Dead Man Falls

by Paula Boyd

  "Do you have any ideas at all about this?" I said, turning to Jerry. "They don’t even have to be good ones. Just throw me out some details and we’ll play that six degrees game, or whatever it’s called. You know, Jerry to Jolene, Jolene to Lucille, Lucille to…" Anybody in the entire two-county region. "You get the idea."

  "Well, as you said, you and I are linked." Jerry grinned a little. "And if I recall correctly, you and Russell both spent a great deal of time in the office at school."

  He had a point. "I'd definitely had a Pollock problem, and so had Russell, although they were very different problems."

  "He wouldn't have been a problem if I'd known what he'd been up to," Lucille said, snarling "The old lecher wouldn't have had any fingers left when I got through with him, although I didn't have my gun then and couldn't just shoot them off."

  "It's probably for the best," I muttered, although I too had wondered how things would have been different if I'd told her. And honestly, I don't know why I didn't. I guess I was just determined to prove I could handle things myself, which I had. He quit the touchy-feely stuff with me when I threatened to call his wife, but he did not take kindly to being rebuffed or tattled on publicly. He had made my last year of high school a living hell, but it hadn't been a picnic for him either, not that any of it motivated him to do the right thing and resign.

  "Whatever happened to him anyway?" Lucille asked. "I'd still like to get my hands on the slimy rat."

  "Redwater is checking that out," Jerry said. "Should be interesting."

  Interesting? Maybe not. The thought had occurred to me more than once through the years that he might have just moved to another school and kept on with his filthy business. I honestly knew I had done all I was capable of doing at the time, but there was a part of me that wished I’d done more. Whether anyone would have listened any better than the superintendent had was a tough call. The times had been different then. These kinds of things were ignored at best and actively hidden at worse--and, it was Kickapoo.

  "Maybe the Holt boy got popped because of something he did lately," Lucille said, her eyes narrowing. "Those yearbook pages could just be there to throw us off track. Killers do that you know."

  "Sure," I said, "but with a dead body to dump, he takes the time to check out the bookshelf, spies the yearbook--no cracks about how it stands out--rips out a few select pages just for fun and draws random circles? Not likely."

  "It is a possible scenario," Jerry said. "But not probable. For now, we have to assume something associated with the school was the reason Calvin was killed."

  I agreed, but while we were refining our angles, I wanted to be sure we could eliminate any that dealt with law enforcement. "Just for the record, have you arrested anyone who might have been associated with Calvin or any of the people who were at our school when we graduated?"

  He shook his head. "I thought of that, of course, but I wasn’t personally involved in any of Russell Clements’ cases. In fact, I don’t recall ever arresting anyone that I knew personally."

  Lucille shoved herself back from the table and stood. "You most certainly knew me!"

  "I didn’t arrest you, Miz Jackson," Jerry said evenly, letting the "but I could have" hang unspoken.

  "Yes, well, that's a matter of opinion, I suppose," Lucille said. Then quickly excusing herself, she marched out of the room, muttering something that we couldn’t quite hear. She knew very well that Jerry could have charged her with breaking about eighteen different laws, not the least of which was shooting at one of his deputies.

  "She’s not really mad, just wanted to leave. Probably wants to see what Merline and Agnes thought about the falls crisis, if they’re even home yet."

  Jerry leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. "I know. Lucille and I have an understanding." He raised an eyebrow then chuckled. "Okay, I hope we do, anyway."

  Yes, didn’t we all. The slim and flimsy hope that Lucille would see fit to keep her purse and her nose to herself, not to mention her gun, was all any of us had, which is one reason I prefer to keep myself in regions hundreds of miles north and west of here. "You know," I said, propping my chin on my hand. "I’m thinking you need to come to Colorado to visit me. One, my mother’s not there, and two, I have a nice quiet place up in the mountains where nobody would bother us, including murdering lunatics."

  "I’d like that, Jolene," he said, his soft Texas drawl rumbling across the kitchen. "But right now--"

  "Oh, no you don’t." I smacked my hand down on the table, harder than I intended, and not only did it sting my palm, it sent vibrating ripples up my not-completely-healed arm. Being the stoic type, I didn’t let on. "You don’t have a job to do on this one, Jerry. This crime was committed in Redwater Falls, Redwater County. You, my friend, neither live nor work there."

  "We share resources."

  "Maybe so, but this time you’re a potential victim, just like I am, therefore you can’t be involved. And if we both leave, we can’t very well be murdered, now can we?" This was sounding better all the time. "How much vacation time do you have coming?"

  He reached his big hand over and covered my own much smaller one. The heat zinged right through me. Jerry has had this effect on me for decades so it's nothing new. It is, however, just as potent--and embarrassing--as when I was a teenager. Some things you just don’t grow out of, I guess.

  "I wish I could," he said, soft and serious. "You’re right that this isn’t my case. But under the circumstances, I need to be available to Rick. I know the people in the yearbook and the history."

  Yeah, well, so did I. My offer to come to Colorado had been only half-serious anyway, but the more I thought about it, the more appealing the idea became. I hadn’t been alone with Jerry--really alone--since I was seventeen. We had a lot of catching up to do. "I know just as much as you do about our class, but I don’t see anybody asking me to hang around here and help with any leads or past history."

  "Actually," he said, squeezing my hand again, "I was getting around to that."

  "Oh, no," I said, snatching my hand away. "I don’t want to hear this."

  "Redwater will provide--"

  "Armed guards. No thank you. I’ve been down this happy trail before, Jerry, and frankly, it wasn’t much fun."

  "Do the words ‘material witness’ mean anything to you?"

  Well, yeah, I’d heard those very words on TV once upon a time. That didn’t mean I knew the technical meanings of the term, but it wouldn’t stop me from pretending I did. "Fine. I’ll give a statement before I leave."

  "I don’t want you to leave, Jolene," he said, his voice low and rumbling. "We’ve hardly even said hello."

  The words sent a shiver through me, melting any backbone or resolve I might have had, not that I was able to immediately recall ever having either where Jerry Don Parker was concerned. I clamped my lips together to keep from saying something stupid, which was good because the tempting tease went out of his eyes and he turned serious. I just hate it when that happens. I let out the breath I’d been holding and tried to pretend I was bored to tears, totally unemotional about everything that he'd said--or the seductive voice he'd said it with. I shifted my lustful thoughts into neutral and tried to figure out where he was headed in his thinking, and it was official thinking. I could tell.

  Jerry closed the yearbook and pushed it toward me. "It would probably be best if you didn’t stay here with your mother."

  It is never best that I stay with my mother, but here I am anyway. "You have a specific reason in mind, I presume."

  Jerry pushed away from the table and stood. "There’s no need to put her in danger also."

  Her also, meaning I’m in danger. I knew that, but somehow, having Jerry say it that way made it more ominous. "Won’t she still be in danger, whether I’m here or not--just because she’s my mother?"

  "The killer went to a great deal of trouble to tell us the next intended victims so it is possible the he might use her to get to you. At this point, however, it doe
sn’t seem likely. Regardless, we’ll keep a watch on the house just to be safe, but you need to be somewhere other than the obvious, and she’s safer without you here."

  No argument from me. I’m not going to fight to be locked up in the house with my mother for God knows how long. "Fine. I’ll take a suite at that new Hilton out by the Falls."

  "I’ll talk to Rick and see what he can swing."

  "Really?" I said, my voice lilting upward at the prospect of somebody else paying for me to be lazy in luxury. Then my mental light bulbs began to flash. "Now, wait a minute. Why should I be in protective custody if you’re not, or are you?"

  Jerry shook his head and stood. "Just you for now. I’ll be fine. This is what I do for a living."

  "Make yourself an available target for a killer?" I stood so I didn’t have to look quite as far up to him. I had seen Jerry in the hospital attached to plastic tubing and surrounded by beeping machinery and I never wanted to see that again. Laid out in a casket wouldn’t be so hot either. "I don’t much think that’s a good plan."

  I had been trying to act rather indifferent and unconcerned about this whole murder thing. You see, Denial is my friend and he keeps Reality--and its companions, Fear and Panic--from making a nuisance of themselves. I have been the target of a killer before and it is not a warm and fuzzy type memory. Hence, Denial allows me to think of pleasant things and focus my attention elsewhere--like on highly unwholesome thoughts of Sheriff Parker. "Just tell Rick to get two rooms."

  Jerry raised a dark brow in mute question.

  I didn’t know what the question was, but I am rarely at a loss for replies. "I don’t see why I should have to suffer alone." I smiled very sweetly and very innocently. "If I need protection, so do you, and just think, we could play gin rummy or something."

  Jerry just shook his head. "Jolene--"

  "You can use the phone to call Rick. I prefer the non-smoking floor and I’m not going alone."

  Chapter 5

  As it turned out, we did not get rooms at the inn--at least not immediately. Jerry raced off to meet Rick and I got a deputy at the door. I was not amused. I’d already played this little game of being held captive at my mother’s house back in July and was not at all interested in another round. However, Detective Rick Rankin, aka Surfer Dude, was apparently intent on having me at his immediate disposal so he was doing his best to run the paperwork through to get me a cell at a hotel somewhere. I did not hold out hopes for the Hilton, but it probably made sense for me to go somewhere else rather than stay here and keep mother captive along with me. Then again, if they were going to guard the house, why not just leave me here too? The killer would expect me to be here, so the risk to Mother was the same either way, right?

  Or maybe they weren’t worried about the risk to either me or my mother. Maybe they just wanted to break up the Jackson Gang, said gang having previously been involved in some questionable--and perhaps felonious--activities. Yes, I had a sneaking suspicion that "divide and conquer" was part of the game plan--and it kind of hurt my feelings.

  After saying nighty-night to the deputy on guard, who was thankfully not a dreaded Harper and one I didn’t recognize from previous captures, I trudged back to my old bedroom. You know, being sent to my room wasn’t a punishment in my younger days, but it certainly was now.

  As much as it pained me to admit it, staying in Kickapoo wasn’t what was really bothering me. It wasn’t even that I’d rather be with Jerry. The real kink in my tail was that I wanted to know what the Redwater Falls Police Department was doing about the case. And no, I do not need anyone to mention that my mother is also inherently desirous of being in the thick of things. This is merely a random coincidence, as I am nothing like my mother and everyone knows it.

  I pulled the chain on the ceiling fan to help stir a breeze into my room, then dug around in my duffel bag for a book. I dug some more. I just knew I’d packed the latest Carl Hiaasen in case of an emergency, such as I was currently experiencing. When reality is just no fun, I find escaping into fictional worlds quite pleasant, thank you.

  Underwear, shorts, tee shirts, shampoo, but no book. Damn.

  I could have rummaged through my mother’s bookcase for something amusing, but the last thing I needed was a hot romance to keep me awake. I swore off those many years ago when it became abundantly clear that entertaining such fantasies was simply a form of self torture.

  No matter how often it happened in a paperback novel, I eventually realized that a godlike bronzed male was not going to parachute down from a passing jet or climb the mountain up to my house and present himself for my pleasure. But, just to be safe, I also quit buying so many Butterfingers and Snickers candy bars, rationalizing that if one did accidentally drop by I needed to be in shape for the event. I dug around again in the bag again, hoping for a miracle, or maybe some chocolate.

  None of the above occurred so I sneaked back into the living room to the bookcase, trying not to disturb the deputy dozing on the couch. There was a small table lamp on so I could sort of see what I was doing. I grabbed a couple paperbacks and hoped for the best. As I turned to leave, a tall thin hardback of yellow ocher caught my eye. Why not?

  Back in my room, propped up against my scratchy blue velvet headboard, I cracked open the aberrant yearbook. Other than my times with Jerry and a few significant accomplishments, I prefer to forget that I ever went to high school. A trip down memory lane was not my idea of fun, but I knew from experience that waiting on the local authorities to come to any prompt investigative conclusions was iffy. It was entirely feasible that a whole bunch of folks could take the plunge at the falls before they had a line on the killer.

  And since I had outsmarted an addle-brained English teacher and a perverted principal while in my teens, I should certainly be wily enough to outwit a killer as an adult. Yes, I know things hadn’t worked out that great a few months ago, but I was older and wiser now, not to mention experienced with bullets.

  I flipped back to the beginning and started on page one, looking for anything and everything, studying every candid shot for a clue, someone in the background scowling, holding up rabbit ears, crossing their eyes, whatever.

  In about three minutes I was sound asleep.

  * * * *

  "Oh, my God!"

  I came wide awake with those words echoing in my head and sat bolt upright in bed. The yearbook. I was dreaming about the pages in the yearbook, the people, Rhonda, Russell, Jerry, me...Calvin...Yes! Calvin! In a group picture. Small group, something around his neck. Yes! The photography club.

  Calvin Holt was not on the yearbook staff--I would have remembered that right away--but he was in the photography club. He always carried his camera around with him, snapping pictures of this and that. Only they weren’t snapshots. His hero had been Ansel Adams so yearbook candid shots were beneath him. How did I know this?

  I reached to the nightstand and switched on the lamp, only then realizing that my heart was pounding and my breathing was erratic. There was something else. Something more I’d remembered in the dream. Why couldn’t I remember it now?

  The yearbook was still on the bed so I grabbed it and turned to the photography club page. It wasn’t much of a club, and considering the school, it was kind of weird that such a thing even existed. Three students and one sponsor posed in front of a black chalkboard, only two holding cameras--Calvin and the teacher, good ol’ Sharon Addleman. A younger boy, maybe a junior if my vague memory held, in a plaid shirt and crew cut, stood beside Calvin. Next to him, her big fat butt--okay, her hip--perched on the edge of a desk, was my dear friend Rhonda Davenport.

  Now that was one I didn’t remember. When did she get into photography? And why? The slut probably joined the club so she could learn the best angles for porn shots.

  Bad, Jolene. Bad!

  Damn that voice. It was becoming highly annoying. And in this case, the good fairy ought not be too hasty chanting at me for being bad. The evil fairy might just have a point this time
. Rhonda could have darn well been plotting some kind of scheme with photos. Nothing concrete came to me, but I was three-quarters asleep and not up to my usual idea-generating best.

  In the photo, the underclassman, one Bud Hinkle, just looked mighty pleased to be having his picture taken. Calvin, however, was positively glowing, probably because his elbow was only inches from the cleavage bulging out of Rhonda’s white peasant blouse. Calvin clutched his camera for dear life and Rhonda looked smug. Sharon Addleman, the supposed sponsor of the group, looked green around the gills even in black and white. Couldn’t blame her. Rhonda had the same effect on me.

  I fumbled around on the nightstand and found my cell phone. I enthusiastically punched in Jerry’s number before I realized that the illuminated hands on the clock pointed somewhere in the vicinity of four a.m. I was debating whether I should hang up or not when Jerry’s very official--if a little graveled--voice came on the line.

  "Sheriff Parker."

  "Jerry, uh, sorry to wake you..."

  "Jolene? What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

  Well, now, this was a bit disconcerting on several levels. "Yes, I’m fine." I’d had a really good reason for calling, now what was it? "Oh, yeah, you see I had this dream..." Lame, Jolene, really lame. "Okay, never mind about that. Jerry, listen, Calvin Holt was in the photography club!" I couldn’t keep the excitement from my voice. "The photography club, Jerry."

  He did not yip with glee over my pronouncement so I tried another angle. "Calvin took pictures."

  "Okay."