The Pendant (The Angela Feetwood Paranormal Mystery Series Book 1)

by Lawton Paul

  The trail will take him right through paper mill property. Going around would add extra miles through sandy scrub. The paper mill gave him a straight shot, and trespassing on private property simply adds to his delight. Beyond that he’ll run right into Hopper Rd. Three miles as the crow flies.

  He takes off down the trail, then glances over his shoulder, the white hull of Carl’s boat lost behind the trees. Here he’s safe and at home. This is an honest place. A gator could come at you if it thought you were a threat, maybe a moccasin could strike if you stepped on it, but these were the worries of city-folk. Jesus ran past deer, jumped over snakes if he saw one, but they were usually quite polite and simply moved out of his way.

  The rotten-egg, sulfur smell hits his nose a mile before the fence. Soon, through the trees, he can see the lights angling up the pulp conveyor belt on the wet end of the big building, steam rising up into the night. A few minutes later he climbs the high, chain-link fence, right over a No Trespassing: Evergreen Pulp Sulphite and Paper Mill sign, landing onto the soft, manicured grass. He stays close to the fence in the shadows. There is usually just one guard on duty and mostly he sits in a golf cart on the other side, never leaving the safety of the sidewalk.

  Jesus runs along the fence, between a long row of pampas grass and a man-made retention pond with a lighted fountain spraying water into the air, his bare feet hardly making any noise at all. Only the rats living in the pond can hear him pass.

  The lead up to the other fence is well lit, with a gravel surface and a big storage building blocking his view. He could stop for a peek on the other side but instead breaks into a sprint, pops into the light, probably onto some surveillance camera for a split second. He glances to his right and there is the golf cart and the guard, eating something out of a white bag—the smell of grease and cooked meat in the air. The guard yells and fires up a big spotlight. The circle of light hits the treetops beyond the fence, finally settling right on the other No Trespassing sign.

  Jesus is over the fence and thirty yards past in a few seconds, the big spotlight still on his back, his entire body projected in a giant silhouette onto the treeline in front of him. He watches his shadow self run and is overjoyed. He stops and waves, not at the guard, but at himself, facing the trees. The huge shadow of his hand touches the top of the tallest oaks. And then he disappears back into the woods.

  He doesn’t fear the fences, the spotlights, or even the house at the end of Hopper Rd. But the way his body begins to feel with every step forward beyond the fence: heavier, slower, like he has a cold—this weighs on him. This is a hint of his life before, when he couldn’t run. Only for an hour or so, he thinks. Then I’ll be back.

  He is outside the energy field.

  Jesus pauses at the edge of the woods to catch his breath. The house is there at the end of Hopper Rd., just as Angela said, a cinder block with a sagging, rotting roof and a separate two-car garage painted red to look like a barn. There is a house next door sitting on an acre of land. No lights on at either place.

  He covers the fifty yards in the darkness to the barn quick and quiet, jiggles the side door handle but it’s locked. The front door is lit up by a street light, so he climbs in through the high rear window. Halfway in he straddles the window sill for a moment and reaches out with his toe and finds a work table. He accidentally knocks a paint can off and it hits the floor, breaking the quiet. It rolls to a stop at the big garage door and makes another noise: this time soft and hollow.

  Jesus pulls his foot back and waits, ready to jump down to the ground and run if someone comes. But after a few minutes of silence, and no house lights, he creeps down onto the table. His eyes are already adjusted to the darkness so he can easily make out the big, dark shape of a car, rifles hanging on the opposite wall, and a stack of magazines near the big door.

  The concrete is cold on his bare feet as he makes his way to the corner. He holds up a magazine in the faint light coming through the window: Ladies Home Journal. He tears off the little white address label: Margaret Spence, 1440 Hopper Rd., Jacksonville, FL, and sticks it into a small pocket in his shorts.

  Then he goes to the back of the car. He can tell it’s old with its long, graceful curves and chrome rear bumper. He lifts the back of the cover. Four shiny little letters spell out the word F O R D in between the red tail lights, and TORINO 500 on the right quarter panel. Okay, Angela, I found the car, got the address, I’m out, he thinks.

  And then he hears a door close outside. And then steps. Suddenly the side garage door pops open and the lights come on. Jesus jumps to the left, puts the car between him and the door. He hears two more steps, then the cover being slid back over the car.

  “I see the top window open,” says a familiar voice. “Now you kin come outta there with your hands where I kin see ‘em, or I’m gonna just shoot yer ass.”

  Jesus weighs his options. He can maybe squeeze under the car, but then if he gets caught he can’t run. The prospect of being shot at in such tight quarters with no escape puts the fear in him.

  “What’s it gonna be? Show me yer hands or I shoot yer ass,” says the voice.

  “Ain’t done nuthin’ ‘cept lookin’ fer stuff to sell is all,” he says. Jesus lifts his hands and stands up. The man on the other side of the car is the sheriff.

  “Well, if it ain’t Jesus himself come to bless us all,” says the sheriff. He’s got on his Chickasaw Sheriff’s uniform, shirt untucked and reading glasses hanging around his neck.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” says Jesus, relieved. He won’t hurt me. He likes the magic mushrooms. “I didn’t know this was your place. I’s jus’ lookin fer somethin’ to sell. Last shroomy crop was weak,” he says, and starts to pull up the big garage door.

  “Keep yer hands up. Dave,” he says. “This ain’t my place. I was just passing through and saw the window open in the back.” He’s lying.

  Jesus sets the paint can upright again and tries to smile. Tries to look relaxed. Like Jesus. But Dave starts to come back: afraid, heavy body and stiff muscles. Maybe if he tried he could cough up some phlegm.

  He plays the only card he’s got. “You need some more shroomies? Next crop looks good. I kin tell old shithead to run some out to you. Put ‘em in those little pill capsules you like. Easy goin’ down.” I’ll eat them raw off a cow patty. Sheriff’s a wuss.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. Dave.” Lying again. The instinct to run is strong. One second to open the door. Another to roll out and run. Why am I scared? This is the sheriff.

  The sheriff’s waist is hidden by the car and Dave doesn’t want to give it a hard look. Does he have his gun? If he looks the sheriff’ll know he is afraid. But the sheriff already knows.

  “You ain’t here lookin’ fer shit to sell. Are ya, DAVE?” he laughs, says the word Dave like it’s an insult, a punchline to some joke. “Yer lookin’ fer a car. Ain’t ya?” The sheriff takes one step forward. One more and he’ll have a clear shot. “That skinny bitch put you up to this? She got you runnin’ ‘round like her little dog? How’d she know about the car?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s too bad,” says the sheriff. “Now why don't you step back a little. Don’t worry, Dave. Nobody but ‘dem stoners gonna miss yer ass.” And then Dave sees the gun in his hand but he’s not going to give him a clear shot.

  He ducks down and pulls on the garage door as hard as he can. It goes up about five inches then stops. Locked. He pops up again and throws the big paint can, half-full of paint, at the sheriff’s head. The sheriff fires a shot but the can hits him right on the nose and he falls back. Dave jumps over the car, flies past the sheriff and starts running full out for the tree line. It’s half a football field but he can cover it in six seconds.

  Adrenaline and fear get him right to the edge faster than he’s ever run. The turkey oaks wait there to hide him and keep him alive.

  Ten yards before the woods he is thrown to the ground, his left shoulde
r on fire. And then he hears the shot, loud even at this distance. He rolls under the base of a big tree, grabs his left arm to put the fire out, but that only makes it worse.

  He stays there for a moment, staring up through the branches and leaves. The sheriff is dirty. Jesus puts his hand to his chest and feels a steady, strong beat. He can breath. The bullet hadn’t hit his heart or lungs or he’d be dead. Suddenly wood splinters off the trunk of the tree he is under and the CRACK of another rifle shot rips through the woods. He jumps up, and darts down the path.

  And for the moment he can still move, still limp along. But he can feel the blood trickling down his arm, dripping off his fingers, life draining out of his body. And as he stumbles deeper into the woods, his body getting heavier and his thoughts starting to cloud, two things weigh foremost in his mind: getting back into the corridor, and equally important—sphagnum cymbifolium.

  A mile later he starts to stumble, but he knows where he needs to go: off the trail to a spot where the moss grows best. But when he gets there he can’t find any. It’s dark and the quarter moon doesn’t give him much light. He fumbles around, his shoulder throbbing. His feet start sinking in the mud again so he knows he’s too close to the river. Coming back to the hardpack he falls, and for the first time starts to think maybe he’s going to die right here in the woods and the redneck sheriff will be right: no one will give a shit except the shroomheads, and they don’t really care about him.

  He rolls onto his good shoulder and lay there for a moment, drips of blood still sliding down his arm, onto his back, his neck. He thinks about resting, just a minute or two. But he knows if he stays there for the night another bullet from the sheriff come morning light, or loss of blood, will kill him.

  He needs to get inside the corridor. He wills himself up, starts crawling towards the deer trail, his hands reaching out in the dark. Suddenly he feels something soft. He pulls it out of the ground and holds it to his nose: sphagnum. He collects as much as he can hold, then with his good hand, presses it into the wound. He wants to scream, but the thought of another bullet flying past keeps him quiet. The moss will stop the bleeding. Now all he has to do is go another mile or so and get as deep into the corridor as he can. He’ll never make it back to the boat tonight.

  By the time he sees the lights of the pulp mill he can barely take another step. He stumbles out of the treeline into the clearing where the guard spotlighted him just a few hours before. There is no going over the fence this time so he goes off to the side and skirts around.

  He falls under a clump of palmettos, still holding the moss on his shoulder, his body wet with mud or blood, he doesn't know. The sheriff is dirty. Finally, he can rest. He stares up into the sky, wondering if he will wake up in the morning, and watches a big gray cloud passing over the cypress tree branches above him like a ship.

  No Dave

  Angela shines the light on the metal ring bolted into the ceiling at Kaufman’s house. She’s standing near the top step of the ladder, puts a finger into the ring and pulls down. “It’s solid. Looks like its drilled right into a main beam.”

  “Probably just for a light fixture,” says Greg.

  She looks down at him and the dog. “No,” she says. “This thing was meant to hold something heavy. And look where it’s positioned, a little off center for a light. And besides, where’s the outlet? No wires poking through.”

  Greg looks down at Dog. “I got it. She tied Dog up so he couldn’t get away.”

  “Dog ain’t dumb. He isn’t going to run.” She climbs down from the ladder. Starts nosing around the room. Green carpet, big console style stereo with an old turntable. The baseboards nice and white. She follows the baseboard to the corner. The corner at the entrance to the dining area has marks at the bottom. She keeps walking and the next corner has marks, too, like something’s been grinding at them. Some places even have bits of paint chipped off so the bare wood is showing. The entrance to the kitchen has the same marks.

  “She hits it as she walks by?” says Greg.

  “Well, Mr. Medical Examiner, did her toenails look like they’d dinged wooden baseboards?”

  “Hey, just spitballing.”

  Angela stands for a moment under the ring. She walks into the kitchen, stares back at the living room. The marks on the kitchen are lower than the ones on the living room corner. “Greg, I think you were right.”

  “Fantastic. A woman finally says I’m right about something, but I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “You should’ve just said, ‘Of course,’” says Angela. “But it wasn’t Dog that was tied up. Maybe it was Mrs. Kaufman.”

  “Damn. Locked up in her own house.”

  Greg rubs his fingers over the paint-chipped wood. “And one more thing, it wasn’t rope. It was probably a chain. A rope would wear the corners, not ding them. And that would explain the marks on her ankle.”

  “And maybe the ‘cutters’ in the flower pot note weren’t for plants. Maybe they were for a chain.”

  “So who was helping her?”

  “Maybe Walt. He was going to help her escape,” says Angela.

  “But the guy who chained up Marlina got to Walt first,” says Greg.

  “Obviously someone, someone who is sick, thought the power was in her. If she left, the power would go, too. But that wasn’t true. And Walt dies for nothing.” They’re both quiet for a moment and then Greg puts his arm around her.

  “The sheriff isn’t too high on either of our lists,” he says. “But shouldn’t we let him know what we think? There’s something to this.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t trust him.”

  “Really? I ran into him last week at the courthouse and mentioned Kaufman’s gray hair wasn’t really gray. It was gonna go in my follow-up report so he woulda found out about it anyway. If he bothered to look.”

  Angela motions for him to come sit in the Florida room overlooking the river. “What day was that?” she says.

  “Friday,” he says, the wooden rocker chair creaking as he leans back.

  “And Kaufman’s body goes away the following Monday. And you get shit-canned for it.”

  “I don’t like him. But that’s not enough.”

  “He arrested Johnny.”

  “Johnny admitted he stole from Kaufman.”

  “Yeah, but then there’s the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “What Grace said.” Angela floats it out there waiting for him to knock it down. He stops rocking and looks at her with a blank face. She decides she doesn’t care what he thinks. He watched her melt down in the courthouse and is still here, trying to help.

  “Grace told me the sheriff was sick and left the JPD,” she says. “He came here and got better.”

  Greg leans forward and puts his hand on her knee. “Okay, he says,” looking a little too much like a concerned doctor again for her liking. “We don’t trust the sheriff.”

  They sit there for a moment in silence, Dog’s head on Angela’s lap.

  ……

  Angela stares off across the river into the darkness towards the bridge. She sees a red bow light and stands. Dog gets up, too, starts wagging his tail. She puts Bo’s coffee cup on the dock railing, thinks better of it, sets it down next to Dog.

  The little red pin of light moves closer, but they both sit down again when they hear the high-pitched whine of a small outboard motor. Angela looks back to the big house: Bo a black silhouette surrounded by orange light, standing at one of the upper windows. She looks like Mrs. Kaufman, Angela thinks. She’s waiting, too.

  Angela checks the time on her phone: 11:36pm. It’s too late. Something’s wrong. She rests her hand on Dog’s head. “You ready, Boy?” He jumps up, licks her cheek. Starts whimpering. She puts both hands on either side of his face. “We’re gonna have to go to Hopper Rd. and find the boys.” They stare into each others’ eyes for a moment and then Angela gives him a hug.

  Dog’s ears perk up and he turns towar
d the bridge. Pretty soon another tiny red light, but this time Angela stays seated. She stands when she hears the engine: the deep, rumble of a V-8. It’s Carl. Angela waves at the house and Bo waves back and then disappears, heading downstairs.

  Carl comes up quick in the big boat, the shrimp net chains clanging against the stainless door arms. A wave rolls under them just ahead of the dirty hull. The bow grinds into the dock, the deck and pilings creaking. Carl hits reverse and the water churns white at the stern. He’s covered in mud, head to toe, and his orange flare gun is on the console.

  “Where’s Dave?” says Angela.

  Carl ties the bow line and climbs onto the dock holding the flare gun. “Let’s go inside,” he says, hoarse and urgent.

  “What’s that for?” says Angela, eyeing the orange plastic pistol.

  “’Cause it’s the only one I got.”

  Carl steps into Bo’s kitchen covered in a thin layer of light brown mud, gripping the orange gun like a crazy man, but still with wits enough not to sit in one of Bo’s chairs. Not even at Angela’s little table.

  “Why don’t you go outside and hose off?” says Bo. Carl just stands there for a moment, face squinched up like she’d delivered a puzzler he’d need time to suss out.

  “Well, quite honestly, Bo, I don’t wanna go outside.”

  “Where’s Dave?” says Angela. And Carl’s face does another little contortion like he’s just swallowed a pinecone. Then he breaks into a coughing fit.

  “Well. I don’t rightly know,” he says. “He was supposed to be back in an hour. He said he could make it there in fifteen, thirty at the house, then back in fifteen. At around one hour it was dark and I was gettin’ antsy. But I know he’s good at that shit, you know, running through the woods half-naked and cutting through other people’s property. So I wasn’t too worried. But then, I, uh…” He looks down.