Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel

by Warren Williams

  “Sheriff, you’re acting like this is something more than a runaway. We got a kid gets mad at her daddy and walks out; happens all the time. Hell, I did it myself once or twice when I was that age. How is this any different?”

  In the distance, Lester watched as two crows lifted from a dead tree, their raucous caw…caw carrying across the field. “Smart birds, those crows. They know when there’s danger about. Too bad humans don’t have that same kind of instinct. Billy Ray, I’m just like Melissa’s mom, I gettin’ a bad feeling about this. I think somethin’ may have happened to that girl. I’m not sure what but I don’t like what I’m hearin’. Just a hunch though.”

  Billy Ray nodded. By now, he knew Lester P. Morrison well enough to show a good measure of respect for the man and his intuition. He was a good sheriff and didn’t miss much. He could read people and had a way of winnowing the truth from the lies. More often than not, his hunches had proven correct.

  Less than a quarter mile down the road another house appeared, similar in size to the Parker place but obviously better cared for with a well-tended lawn and manicured flowerbeds. A middle-aged woman in tan slacks and a dark brown blouse stood in the driveway with the door open on a late model Chevy Malibu. A pair of sunglasses rested atop her short dark hair. She stopped when she saw the six-pointed star decal on the pickup, and waited until the two men came to a halt alongside and got out.

  “Sheriff Morrison and Deputy Ledbetter, Ma’am,” Lester said, “Would you be Becky’s mom?”

  “Yes, my name’s Dora. Dora Wilson. I was just on my way over to the Baptist Church in Keyes. I volunteer in the office a couple days a week. Is this about Melissa? Don’t tell me she hasn’t come home yet.”

  “I’m afraid not, Ma’am. We wanted to check for ourselves that Melissa hasn’t been here. You know how kids are; they’re not always completely honest with their folks are they?”

  Dora wasn’t buying the assumption. “Well, I suppose that’s true with most kids, but my Becky doesn’t lie to me. The straight truth is that I haven’t seen Melissa for several days; I believe it was last weekend, now that I remember about it. Becky went straight to bed after we got home last night bein’ as how this is a school day today. I watched her get on the bus this morning, alone. I’m pretty sure the girls didn’t do more than talk to each other yesterday, you know, after school and all.”

  “Do you know the Parkers well, Mrs. Wilson?” Billy Ray asked. “Are you friendly with them?”

  “No, I barely know ‘em, enough to say hi, that’s about it. Imogene—Mrs. Parker—seems pleasant enough. At least she smiles and waves when I pass by. But not Albert, he’s a hard case; gruff, always looks like he’s mad at somebody, wanting to fight or something. I want nothing to do with that man. My husband Tom avoids him too. Imogene called me once about a recipe for sour cream raisin pie; one of the few times I ever said more than a few words to her. Albert had seen a picture of that pie somewhere and demanded that Imogene make one for him. Shouldn’t say this I suppose, but I hope Albert choked on it.”

  Lester asked another question. “What about Melissa? What kind of kid is she?”

  “Good kid, regular kid. Gets good grades. Polite. Goes to church. Most Sunday mornin’s, when Imogene’s not feeling well, we stop by and pick her up. She and Becky have a great time together. Thing is, I get the feeling that Melissa can’t wait to graduate, get out on her own someplace, get out of that house, and away from that overbearing father of hers.”

  Lester nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilson. If you should see Melissa or hear anything of her whereabouts, would you give us a call at the Sheriff’s office? The number’s in the front of your phone book.”

  Dora Wilson promised to call. Lester and Billy Ray headed back north, back to the highway, going slow, searching the ditches, hoping they wouldn’t find a dead girl lying in the weeds.

  Chapter 4

  By mid-morning, Melissa figured out where she was, maybe not where exactly, but more like what kind of place she was in. “It’s a tornado shelter, that’s what it is, a fraidy hole.” she said, continuing to speak aloud as if the sound of her own voice could scare away any unseen predators. “I’ve seen them before, plenty of times. Half the farms around here have one. Oklahoma has what, more tornadoes every year than anywhere but Texas? I think that’s right…or maybe it was Florida. Then again, this could be a root cellar like what my grandma put her canned foods in. I bet it was at one time anyway.”

  She was starting to feel a little better now, both mentally and physically, the panic replaced by a small but growing sense of dread. The throbbing, blinding headache that made her stomach lurch with every movement had ebbed into a dull, but tolerable pain behind her eyes. Feeling beneath her skirt, she once again touched her vagina and winced, her lips forming a small O as the tender flesh reacted to the pressure. Pain was one thing, but thirst was another. Licking her lips, she tried to work up some saliva, but her taste buds, still vile with vomit from the night before, rejected the effort, forcing her to spit it out.

  At least there was one small piece of good news. Whatever was making that rustling noise on the floor, that scary sound that triggered her living nightmare and nearly pushed her over the edge, had thankfully gone silent, or better yet, left the cellar…somehow. Returning to the top of the stairs, she gave the door another push with exactly the same maddening results as with her previous efforts, a metallic bang, the same small gap, not an inch more. The angle of the sun had changed and now Melissa could see the bottom of the cellar, at least the first couple of feet around the base of the stairs. A solid mat of leaves and twigs—nature’s carpet—covered most of the floor.

  One of the larger sticks gave her an idea. She dropped the door and it fell with a resounding clang, the volume of it catching her by surprise. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust, still couldn’t see, and began feeling her way down the steps. Safely on the floor, she shuffled forward until her toes made contact. She wrapped her fingers around the circumference of the stick, judging the thickness. It seemed about right. Back at the top of the stairs, she jammed the branch between the ledge and the door, blocking it open as far as the mysterious obstruction on the other side would permit.

  “There, that’s a little better,” she said, her spirit rising by the minute. “Now, let’s see what kind of new home I have.”

  Cautiously, and keeping both hands in front of her, Melissa explored the darkness, touching, feeling, hoping for something, anything, to aid her escape. Nearing the rear of the cellar, she made out a dim shape, an object of some kind, leaning against one wall.

  “What’s this?” she said as she ran her fingertips over the find. “Oh, it feels like a lawn chair.”

  Taking it to the light, she unfolded the cheap aluminum frame, tested the webbing, decided it was safe, and sat down.

  “Somebody carried this down here to wait out the storms. Good idea. Thank you, whoever you were.”

  On her next foray, she found another prize, even better than the first.

  “Ah ha, a cot, a folding cot. Even better than a chair. Army surplus?”

  Pushing a few of the leaves out of the way with her foot, she spread the old wooden legs, and pushed on the fabric. It held.

  “Super. Now I can get my feet up and away from things that want to bite my toes. What more could a girl ask for? Well, maybe a little food and water and some FREAKING WAY TO GET OUT OF HERE!” she yelled, her anger replacing the fear. “On second thought, forget the food, not right now. But a glass of cold water would be to die for.” Slapping her hand to her mouth, the realization of her words sank in.

  “To die for. Well Melissa, unless you find a way to get your young butt out of here, that could happen, right? Right? Well, shit.”

  Melissa seldom used cuss words and never around her parents of course. Her mom would have a cow. Her dad, on the other hand would simply slap her across the mouth as he usually did when she said something to displease him. It hadn’t taken her long to
learn how to stay quiet and speak only when spoken to if her dad was around. Life on the farm was easier that way.

  Melissa reached the far end of her confinement and touched the clammy concrete. Working from left to right, her fingers moved the length of the wall, searching, feeling, seriously hoping not to touch another spider web. Then, another object…a board, a shelf? Using her right hand as a guide for perspective, she slowly swept her left along the top of the board, feeling the accumulated dirt and grime from years of abandonment. Another shape, round this time. A bottle or a jar? Using both hands, she carefully carried whatever it was to the stairs and into better light. It was a jar, a quart jar, like her granny used to put peaches in. There was something inside. She held it higher for a better look. And there, pretty as you please, was a candle, a big fat candle, at least three inches high. Beside it, a small box of Diamond brand matches, strike anywhere it said on the box.

  “Oh sweet Jesus, thank you, thank you.”

  Chapter 5

  The quick search of the ditches between the highway and the Wilson place proved fruitless; no signs of foul play, no suspicious ruts, no articles of clothing, and no dead girls. At the junction to the highway, the Sheriff’s pickup idled in front of a bullet-riddled stop sign, a common condition for red octagons in rural Cimarron County. Lester stared through the windshield, deep in thought. After five minutes of silence and not one inch of forward progress, Billy Ray broke the silence. “I think we need to wait it out, at least till this evenin’, and see if she shows up. Right now, we got nothing. Besides, when’s the last time this county had a kidnapping, or any major crime for that matter, a hundred years ago?”

  Neither Lester nor the truck responded to the question. All was quiet. The highway was void of traffic, not a single vehicle coming or going, nothing moving but the trees in the wind and a few fluffy clouds on the western horizon. Billy Ray was accustomed to these lapses in conversation and knew that Lester would answer…eventually. The deputy closed his eyes, leaned his head against the rest, and waited.

  “It was a hundred and three years ago to be exact,” Lester said.

  “What was?”

  “The last major crime in Cimarron County. It was in 1909, in Boise City. Sheriff Ben Milligan arrested a man that was wanted in Texas. But the sheriff made a mistake—a big one. He let his prisoner use a bathroom before taking him to jail. The guy came out of the john with a gun and shot old Ben graveyard dead.”

  “Sheriff,” Billy Ray said with a hint of exasperation, “That girl ran off and is holed up with a boyfriend somewhere, scared to go home; knowing her father is gonna beat her. I can’t see anything more than that. Your little history lesson just proves my point, those kind of things just don’t happen around here anymore.

  “Proves one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re overdue.”

  Lester goosed the pickup, slinging gravel from the rear tires, and swung onto the highway heading southwest. The temperature had climbed to seventy-four, the heat feeling good in the cab. As was usual during an Oklahoma mid-morning, the wind had picked up, and was now gusting between 10 and 15 mph. Up ahead, a tumbleweed, seeking moisture for its seeds to propagate, broke loose from its root and rolled toward the road. But its quest for renewed life was unsuccessful, coming to rest against a barbed wire fence with others of its kind, the dry, cracked earth beneath unable to support life.

  Billy Ray kept one eye on the Sheriff, waiting for more words of wisdom, but the old lawman said nothing until they reached the parking lot of the Pirate’s Den bar. Lester drove around to the back and stopped at a large tan Dumpster. The lid was open. The aroma of stale beer and week-old trash was strong. A black plastic trash bag lay on top of the heap.

  “Billy Ray, why don’t you hop in there in and get that bag? I’d do it but I’m not quite as spry as I used to be.”

  “My ass. Why is it I only hear the old man excuse when there’s dirty work involved?”

  Lester grinned while the deputy—still cussing to himself—jumped in the middle of the beer bottles and cigarette butts.

  “Here,” Billy Ray said with a grunt as he tossed the bag to the ground. “You got enough strength to open this by yourself or should I do it?”

  “Oh, you go ahead. I’ll watch and see how it’s done.”

  Hoping to avoid as much of the barroom slime as possible, Billy Ray used his pocketknife to slit the bag open. Both men peered in. It was full of clothes, all female; dresses, skirts, a sequined blouse, some high heels, and a pair of lacy black panties lay on top of the heap.

  “Throw that in the back of the truck, Billy Ray. We’ll go through ‘em back at the station. Look for blood.”

  The deputy wrinkled his face. “Blood? Are you serious? You really think her father might have killed her?”

  “We can’t rule it now, can we?”

  At the Keyes city limits, Lester slowed to the legal speed, checked the gas gauge again, decided he had enough, and kept going. Fourteen miles later, on the outskirts of Boise City, Lester said, “I’m gonna drop you off at the station to go through those clothes and start a missing person report. I’m gonna head on over to the high school, see if Melissa’s might be there. Be just like a kid to go on to school without botherin’ to phone home first.”

  “You sure you want me to write it up as a missing person?” Billy Ray asked. “Hell, she hasn’t been gone for a whole day yet. I thought a person had to have disappeared for 72 hours before they can be declared as missing.”

  Lester shook his head. “Nope, that’s a popular misconception. It’s entirely reasonable to classify a person as missing if they disappear under violent or unusual circumstances. It’s up to the discretion of law enforcement. That would be me and you, Billy Ray, and I’m sayin’ Melissa Parker is missing.”

  “And if she’s not at school?”

  “Then you and I are gonna get real busy, real quick.”

  *****

  At the town square, Lester made a turn and drove to the back of the courthouse, a two-story brick building, tan with four prominent and ornate columns atop a flight of concrete steps. Billy Ray pulled the trash bag out of the back and dragged it across the lawn to a door marked Sheriff in big gold letters on a frosted window. Under the title was a decorative five-pointed star with another smaller star featuring a banner that read Cimarron County. The deputy drug the bag past the front office with the two metal desks where he and Lester shared one out-dated computer, and into the back room. He spread the young girl’s clothes on a long table and carefully looked at each garment for rips, tears, or any suspicious stains. He felt slightly uneasy handling Melissa’s undergarments, especially when he came across a bright red thong. Other than the short skirts, a couple of scoop-neck tee’s, and two other pair of underwear—one pink, one black, both high cut—Billy Ray found nothing that would set any reasonable caring father into a fit of rage, much less give him a reason to kill. There were no bloodstains visible to the naked eye, nor anything that looked like semen on the panties or skirts. He bagged the clothing in a new sack, labeled it, and stuffed the black smelly one in the trash can. Returning to his desk, he found the proper form, and began to write: Parker, Melissa, female, Caucasian, age 18.

  The Boise City high school was an older building, three stories, with arched windows and doorways. There was an adequate parking lot filled with cars and pickups, most were older models, but some were tricked up with racy chrome wheels and low profile tires. There were some notable exceptions, a shiny Pontiac G6, a 2011 GMC Terrain SUV, and at the end of the lot, taking up two spaces, was a new Ford Mustang, metallic gray, exactly like the one so often seen on the TV commercials.

  Lester pulled the pickup into a space marked Visitors and got out. Next to the sidewalk, an American flag flapped loudly in the wind, its chain banging against the metal pole. Inside, he found a room marked Office and stuck his head in the door. A heavyset woman at a desk covered with papers, looked up, her face surprised
at the sight of a badge.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes Ma’am. Would you be so kind as to check and see if a girl by the name of Melissa Parker is in school today?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so. Is something wrong?”

  Lester hesitated, wondering how much information to release at this particular point in time, but said, “Ma’am, I really don’t know. It seems Melissa had an argument at home last night and walked out. Never came back. Probably just a teenage kid thing, but we wanted to check it out, make sure she’s okay.”

  The woman smiled. “Oh, I know how that is. I went through all that stuff with my boy Jeff when he was that age. His parents were the stupidest people on earth. Then he got older and in only a year or two, our IQ shot straight up. She chuckled silently to herself, her ample bosom shaking in amusement. “Let me just check today’s attendance on the computer. I thought I’d never get the hang of these things. She tapped the keyboard a few times. The corners of her mouth turned down and her brow furrowed. “Oh my, no, Melissa is absent. That’s unusual for her. She has a great attendance record going back to her sophomore year; been here every day except for that one time she had the flu.”

  Lester nodded and asked, “Do you think I could talk with Becky Wilson? I understand she and Melissa are good friends.”

  “Sure you can, Sheriff. Let me look and see what class she’s in.” After a moment, “Here she is, Algebra. Have a seat. I’ll just step down the hall and fetch her.”

  Lester didn’t want to take a seat; he wanted to walk, pace the floor a little, his anxiety growing by the hour. As he stepped toward the hall, a man in a white shirt and orange tie emerged from an inner office.