show up when the job is done,” Felix assured him.
“It better! Don’t want to have to track you guys down. So this will be the last time we talk, I’m abandoning my place after Thursday, don’t try to find me,” he concluded.
“Oh, I’m sure we won’t need to, thanks for your help. Good luck!” Felix hung up, a wry smile twisted across his face.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Blanche left the library as soon as she was able to secure front desk help. Marcus had been kind enough to offer a ride to the overwrought young lady, and they were on their way to the Wood farm, following the directions Seymour had given her. The ride was a quiet one, she had much to think about and sort out in her own mind. Marcus was cautious, but comforting with his words of hope, he spoke with assurance and clarity that brought peace to her mind. He knew Seymour as well as anybody at the library and knew that he was not the person he was accused of being. It was not in his nature. His confidence in a speedy resolution would make it easier to break the news to Mrs. Wood, and having the older, wiser Marcus there couldn’t hurt.
They rolled up to the modest, unassuming farm. A small country home sat at the end of the drive, the old pickup truck parked there, a couple of hay bales in the back. A barn with red, peeling paint could be seen a ways behind the house, the doors hanging loosely from the worn hinges, and a rusty old tractor just visible inside. It was not what Blanche expected, but she could see signs of the hard work and labor that had fashioned the character of the man she had fallen for. A woman in her late fifties walked onto the porch, an apron around a well worn blue dress and a mixing bowl tucked inside the curve of her left arm, with a spoon handle in her right that extended into the bowl.
The two got out of the Galaxy 500, Marcus’ pride and joy, cherry red and in mint condition.
“Mrs. Wood,” Blanche said, walking toward the woman on the porch and extending her hand.
“Yes, and you must be Blanche.” She easily recognized the librarian from her son’s description. “You are even more beautiful than my son described. It’s no wonder he’s so taken with you. And who’s your friend?”
“Mrs. Wood this is Mr. Marcus, he works at the library with Seymour and me.” The two shook hands.
“Well, what brings the two of you this far out in the middle of the day?” the puzzled woman inquired, looking back and forth between her two visitors.
“I’m afraid we’re bringing some bad news, Mrs. Wood. It seems that Seymour has gotten into some trouble at school.”
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, not allowing Blanche to finish her statement.
“Pretty serious trouble. He’s been arrested for having a concealed weapon hidden in his locker.”
The older woman staggered back, bumped her left elbow against the screen door and dropped the bowl, shattering it into a hundred pieces, shards covering the front porch. Mr. Marcus stepped quickly to catch the woman before she went down as well. Blanche also bolted forward to assist, as she was able. The three moved into the living room and Marcus led Mrs. Wood to a chair where she sat, putting her head in her hands.
“What does this all mean? My Seymour would never do anything like that. He doesn’t own a gun, where would he get one?” Her mouth was speaking the first things that were coming to her mind.
“Now, now Mrs. Wood, we know as well as you do that Seymour isn’t capable of hurting anybody. This is just some sort of practical joke, the authorities will get to the bottom of it and he’ll be home in no time,” Marcus offered.
“I hope you’re right,” she said, taking a hold of Marcus’ wrist and holding it tightly.
“I think we should go see him,” Blanche said.
“Absolutely! My boy must be a mess,” she said, knowing him well. “Give me a minute to get my things together and we’ll go. Should we go together?” she asked.
“You bet mum, I’m at your disposal today. We’ll get this done together.” His upbeat and optimistic attitude helped to lift the women.
The trio arrived at the Valdosta Police Station in the late afternoon and entered the front doors, arm in arm. Mrs. Wood approached the front desk and spoke with the Sergeant that was manning the station.
“Yes, young man, I believe you have my son in custody here, and we would like to see him,” she said, motioning to the others with a sweep of her hand.
“I’d love to let you speak with him Mrs. Wood, but we’ve just transferred him to the Sheriff’s Department. You should be able to catch up with him there,” the officer said, understanding the anguish the accused mother must be feeling.
“The Sheriff’s Department, why have they taken him over there?”
“The Sheriff has jurisdiction over The Stalker case and we positively identified the gun found in your son’s locker as the one stolen from a crime scene, and the one used to shoot Jasper Jackson on the weekend,” the police officer clarified for the group.
“That’s impossible! Seymour was with me at home on Saturday night. He could not have shot anybody. This is ridiculous! Somebody is railroading my boy and I won’t put up with it!” The older woman suddenly became very angry and defiant. She turned, stormed away from the desk, took the other two by the hands and led them from the police station.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand for this bullshit!” the enraged farmwoman hissed through clenched teeth. “We’re going to the Sheriff’s Office.”
The drive took about ten minutes and no one said a word. Mrs. Wood simmered in her seat, a torrent of anger building inside her. She’d survived the death of a husband, the near collapse of her farm, and she was not going to let her son be incarcerated for something he could not have done. She was angry! No, furious! And somebody was going to hear about it.
With the 500 parked, the threesome made their way to the front door, Mrs. Wood leading the way. Mr. Marcus tried to temper her response but she was not in the mood for listening. Stepping inside the doors, she surveyed the landscape, desks with clerical staff, a few deputies milling about and a woman seated at a main desk. She boldly walked to the woman, slammed her fist down on the desk for affect, and grabbed the attention of the woman and most of the office.
“Where in the hell have you got my son?” she half yelled.
Arlene stammered, more than a little surprised by the attack from the modest looking countrywoman. “Who? What are you talking about? Who are you?”
“I’m Lillian Wood, and I better be able to see my son pretty damn quick! You hear me?” she continued her aggressive assault.
“What is going on out here?” came a voice from her left.
She turned to see the large Sheriff standing with his hands on his hips, just outside his office.
“Sheriff, this is Seymour’s mom apparently, and wants to see him.”
“Okay Arlene, I’ll handle this. Mrs. Wood would you step into my office please, and are these folks with you too?” he asked, pointing to Marcus and Blanche.
“I don’t want no run around Sheriff, I respect you, but you got my boy, an innocent man locked up back there and I want to see him.”
“You’ll be allowed all the access you want but give me a minute to talk with you,” he explained, keeping his cool, understanding the plight of the angered mother.
The group entered the office, each taking a seat, but Mrs. Wood continued to stand and pace the floor between Blanche and Marcus. 'The Wolf' sat in his chair and faced the three. Before he could start Lillian peppered him with questions and statements, her emotions boiling over as she collapsed into a nearby chair, sobbing, tears flowing freely down her wrinkled face and dropping onto the blue dress. Blanche immediately went to her, knelt on the floor before her and offered her hanky that she always kept in her clutch. The tears were blotted away and she mumbled into the hanky, talking to herself more than the Sheriff.
“How can it be? How can they have him in jail when he was with me? It just can’t be,” she uttered.
“Mrs. Wood, what was that? He was with you, where and when?” the Sheriff said, pen in hand and taking notes.
