Page 41 of The Girl from Devil's Lake
“You’ve come to the right place then,” she said with a smile. “I’m Linda. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Stephen Roper,” he answered.
From that moment on, that’s who he was—who he became. Steve Roper was someone who came from Fertile, Minnesota, and who lived in the past. Stephen Roper was the new guy, the one who would live and thrive in Bisbee.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said. “We’ve talked on the phone, but I’m so glad to meet you in person. I understand you’re one of the new teachers at the high school, and I’ve put together a list of available properties that should be within your price range. When would you like to take a look at them?”
“I’ve just now driven into town, and I’m a little road weary,” he said.
“How about tomorrow then, say one o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Sounds perfect. Is there anywhere to get a decent meal around here?”
Linda gestured to her right. “When you go outside, turn to your right, go past Brewery Gulch and then up Howell Avenue. The Copper Queen Hotel is just up the hill on your right. You can’t go wrong there. The dining room probably isn’t open right now, but the bar will be, and you’ll be able to order food there.”
“All right,” he said. “I will, and see you tomorrow.”
His meal at the hotel was early, but it wasn’t half bad, and by the time he got back to San Jose Lodge, his room was blessedly cool. After a long shower, he went to bed and slept like a rock.
The next several days were taken up with househunting. Linda showed Stephen several places in town as well as one that was pretty much out in the boonies. The last one wasn’t in Bisbee itself, but a mile or two south of the city limits and just north of a tiny town called Naco that sat directly on the US/Mexico border. The property, located on an unnamed dirt road, was a three-acre parcel due north of a golf course. Having a golf course that close by would have been great for Coach Nielson, but it was of no particular interest to Stephen.
The frame, two-bedroom house wasn’t all that great. It was about the same age and size as the one he’d owned in Fertile. It had linoleum floors, which weren’t his first choice, and there was considerable evidence of termite damage to the exterior of the structure. But Stephen wasn’t all that fussy about the house itself. He had never been one to entertain, and he didn’t see that changing. His favorite part of the place was a stand-alone garage that included a spacious workshop. That was a big improvement. In Fertile he’d always had to park on the street. Not only that, the price was right. The house had been listed for months with no takers in sight. When Stephen made a lowball, all-cash offer, the sellers leaped at it.
Wanting to be moved in and settled before school started, Stephen turned to Linda, his only real acquaintance in town. She helped him locate a contractor who was willing to fix the termite damage and update the kitchen and bathroom, along with ripping out all the linoleum and installing new flooring. The contractor assured him that the entire job could be completed by the second week in August, which was two weeks before Stephen was scheduled to report for work.
Linda then took him to a local furniture store called Whitehead’s where the in-store designer helped him pick out furniture that would be put aside and available for delivery the moment the house was ready for occupancy.
With that all under control, and more than tired of living in his room at the San Jose Lodge, Stephen decided it was time to treat himself to a road trip. He told the desk clerk that since he couldn’t move into the house until the contractor finished, he was going to take a drive around Arizona and see what there was to see.
“You mean you aren’t going to stay for the Fourth of July?” she asked incredulously. “It’s going to be a really big deal this year because of the bicentennial. There’ll be coaster races, a parade, the B-Hill climb, and fireworks, as long as the rain doesn’t drown them out.”
“Rain?” Stephen repeated in disbelief. “What rain? I’ve been here for days and haven’t seen a drop.”
“Not to worry,” she said. “Rainy season is coming. It usually starts right in the middle of the Fourth of July fireworks.”
“Sorry,” Stephen told her. “I think I’ll pass. I want to spend some time getting acquainted with Arizona—maybe drop by the Grand Canyon and the Painted Forest. After that maybe I’ll pop over to California and spend some time on the beach.”
“Have fun,” she said. “I wish I could go with you.”
No you don’t, Stephen thought.Having you along wouldn’t be a good idea for either one of us.
The long dormant voices in his head were absolutely overjoyed with the possibility of taking a trip and could hardly wait to hit the road. Stephen didn’t blame them. He was more than ready, too, but first he needed to tend to a couple pieces of business.
One important issue was the distinct scar on the back of his hand. Over the years it had faded some, but it hadn’t gone away entirely, and that offended him. It always reminded him of “Reservoir Girl.” The real problem with the scar, however, was that people—even complete strangers—noticed it and asked about it. If you’re someone who wants to blend in, having any kind of distinguishing mark is a bad idea, so Stephen decided to hide it.
He went to a nearby drugstore and purchased a box of surgical gloves that he stored in the Impala’s glove box, making up his mind that he would wear gloves the entire time he was on the road—in the car and out of it. And if anyone happened to ask him about them? He’d explain that he had a terrible case of eczema and that he was wearing gloves on doctors’ orders. Nobody ever questioned those.
The other problem with the scar was that it reminded him of the serious miscalculation he’d made when picking up Reservoir Girl. Getting someone into his vehicle wasn’t difficult. The real issue was one of control. If he was still driving when his would-be victims suddenly figured out something wasn’t right and tried to bail, he needed to have some way to secure them until he was able to bring the car to a safe stop in a suitably secluded location.
Stephen had studied chemistry, all right, but he was also a problem solver, and he soon came up with a logical solution—chloroform, which also happened to be readily available. He didn’t have to purchase anything from some chemical supply company, because the necessary ingredients for that were readily available at every corner store—acetone and bleach. Mixing a batch of chloroform up at home wasn’t exactly rocket science, either. All you needed to do was make sure you mixed the ingredients in the right proportions.
Once Stephen landed on chloroform as the answer, his next issue was figuring out a way to deploy it. If he was driving, the stuff needed to be readily accessible, preferably under the driver’s seat. That way, between the time a would-be passenger reached for the door handle and before he or she could settle into the passenger seat, he’d be able to have a chloroform-soaked cloth in his hand and ready to slap across his victim’s nose and mouth.
Eventually, while prowling the home goods section of the Western Auto Hardware Store in Upper Bisbee he found just the thing—a two-piece, air-tight plastic container that resembled Tupperware and was designed to hold a single sandwich. With the lid closed properly nothing could leak out, and any piece of cloth left inside with a half-inch or so of his homemade chloroform mixture would remain ready for action for as long as necessary—for days on end if need be.
Once the real estate deal closed, Stephen was finally able to move most of his belongings into the garage and lock them away for safekeeping until the house itself was ready for occupancy. Then, using the tiny bathroom in his motel room as a lab, he mixed up his first batch of chloroform. After putting half an inch of that in the bottom of his sandwich container, he dropped a neatly folded handkerchief into the mix. Once the lid was tightly affixed, he slipped the covered container under the Impala’s driver’s seat, making sure it was within easy reach.
When packing for his road trip, Stephen used the smallest pieceof luggage he owned, but tucked in with his shaving kit, extra shoes, and clothing was a pint-size Mason jar holding the remains of that initial batch of chloroform. That way, if he ended up needing a refill somewhere along the way, there’d be no need to mix up more.
