“When I asked him how many summonses he had written, he looked at me askance. ‘You said to monitor them. Did you want me to give them speeding tickets?’”
After the table was cleared, Jasmine left to train a class of six-month-old puppies. Hank popped into my office and returned holding a buff file folder with the usual fingerprint smudges. He must have dropped it on my desk so I wouldn’t see it before eating lunch. I recognized the cover and knew it was from his department files.
I groaned audibly while slowly shaking my head.
“Hey, don’t jump to conclusions. This is just to refresh my memory. I want to tell you a story.”
“Sure you do.”
“Don’t be such a cynic. While I’m telling you about this guy, you can stop me any time and I’ll go back to work and you can return to whatever you were doing before I called.”
“All right.” I was remembering how much time he had spent with me during my arrest when I was scared and waiting for trial. How could I stop him before he even asked for a favor? We’d been through this scenario before, but I owed him a big one, several big ones in fact.
“Whatcha got?” I made myself sound like I was interested in hearing his tale. Well, to be honest, it wasn’t all put on; I was sorta curious. Okay, I was very curious. I reminded myself that curiosity killed the cat.
He started his presentation with a question. “Do you remember Jimmy Joe Lane?”
I gave it some thought. “I’m hearing a faint bell, but I can’t bring him to mind. You’ll have to tell me.”
“I didn’t think you’d remember him from school. He was two years ahead of you and dropped out when he was fifteen. You were thirteen when he quit, and probably still playing with dolls.”
“Your memory isn’t too hot either. I was playing with the likes of you and Leroy, not dolls.”
Hank began humming, “Way down upon the Sewanee River.”
I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand to indicate my stupidity.
“Of course, the local hero who had a ballad written about him—new words to a familiar tune—about a good man gone bad and so on. Instead of the Sewanee, it was the Okefenokee. You have to remember, Hank, when he became famous or infamous enough to have a song written about him, I had a life of my own. Not much of a life, I grant you.
“I was working two jobs, Sanders Insurance during the day and Attenburg’s King Steer Steak House at night. Then came the six months’ vacation lying in the hospital having surgery every couple of weeks so I could look human again after Bubba beat me up. Another six months in physical therapy before I could return to work. I’m a little fuzzy on details about a bandit and a ballad during that period.”
“I know,” he said softly. “Did you think I had forgotten? I was right there for you, as much as I could be as a lieutenant under Sheriff Carlson.”
I think I forgot to mention that Hank is also a great manipulator. I forget this character flaw when I’m recounting his virtues. I resigned myself to doing whatever he was about to ask me to do.
“Jimmy Joe Lane is thirty-five now. At eighteen, he and a former buddy got into a hassle and tried to beat each other to a pulp in the parking lot at Porky’s. I had been a deputy three weeks when we got the call. Friends had waded into the fight until there were over a hundred brawling men trading punches and a lot of women pulling hair and scratching when we arrived.
“We had a first-class riot and there were only nine of us on duty. We waded in, taking our lumps like everyone else. We didn’t accomplish anything but black eyes, bruises, two concussions, scraped knuckles, and a few bites from the ladies.
“Two cruisers were overturned and one was set on fire, which resulted in a total loss of one, and two out of service for several days. Sheriff Carlson was beyond anger; he was almost catatonic with hate.” Hank fingered the file.
“Too many of the crowd were voters—he couldn’t arrest them all—so he concentrated on the two who’d started the brawl. Jimmy Joe’s opponent was a county commissioner’s son, so he could only get satisfaction by focusing on Jimmy Joe. Jimmy Joe had a large faithful family behind him, but none of them had any pull. They all contributed to get him a good lawyer so he wouldn’t have to use a court-appointed attorney. His lawyer bargained the charge down to simple assault, with a ninety-day sentence on the county farm. Carlson wasn’t satisfied with the sentence but the district attorney hung tough, so there was nothing he could do.
“This should have been the end of it. Jimmy Joe should have served his ninety days, chalked the time up to experience, and gotten on with his life. There are some men on this earth who cannot accept confinement. Jimmy Joe was first and foremost a swamp baby, then a swamp puppy, and grew into a swamp man. He hadn’t ever traveled more than sixty miles from home. He lived, ate, and breathed the swamp. He can’t make it anywhere else. He walked away from the county farm after serving ten days.”
“Your man sounds as if he’s a couple of bricks short of having a full load. That was dumb.”
“It was a dumb move, but he’s far from stupid. Raised anywhere else and under different circumstances, he could have joined MENSA. His IQ is way up there. He just can’t tolerate being away from his swamp.”
“How long was he free?”
“Three months. He was fishing and his trolling motor quit on him. He was paddling home when the game warden happened to come his way. He was tried for escaping, and given a three-year sentence. The jails were crowded and he would have been released in about ten months, but he escaped again after serving three months. He stayed free six months and was sentenced to seven years. At this point, he owed the state ten years.”
“He just kept digging his grave deeper. How accurate are those IQ tests anyway?”
“His love of swamp life is stronger than his brain. He escaped from Carlton Prison after two years. He was out this time for four years and the sheriff was having duck fits about not being able to catch him. He organized midnight raids, rousted Jimmy Joe’s relatives, and set up roadblocks up the ying-yang.
“This is where his followers turned him into a local hero. He sat on the bed of a friend’s pickup with the tailgate down, swinging his legs and joking with six of his buddies while they were stopped, and they were allowed to drive through four separate roadblocks. This is when the ballad was written and he became a legend.” Hank took a breath.
“Jimmy Joe was now twenty-six years old, and when he was captured this time, he was given another ten years. He escaped again when he was twenty-nine, and was only free eleven days. He was still trying to work his way back home when he was recaptured. This time they gave him twenty years. He’s been a good boy for six years, and this brings us up to the present. Now, at thirty-five, he owes the state thirty-one years.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “The poor schmuck has served enough time for his crime. Why doesn’t someone whisper into the governor’s ear the circumstances of this case, and get him a pardon? Look what it’s costing the state to keep him behind bars and prosecute him for his escapes. He’s not violent and doesn’t pose a threat to anyone. Of course, this would be using common horse sense, which no one in government seems to understand or practice. But you have a reason for telling me this story. What has he done now, escaped again?”
“Nope, it’s not what he’s done, it’s what I think he may do. Last year, he put in a request to be moved closer to his home, citing hardship for his ailing parents to travel so far to visit. He had been held in metro Atlanta for the past six years. The request was granted at the last parole-board hearing. He was moved to Monroe Prison last Tuesday.”
“Uh-oh, I see your problem.”
“Yeah. The move puts him back in my bailiwick, and I don’t relish the hassle and overtime I’ll have, if I have to slog through the Okefenokee to find him.”
“Since when have you slogged through the Okefenokee?”
“Well, you’d do the slogging, but I’d still have the hassle and have to pay overtime for bac
kup. Just remember that your exorbitant fees come out of my department’s budget.”
Hank was referring to my contract with the county to use my bloodhounds to track down criminals, lost or otherwise.
“‘Exorbitant’? Just wait until you get my next statement for services rendered. You’ll see what’s exorbitant!”
“Wrong choice of word,” he added hastily. “Does ‘expensive’ sound any better?”
“I guess. I take it that you drove out and filled me in on Jimmy Joe’s history in case he decides to escape and in case he succeeds and heads our way? Sounds a little premature to me. Maybe he’s learned his lesson.”
“You haven’t heard the whole story, yet. I haven’t told you what arrived in the mail this morning.”
“Are you going to tell me … today?”
“Hold your horses! You’re always anticipating. I want to savor this news. Seems our Jimmy Joe wrote the superintendent weeks ago because he wanted to add another name to the list of people who are cleared to visit him. The person he requested has been vetted and Jimmy Joe has obtained official clearance. Would you like three guesses as to whom he wishes to see?”
“Uh, the architect of the prison? A salesman for extension ladders? A friend with wire cutters? I have no idea. Enlighten me.”
“You.”
Hank was grinning from ear to ear. He saw that he had gotten the expression he was angling for, complete bewilderment plus a healthy dose of surprise.
“Moi?” I said dramatically, clutching my chest and widening my eyes, but it was too little, too late. My initial shock at the news delighted him. He sat there chuckling until I was ready to throttle him.
3
“A Promise to Remember”
August 23, Friday, 1:30 P.M.
“You got me, I was surprised, taken aback, and completely fooled. Now may we move on?”
“If you could have seen your expression!”
“I don’t know Jimmy Joe from Adam’s house cat. Why do you think he wants to see me?”
“Maybe your and your bloodhounds’ fame is spreading into the prisons. He might want to ask you how to keep from being captured by your hounds if he decides to break out of Monroe.”
“That’s a ridiculous suggestion, Hank. What could he want?”
“He might want you to start a movement to try and get him released, just like you suggested a few minutes ago, appeal to the governor or something.”
“I was just supposing,” I said. “I doubt if it would work anyway. That is all you can come up with?”
“I can tell you a surefire way of getting the correct answer to your question. Visiting hours are from one to four on Sunday. Go see him and find out.”
“No way.”
“Why not? Aren’t you curious?”
“A little,” I admitted, “but not enough to waste a trip out there. The place depresses me. It hasn’t been that long ago that I thought I might have to live there for twenty years or so. I pass.”
“You’re not going to see what he wants?”
“Nope. His predicament is not any of my business. I have enough to do here without looking for more.”
We were interrupted at this point when Bobby Lee and Rudy burst through their entrance door and came to meet us. Hank’s face brightened, and he squatted on his heels to greet them.
“Hey, champ, how you been?” He fondled Bobby Lee’s ears. “You’re wet!”
I threw Hank Bobby Lee’s towel, and watched while both of them wrestled on the carpet like children.
Bobby Lee is my special love, a roommate, and a miraculous two-and-a-half-year-old bloodhound. He has over a dozen titles, and would have more if I had time to attend all the bloodhound meets. He’s search and rescue trained and at this point he is at the peak of his profession, both physically and as a scent tracker. He is twenty-six inches at the shoulder, weighs one hundred and fifteen pounds, and has the wonderfully colored coat called bloodhound red.
Rudy stood by and watched the tussle of dog and man, sniffed, and strolled into the kitchen to check his food dish. He wouldn’t have dampened his paws in the creek. Splashing in the dark water was abhorrent to him. He sometimes fishes off the bank at the lowest point. It’s not for the food; he never eats his catch. I am inclined to guess that he loves matching his quickness with a wary trout. He scoops it up on the bank. He’s never understood why Bobby Lee enjoys swimming on hot summer days. He thinks that Bobby Lee is his dog and during the first two years of Bobby Lee’s blindness, he walked by his side to guide, protect, and defend.
Rudy is a twenty-pound overweight black cat with startling green eyes who appeared from out of nowhere several years ago, as feral as any bobcat in the wild. It took me months to tame him before he would let me touch him, and for him to eat and sleep inside. Bobby Lee and I let him think he’s the boss and put up with his nonsense. We’re family.
Hank walked to the desk and handed me the towel. Bobby Lee settled by my right side, and Rudy was back and lay curled beside me on my left.
“Want a glass of iced tea?”
“No, thank you. If you decide to go visit Jimmy Joe Lane after all, will you let me know what he wanted?”
“Of course.”
“Promise?”
“Do you want me to cross my heart and hope to die if I don’t? I said I would. Isn’t that enough?”
Hank stood and looked uncertain. “Well, I passed on the message. I’d better be going, so you can get back to work.”
“Don’t hurry off. Stay awhile.”
Southern manners call for a polite protest at the first mention of leaving. As I didn’t press him to stay by asking him the second time, which is how you judge just how much visitors desire your company, he reluctantly departed.
Wayne and Donnie Ray were at the door before he could clear it. They stopped and greeted him.
Wayne Frazier is my kennel manager. He’s twenty-two years old, bright, with a large open face, and is totally deaf. He’s wonderful with the animals and I consider him indispensable. He usually has a wide infectious grin, but lately he seemed almost somber and moody. Something was bothering him and I was worried about him, but until he was ready to tell me, I couldn’t pry any information out of him with a crowbar.
Donnie Ray Carver is my videographer. He is self-taught, tough and feisty, and has an ego as big as a barn. He has blond hair and blue eyes and his mannerisms remind me of the late actor James Dean. I would have thought the girls would flock to him, but they kid him like a younger brother and try out their amateur wiles on his roommate, Wayne. Donnie and Wayne live upstairs over the garage area, to the left of the main kennel.
I made a glass of iced tea and sat at my desk waiting for them to finish their conversation with Hank.
They both flopped on the two side chairs in front of my desk looking as nervous as the cat that had just swallowed the canary.
I kept my eyes on Wayne as his hands flashed his message.
“Four out of six just qualified for their field trials, out of the C class. The trainers are running the two that failed on the one-mile search this afternoon. Nathan laid the trail yesterday.”
Donnie Ray chimed in.
“The afternoon feeding is all mixed, and Doc is doing the rounds and feeding at five. He’ll handle the fourth feeding for the puppies.” Donnie Ray rushed his words, trying to get them all out before I could ask any questions.
I raised an eyebrow at Wayne and remained silent.
“Davis Racetrack is having a demolition derby this afternoon to make up for the rain check they passed out last Sunday.”
“It starts at three,” Donnie Ray added quickly.
“Then you’d better get a move on. Davis is thirty miles away. Have fun.”
They both grinned and started toward the door.
“Donnie!”
He stopped in his tracks. “Yes, ma’am?”
“No speeding!”
“Yes, ma’am!”
I sat and sipped my iced te
a and stared at the pile of mail centered on my desk. It was feed bills, leather-goods invoices, credit-card statements, and much more. I write checks twice a month to pay my bills. Just a few short months ago, my pulse would have raced and I would have agonized over which ones to pay, and which ones I would put off for another two weeks.
Thanks to the generosity of my late client, Ms. Cancannon of Cat Key, I now had more than sufficient funds to operate and sustain my business. I didn’t need to sweat anymore over my bank balance, but I still didn’t enjoy the paperwork. I sighed and got to work. I wrote checks steadily and dutifully and tried not to mess up the computer. Wayne keeps neat, accurate records and is constantly cleaning up blunders that I commit. I am cursed with gremlins. If it has an electrical plug or operates on batteries, I’m jinxed.
I finished in time for a leisurely soak in the tub before Jasmine and Susan arrived. Friday nights are for viewing old movie classics, drinking beer, and eating pizza. The three of us are perennial losers when it comes to men. Dateless, we gather for some serious activities: gossiping, dissecting men, and pigging out.
I pulled on an old pair of white shorts that threatened to slip past my hips. I had to keep yanking the shorts up. A faded red T-shirt completed my outfit.
When Susan walked in, she eyed me critically and gave a theatrical sigh.
“We have to go shopping, Sidden. It’s becoming critical. You look as if you’re dressed to paint the barn.”
I gave her the once-over as I tossed pillows on the floor so we could lounge around in comfort.
Susan Comstock, my best friend since the first grade, was as fashion conscious as a New York model. She wore fabulous clothes. Her doting parents, who wished to see her married and producing grandchildren, lavishly supplemented her wardrobe.
A Bloodhound to Die for Page 2
