Almost Home

by Caroline Clemmons

When he'd spotted this location, Link knew he'd found something important. It sat at the northeastern corner of the county along the Brazos River. Though he’d seen nothing noteworthy yet, this had to be the location described to Travis by his agent Jenkins only hours before the agent's murder.

  Even though it was officially in North Central Texas, Fort Worth citizens claimed their city was where the real West began. Must be true. The land changed after crossing the Trinity River to rolling prairie broken by hills and mesas covered with oak, juniper, and mesquite. Considering Link was only an hour west of Fort Worth, the terrain still looked as if John Wayne could appear any minute, leading the cavalry to save him from rampaging Indians.

  Thankfully, he’d found a sturdy live oak for life saving shade and a wide trunk to conceal him. Otherwise, he would have had to make do with the scrawny cover offered by scrub oaks, willowy mesquite, or cedar. He ignored trickles of sweat running down his cheeks and chest, but could not ignore the way his mind drifted while he considered recent events. His resentment began to rise right along with the thermometer, and his temper flared to match the mid-day heat that surrounded and smothered him.

  There was no doubt that Gary Don Clayton—the esteemed sheriff, former classmate, and Link’s boss—had toyed with him. By withholding information. By insisting the worst job was the only thing available.

  What could he do about it? He was a trained lawman who’d moved back to his small hometown where—except for the Texas Department of Public Safety Troopers—the only law enforcement was through the sheriff’s office. Unless he wanted to commute to one of the nearby counties, Spencer County Deputy was the only job open. That was fine, but why have him on night duty instead of on homicide? At least his evening shift for the county allowed him daytime to look for leads to agent Jenkins’ murderers.

  Maybe Gary Don’s animosity was because Link had succeeded where Gary Don had failed. Gary Don’s partying had cost him a full football scholarship while Link had graduated with honors and went on to get his master’s. Was this the sheriff’s payback for Link doing well? If Gary Don thought he could chase Link away with petty duties, he’d better rethink that idea.

  Link swore to himself and poured sweat even in the shade as he continued his undercover surveillance for Travis. Thoughts of Jason made him wish he were home instead of fighting insects and heat on a hunch. After a swipe at his forehead with his shirtsleeve, he peered into his binoculars.

  The dogs rose to their feet, ears cocked, and soon began barking. Their noise alerted Link to the rapidly approaching dusty white van. Two men came out of the gray home, silenced the dogs, and waited. A large man exited the van and conferred with the other two in the open area near the vehicle. Clearly something was going on. Would this meeting be something worthy to report?

  The three men were so different in size they looked like Small, Medium, and Large. Link swatted at something crawling on his neck, but smiled to himself at his labels for the men. Now Small and Large moved containers from a storage shed into the southern older home. Medium unloaded the contents of the van into the same building. Dogs ran back and forth in a frenzy.

  Something about Large seemed familiar, but distance prevented his identity from registering in Link’s brain. Large moved his shoulders and dragged his left leg when he walked. Link knew he had seen that before, but could not remember where or when. Something just beyond his conscious nagged that the memory was important, but nothing surfaced.

  Without lowering the binoculars, he swatted at a no-see-'um then rubbed at sweat on his chest. He had a bad case of cotton mouth and the heat zapped his energy. A beer would be great about now. A drink of anything would be a comfort, but he'd already emptied the water canteen.

  The nearby river flowed lazily, inviting him to come in for a swim or to cast a fishing line. Across the river, a large bluff filled his view. Slightly down river from the bluff was a park like, peaceful looking meadow with lush grass and large cottonwood and willow trees. That’s where he needed to be, but he’d be visible to anyone in the mobile homes.

  He stood at the same level as the mobile homes, separated from the men he watched by a scrub-covered ravine. Travis had mentioned he suspected a drug lab and clearinghouse. Link hadn't seen evidence to prove anything illegal—suspicious maybe, but that wouldn’t help the case.

  He studied the land around the site once again. He needed proof. While the men were acting strange, there was nothing obviously wrong. How could he get closer?

  The mobile homes’ positions on the side of the hill gave an excellent view of the river below. A boat might pull up and dock, but not without being seen by anyone watching from the area. Whenever a fishing or pleasure boat cruised by, the dogs rushed to the shore to challenge the boaters.

  He saw no way to approach the house without being seen or alerting one of the dogs. One dog—the huge Doberman—paused with ears up. Damn. He would swear the dog stared at him. Small saw the dog's attentive stance and looked Link's way.

  Link had purposely worn drab clothing that blended into the summer landscape. Small would not have been able to see him from that distance without field glasses unless Link made a sudden move. Still watching in his direction, Small said something to Medium, then called the other dog over, a large mastiff. Large moved to the van and pulled out a rifle.

  Whoa! Time to leave.

  Link slowly eased backward until there were more trees and brush between him and the three men. He caught a glimpse of the rifle lifting towards him and the flash of light on the scope’s lens. He wheeled and lit out for his car. If the men and the dogs tracked him, he hoped he could reach the car before the dogs found his scent.

  A shot whizzed by his ear and struck a tree trunk. Splinters of bark showered him. A man's shout sounded over barking dogs. How close were they?

  Panting, his shirt saturated with sweat, Link raced. Binoculars and canteen bounced against him by their straps. He had no idea how long it took him to reach his car. His western boots weren’t made for speed, and he wished he were wearing running shoes.

  On level ground, he broke into a run, keeping as much cover between him and his pursuers as the terrain allowed. Only a few minutes had passed, but he’d bet he’d made better time than when he ran track in high school. Of course, in track, the only gun was a starting pistol firing blanks.

  His car was hidden in some brush behind a dilapidated barn. Sliding behind the wheel, he wasted no time. The massive Doberman bore down on him. Within seconds Link drove out of the brush, heedless of scratches to the Jeep’s paint.

  Another shot rang out, smacking into the old barn. How well had they seen his car? Did they recognize it? Jason couldn’t lose another parent. Lord help him, Link should never have agreed to this undercover shit.

  Turning onto the caliche road and away from the men and dogs, he accelerated and left whirls of white limestone dust in his wake. Dogs were supposed to be pets, companions animals, not used to chase men.

  A mile down the road he took a sharp left onto a narrow paved road. Luckily for him, he knew these back ways where he learned to drive as a kid. A few more turns and he slowed down. Only his heart still raced.

  As he drove the long way toward home, he wondered about his next move. They would be alert now, which made everything that much harder. No getting close to that place with those dogs on guard. Even at night, their barking would be as good as an alarm. How could he see what those storage sheds hid?

  Chapter Five

  Chief Deputy Buel Watson shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth and looked at his boss. Try the salad bar next time instead of the all-you-can-eat buffet, he thought.

  Buel compared his boss’ bulging belly with his own trim waistline. The sheriff almost dwarfed Buel. Politics was all about keeping some thoughts to himself, so he focused his anger on someone else.

  He stepped to the office window and stood beside the sheriff. Below them, Coy Cox sorted through one of the large dumpsters on the Law Enforcemen
t Center's parking lot. That dummy Coy gave Buel the creeps.

  "Gary Don, I swear I don't know why you let that damn Cox retard run loose." Not that he particularly cared one way or the other. But Buel had to vent his anger on someone or explode.

  Sheriff Gary Don Clayton shrugged. "Aw, he ain't hurtin' nothin'. Besides, I’ve got to take care of him. His mama was a cousin to mine, and they both made me promise I'd look after Coy when they were gone."

  "Well, he gives me the willies. He looks normal enough, but when you talk to him you can tell he ain't all there. It's like them science fiction programs on TV where aliens sucked out somebody's brain and made 'em into a robot."

  "Aw, will you cut that crap out? He's harmless, I tell you. He's just real slow. What folks used to call simple-minded before all this politically correct shit got started. He ain't never hurt nobody."

  “I don’t like the way he just stares at me. Doesn’t say a word to me.”

  “He knows you don’t like him. I think you scare him.”

  "What's he do with all that trash anyway? Look at that goddamn cart of his--he's got boards and bottles and all kinds of junk in it. And he rides that bike around pullin' that goddamn weird lookin' cart like he was an animal himself."

  Gary Don rubbed his florid chins and another frown crinkled his brow. "He ain’t hurting nothing. Leave it alone. Maybe he's happy the way he is 'cause he just don't know no difference."

  Buel choked back the contempt surging through him. Sorrow at the way his life had turned out morphed into bitterness and anger. He no longer had any patience with dummies, and not much with anyone or anything else.

  "Maybe so, but he still gives me the creeps. Oughta be locked away. I sure as hell wish I didn't never have to see him."

  "Damn, Buel, I can't lock a man up just because he gives you the creeps," the sheriff said in obvious disgust.

  Buel muttered under his breath, "Hell, you've locked 'em up for less."

  Gary Don stood looking down at the parking lot. "Ha, that smart-assed Dixon just pulled in. Goddamn, I hate his hide. I've hated him since we were in grade school."

  "Why'd you hire him then?" Buel inspected the tip of his toothpick, then replaced it between his teeth.

  "I kinda like havin' Mr. College working where I can watch him. I'll bet he hates it. Folks thought he was such a great guy with his big college scholarship and all. Never lost his temper, always helpin' people. What a damned goody-two-shoes."

  "Man, Goddard needs his help on that murder investigation. Dixon's the only other guy here with that kind of experience."

  The Sheriff sent him a look that would melt metal. "For now, I'm putting that puppy Wells helping Goddard. Good training for him."

  Braving his boss’ temper, he asked, “Why the hell not Dixon?”

  “Smartass thinks he can move back here and work his way into the department. Bet he plans on running against me in the next election.”

  Buel hoped so. “Why worry? You’ve got your own following.”

  “Damn right. And I’ve got plans of my own.”

  “You’re the local football hero, after all.” All the slob would ever be.

  Gary Don pointed his index finger at Buel’s chest. “You better believe folks aren’t likely to forget I’m the one who made the winning touchdown and won the state championship for us in ’96. Don’t forget, I made All-State that year.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” How the hell could he? Gary Don reminded him often enough. Buel couldn't do anything about his stature, but he damn sure kept himself in top shape. He’d like to line up in phys ed class now and see who was the best athlete.

  Gary Don brushed his hand across his face in concentration. “I wish I could nail that sonofabitch Dixon for something.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t the pen be a fun trip for that bastard?"

  Buel blanched at the picture that sprang into his mind. With all the men Dixon had helped convict, he wouldn't last a week in the pen.

  Chapter Six

  On the Justice Center parking lot, Coy continued his search of the Dumpster. He’d found a broken office chair once, but usually he never found any things here he could fix up and sell. But there were always lots and lots of drink cans. Looked to him like the county people would recycle like they said do on TV and save taxpayers money. Didn’t make him no nevermind, ‘cause their waste helped him.

  Slowly and carefully, Coy stepped on each can to flatten it before placing it into the part of his cart reserved for aluminum cans. Mama used to say, “Take your time and do the job right the first time.” He always tried to do just what Mama had told him ‘cause he sure didn’t want to ever be shut up somewheres. As a car drove into the parking lot and stopped, he flattened the last can from the Dumpster.

  Coy noticed that the driver locked his car before he walked toward the building entrance. Not many people hereabouts did that. Then he recognized an old friend and it made his heart glad. He smiled his best smile when his friend walked toward him.

  “Howdy,” he said and waved.

  Link said, "Well, hello, Coy. I haven't seen you in a while. How've you been?"

  They shook hands, just like old times. Link was always good to him. If Link was around, he wouldn’t let people pick on Coy or call him ugly names.

  "I been fine, Link, just fine. Haven't seen you in a coon's age." He scratched his head and nodded. "Yes sir, it was Christmas, wasn't it?"

  Then he remembered a bad thing. "No, it was Miz Terri’s funeral. I'm still real sorry about Miz Terri, Link."

  Coy felt bad about the lie. Miz Terri was never nice. She called him ugly names when Link couldn’t hear. Her eyes narrowed and she looked real hard at Coy. Mama always said it wasn't nice to speak ill of the dead, though, so he guessed the lie would be okay this time. He'd ask Pastor about it on Sunday.

  "Thanks, Coy. Jason and I are looking forward to happier times in Cartersville."

  He nodded. "You can for sure have good times here with all your family. Say, Link, you 'member when you used to let me come to your house and shoot baskets with you? That was back when you was in high school, 'member? Those were sure good times, weren't they, Link?" Coy smiled at the memory. Yes, sir, Link always was nice to him, just like the rest of the Dixons.

  "Why sure, Coy, those were good times. I haven't played basketball in a long time, except with my son."

  Coy looked Link slowly up and down. He smiled his best smile again. He’d just noticed Link wore a deputy's uniform. "You workin' here now, Link? Miz Gwen said you was movin' back, but she didn't say you was workin' for Sheriff Gary Don."

  "Just started this week. Jason and I moved into my grandparents' old house. Remember where it is?"

  Coy nodded. "Oh yes, oh yes, I 'member. Miz Akridge used to save things for me and bake me those special cookies ‘til she got sick. She sure was a nice lady, Miz Akridge was."

  "Yes, she was. Maggie Sparkman’s taking care of Jason and me and she’s a real good cook. Be sure to stop by and see us whenever you’re our way.”

  “I will for sure.”

  “Soon as I get that basketball hoop up, you come shoot hoops with Jason and me." Link clapped Coy on the back. "Well, I have to go check in for my shift. Guess I'll be seeing you around."

  "Yeah, be seein' you, Link." Coy watched until Link disappeared behind the door of the building. He stepped to his bike and rode slowly away. He wished he could have talked to Link longer. Should he tell Link what was worryin’ him night and day?

  Chapter Seven

  Link’s conversation with Coy reminded him of the backboard and hoop lying on the garage floor. He’d intended to have it up by now. It waited until he had time to mount the backboard over the garage door.

  In spite of Link’s efforts to spend time with Jason, he often ran out of day before he ran out of jobs. But since their move to Cartersville, Jason was changing from a solemn, quiet child into a normal little boy. Damned if that didn’t make it worth anything Link had to go through in this job.

/>   A deputy at one of the desks called out a greeting. Seeing the disgusted look on the younger man's face, Link said, "Hey, Eddy, things must have been rough today. You look like you're mad at the world."

  "Man, would you look at this paperwork I just finished--and most of them criminal mischief cases. Sure will be glad when school starts in a week. Rotten kids have too much time on their hands." Eddy Wells held up a stack of papers then let them drop to the desk. "Why don't these kids have jobs for the summer, anyway?"

  Link shook his head. "Probably aren't enough summer jobs to go around. But I suspect most of the kids you mean didn't try to find a job to start with. Anything interesting working?"

  Eddy put down his pen and looked thoughtful as his blue eyes met Link’s gaze. "No, pretty routine, I guess. Sheriff just transferred me to that homicide we had just before you came. Man murdered.”

  “Oh,” Link’s interest piqued but he feigned casual interest. “Have many murders in Spencer County?

  “No, and this one’s weird.”

  “Learn anything yet?”

  “No, the man in charge—you know Goddard?—said every thing has been a dead end so far. That’s why he needs more help, so the sheriff reassigned me to help. You and your boy getting settled in?"

  Link looked at the purple mark on his left thumbnail. "Yeah, but I'm getting way too much practice at home repairs. Never realized old houses took quite so much maintenance.” He held up his bruised thumb and then pointed to a lump on his forehead. “Or that they fought back.”

  Eddy laughed. “It’d be great to have a big place like yours, though, especially one that had been in the family a long time.”

  “Yesterday I got a new water heater installed downstairs for the kitchen and laundry room, so that's out of the way.”

  “That’ what I like about my apartment. Something goes wrong, I just call the manager.”

  “With an old house, there’s always something rebelling.”