Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel

by Warren Williams

  “J.O., why don’t we step outside, just for a minute or two? We need to catch up on old times, you and I.”

  Mecham swiveled a quarter turn on the bar stool, his dark, deeply recessed eyes gleaming with malice. “Why don’t you eat me, you mother…”

  Lester’s hand shot out like a bullet, clamped around Mecham’s throat and squeezed hard, choking off the words. “Don’t go there, J.O.”

  Long before Mecham’s beer-soaked brain could process any sort of retaliation, the deputy grabbed one of his hairy arms at the wrist, twisting it out and backward, causing J.O. to yelp in pain. Billy Ray held the arm rigid as a pole, elbow locked, and pushed the big man forward until his faced banged on the bar, spilling the Bud.

  “Out the door, J.O., now,” Lester said, easy like. “Peaceable being our goal here.”

  At the booth, the two Mexicans watched with only mild interest, sipping their Coors. They had seen men removed from bars before.

  The two light poles in the parking light, their ghostly blue having been turned on by the automatic timer, shone down on the trio of men, one of which was now bent over the hood of Lester’s pickup. Billy Ray did the pat down; pockets, belt, but stopped when he slid his hand down one of J.O.’s heavy brogans.

  “Got a knife.” The deputy held his find up to the light.

  “Switchblade?” Lester asked.

  “No, not exactly. It’s one of those that you can flip open with a flick of the wrist though. You put your finger on this little knob here on the blade,” he said, demonstrating the action, “and give it a flip.” The four inch steel flashed in the bluish light. Billy Ray tossed the knife on the hood of the pickup and finished the search. “Nothin’ else.”

  “Okay,” Lester said, “I think we can talk now. J.O., were you here last night?”

  “I’m here most ever night,” Mecham admitted. “So?”

  “How about between the hours of ten and eleven, or thereabouts?

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Didn’t figure you would, but just for the sake of argument, let’s assume you were. Did you see a young girl walk through? A teenager, long brown hair? She might have looked older. She has a nice body J.O. You’d remember that, I know.”

  “Don’t remember no girl like that.”

  “Uh huh. Thing is, Billy Ray, J.O. here has this annoying tendency to break the law from time to time. There was a DUI—at least one that I know of—twice for aggravated assault, and what was that other thing J.O.? Something about a rape wasn’t it?”

  Mecham tensed. “Hey, don’t be starting that shit again. That was bogus and you know it. That little bitch was lying from the git-go.”

  “Way I heard it,” Lester added, “was that she dropped the charges. There was talk that she’d been threatened, her and her kids both.”

  “Lies, like I said.”

  “Yeah, well, been nice talking to you, J.O., but I know you got to get home. Let me get your door for you. Wouldn’t want you to aggravate that sore arm.”

  J.O. pressed it, the beer talking now. “Hey, I’m not ready to go home, not yet. I’ve done nothing wrong. You got no right…”

  Billy Ray gave J.O. a quick but forceful shove in the middle of his back. “I think this might be one of those times you should quit while you’re ahead, Mr. Mecham.”

  Mecham glared at both the men, holding it as long as felt he could get away with it, and then got in his pickup, slamming the door so hard that both lawmen winced, half expecting the glass to shatter. Lester and Billy Ray watched the Dodge spray gravel, then heard a chirp of rubber as the wheels hit solid pavement.

  Lester followed the taillights as they faded into the distance. “He’s a mean son of a bitch that one, drunk or sober, but worse when he’s drunk, much worse. If we find that Melissa was actually here last night, we best not forget about him.”

  “We could stop him,” Billy Ray said. “I doubt he could pass a sobriety test. Another DUI would set him back a bit.”

  Lester thought about it. “I’m gonna let him slide for now. I’ll be talking to him again, see if his memory improves when he’s not so soused and mean. Besides, J.O. isn’t hard to find, drunk or sober.”

  The wind had died and the air was cooling down. A light overcast hid the usual abundance of stars, normally so brilliant and visible in this end of the state, absent of light pollution from any major town or city.

  “You think that about wraps it up for today, Sheriff?” Billy Ray asked. “I’d like to take in that football game tonight in Boise City. Thought I’d swing by and pick up my buddy Jason. He wants to see it too. Looks like the Bobcats have a pretty good team this year.”

  Lester said nothing in reply, standing quietly, thumbs hooked in his belt, taking in the smells of the country, feeling the land. He checked the sky, horizon to horizon, and wondered if any rain was in the forecast.

  Finally, “Get in the truck, Billy Ray.”

  Chapter 9

  The cellar, or as Melissa was now calling it, the fraidy hole, was once again losing what little precious light remained, and much too quickly. The darkness was moving with frightening speed from the back wall, across the floor, toward the girl perched high on the stairs. Melissa’s butt was aching from the long hours of watching and waiting on the hard and narrow steps. Her voice was hoarse and raspy from yelling, her hands raw from beating on the bottom of the rusty steel door. Despite her efforts and vigilance, the only things she had seen through the narrow opening for the past nine hours were the same grasses, weeds, and blue sky with an occasional cloud to break the monotony. Three times she had big trucks pass by—semi’s it sounded like—the roar of the diesel engines carried by the wind. That was when she had screamed the loudest, so loud that for a few minutes, Melissa was afraid she had torn something in her throat. But the trucks didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. It was a futile effort of course. She knew her voice could never be heard above the drone of the engines and the whine of the big tires, but she had to try none the less. People were passing by, people that could help her get out of the dungeon. However small the chances, to not cry for help, to give up and accept her fate, to die there, alone in the darkness, was definitely not in Melissa Parker’s makeup.

  At what seemed like mid-afternoon—she really missed not having a watch—she’d heard the approach of dual exhausts, something like a kid her age might drive; chrome wheels, low profile tires, the kind of cars she saw and yearned for in the school parking lot. The kind of car she had dreamed about since she turned sixteen, but knew that her folks wouldn’t (her dad) or couldn’t (her mom) buy for her.

  When the car sounded close, she swallowed, tried to work up a little spit for her throat, and started to yell once again. She filled her lungs and put her mouth to the crack…and stopped.

  Oh crap. What if it’s him, the rapist, coming back for more? She froze at the thought.

  It could be him, sure, checking to see if I’m dead or alive.

  Scrambling down the steps, she raced blindly to the back of the cellar, the darkest part, crouched down and listened, trying to think it through.

  Lots of possibilities here. He knows I’m alive and he’s coming back to rape me again…or kill me. Or both. Then again, maybe he can’t live with what happened, leaving me down here like he did, and he’s coming back to let me out. No,no, that’s not gonna happen is it Melissa? He turns you loose so you can call the cops and have him thrown in prison? Fat chance. Think, think.

  But just as with the trucks, the smooth sounding pipes quickly faded away, then silence.

  Well, okay. No rapist then but no rescue either. Need to prepare. Need to find something, anything for a weapon, a big stick maybe.

  She dreaded the coming darkness, another night in the hole. There had been no sounds from the back of the cellar since daylight, nothing moving, no rustling of dry leaves. That, in itself, was a good sign, but the girl had the feeling that whatever had made those little scurry noises earlier, was still there. After all, th
ere was only one way out, and nothing had passed her on the stairs, nothing she had seen anyway. At least she had the army cot; she could stay off the ground tonight—Thank God for small miracles—but was anything else back there, something she had missed, something she could use? This would be the time for the candle, she thought, before night comes and I can’t see anything at all. She retrieved the jar from the bottom step, opened it, and inspected the candle. There was quite a bit of it left, but how long would it last? Certainly not all night.

  I have to conserve it, use it only when I get scared or hear something spooky. Listen to me. What am I saying? I’m scared now!

  She took a single match from the box and touched the head of it to the striking area. The match flared on the first try. Even though there was no breeze inside the cellar, Melissa instinctively protected the flame with the cup of her hand and held her breath as she touched the tiny blaze to the black dot in the center of the candle. The wick accepted the fire, at first, and then lost it, the single trail of smoke mocking her effort. The match burned her finger and she was forced to drop it. For one terrifying moment, she thought the leaves would catch fire and burn her alive, like being baked in an oven. It didn’t happen. She counted the matches, six left.

  Not enough wick, that’s the problem.

  She went to the floor with her hands, moving the leaves, searching, feeling, until she found a twig. It was small and rotted, but it would have to do. There was no time to find another. The light was nearly gone. She had to hurry. Back at the top of the stairs and oh, so carefully, Melissa used the tip of the twig to dig out the wax from around the wick. When about a quarter of an inch was showing, she took another match from the box. Five left. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a breath, staying calm, or trying to, and struck it. Fire, again. This time the candle eagerly took to the flame, sputtered once, but caught.

  “Let there be light!” she said and allowed herself a smile. She blew out the match but put the remainder back in the box in case she needed it later.

  Using the candle, she decided to take one more look around before lying down for the night. Hoping she had missed something she could use—like a big club if the bad guy came back. She inched her way to the rear, moving mostly by feel, kicking leaves as she went. There was nothing, just more leaves and little sticks, nothing on the walls, nothing else on the shelf where she had thankfully found the candle, nothing hanging from any hooks, and no back door…of course. “Damn it,” she said again, kicking out at the leaves in frustration. But with the very next step, her foot landed on something cool and smooth. She bent over to investigate, holding the candle close to the floor, and touched it with her hand. Plastic, a clear, thin piece of plastic, dirty and half buried. Garbage sack? Using both hands, the girl gently placed the candle on the shelf and held up her latest find for a better look. It was a raincoat, a poncho to be exact.

  Oh yeah. I’ve seen these in Wal-Mart, she thought. Emergency rain gear they call it. Sells for a dollar or two. Yep, that’s what it is all right. Makes sense, it being down here. Somebody threw it on when a storm was coming and then forgot about it. Probably knew it was good for only one use anyway, flimsy as it is.

  She shook out the dirt and leaves as best she could and returned to the cot. “Got me a blanket, that’s what I got.” Then, with as much sarcasm as she could muster, the girl yelled out at the night, “Boy, things are really looking up around here.” Wincing from her injuries, she gingerly lay back on the cot, pulled the poncho over her bare legs, and tucked it in. Within minutes, Melissa felt the warmth, her body heat held close by the insulating plastic. With one last look around, she mustered her courage, brought the candle to her lips, and blew out the flame. As the sun slipped below the horizon, the faint halo of red at the cellar door faded to black.

  At the rear of the cellar, in the far right corner, leaves moved.

  *****

  At fifteen minutes after five, Lester pulled up to the chain link fence that surrounded the football field for the Boise City Bobcats. Cars were already beginning to trickle into the parking lot for the game. A yellow bus with the name Shattuck Public Schools on the side sat unoccupied at the far end of the stadium. A gate between the concession stand and a booth marked Tickets was open. The woman inside nodded at Lester as he walked in, the badge being his pass. Tiered metal bleachers ascended on each side of the playing surface, twenty rows for the home crowd, only ten for the visitors. Depending on the success of this year’s team, the school had tentative plans to increase the seating capacity and enlarge the closet-sized announcer’s booth.

  A group of boys wearing orange jerseys and black pants limbered up on the field. Some sat on the grass with one leg out in front, stretching their hamstrings, while others ran short wind sprints between the forty-yard lines. A few were throwing a football around. The visiting team had yet to make an appearance. Two men wearing matching orange ball caps, stood on the sidelines with their arms folded, deep in conversation, watching the warm up activity. As Lester approached, the coaches turned to meet him. One of them extended his hand.

  “Sheriff Morrison? My name’s John Blankenship. I’m the coach of the team out there. My second job is math teacher at the high school. Neither one of them pay that well but what can you do? This other fella here is my assistant, Roy. He has the title of assistant, but he doesn’t get paid a lick. Mr. Moody told me you’d probably drop by. Said you were looking for a missing girl, a student.”

  The men shook hands all around then Lester said, “The girl we’re lookin’ for is Melissa Parker. We understand she dated one of the football players, a boy by the name of Carlos Sanchez. You think we could talk to him for a minute?”

  “Sure thing,” Blankenship said, “He’s number 81 out there. I’ll call him over. Oh, wait a minute. Watch this.”

  On the field, Sanchez was lined up as a wide receiver on an imaginary line of scrimmage, about twenty yards to the left of the quarterback. The boy with the ball nodded. Sanchez took off, sped ten yards, planted his left foot for a cut, and ran full out toward the far right corner of the field. At precisely the right moment, the quarterback heaved the ball through the air in a beautiful arching tight spiral and hit the streaking receiver in perfect stride.

  “Whooee! You see that?” the coach said, grinning madly. “That ball went fifty yards in the air. You mark my words, that quarterback is gonna be a good ‘un. Hell, people from Oklahoma University are supposed to be out here tonight, just to get a look at this kid.”

  Lester raised an eyebrow. “OU? But this is just eight-man football isn’t it, coach? You telling me a university like that would travel clear out here to the end of No Man’s Land, to a little ol’ high school like this, to watch a kid play eight-man football?”

  “Damn right they would,” Blankenship said, his tone defensive. “If you remember, OU took another kid from an eight-man team, just a couple years ago it was, and he played for the Sooners as a freshman. Helped them win another Big 12 Championship is all he did. Turned out to be one of the best defensive ends they ever had.”

  Lester asked, “What’s the difference between eight-man football and eleven-man, other than the obvious?”

  Roy explained. “The length of the field is the same, at least here in Oklahoma, but not as wide. Instead of the standard fifty-three and a half yards, we cut it down to forty. As far as the positions are concerned, eight-man ball eliminates two tackles and a wide receiver on offense along with two defensive backs and a lineman on defense. As you might guess, a lot of boys play both offense and defense.”

  “What’s the quarterback’s name?” Lester asked as Roy motioned for Sanchez to join them.

  “Boomer Kingston. His first name’s Greg, but everybody calls him Boomer. That’s what his daddy hung on him for a middle name. You know his daddy don’t you? Big Bill Kingston? Kingston Ford? Everybody knows Big Bill He played for OU back in the day.”

  John Blankenship grinned. “Yeah, and if you stand still for a coupl
e of minutes, he’ll tell you all about it. He’ll be here tonight, you can bet on that. That ol’ boy never misses a game.”

  The Kingston boy threw one more ball then turned to trot off the field. He was a big kid, tall with well developed arms and thick muscles in his thighs. His dark shaggy hair was long and hung almost to his shoulders. Deep set eyes, dimples in his cheeks, and a cleft in the middle of his chin added to his teen idol good looks. The long hair bothered Coach Blankenship, but with the natural talent of throwing a football that the kid possessed, he let it go. A winning season far outweighed a couple inches of extra hair.

  Carlos Sanchez, on the other hand, was thin as a rail, stood no more than five foot six, had skinny legs, and didn’t look anything like a typical football player. He removed his helmet to reveal a head of close-cropped hair that looked oddly out of place with the tuft of fuzz jutting from just below his lower lip. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and trickled down his face. His eyes darted back and forth between the coaches and the Sheriff.

  “What’s up, coach?”

  Lester did the talking. “Son, have you seen Melissa Parker since school yesterday?”

  Carlos hesitated for only a moment before answering the question, but the short pause did not go unnoticed. “No. Why?”

  “When’s the last time you two had a date?”

  “Uh, I don’t know.”

  “I’ll put it a different way. When was the last time you were with Melissa for any reason?’

  “Gee, I don’t remember. Sorry.”

  “Not a good answer, son. Think about it. Maybe it will come to you.”

  Carlos turned to his coach as if there might be some forthcoming instruction on how to deal with this kind of opponent, but John Blankenship offered nothing in defense. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.