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Chapter Seventeen
Jackson
“No!” I practically shouted the word. “I can help you. Let me.”
“I know what’s going to happen. My mother, she went to jail. She went to jail for two years for shooting my stepfather, and he hadn’t even died. She’d had bruises on her as well, and when she got out of jail, he found us and killed her. The police didn’t believe my mother’s story. So why would they believe mine?” She sobbed, and her body shook. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Please don’t turn me in.”
“Shhhh, shhh.” I stroked her hair and held her close. “Lena, trust me. I won’t turn you in, but I will help you get through this. I promise. How about you try and get some rest now?”
She nodded and leaned back on the pillow, draping her arm across her forehead. “I’ll try, but please, you promised, no cops.”
“I promise.”
I would keep my promise and not involve the police, but I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. When she fell asleep, I took the liberty of looking in her purse for some identification. I felt horrible about snooping in her things like that, but I didn’t think she’d give me her last name, considering how scared she was, and I needed to know if I was going to help her. I found three I.D.s: one said Lana Martin, one Lena Harington. The third one had expired a year ago, and the name on it was Lena Benton, most likely her maiden name. Lana was her fake name, and she’d told me the ass wipe’s first name, in addition to shouting the name out in her dream. Troy. I assumed that her husband’s full name must be Troy Harington.
Leaving Lena there on the bed to sleep, I went down to the main house. First, I had to find out if her husband was dead or alive. If he was dead, I had to find a way to talk Lena into confessing. I knew that would be going back on my word, but I had no intention of aiding and abetting or harboring a fugitive—not that I considered her a criminal. I didn’t think she was guilty of anything except being scared—but if she didn’t turn herself in, then she damn well would be, and I sure as hell didn’t want to be a fugitive myself. I’d never call the cops directly. I’d keep that part of my promise for sure. If she did manage to kill the S.O.B., I’d try my damnedest to convince her to do the right thing.
The address on the Lena Harington I.D. was in Medford, Oregon. She’d mentioned Medford that very first day but never said that was where she was from, so I hoped the I.D. was current.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t. After an extensive search on the internet, where I accessed several different background checking services, I found that out. So I did a wide-area search for a Troy Harington in cities six hours away in all four directions. I came up with twelve individuals with the name Troy Harington. One was a small boy of six—that ruled him out—one, an older man of fifty-five, residing in Brookings. I didn’t think Lena would be married to someone that old, but one never knew. I continued down the list, checking the ages of each person. Most were middle-aged, but the seventh Troy Harington on the list looked promising—a thirty-two-year-old construction worker residing in Medford. Nice of him to advertise, I thought as I studied the resume. The jerk had never bothered to remove it after he found employment.
His current employer was Smith and Trent Building Association.
I made a call to my friend Luke Preston, a guy I’d gone to college with. Luke was now an attorney based out of Portland. The guy was a genius who had managed to graduate and pass the bar all before he turned twenty-four. Though Luke was a few years older than me, we’d hit it off immediately and seemed to find ourselves hanging out together at those all-night frat parties at the house. It was nice hanging with a senior, especially one with a lot of connections. I was a freshman at the time—a younger than most freshman at that, and back then, Luke got me into most of the clubs without questions about I.D. At barely seventeen, I didn’t possess one for legally drinking, of course, so it was nice to have him on my side.
“Sharper, Lloyd, and Preston. How may I help you?” a sweet, smooth voice sang through the portable phone I held to my ear.
“Yes, I’d like to speak with Luke Preston,” I told the lady on the other end.
“May I tell him who is calling?”
“Jackson Beaumont.”
She put me on hold, and within a few seconds, Luke came on the line. “Hey, Jackie, how the hell are you?”
“Great, great.”
“Still running your uncle’s pub outside of Redding?”
“Yep, and still enjoying watching my brother work his tail off in it.”
“Well, hey, when you grow tired of that tough life, you let me know; we still have room for another great attorney here—providing you pass the bar.”
“Haha, thanks. Keep dreaming. I need a favor.”
“Anything for a fraternity brother, pal, you know that.”
“Yes. And that’s why I called you. Anyway, could you check on a guy named Troy Harington? He lives in Medford, Oregon. Works in construction, I think. See if he’s still living in the area, and see if he’s showed up for work, um … since, last Tuesday, I think. He works for a small construction firm, Smith and Trent.”
“Sure, but can’t you do that yourself?”
“I could, but it’s complicated. It would be better if you did it from there. I don’t want the guy to find out I’m the one checking.”
As much as I trusted Luke, I didn’t want to give him any more information yet, and if Troy was still alive, I didn’t want to raise any flags and have Troy trace me to Lena. The fright emanating from that girl’s mind was way too intense.
“Okay, Jack, give me thirty minutes and I’ll get back to you.”
“Great. And Luke, keep this under the radar, will you?”
