip odometer, then accelerates rapidly and directs the sedan southward along Beavercreek Road into late afternoon traffic.
Meanwhile, Philip is in his studio office carefully attaching spine labels to a stack of VHS videotapes. Linda’s office phone rings and he quickly picks up. “Linda O’Neal Investigations.”
Oliver Jamison is on the line. “Can I speak to Linda, please? It’s very important.”
“I’m sorry, Ollie, she went to Molalla. But you should be able to get her on her cell phone.”
Oliver becomes alarmed. “Molalla? Hell! I’ve got some crucial information for her about the Virginia guy. If she calls in, have her call me.”
At that same moment, having traveled several miles to the outskirts of Molalla, Linda pulls into a long driveway. She parks as close to the front of the house as possible and then stares at the trip odometer in disbelief. It shows almost the exact mileage that Irene, the psychic, had trumpeted: fourteen point one miles. A shudder creeps into her shoulders. “I’ll be damned.”
After hesitating for a few moments, Linda lays her cell phone on the passenger seat and picks up a clipboard and a handful of freshly minted real estate business cards with her name on them. Getting out of the car, she cranes her neck in search of the Ford with the Virginia plate, but doesn’t spot it. She glances around at the thick, surrounding woods before she looks up to notice foreboding clouds which seem to become darker the longer she stares at them. As the rain starts, she takes a deep breath and begins a determined journey toward the long front porch. Inside her car, her cell phone rings several times, but Linda cannot hear it. She continues at a deliberate pace while visually sweeping all directions, eager to discover something, anything that might prove useful. A tattered curtain in a narrow side window triggers her focus when she notices some errant movement. Linda stares for a few moments and is convinced she sees the outline of a very slender female with long, gray hair peering out.
Linda steps up onto the porch, losing her footing as her heel slides sideways on very slick moss which seems to cover the entire surface. She wonders how the occupants can possibly get in and out of the place. Struggling to the massive oak door anyway, she knocks without hesitation. No one comes. She knocks a second time and soon sees the same, thin elderly woman, this time staring from behind a different window. A short while later, the door opens slightly, a long fingered hand gripping the edge. Linda’s nose is instantly assaulted by an overwhelming combination of disgusting odors, the most dominant of which she identifies as cat litter boxes. A pungent stream reels through the eight-inch crack but is cut off abruptly when a middle aged male slides through the same crack onto the porch and tightly shuts the big door behind him. He clings to the tarnished brass knob to keep from sliding further and gruffly barks, “What do you want?”
Linda studies this strange sight and wonders if he could truly be the Virginia man. His lanky body is clothed in threadbare gray slacks with a plaid wool shirt, collapsed at the elbows. His incredibly long arms dangle ape-like at his side and he refuses to provide Linda with direct eye contact. Finally she makes her inquiry. “Are you by chance Mr. Fairchild, uh, Mr. Paul Fairchild?”
The man speaks in barely a whisper as he continues to stare at the floor. “Nope.”
“Well, my name is O’Neal, sir, and I work for a developer who’s very interested in your property here.”
The man does not respond.
“We are prepared to come up with a very good offer. Here’s my card.”
The man refuses to accept the card and grunts.
“Anyway, would you mind if I walked around a bit, maybe take some notes?”
Carefully, the man turns the big brass handle and pushes the door open. “Not interested. Get off this land and don’t come back,” he mutters before slipping back into the house and slamming the door loudly behind him.
Linda is positive she can feel several pairs of eyes scrutinizing her every move as she carefully makes her way off the porch. She gets back into her car and backs it up to turn around. She keeps one eye on the rearview mirror as her sedan slowly crawls along the gravel driveway. Within seconds she makes out a pair of figures. She smacks the dashboard with her right palm. “Damn!” Linda assumes they are jotting down her license number.
She has no time to contemplate this problem. She needs to get on with her investigation. When Philip helped her with the video surveillance they had found a perfect angle from the Baptist church just a few blocks away. Its rear section was dominated by acres of baseball fields. A dilapidated fence behind the backstop served as the official boundary separating church property from Fairchild’s woods. She smiles slyly before parking behind a backstop. Now she has a clear view of the ancient house. Linda pulls her binoculars from the glove compartment, scrunches down in the front seat and begins surveillance. It’s time to see what she has stirred up.
Within an hour full nightfall has arrived. Bright headlights appear from the church entrance, the focus of the beams illuminating the green car. A Chevrolet Impala pulls right behind her car. Its lone male occupant, Oliver Jamison, rarely ever ventures into the real world. Leaving the Chevy’s engine running and lights on high beam, he stumbles out, grabs his cane, hobbles over to Linda’s car and gasps. It is empty. His heart pounds and he strains to see any sign of his boss and friend. A curious rustling noise twenty feet into the thick woods captures his attention. He retrieves his flashlight and approaches the fence, shining it back and forth. He can make out a movement. He stares a bit then hears a shout.
“Who’s
