The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

137
He closed his eyes and waited for her embrace.
Deputy Anderson spotted the car: The 1990 Pontiac Bonneville matched the description
of a vehicle sent out on a statewide APB the night before. Anderson pulled over and
ran the plate, and when it came back a match for the flagged car, he radioed the sheriff.
Anderson stepped from his cruiser, drew his weapon, and approached the Bonneville.
The car appeared abandoned, although from where he stood he couldn’t see into the
cab. The trunk was open, blocking his view.
Anderson called out when he reached the car, but no one answered. He peered into
the trunk: a tire-changing kit, a few crushed paper cups, and several lengths of rope. He
inched around the side of the car. A man was in the driver’s seat: his head tilted back
against the headrest, Adam’s apple jutting out like an infant’s fist, mouth open in a silent
scream.
The sheriff arrived ten minutes later. The story had made the eleven o’clock news the
night before. All over the state they’d shown footage of Alma Watts, an elderly resident
of Royston, recounting how she’d heard her neighbors arguing, followed by a gunshot.
Then she’d watched as a man forced a tied-up little girl into the trunk of his car and
drove away. She’d called the authorities, and they’d found the body of her neighbor,
Della Purdee, inside the house, but Mrs. Purdee’s daughter Katie was gone. That’s when
Alma’s voice began to quaver as she asked the reporter, “Who could do such a thing?
What kind of monster could kill someone and kidnap an innocent child?” The news
programs then showed a picture of the suspect still at large, Della Purdee’s estranged
husband Tyler.
Anderson jogged over as the sheriff stepped from his car.
“Good morning,” the sheriff said. He’d known of the murder/kidnapping since the
APB went out, and he looked miffed that the culprit had shown up on his doorstep.
He wore a scowl on his haggard face, his bushy eyebrows making a hairy frown over
his eyes.
“Morning, Sheriff,” Anderson replied.
“Damn reporters have been scanning police frequencies all night. We probably got
five minutes before they show up and turn this into a circus, so show me what you
found.”
“Yes, sir.” Anderson returned to the Bonneville, the sheriff following. “I saw the car
as I drove by. It fit the APB and it had a Florida plate.” He pronounced it Flarda. “I ran
it, and sure enough it came back registered to the suspect, Tyler Albert Purdee.”
The sheriff grunted.
“The trunk was open like it is now,” Anderson continued. “No sign of the girl, except
for those cut ropes.”
“We found her,” the sheriff said flatly.
“What? Where?”