Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel

by Warren Williams

  Melissa opened her eyes and screamed.

  “What are you doing in my room? Get out of here. Out! Now!

  “Hold on girl, I was only trying to cover you up. You looked cold.”

  “I know what you were doing! I’m calling the police.”

  Melissa, the sheet pulled tight to her neck, stared at the man with a hate so intense it scared him a little. The threat was real.

  “Wait, wait. I don’t know what you think happened, whatever, but I’ll make you a deal. You don’t say anything about this and I promise, it’ll never happen again.”

  “You touch me again, and you’ll go to jail. You got that…Daddy?”

  Yes, Albert still remembered that morning. He always wondered if the girl was bluffing, or would she have really told on him, told the cops. Probably not. Oh, she might have said something to her mama but that’s as far as that would have gone. He’d have seen to that. But there might be a next time, another opportunity. If Imogene goes to church and leaves her precious little daughter at home, well, he just might make another move, a little more aggressive the next time around. He closed his eyes and smiled to himself.

  It was Albert’s last conscious thought.

  *****

  The old Belgian-made double barrel, double hammer shotgun was where Albert always kept it, the broom closet just off the kitchen. Albert was proud of the gun, it being an antique and all. He could never have afforded to buy such a fine weapon, but a farmer who owned it owed him some money and an agreement was made.

  It was loaded with two twelve-gauge shells. Imogene knew that without looking. Albert kept it loaded at all times in case a snake happened across his property. She had fired it once; Albert had insisted she do it. She still remembered his roars of laughter as the old gun kicked into her shoulder, nearly knocking her down, leaving a bruise that lasted a week. The other thing that stuck with her from that day was how easy it was to shoot. Just pull both hammers back and pull the triggers, boom, boom. She carried the scattergun back to the bedroom and stood over her husband for a moment, being sure he was asleep and not trying to fool her with his snoring, pretending. But tonight there was no acting, no pretense. Albert was out of it, the whiskey and the exertion from the failed sex taking its toll.

  Imogene held the end of the barrels about an inch from the back of Albert’s sweat stained tee shirt and over an old grease spot that he had picked up earlier in the week when he was crawling around under the tractor. It would be the last time he would wear a greasy shirt to bed. She cocked the left hammer and with only an instant of hesitation. pulled the trigger, sending the load of buckshot to tear out Albert’s evil heart. Then, and just because it felt so very good, so right, so justifiable, she fired the other barrel as well. She stood there a moment, letting the ringing in her ears die down before placing the gun on the floor and climbing the stairs to her daughter’s room. Imogene stood in the doorway, hesitating, hoping to absorb a semblance of her daughter’s essence, to feel her love, her warmth. It was not forthcoming. Instead, an ominous chill, like an unseen fog, permeated the room. An outside pole lamp cast an eerie, bluish-green hue through the window and across the bed. Melissa’s mother turned back the covers and slid in, shivering at the touch of cold sheets. She pulled the bedspread up and over her shoulders, feeling the peace. She sighed, a long and satisfied sigh.

  “Goodnight, Melissa,” Imogene said, and went to sleep.

  Chapter 25

  Melissa Parker sat motionless in the inky darkness as the patter of light rain against the steel door diminished. The storm front had passed, trailed by what the local weatherman described as partly cloudy with scattered showers.

  “Don’t you panic, Lissa, don’t you dare panic,” she whispered.

  The rain poncho was long gone, most likely still tumbling across the prairie or hung up in the top of a tree, shredded by the wind. Somewhere on the steps—near her left elbow as she remembered—sat the glass jar, her only means of holding water; if she could figure out another way to collect it. If she were to brush against the jar and knock it off the steps, there was nothing but a layer of leaves to save it from the concrete below. With the way her luck had been running, the jar would hit a bare spot and smash to smithereens. The box of matches and the candle were somewhere on the steps as well, somewhere close, but where? It was so very dark.

  She thought about the consequences of a wrong move. Say you find the jar but the candle falls, or the matches are brushed off, and then what? I’d have to feel for them, down there, in the leaves, in the dark, with the snake crawling around waiting to poke two tiny holes in me and inject his poison juice. Where would that leave you, Lissa?

  She thought about waiting it out, sitting right where she was, third step from the top—or was it four?—and holding on until morning. But the wooden steps were hard and her rear-end was already aching from the long wait to collect the rain water and get a drink. Sooner or later, she would have to move if only to change position. Better to make your play now, take your chances, before you stiffen up.

  She was facing the wall, the precious opening to the outside directly in front of her, damp and chilly air flowing through the crack. Her left butt cheek was jammed onto the narrow step with her legs cocked beneath her.

  Okay, what’s my first move? Play it in your head Lissa, like a movie. So, if I turn, I’m liable to hit the jar or the matches or the candle with my shoulder or elbow. If I turn too far, my butt will slide off the step and down I go. Not good. How about standing up, as far as can, straight up, until you get your feet beneath you? Get your balance and then rotate, face the steps, and start feeling around. Keep your hands and elbows in front of you. Yeah, that’ll work…I think.

  Melissa bent forward, carefully placing her hands on her knees for leverage, and stood. The top of her head struck the metal door with a resounding clang followed by a burst of blasphemy without a single apology to any deity.

  “Ow,” she yelled aloud. “Goddamn it that hurt.”

  She rubbed her head but did remember to use the hand opposite the stairs. Collecting herself and waiting for the pain to subside, she reviewed her plan. Pivot, get your legs under you, wide stance. But as she started her movement, she realized her hands were trembling in fear.

  Now Lissa, you know you can perform under pressure. You’ve done it before. Remember the winning free throw you made in the girls basketball championship game? It was all on the line and you did it, you came through when you had to. This is no different. She took a deep breath just as she had done that day with every eye in the auditorium on her. Calm yourself, Lissa. Get steady. Concentrate. Now she spoke aloud, to the night.

  “Who are you kidding? That was a game, this is for my life, or if not my life, my sanity. I cannot survive this hell hole without my candle, no way; I’ll go stark raving loony tunes.”

  With her right hand on the cold wall for support, Melissa slid her left foot sideways, never losing contact with the wood until her toes were pointing inward, toward the steps. Her right foot followed. Now using her left hand, she reached for the opposite wall, easily finding it, the space no more than three feet across the opening. She spread her feet, feeling her body mass settle in, finding a center of gravity. Losing her balance here, falling, could be disastrous; broken neck, arm, leg.

  “All right now. What was it the guy said as he was falling from the ten-story building, so far so good, so far so good?” Next move, now do it.”

  But as Melissa slid one hand from the wall and, with no visual point of reference, the sensation of vertigo made her brain spin as if caught in an Oklahoma twister. She felt herself tipping, reeling, whirling, her sense of balance gone, destroyed by the blackness. Frantically, she threw her left arm out, feeling for something, anything solid. Instinctively, one foot moved backwards an inch or two, to correct for the imagined fall, her heel now hanging over the edge of the step.

  “Noooo!”

  It was as if she were on the deck of a rolling ship in a tempe
st, fighting to stay upright. Nothing for support, nothing to grab, no lifelines. The sensation of falling through space was overwhelming. Just as she felt as if she were going over backward, her flailing fingers touched the wall and although there was nothing to actually grab, the contact with a solid object was enough to restore her sense of space, to once again distinguish up from down. Her middle ear responded, sending signals to the brain that all was well and the world was right side up as it should be. Melissa closed her eyes, waiting for her equilibrium to return and that seemed to help. It was as if the brain knew there was nothing to see and to stop trying to make sense of the blackened void.

  Her heart was pounding, an audible thump, thump, thump in her ears. Sucking air in huge gasps, she steadied herself in a desperate attempt for some sense of normalcy in this terrifying world of blindness, desperately willing her body and mind to work together, to persevere.

  Tentatively, she eased her left hand in front of her, feeling for the steps, moving her fingers up and down, vertically, then leaning forward a few more degrees with every wave of her hand. On the third pass, the tip of one index finger touched wood, one of the steps, right in front of her, just where it should be. Now she had her reference point and felt confident enough to remove her right hand from the wall and place it alongside her left. By now, the vertigo had disappeared. Working from right to left, she swept her hand across the span of the step, an inch at a time, feeling the dampness of it from the rain that had blown in through the crack. A sharp prick reminded her of the splinters and she adjusted her tactile senses with the wood. She reached the left edge. Nothing. Moving up one step, she repeated the action. Still nothing.

  Third time’s a charm she thought adjusting her balance to a new angle. On the next pass, she touched something round and smooth, the jar. Sliding her fingers up to the rim, she found she had left the lid off and easily grasped the mouth of the container. Had she left the matches inside or sat them on a step? She couldn’t remember, her frantic effort to get a drink overriding the thoughts of such a simple act. Holding the jar carefully with both hands, she gave it a gentle shake. A match box rattled inside. A sigh of relief. Ever so carefully, Melissa tilted the glass until she felt the box slide into her hand. With no pockets in either her top or skirt, the only place to put it was in her bra and she did so.

  Now she had another decision. What to do with the jar? Two options; ease her way down the steps, entirely by feel, set it on the floor, and hope she didn’t kick it and break it, or put it up and above her head, on the top step. She opted for the latter. Clutching the jar to her chest with one hand, she used the other to feel along the stairs. She took a tentative step, another, and stopped, remembering the collision with her head only minutes before. She found the middle of the step by feel and gently released her grip on the jar.

  Now for the candle.

  She tried to think. It should be in the same area, maybe the same step. That’s where she had put it in order to shed a tiny bit of light on the poncho operation that had gone so horribly wrong.

  The sky had lightened. Melissa could now see the space beneath the door and cellar wall; a shade of dark gray, not quite black, but one level lighter than the interior of the cellar. It was far from the proverbial light at the end of a tunnel, but it was something. The candle surely had to be on the same horizontal plane. Cautiously, she resumed her touchy-feely search along the steps, much easier now using the slot of gray as a visual reference. She touched the small wax cylinder, felt it slide, and froze.

  Easy Lissa, easy.

  Backing off, she made a cup shape with her palm and fingers. This time the stubby candle cradled itself in her grasp. Fearing a new bout of vertigo, she sat down, facing the cellar, and bumped down the stairs on her butt, a step at a time, until her feet hit the floor. Feeling she was a safe distance from any more unpredictable wind gusts, she put the candle between her knees and fished the matches from her bra. Drawing the tip of the match across the box, the tip blossomed to life on the first try. She placed it to the wick and held the flaming candle in her hands, close to her face, feeling the amazing sense of comfort that such a tiny blaze could bring.

  This has to be how the caveman felt when he discovered fire, she thought. She brought the matchbox to the light and counted, three left.

  Chapter 26

  The Sunday morning sunrise was still soaking up the dew on Cimarron County when Lester, in that half-asleep, half-awake state of being, felt warm dog breath in his face. The aroma was a far cry from that of hot coffee and frying bacon when Mary Alice was alive and had breakfast going on before he ever crawled out of bed. No, this smell was more akin to a dead rabbit. Harley sat on his haunches as close to the mattress as he could get, his big black muzzle resting on the sheets in an ever expanding puddle of dog drool. Lester opened one eye and made a feeble attempt to push the dog away.

  “Go away, Harley. It’s Sunday. I had a long night, didn’t get to bed till nearly one o’clock. You know that. Remember? Why are you bothering me so early in the morning anyway?”

  Harley’s powerful tail slammed the corner post of the bed with a whap, whap sound.

  “You’re not gonna let me sleep in are you? You ornery mutt, I suppose you’re hungry like always.”

  At the sound of the word hungry, the tail whapping went into overdrive.

  Whap, whap, whap, whap, whap.

  Lester moaned as he felt the familiar twinge of pain in his lower back and swung his bone white legs off the bed.

  “Too old for this shit.”

  The cupboard held only two cans of dog food.

  “You want beef and gravy or beef and cheese? Take your pick.”

  If Harley had a preference, it wasn’t obvious.

  “Hell, you’d eat both of ‘em if I let you. Ain’t that right dog?”

  The lab trotted to the food bowl and sat, never taking his eyes off the cans.

  “That’s what I thought, but you’re only getting one you fat bastard.”

  Lester dished out the dog food, made coffee, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt before making his first phone call of the day.

  The phone rang several times before a sleepy grunt answered.

  “Ummph.”

  “Billy Ray? You still in bed? Hell, I been goin’ for hours. Done milked the cows and slopped the hogs. Get yourself up and ready now. I’ll pick you up in a bit.”

  “You are so full of it,” said the gravelly voice.

  “Well, that’s possible I suppose. I’ll take care of that momentarily, and then I’ll be on my way to your place, okay?”

  A click being the only reply, Lester hung up and padded barefoot to the bathroom.

  An hour later, Billy Ray was sitting on the curb outside the apartment building when the Sheriff pulled in and parked at the RESERVED FOR MANAGER spot. The black lab had one paw resting on the open passenger window.

  “Aw gee, you brought the dog? I like Harley. He’s a great dog, but he’s hairy, he’s heavy, and he stinks. Can’t he ride in the back?”

  “Nope, too dangerous for him back there. Hop in.”

  There was no use arguing. Billy Ray sighed and pushed the dog to the middle of the seat. As a greeting, Harley gave him some wet tongue across the cheek.

  “I assume we’re headed to J.O.’s place, right? Billy Ray asked. “He’s gonna pay for my car…right after I punch him in the nose.”

  “To assume makes an ass out of you and me. Every heard that one?” Lester said, backing up.

  “Yeah, but what does that mean exactly?”

  “Means we’re not going to J.O.’s, not right now anyway.”

  “What? Why not?”

  Lester let the question sit awhile.

  “Well?” Billy Ray said, the Sheriff’s silence getting to him.

  “Well, what?”

  “Why the hell are we not going out to pick up J.O? That’s what! Jesus.”

  “Think about it Deputy. Put yourself in J.O.’s shoes. If you had sideswiped
the vehicle of an officer of the law the night before, would you be sitting at home, watching the Sunday morning prayer service on the TV, or would you be laying low somewhere, biding your time till you could figure out your next move?”

  Billy Ray leaned his head back and closed his eyes, knowing that he would receive no satisfaction from J.O. Mecham on this day. Harley put his head in Billy Ray’s lap and got comfortable.

  Lester continued. “First, I don’t think J.O. watches much TV preachin’ on a Sunday. Second, we can’t say for sure that he saw the badge I was waving around. He could say that he was simply trying to pass and lost control on the slick road. A judge might even believe him. Sides that, I don’t exactly see eye to eye with a couple of the judges around here.”

  “Who woulda thunk it,” Billy Ray said, his eyes still closed. “But Mecham left the scene of an accident. Surely we could nail him on that.”

  Lester ignored the logic. “And third, he’s still a suspect and we need to keep tabs on him, but not today. One way or another he’ll pay for your damages Billy Ray, not to worry.”

  “Uh, huh,” Billy Ray said, “But I’m not holding my breath.”

  Lester hit the streets and turned east on Main. Boise City was stirring but not fully awake, a half dozen cars traveling up and down the main thoroughfare. The United Christian Church had two cars out front, most likely the minister and one of the elders, making sure things were in order before the congregation arrived. The parking lot at the only grocery store in town was sparsely occupied as well, the fixings for Sunday dinners having been shopped for and purchased yesterday. One gray haired man in a white shirt and tie was filling the tank on a spotless old Lincoln at the Stop and Shop convenience store while a young woman with a ponytail and a Golden Retriever jogged by.