by Randy Rawls
Every few feet, I stopped and squinted into the darkness. If Melon spotted me this close to my goal, I’d kick myself into next week—if I survived. Many tombstones later, I found it, an open grave. It was close to the chain link fence on the wooded side of the cemetery about thirty yards from the pavilion. Open graves are spooky anytime. In the dark, it was even more so. I worked myself to the pit, untied the bundles and lowered one inside. I laid the second on the ground, then cut the string with my pen knife. I waited a few minutes, checking all around me.
All was quiet so I shifted to the tombstone closest to the pavilion and unloaded one of the liberated package halves. I checked to make sure everything was ready to go, then maneuvered to the open grave with a quiet sigh of relief. That was the difficult one. If Melon had been under the pavilion or anywhere near, he could have seen me and, most likely, expressed his displeasure.
One-thirty. I knew my slack time might be growing short. After retrieving the other half of the package, I crawled to a tombstone close to the fence, about twenty-five yards from the open grave. Again, I placed the item and checked to make sure it was active.
As I made my way to the pit, my second biggest worry, the first was discovery, was one or both of the items would not work. They should. Chip and I had checked them out and put in fresh batteries, but…Murphy’s Law, remember? When I reached the open grave this time, I took a last look around, then slid over the edge and swung myself down to its six foot depth. I didn’t want to land on the item I’d placed earlier and pop an ankle or something.
Once at the bottom, I found the object I’d dropped, a three-step ladder and set it against one of the end walls. It would facilitate my getting out of the hole when I needed to. I looked at the upper edges of the grave and wondered if the gravedigger had dug this one deeper than the standard six feet, like maybe eight or ten. It was a long way up.
I ignored the depth and checked my watch. Two o’clock. Perfect. The fireworks should start in one hour.
I sat in the grave and leaned back against the cool wall of dirt. It was surprising how vertical the grave digger had cut the sides. Must take a special talent.
I reviewed how I’d gotten this far. When I first told Chip my idea, he acted like I was nuts. In fact, he refused to participate. He said things like I’d be desecrating his parents’ graves and other assorted nonsensical things. It didn’t quite get to the shouting stage, but it was close. What clenched it was when I challenged him to come up with a better plan for capturing Melon. A few long minutes later, Chip caved and agreed.
Today, while Chip and I had been having fun with the purchases we’d made, the local grave digger was dispatched to the cemetery with his backhoe and dug the grave. As far as he knew, he was being paid his standard fee to open a new grave at this exact spot. I hoped this was a virgin site. It made me uncomfortable to think I could be sitting where a body had lain. The grave digger would return tomorrow to finish a burial by filling the grave. I hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed when he found it empty.
Chip sent Wanda on a bogus errand to Terrell. But she almost upset everything by coming home before we expected. Whatever happened to women spending the day shopping? I mean, it’s tough enough understanding them without their changing spots. Her return forced me to lie. I knew I’d be in trouble again, but I’d face that later.
I felt myself getting drowsy, plus I couldn’t hear anything where I sat. I stood and leaned against the wall closest to the pavilion. This put me in moon shadow and kept anyone near the pavilion from seeing movement. This was one time I was glad I was only five foot, eight inches tall. Chip could have never pulled this off unless we dug the grave twelve feet deep.
My watch glowed on, its crystal vibrating in the rhythm nature decreed, driving the watch works and the liquid crystal display. Two-thirty passed, and I willed myself to be at my most alert. Two-forty-five and still I heard nothing.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the last piece of the surprise I planned for Melon. Well, there was one more, and I checked it also. It was my Beretta which felt snug and comforting in its shoulder holster under my left arm. I wanted to take it out and check its load, but I knew that would be stupid. First, I checked it a dozen times before leaving the cottage and second, with my luck, I’d drop it, jam dirt in its barrel, then step on it.
I put thoughts of the Beretta aside and concentrated on what was next. It was five minutes before three. Lights, camera, action.
TWENTY-FIVE
A car turned off 1653 and moved toward the cemetery. I watched the sky as the headlights danced closer, casting shadows from the trees and bushes along the way. I concentrated on keeping one eye closed to protect my night vision. The car stopped at the pavilion, the headlights died, and darkness descended again.
I stood on top of my little ladder and peaked over the edge. I figured if Melon was out there, he’d be doing the same thing I was doing, watching the car. I saw my convertible with the top down. The shadow of what I knew was a footlocker was prominent in the backseat. The driver sat behind the steering wheel, waiting. Matt was the designated driver and wouldn’t make a move until Melon did.
Chip and I had argued about who should deliver the ransom. He wanted to do it, but I convinced him he’d stand out like a drunken sailor in a nunnery. Matt was closer to my size and was willing to do it.
My watch kept blinking. Three o’clock, three-o-five, three-ten. Night noises broke the silence. In the distance, the wail of a coyote sounded. Closer in, I heard crickets and other night critters including an owl who kept asking his eternal question.
The owl’s Who stopped in the middle, and I heard a flutter of wings. Something had spooked it. Then a voice sang out, “You gonna sit thar all damn night? Unload the damn money and git the hell outta here. Didcha bring my samwiches?”
The voice came from the woods beyond the end of the pavilion, the part that dropped away into a gully. I’d known that was a logical hiding area and expected Melon would set up camp there. That’s why I didn’t use it, not because I liked to spend my time in open graves.
As instructed, Matt didn’t move. My Casio kept glowing and ten more minutes passed before Melon’s patience wore thin. “You sombitch. Either you unload the money and git the hell outta here, or I’m gonna come over there and whup yo ass.”
Matt yelled, “It’s too heavy. You gotta help me.”
We’d decided to gamble Melon wouldn’t recognize Matt’s voice. Otherwise, it might have spooked him if his delivery man never said a word.
Matt got out of the car and walked to the side opposite Melon’s hiding place. I’d told him to put the car between him and Melon in case Melon lost his cool and started shooting.
My Casio glowed for another five minutes before I heard a crashing about in the woods. I peeked out of my hole and saw a form emerging from the shadows. After a few more steps, I recognized the form as a man, a big man. In the dim moonlight, he looked about ten feet tall. He stomped toward the car, making unintelligible sounds. I assumed he was thanking the driver for bringing the ransom.
He yelled, “All right, git ’round here, and I’ll hep ya.”
Matt waited until Melon was close, then came around the car, keeping his head down and his hat pulled low over his face. They lifted the footlocker out, walked it under the pavilion, and sat it on a table. Matt returned to the car, jumped in, and drove away.
Melon stood for a moment watching the car disappear, then turned his attention to the footlocker. I heard him say something I couldn’t understand, then louder, “What the hell? They got all kinda shit here.”
Chip and I had put several straps around the container with buckles that guaranteed a broken fingernail or two before they opened. Since the straps were nylon, reinforced with strands of steel, I doubted Melon’s knife would make quick headway. It was imperative Melon not get it open before I was ready. If he found the newspaper that filled it, he’d cut and run.
I took two remote controls out of my
pocket and punched the square one. Then I punched the ON button on the round one. I put a cordless microphone to my mouth and said in my spookiest voice, “Mel-on,” dragging it out into three or four seconds.
My voice carried through the air from a grave marker about twenty-five yards away where I’d put a karaoke tape player. I had the reverberation turned on high so the voice echoed in a tremulous voice. It came out, “Melllllllllll lon,lon,lon,lon,” as it echoed away into the night.
Melon whirled toward the source of the sound so I did it again. “Melllllllllll lon,lon,lon,lon.”
“Who, who’s out there. You butter show yo’self.” His voice sounded mean and ornery. He hadn’t had enough yet.
“Mel-on. Why, Melon?” Echo, echo, echo.
“Why what, you bastard?” I saw him reach into his pocket, then his hand came out holding something. I guessed a gun.
“Why did you hurt me, Melon? I thought we wuz friends.”
“Who, who are you? Whaddaya mean, hurt you?” His voice was beginning to lose its orneriness, and I heard a slight tremor.
“It’s me. Peanut. We wuz friends, and you hurt me. Why, Melon, why?” Echo, echo, echo.
I hit another button on the square remote and scrambled out of the hole. The karaoke player took over. “You gotta repent Melon, repent while you can. It’s terrible in hell. All they do is yell at you to throw more coal on the fire. There ain’t no beer and no women you want. They’s all fat and ugly and ain’t got no tits. They got asses so broad, they can’t hardly fit in the pits. You better repent. Why’d you hurt me?”
You get the idea. Interspersed in the recording I’d made that afternoon were lots of repetitions of the question why.
There was a pause in my narration, and I hit the second button on the round remote. It drove the second tape player, and it was in record mode.
“Peanut, no.” Melon’s voice shook. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. You…you just made me so mad. If you hadn’t a made me mad, I wouldn’t a hurt you. You made me do it, Peanut.”
Melon’s voice got shakier as he talked, and I could see he was backing from under the pavilion. That wouldn’t do. I couldn’t allow him to leave.
I increased the speed of my movement and in a few seconds, I was at the fence line nearest the woods where Melon had emerged. I did my most acrobatic move and was on the other side, freezing against the ground.
I hit the remote again to get the tape player going. It responded with more of my afternoon recording. I had to take a chance he wouldn’t spot my motion as I crossed the few yards to the woods. I hoped the tape would keep him occupied. Then, he turned as if to run.
That was my worst fear. Well, second worst. The worst was going face to face with him. He outweighed me by at least fifty pounds and had the adrenaline flow of one scared half to death. If he came thrashing toward me in the woods, he could squish me without knowing I was there.
I pulled the microphone out again. If I didn’t stop him, he’d be in the woods in about three steps, and I’d lose him. I hit the remote and took over the karaoke machine again. “Melon, don’t leave me. Stay and talk to me. It’s so lonely when you’s dead. It’s either too cold, or I’m burning in hell’s fires, and nobody’ll talk to me. Please don’t run away. We wuz friends when we stole Joseph. Let’s be friends agin. Don’t be scired of me. I ain’t scired of you. Not no more, I ain’t.”
Melon stopped and turned toward the karaoke machine. He began to babble like a baby. “You got scared, Peanut. You quit on me. You wanted to take the damn jackass back. Don’t you remember? I only slapped you a little, but you bit me and wouldn’t turn loose. I still got your tooth marks on my hand. I had to hit you with the tire iron so you’d turn loose. I had to keep hitting you to stop you from ruining our plan. We wuz gitting even with that stuck-up Jamison, that sombitch that fired me, but you wuz ruining it.
“You wuz holdin’ onto Joseph. You tied the rope around yo’ arm. He took off runnin’, and I couldn’t catch you. I tried, but that sombitch jackass run too fast and I lost you in the dark. I tried to save you, Peanut. I swear I did.”
Melon had delivered a classic confession. Any judge would love it—if no one told him how it was obtained.
While Melon was busy baring his soul to my tape recorder, I finished my move. I had circled and re-positioned on the backside of the pavilion. I picked up a two-by-four I’d stashed there earlier in the day. I hit Melon across the upper back with all the strength I could muster. He dropped like a rock, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
For anyone thinking that was cowardly, let me explain my theory again. It’s quite simple. Hit him with the biggest thing you can lift, as hard as you can, and do it as many times as it takes to make you a winner. I assure you, it never fails when implemented with the correct precision.
From my hip pocket, I took out plastic ties, and secured his wrists behind him with three of them, then strung his ankles together with more sets of ties. I searched him and took two revolvers, one sheath knife, one pocket knife, a set of brass knuckles, a blackjack, and a pair of fingernail clippers. He must have thought I was one bad dude.
I re-crossed the fence and cut off the recorder and the karaoke machine, then sat beside Melon with my two-by-four across my lap. My Casio gave off a happy glow as it showed me three-thirty-five. Another ten minutes or so and the posse should arrive.
The plan Chip and I made was for Chip to call the sheriff’s office at three-fifteen, tell him the ransom drop was going down, and he was worried about me. He was supposed to tell the on-duty deputy to get the sheriff and head for the Holly Springs Methodist Church. I had no doubt Chip would play his part, and the sheriff would soon be arriving. I had to believe it, or I was going to have a serious problem getting Melon to the truck, especially if he regained consciousness.
Melon groaned, tried to roll over, and started struggling with his bonds. I tapped him again with my club, and he took another nap. I didn’t want him to miss out on any beauty sleep. One look had convinced me he needed all he could get.
At three forty-five, I heard the sirens, then saw lights flickering through the woods. Soon, there were four county patrol cars parked by the pavilion, and the sheriff was introducing me to a colorful vocabulary.
“You stupid sonnavabitch. You assholes might do this kinda shit in Dallas, but out here, we let the law take care of assholes. In fact, I might let the law take care of an asshole like you. Dam’it, you made me look like an asshole in my own county.”
“Ah, Bob—”
“Shut up, you asshole. I’ll let you know when I want you to say something.”
Must be something in the water causing the distinctive language. First, it was Candi punctuating her dialogue with bullshit. Now Bob’s favorite word was asshole.
“Bob. Earth to Bob. Good morning, Bob. It’s great to see you, Bob.”
He turned to me, his mouth working with no sounds coming out.
“The dude napping on the floor is Mervin Sampson, also known as Melon. He confessed, then took a nap. You’ll want to take him in and charge him with a few things, like murder and jackass kidnapping. Can I get a ride with you to Frank’s truck?”
“You, you sombitch.”
I looked and discovered that Melon had awakened.
“You, you’s just stupid is what you is. You didn’t leave even when I skunked you.”
His last remark tied up a loose end I’d wondered about. How the skunk got into the cottage? Melon had been its entrée.
Melon rolled around, fighting the plastic straps I’d used to secure him, so I did what any red-blooded PI would do. I said, “Look over there,” and pointed. The sheriff, his deputies and Melon all looked. I gave Melon another sedative. The two-by-four stung my hands.
Bob turned in time to see my technique. “You stupid asshole, you might have ruined any case we had against him. You and that asshole two-by-four. We’ll be lucky if this asshole don’t press charges for violation of his civil rights, or some such liberal b
ullshit.”
I was glad to hear him switch from asshole to bullshit. I considered it a step in the right direction. “Ah, Bob—”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up, you…you asshole?” He gave me a last glare and stomped toward his car.
Maybe I had celebrated too soon. He was calling me an asshole again. “Bob.” I threw my two-by-four aside. “Well, will you at least give me a ride, or should I walk? Okay, I’ll walk.” I started across the parking area toward the woods on the other side, then stopped. “Oh, if you’re interested, I have his confession on tape. He confessed to killing Peanut—if you want it.” I waited to see if that made any impression.
Bob quit mumbling and turned toward me, looked to Melon then at me. He shook his head and sighed. “You got a confession? Yeah, I need the tape. Where is it?” His adrenaline rush had apparently slowed.
“Maybe I’d better get it. You look like the type who’s afraid of graveyards.” I went into the cemetery, retrieved the karaoke machine and the tape recorder, and brought them to the pavilion. I hit rewind, then started Melon’s tape playing.
I watched and listened long enough to see a smile replace the frown on the sheriff’s face, then returned to the open grave for my step ladder. I jumped into the hole and threw the ladder out. I checked to see if I’d left anything then started to climb out.
Big mistake. Without the ladder, I was stuck. No matter how hard I jumped, I couldn’t get a hand hold on the top of the grave. Trapped.
“Bob, Dub,” I yelled. “Help me, guys.”
I heard footsteps, looked up and saw the moon illuminating Bob’s grinning face.
“When’s the grave digger due?” he asked.
“Six tonight,” I replied, suspicion clouding my mind.
“Hmmm, that’s fourteen hours. I’ll get you a jug of water and a few snacks. Don’t want the hero of Eastland County getting hungry or dehydrated.” His face disappeared, then re-appeared. “Sure hope the grave digger sees you before he fills it. Sometimes, old John forgets his glasses. Don’t worry though if he don’t come. I’ll have a patrol check on you tonight. Midnight shift might have time.”
