ALMOST HOME
By Caroline Clemmons
First Smashwords Edition 2011
Cover Design Lilburn Smith
Photos from Mary Dover and Stock Exchange
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Author contact information Mailto:[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
ALMOST HOME
A Link Dixon Mystery, Book One
Chapter One
The dispatcher’s voice interrupted Link Dixon’s thoughts. Aw, hell, he recognized the radioed address. Virgil Lee creating havoc again. “On my way. Five minutes ETA.”
The dispatcher assured him, “Back up’s in route, but he’s twenty minutes away.”
The hell of his new position in Spencer County Sheriff’s Department was that he’d grown up here. Stood to reason that sooner or later a call would involve old acquaintances or kin. But damn, why this one? And why his first night on the job?
At least Virgil Lee wasn't close kin, maybe a third cousin.
Close enough for discomfort.
Link made a U-turn. With lights flashing but no siren, he sped toward the call. Three minutes later he pulled to a stop in front of the Patterson's doublewide. The front door stood open.
Stifling heat blanketed Link when he slid from his patrol car. The kind of heat that sucked the energy out of a person and made short tempers shorter. He gave one last thought to the comfort of his air-conditioned patrol car, then headed for the mobile home.
Through the screen door, he saw Nadine and Virgil Lee locked in struggle. Virgil Lee's hands gripped her throat and she gripped his wrists as if in a futile attempt to break her husband’s hold. Some things never changed.
Unfortunately.
Link figured he couldn’t wait for help and ran toward the disturbance.
A dog’s frantic barking from somewhere behind the home didn’t drown out Virgil Lee’s shouting.
"I'll teach you to dial 9-1-1 on me," his cousin screamed and shook Nadine.
Her head snapped back and forth with neck-breaking force as if she were a rag doll.
Anger fed the adrenaline that pumped through Link’s veins as he prepared for confrontation. Double damn. Virgil Lee was even bigger than Link remembered.
"Cousin Virgil Lee?” he called through the screen door. “It's Link Dixon. I'm coming in."
Virgil Lee looked up, then scowled at his wife. "See what you've done now?" He threw Nadine to the floor between himself and Link and kicked her hard before he fled through the house and out the back door.
Nadine rubbed at her throat. “Go,” she croaked and motioned for Link to follow her husband.
With a glance to ensure she was physically well enough to be left alone, Link raced out the back door and saw his worthless cousin disappear over the fence. Link dodged a barking Doberman and followed Virgil Lee around the side of the house to the front carport. With one motion, Virgil Lee slid onto the seat of his old truck and started the engine.
No you don’t, you mangy coyote.
Link yanked open the driver's side door, his breath coming in fast gasps. He braced himself on the running board and clamped a hand on the doorframe before Virgil Lee got the truck in motion. Dust spewed into a cloud as Virgil Lee shot the classic Chevy out of the drive, but Link held on. A rock flew from the tire and dinged the door an inch from his foot.
"Give it up, Virgil Lee,” Link ordered. “You'll only make more trouble for yourself by trying to get away. Besides, you smell like a brewery. You're too drunk to be driving anywhere."
Virgil Lee glared over at him. "Yeah? Kin or not, you're not taking me to jail." Virgil Lee jabbed his elbow into Link's gut.
Link clung onto his precarious perch.
At the street, Virgil Lee jolted the truck to a stop. Gears grated as he worked to jam the Chevy from reverse into first.
Link chopped a right across the man's arms to prevent the gear change, then clamped his left hand on the steering wheel.
With a scream of outrage, Virgil Lee slammed his ham-sized fist into Link's chin.
Pain radiated through Link’s brain and his ears buzzed. He blinked and tried to focus. Barely keeping his grip on the steering wheel, he grabbed the keys and switched off the ignition. The motor shuddered and died, and the truck jerked to a stop. Link tossed the keys behind him.
Tightening his chokehold on Link’s neck, Virgil Lee swiveled on the seat and aimed a hard kick toward Link's groin.
Link twisted his body and took the blow on his thigh. Another burst of pain raced through his body. Much more of this and his leg might snap in two. Or his windpipe. Throughout the assault, he kept his grip on the steering wheel.
Then, with a tremendous jerk, he heaved Virgil Lee out of the truck. Dust still whirled around the vehicle. They struggled against the side of the pickup bed and fell to the ground.
Link threw a hard punch to Virgil Lee's abdomen, and his attacker loosened his grasp of Link's throat. He inhaled, dust and all, to get breath through his mangled airway, and landed another blow to Virgil Lee's gut.
They thrashed around, rolling on the ground, until Virgil Lee straddled Link. Virgil Lee was at least fifty pounds heavier—and ten times meaner. Link punched again, and this time Virgil Lee fell back against the road. Drunk or sober, the man was strong as an ox.
With all his weight behind his fist, Link swung a few punches of his own. Satisfaction filled him as his cousin’s head jerked back and blood ran from his nose. Link followed with another to the abdomen. That one sent Virgil Lee down. With a last burst of strength, Link cuffed him.
Thank you, God.
Gremlins inside Link’s skull operated a jackhammer. He jerked his cousin to his feet and sent him toward the patrol car.
“Dammit, Virgil Lee. Now I have to take your in.”
Virgil Lee snarled, "Yeah, yeah. Just get on with it. Big Momma will have me out before you finish the paperwork."
Knowledge that Virgil Lee spoke the truth only fueled Link’s disgust. He shoved his cousin into the back seat of the patrol car and slammed the door. And to think, he was related to this piece of shit. He wondered if stupid ran in Virgil Lee’s genes and hoped his cousin never had kids.
Leaning against the side of the car a moment, Link wiped his mouth against the metallic taste of his own blood. He gasped to catch his breath. He only delayed the inevitable, so he reached for the radio and made the call to dispatch.
“Cancel the back up. I have the suspect in custody. Send an ambulance for the wife.”
This part of his job he hated, and right now he hated Virgil Lee for putting him in this awkward position. Link would have hours of paperwork to delay him. He figured it was a good thing he never bothered to work out what he made an hour—and with no pay for overtime.
He should be chasing real criminals, not jerking around a ne'er do well relative who couldn't handle liquor. Link felt certain Virgil Lee's harridan mother, known as "Big Momma" Patterson, would tell him that very thing the next time she saw him.
Should make the next family reunion interesting.
With Virgil Lee secured in the back seat, Link hurried back into the house. He found Nadine sitting on the sofa, crying. He pulled out his handkerchief and
offered it to her. "You okay, Nadine?"
Taking the handkerchief, she shook her head and dabbed at her eyes. "My hip hurts so bad I can hardly walk." Her voice sounded raspy, most likely from the choking she'd endured.
"What was it about this time?" He doubted she would press charges. From what he knew of family gossip, she had always refused to prosecute in the past. This time, though, Link had Virgil Lee on resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, and DUI. And he intended to see the bucket of shit spent some time in jail, in spite of Big Momma’s influence.
"He came home drunk again. He's supposed to stay off the stuff so he can have a liver transplant." She wiped her eyes and nose.
Link stepped into the kitchen and took a glass from the cupboard. He filled it with water and brought it back to Nadine. She took several swallows that appeared painful before she continued.
"He has cirrhosis real bad. They won't let him have a new liver unless he stays sober for a year.” Her voice sounded a little more normal, but her red-rimmed eyes widened with fear. “He'll die without it." She broke into a new bout of sobs.
"Nadine, how long have you and Virgil Lee been married?" Link tried to remember, and thought the much younger Nadine had dropped out of high school to wed Virgil Lee. Too young to know better than to marry a troublemaker.
She sniffed. "Fourteen years. Why?"
"In all that time, has he ever stayed sober any length of time?"
She appeared to think over his question before she answered, "Once...about five years ago, he promised me he'd straighten up. He stayed sober almost three months."
He pitied her, but doubted she would thank him for pointing out the reality of the situation. "Three months in fourteen years. Nadine, you see a pattern here?"
A red blush crept across her pale face. "I know, I know. But usually, I stay out of his way when he's been drinking. If he isn't here by nine, I go to Big Momma's for the night. By then, I know he'll be mean drunk when he gets home."
"So what happened tonight? Why didn't you leave?" Hell, why hadn’t she left her sorry excuse for a husband permanently years ago? This wasn’t love. Not that he was any expert given the acrimonious marriage he’d been in, but he saw plenty of happy couples. And he knew real love didn’t involve knocking anyone around.
"My car's in the shop. I thought I'd be all right if I stayed in the back room and locked the door. I thought if I was real quiet he'd think I'd left."
He glanced at the door at the end of the hall. Someone had put a fist through it. It didn't take a psychic to figure out the culprit.
When he frowned, her jaw jutted out and she glared at him. "You're just like everyone else. You think I should leave him, don't you?"
Defensive, the normal reaction to fear and regret. He’d seen it too many times and, in his opinion, people rarely changed.
"Unless you enjoy being a punching bag?" he asked gently, trying to help her understand. He knew he was wasting his time, knew he wasn’t following procedure, but he felt duty-bound to give it a shot. After all, she was family—sort of.
She studied him a moment as if trying to decide. Not, by his estimate, that it should have been a tough decision.
"No, of course I don’t,” she said, still defensive. “But when he's not drinking, he's a good man and lots of fun."
"Some fun." He nodded to the broken door and then touched her swelling eye.
She sniffled, “I know.”
"Why do you put up with this kind of treatment? Look at you—cuts and bruises all over, finger marks on your throat. Your head must be killing you from that shaking he gave you. And you said your hip is hurt."
She looked at her hands and her voice trembled when she spoke. "He said he'd find me if I left him, like he did the two times I tried. Said he'd get me good next time. He’d do it, too, if he’d been drinking." Raising her head to meet his gaze, she asked, "Besides, what would I do, where would I go?"
“You know there’s a county shelter for battered women? They can put you in another county if you’re afraid he’ll find you, arrange counseling, and help you land a job. You don’t have to put up with this.”
Nadine sniffed. "It's not as easy as you make it sound. The Pattersons have always been important in Doyle. Maybe he can't hold a job long, but his family is still respected around here. Without him, I'm nobody--just poor little Nadine Innis from nowhere. We’ve been together a long time and he needs me. Besides, you may not believe it, but I love him and...and I know he loves me."
Damned if he could see how a woman could love a guy who used her as a punching bag at least three nights a week. In the distance, he heard the blare of an approaching siren and figured it was the ambulance.
“First of all, we’ll get you taken care of,” Link said, “Then we’ll worry about the rest.”
By the time he had taken Virgil Lee to jail, finished with Nadine's testimony at the hospital, and filled out the accompanying reports, Link had worked more than two hours of overtime. He knew it was wasted effort.
Big Momma was related to the judge who was likely to set the bail, plus half the judges, justices of the peace, and lawyers in the area. In all probability, Virgil Lee would be back with his drinking buddies by the following night and charges would mysteriously disappear. Or, be written off to “time served” for the few hours in jail.
Link had returned to Cartersville, Texas seeking all the word home implied—stability, security, slower pace, and extended family to comfort him and his son. Link left the office wondering if he could maybe open a web page business from his house.
Nah. He'd miss law enforcement. Where else could he get this much abuse and still be underpaid?
Chapter Two
For the ten years he worked in the Dallas PD, Link dreamed of returning to his hometown west of Fort Worth. Planned for it. So why, now that he’d finally achieved his dream, did he feel like a visitor?
Spencer County was a different country—almost another world—than Dallas. This first night on his new job as deputy sheriff bordered on dull until the call to Virgil Lee’s home. Until then, he’d investigated a home vandalized while owners were out of town, kids bashing mail boxes, petty stuff. For a second, Link had almost found himself wishing someone would commit a serious crime.
Almost.
Not that dull was a bad thing for police work, but his experience as a former homicide detective seemed wasted. During his tenure with the Dallas Police Department, he’d earned the respect of his peers as well as commendations from his superiors. After shooting up the ranks in Dallas PD, he hated being at the bottom in the Spencer County Sheriff’s Office.
And the salary here in this small, sparsely populated West Texas county wouldn't even meet his current expenses. His late wife’s minimal life insurance helped. His grandmother, Nana Akridge, left him a small inheritance when she willed him her home. Invested, those monies yielded a small monthly dividend. Otherwise, he could never have afforded the upkeep on the massive old house. What a money pit, but he loved it.
If this move helped his solemn son, it would all be worthwhile. He’d do anything to see Jason laughing and happy. Thinking of his son, his cynicism evaporated, leaving only fatigue in its wake. He turned into the driveway of Akridge House, home now for Link and Jason. A pleasant distant cousin, Maggie Sparkman, worked as their live-in housekeeper.
Link was never so weary that he couldn’t appreciate the regal picture his beloved grandmother’s family home presented. He passed the Texas historic marker designating this as the former home of a nineteenth century Texas governor. Driving slowly, he drove between old Live Oak trees lining each side of the gently curving drive.
He caught the full impact of the old home. Bathed in the luminous rays of the full moon, the large Victorian house stood at the top of a small hill. Moonlight accented the castle-like appearance and concealed the many defects of unattended age. With weeds less noticeable at night, the grounds resembled a park.
Link pulled his Jeep Cherokee to a sto
p and crawled out. For a few minutes he paused beside his car and gazed at his home. In spite of the downgrade in his job status, being here brought him fulfillment. He’d loved the place for as long as he could remember and it held only happy memories. The sight always made his heart a little lighter.
Moonlight illuminated the porch glider swing and Nana A’s rattan Victorian settee and chair. The bright green ferns his sisters had given him looked almost black tonight. Shadows from tall shrubs hid the long wrap-around porch’s other end.
A movement to his right caught Link’s attention. Two figures stepped from behind a large Lebanon cedar. Link drew his gun in a crouch, keeping the Jeep between him and the visitors. The two stepped into the light, hands raised. He recognized one of the men and relaxed. He and DEA agent Richard Travis had worked on a drug task force in Dallas.
“You crazy, Travis?” Link slid his gun back into its holster as the men lowered their arms. “You could get killed sneaking up on a man in the middle of the night.”
“Knew you wouldn’t shoot without asking us to identify ourselves,” Travis spoke softly. “Been a while since we did business in the dark, hasn’t it?” He stuck out his hand.
Link shook it and followed the other man’s cue by softening his voice. “That it has. Come on inside. Might as well be comfortable while we talk about why you’re here.”
Travis gestured to the porch swing. “This is fine. Better we don’t wake your housekeeper. Let’s sit here on the porch. Nice place you have.”
“Thanks. Inherited it, but I guess you know that since you know I have a housekeeper and that her room is at the back of the house.” Link asked, “Didn’t see your car.”
“Around the corner in some brush.” Travis chuckled. “We were never here. Got it?”
“Sure.” Link walked toward the chair.
Before he could sit, the second man extended his hand. “Doug Evans. FBI.” His voice carried the melodious accent of the Deep South. He was dressed like Travis, dark suit and white shirt. But Evans’ tie was striped, rather than the dark solid preferred by most Feds. A rebel.
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