Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel

by Warren Williams

  “You think one of them would fess up to it?” Billy Ray asked, eyes still closed, feeling sleepy again.

  “Who knows? Damn! I’d sure like to talk to that Sanchez boy. He was leaving town for a reason. He has to know something.”

  “I can call the hospital when we get back in range of a tower, check on him.”

  “Do that, in the meantime, we got another visit to pay.”

  “Please tell me it’s J.O.”

  Lester grinned. “Your wish has been granted my son. Good things happen to those who are patient, don’t ever forget it.”

  “Uh, huh,” Billy Ray sighed and leaned his head against the window.

  Harley held his nose to the rear glass and whimpered as the cats faded away in the distance.

  Chapter 29

  J.O. Mecham had fucked up and he knew it, ramming into that Camaro like he did. But it was that damn Sheriff, waving his badge at him, taunting him, that’s what triggered it. Course, J.O. had to admit that the boatload of beer in his belly might have been a factor. Seeing that fancy clean car of theirs spin out and hit the ditch, what a hoot! Up to that point, he was simply having a little fun, scaring those SOB’s running up on ‘em that way. Now, sitting here in the woods in the cold light of day with a pounding hangover and nothing to drink, J.O. was having second thoughts.

  The path through the trees was easy to find, even in the dark. J.O. had used it many times when he poached deer off his neighbor’s land to the north. Any whitetail that showed up on his own ten acres didn’t last long. He doubted the Sheriff would find the grassy ruts in the darkness, but now? By the looks of the sun, it was getting on to near noon. Although J.O. knew he couldn’t sit among the trees forever, he was in no hurry to sneak back to the house with a beat up front fender only to find Sheriff Lester P. Morrison in his driveway. What he really wanted was a beer to help him get straightened up and think right. A fox squirrel chattered from a nearby limb, unhappy at the intrusion on his territory.

  “You noisy little bastard, you wouldn’t do that if I had my .22,” J.O. moaned. Another hour passed and then, his brain slightly less fuzzy, Mecham had a semblance of a plan.

  “I could take 287 north, up to Lamar and get my fender fixed and painted, might even find a replacement in a junkyard. Being in Colorado like that, I’d be out of Morrison’s territory, safe. He could check my truck all he wants when I come back, but he won’t be able to prove diddly-squat, other than I got me a new fender. Coincidence, that’s what I’ll tell him. You think it was me that hit you? Prove it.”

  Timing was everything. He’d need some luck too. No way to get out of the woods without going through his yard and past his house before hitting the highway. If the Sheriff happened to come along at that particular time, it could get ugly.

  J.O. started the truck, scaring the squirrel, and slowly made his way between the trees, watching. He stopped a hundred yards short of his fifty-year old farmhouse that he’d inherited from his daddy, got out of the truck and eased himself closer, walking slow, for a better look around. There were no vehicles of any kind in the driveway and as near as he could tell, nothing parked on the road either. I just might pull this off. Throw out extra feed for the dog, find me a cheap motel in Lamar, stay a couple days while I get my fender fixed and let Morrison get tired of hunting for me. Yep, old James Otis ain’t through fuckin’ and fightin’ just yet.

  *****

  If the Sheriff had been coming from town instead of from the junkman’s house, he would have spotted J.O.’s pickup going the other way and the matter would have been settled. As it was, J.O. was headed north to Colorado before the Sheriff and Billy Ray came within sight of the ramshackle, weather beaten, old house that J.O. Mecham called home. There was the customary barn—the roof had collapsed years ago—as well as a couple sheds. One building looked to have held a number of chickens at one time, but was now nothing more than additional blight on the countryside.

  Lester and Billy Ray stayed in the truck for a few minutes, watching for any activity around the windows or out back, but the only thing moving were the weeds in the yard from the ever present wind.

  “I knew it!” Billy Ray exclaimed, pissed. “Gone, just like I thought. We should have come out here last night, or first thing this morning. Now it’s too late.”

  Lester sighed. “I was tired last night and you were sleeping this morning. Don’t worry about it Billy Ray, J.O. will be back. This here is his place, he’s not gonna up and abandon all his property and take off for Tahiti.”

  “Maybe not, but if we can’t prove he hit my car, where does that leave me?”

  “Billy Ray, I’ll talk to the man, okay?”

  “What does that mean?”

  Lester turned to his deputy. “If you haven’t noticed, I have a way with words. Eloquence, I believe, is the term for it.”

  “Yeah? Well what kind of eloquent bull-shit do you think will penetrate that man’s stupid skull? He wouldn’t know eloquence if you hit him over the head with it.”

  “Easy, I’ll make J.O. an offer he can’t refuse.”

  “Like what for instance?”

  “I’ll tell him to pay up or I’ll kill him with my pistol, claim it was self-defense. You’d be my witness.”

  “What?”Billy Ray said, incredulous. “Sheriff, you can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I can be quite persuasive should the need arise. J.O. will fall in line.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then I’ll shoot him. World won’t miss the likes of J.O. Mecham.”

  Billy Ray searched the Sheriff’s face for a grin, but the hard blue eyes told him there would be none.

  “C’mon,” Lester said. “Let’s get out and look around. Be vigilant now. Harley?”

  Even though Harley couldn’t see any cats or squirrels, the lab was ready for a stretch and a pee and bounded out the open door. He no sooner hit the ground when he caught a whiff of scent from another dog. Need to check that out, might be a female.

  Billy Ray moved to the rear of the house while Lester gave the front door a few sharp raps with his knuckles. As expected, no one appeared at the door to welcome him in.

  As the deputy circled from around the house, Lester said, “Let’s check what’s left of that barn, just in case.”

  It didn’t happen. Lester and Billy Ray were no more than twenty paces from J.O.’s dilapidated barn, when an animal, brown with splotches of white, streaked from the edge of the woods where J.O. had been hiding the night before. Clouds of dust churned with every powerful stride, its wide paws digging for traction as it sped across the uneven ground. The animal was not happy to find two strange men and a black dog trespassing on his property. The animal aching to sink his teeth into something, and he didn’t much care what, was a pit bulldog—a very angry pit bulldog.

  “Oh shit,” Billy Ray said.

  “PICKUP!” Lester yelled, and ran. “HARLEY, GET IN THE TRUCK.”

  Both man and beast moved as fast as they knew how with Harley leading the way. Billy Ray grabbed the door handle on the passenger side and swung it wide open. The three dove for the same small opening at the exact same time; feet, arms, paws, and tail, a tangle of flesh, hair, and bone scrambling for the safety of the cab. Billy Ray slammed the door just in time for the metal to take the full force of the charge from the dog called Dammit. J.O. had found amusement in the name he’d chosen for the pit. He liked to say things like, “Dammit, get your butt out of my chair,” or “Come here Dammit, if you wanna eat today.”

  The group in the cab sorted themselves out with Harley on the floorboard as his haven of choice. Lester freed himself from the tangle and wiggled behind the wheel while Billy Ray watched through the window as Dammit continued to lunge at the door. His massive head and teeth banged against the window, leaving globules of dog slobber to run down the glass.

  “That took an ugly turn,” Lester said as he calmly aligned his skewed hat in the rearview mirror. “Might as well go. I believe we’re all
done checkin’ this place.”

  Billy Ray shot him a look and said, “What about J.O.?”

  “I swear Billy Ray, you have a one-track mind. You need to diversify your interest’s son, help you to be a more well rounded person. Branch out, my boy.”

  There was silence for a few moments before Billy Ray said, “I have just one question for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t you try talking some of your eloquence to this pit bull over here?

  Dammit, tired and panting from the exertion, sat on his haunches, staring at the occupants of the truck, waiting. Harley took a peek out the window, decided not to aggravate the situation, and retreated back to the floor.

  The question went unanswered.

  “Let’s head back in, see if we can locate your friend Mr. Jason Woods,” Lester said, turning the ignition. “I sure would like to talk to that young man.”

  Ten minutes out, on the road to town, Billy Ray noticed the beginnings of a grin on the Sheriff’s face. “What you grinning about? I haven’t seen anything funny all day.”

  “I was thinking about your description of a serious incident. What you called it in the military, a no-shitter, wasn’t that it?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Your phone within range? I’d like to use it. Check in with dispatch.”

  “Why don’t you get your own cell phone and quit using all my minutes?”

  “Cause the county wouldn’t pay for it is the easy answer.”

  “Would that be because the county wouldn’t put it in your name and not pay for your personal calls?”

  “Might have been part of it. You gonna let me use it or not?”

  Billy Ray checked the signal strength, three bars, punched the keys, and handed the cell across the seat.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  “Irene, that you? This the Sheriff.”

  “Hi Sheriff. Why are you calling in on a phone instead of the radio?”

  “I need to talk to Nelda. Can you patch me through to her house? I don’t have the number.”

  “Sure, but she’s probably still asleep at this time of day. Her shift doesn’t start till seven tonight.”

  “Yeah? Well, put me through anyway.”

  Lester found the cell button that said speaker and pressed it. Several rings later a female voice groggy with sleep said, “Lo.”

  “Nelda, this is Sheriff Lester P. Morrison.”

  “After a year of talking to you almost every day, I recognize your voice, Sheriff. Why are you calling me at home? I was asleep. I got to be back at work in a couple hours.”

  “Sorry, but this couldn’t wait,” Lester said. “We’re gonna have a change in protocol for our radio procedures, a new code, starting today.”

  “New code? What’s wrong with our old code, the ten-code?” Nelda said. “It’s pretty universal isn’t it? Ten-four, ten-eight, I’ve memorized most of them. Why would we want to start using a different one?”

  “Times are changing, Nelda. We need to keep up. Besides, it’s only one term but it’s a new one.”

  “Deliver me,” Nelda moaned. “Let me find a pencil. All right, what is it?”

  “From now on, when we have a real emergency, something of utmost importance, you’re to get on the radio and say, ‘This is a no-shitter.’”

  “What?”

  “That’s right, ‘a no-shitter,’ that way I’ll know the seriousness of the situation.” By now the grin across Lester’s face had grown to ear-splitting proportion. Billy Ray held his hand over his mouth, his stomach lurching in suppressed laughter.

  “What in the world has gotten into you Sheriff? Have you been drinking on duty? You know I’d never, never say such a word, much less on the radio. That would be against the rules, an FCC violation. Sides that, I’m a good Christian woman and now you want me to use profanity like that on the radio? I won’t do it! I just won’t do it! That’s all there is to it,” Nelda said, clearly indignant.

  Tears running from his eyes, Lester waited for the rest of the tirade, but except for the heavy breathing on Nelda’s end, the phone was silent. “Gosh Nelda, I didn’t dream you’d be so against the new code. We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

  Lester winced as Nelda’s phone slammed to the cradle, banging in his ear.

  “You got to admit,” Billy Ray said. “That was kind of mean.”

  “But funny,” Lester said.”

  “There’s that,” the deputy said.

  *****

  Melissa made a decision. After hours of staring at the remains of her candle, she figured she had no more than two nights of candlelight left, after that…well. It came down to her or the snake. No way could she spend another night in total darkness with that creature slithering around in the same space, not knowing exactly where it was or what kind of snake it was. One of them had to go, and since Melissa had no option, it had to be the snake. The thing must be dealt with, someway, somehow. With the light of day fading all too quickly, she once again took inventory for any tools, any weapons. But the stock of supplies had not changed, not one iota, unless she counted the long gone poncho. She could still cry about that. She had the jar, the candle, the matches, the cot, a few sticks, and parts of a lawn chair. She picked up each of the largest limbs strewn about the floor of the cellar, one at a time, and tested them for possible use as a weapon, a club to beat the life out of a big bad snake. None were of proper length or weight, too skinny, and so brittle as to snap with the first blow.

  A single piece of aluminum tubing, the largest remaining from the demolished lawn chair, held promise. It was long enough, at least two feet, and reasonably stout, but was so lightweight that Melissa wondered if she could swing it with enough force for a fatal blow. She tried to picture it. A swing, a miss, or a blow to the body, no doubt more painful than lethal, (hitting it in the head was probably wishful thinking). Then what?

  Don’t kill it and you just make it mad. Wouldn’t want to be down here in this hole with a pissed off snake. Not good.

  She got a tight grip on the tubing and using a batter’s stance, gave it a few practice strokes, evaluating the possibilities. Maybe. Next she tried an over-the-head smash, bending at the waist and put her back into it. But the tubing hit the top of the cellar, the ceiling, limiting the arc and power of her swing. She shook her head as she steadied herself.

  That won’t get it. Might not have enough left in me to do this.

  Back on the steps, she eyed the cot and the supports holding the canvas. The wood looked strong enough, about the right size too. She was sure she could break the cot down and get to one of the cross braces, snapping it free.

  But what if it doesn’t work Lissa? Without a cot to get off the ground at night, it’s you and the snake, both on the floor, sharing the same bed of leaves. And here you are with nothing but a tee shirt, a short skirt, and no underwear. Another involuntary shiver took her body. Big step Lissa. Need to be sure. Can you do this? Really do it? Do it right? Kill that slinky thing? It seemed like she could remember something—was it on TV or did she read about it—where a man grabbed a snake by the tail and snapped it like a whip, breaking its spine? She wasn’t sure, but the idea seemed ludicrous and was dismissed almost as soon as she thought of it, certain that the snake would bite her before she could ever do such a thing.

  Melissa closed her eyes and tried to remember everything she knew about snakes. Her mother had said that most snakes were more scared of people than the other way around, and if left alone and unthreatened, were not likely to strike.

  Just leave them be Lissa, and they won’t hurt you. Just don’t step on one.

  There were the boys at school, always finding a snake on the playground, and waving them in the girl’s faces. Only most of the wiggly things were small, not much bigger than an ordinary fishing worm, not scary at all. Then there was that time, was it May, the year she turned 14, that Albert had hauled the family off to Okeene for the annual Rattlesnake Roundup? She recalled th
at her father was fascinated with the reptile pit where dozens of thick brown snakes coiled and slithered. The scene, that pit full of vipers, branded itself in her memory, often reappearing in the night, in her dreams. Since that time, Albert had developed a weird fascination for rattlers although he never went so far as to hunt them in their dens like some of the people at the Roundup did. No, her dad liked to shoot them with his shotgun and watch them writhe, curling into themselves, and die. Once, he had used his pocketknife to cut out the heart, still beating after death, and showed it to Melissa, how it pulsed there in the palm of his hand, a living organ without a body.

  It was coming back to her now, how her dad had nailed the head of that snake—a five-footer at least—to the side of the barn and peeled the skin off it, telling her he knew someone that could make him a belt from the hide. Melissa never saw any snakeskin belt, not that she could recall, but she did remember seeing the strips of meat all up and down the bones, the sun glistening off the fleshy tissue. She asked Albert if anyone ever ate a snake.

  “Some crazy people might,” he’d said, “But you won’t see any of that slime on my dinner plate. I don’t care if it does taste like chicken, or so they say.”

  The thought of touching the snake, killing it, and eating it terrified her, so many things to go wrong. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she thought. Are you that desperate, Lissa? Her stomach said yes, but her mind said no. Give it another day, girl. See how you feel about it in the morning.

  By now the light had all but disappeared, soaked up and devoured by the dank cellar walls. Melissa remained on the steps, determined to stay off the floor for as long as her aching muscles would allow. But only two hours later, the chiseled edges of the wooden steps eating into her buttocks and calves, the girl could take it no more. One cautious foot in front of the other, she felt her way down through the darkness, a step at a time, until a bare toe touched cold concrete. Two quick hops and her shin banged against the cot. She rolled on to it, drawing her legs beneath her, shivering. She felt for the jar, found the matches and the candle, and lit it. There were two matches left.