Abducted

by David R Lewis

  Crockett’s fingers went to his face. “Oh shit,” he said, removing the tissue and dropping it in the ashtray. “You coulda told me.”

  “Thought it was a good look for you. You know, wounded, tragic, like that.”

  Crockett sighed and shook his head. “I don’t need this kinda shit from you.”

  Clete smiled and nodded. “You’re right. I’m having too much fun. Sorry to discount your misery. Poor baby.”

  “What the fuck is with you this morning?”

  “I’ve got you in the moment, Crockett. You feel like shit. That, and my less than sympathetic treatment of you, has you in the here and now for a change. I need you in the here and now, not in some altered state mooning over what you may or may not have done wrong. We’re getting closer to the end of this thing and you need to stay with me. If I have to keep you pissed off to hold your attention, I’m game.”

  Crockett drained his coffee cup and looked across the table. “Bad as that?” he asked.

  Clete nodded. “Fucking horrible.”

  “Okay,” Crockett said, as the waitress arrived and refilled his cup. She avoided looking at him and scurried away. He watched her go and frowned. “Now what? First she can’t stop grinning at me, and now she won’t even look at me.”

  Clete smiled and handed Crockett a napkin. “Could be that blood running down your chin,” he said. “I think you tore the toilet paper off a little too soon.”

  The Koshkonong city limit sign caught Crockett’s attention. “What the hell was that?” he asked.

  “Just passed Koshkonong, son,” Clete replied.

  “Koshka what?”

  “Kosh-ko-nong,” Clete said again. “Lovely little town. Slightly smaller than its name.”

  “This the Ozarks?”

  “They claim it is. We’re only about seven or eight miles from the Arkansas line. From here to Thayer, then across the line to Mammoth Spring.”

  “How’d you get so smart?”

  “I can read a map. In Arkansas, 63 South turns into 63/167 until Hardy. About halfway between Mammoth Spring and Hardy is the cut-off for Thousand Islands Camp. Thought we’d stop by. It’s on the river in about the right area. Maybe somebody around there knows something. Besides, we need a place to stay and they rent cabins.”

  “They have a honeymoon cottage?”

  Clete grinned. “People will talk,” he said.

  “Yeah, but it won’t make the papers,” Crockett said. “Nobody around here can fucking read.”

  “Thank the Lord, Crockett. You finally got your sense of humor back.”

  Crockett looked out the window and didn’t answer.

  The road to Thousand Islands Camp was beautiful, twisting and winding its way from the highway through rocky wooded scenery, always downhill, finally arriving in an empty parking area within a stone’s throw of the river. Several open trailers, each containing six or eight canoes, were parked at the back of the lot. Small boats were stacked four high around the perimeter, and a least a hundred additional canoes were arranged in neat rows on the grass beside the parking area. Nobody seemed to be in evidence. The sound and scent of the river were everywhere. Clete and Crockett de-trucked and began a stroll to a rustic looking building on the opposite side of the graveled lot.

  As they approached the structure, an elderly man in gray cotton work clothes and rubber boots stepped out of the door. He looked at them without expression.

  Clete smiled. “Howdy,” he said.

  “We ain’t open,” the old man said. His voice was flat, nearly devoid of inflection.

  “Sorta looks that way. Any chance we could get a cabin anyway?”

  “Season’s over. Place is closed.”

  “You the owner?”

  “Caretaker.”

  “We’ll pay double. Profit for you.”

  “I told ya, we ain’t open.”

  “Chance to make an extra buck or two,” Clete went on.

  “Yer ears work, boy?”

  Clete grinned. “Okay,” he said. “If we can’t get a cabin, how ‘bout a little information?”

  “I ain’t no yeller pages. Ya’ll go on yer way, now.”

  “We’re looking for a guy,” Clete continued. “Maybe you could help?”

  The old man leaned against a porch post and stared at Clete for a moment. “Yew ain’t from around these parts, are ya?”

  “Nope. Texas.”

  “I know yew ain’t from around here ‘cause folks from around here knows when to shut up and git on about they bidness. Yonder’s the road. Use it.”

  “Just a couple a questions.”

  The old man sidled back across the narrow porch, leaned against the wall by the open door, and spat tobacco juice on the stained wooden planks beneath his feet. “Ya’ll better listen to me an’ be gittin’ on,” he said.

  “Fuck this,” Crockett muttered, stepping in front of Clete and closer to the old man. “No,” he went on, “you listen to me, you cross-bred, web-footed, old bastard. You make one move for the scattergun you probably got leanin’ inside that doorframe, and I’ll peel that sonofabitch back over your ears so far you’ll have to open the breech to blow your fuckin’ nose.”

  The old man’s eyes flickered back and forth between Crockett and the edge of the door a few times. When his body posture relaxed, Crockett spoke again.

  “We’re looking for a fella named Jeter. Boog Jeter.”

  “Doan know him.”

  Crockett smiled. “Sure ya do,” he said. “You answered too quickly. When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “I done tolt ya, I doan know the boy.”

  Crockett smiled. “Boy? Didn’t mention anything about his age. That’s the second time you lied to me. I don’t like people that lie to me. We’ll check with some other folks. You damn sure better hope one of them knows him. If they don’t I’m gonna come back here and ask you again. And then, you will tell me what I need to know. Now get in the shack and don’t come out until we’re gone. And leave that shotgun right where it is. I see you or it and the crawdads around here are gonna get fat.” He turned and headed for the truck with Clete on his heels.

  “That the way you make friends and influence people?” Cletus asked as they ground up the narrow road from the parking lot.

  “Fuck that cross-bred old bastard.”

  “Dammit, son! I know this has got you all screwed up, but you gotta hold on to your temper a little bit. You can’t go around threatenin’ these folks!”

  “Sure I can. It just that…Jesus!”

  Clete slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting a young man that had stepped from the trees onto the narrow road. The kid was maybe fifteen. He wore a canvas jacket over blue jeans and had a ball cap on his head. Clete rolled down the driver’s window as the youngster stepped to his side of the truck.

  “I was back in the trees a listenin’ to you’uns talk. Arlo ain’t gonner tell ya shit,” he said.

  “Are you?” Clete replied.

  “Doan know much, ‘cept that Boog Jeter ain’t all there. How come you lookin’ fer Boog?”

  “His brother that went to prison died. We’re trying to find the next a kin. How long since you seen him?”

  “Just afore we closed for the season, ‘bout a month ago. He come in here an’ sold ol’ Arlo a couple a gallons a shine.”

  “Shine? Moonshine?”

  “Yessir. White lightnin’.”

  “Any idea where he is?”

  “Naw.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jokey Turner.”

  Clete got out his wallet and gave the kid a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks, Jokey,” he said. “I appreciate the information. How come you’re willing to talk when that old man wasn’t?”

  “I figured if’n ol’ Arlo didn’t want ya to know nothin’, then you needed to know it. He usta hit on me some when I was a kid. I doan like him none, even if he is my grandpa.”

  The boy turned and vanished into the trees. Clete shook hi
s head. “Jesus,” he said.

  Crockett raised an eyebrow. “Jokey?” he asked.

  “Who knows?” Clete replied, easing the truck in gear and continuing their climb out of the Spring River basin. “I told ya it was another world.”

  When Clete and Crockett arrived in Hardy, they stopped by a couple of businesses and asked about Boog, but had no luck. Early afternoon they checked into a Days Inn on Highway 62.

  Clete’s voice floated into Crockett’s room through the open connecting door. “Lookee here,” he said, perusing a flyer from atop the TV. “We got high-speed internet, a complimentary continental breakfast, data ports on the phones, and an out-of-season swimmin’ pool.”

  “Coffee makers, too,” Crockett replied, “with pouches of Folgers. Christ, is that depressing.”

  Clete walked in and sat on Crockett’s bed. “How you doin’?” he asked.

  “I haven’t killed anybody.”

  Clete grinned. “Not yet,” he said. “But cheer up. We find Boog, maybe you can kill him.”

  “It’s what I live for.”

  “I thought that tonight we could check out a couple of local waterholes. If Boog is sellin’ busthead, we might be able to track him that way. Meanwhile, could I interest you in a late lunch? We got some joint called the Timberline just down the road.”

  “Sure. Maybe there’ll be another waitress I can amuse.”

  “That was fun, wasn’t it?” Clete said

  At dinner Clete devoured most of an entire fried chicken with all the trimmings. Crockett left the majority of his pork chop and mashed potatoes untouched.

  “No good?” Clete asked.

  “No, it’s fine,” Crockett said, watching their waitress walk toward the table with a coffee pot. “I’m just not very hungry.”

  “Freshen ya’ll’s coffee?” the waitress asked.

  “Sure,” Crockett said. “Where’s a good place around here to have a drink?”

  She grinned. “Missouri. Sharp and Fulton Counties are both dry.”

  “Dry?”

  “No booze. You can have it if yer just gonna drink it yourself, but ya cain’t sell it an’ ya cain’t buy it.”

  “I’ll be goddammed,” Crockett said, watching her walk away. “So much for checking out waterholes.”

  Clete shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s go for a drive.”

  It was mid-afternoon when they stopped at a small eatery just north of Hardy called Barton’s Bar-B-Que. On the south side was a gravel parking lot with several pickup trucks and a couple of motorcycles. As they watched from the truck for a moment, they saw two good ol’ boys wobble out the front door, clamber into an old Ford F-250, and weave off down the road.

  “If those two brought their own,” Clete said, “they left their empties inside.”

  Crockett climbed out of the truck, grabbed his cane, and headed for the door. Clete caught him two steps into the place.

  The building was of painted concrete blocks on a slab. The ceiling was fairly low. There was a counter in front of the kitchen to the left of the door, and perhaps ten tables were scattered throughout the rest of the room. The place was dusty, smelled of sour bar-B-Que sauce, and six or seven male customers were in evidence, one or two of them eating. All the patrons were white and most of them had tall paper cups. Crockett sat at the counter and Clete eased onto the stool beside him. They were the center of attention.

  A large man waddled out of the kitchen area and in their general direction. About five-ten, he must have weighed four hundred pounds. A heavily stained apron swathed his immense mid-section and he was sweating. He looked at Crockett.

  “Hep ya?”

  “Got any shine?” Crockett asked.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “This here is a dry county, mister. I don’t serve no liquor an’ I ain’t got no shine.”

  “What’s in all the paper cups?”

  “It ain’t no fuckin’ shine!”

  “That’s not what Boog Jeter says.”

  The big man blinked and looked away for an instant. Crockett heard a chair slide on the dusty cement floor.

  “Everbody keep your seats,” Clete said. “This ain’t none of your business. Anybody that interferes gets a ride in a nice ambulance.”

  Crockett kept his eyes on the big man.

  “I doan know nobody by that name.”

  Crockett smiled. “Sure you do,” he said. “Ordinarily I’m a pretty patient man, but there’s an element of urgency here. I’m afraid I don’t have time to be nice and dick around with you for the next thirty minutes. I’m lookin’ for Boog Jeter. I need to find him. Now. Tell me where he is please.”

  “I doan give a fuck who the hell yer…”

  The butt of Crockett’s cane caught the fat man in the throat just below his chin. His eyes bulged and he slid to the floor. Crockett walked around the counter and kneeled beside the stricken man as he wheezed and clutched at his throat.

  “Sure you do,” Crockett said. “You better give a fuck, ‘cause I can do this for the rest of the day. How long since you’ve seen Jeter?”

  “Couple a months,” the big man wheezed.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the shine. I don’t care if you open a fucking brewery. I want Boog. Where’s he live?”

  “I doan know. His daddy usta have a place north a here a ways, but it was sold off years ago. Last time I seen him I bought ten gallon a shine off’n him. Ain’t seen him since.”

  “What else you know about him?”

  “He’s fucked in the head.”

  Crockett tapped the head of the cane into his right hand. “That can happen to anybody,” he said.

  The big man struggled to a sitting position and coughed. “Please, Mister. Doan hit me no more. I doan know nothin’ ‘bout that Boog. Honest I doan.”

  Crockett snorted, walked around the counter and headed for the door. Clete followed him outside. They were in the truck before Crockett spoke.

  “Damn,” he said. “Am I hungry!”

  “We just ate.”

  “You just ate. I wasn’t hungry then.”

  “But you are now.”

  “Yeah,” Crockett said.

  Clete grinned. “Nothin’ like smackin’ a fat guy with a fancy cane to work up an appetite.”

  “Guess not.”

  “Nice to see you feelin’ better, Crockett. Guess you just needed some exercise.”

  “Guess so,” Crockett said, and turned the truck back toward Hardy.

  They went into the older area of Hardy and tried for Boog information at a hardware store and a mom n’ pop style diner before returning to the motel. No luck. Clete flopped on the bed in Crockett’s room and turned on the television while Crockett got in the shower. There was a knock on the door. Clete stuck his head in the bathroom.

  “We got company,” he said.

  Crockett’s voice echoed off the tile walls. “Who?”

  “Dunno. Figured I’d answer the door and find out.”

  “Good plan. You ex Secret Service guys are so smart.”

  Clete grinned. “Attractive, too,” he said. “You just finish your shower, honey. I’ll take care of the hard stuff.”

  He opened the door to find a medium built man of about fifty years with short dark hair, large brown eyes, a droopy face, and bad teeth. He wore a wrinkled dark blue uniform with the shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms, brogan shoes with white socks, a gun belt containing mace, handcuffs, and an ancient Smith and Wesson .38 police special revolver that was sunk so deeply in an old worn holster it was nearly invisible. His badge needed to be shined. Although the temperature was only about fifty degrees, the man wore no cover or coat. Clete smiled.

  “Good evening, officer,” he said. “You all right tonight?”

  “Ya’ll one a the boys that been askin’ questions around town?”

  “Nice to meet ya,” Clete said, holding out his hand. “My name’s Clint.”

  The office
r blinked and automatically took Clete’s hand. His grip was soft and tentative. The handshake was very brief.

  “Ya’ll been askin’ questions?”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your name,” Clete said. “What is it?”

  “Uh, Delbert Dunn.”

  “Nice to meetcha, Delbert,” Clete said. “And what do you do?”

  Delbert flinched. “I’m the Hardy Chief of Police,” he said, glancing down at his rumpled uniform.

  “No kiddin’? Well, hell, Delbert! C’mon in an’ set a spell. Want some coffee? We got a coffee maker right here in the room, ya know.”

  Delbert entered the room like he was walking on quicksand and looked around. Clete continued.

  “You have some identification?” he asked.

  Delbert looked at Clete like he had a lobster on his head.

  “Whut?”

  “Some ID. You know, like a police commission or somethin’ like that?”

  Delbert swelled a bit. “Cain’t yew see my uniform?”

  “Dime a dozen. Get one anywhere.”

  “Ya cain’t git one a these just anyplace,” Delbert said, tapping his chest next to the badge.

  “You ever polish that thing?”

  “Whut?” Delbert said, attempting to gain some control.

  “That’s a old Smith model ten military and police in your holster, huh? Don’t see a lot a them anymore.”

  Delbert glanced down at his pistol. Evidently they were now talking about his gun. “It’s what the city give me,” he said.

  “Small place like Hardy prob’ly don’t have a real big budget for law enforcement,” Clete sympathized. “How many on the force?”

  “Uh, six.”

  “So, how ‘bout that I.D., Delbert?”

  The chief paused for a moment to marshal his thoughts and attempted to assert himself.

  “I got me the damn uniform an’ the damn badge,” he said, “an’ I tole you who I was. That’s enough.”

  Clete grinned. “You’re right, Chief,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “I’m just havin’ a little fun. What can I do for ya?”