Sandy's Story (Ditch Lane Diaries Book 3) (2 page)

Sandy plucked strands of grass through her fingers. She cocked her head to the side and slowly smiled. “Yeah, but I need to ask my mom first.”

Ruby extended her hand to help Sandy up. When Sandy reached for it, Ruby quickly withdrew it and wiggled her fingers. “You snooze, you lose.” Ruby started laughing and said, “Come on, Slick—I’ll race you.” Sandy and Ruby ran to Aunt Ellen’s house.

* * *

Later that night, as Sandy lay in her new bedroom, Baldric appeared and sat on the edge of her bed. “Do you like Tennessee?”

“I love it, especially Ruby. She’s funny and makes me laugh. Her family is loud, and they laugh a lot, too.” She pulled the blanket up to her chin and yawned.

Baldric squeezed her hand. “I’m happy for you. Ruby and Anna will be your lifelong friends.”

Sandy remained silent for a moment. Emotion boiled up inside of her soul and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Mr. Ben changed me on the inside.” Sandy placed her right hand over her heart. “I never want to be a princess, and I never want a prince. Fairy tales aren’t real. Friends are real. That’s what I want. Don’t look so sad, Baldric. You told me I was strong, and you’re right. I am strong.”

Sandy pushed the horrific memories of Mr. Ben to the furthermost corners of her mind, buried them, and locked the door. It would be nineteen years before Sandy reconciled what happened to the little nine-year-old girl.

Chapter 1

When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get Going

Nashville 1986

Sandy monitored the Nashville Police Department (NPD) frequencies on her scanner to pick up leads for news stories while getting ready for work. Listening to the hunt for a shooter, she pulled a black cashmere turtleneck over her head. “All points bulletin for a white male, wearing a black or dark blue hoodie and driving a 1985 black Ford Explorer, license plate TN3490. Ambulance and squad car being dispatched to 17th and Edgehill.”

The rest of the APB description fell on deaf ears. She recognized the location from other recent crimes in the area. Sandy grabbed her new camera, her car keys and ran for the door. She didn’t have time to call her boss, Art, to tell him she’d be late. He’d forgive her if she came in with a story.

As an investigative reporter for Channel 3 News in Nashville, many of the stories Sandy covered were unsolvable crimes. But on occasion, she could find the truth through her visions. Clairvoyance was a gift from The Creator she’d received at the age of fifteen, unlocked by a mystical hiddenite stone during a spelunking adventure with her best friends, Ruby and Anna. Over the years, Sandy’s visions blessed her with multiple Associated Press (AP) awards, but awards didn’t help her sleep at night. Sometimes, trying to understand her extrasensory abilities frightened the hell out of her.

Old Man Winter was back with a vengeance as Sandy navigated the icy roads. She skidded a time or two, but she managed to stay on the road without sliding off into a ditch. She should be driving at a snail’s pace, but she needed to beat the police to the scene to have a shot at seeing the victim’s past and unlocking the secrets of the early morning shooting with just a touch of her hand.

Sandy turned onto Edgehill, parked in front of the sidewalk, and exited her car. As she approached the crime scene, there were a handful of bystanders huddled together outside in the cold. One woman in the group pointed and yelled, “Hey, there’s Sandy Cothran from Channel 3 News.” The power of television along with Sandy’s face plastered across town on billboards gave her little privacy.

Sandy strapped her camera bag over her shoulder and nodded to the group. “Good morning, everyone.” A gold Lincoln Continental’s engine was running with the driver door open. The upper body of a man lay off kilter on the asphalt while the rest of him remained inside the car.

Placing her camera bag on the ground, Sandy gently touched the man’s forearm. His life force was draining fast. Sandy yelled back at the group of bystanders, “Where’s the freaking ambulance?” The victim was unresponsive. He had a gaping bullet wound in his chest. Sandy took off her winter coat and applied pressure to the wound. He was beyond her help.

Sandy traveled through her visions on cords of light. At times, she could see millions of strands of light that sometimes ran for miles and spanned decades. Mental images flashed through her mind so fast that it made her extremely nauseated. The victim had a faint pulse as his evening unfolded in her mind at blinding speed.

A map of downtown Nashville lay across an old walnut desk in a shabby little office with fluorescent lighting. His father had opened Henry’s Tailor Shop nearly thirty years ago. Nick London started working in the shop as a teenager and eventually inherited the store after his dad passed away.

Nick’s finger trailed the map down the route along Broadway and stopped at the corner of First Avenue. Two red X’s marked the corner block properties.

Entrepreneur, Cole Steele was trying to force him out of business. Cole owned almost all the properties along First Avenue and Broadway. Last week, Mr. Watson, the owner of the tool and die shop next door, had been in a severe car accident. He was fortunate to survive, and Nick learned today that Mr. Watson sold his business to Steele Construction. Henry’s Tailor Shop was the last business on the block to hold out.

Rumor had it Cole was going to tear down all of the existing businesses along the riverfront to build another high-rise hotel to accommodate the new convention center. Cole made him a nice offer on Henry’s, but the threats began when Nick refused to sell the store. During his meeting with Cole, Nick lifted what he thought was Cole’s journal but later realized was some kind of relic. He placed the book in a locked box at the bank as leverage against Cole’s attempts to force him to sell the store.

Nick ran his fingers through his hair and looked at his Timex watch. He folded the map, placed it with his key to a safety deposit box in a folder and wrapped it with a huge rubber band. Nick searched for a place to hide the folder. He walked over to the vent return, popped it open, and put the folder in front of the air filter before securing the latch.

It was nearly two in the morning, and he needed to get home to relieve his wife’s sister, Alice. His wife, Martha, had a stroke six months ago, impairing her speech and leaving her bedridden. He picked up the phone and dialed. “Alice, did I wake you? I’m sorry I’m so late. How did she do today? Oh, good. Do you need me to pick up anything? I’ll be along soon. Tell my girl how much I love her.” He hung up.

Nick walked to the front door and flipped the open sign to closed. After bolting the door to the shop, he jogged across First Avenue to the parking lot close to the Cumberland River. A sudden chill ran down his spine. He looked over his left shoulder and quickened his steps.

Once inside his car, Nick started the ignition, backed out of the spot, put the car in drive, and pulled onto the street. He turned left at the intersection and drove along Broadway when a car pulled in behind him with its headlights on high beam.

Fear and panic gripped Nick as he pressed his foot on the gas pedal. The car behind him was riding on his tail. He ran a red light and decided to take a detour home through Music Row. He drove swiftly through the side streets, trying to lose the car, but the car gained speed and hit his bumper.

Nick swerved his car onto 17th and Edgehill. He lost control of his vehicle and slammed into a brick mailbox. The black Ford Explorer swooped in and blocked his exit. He was trapped. Nick slammed the car into park, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his gun.

His assailant was quick to open the door and knock the gun out of Nick’s hand. “Where’s the book, London?”

Nick pressed his lips together in a tight line. One of Cole’s thugs, Hammer, backhanded him across the face. “Tell me where the book is or you’re dead meat.”

Nick narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m dead whether I tell you or not. So, I think not.” An explosion of light and sound released as Hammer shot Nick in the chest. Nick watched his murderer race to the Ford Explorer and flee the scene.

Everything went silent and time seemed to move in slow motion. Nick didn’t feel any pain. A bright light appeared before him, and he wasn’t afraid. His last thoughts were of his wife, the love of his life. He muttered, “I’m sorry, Martha.”

Sandy released Nick’s arm. She turned left and right, looking for help. The NPD blues lights and an ambulance with blaring sirens flew into the driveway. She stepped away from Nick as the paramedics arrived and the officers secured the area.

Sandy began setting up her camera as Detective Bob Wade sauntered over with his signature Camel behind his ear. She encountered the detective nearly every week.

Bob wore a brown leather aviator jacket and a pair of Levi’s with Timberland hiking boots. “How did I know you’d be here?”

Sandy flipped the camera on, reached into her bag for her mic. “Well, if it isn’t
the
Bob Wire. It looks like our mystery killer has struck again. I’m glad you boys could join the party. If you’ll excuse me, I have a story to cover.”

Bob placed his hand over her mic and whispered in her ear, “You’re playing with fire, girlie. These boys don’t mess around.”

“What boys? And is that on the record?” Sandy stared at him with a level gaze and straightened her shoulders.

“You know it’s not. I can’t comment during an ongoing investigation.” His dark brown eyes seemed to reflect compassion.

Sandy pinned the mic to her sweater. “You and I know who’s behind the shooting. I’m going to prove it. Don’t you get sick of it? Don’t you get tired of all the bullshit? You file paperwork that’s never followed up on, or worse, it disappears. You could
help me.”

Bob shook his head, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m doing my best. But I have to keep my job. I have alimony and child support.” He walked away.

Sandy clicked on her camera light and began reporting. Thirty minutes later she pulled into the station.

Art was on her heels when she walked into the back door. “You’re late. A murder came in about twenty minutes ago. I need you at Edgehill with Duncan.”

Sandy pulled the Beta tape from her camera bag. “Got it. I have a lead on the shooter. I need to get to Nick’s house before the police, and I have to get into his business. This murder could be what I’ve needed to nail our friend, Mr. Steele.”

Art’s eyes widened, and rubbed the top of his bald head. “Well, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. Go! Give me the tape. Do you need Duncan?”

“Ah, no. My camera, my story, my angles. I’m not waiting for Duncan. Besides, I think Cole may have gotten to him.” Sandy went silent as Duncan walked up. She’d saved money to buy her camera so she wouldn’t have to fight for creative control at the station. Art approved her use of personal equipment since it passed all the codes.

“Are you deliberately trying to put me out of a job?” Duncan frowned at Sandy while he placed his hands on his hips.

Sandy took a deep breath and pushed by Duncan. “I wouldn’t have this story if I waited on you. Art needs to key it up. You can handle the graphics. Can’t you, Duncan?”

Duncan thinned his lips over his teeth. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

Sandy laughed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Sandy sat down at her desk, pulled out the phone book, and looked up Nick London’s home address. She tossed a glance over her shoulder and huffed. “Jesus, Duncan, do I have to do everything around here?” Duncan stormed off to the control room.

Sandy scribbled down Nick’s Green Hills address, roughly five miles from the station, then replenished her camera bag with extra Beta tapes and battery backups. She hit the ladies’ room and took care of business. Just before sprinting out the back door, Sandy grabbed a Channel 3 News winter coat.

A thin layer of ice had formed on her Corvette’s windshield. She fired up the defrost and made a mental checklist of things she needed from Nick’s house and business to solidify her story.

Baldric sudden and unexpected appearances didn’t startle her any longer. She said, “I didn’t sense you at the scene.”

He said, “I’m sorry I didn’t stay with you this morning, but I followed the shooter.”

Sandy drove the slick backroads to Nick’s house and began to slide toward an embankment. Taking her foot off the gas, Sandy steered slowly toward the middle of the road. Thankfully, there was little traffic this morning due to the inclement weather. Her car finally came to a stop. “Good grief. I hate ice.” She took a few deep breaths as she slowly accelerated. Sandy loved her Corvette, but she needed a more efficient ride, especially in the winter.

“Nice driving, kid. Oh, I arrived on the scene just before you did. Hammer was all over poor Nick. Cole’s team has staked out both Nick’s house and Henry’s.” Chip Hammond, or more affectionately known in Nashville’s underbelly as “The Hammer,” was ruthless, and Cole’s connections had kept him out of jail numerous times.

Sandy gripped the steering wheel and briefly glanced at Baldric. “Day-yum. Have I told you lately how much I love you? What else did you find out?”

Baldric said, “I spoke to Gabriel’s angel, Alyen before he took Nick’s soul. Nick left a folder with a key to a lockbox at City Bank, and the box holds Luc’s Testament. Nick lifted it while he was meeting with Steele last week.”