COLT (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) by Hardin Jude

Author:Hardin, Jude [Hardin, Jude]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2013-12-09T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was after four by the time I made it back to Laurie’s. She was right. It smelled like a brewery in there. She’d put some towels down on the carpet to soak up the spilled beer. Her bedroom door was closed. I didn’t open it, didn’t want to disturb her. I was glad that she’d been able to fall asleep. I could have used a few hours myself, but there just wasn’t time. If my efforts ultimately fell short and Everett ended up dying at the hands of Trent Appleton, it wouldn’t be because I hadn’t tried.

I thought about making some coffee, but I didn’t think it would set right with my stomach. I was still a little nauseated from the smell of the squatter’s place. Coffee didn’t sound good, but I was thirsty. I grabbed a bottle of Aqua-Fina from the refrigerator and took it to the computer desk, careful to twist the cap back on after every sip. Edgar and I didn’t need any more mishaps. We were in enough hot water already.

With the prior address on Nora Fetzler, along with her unusual last name, it didn’t take me long to find out where she lived now. Unfortunately, it was all the way up in Macon, Georgia.

A four hour drive.

If I knew for a fact that Everett was there, I wouldn’t have hesitated. But I didn’t know, and I couldn’t afford to waste a bunch of time on the road.

I did a few more searches on the computer and found Nora’s home telephone number. Hers wasn’t unlisted, as Trent’s had been, but it was fairly new and it took me a while to find the listing. I wrote the number down on my notepad and then punched it into my cell phone. It rang for a long time. Finally, there was a click, followed by a sleepy female voice.

“Hello?” she said.

“Is this Nora Fetzler?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Sergeant William Baxley with the Georgia State Police, ma’am. I’m afraid your husband has been involved in an accident.”

I heard the flint wheel of a cigarette lighter followed by the sound of Nora Fetzler inhaling and exhaling the smoke.

“There must be some mistake,” she said. “I’m not married.”

“Do you know a man named Trent Appleton?”

“Yes, but he’s not my husband.”

“There was a business card in his wallet with your name and number written on the back of it. Above your name it said my wife.”

She laughed, and it ended in a barking cough.

“He wishes,” she said. “No, we were seeing each other for a while, but he got crazy and I walked out on him a few months ago. Are you telling me he’s dead now?”

“Severely injured, ma’am.”

“I told him he needed to get rid of that motorcycle. I was a nervous wreck every time we went out on that thing.”

“The doctors aren’t sure he’ll make it through the night” I said. “Do you know if Mr. Appleton has any family we could get in touch with?”

“Not really. No kids or anything.

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