“Ma’am?” the Sheriff asked, “Any news?”
“None,” she said, as her eyes grew watery once again.
“Mrs. Parker, do you think it would be all right if my deputy and I looked around a little bit? I’d like to see Melissa’s room if I could, maybe get a photo that I could borrow for a while?”
“A picture, yes, of course. I have several. Melissa is our only child you know. Please come in.”
The door swung open with the invitation and as Imogene stepped away, Lester turned to Billy Ray and lowered his voice, “Check all those out-buildings where the machinery is, the barn too.”
“What if Albert shows up?”
“Shoot him.”
“What?”
“Just deal with it, Billy Ray. I’ll meet you back at the pickup.”
The interior of the Parker home was like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. The furniture was eerily similar to the television setting of Happy Day’s or Leave it to Beaver. Off to the right, Lester caught a glimpse of a spotless kitchen. A blue Formica table with chrome legs and matching vinyl chairs filled most of the room. The living room had a hardwood floor with colorful throw rugs, a stone fireplace with a print of The Last Supper above the mantle, and an oversized easy chair—presumably Albert’s—in front of a small screen television. A sectional bookcase sat at the base of the staircase, its shelves packed with small statues of cats and dogs. An obviously well used copy of the Holy Bible, the open pages faded and worn, lay on a coffee table of polished walnut, directly in front of a flowered divan. There was not a speck of dust in sight.
Melissa’s room was at the top of the stairs, first door on the left. A hand-lettered sign taped to the door read Private! Inside, warm afternoon light filled the room. Large colorful posters practically jumped from the thumb-tacked wall on the right. A smiling Justin Beiber, perfectly coifed, competed for attention with an image of Lady Gaga dressed in a flaming red body suit with matching, but wildly elevated, high heels. Oklahoma girl Carrie Underwood, her long blond hair complimenting a shimmering gold dress, held the place of prominence above Melissa’s bed. A stuffed Panda bear, at least three feet high, sat innocently in one corner of the room. The bed was neatly made, sheets and spread pulled tight.
Taking in the scene, Lester was puzzled. “Mrs. Parker, maybe I misunderstood, but I thought your husband ransacked Melissa’s room, tossin’ out everything he believed to be unsuitable for teenagers. It’s as neat as a pin in here.”
Imogene bowed her head as if to apologize. “Yes, I’m afraid Albert did make quite a mess, but I cleaned it up right after breakfast this morning. I didn’t want Melissa to come home and see what a jumble her room was. She’s not like a lot of teens I hear about with their dirty clothes on the floor and wet towels hanging around on the furniture. Melissa keeps a tidy room. But then again, Albert is very strict about such things.”
“Yes Ma’am. Now about that photo…”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.”
Lester watched the woman disappear through a doorway down the hall and quickly began opening dresser drawers, hoping for a diary or love letters. Finding nothing but socks, underwear, t-shirts, and a pair of thermal long-johns, he tried the closet. A pink soft-sided suitcase sat on the floor along with an open but empty duffel bag. Several pair of tennis shoes, some flats, as well as a single pair of snow boots lay side by side, along the outer wall. The mother re-entered the room just as Lester closed the closet door.
“I hope this will do,” Imogene said. She held a framed 5x7 photo of an attractive young girl with long, shoulder length hair, dark brown in color. The girl in the image had a smiling oval face with dark eyes that twinkled with the exuberance of youth. The photo featured a fallen tree, the girl posed playfully across it in a quarter turn, one leg bent and resting on the trunk. Lester had the impression that Melissa could easily pass as twenty-one or older. She had long and shapely movie star legs, not thin or gangly like so many young girls in their teens. And it was impossible to ignore her well-developed breasts that strained at the thin material of her tee shirt.
This girl could attract boys like bees to a flower, Lester thought to himself. Or men who like ‘em young.
*****
Outside, and behind the Parker house, were two corrugated galvanized steel sheds commonly known as Quonset huts, and a weathered barn—red of course—with a hayloft. The John Deere tractor with an enclosed cab rested near the edge of a field , it’s distinctive green and yellow colors catching the eye. Billy Ray decided to investigate the sheds first. The nearest one, the biggest, had an assortment of the usual machinery found on most farms. There was a chisel plow with four blades—designed to hold down erosion—as well as a front loader especially fitted for the front of the tractor. At the far end of the building sat a well-used workbench strewn with a variety of hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches. The majority of the hand tools could have qualified as antiques; wooden handles, rounded off tips on the screwdrivers, most of them absent of any brand names. The workshop shared many of the same traits as the family living room, aged, but clean and well organized. If Albert Parker had a hobby, there was no evidence of it here.
The smaller shed held nothing of interest; sealed buckets of lubricating grease, a scoop shovel, and a couple of hayforks, both rusty from non-use. Fan belts, large and small, dangled from nails driven into a two-by-four mounted across the wall. Plastic coffee cans separated an assortment of nuts and bolts.
The barn was of a decent size but with a design that had not been popular since the 1920’s. It had a sharply pitched roof with animal stalls on either side. Two Jersey milk cows, seeking shade, occupied one of the stalls. Both stared at Billy Ray—as only cows can do—until he was out of sight. Inside were granaries, both left and right, and there was a haymow above that with stacks of baled hay. Billy Ray looked in each of the grain bins, most of them empty, but it was dark and hard to see all the way to the back. He needed the flashlight from the pickup to make a thorough search, but decided to check the haymow first. At the back of the barn was a ladder of sorts, made of two by fours, and nailed to the studs. Billy Ray used it to climb up to the loft.
“Melissa?” he called to the darkness. “You up here? Sheriff’s department.” He listened for a moment, heard nothing, couldn’t see a lick, and decided he definitely needed a flashlight. Lester would be all over him for not taking one with him in the first place. At the bottom of the ladder, one foot on the floor, an angry voice called out.
“Stop right there you son of a bitch. Don’t move or I’ll blow you in half.”
The deputy inched his head around for a look. Albert Parker, outlined in the doorway, had a shotgun steadied against one shoulder and was looking down the length of two barrels. His feet were spread and balanced, like a hunter waiting for a hidden covey of quail to erupt from the brush.
“Don’t shoot, Mr. Parker, I’m a deputy sheriff. I was here this mornin’, remember? I’m gonna turn around now so you can see me.” Billy Ray stepped off the ladder and did a slow turn with his arms out to the side, his gun hand slightly lower than the other. “Do you recognize me now, Mr. Parker?”
The shotgun never wavered. “Well, it’s awfully dark back there. I think what I see is an intruder, a thief maybe. Someone tryin’ to steal some tools or somethin’. Looks like he has a gun too. I might have to defend myself.”
Billy Ray went over his options, his Army training kicking in. The Glock at his side had a magazine full of forty caliber bullets, but there was the matter of clearing the holster, jacking a round in the chamber, aiming, and firing before this psycho could pull the trigger and kill him. He could drop and roll, and hope to evade fire until he could get his gun out. It wouldn’t take long, three…four seconds at the most. The dim light would help but the pattern from the shotgun covered a lot of area. Fifty-fifty chance of pulling it off sounded about right, not good, but better than doing nothing. Suddenly, the odds improved.
The man with
the shotgun was more than a little surprised when something cold and hard touched his left temple. He was pretty sure he knew what it was.
“Lay it down, Albert or I’ll drop you and butcher you like a fat pig.”
The pressure on his skull from the stainless steel Colt revolver made Albert Parker’s next decision an easy one. The stout little man lowered the twelve-gauge to the straw-covered floor and turned to face his adversary.
“Billy Ray,” Lester said, his voice as calm as if he were having a conversation over a glass of iced tea, “Come get this idiot’s shotgun and then search him, see if he’s got any other weapons. Jesus Christ, Albert, what were you thinkin’?”
The deputy un-holstered his Glock, racked it, sprinted toward the other men, and yelled at the farmer.
“Get your hands up asshole, get ‘em up. Move to the wall.” Albert complied, head down, no argument.
“Hands on the wall, high…higher. Spread your legs.” The overalls had several pockets to search but Billy Ray went through them in a matter of moments. “Turn around, take a seat on the floor. You got your handcuffs, Sheriff?”
“Yes I do, not like my young deputy that thinks they’re too cumbersome to wear on his belt, but we’re not gonna cuff him.”
Billy Ray’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “What? You gotta be shittin’ me. He was about to shoot me.”
“No he wasn’t. Check the scattergun. The hammers are down, un-cocked. Bet you a dollar there’s no shells in it either.”
Billy Ray retrieved the old twelve-gauge and broke it open, the barrels dipped toward the floor, exposing the chambers. Empty.
Lester glared at the farmer. “What we have here is a Class-A bully, a half-wit that loves to throw his weight around and intimidate everyone he comes in contact with, especially his wife and daughter because they’re so handy. It makes you feel like a big man, doesn’t it Albert?” Parker said nothing.
“Low-life’s like old Albert here are only tryin’ to cover their inadequacies and cowardice, using aggression against people who can’t or won’t fight back. You bit off a little more than you can chew this time didn’t you, Albert?”
Parker remained silent and continued to sit flat on the floor, legs extended, arms folded across his lap.
“I knew we should have brought the sedan,” Bill Ray said. “I don’t think all of us can get in the front seat of the pickup.”
“Oh, we’re not takin’ him in,” Lester said. “Albert’s not a criminal, not really. He’s just a pathetic fool that tried to play big man once too often and with the wrong people. Probably been years since anyone has stood up to him. Thing is, if we charge him and put him in jail, the county would have to feed him until the trial unless someone comes up with bail money, not much chance of that. He might end up in McAlester State Prison—Big Mac—for a year or two, that’s possible, threatening an officer of the law with a weapon like he did. His poor wife would have to give up the farm, probably go on welfare, and no tellin’ what would happen with their daughter.”
“If she’s still alive,” Billy Ray added, watching the man on the floor, hoping for a reaction. But Albert Parker had no response, his dull eyes unfocused, staring into space, and blinking like a bullfrog in a hailstorm.
Chapter 8
The parking lot of the Pirate’s Den hadn’t changed much since Lester and Billy Ray had passed by earlier in the day. The old clunker Chevy hadn’t moved, looking like it could become a permanent fixture, but was now joined by a black Dodge pickup, also raggedy and rusted. The tires were mostly bald and it was missing the tailgate and rear bumper—the license tag duct-taped to the window. A dozen empty beer cans littered the bed.
Billy Ray pointed at the cans. “Strange isn’t it, how a bunch of empties can stay in the bed like that even when there’s no tail gate? Somehow, the back draft keeps them in I guess, or most of them anyway. You know the truck?”
“I believe I do,” Lester said. “Let’s us go in and chat for a spell.” At the door, he turned to the deputy. “You still got a live round in that pistol of yours?”
Billy Ray nodded, realizing he had made another mistake. He drew the gun and popped the magazine into his hand. The Glock had no safety as such, no button to push or lever to slide. If he should accidently pull the trigger, the forty-caliber slug would slam into something or somebody, ready or not. He jacked the cartridge out, returned it to its rightful place at the top of the stack, slammed the magazine back home, and holstered the weapon. Lester gave a nod of approval and opened the door.
Inside, the Pirate’s Den reeked of cigarette smoke and stale beer. A pool table, the felt stained and patched, sat silent at the far end of the room. A string of padded booths, back-to-back, dark and unoccupied, took up most of one wall. Two round wooden tables, pockmarked with numerous cigarette burns, filled the center of the room. A jukebox with its garish reds, greens, and yellows, glowed quietly from the far left corner. A single customer sat at the L-shaped bar, a half-empty bottle of Bud in front of him. The bartender looked up from the Boise City newspaper he was reading and eyeballed the two lawmen as they stood just inside the entrance, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dim light.
Lester called out. “Earl? Earl Redman? Is that you back there?”
“It is,” the man behind the bar admitted. “What have I done now?”
Lester laid his hat on the bar, chose a stool at the opposite end from where the customer was sitting, and said, “Reckon a man could get a tall glass of ice water around here? Been a long day.”
Billy Ray remained standing, visually locating the bathroom door, and took a position where he could watch the entrance as well as the man drinking the Bud.
Redman made no verbal reply to the request, but grabbed a beer glass from a shelf and scooped it through an unseen pile of ice. He held the glass under a tap, filled it, and with a thud, placed it in front of Lester.
“Thank you, Earl. I appreciate it.” Lester took a long pull from the glass, but said nothing more and simply looked at the bartender, waiting for what might come next.
Finally, “Why are you here? I’ve done nothing wrong. My licenses are up to date.”
“Oh, not much. Just stopped to check on things, see how you were doin’…and to ask a couple questions.”
“Well, ask them and get it over with. Your pickup out there with that big gold star on it is bad for business.”
“Oh. We’re a might grouchy today aren’t we, Earl? But okay, here’s what I want to talk about. We got a missing girl, a teenager by the name of Melissa Parker. Billy Ray, you got that photo? Lester sat the framed picture of the smiling teen on the bar, using the tab on the back to hold it upright. “She lives with her folks not far from here. You know the Parkers?”
Redman gave the photo a cursory glance and shook his head. “Never heard of ‘em.”
“Okay, Earl, if you say so, but hear me out. We think Melissa left her house at some point last night and took off walkin’ down the road, probably in this direction—must have been around ten, maybe ten-thirty, or eleven. Seein’ as to how there’s no other place around, it’s likely she stopped in here, maybe to use the phone. You recall anything like that?”
“No, I don’t, and you know damn well that I don’t allow any teenagers in here.”
“Maybe not any more,” Lester said. “But I seem to recall one summer night when a number of high school kids were spotted right out there on your patio. They were drinkin’ your beer that you served them if I remember correctly. I wouldn’t be mistaken about a thing like that would I, Earl?”
“That happened just that one time, that’s all. One of those boys had a fake I.D. and he was settin’ up beers for his buddies. I would have shut that down myself, but then you came along.”
“Yes, and I let it slide didn’t I? But what did I tell you that night?”
Redman glanced toward the door as another car pulled in the lot. “You said if it ever happened again, you’d shut me down quicker than a cat can l
ick his ass.”
Lester grinned, “That sounds like something I’d say all right.”
The door swung open diverting the attention of everyone in the bar. Two men, short in stature, and wearing blue long-sleeved work shirts, stepped inside and chose one of the booths in the back.
“Excuse me, Sheriff,” Redman mumbled. “I need to try to earn an honest livin’ here.”
As Redman approached the booth, one of the men pointed to the Coors sign in the window, and then held up two fingers. Redman returned to the bar. “Mexicans,” he said under his breath as he poured two drafts from the tap. “Can’t speak a word of English. Probably wetbacks.”
“You mean illegal immigrants?” the Sheriff asked. “Oh, I doubt that. Think about it, Earl. You think illegals would park beside my pickup, the one with the star on the door, and then walk in here and order a beer?”
Redman made a grunt sound, served the two men, and collected their money.
On the way to the cash register, he stopped in front of the Sheriff, making a show of wiping his hands on a towel from his back pocket, as if he were worried about germs from people with brown skin and said, “Don’t you have something else to do beside harassing law-abiding, tax-paying citizens?”
Lester took a long look at the man sitting at the other end of the bar. “Matter of fact I do, Earl.”
The man that Lester approached had a large frame with a belly overhang that sagged a considerable distance below his belt buckle. A cotton print shirt with the sleeves cutout made it impossible to overlook his massive and hairy arms. The scowl on his face seemed set in stone, like it hadn’t held a smile in a lifetime. The man took a short sip from the bottle as he watched the reflection of the Sheriff get larger in the mirror.
Lester took the nearest stool and sat with his back to the bar, facing the man, elbows up, and relaxed. “J.O.,” the Sheriff said, “I thought I remembered that handsome face. Billy Ray, this here is J.O. Mecham. J.O. and I have a bit of history, don’t we J.O.?” Mecham said nothing and took another hook off the bottle, never taking his eyes from the mirror as Billy Ray came up behind, standing close.
Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel Page 5
