Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel

by Warren Williams

  “So, are you gonna’ tell me where we’re going, or am I supposed to guess?” the aggravation in Billy Ray’s voice obvious.

  “You seem to be a little testy this fine morning, Deputy. You should try to get more sleep.”

  “Obviously,” Billy Ray said and closed his eyes again. “Wake me when we get there, wherever it is.” There was no comfortable place in the pickup with a hundred and five pound dog in your lap, but Billy Ray did his best to find one. He took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  Three minutes later, “We’re here,” Lester announced.

  Billy Ray lifted an eye and recognized the house in front of them. “The Sanchez place? Why?”

  “Same reason as before, to see if anyone here knows anything about Melissa.”

  “I might be missing something, but I don’t see any vehicles of any kind in the driveway,” Billy Ray said, sitting up.

  “Doesn’t mean nobody’s home. Why don’t you trot up to the front door there and give it a knock. Move it right along now.”

  Billy Ray shot Lester a look, but slid out of the cab and rapped on the front door of the Sanchez home. The knock went unanswered. He waited a moment, gave Lester a shrug, and climbed back in the pickup.

  “Like I said, nobody home.”

  “That’s possible,” the Sheriff said, “I didn’t see any movement at the windows either. But let’s sit for a few minutes.”

  Harley found footing between Billy Ray’s legs and stuck his head out the window, hoping to catch sight of a squirrel or, even better, a cat. It had been a long time since he’d got to chase a cat.

  “Whew, when’s the last time you gave this a dog a bath,” Billy Ray moaned, turning his head to the fresh air outside the truck.

  “I forget. Might have been at my little pond behind the barn. I recall him jumping in and trying to grab a green-head Mallard a while back.”

  Billy Ray shook his head, giving up on any chance of sleep with a smelly black lab bouncing around his lap and stepping on his testicles. “What’s next?”

  “Jason Woods. I’ve never been to his place. You can direct me.”

  Billy Ray turned to face the Sheriff. “I’m tellin’ ya, Jason doesn’t know anything about Melissa. If he did, he would have told me. Just because he was at the Pirate’s Den that night doesn’t mean shit. Lots of people were there.”

  “Mr. Woods may not know what he knows,” Lester said. “I just want to talk him, that’s all. Hopefully, he can confirm what Earl told us about who was in there and who wasn’t. Maybe remember something about who Melissa was talking to. The clock is ticking, Billy Ray. We need a break in this case and we need it now.”

  The deputy was silent for a moment. “You’re right of course. I’m sorry for getting all defensive on you. It’s just…you know.” Lester nodded, understanding. “Which way?”

  Billy Ray tilted his head toward downtown. “Get back on Main and head west. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

  The door on the detached garage adjacent to Jason Wood’s sleeping room was standing open. His old Kawasaki dirt bike, one that he’d acquired in a late night poker game, was gone.

  “Looks like nobody’s home today,” Lester said. “Any ideas on where he might be?”

  “None.”

  “You think Woods might know any of those bikers that Earl mentioned, the ones in the bar?”

  “Dirt bikers don’t have much in common with Harley riders, Sheriff.”

  “Thought you told me he had a Harley.”

  “He does. It’s there in the back of the garage. See it?”

  Lester squinted. In the shadows and off in one corner rested a massive, dust-covered, motorcycle. The motor had been removed from the frame and rested precariously on a make-shift stack of cement blocks. There was no sign of recent work activity.

  “I think Jason told me it was a 1980 model, an FLT I believe. But it hasn’t run for months and he doesn’t have the money to fix it.”

  “So how does he get to work?”

  “I think his boss loans him a company car on working days.”

  Lester nodded. “ How bout you try his cell?”

  Billy Ray punched the numbers. “Voice mail.”

  “Tell him to call. Tell him it’s important.”

  “Jason. Sheriff wants to talk to you. Call me. I’ll fill you in later. It’s serious, a no shitter.”

  “What does that mean, a no shitter?” Lester asked in puzzlement.

  Billy Ray shrugged. “Just a military expression. Means the situation is for real. Means this is not a drill.”

  “Humph, learn something every day. I got to tell Nelda on dispatch about that one.

  Billy Ray smiled. “Yeah, I can just imagine our good Christian Nelda putting that over the radio.”

  “Well,” Lester sighed, “Might as well head out to that junk place we saw the other day, see if he was really at the bar like Earl thought.”

  Billy Ray asked, “You know anything him; married, family, broken any laws lately?”

  “Nope, nothing, but I’m fixin’ to find out. Let Harley out for a pee before we go would you?”

  Billy Ray rolled his eyes but did as suggested. The lab did some serious sniffing before finding a suitable place to lift his leg, the location of choice being just inside the garage, exactly where Jason Wood’s parked his dirt bike.

  “The whole damn outside world to choose from and Harley pees in the garage. Really, Sheriff, you need to teach that dog some manners, some commands; NO being a good one to start with.”

  “Thing is, Billy Ray, I hate to interfere with a dog’s natural instincts. Too much domestication robs them of their spirit, you see. Who wants a dog that acts like a robot, obeying every little command like he was witless, without a mind of his own? Ain’t right. A dog is supposed to be a friend and companion, free to follow his natural impulses, his biological drive, not some kind of toy to drag around on a leash or carry in a purse for Pete’s sake.”

  “Thought you told me you used the bathroom this morning.”

  “I did, what does that have to do with anything.”

  “Because you’re still full of it, that’s what.”

  The lab had wandered to the next house over, checking the yard for any hot mail. “Harley, get in the truck,” Lester yelled. “And pay no mind to my insolent deputy here.”

  *****

  Gerald McCoy couldn’t see the grandfather clock when it sounded off with its distinctive bongs, but he could hear it easily enough. He’d bought the clock at a garage sale, the source of many of his possessions, several years ago. Not exactly an antique, but it did look old, and ran just fine. The seller had made the comment that the constant bong-bong-bong was driving him nuts and would accept any reasonable offer as long as it was gone and out of there before his wife got home. Gerald paid the man with a twenty-dollar bill, loaded the thing in his VW, and with one end sticking out the front window, brought it home.

  Finding a place to put the clock was a bit of a problem. Gerald, you see, was a hoarder, not the slightest bit different from those other dingbats on the Discovery Channel every week with their mountains of goods in every possible nook and cranny. Gerald watched the show faithfully, even the re-runs. He hadn’t realized that there were so many others in the world with his hobby. That’s what he liked to call it, a hobby even though the term disorder wormed its way into his skull from time to time. What’s wrong with collecting, he reasoned? Lots of people collect. And someday soon, probably this winter, he would devote a little time and organize his collections, although he wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it.

  His smallish 1100 square foot home had a finite amount of room of course, but Gerald had discovered the concept of cubic feet and with proper stacking, doubled, tripled, and in the spare bedroom where the piles touched the ceiling, quadrupled his storage capacity. He didn’t like to go that high as a stack of that proportion tended to be unstable. In fact, just this last spring, one such mountain had toppled over and pinne
d poor Gerald under an avalanche of clutter so deep and dense that for a few panic stricken minutes, he had feared for his life.

  Finding new space for new items was a daunting problem. Take the grandfather clock for instance. The last one brought his collection of clocks to six, but he really needed this one as none of the others kept time. But try as he might, Gerald could not find a single unoccupied flat place to sit the clock where he could see it from his favorite chair. So for now, the timepiece rested just inside the bathroom door. The fact that the door wouldn’t shut was of no consequence as Gerald had never married, had no family except for the sister that had moved out, and now lived alone as he had done since being discharged from the psychiatric center in Oklahoma City four years ago. If you didn’t count the cats, privacy was not an issue.

  It wasn’t that Gerald had a particular affection for cats—tolerate would be more accurate—but when you live in the country as he did, cats happen. The first one, a tortie kitten with an orange stripe along her nose, greeted him at his front door one morning, meowing her ass off. Gerald poured the skinny little thing a saucer of milk and watched her in growing amusement, glad to have the company (his only other visitor being the mailman). He found a roll of old twine—he knew he had one someplace—and when the cat had finished eating, rolled the ball toward it. The kitten took the hint and immediately began to swat at the brown bundle, hopping and jumping in a frenzy of feline ecstasy. It reminded Gerald of those kids on TV that do what they called break-dancing and he named the cat Dancer. But a few weeks later, two more cats showed up in one of the junk cars out front, having taken shelter from a storm. Names for the latest arrivals didn’t come to him until the day that Gerald was clearing a path through the kitchen and noticed a Christmas tree ornament that had fallen between some second hand loafers and a plastic bag full of coat hangers. It was a tiny replica of Santa Claus and his reindeer and that’s when the idea hit him for Comet and Cupid. It wasn’t long before Gerald had used up all the reindeer names and was now working on the Seven Dwarfs, Grumpy being the fourth down his list. Somehow, word had spread that the junky looking house down the road from the Pirate’s Den bar was a great place to dump cats. Cimarron County had more than its share of strays, unwanted kittens, and mother-cats-to-be that needed a home and Gerald was only too glad to oblige.

  Over time, the cats became a “collection” of their own, and Gerald would rather cut off his hand than part with any of them. Each night, his two favorites, Blitzen and Happy, would curl up in his bed, one on either side, their soft purrs better than a sleeping pill. If his feet got cold, he would put one, or both, beneath the blankets to warm his tootsies. Winter was a bit of a problem though. Gerald didn’t use litter boxes, letting the cats roam free inside and out via a pet door he had installed at the rear of the house, but with snow and sleet on the ground, the cats tended to stay inside where it was warm. The first winter and before the population explosion, Gerald had kept them in the garage. Not as warm as the house, but much better than the frozen tundra outside. The only problem with that arrangement was when Gerald needed something from the garage and stepped in the cat shit. Then inspiration struck. If he lowered the folding stairway to the attic, the cats would have a private penthouse of their own, and with all that insulation up there, warmer too. Most of the smell would drift out the vents. It was a win-win.

  A particularly long and loud fart suggested a visit to the john was in order. Gerald made his way to the tiny bathroom having to turn sideways twice to get there. He glanced at his image in the mirror and wasn’t all that displeased with what he saw. For a 51 year old, I don’t look half bad, he thought. There was the stubble on his face, he shaved every now and then, at least every three or four days, and while watching the TV, he’d noticed a lot of the male stars with a spray of whiskers. Hell, he was right in style. His hair was long, down to his shoulders, and that was okay too, but the balding on top and the premature gray (really more white than gray) bothered him. But his eyes were the problem and he knew it, probably the most single factor preventing him from ever having had a girl friend. He’d never forgotten what that black orderly at the hospital had said about his eyes, “You got spooky eyeballs, man. Anyone ever tell you that? The way the whites show all around? And that pale blue color. You give me the creeps. Hey, don’t you go telling those doctors I said that, you hear?” Of course, Gerald didn’t tell anyone about the comment lest somebody else notice the oddity.

  He waited for the yellow cat to get his fill of the cool water before he lowered the seat and his pants. Leaving the seat up on the stool was a lot easier than keeping water bowls filled all around the house. As the yellow cat wound his way between his legs and purred, Gerald thought about what to do with the rest of his day. He was out of beer and the Dallas Cowboys were playing on TV. Maybe he would see if the old Volkswagen would start and drive over to the Pirate’s Den and watch the game on the big screen, maybe pick up a case of Miller Light while he was out. The more he thought about it, the better it sounded. But there was that disturbing incident last Friday when he’d seen those two men wearing badges and walking the road in front of his place. They were watching him, there was little doubt about that. In fact, they could be out there right now, guns drawn, waiting for him to come out, to show himself, and open fire. Convinced that death waited just outside, probably behind one of the junk cars, Gerald changed his mind about the bar and once out of the bathroom, pulled the curtains and locked his doors.

  Chapter 27

  At first light, Melissa pursed her cracked lips and blew out the candle, watching the winding trail of smoke drift upward where a thin gray cloud collected beneath the ceiling. She had clung to the steps for as long as she could, cramped and cold, before giving it up and taking her candle, jar, and matches to the cot, snake be damned. She’d kept the flame as close to the cot as possible, the hope being that the snake would avoid the fire and keep its distance. The candle had burned all though the night and now, as she held it in her hands, she considered the remaining mass of wax. How many hours, total, had it burned? There was no way to be sure. The cylinder looked to be about three inches in diameter, but how tall had it had been before she struck the first match to it? She couldn’t remember but guessed that she had burned at least half of it, maybe more.

  Two more nights? Is that it? Then it’s lights out Lissa? I could handle it, she thought, if it weren’t for that snake. But the thought of that thing crawling around in the dark, climbing up the leg of the this cot, touching me in the night, biting me on the neck. No, no, can’t deal with that, can’t do it.

  She took a long look under the cot before swinging her bare feet to the floor, no snakes, and once again resumed her position on the stairs, watching, waiting, hoping. The angle was right and the morning sun beamed through the crack. Melissa basked in the heat of it, moving her face as close to the opening as possible for the full effect. It was like a sunbath as the ray of warmth moved across her brow, eyes, and mouth, feeling so good to be almost sensuous. She held her hands to the light, flexing her fingers, chasing away the chill. Her feet had not been warm since her captivity began. Now she swiveled on her backside, grabbed a step for support, and held her legs just so, feet in the sun, the luxurious sun, until her stomach muscles quivered from the strain of the awkward position. It was a far cry from some of her summer afternoons with Becky when they would lay out in the backyard, perfecting their tans, but the radiance did wonders for her soul.

  So, let’s regroup and take stock here, Lissa. You’re about out of matches—down to three—and your candle is low. You got no food, no water, and some kind of Slithery Dee is back there in the dark waiting for you to make a wrong move. Does that about cover it girl? So, how do you want to die, from thirst, hunger, or writhing in agony from a poisonous snake bite? Great choice huh?

  She hadn’t intended to dwell on such morbid thoughts, but now it was in her brain, and stuck there, along with a constant dull pain behind her eyes and an ache in her gut,
both symptoms of dehydration and starvation. Although Melissa didn’t realize it, her dizziness on the stairs during the night was yet another warning sign from her body that it desperately needed liquid, and she had yet to notice how dry her skin had become. Then there was the constipation, but under the circumstances and with no toiletries, perhaps a hidden blessing. If she were to cry again, she would notice her lack of tears, another indicator of a dangerous condition. Without water soon, she could expect her heartbeat to increase, her breathing to become rapid, followed by confusion, delirium, and then unconsciousness. Her state of hunger, though she hadn’t eaten in three days, wasn’t as overpowering as it might have been without the overwhelming urge to drink. She thought about that:

  Water, food, snake; what’s my priority here? Does it matter? The big question is, what can I do about any of it? Hey, you almost forgot Lissa; rescue. How could you forget about rescue you goofy girl? If I can get out of here, I don’t have to worry about the other three.

  She still had her aluminum chair part with the webbing for a signal flag that she waved at every sound of a passing vehicle but that hadn’t worked, obviously. Why?

  Gotta be something in the way, some building or weeds or brush, something between me and the road, blocking their line of sight. Or maybe nobody looked my way at the right time. Simple as that. Got to keep trying though, I got no better ideas.

  Actually, Melissa did have one idea left. It was an all or nothing idea, a live or die plan that she didn’t really want to think about, not yet anyway.