The van suddenly slowed and made a deliberate left turn onto what must have been a dirt road. The sound was much different now. The vehicle jostled and pitched, moving down the uneven surface, slamming her shoulder blades against the metallic floor of what she thought would be her coffin. She continued desperately to free herself from the handle that held her captive but to no avail. Momentarily the rocking and bumping of the trip came to a crawl and she sensed the van making a right and coming to a stop. The librarian froze, overcome with anxiety and horror. The driver exited the cab, slamming the door behind him, an audible grunt escaping his lips.
A second later the rear doors of the van were yanked open, pulling Blanche across the last few feet of the van floor and onto her neck and head, still suspended by her feet from the door handle.
'Now ain't that a pretty picture,' Lester said. 'If we weren't in such a hurry, I'd snap off a couple just as a little reminder for ya.'
Lester reached into the back of the van, retrieved the rag and bottle of ether. He liberally soaked the rag again before kneeling down to the side of the thrashing woman, cradled her head against his shin and forced the rag over her nose. She drifted off to slumber-land but not before a torrent of vomit rushed from her nostrils, covering her captor's shoe.
Seymour talked and the optometrist listened as they steered their way through the quiet streets, again ignoring all traffic laws. By the time they got to the office Dr. Camp was much more sympathetic to the young man’s cause and was anxious to see what could be done. The office was configured into a small strip mall between a women’s high-end clothing boutique and an expensive children’s store. A large sign illuminated the area in front where the work truck squealed to a stop, Valdosta Eye Care in large letters and Optometrist underneath. The two entered the establishment after Dr. Camp fumbled with the keys for a moment, having a difficult time finding the proper key. A dim light illuminated the foyer and reception area, a bank of switches was mounted on the wall behind the desk. The doctor moved to the wall and flicked two of the switches, bringing the entire front half of the office into the light.
“Give me the glasses, Seymour,” he said.
A visibly anxious Seymour handed over the case and followed the older man into an area surrounded on all walls with spectacle display cases. Hundreds of bright, shiny new frames with blank lenses graced the walls. A small table with a chair on either side sat in the center of the room, a black device rested on the table that looked like a microscope. Dr. Camp sat at the desk and placed the glasses in the middle of the device and locked them in place with a spring-hinged clamp.
“What are you doing?” Seymour asked.
“This thing is a lensometer, I’ll be able to get a reading off the glasses and determine the prescription with it, then we can input that into the computer system and see if we get a match.”
With each hand on a dial he ratcheted them back and forth until he was satisfied that he had the correct reading. He pulled his head away, adjusted his own glasses so he could read the hash marks on the dials, and then wrote down a series of numbers on a pad next to the lensometer, +4.25-1.25x170. The glasses were shifted over and the focusing conical was brought down on the other lens and the procedure was repeated, +3.75-0.75x010. He ripped the paper free and moved to the front desk with Seymour in tow.
Sitting at the desk in front of the main computer, Dr. Camp pressed the spacebar and waited for it to come to life. A password was required, which he quickly entered, again waited a moment before finding the search field in the database program and entered the prescription generated from the device and pressed enter.
“This is a long shot, son,” he explained. “We haven’t used these old cases, like what you’ve got here, for quite a few years. When we got the computers back in 2000 after Y2K, we entered most of the old patient files but didn’t get them all. If we’re lucky the guy you’re looking for was one of the old files that got inputted.”
The two listened as the whir of the hard drive searched through thousands of patient files looking for an exact match to the numbers entered. In a matter of minutes the sound subsided and the monitor presented a pair of names up on the screen. Seymour stepped around the desk to get a better look, along with the doctor.
“Well, let’s see what we’ve got. The frame is a mans and I’m pretty sure it’s a ‘reading only’ Rx but I could be wrong.” He looked back at the bloodied student and shook his head. “Isn’t going to be either one of these, both women. Let’s try expanding the search parameters and see what that gives us.”
Seymour paced, wringing his hands, running scenarios through his head of what the fiend was doing with Blanche. They were not encouraging. The doctor entered the numbers again but expanded the parameters slightly to bring more suspects into the queue. Again the hard drive spun and they waited for the list to be generated. This time a longer list and some men’s names appeared on the screen before them. Dr. Camp pressed the print key on the keyboard as the printer hummed to life and a single sheet, with ten names on it, dropped in the tray beside them. The two men perused the list, pointing at names to be scratched and lined through. The result of the exercise left three names:
Archibald Alexander
Spencer Cummings
Ronald Philips
Seymour was disappointed that he did not see the name ‘Rob’ in the list; apparently he was a thief, a kidnapper and a liar. The optometrist typed the first name into the database program that streamlined their office and looked at the results. They were indeed reading glasses. Archibald was 54 years of age and lived in Valdosta.
“Can’t be him, the guy that took Blanche looks to be in his thirties. This guy is too old.”
“Okay, let’s look at the next one.” He pulled up Spencer and a note flashed in the header next to his name — DECEASED. “Can’t be him unless you’re battling a ghost. Must be the last one,” he said, as he entered the search field with Ronald Philip’s name.
Seymour was hopeful that they finally had their man, the thought of where he would go from here and how he would rescue Blanche still very fuzzy in his head. Would sort that out once he found where he had taken her. Information for Ronald filled the screen.
“How old is he?” Seymour anxiously asked.
“Looks to be 68, sorry Seymour. Looks like we’re striking out,” he said, slumping back in the chair and staring at the younger man with disappointment written on his face.
They sat together thinking of what they could do. The information had to be there they just weren’t finding it. Something was barely beyond their fingertips but they couldn’t see it.
“Bring up their addresses,” Seymour said. “The Sheriff’s Office thinks the guy was raised on a farm or still lives on a farm now.”
Dr. Camp did what he was asked, the printer hummed again and a page printed, this time with three names and addresses. The amateur sleuth looked the page over, only one had a rural address but he was deceased. A flash of inspiration hit Seymour like a bolt of lightning bringing a smile to his face.
“What if The Stalker is Spencer’s son? What if the glasses are his but his son was using them as part of his disguise? That’s the only thing that makes sense. Do you have a way to see if you’ve ever seen any of this dead guy’s family?”
“Sure, I’ll just input Spencer Cummings as ‘head of household’ and it’ll print out anybody linked to his account,” the excited doctor said, as he punched the keyboard one more time. “Lester and Maureen Cummings have both been patients here. This Lester must be the guy, let’s see what his chart shows.”
“Lester Cummings. I’ve got you now you piece of crap!” Seymour hissed, his jaw clenched in anger.
“Lester Cummings has not been here for about ten years but he’s now in his thirties and does not wear prescription glasses based on our last exam. This pair has to be his dad’s,” Dr. Camp declared with a sense of accomplishment, lifting the pair in question and returning them to Seymour.
“Do you know where this address is or can you bring a map up on the computer?” he asked the doctor.
He was typing before the young man finished the thought. A moment later the printer was brought back to life, printing a detailed map of the Valdosta area, with a purple line that ran from the doctor’s location to the address on the list of names. Seymour looked it over and moved quickly to the door with the doctor looking on.
“Thanks so much Dr. Camp, you may have saved a life tonight. Call the Sheriff’s Office and tell them what we’ve found and that I’m on my way to Cummings’ place. If I beat them there I’m going for Blanche, tell ‘em not to shoot me.”
“Will do, good luck son,” he replied.
