The Inconvenient Sister

By Mary Lee Tiernan

While driving down a dark, isolated road, Abbey grips the steering wheel when the car behind her bumps her van-camper with the intent of pushing her down the mountainside. The bumps continue, but she manages to keep control of the van. The assailant turns off the road at the edge of a town and disappears before the police arrive. The illusion of escaping from the assailant was broken the next morning, however, when she visits the campground office and discovers an unknown man had asked about her. He knew her name and described both her and her RV.

 

She has no idea who this mystery man might be or why he wants to hurt her. Paranoia sets in, but she continues traveling northward hoping to elude her pursuer. Her dream vacation had turned into a nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Lee Tiernan
• Release date: Jun 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223274452

Mary Lee Tiernan

I was born in New York, but the lure of open spaces brought me west, and I now call Arizona home. Throughout my professional life as an educator and newspaper editor, my passion has always been writing. My other passion is exploring all the West has to offer, and I am often RVing down the road with my cat Charlie.

Book preview

The Inconvenient Sister

Mary Lee Tiernan

––––––––

Copyright 2016 Mary Lee Tiernan

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be copied or reproduced in any format without the prior written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places other than known landmarks, and incidents or events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or persons, past or present, is coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART I  Abbey

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

PART II  Sam

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

PART III  Abbey and Sam

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

A Note from Abbey and Sam

Part I

Abbey

Chapter 1

––––––––

The headlights from the car behind me flashed across my rearview mirror and momentarily blinded me. Fortunately, the mountain road curved to the right, and the headlights disappeared as I turned. They reappeared as the other car rounded the curve, but I was now veering left through another curve so the brightness flickered across the mirror only briefly.

Brief or not, I didn’t like it. Being blinded even briefly on a curvy mountain road was dangerous. I don’t rely on the rearview mirror when I’d driving the van—a van- camper actually; I tend to use the sideview mirrors. So I reached over and tilted the rearview mirror just as the headlights once again hit it. The glare disappeared.

I was berating myself for getting into this situation. I usually stop to camp for the night by late afternoon, well before the sun goes down. But I hadn’t liked the shabby appearance of the campground where I’d planned on stopping and decided to travel on to the next one, which was closed. So here I was driving in the dark dodging headlights.

A sign informed me of a turnout just ahead. Okay, I’d pull over and let the car behind me pass. Most drivers happily pass a van. The van isn’t wide, but it is high and can block the view of anyone driving behind it. I also tend to drive slower than cars on this type of road. I turned on my signal, slowed down, and steered into the turnout which was just large enough for two cars. I stopped midway into the turnout and waited for the car to pass. It didn’t. Huh?

I glanced into the sideview mirror. The driver had pulled in behind me, or at least tried to. Since I hadn’t pulled all the way forward in the short turnout, only half the car fit in the turnout; the other half stuck out into the road, blocking the lane should another vehicle come along.

So why follow me into the turnout? Did the driver think I saw something to avoid on the road... something he couldn’t see? Was the driver in trouble and looking for help? Or was his motive more sinister? I wasn’t about to leave the protection of my van to find out.

With the flick of a switch, I double-checked that all the doors were locked. I had rolled up the windows earlier against the cool night air. Meanwhile, I kept my eyes on the sideview mirror. I couldn’t see much behind the glare of the headlights except the general shape of the car. I could tell, however, that the driver had not opened his door or exited the vehicle. That more or less ruled out his being in trouble and looking for assistance. Once I pulled into the turnout, he could see the road ahead. Clearly, nothing was blocking it. That left the least appealing reason.

Reaching over to the passenger seat, I grabbed my cell and turned it on. As I suspected, there was no reception. Too many trees blanketing the remote area blocked the signal.

The driver hadn’t moved, but what about a passenger? I couldn’t see the passenger door in the driver’s sideview mirror, so I checked the other mirror. Nope. Couldn’t see the car’s passenger door in that mirror either. I readjusted the rearview mirror. Success. But the passenger door, too, remained closed. Or had someone already gotten out and closed the door after exiting? Wouldn’t I have heard a car door slamming shut? Okay, so what if this someone closed it quietly? But why close it at all? Leaving the door open allows for quicker access.

Obviously, the other driver was waiting for me to do something. I only had three choices: continue to sit there, get out of the van, or drive away. Only one of those was a real option. I put the engine in gear, checked the road to make sure no one was coming, and pulled out. But so did the car behind me.

About ten yards down the road, he bumped me. I gasped, sat up straight, and tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Initially, I wanted to press my foot down on the accelerator to get away from that car as quickly as possible. But I didn’t; I slowed down instead. My van was bigger and heavier than the car; it would probably withstand ‘bumps’ better than his car. He, on the other hand, had the advantage of maneuverability, and speed would give him power against me.

His reaction to my slowing down was to bump me again. My head jerked from the impact. I was scared, really scared, but I didn’t want him to know that. My fingers cramped clamping onto the steering wheel. What do they say about bullies? The best way to deal with them is to confront them?

My van-camper was old, in good working order, but old, and I wasn’t sure how much abuse it could take. With an apology to it, I suddenly stepped on the brake. The maneuver was unexpected, and he was following so close behind me that he couldn’t avoid hitting me. I just hoped I was sending the right message.

I didn’t find out then. Two things happened. We rounded a curve in the road, and I grinned at the lights twinkling in the distance. It was a straight shot to a town, people, and help. He still may have tried something before we got to the town, but a new set of headlights appeared—behind him. If he tried anything now, there’d be a witness. It was the time to step on the accelerator. I wanted to make sure the new vehicle did not try to pass both of us on the straightaway. It was my protection—unless, that is, the third car was part of a conspiracy.

When we emerged from the canopy of the trees, phone reception returned. I immediately called 911 and was connected to the Highway Patrol. I normally don’t drive and talk on the phone at the same time. I think there’s enough proof out there that such a practice can be dangerous, but this was no time to worry about that. I was already in danger.

I finally convinced a skeptical operator that I really was under attack. Unfortunately, Highway Patrol didn’t have a cruise car in the area. The operator said I would probably make it to town before they could redirect a car to me, but she would notify the local PD of the problem. She told me to call back when I reached town or if any change occurred.

The lights from town grew in size and intensity, but not quickly enough to suit me. I wanted help to arrive now. As roads began to crisscross the highway, and buildings cropped up here and there along the roadside, I called 911 again to let them know I had reached the outskirts of town. The operator said she would call the local police to send a car my way.

I kept my eyes on the road ahead, of course, but also constantly checked the mirrors to keep track of the cars behind me. At one intersection, the vehicle which hit me turned off to the right. I had already passed the street so, of course, I couldn’t see its name. I did, however, note a Shell station on the corner and some type of office building across the street. Two blocks later the other car disappeared from view. The driver must have turned off the road when I wasn’t looking.

The wail of a siren pierced the night. Finally. But my attacker was already gone, as was the car behind him. I couldn’t identify the attacker or his car at all. The driver of the third car may have been able to supply some information, but he too had disappeared into the night.

When I saw the lights of the police car coming toward me, I flashed my headlights at them and pulled off the road into the nearest parking lot. The cops silenced their siren but left their blue light flashing as they made a U-turn and followed me into the parking lot.

I wasn’t sure what to do next. I’d never been stopped by the police. Did I remain in the van or get out? I was too antsy just to sit there, so I grabbed my purse with my ID, opened the door, and hopped down. Two officers were by my side a minute later.

First we went through the usual formality of my showing them my driver’s license, registration, and insurance card. The older of the two, a man with short-cropped hair streaked with gray, introduced himself as Sergeant Bradley and his partner as Officer Wiley. I explained what happened to me on the mountain road and how the attacking car and the one behind it had turned off as we reached town. I couldn’t give them a description of either car, much less the drivers.

Next came all the questions. They quizzed me about whom I might suspect or who wished me harm. I was clueless. I gave them a brief account of my background to assure them I didn’t know anyone who wanted to harm me. I think I finally convinced them that the reason for the attack was a complete mystery.

As I suspected, there was little they could do. Sergeant Bradley wrote down the information, what little of it there was, but since I was only passing through town, I doubted his efforts would amount to much. He did, however, give me his card and told me to call if I had another incident within the city limits.

The two cops also inspected the rear of my van. The bumps had smashed the bumper in three different places. At least the dents attested to the truth of my story.

I’d have that bumper checked before you drive much further, Sergeant Bradley said. He leaned over and wiggled the bumper. It’s a hazard. It’s loose enough to fall off.

He stood back up. Matter of fact, I’d have the whole vehicle checked, especially the alignment. Looks like you were hit hard enough to incur other damage that you can’t see.

Great. Repair bills did not exactly fit in my budget. But did I have a choice?

I was an old hand at living in my RV, but not at traveling in it. To help me figure out where to stop for a night, I’d bought a Woodall’s Camping Directory, which is thicker than any telephone directory I’d even seen. But sitting on the side of the road in the dark, visible to anyone driving by, and trying to figure out where to go for the night, wasn’t appealing or safe. What if my attacker circled around to find out where I had gone? This was not the time to go back and forth evaluating the entries in Woodall’s and a map.

I simply asked the cops if they knew of a campground where I could stay for the night so I could have the van checked first thing in the morning. I had no intention of driving any further than I had to in the dark, especially in a van that might need repairs. What if my attacker was waiting for me on the other side of town, hoping I’d continue on and he’d have another chance at me?

They offered to escort me to a nearby RV park to make sure the mystery car didn’t reappear. I appreciated that and accepted their offer. I followed them to a park, and they waited outside the office while I checked into the park. When I exited the office, they waved goodbye.

Chapter 2

––––––––

After I checked into the RV park and hooked up the van to electricity and water, I started shaking. I’d had to hold it together to deal with my plight, but once I was safely settled in for the night, the horror of someone trying to run me off a mountain road loomed foremost in my mind. Scared? You bet.

What I really needed now was a good friend. I didn’t have one. Until I was sixteen, my mother and I moved every two years or so. That wasn’t conducive to forming lasting friendships. About a month after we moved to our next Nameless Small-town USA, she was killed in a car crash in the winter of my junior year in high school. Since I didn’t have any family, the state assigned me to a foster home. My foster parents weren’t bad, just more interested in collecting a paycheck than in consoling an orphan, so they basically ignored me as long as I didn’t cause them any trouble. I didn’t.

No one reached out to me, nor did I reach out. I didn’t know how. Being social is a learned trait, and I never learned the rules, or the how. I don’t mean to sound like a social outcast. I wasn’t. Kids at school were friendly, but having grown up together, they’d long since developed their network of close friendships. I simply was not included in their outside-school activities. I didn’t have any spending money for a movie or shopping trips to the mall or other activities anyway, so it didn’t matter too much.

One boy braved the barrier between our worlds and asked me out on a date. He invited me to the Junior Prom that year. Do you know how much proms cost? My foster parents said the allowance for my care did not include the costs for prom dresses and such, so I had to turn the boy down. I didn’t explain why; perhaps I should have. Maybe the kids got the impression that I didn’t want to join them socially.

I buried myself in my schoolwork. My mom and I had planned for me to go to college, but the only way I was going to do that was on a scholarship. I knew she’d been saving some money, but where was it? The police had found the name of a lawyer in her effects with instructions to contact him in the event of her death. They did.

Mr. Cosgrove, the lawyer, informed them—and me—that he was trustee of an account that was to be given to me on my 21st birthday and not a day sooner. Great, Mom, what were you thinking? Didn’t it occur to you that if something should happen to you before then, I may need some help?

At least all that studying paid off. I received a scholarship for tuition, fees, and books to Arizona State University. Now that was great, and I don’t mean to make it sound like I wasn’t happy about it, but what the heck was I supposed to do about room and board and everyday necessities? I did need clothes to wear, and a little shampoo to wash my hair would be nice.

I graduated from high school at age 17; I’d always been one of the youngest in my class. I wouldn’t turn 18 until September. At least that meant I stayed in the foster care system for the summer after graduation and had a place to live until college classes started.

I lost 15 pounds that summer working two jobs trying to save enough money for college room and board—and I wasn’t what you’d call overweight to begin with. I’d called Mr. Cosgrove and pleaded with him to release some of the funds in the account. There was a provision in his instructions, he said, that allowed for a certain amount to be released for an emergency.

This is an emergency, I said. If I don’t have enough money for room and board, I’ll lose my scholarship and I won’t be able to go to college. I think my mom would see it as an emergency too. We always planned for me to go.

Finally, he agreed to release some of the funds, but not much. Hence, the need to work two jobs. By the end of the summer, I had just enough to squeak by for my freshman year if I found a part-time job during the school year to pay for incidentals. So my first year in college wasn’t too different from high school. I studied, I worked, and I didn’t have the money to party with the other kids.

Toward the end of my freshman year, I was ready to give up. How was I ever going to raise enough money for my sophomore year? Sure, I could work again for the summer, but I had an additional problem. I had no place to live after the Spring semester ended and before the Fall semester began. I’d have to work to keep a roof over my head and food in my tummy which meant I wouldn’t be saving enough money to pay for room and board during the next school year.

And then I overheard a conversation.

...yah, but that job didn’t give you time to party! one guy said as he walked by my table in the student union.

True, but basically I got paid to sleep. And I needed the money or I wouldn’t have been here to party anyway, his friend responded.

Now that’s the kind of job I needed. Get paid to sleep?

What’r’ya gonna do with the van? the first guy asked as he sat down at a table across from me.

Sell it, I hope. It’s old, but in good condition and runs well.

You won’t get much for it.

I know. But in a few weeks I graduate to an apartment and a normal car. I’m tired of living in it. I want room! With that he threw his arms wide into the air.

A van he lived in?

When he threw his arms into the air, he also raised his head with the gesture and caught me staring at them.

Can we help you? he asked me.

Oh, sorry, I said. I could feel my face flushing. I couldn’t help but overhear you. I... I’m desperate for a job... and a place to live, I stammered.

What’s your name? he asked.

Abbey... Abbey Millhouse.

Well, hi there, Abbey Millhouse. I’m Derek Havermann and this... He pointed his thumb in his friend’s direction. ...is Chad Brownley. So why are you desperate?

I could feel the heat from my face. I looked around me, afraid that everyone was listening. I felt like I was airing my dirty laundry.

I... well...

Derek pushed out a chair at his table. Why don’t you come sit over here with us?

He understood. Thanks. I gathered up my books and my coke to join them.

I haven’t seen you at any of our frat parties, Chad said, "and I always check out the pretty girls."

I stumbled slightly. Oops. I hadn’t read Derek’s invitation as a come-on.

Knock it off, Brownley, Derek said.

What?

Isn’t that Anabelle who just walked in? Derek nodded his head in the direction of the door. And she’s alone.

Ah, Chad said. True love calling. He stood up. Later. He took a step away from the table and turned back to me. Kappa Sigma, Saturday night. You gotta come to one of our parties.

As I watched him saunter away, Derek said, Sorry about that. He’s a party guy; I’m not. Are you?

No, I said and grinned. Matter of fact, I’m not a guy at all.

Derek laughed. So I noticed. Sit, please.

I need to find a job and a place to stay, I said after I sat down, when the semester ends and the dorm closes. And I heard you say something about a job where you were being paid to sleep...

Ah, Derek said. "Almost like I was paid to sleep. Let me explain."

Derek worked as a night watchman at a storage unit. All the individual units faced a central courtyard. A high fence surrounded the grounds and the entry gate was locked at night. Two guard dogs roamed the yard. He lived in a van-camper parked on the front side of the yard from which he could see the entrances to the units.

All I have to do, he said, is make sure the gate is locked at 11:00 when my shift begins and unlock it at 7:00 when the day guy comes to work. Oh, and feed the dogs in the morning. I’m there in case the dogs act up, and believe me, no one could sleep through their barking if they did. If they do, I call the police. But in the two years I’ve worked there, I’ve never had to do that.

You don’t have to investigate before you call or something?

No. The owner doesn’t want me in any danger. He says there’s no point having the dogs unless someone can respond ASAP and call for help. It’s an easy job. Chad claims it kills my social life, but it doesn’t really. I just have to be ‘home’ earlier than most.

And you don’t have to take eight hours out of your day to work, I said. You’re working while you study or sleep or whatever.

Derek nodded. Exactly. I think you’re in the same situation I was, Abbey. I had to work to stay in school. Granted, you have to be there seven days a week from 11:00 to 7:00 without fail, although the boss will give you some days off if you ask in advance. But I had a place to live, and the owner pays pretty well because it is seven days a week, year round, so I had the money I needed. The worst may have been living in that small camper, but I got used to it. Did you hear me say I want to sell the camper?

I nodded.

The owner asked me to check around to see if I could find another student who might be interested in the job. If you’re interested, I could show you around and introduce you to the boss. Basically, I could move out and you could move in if you buy the camper.

I’m interested, I said.

And that’s how the rest of my college years began. Of course, there were a few hurdles. First, the owner had to hire me. After a long interview, Mr. Bowden did. I think he was swayed by the fact that I needed the job to stay in school. That meant I’d treat my duties seriously. And the two huge German shepherds, Bruno and Roco, had to accept me. We acclimated to each other over a series of visits. The ‘friendly’ part would come later.

I visited Derek at the facility numerous times. As he had warned me, the van-camper was small. It was also worn from years of usage, but very clean and had all the amenities I might need compacted into a little space.

It’s like living in a dollhouse, I told him.

I’ll take my clothes and personal items, he said, but I’ll leave the dishes and pots and pans—house stuff, in other words—so you won’t have to buy those.

I knew nothing about RV living, so the extra visits were not only to become familiar with the dogs, but so Derek could teach me about the RV: how to unhook and hook up again, how to drain and fill tanks, and how all the systems operated.

The biggest hurdle, of course, was finding the money to buy the van. I tackled Mr. Cosgrove once more. I’d prepared all kinds of estimates on how much it would cost me for room and board for the next three years versus the one-time expenditure for the van. Food and personal items I’d buy with my salary from the job.

The van is old with a lot of mileage, he argued. "What if it breaks down? How will you afford the repair