K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1

by Charles Wendt

  Doris took her purse from underneath the register, and also walked through the kitchen. A set of stairs out back led to their apartment above the diner, but she made straight for their old Mercury Cougar instead.

  Twenty years ago it had been quite the stylish little two-door, although the blue paint was now peeling in spots. Given its age, it didn’t have very many miles. Ed couldn’t easily get in and out of it anymore due to the low ride, and with running a diner groceries came to them. It took a couple turns of the key before roaring to life, but the seats were leather and the air-conditioning still worked. Less than five minutes later she was parking on the street in front of her daughter’s house.

  She decided to knock first, but didn’t wait before inserting her key into the door. It had always been the dream of her and Ed to have their own house like this. Never did she think they’d still be in that same little apartment for all those years. When space got tight and business was slow, which had been most of the time, Dixie’s room had been one of the motel rooms. But even that nest needed to be flown from eventually. Sometimes adult dreams were best realized through your children, she thought.

  Patsy the cat meowed for attention, jumped down from the recliner and trotted up to rub and purr against her legs. It had been a few weeks since she had last visited, but everything seemed to be in order. There was nothing in the way of overturned furniture, or the content of drawers littered about. Doris sat on the small couch, more of a loveseat, and reflected a moment stroking Patsy in her lap.

  She stared at the end table containing all manner of tiny glass figurines from carnivals going back to when Dixie was a little girl. It reminded her that even though her girl was all grown up, in many ways she was still just a girl. A hard stomp on the floor would knock the figurines over, but they stood proudly under a light coating of dust.

  Dixie was a tall assertive woman, with just a bit of attitude from dating a sheriff’s deputy and working in that office. If someone had tried to take her, it hadn’t been here. That meant Dixie had gone willingly, or been taken by a strong and shrewd man on the street somewhere. Rebel was such a man. She chided herself for pretending to go through this deep analysis. Of course it was Rebel. That wasn’t the question.

  The question was, how badly did Dixie have to be hurt before she blew the whistle on everything. Before she dropped an atomic bomb that would envelope everyone. Would she send herself to prison, and Ed to poverty and terminal sickness if Dixie had been killed?

  Yeah, she would. It was her child, the fulfillment of her hopes and dreams. If Dixie was lost, not even Ed would matter so much. She’d do it quick, before any resolve could fade. But she would make everyone pay with their freedom.

  If Dixie had only been slapped around a little? She’d be raging mad, that’s for sure. Hell, she was raging mad now even if mother worry suppressed that. But would she go full nuclear if that was the extent of it?

  She was quick to say, “Hell Yes!”

  But maybe not. She’d want to find a way to punish them, surely. Even if it took years to plot revenge. But if Dixie wasn’t really hurt, her better nature would prevail with so much at stake. She didn’t want to go to prison for this conspiracy, or condemn Ed with substandard care.

  What if Dixie had been raped? That was a lot more than being slapped around a little, even if she was alive and physically would get better. But some recovered from it enough to get on with their lives. It was a common theme of daytime television. But, her blood boiled at the thought. She just might drop the bomb at that too and be damned. Her fist clenched and she struck the sofa cushion.

  On the end table beside the sofa, the clattering figurines surprised her and Patsy let out a protest. Doris gulped a deep breath, and tried to sooth her blood pressure back down to normal. Then came the knock on the door, and her heart jumped into her throat again.

  She stood and with a couple of strides looked through the spyhole. On the stoop was Kelton Jager and his dog. Patsy sulked in a corner licking a paw. Doris opened the door a crack, placing her foot at the bottom of the opening to preemptively block any animals that may be inclined to tangle, but the black masked dog sat at attention without giving the scent of the cat any mind.

  “Mrs. Johnson, I apologize for disturbing you. I was just checking to see if Dixie had returned since I was passing by on my way back to the sheriff’s office.”

  “How did you know this was Dixie’s house?” her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “I found this purse in her desk. The address was on her license.”

  She nodded as he gave it back to her. The young man wasn’t the police, but seemed genuinely concerned enough to be trying.

  “She doesn’t carry it that often. Dixie eats out on dates or walks down to the diner. Maybe a couple of times a month she’ll borrow the car to go shopping at South Hill.”

  “Does she have a cell phone, Mrs. Johnson?”

  “Please, call me Doris. No. We’d be trying to call her if she did.”

  Kelton gave a soft shake of his head, “I was thinking more of the carrier pinpointing the phone’s location. Even if she isn’t there, it may provide a clue of what direction she headed.”

  Doris took a turn shaking her head in kind, “Signals are so intermittent here, especially if you aren’t right on the interstate. And they are pretty expensive for us to justify without needing it for business.”

  “I understand, Ma’am. Just one last question,” he said rocking slightly side to side on his feet. “I was wondering if I might have a better scent article in case there is an opportunity to track. It doesn’t sound like she handled the purse a whole lot, and I haven’t had a plastic bag to keep other scents from contaminating it.”

  Doris straightened to her full height, modest as it was.

  “What exactly did you have in mind, young man?” she replied with a scowl.

  “I was hoping for a sock from her dirty clothes basket and a zip lock sandwich bag to put it in.”

  She softened, “Please wait here a moment. I’ll find something.”

  What he asked was easy and far from inappropriate, so she provided it and sent him on his way. Then she gently closed the door and started a silent prayer that her daughter could be delivered back to her without exposing the conspiracy in which she was entangled. The prayer died on her muttering lips. She hadn’t been to church in decades, and only a handful of times after she was married. The “always open” nature of their business precluded that. Some enjoyed the luxury of religion, but she had to be much more practical.

  That meant breaking the problem down into small pieces and using simple logic. She couldn’t steal her daughter away from Rebel. She didn’t have the power. Buck did, but sacrificing Dixie was something he was willing to do for the money. The only reason he didn’t, was her threat to drag him down too. But perhaps there was another way.

  Kelton could rescue her Dixie, and possibly not expose her wrong-doings. Perhaps the question was how to lead him to Rebel’s and not let him see behind the curtain? She sat and pondered while stroking Patsy in her lap.

  CHAPTER—8

  Kelton and Azrael walked west from Dixie’s house on the north side of Main Street toward the sheriff’s office. Occasional cars were parked along the curbs, most tired and dated, and there were very few pedestrians in the midafternoon. After the recent rains, green swirls of cedar pollen lay in the gutter. A cool breeze fluttered his shirt collar and the sky was clear and bright.

  He paused on the sidewalk where the blue truck had supposedly been and Azrael took an obedient sit. Overhead were the upstairs apartments of the shop keeps, windows staring down like empty eyes. There were no lights, no rustling curtains. With the realtor still out, the nearside shops were vacant. Three African-American men were in the barber shop across the street, two hunched over a table in the sitting area and one in an apron relaxed in the barber’s chair.

  Looking to the right of the barber shop he could see the hardware and feed stores across from t
he sheriff’s building. To the left were a florist and a doughnut shop. Kelton came to the conclusion that Sheriff Fouche may not be right. If one had control of his victim, it wouldn’t be hard to wait between the buildings until the road was clear. The barber was most likely the only chance for a witness after the morning commute was over, but they didn’t look especially alert. He and Azrael looked both ways and jay-walked across the street.

  As he approached the window he could see the two men were playing checkers. It was a folding two-dimensional battlefield of red and black squares next to a long cardboard box containing chess pieces and dice. Kelton assumed there were backgammon chevrons printed on the underside. A magazine rack near the waiting chairs contained several months of both Sports Illustrated and Playboy. Behind the big chair, a counter held small bottles of various lotions and creams of the trade, and a small dust covered TV with sagging rabbit ears. Above that a mirror, in which Kelton could see his own reflection not quite up to standards for being “in-garrison.” He told his dog to sit, and the tarnished brass bell on the door jingled as he went inside.

  “Good afternoon, Sir. What can I do for you?” the old barber asked as he stood up and raised the chair cloth like a bullfighter.

  “I suppose I’m in the market to get my ears lowered,” replied Kelton.

  The retirees smiled up from the checker’s game. The pieces weren’t in their starting positions, but at a quick glance, it looked as if all were still present on the board.

  “You’ve come to the only place, unless you’re a metro-sexual who uses a woman’s salon.”

  The barber’s smile had a relaxed charm to it, despite the stained teeth and creased skin. Kelton took off his pack and settled into the padded chair. No one paid the huge automatic on his thigh any mind.

  “You must be Sheriff Fouche’s new deputy I saw this morning. I never thought the county would find the money to hire one.”

  “Well I wouldn’t mind being paid a bit more than I am,” feigned Kelton.

  The retirees laughed with the barber.

  “Shit. They tax the businesses. They tax the farmers. They pass out speeding tickets and soliciting citations to every trucker they can find,” he said tucking Kelton’s collar in and buttoning the chair cloth around his neck. “But they still don’t have the green to fix that pothole out there. Getting to the point you need a four by four to drive on the streets of downtown.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” said the red player. “All our money is going to that teen program over at the clinic.”

  “If it don’t, you’d be buying food stamps for babies, Fool,” replied the black player.

  “King me, Bitch.”

  The slap of the one checker on another echoed over the hum of the clippers.

  “That your dog outside?” asked the barber. It sounded like “dawg”.

  “My partner. I was hoping you could tell me more about that blue truck you gave the license plate number to Buck this morning.”

  “That’d be Deputy Garner to a humble working man like me,” he shrugged. “Didn’t give him no plate. Can’t rightly see it from this angle in the shop and kind of far, no how. But it was a big trick. Ford, I think, with the extra wheels on the back. It had tool boxes and a fuel nozzle for topping off tractors in the bed.”

  Kelton nodded looking over Azrael sitting at attention in his brown harness vest to across the street. It wasn’t side on, but reading the front plate would require moving left down the sidewalk past the building’s west wall.

  “This helping your case any?”

  “Absolutely. Do you remember what time it drove off?”

  “Can’t say I rightly noticed. Must have been close to noon though. My clients were showing up.”

  Kelton considered, “Did you have a lot of people coming in and out today?”

  “Naw. You the first walk-in I’ve had in a while. Picks up more come end of the school year. My regulars mostly call ahead for times around their lunch hour. Walk over from city hall and such.”

  Kelton considered getting a list of the appointments and going to interview those people on what they saw. But then, he wasn’t the law and that would be exceeding his brief. Maybe he would suggest it to the sheriff later.

  “Lots of people walking the sidewalk then?”

  The barber shrugged, “All the café’s and such are more up around the square. I usually walk down for a sandwich in the afternoon.

  What you carrying around that big pack for? They not given you a car or something to keep it in?”

  “Mostly dog equipment. They don’t have me settled in yet.” Kelton tried to divert attention away from him, “Do you know Dixie who works for the sheriff?”

  “Can’t say I’ve met her, but we do enjoy watching her walk across our sidewalk every morning. Gets me up to open early. Sometimes I’m too late though and those are like days with no sunshine. Other days she walks by at lunch and we are treated to additional viewings,” he bragged and the men playing checkers shared in some snickering.

  Turning him around in the chair so Kelton could see the mirror, the barber lamented, “But no extra sunshine today. How’s that for you?”

  “I feel ready for my official photograph. Thank you for getting me presentable.”

  Within a minute cash traded hands, including a handsome tip, and Kelton was back outside with his dog. In his head was the undisputed notion that Deputy Garner had lied for some reason. The tiny under furnished room at the truck stop held no appeal, so to avoid a long evening there he headed toward the town square. The manicured greenspace would be ideal for some more throws of the Kong.

  Bambi’s afternoon in the vault had passed slowly, rising occasionally from her seat against the wall to try and sooth Baylee Ann when the whimpering became worrisome. There was no window to the outside, but the coming evening gave the air a different feel. She didn’t know if it was temperature, humidity, or maybe some rhythm of her body telling her that the quiet solace of the afternoon would soon be over. But regardless of the reason, a change was lurking like some phantom shadow. Her eyes kept drifting upward to the trap door, like she used to steal glances out the living room window at the sidewalk for her alcoholic father coming home.

  “Any idea why he keeps you two?”

  Bambi turned toward Dixie with some annoyance, “Why did he take you?”

  “Ransom, maybe?” said Dixie with a half-smile.

  “It’s sure as hell not the reason he took us,” dismissed Bambi.

  Dixie was quiet for a few minutes and then replied, “If he’s keeping the three of us in this pit, I feel like we must have something in common.”

  Baylee Ann coughed from the table and croaked, “Does that bother you? Thinking you have something in common with the likes of us?”

  Bambi rushed over, knelt beneath Baylee Ann’s downward face, and reached up to hug her. But it was all she could do because there were no tools to release the metal bracket that pinned her neck to the table.

  Dixie considered a retort, but before she could compose the words a screeching noise could be heard above them. A minute later the hatch opened, and a ray of florescent light poured down, dwarfing the output of their single greasy bulb.

  A hefty gruff voice called down to them, “Dinner, you bitches.”

  A paper sack landed with a hard thud, and the light went away again. The screech followed, as something metal and heavy was dragged back into place across the concrete. Dixie rose slowly, greatly favoring her ankle, so Bambi easily reached the bag first. She tore open the paper sides with no ceremony. The contents spilled all over the floor.

  It looked as if someone had raided a vending machine. There were a few packs of the small orange crackers filled with peanut butter. A couple of snack cakes, feeling hard and stale through the wrapper, a plastic tube of peanuts and some rock-hard red Twizzlers finished the edibles. There were also three plastic bottles of water, only twelve ounces each, but cold enough to be sweaty in the southern humidity.


  Dixie tore into a package of crackers while Bambi opened a water bottle and strode back over to Baylee Ann. She raised the bottle to her lips, but Baylee Ann couldn’t tip her head back far enough to take a sip.

  “Try from the side,” advised Bambi to her friend and used her free hand to support Baylee Ann’s cheek. Bambi watched the parched lips greedily suck at the bottle as she slowly poured, but much was lost onto the floor.

  “You need a straw,” said Dixie.

  Bambi considered, looking around the debris on the floor. There wasn’t much, and certainly nothing that even a girl like her wanted to put in her mouth. Then she saw the Twizzlers and her eyes widened.

  “Give me those red licorice things!”

  Dixie gave a quizzical look at first, but her face lit up before Bambi caught the tossed package. The girl ripped one from its wrapper, bit off both ends and spit them onto the ground. It had made her teeth hurt, but she was already putting the makeshift straw into the bottle and offering it to her friend. The water disappeared in a few determined slurps.

  “Thank you,” muttered Baylee Ann before letting her neck sag again.

  Bambi knew her muscles must be aching from being pinned in that position for so many hours. She fed her all the crackers she would take, and even shared most of her bottle of water.

  “Can you free me?” Baylee Ann implored.

  Bambi’s eyes fell in disappointment.

  “Are they flathead screws? Can you use the edge of a dime or anything?” asked Baylee Ann, weak but well-motivated to problem solve.

  Dixie took a staggering step to gently move her hair aside and bent over to look again.

  “Cross-headed. And not very big. A dime would be way too thick, and they’re mostly stripped anyway,” Dixie turned to Bambi. “Can we just pry it off?”

  Bambi looked around the vault. Once upon a time it had been one of a couple of mechanic’s pits, where one could change the oil easily without having to hoist a vehicle. But the wall dividing the pits had been excavated away, making a small rectangular room. A ladder in the corner led to the hatch in a roof of old railroad ties supported by steel beams improvised from the frame of a large truck. A few metal posts, like one see’s in a basement, supported the beams in lieu of the torn down wall divider. The concrete floor of the garage above was merely a veneer, but an effective one.