by J. L. Abramo
Sheriffs had to be elected, but so far the traditional values of his family and their reputation for getting the job done had worked well enough to keep him in office.
Of course, times were changing. The county was the same size but the population was growing. People from Atlanta were moving up his way and that was all right with Carl. New blood kept the area alive. Traditions kept it in order.
There were some traditions that were fading from the area and he was fine with that. Not all of them left as quickly as they should have. Despite his love of his family there were a few members he was ashamed of these days. Some folks who had gone around wearing white hoods and burning crosses back in the day. The world changed and sometimes the change was for the better.
The Waffle House served up a fine breakfast. Not as good as the usual fair he’d have had in Wellman, but good enough for breakfast on the road. He knew the waitress, Nancy, well enough and, like always, he flirted with her and like always she flirted back. Then it was off to the lake house and a week of fishing. He called in to let the gang know he was on the way and to call if they needed him.
They wouldn’t bother him. Not a one of them would even consider calling him back from his vacation. It was the first he’d taken in five years. Somehow the business of being the sheriff got in the way of relaxing. It had been that way when he was a kid, too. Things came up and the family forgot to get anywhere for very long. Hell, most of the trips to the old house on the lake had been scheduled to last a week and lasted two days.
Carl reckoned that was all right, too. He had some mighty fine memories from back in the day.
When he got to the house he made a quick visit to the groundskeeper, a man in his seventies who worked hard for his money, and paid him for a couple of months more work.
“Ain’t it a little late in the season for fishing, Sheriff?”
Carl gave him his best boyish grin and winked. “Never too late to sit down with a six pack and hope you get a nibble or two, Deke.”
Deke couldn’t disagree with that and the two men parted company. The air was brisk, but that was okay. He liked the cooler air. Beat all sin out of working up a hard sweat in July or August.
Likely the boys he knew were camping up this way had worked up a mighty fine sweat when they were killing Delia Greene. He planned to have a little chat with them about that. He shook that thought off. There was plenty to do before he met up with the troublemakers.
Then he unloaded what little he’d brought with him and examined the house. It was still in excellent shape.
Carl set out his fishing poles, carefully laid out the tackle box the way his daddy had showed him, and the left the house. He locked the door. There weren’t many people around but he was leaving behind his phone and all forms of identification and a man couldn’t be too careful.
The old ten-speed bike was in fully working order and enough to take care of his needs.
He couldn’t risk taking the car. Cops looked for tire tracks at murder scenes. They didn’t often bother with bicycle tracks. At least he didn’t. Not often any way.
It wasn’t that far to the Newland Campsite. He wasn’t checking in himself, but he’d been around the area enough times to know that there were a few dirt trails that led to the right spot.
It took a while to get where he was going, but he wasn’t in a hurry. They wouldn’t come out just yet. It was too light for them and they were too sober.
The Huntley family was well known and influential in Brennert County. They’d been socially active as long as the Price family had been in law enforcement and that was a long stretch back.
Carl settled in and waited. He was a patient man when he had to be. Besides, he was on vacation. He had a week of nothing to look forward to.
He didn’t have to wait a week. It was Friday night and the football game was in another town. That guaranteed a quiet time. There weren’t enough people around the lake to cause too many parties. Oh, a few to be sure, but they were mostly on the other side of the lake, where his fishing cabin was. The weather was a mite too cold for most people to consider camping. That was okay. The office for the campsite, which was owned by the Huntleys, was the destination he had in mind.
Lester Huntley was the oldest at thirty-one. Les was a good enough egg for a while, but he’d gone overseas for a few years and when he came back he wasn’t the same kid anymore. The families weren’t all that close. They never had been, but they knew each other well enough that stories got passed around about how people didn’t always stay bright and cheerful.
The Les that went away was a happy-go-lucky. The one that came back was bitter and seldom smiled. When he did pop a grin, it was most often the sort that was more a threat than a sign of happiness.
He had four younger brothers: Curt, Alan, Phillip and Michael. Mike was a good sort. Alan was a solid enough guy. Curt had been arrested several times for indecent behavior and liking to fight too much. Mostly that meant he got drunk and decided to hit on someone else’s girl. When it didn’t go his way, the fists started flying. He wasn’t a bad looking kid, but he wasn’t exactly gifted with any social skills beyond phrases like, “Hey, nice tits.” Turned out most modern girls just didn’t approve of that sort of thing and their boyfriends might agree, but they were obligated to beat all hell out of him for stating his drunken opinions.
Often as not it was Carl that tried to smooth things over and warn Curt to behave himself. If no one wanted to press charges, Curt got to spend a night in the drunk tank. They knew each other too well.
Phil was the big problem. Phil was a schemer. Schemers tended to start the ball rolling and see where it would go.
Phil was charming in a sleazy way. He could just about charm a person out of their wallet and watch and had on more than one occasion. There was no law against that, of course, but if he chose other things to work out in his head, it became a problem.
Carl thought about Phil while the brothers parked their respective cars on the gravel lot next to the campsite offices and the “Recreational Center” for the place. Georgia weather being what it was, there were days when the rains fell too hard for anyone to enjoy the lake. When that happened the rec center did good business with its three pool tables, four ping-pong tables and its big screen TV that was mounted to the wall. The TV and ping-pong were free. The pool tables were a dollar a game, quarters only, please.
Carl knew that at least half the summer the family sold beer and harder stuff under the counter. He didn’t care. They were smart enough to sell only to adults, which meant he had no reason to care, especially since the only people using the facility were also staying at the facility. Years of following that policy and there had never been a problem.
It was the off-season that caused troubles.
On four occasions over the last two years the three boys who were currently settling in to watch the Falcons pre-season game had been accused of rape. Different girls, all of them underage and all of them coming forward days or weeks later.
The problem with underage girls was exactly the same as the problem with underage guys: they always seemed to have something to prove. It had been that way when Carl was young and it was one of the elemental truths that never changed.
Mostly what they seemed to need to prove was that they were old enough to handle the liquor. It was a false glamour. The idea of getting ripped somehow came across as a good one and it usually took the ones that survived a few tries to understand that it was only fun until the morning after.
Carl didn’t know if date rape drugs were involved or not. All he knew was that a few girls had come forth and made claims about being done wrong by three men who should have known better. In every case the charges were dropped when the girls suddenly had a change of heart.
Only one ever came close to saying she’d been bought off. She wouldn’t actually say it, but she didn’t not say it either. He couldn’t force the young ladies to tell him anything and he didn’t know for certain that they’d accept
ed money or been intimidated or shamed. That was the real problem. Never quite enough to pursue a court case after the ladies changed their minds.
That was okay. Each of the men in question didn’t have enough evidence to prove that Carl had pulled them over when they were alone and explained how badly he would ruin them if they ever did it again, either. Hearsay works both ways. Proof is required in a court of law and none of the three had ever said a word to anyone else so far as Carl knew.
Phil was the one who gave him the most trouble. He’d pulled Phil over for speeding. Phil made it a habit. He liked going high speed on winding back roads almost as much as Carl liked busting the assholes that did exactly that. Too many wrecks he’d worked where people died to let him think speeding in the mountains was a fun sport. The exact figures changed every summer but it normally averaged in the low teens for serious, crippling injuries and anywhere between five and seven dead each summer.
Sometimes Carl thought his doctor was right about the stress of the job. Usually when he was thinking about watching the bodies hauled up the side of steep hills a day or more after an accident because no one noticed that car down in the ditch until well after a body had a chance to bleed to death.
So he was happy when he caught Phil.
Phil had been drinking. Not a lot but enough and when he was stopped he came out of the car full of righteous indignation until he saw that it was Carl. A lot of folks tried being angry as a defense for getting busted. It tended to work better on the occasional new deputy than it did on the sheriff. Especially since the sheriff was slightly smaller than a bear and had a reputation as a hard ass. Carl was always glad to smile and he never had a problem with well-mannered people. Yelling was frowned upon.
“Say, Carl. How’s things? Was I speeding?”
“Now, Phil, you know the posted speed here is twenty miles per hour. The road’s just too damned curvy and the drop off is a nasty one.” He smiled as he asked for license and registration. Phil twitched. He wanted so badly to argue, but there were the recently dropped rape charges and Carl’s reputation for writing bigger tickets when people pissed him off was well known. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see the wheels working in Phil’s head as he licked his lips and stared at the badge stenciled on Carl’s Brennert County Sheriff’s Department T-shirt. That was late July and damned if Carl was going to sweat to death in a uniform when he could wear the T-shirt.
Carl took great pleasure in making Phil wait while he pretended to look up all the information he’d already memorized on the privileged dick weed who liked to drive too fast.
Most of his record that stuck was moving violations. None of the rapes had made it to court. Not a one of them. But Carl had done his very best.
He was smiling when he crawled out of the cruiser. Being a stretch over six feet he couldn’t just slide out. He preferred his truck for that reason, but it was in the shop. Again.
“Well, Phil, I guess I can let you go with a verbal warning this time.” As he spoke that smarmy smirk spread across Phil Huntley’s face. Carl handed him back his license and registration with his left hand, and Phil started to work his way around to a “thanks” that would have taken several minutes. Once freed of the risk of a fine, he was downright pleasant. It was part of his MO.
He stopped trying to find the right words around the time Carl’s fingers reached between his legs and grabbed hold of his balls. Phil let out a small squawk and then a soft whoop when Carl made a fist.
“No ticket today, Phil. But I’m watching. You and your brothers. Next time I hear a girl say you even looked at her funny, what happens will stay off the books.” He made sure not to squeeze too hard, just enough to make Phil as docile as a newborn baby. “Tell me you understand, Phil. Tell me I don’t have to repeat myself a little louder.”
“I get it. We’re good.”
“This is a friendly conversation, Phil. Let’s keep it between us, and I won’t have to search your car for the shit you and me both know is there.” It was a complete bluff, but not much of a stretch. Phil was that dumb on the best of days.
Phil nodded very hard and Carl gave one more squeeze before letting go.
“Nothing happened in the past that I can prove, Phil. But you’re at strike four right now. I hear anything, it’s going to be bad.” Carl spoke with great cheer in his voice, as if he was telling a friend to have a great day. Phil was still looking sick and very likely considering puking on himself when Carl left.
Carl wore a cup for that reason. You just never know when some asshole is going to try to crush your testicles into dust.
That was his favorite of the three conversations. All three of the brothers, wisely, had failed to mention anything to the local police department or to anyone else, because all three of them understood that what Carl was saying was like their rapes. No proof it ever happened. No possible punishment would come of it, and Carl Price was old school enough to know other ways to handle people who complained too much.
Four generations of his family had been sheriffs. The dirt he had on everyone in the county was unsettling. A few times he’d handled disputes between some of the more influential families, including the Huntley’s, merely by mentioning how he didn’t want to air out any dirty laundry. Walter and Mary Beth Huntley, the parents of five rambunctious boys, were also on county committees, city committees, school committees and involved in social circles that were the envy of many. To them scandals were like kryptonite to the Man of Steel. And if Mommy and Daddy weren’t happy, none of the Huntleys were happy.
So no, no one mentioned Carl’s tactics, because shit rolls downhill and the family preferred the near scandals of the rape accusations be pushed aside and forgotten as quickly as possible.
What Carl hadn’t expected was that the brothers would decide it was best to just kill the victims of their gang rape tactics.
He had no notion if the murder was intentional or an accident and he didn’t give the least bit of a damn. All he had was hearsay that would never stand up in a court of law, not when the Huntleys had a few lawyers who ate smaller lawyers for breakfast.
Delia Greene had last been seen alive four days earlier. She and her family had been staying at the campground over the summer and there were no incidents, but two different witnesses that Carl had spoken to mentioned her hanging around with Curt Huntley, and they claimed Delia liked to talk a good fight when it came to the idea of partying, but that she never went through with it. She was fourteen and liked to brag. What kid didn’t? Two different girls said that Delia’d been talking about her new boyfriend who was older. The only name that had been uttered was “C” and she’d been seen by two others hanging with Curt Huntley.
When Carl mentioned Curt’s name the girls said “maybe.”
When Carl mentioned his name after Delia’s body was found, both of the girls said they couldn’t remember. The way they said it, Carl knew they were lying. They couldn’t even look him in the eyes.
She was fourteen and she was flirty and she had a pretty face and a slightly over developed body. She was, as Carl’s mom used to say, “chesty,” and when her body was found she had been “cleaned” with bleach, but the vaginal trauma still showed on the body. She had been sodomized repeatedly. She had been slapped around a bit, too. She had been strangled, but before that, she had been stabbed a few times with what appeared to be a sharpened stick.
There was no DNA evidence to be found.
Sometimes, the old ways are better.
Back in the distant past his grandfather had escorted more than a few people to the edge of the county and warned them not to come back. Some of them came back anyway and he drove them by a different route to a different part of the county line where he didn’t have to tell them anything. They weren’t coming back at all.
His father had done the same thing in cases where the person in question wouldn’t listen. No one spoke of those things. No one. Not ever. It was understood that sometimes things had to be taken care o
f.
By Carl’s count four of the six unsavories escorted away by his granddaddy had been suspected of inappropriate behavior with the youth of the area. Two of those youths dealt with the shame of unwanted children in an era where that sort of thing ruined lives beyond redemption. Their reputations were the least of their concerns. Some things you don’t get past. Carl couldn’t hope to imagine.
Delia Greene never had to imagine.
Delia was gone.
Her body was found down in one of those damned ditches alongside the winding roads in the mountain areas. She was naked. She was broken because whoever had tossed her out knew the area well and she had bounced off of rocky outcroppings several times along her way to the bottom of the gully. She’d have still been there, like as not, but a tourist was taking pictures of the foliage and spotted her body.
All three of them looked surprised when Carl walked into the rec center. He made sure no one else was around before he opened the door and stepped past the threshold.
Les half jumped out of his skin. He had never been very calm since coming back from his travels. The beer can in his lap dropped and spilled and frothed as he stood. He didn’t say a word, but his hands clutched at his chest in a nearly comical gesture of shock.
Curt didn’t stand up. He stared at Carl’s form with wide eyes and his mouth pulled down in a sneer that had nothing to do with his dislike of the Sheriff.
Phil stood up too, and opened his mouth. “Hey now, this is private property and we’re closed for the season.” As was typical of the bastard, he hadn’t even checked to see who he was talking to. He just knew he didn’t want to be bothered.
When he did look, he paled.
Carl said, “What did I tell you boys? Each one of you? What the hell did I say to you? And now Delia’s gone.”
Carl wasn’t sporting his service piece. He wasn’t foolish enough to take a gun with him, because they make too damned much noise.
