by R. K. Latch
Welcome to the Family
By
R.K. Latch
eBook Edition
Copyright 2021 R.K. Latch
License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
Welcome to the Family
A Winchester County Novella
R.K. Latch
Other titles by R.K. Latch
The Mongrel
To
M&M,
So much more than I deserve.
Chapter 1
June 8, 1944
Mississippi countryside
Luthor Duncan watched, a little out of breath, as the linen-bound bundle with the dark stains slipped beneath the water. Concentric rings danced away, and the surface fell placid once more. He stood there a moment, making sure the bundle would not pop back up. The night was warm, and the bundle was anything but light. It took a minute more for the forty-one-year-old man to catch his breath. When he did, he turned from the water’s edge and walked back to his car.
He was in the woods, deep as he could get with his Studebaker Champion. Already, there would be mud in the tires and along the bottom. He would wash it clean in the morning. Cleanliness was next to Godliness, as the good book said. Clean things also stood out far less than dirty ones, he’d learned in life.
The song of night things soothed Luthor. He was lightly sweating, and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He wore grey dress slacks, a pressed white shirt and maroon tie with a stylized silver star embroidered upon it. He’d removed his jacket before the drive and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.
Back in the car, he checked his reflection in the rear view and dabbed at a stray sprig of his salt-and-pepper hair. He had a slight smudge on his cheek and with his own spit and a handkerchief, wiped it away.
The car started easily, and the finely tuned motor hummed as he slowly steered the car along the dirt path. It was important to keep things in good working order. Luthor believed in not only keeping things clean but insisted on routine maintenance and addressing any mechanical issue as soon as it reared its head. Life was busy and time, once spent, could never be regained. You could carve out a few minutes here and there to take care of things or hours or even days could be wasted attending to them once they finally gave way. It was a principle he applied to everything in his life. Life was all too precious and fleeting to be wasted with something that could have been taken care of beforehand.
In a few minutes time, the dirt path met a true road and looking for oncoming traffic but seeing none, Luthor turned out onto Route 64 and headed east.
Route 64 was smooth. Relaxed and comfortable as the breeze blew in from the half open windows of the two front doors, he fiddled with the radio until he found a station he liked.
As cool and collected as he was, he found himself, every minute or so, looking into the rearview. While a good road, this section of Route 64 was all but deserted by eight o’clock in the evening. At a few minutes after nine, he seemed to be the only person for miles. He smiled. Still, after a few more minutes, he would find his eyes straying back to the mirror yet again.
He was about ten miles outside the next town, and he would ease through and pick up Highway 27 and follow it back the rest of the way home. He would be home within the hour, and he was ready. It had been a long day and an even longer evening. He missed his wife and looked forward to hitting the hay with her.
Luthor was in the insurance business and did quite well with it. So well, in fact, he owned and operated his own agency in the small town of Farmington. He had a secretary and a junior agent, and he enjoyed dealing with his customers. As with any small town, business ownership brought with it a certain amount of respectability. Adding to that air of respectability, both Luthor and his wife, Gabrielle, were ardent supporters of local causes and often put their money where their mouth was, as they say. A little coin could buy much good grace.
Gabrielle, a fine-looking woman in her forties, was the quintessential southern wife. She was charming, literate, and intelligent with more than her fair share of attractiveness. If Luthor suddenly found himself, through some strange arcane miracle, capable of the amazing feats of the fictious but notorious Dr. Victor Frankenstein, he could not have made himself a better companion with all the spare parts in the world. They had married when Luthor had been the mature age of thirty-three and pretty Gabrielle, thirty. According to social norms, this was a little late in the game for matrimony, but Luthor would have lived his entire life alone before committing to the wrong person. Thankfully, that had not proved necessary.
A news broadcast interrupted the jazz tune on the radio. The news flash concerned the Allies landing in Normandy just days ago. Luthor cared little. Europe was half a world away and even with the attack on Pearl Harbor years before and the subsequent West Loch Disaster earlier this year, Luthor was completely unconcerned about the goings on of his own or any other sovereign nation. Likewise, politics, whether they be local, state, or federal, did not interest him. He learned just enough to be familiar should his clients bring it up in conversation. Beyond that, Luthor refused to get worked up over something he could do no more about than the revolution of the Earth. In short, he couldn’t care less about those things beyond his realm. Conversely, for the things close and within his control, he cared deeply, profoundly.
Soon enough, the newscaster fell silent, and another song began. Up ahead, the lights of Marigold, the small town where he would pick up the highway, grew brighter on the horizon. One day, they might construct a bypass, but for the time being, drivers had to navigate half the town to catch the exit to the 27.
Just as he approached the town limits, the car began coughing roughly. Luthor furrowed his brow and began scanning for a well-lit area he could inspect beneath the hood.
+++
The only thing worse than an unfamiliar location was an unfamiliar location at night.
Nine-year-old Wade clung to shadows as he made his way around town. He was tired and his stomach rumbled like a thunderstorm. Hunger was no new thing for him, but that did not lessen its sting.
He was skinny, even what some might call scrawny and had little in the way of fat as a reserve. The cotton tee shirt he wore was ridiculously thin, threadbare even, but thankfully the night was balmy. He was glad of that. Wade had been cold before, cold for long times on end. He hadn’t cared for it at all.
The town was woefully small. He made his way around a series of alleyways that separated most of the businesses, but they could only carry him so far. He did use the sidewalk to dart across the streets. While he was both alone and lonely, he dared not attract attention. A child roaming the streets alone, this time of night would not go unnoticed in a town this size.
If he came across a cop, it would not go well. He would be unable to tell them what they wanted to know and who knew where he would end up. He hated being out here by himself, but it was preferable to many other things.
He had no idea what time it was, only that the sun had set hours ago. He didn’t know where he was, the name of the town or even what state he was in.
Wade could hardly think as the growl in his belly grew louder and when he put his palm against it, he could feel the gurgling.
He had to make a move. Every bit of his good sense was pushed away as
his hunger became an unwieldy thing. Grown men fell to the instincts of survival, so there was little young Wade could do to quell his body’s protests. He needed food and he would be able to do nothing else until the gnawing, aching, burning in his gut was satiated. There would be no free thought. There would be no free actions. Everything he would do, would be to calm that storm of hunger.
On the edge of town, Wade knew one place was still open. The aromas drifting upon the warm night breeze were a siren song to his starving gut. Sizzling onions, grilled hamburger, frying chicken, it was plethora of delicious and delectable scents that pulled him, called him, like the musical notes of the Pied Piper’s pipe. He moved quicker as the smells grew stronger, still close to the buildings but away from the rings of the streetlamps.
Standing at the edge of one block, looking at the busy eatery less than a dozen feet away, Wade had to stop and think. Obviously, he was just a kid without an adult companion, at what had to be a late time of the evening, walking into such a place was risky, and that was putting it mildly. Beyond the obvious, there was also the issue of money. Wade didn’t have two nickels to rub together. In fact, he didn’t have one. Penniless, the only thing at the bottoms of his denim britches pockets was lint and probably a few particles of dirt.
Sure, someone might want to feed the young boy. People were like that, mostly, after all. But that would be no free meal. Something was always wanted in return.
The restaurant faced inward toward similar storefronts on the opposite side of the street. Warm, inviting yellow light poured out through the plate glass windows, bathing the sidewalk and the sides of cars parked parallel at the curb.
Tucked into the recessed entranceway of a shoe store, currently closed at this late hour, Wade watched a few patrons exit the little diner. The door had a bell that rang as it opened and once again as it swung closed. He watched as one extremely healthy man exited, stopped just beyond the door, and rubbed his large, round belly. Apparently, his meal had been filling and before he stepped away, burped loud enough that an approaching couple looked his way. Nonplussed, the big man tossed a toothpick between his teeth and walked on.
As Wade watched the comings and goings, only barely tolerating his own hunger pangs, he heard a door opening at the alley between the shoe store and the diner. A din of noisy activity filled the subdued night. The kitchen must be well staffed and working hard to turn out the patrons’ orders. The door smacked shut and the sound was gone. Wade waited less than a minute until he heard the door open and then shut once more. Then nothing for several minutes. The young boy made his move.
The alleyway between the two structures was wide. The light from the street lit the entrance to the corridor well but bled away within ten feet. There were a pair of matching dumpsters about midway down, just past the side door of the diner.
Wade stepped quickly and lightly. He only hoped whoever had just came to the alley had done so with a fresh dump of warm food. Wade was starving, true enough, but he knew the dangers of spoiled food. Hunger was like punishment for a sin yet uncommitted.
He wasn’t tall enough to reach the top of the dumpster but luckily found a stack of wooden Coca-Cola crates piled neatly between the two metal bins. Using one, he was able to push the lid up high enough to peer inside.
A sour, sick smell assaulted Wade as he poked his head over the bin. Apparently, most of the refuse had been sitting in the hot sun for a couple of days, at least. Mississippi summers got hot, and the metal container served as well as any oven.
While that awful stench stole his breath, he fought against it. He held the lid with one hand. With the other he searched for anything hot, even warm, hoping it was a sign of freshness instead of the metal box heating it throughout the day.
His fingers found something solid and warm, he pulled it free and brought it close to his face. In the dark, it was hard to make out. It did feel like ham, and it smelled wonderful. He wiped it free of any unseen debris and brought it to his watering mouth. Wade’s teeth chomped down on the meat and it was salty and good. Yes, beautiful, glorious ham and he devoured the modest piece in three quick bites, hardly taking time to chew, much less savor the meat.
His hunger was still there, a painful storm in his small belly.
Again, he raked at the top layer of the trash and refuse. If he could find another piece as good as the last, maybe even two, he would be in good shape. He could make it through the night, at least without resorting to something untoward to get his fill. He’d been forced to do bad things before. He had no shame. He had to eat. He was old enough to know that and he could count on no one but himself. He knew that as well as he knew the sky was blue and water was wet.
“What in hell are you doing?” A wicked voice called. Wade was shocked. His attention had been completely on finding his meal, not watching his back.
He knew better. He’d fallen victim to the same oversight before. That had not ended well, and he had sworn to never let his guard down like that again. Yet, here he had, once more, thought more of feeding his face than hiding from the prying eyes of adults.
Wade turned and started to jump from the wooden crate, but he never got the chance. Large bony hands grabbed him by his shoulders and slammed him hard against the ground. With a yelp he turned over on his back, expecting to see a worker from the diner above him, angry he’d been stealing their refuse.
The man that lorded over him was no food service worker. No. He was tall, thin and his clothing only slightly more ragged than Wade’s. He was old, his hair a greasy grey and the stubble on his long, horse-like face looked dirty and unkempt. His eyes, though. They were wide and wild.
“You little shit stain. That’s my grub. It ain’t yorn. You greedy little shit.”
“I…I’m sorry,” Wade stammered. “I didn’t know.” His voice was whiny and high pitched. He knew he sounded like a girl. But he couldn’t help it. This was no ordinary adult or even the police. He’d seen people like this before. They were the true creatures of the night and there was no telling what this man might do, having found Wade taking his “grub.”
“Too late for sorry. Should have stayed home on your momma’s tit, boy. But it’s too late for that.” The man was reaching down for him. Wade turned and tried to kick himself up off the ground. The man slammed down on Wade’s leg. Pain shot through him like an electric bolt. “You’re here now. And you’ll be old Larry’s boy tonight.”
The way he said that last part, chilled Wade to the bone. He’d heard those words before, or something so close it might as well be the same. Fear overtook him as he clawed the alley floor trying to break free.
“No,” Wade called. The man cackled like a witch from a fairy tale. But this was no fairy tale, this was real life and there would be no happy ending to this story if he could not break free.
“Oh yes, boy. You’re all Larry’s now.” Wade felt a hand grip his ankle and start pulling him. The old man, Larry, presumably, pulled him further from the mouth of the alley. Wade wanted to cry, but he had long ago cried out every tear he would ever have.
Chapter 2
Luthor eased the car into the edge of town before killing the engine. The coughing and hesitation of the motor had worsened, and he was reluctant to drive any further than necessary. With his handy flashlight with him he could have stopped anywhere along the way. But if he could not fix the issue himself, he would rather park in town than outside it.
Luthor was no master mechanic but considered himself handy.He performed his own tune-ups and oil changes and seldom had work done by anyone else. Luthor was not the most trusting man, and he knew his life’s successes, humble as they might be, hinged in a large part, on that trait.
He found a well-lit spot in front of some closed storefronts and pulled to a stop. He stepped out into the warm night air. He took a deep breath and looked to the other side of the streetlamp-lined streets. The Busy Bee Diner was bustling. Through the front windows, Luthor saw a mob of folks patronizing the small eatery. He s
hook his head. As with everything else, he did not trust diners unless he knew the owners and operators well. There was no telling what the cooks and wait staff would do to one’s food and the thing was, you probably would never know. No, Luthor vetted any place he chose to eat a meal prepared without his oversight. If he could not or did not, he just didn’t eat there. It just wasn’t worth it to him. He often took a sandwich to work if he had no plans on taking his lunch hour at home with Gabrielle.
Nonetheless, the smells and aromas lingering in his direction were alluring. He would need a snack when he got home. He’d worked up more of an appetite than he’d realized.
As he was moving to the front of the car, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Or at least he’d thought so. Looking again to the alleyway next to the diner, he saw nothing more than shadow.
Luthor wore glasses and as he’d grown older, his eyesight grew worse. He could still see reasonably well, but the incremental loss of his vision bothered him more than he liked to admit. He pushed up the hood and set it in place. He switched on the light and swiped it over the 170 cubic-inch six-cylinder engine.
As a consequence of the second world war, automobile manufacturers had a short run in 1942, the model of this beautiful and rare Studebaker Champion. Materials were also in short supply. Despite this, or perhaps in spite of, the workmanship of the Champion was exceptional and noteworthy.
He bent low and started for the most obvious cause, spark plug wires and distributor. He found the third wire he checked loose and snapped it back down on the plug. He checked the remainder and found nothing else amiss.