Harley did little more than stick his nose in the half-open barn door before moving on to what remained of the wildflower garden—now more weeds than flowers—that Lester fussed with every spring. The dog was hoping that some careless rabbit might have mistaken the plot for a safe haven. It was not to be and the Lab moved on, working his way down the fencerow.
The sound of gravel crunching in the lane broke Lester’s reverie as a solid black 1995 Z28 Camaro jerked to a stop. Deputy Billy Ray Ledbetter slid out and made his way across the lawn favoring one foot, the limp noticeable. Lester met him at the door as Harley raced to join them.
“Jesus, Sheriff, you still in your skivvies? I thought we had a missing person to find.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Billy Ray. Sit still a minute and talk to the dog. I’ll be ready when I’m ready.”
For the better part of a year, Lester and Billy Ray had worked together busting meth labs in southeast Sequoyah County. But it wasn’t the same job after Lester retired and rather than stay in law enforcement, Billy Ray joined the Army. It was an unfortunate decision. His military career was shortened by a rocket propelled grenade exploding into a boulder next to where Billy Ray had taken shelter during an attack. The shrapnel shattered several bones in his right foot, prompting a medical discharge. Back in the states and after months of rehab, Billy Ray needed a job. The Sequoyah County Sheriff’s office had promised him his old job back if he wanted it, but when he inquired, he was told that there were no openings at the moment. The goods news, he found, was that Sheriff Morrison had gone back to work and was now living in the Panhandle. Billy Ray made a call. Lester was surprised to hear from one of his former deputies, but extended an invitation to come out and take a look. If he liked the area—and pending county budget approval—he could go to work immediately. The very next day Billy Ray headed for Boise City, hoping to get his old life back.
Harley had his muzzle all over the young man, begging for attention, his tail wagging ninety miles an hour. Billy Ray knew the drill and looked for a stick to throw. Inside, Lester checked his uniform. He wasn’t sure how many days he had worn the same shirt. He sniffed the armpits, shrugged, and slipped it on. There were matching pants of course, but Lester never wore them, opting for his familiar and far more comfortable Wrangler blue jeans. The alligator cowboy boots followed, also a little worse for wear. A Stetson straw hat hung on a peg near the front door and he grabbed it on the way out. His sidearm, a Colt .45 revolver along with the belt and cartridges, he carried outside and carefully lay in the seat of the County’s F-150 Ford pickup. Naturally, the county had wanted him to drive their old Ford sedan, a six year old model with 150,000 miles on it, but Lester had made it plain; Get me a 4-wheel drive pickup or find another man for the job.
“B.R., you gonna dick around with that dog all day or are we gonna go fight crime?” As the deputy stepped to the passenger side of the truck, Harley gave his owner an inquiring look. “Not today buddy, maybe next time. You stay now, you hear?” The dog sank to the ground, its amber eyes pleading. “No. You be a good dog. I’ll see you this evening.”
As they pulled out of the drive, Lester gave the Camaro an admiring look. “For a fifteen year old car, that thing still looks pretty good. Been slapping the polish to it I’d guess. You got it shinin’ like a diamond in a goat’s ass. How’s it run?”
“Faster than you wanna know.”
“Don’t doubt that. I catch you breakin’ the speed limit; I’ll give you a ticket so fast, it’ll make your head spin.
Billy Ray grinned. “What’s the story on this missing girl? Only thing Nelda told me was that she didn’t come home last night.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s probably nothin’. You know how teenagers are.”
“I do,” Billy Ray said, “but I’m surprised that you remember, old as you are.” Lester checked for traffic before pulling onto the blacktop and eased the truck up to the 60 mile an hour speed limit.
“Keep that kind of talk up and I’ll jerk you out of that seat and show you just how old I am.” Billy Ray smiled but said nothing, watching the scenery slide by. A good sized herd of Black Angus cattle, fifty or more, grazed along a grassy depression on the north side of the road, the sun dancing on and off their coats as they moved. Up ahead, a Red-tailed Hawk sat on a weathered fence post, its sharp eyes watching the short grass along the highway for any movement, not bothering to look up as the Ford sped past.
“You know what I like about this part of Oklahoma?” Billy Ray said. “It has a beauty all its own. All these plains, uncluttered, clean air, and you can see for miles. No cities, at least no big cities, just a few little towns for things you need; doctors, hardware, and groceries, things like that.”
“I hear you,” Lester agreed. “I sure don’t need to be dealing with gangs, and killings, and bank robberies. No sir. Just give me a few speeders and drunks and maybe a larceny now and then. I’ve had all the excitement in my life I want.”
“Afghanistan was all I needed,” Billy replied.
The Sheriff shot his deputy a look. The young man continued to wear his hair military style, close on the sides with a small brush up top. Physical fitness remained a priority in Billy Ray’s civilian life, thick through the chest, his biceps plainly visible and bulging beneath his khaki shirt. He was lean around the middle, even more so than the skinny sheriff, and confirmed by his size 32 jeans. Unlike Lester, Billy Ray preferred his old Army camo footwear rather than the traditional cowboy boots favored by most residents in the county. He continued to stare out the side window as the miles passed.
“How’s the foot?” Lester asked. “I saw you limpin’ back there at the house.”
“Considering what’s left of it, not that bad I guess. Some days are worse than others.”
Lester had never heard the full story, how Billy Ray’s platoon had been ambushed by the Taliban, how men had died that day. Billy Ray wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk about any of it and Lester didn’t push it. Some day, when the time was right, the details would come out.
Traffic on the highway was light as usual with only a few pickups and an occasional cattle truck. Most east-west traffic in this part of the country used I-70 to the north or I-40, about a hundred and twenty miles south, leaving the narrow two-lane to the locals. Many of the homes alongside the road were similar to the Sheriff’s, one story, clapboard, and built in the 60’s and 70’s. Only a few sported attached garages, most making do with pole-barns to shelter their cars and tractors. New construction in Cimarron County was mostly limited to town folks, and there was very little of that. During the past decade, one plagued with high temperatures and drought, a lot of the farmers had quit and moved out, some relocated to town to try and eke out a living doing whatever they could find. Most went east to Enid or Tulsa or Oklahoma City, leaving the land to the ranchers and their cows.
The pickup made a slight left turn, leaving Highway 412 and onto U.S. 56 going northeast. Passing through the town of Keyes, population 350, Lester took a look at his gas gauge. Pumps of any kind were scarce in this end of Oklahoma, and it paid to be vigilant lest you find yourself on the side of some lonely road with an empty tank and no cell phone service. The needle showed a half a tank.
“Flute Festival,” Billy Ray said.
“Huh?”
“The sign on the pole, it says ‘Flute Festival’. Probably the wildest thing they do here, toot on a flute.”
“I doubt it,” Lester said, “But what’s wrong with playing a flute?”
“Nothing, just saying.” Billy Ray pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. “According to Nelda’s directions, you need to turn south at the next intersection. Look for a roadside bar, then about a quarter mile past that.”
“I know the bar,” Lester said. “Been there a couple of times. Once for a fight where one guy had to be hospitalized and another time when I heard the owner was serving minors. He denied it of course, but I warned him about it anyways.”
Chapter 3
A few minutes later, the Pirate’s Den Lounge appeared on the left. There were no vehicles of any kind in the gravel parking lot. Out front, a metal awning covered a wooden deck strewn with plastic tables and chairs. There was a well-worn divan shoved against the outside wall of the bar but only partially out of the weather. Its green vinyl covering was torn and stained. Yellow foam puffed through one end where a drunken patron had kicked it in. The Coors beer sign in the window was dark.
Lester drove on, spotted the road he was looking for, and turned south for another half mile before entering the yard of Mr. and Mrs. Albert Parker. The house was a modest two story, at least 40 years old, maybe more, and in desperate need of upkeep. The paint—once white, but now a pale yellow—curled and peeled away from the gray and rotting boards beneath. Several sections of the cement walkway leading to the house had wide cracks with uneven jagged gaps. A John Deere tractor and assorted farm machinery—most of it rusty and surrounded by weeds—lay scattered across the property.
A spring-loaded screen door at the front of the house slammed shut. Imogene Parker stepped off the front porch and hurried toward the pickup. She wore a simple cotton dress, pink with faded blue flowers, and long—the hem almost touching her shoes. Her thin black hair was streaked with more gray than her age belied. Eyes wet with tears, her haggard face sagged with fear and concern. Mr. Parker was nowhere in sight.
“Good morning, Ma’am. I’m Sheriff Lester P. Morrison and this fella is Deputy Ledbetter. Have you heard anything from your daughter?”
“Not a word and I am so scared. Something’s happened to her, something bad; I just know it. I’ve never had a dread like this before. Can you find her for me, Sheriff?”
“We’ll try, Ma’am. Now, have you looked over your entire property, the sheds, in the attic, your car, places where she might have crawled in and gone to sleep?”
Imogene took a quick look around as if she might have missed something. “Oh yes, at least twice. I’ve looked everywhere. There’s no sign of her. It’s like an evil spirit took her from the face of the earth.”
Lester added, “And her friends, you’ve contacted them?”
“The only really good friend she has is Becky; she lives just down the road.” The woman pointed south with a long bony finger. “I called over there, first thing this morning, but Becky’s mom said they hadn’t seen Melissa, not recently anyway. The family was in Boise City till late last night, gettin’ groceries and visiting an uncle. Becky said the last time she saw Melissa was yesterday afternoon on the school bus, coming home.”
Lester said, “Does your daughter have a car?”
“Oh no, we can’t afford two cars. We can barely keep the one we have running. Repairs and gas cost so much these days.”
Billy Ray asked, “Could someone have met your daughter out front or up on the highway, a boy friend maybe?”
The woman thought about that for a moment, her gaze swinging to the blacktop as if her Melissa might come walking down the road at any minute. “That’s possible I suppose. But if Melissa has a regular boy friend, she never told me about him. Thing is, we have only the one phone in the living room. I didn’t hear her call anyone and nobody called the house. Melissa doesn’t have a cell phone. Those things cost a fortune.”
Lester asked, “What was the girl wearing, Ma’am, the last time you saw her?”
“Just a simple t-shirt, white I think. I don’t recall if there was any picture or anything on the front. Maybe she took her sweater. I’m not sure. She was wearing a skirt, blue denim, and well, it was kinda short. That’s what started the squabble.”
“Where does Melissa go to school, Mrs. Parker, Keyes or Boise City?”
“Boise City, she’s a cheerleader on their football team, the Bobcats,” she said with a suggestion of a smile, a mother’s pride.
Billy Ray spoke up. “Who was the last one to see Melissa, you or Mr. Parker?
Imogene hesitated. Her eyes darted toward the house as her brow furrowed tight with an additional wrinkle. She swiped at a wisp of wind-blown hair and patted it into place. Then, “It was my husband…Albert. I’ll tell him you want to see him.”
When the woman was out of earshot, Billy Ray said, “What do you think?”
Lester didn’t answer immediately, intent on watching the front door, but then, “I think I find it a little strange that the father didn’t come out here to talk to us when his wife did. Off hand, I can’t figure why a man would have anything more important to do than to find out what’s happened to his daughter…unless he already knows.”
“Maybe he was in the john.” Billy Ray said. “Oh, here he comes now.”
Albert Parker stood five foot six, stocky with a tanned and wrinkled face ravaged by years of exposure to the sun, dust, and wind. He wore faded blue overalls, frayed around the edges, the legs coming an inch short of touching the top of his mud-encrusted boots. A dark green ball cap, stained with old sweat and sporting a John Deere logo, was jammed down tight to his forehead. The bill failed to hide the scowl on his leathery face. He positioned himself directly in front of the sheriff, no more than two feet away, his body language plainly confrontational, and folded his arms across his ample chest. Billy Ray took the cue and moved a step sideways placing himself on the sheriff’s left, ready to move in if needed.
“You boys gonna go look for my little girl or stand out here and bullshit with my wife all day?” Albert turned his head and let go with a stream of brown tobacco juice, a drop or two landing on Lester’s alligator boots.
Lester’s eyes got narrow and his mouth tight. “Why would you be trying to rile me, Mr. Parker? I’m here to help you.”
Albert gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m not trying to rile anybody. I just want you to do your goddamned job.”
Lester took a deep breath before he spoke. “What was your argument about last night Mr. Parker, the one between you and your daughter?”
Albert turned and glared at his wife. Imogene, her head bowed and hands clasped tightly at her waist, said nothing. To the Sheriff, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business. How’s that gonna solve anything?”
“Just answer the question please, Mr. Parker.”
“We argued about what we always argue about, the way she dresses. Goes to school looking like a whore, wearing those tight pants and such. Got that flashy jewelry hanging all over her, lipstick, eye shadow, all that street whore stuff. Got a mouth on her too. Sasses me she does. No respect for her parents, none.”
Imogene raised her head as if to say something but didn’t, and went back to staring at the ground.
“I’d had enough of her looking like a harlot, so last night I went into her closet. Cleaned it out I did, at least most of it, tossed all those short skirts, makeup, and sparkly crap in a trash bag, hauled it off, and dumped it. When I got back, she was gone. End of story. She’ll show up soon enough, come slinkin’ back here with her tail between her legs. You’ll see. Now unless you got some more foolish questions, I got work to do.”
“One more thing,” Lester said, his words crisp and close. “Where bouts’ did you dump the clothes?”
The question seemed to take Albert by surprise. “Well, I started to throw them in the ditch… but that would be against the law wouldn’t it?” he said, a half sneer on his lips. “I took em’ to that bar up the road, the Pirates’ Den. They got a dumpster in the back. Anything else?”
Lester let the question hang a moment. “Not right now. Just don’t take any European vacations for a while.”
“You trying to be a funny man, Mr. Sheriff?” Albert said, dropping his hands. Billy Ray tensed. Lester smiled, “Maybe a little.” Albert held his ground, but only for a moment, then spun and stomped away in the direction of the tractor and never looked back.
“Ma’am?” the sheriff said. Imogene raised her head showing hollow eyes and a mask of desperation on her face. “Let’s wait a little while longer for Melissa to show up. In the meantime,
it would help if you could make us a list of her school friends, especially boyfriends and anyone else, or places she might have gone. Even if you think it’s a long shot, jot it down. While you’re doing that, the deputy and I will talk to the neighbors and write up a report. Try not to worry too much, Mrs. Parker. I know you’re upset, any mama would be, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, these things have a happy ending. Okay?”
Imogene slowly nodded and turned for the house, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue from the pocket of her dress. Then she turned and said, “I would have gone looking for her right away, I wanted to, but Albert told me to come to bed…you know.” Her eyes went back to the ground. “I was so tired and before I knew it, I’d fallen asleep. When I woke up, it was daylight. That’s when I called.” She stood a moment, watching Albert as he fussed around with the John Deere, and then without another word, went inside.
Billy Ray said, “You catch that bruise on her cheek?”
“Yep.”
“You think maybe Mr. Parker’s been beatin’ on her some?”
“Yep.”
“Seems to me, a man that beats on his wife might do the same to his daughter, or worse.”
“Yep.”
“Your vocabulary is running a little shallow today ain’t it, Sheriff.”
“I’m still a little miffed with that man’s attitude. Get in the truck, Billy Ray.”
At the end of the lane, Lester paused and looked both ways. “Chances are, Melissa went to Becky’s place, saw nobody was home, and decided to hang around and wait on her.”
The deputy raised an eyebrow. “You think she might still be there, hiding out somewhere?”
“Possible. Let’s us go to Becky’s and look around, see for ourselves. Wouldn’t be the first time one teenager lied for another.”
Billy Ray pointed to the clock in the dashboard. “Becky would have left for school by this time.”
“Aw crap, you’re right. Well, we can talk to Becky’s folks at least, try to get a feel about Melissa and that asshole father of hers. I’m gonna drive slow and stay close to the shoulder of the road. You watch the ditch on your side. Can’t rule out a hit and run. We’ll do the other side on the way out.”
Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel Page 2
