Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel

by Warren Williams

  Following Anderson’s lead, the remaining suits and techs hurriedly packed their gear, loaded the dog, jumped in the two remaining Chevy’s, and hurried to catch up. Without a word, Lester and Billy Ray watched the little caravan until they reached the highway, a sense of finality settling in. It was over.

  “Car comin’,” Billy Ray said. Lester turned to the south and watched a late model Buick slow and turn into the driveway. Dora and Becky Wilson stepped out, the teenager staying close to her mother.

  Lester touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”

  Dora said, “We drove by earlier and saw the crime scene tape. What happened?”

  “Is Melissa okay?” Becky asked, her voice quivering.

  Lester sighed. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this Ma’am, but there’s been a tragedy here. Imogene Parker killed her husband Albert and then took her own life.”

  “And Melissa?” Dora asked, her hand at her mouth.

  The Sheriff removed his hat and took Becky’s hand. “Becky girl, it looks like her daddy might have killed her. That’s what Imogene told us before she died. But we haven’t found the body so maybe there’s still hope.”

  Becky moaned “Noooo!” and buried her face in her mother’s bosom, her body shaking with sobs. Dora stared at the farmhouse and shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Imogene would never do something like that. We went to church together.”

  Lester said nothing. Billy Ray walked away with no particular destination in mind and after a moment Lester followed, leaving the Wilson’s to cope with the news in private. Dora stood in the middle of the drive, stroked her daughter’s hair, and whispered words of comfort. The lawmen found a seat on the front steps and waited. Eventually they heard Dora Wilson say, “Let’s go home honey.”

  When the Buick was out of sight, the descending silence was eerie, unnatural. There was no wind, no birds singing in the trees, not so much as the hum of a single cicada. It was as if a tornado of death had swept across the breadth of the farm, taking every living thing in its path. Lester put his hat on, made a quick adjustment for fit and said, “Get in the truck, Billy Ray.”

  Chapter 35

  The rat snake flicked its forked tongue once again, tasting the air. Nothing had changed. There was no imminent sense of danger. The cellar was beginning to warm from the bright sun beating on the metal door. It was time to move. Keeping close to the wall, it began its distinctive serpentine motion, silently moving over and under the leaves. At the foot of the steps, it hesitated, raised its head and upper body, then elevated to the next level; the rest of the body followed, a marvel of reptilian efficiency. The inclined stair steps were no more of an obstacle than a pile of brush on the forest floor. As the snake crossed the threshold of the next step, Melissa slammed the edge of the board down, hard, catching the reptile just behind its head and crushing the spine. It was a fatal blow. The snake coiled on itself, writhing in death, and fell back to the cellar floor. The girl kept a safe distance away, the board ready for another whack at it if needed. Once, she was forced to scramble backward when the snake wiggled too close for comfort. The violent, terrible twisting continued for what seemed like an eternity, the snake refusing to die. When the opportunity arose, Melissa hammered the snake a second time, then again. A couple more minutes passed before one last tremor signaled the end of life.

  Breathing hard, she carried the body to the top of the stairs for a closer look in better light. There were no diamond patterns on the back and the head had an oval shape. It wasn’t poisonous. There was very little blood, only a drop or two. Running her fingers over the skin, Melissa had to admit to a certain beauty to the creature. The pattern of intricate scales was fascinating. And the way it had moved, amazing.

  The burst of activity had drained her; she was exhausted and had to rest. She draped the body of the snake over one of the steps and went back to the cot to lie down and think about it. With the exception of those few swallows of rain from the poncho, Melissa was now on her fourth day without water. Severe dehydration was taking its toll. She was tired, dizzy, and confused, her thoughts jumbled, no longer able to reason. Her head ached constantly, her throat felt like raw hamburger, and the pain from her stomach contractions had reached new levels. If she’d had the tears to do it, she would have cried.

  How long before the meat spoils I wonder? Should I try to clean it and eat it now?

  As she closed her eyes to rest, a half smile crept across her face.

  What difference does it make if the meat goes bad? Big whoop, I’m gonna die down here anyway.

  Chapter 36

  Halfway back to Boise City, Billy Ray said, “Let’s stop by the body shop. I want to see how they’re doin’ with my car.” Lester, deep in thought, replied only with a nod. Fence posts flickered by without a word of conversation. A few times, Billy Ray thought about voicing an opinion or making a comment about the Parkers, but a glance in Lester’s direction discouraged any form of talk. The Sheriff rode with one hand draped over the steering wheel, staring through the windshield with only the occasional blink. A deep frown made the lines in his face look as hard as dried mud.

  Passing through the open gates of the chain link fence around Showman’s Wrecker Service and Body Shop, Billy Ray was not encouraged by the number of banged up cars and pickups scattered across the lot. “There it is, over by that red Olds, ” Billy Ray said, pointing. Lester pulled up next to the dented Camaro and stopped. A brown dog of mixed ancestry trotted out to meet them, wagging his tail. “Damn it! I don’t think they’ve touched it yet.” Billy Ray stepped down and gave the dog a quick pat before making a circle around his beloved Chevy.

  “Aw shit. Give me a minute to go inside and to talk to someone.”

  If Lester heard, he gave no sign. A couple of minutes later, a bearded man wearing grease-stained coveralls and carrying a pry bar stepped out from the big double door garage. Billy Ray followed him to the Camaro, watched for a moment, and returned to the pickup with a scowl on his face.

  “Hell, they can’t get to it till Friday. This guy said he can bend the fender out so I can drive it. I guess I’ll take it and then bring it back so I won’t be afoot quite so long.” Lester said, “Soon as he gets you goin’, follow me over to the high school.” The deputy arched an eyebrow. “I want to talk to the Kingston boy before he leaves.”

  “Okay, but why now?”

  “I been thinkin’ about it. Something doesn’t line up right. Didn’t Imogene tell us they went to bed the night Melissa disappeared? She said they fell asleep and didn’t know Melissa wasn’t in her room till the next morning. Seems to me, if Albert hadn’t been there with her, in the bedroom, she would have mentioned it. So if that were the case, Albert would have had to slip out of bed, kill Melissa, come back to bed and go to sleep, all without Imogene ever waking up.”

  Billy Ray said, “But Imogene said she was bone tired, remember? Not impossible for her to have slept through it.”

  “Tired yeah, but she was worried about her daughter. Any movement or activity should have jolted her awake wouldn’t you think? Mothers can’t sleep soundly when they don’t know where their kids are. Let’s say Albert heard Melissa come in or maybe he saw headlights in the driveway; he gets up, confronts her, has another argument, but where? Not in the house. Imogene would have heard. Had to be on the front porch or lawn. Maybe he hits her? Possible, likely even. Let’s say he hits her too hard and a freakish blow breaks her neck or he punches her in the chest and her heart stops. Now he has a body to deal with. Drag her to a shed and wait till morning? Goes back to bed? Fat man like that got to be breathing hard, sweating. Now he crawls between the sheets and his wife never notices a thing? Nope, doesn’t work for me.”

  Billy Ray thought for a moment and said, “All right, but we know Albert was a bully and a dominating SOB. Imogene was deathly afraid of him. Maybe she did notice something, but was too intimidated to speak up, knowing she would get another beating if she did.”

  “She
had plenty of time to call in and tell someone of her suspicions. I can’t believe she was so cowed as to not make some kind of move to find her little girl,” Lester said. “No, I’m bettin’ she didn’t know that Albert killed Melissa until much later, Saturday or Sunday, Saturday judging from the condition of Albert’s remains. That’s when she shot him. But how did he do it on Thursday night, the night Melissa disappeared, without her knowledge? If she knew Albert was the killer, why did she keep calling in to Nelda and asking if we’d heard anything? Doesn’t make sense.

  Billy Ray said, “Unless Albert was forcing her to make the calls. And let’s face it Sheriff, Imogene was probably not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

  Lester nodded, looking at the oil stained ground. He used the toe of his cowboy boot to kick a rusted piston loose from the dirt. Billy Ray glanced at the Camaro. The man with the pry bar was gone. “Guess I’m ready to roll,” he said.

  Lester checked his watch. “School be out soon. Let’s go.”

  *****

  Minutes before the final bell, Sheriff Lester P. Morrison stepped inside Mrs. Boynton’s classroom at Boise City High and slammed the door behind him. All eyes swung and locked on the man with the badge as he parted the sea of desks, his boots thump-thumping on the hard tile floor. Boomer Kingston started to rise, thought better of it, and slumped back to his seat.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” Mrs. Boynton said, her mother hen instinct kicking into gear. “May I help you?” Clara Boynton had been teaching English in that room since the first brick was laid and did not take kindly to intruders.

  Lester ignored the woman and leaned across the student desk, his face inches away from the young quarterback.

  “Stand up boy. I want to talk to you…outside.”

  As if to punctuate the demand, the automated ringer in the hall erupted with its annoying clanging sound, signaling the end of the school day. Half the students in the room rushed to the door, the rest stayed on, transfixed by the scene on the back row.

  “Sir,” Mrs. Boynton said again, clearly upset at this intrusion upon her authority. She had been a teacher for 34 years and wasn’t about to let somebody waltz in her classroom and take over, policeman or not. “I must insist that you talk to me about why you are here. You can’t just come in and…”

  “Lady,” Lester held his position but turned his face to the woman. “This is police business and I’ll get to you in a…”

  Greg Boomer Kingston moved, all six foot three inches of him. In one fluid motion, he rose and lashed out with a powerful right arm strengthened by years of weight training and throwing footballs, smashing his fist against the side of Lester’s jaw. The blow was well aimed, snapping the Sheriff’s head. Stunned, Lester stumbled backward, tripped over a chair and went down hard. One kid with a goofy grin on his face said, “Cool.” The other students were not so sure. Mrs. Boynton bent to help but lost her balance as Boomer shoved her aside, her dress flying up as she fell to the floor. A freckle faced boy giggled when he caught a glimpse of his teacher’s white underwear.

  Boomer forced his way through the crowd, sprinting for the door. The halls were packed with kids, pushing towards the exits, anxious to put the school day behind them. Boomer dodged and weaved through the herd, making sharp cuts just as he did on the football field, hitting with his shoulder when he had to, but mostly avoiding contact. As the football scouts had noted, his instinctive moves and body control were amazing, scholarship material for sure.

  Deputy Billy Ray Ledbetter should have noticed the hard charger bursting through the double doors, but at that particular moment, a covey of giggly teenage girls in short skirts and tight jeans had his undivided attention. Sensing a commotion from the corner of his eye, he turned his head and picked up the runner, but not until Boomer was but a few yards from a gray Mustang at the other end of the lot. All Billy Ray could do was watch as the Ford fired up and lit the tires, smoke bellowing from rubber on asphalt, the piercing shriek of the peel-out attracting the attention of every kid on the lot. The car fishtailed as it made for the exit. But the lot was clogged with a jam of vehicles of every description, jockeying for position in the ragged queue, horns honking, engines revving.

  Boomer slammed the brakes, shifted to reverse, and mashed the gas pedal. More smoke, more noise. Students scrambled, yelled, and cursed as the Ford barreled the length of the lot, missing one sophomore by mere inches. The Mustang left the blacktop and hit the new mown lawn. Boomer yanked the wheel and the front end jerked clockwise. Back in forward, the tires spun again but went nowhere, the slick grass offering no purchase. On the second try and with less gas, the rubber grabbed, and the car shot to the street.

  “Are you gonna just stand there and watch the action Billy Ray, or do you think a pursuit might be in order?” Lester said, rubbing his jaw.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Never mind. The Camaro got gas in it?”

  “Yeah, not sure how much, half a tank probably.”

  “Well let’s go. I’m driving.”

  “Oh, no, no, no. I got enough damage already. Besides, we should call…”

  “Hush up, Billy Ray. That’s a direct order. Get in the car, passenger side. I mean it.”

  “Aw shit! Here we go again,” Billy Ray said.

  Lester swung his long legs through the door, or tried to, his knees banging the dash. He made the adjustment and said, “Get on your phone. Call dispatch. See if the city police have a sighting on the Mustang. Have her call the Highway Patrol too; give them a heads-up on what’s going on. Which way did the kid go?”

  “Toward Main.”

  Then which way?”

  “Couldn’t tell.”

  Lester pushed the clutch and felt for first gear.

  “It’s a four-speed Sheriff. Left and all the way up.”

  “I know how a four-speed works young man. Don’t be getting sassy with me now.”

  The stick shift settled into place. Lester popped the clutch. The Camaro lurched, had a spasm, and died.

  “Don’t say it!” Lester said and turned the ignition.

  The second attempt went well although the shift from first to second was less than smooth. He hit Main and turned east.

  “Anything?” Lester asked as he worked through the gears.

  Billy Ray held up one finger, the phone mashed to his ear. “Hang on.” Then, “A city cop has him in sight, going southwest on 56. High speeds.”

  “Okay, tell her to pass that on to the Highway Patrol boys. I need to turn around.”

  The deputy grabbed the dash as Lester geared down and just past Hart Street, did a U turn directly in front an oncoming Toyota 4Runner. The Camaro straightened as Lester searched for second. The transmission protested with a nerve wrenching grind of metal.

  “Clutch!” Billy Ray yelled.

  “I got it, I got it.”

  Back through the middle of town, Lester mashed the horn, scattering cars and scaring dogs.

  “Why didn’t we take your pickup?” Billy Ray said. “You know, siren and lights? Most people pull over you know.”

  “Pickups not fast enough to catch that hot Mustang. I suspect that boy up ahead will have his foot through the floor.”

  At the end of Main, the Camaro, tires protesting, leaned into the traffic circle that intersected with Highway 56 and sped south, horn blaring. The road made a gentle bend to the west. Lester passed a red GMC pickup but had to cut back sooner than he wanted. The driver of the GMC shot a middle finger at the windshield. Lester smiled as he goosed the big engine, feeling the g-forces press him against the seat.

  “This is fun, isn’t it Billy Ray?”

  Watching the road for any slow moving unsuspecting farmers, the deputy said nothing and pulled his safety belt tight and snug. Stores, homes, and vacant lots flashed by in a blur of abstract forms and colors. At the city limits sign, the speedometer touched 80.

  “I see flashing red lights ahead, half mile maybe. Gotta be a city cop,” Billy Ray said. “No
Mustang though.”

  “The kid’s probably got a mile or so lead by now. That cop will never catch him, not with those old Dodge’s they drive. How fast did you tell me this thing will go B.R.?” Lester asked.

  “Too damn fast for you to handle, that’s for sure. Slow down before you kill us all.”

  “Humph, ye of little faith. Just sit still and watch.”

  The motor roared as Lester punched it, asking for more speed. Billy Ray cringed. A half mile later, with a flash of headlights and a honk on the horn, the Camaro overtook Officer John Bowman at upwards of 90 miles an hour. The look on the policeman’s face could only be described as shock and awe. He’d missed the call from dispatch about two Sheriff’s joining the pursuit in an unmarked car and as far as the Boise City Police Department was concerned, he now had multiple lawbreakers to chase down and apprehend. It was the most excitement Officer Bowman had seen in Boise City in the last ten years.

  “I got a dust cloud ahead, quarter mile,” Billy Ray said.

  “He must have spun out or wrecked. Damn it, I hope he didn’t kill himself,” Lester said, easing off the gas. As the lawmen topped a rise, the dust was still there, settling, slowly drifting toward a field, but there was no sign of the gray Mustang. Lester slammed the brakes, leaving dual trails of rubber on the asphalt. Billy Ray mumbled profanities.

  Lester said, “Looks like he took that dirt road that leads back to the east end of town. Where the hell is he going?” It took two tries, but the Sheriff found first gear and popped the clutch. An eruption of dirt and gravel spewed from the back of the Camaro. Fence posts and the occasional rural mailbox flashed by as the Camaro gained momentum. Unfortunately for Boomer Kingman, the back roads and billows of dust revealed every turn and change of direction the Mustang made, making it simple for Lester and Billy Ray to follow. The turn north onto 290 Road was impossible to miss and Lester made the maneuver with a minimum of skid from the rear end. By the time the road turned back into Hart Avenue, they spotted Boomer making a hard left, straight back to the center of Boise City.