Dumping Grounds (Joshua Stokes Mysteries Book 1)

by Lila Beckham

  “He is about the right size for a jockey, probably made a good one.”

  “He has won several races. I have an 8x10 picture of him holding a trophy and sitting on one of those big long-legged horses of theirs. He says he enjoys it.”

  “I bet he does. What about those cousins of yours, Jessie, Hannah, and Tom, are they doing all right,” he asked, getting to what he wanted to ask in the first place, although Joe had already told him he had just missed Hannah, he wanted to ask Kathy about them. Her being a woman and all, women’s opinions were different from men’s opinions, women paid more attention to things than men did.

  “I know it’s been a long time since the murders, but the last time I talked with them, I could tell they were still hurting over losing Willie and Lacey. None of them says anything about what happened, even within the family. Tom still will not talk to Jessie. He just cannot get over her spitting on Willie’s grave like she did.”

  “Well, I can understand Jessie’s anger,” Stokes replied. “Jessie loved Lacey like a sister, and she blamed her brother Willie for both their deaths, as well as nearly getting their sister Hannah killed.”

  “I know, and I understand that too, but you know how Tom is. Willie was his brother and a brother’s blood is the thickest blood there is other than a mother’s blood. Those two were real tight growing up. You never saw one without the other when they was boys. Right or wrong Tom stood behind Willie and Willie stood behind Tom… Tom has grown more and more distant and hardhearted the older he gets. He has never cared as much for his sisters, as he did Willie, though. I don’t know why he is like that, just contrary as all get out. I know Uncle Bill didn’t raise him that way,” Kathy replied solemnly.

  “Yeah, I know very well how he is,” Stokes replied, deciding to change the subject a little. “Are you still staying up there with your mama and brothers?” he asked, holding his hat in his hand as he paused beside her.

  “Yes, I am. My husband, John, is in the institution in Mount Vernon again, so I really don’t have any other choice. I was offered a job the other day, taking care of a paralyzed woman. I am seriously thinking about taking it. It would be a live in job and that would tie me down more than I already am by living with my mama.”

  “You talking about Bernie Johnson’s wife, out there in Wheelerville?” he asked, knowing it could be none other. She was the only paraplegic he knew that lived in that area.

  “Yes, she is the one. Do you know very much about them?” Kathy asked, figuring if anyone would know about them, it would be Joshua Stokes.

  “If you take the job, keep the doors locked when you go to bed and if at all possible, avoid her brother, especially if Bernie is offshore,” Joshua told her, adding, “You know he is the one who shot her. She was beating the tar out of his wife over something. I heard her maw put her up to it. It all got way out of hand.”

  “I had heard that, but did not know for sure if it was true,” Kathy responded.

  “Well, it is true. You call me if he does get a wild hair and shows up over there. I am sure he has enough sense not to come around when Bernie is home. He does not want to end up in jail or dead. Stay out of Young’s Neck too, her mama lives out there. Some of those folks down in there are as crazy as June bugs,” Joshua warned.

  “You don’t have to warn me about them, Joshua. I grew up on stories of those folks and their feuds. Mama was born and raised in Wheelerville you know,” Kathy responded, giving him a shy smile.

  “You’re leaving already, Sheriff. Why, you ain’t even touched your breakfast. A man needs food in his belly to get through the day,” Joe admonished as he came through the swinging doors from the kitchen with two breakfast platters, which he sat on the table in front of Delbert and Sadie.

  “Yeah, I know Joe,” Joshua replied, nodding to Delbert and Sadie as he headed for the door. “But I’m not hungry yet and I got a lot to do. Dragging my feet and hanging around here with you good folks ain’t getting it done.”

  “Honey, you call me now, if’n you take the notion to,” Gypsy called to his back as he went through the door and out to his patrol car.

  “It will be a cold day in hell, Gypsy,” he muttered, as he opened the door to his patrol car and got behind the wheel. “All I need is a jealous husband after me.”

  Joshua pulled the Polaroid out and looked at it again, deciding he needed to drive down to the tattoo parlor on Dauphin Street to see if they recognized the rose tattoo. Before he could leave the parking lot, the radio was buzzing. An eighteen-wheeler had done overturned on Highway 98 at the intersection of Interstate 65. He knew there was going to be a mess down there and he dreaded having to go, but he grabbed the microphone and responded, letting them know that he was on his way.

  He stuck a tape in his 8-track player, turned it up loud, put his sunshades on and when the music started he sung, ‘Born to be Wild’ as he looked both ways down Highway 98 to see if any cars were coming, and of course, there was.

  Well traveled, Moffett Road, also known as Highway 98, was nicknamed “Bloody 98,” because of all the serious wrecks that occurred along its snaked path across Alabama and Mississippi. It was a direct route from Mobile, Alabama to Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and beyond, in both directions. Someone once told him it ran coast to coast…

  After the traffic thinned, Joshua pulled out onto the highway, and as luck would have it ended up stuck behind a cattle truck. The stench turned his stomach.

  Maybe I should have eaten the breakfast Joe sat in front of me. At least it would have kept me from getting sick, he thought, as he flipped his siren and lights on so he could get ahead of the offensive odors coming from the truck.

  From what they had said, the truck that overturned was a freight truck. It was loaded with stuff for Mardi Gras; party favors, beads, and various flavors of moon pies. It reminded him that Mardi Gras was due to start in less than two weeks; that was all he needed! The street parties, the balls, the messiness, and the drunkards of Mardi Gras, along with a murderer dumping more bodies.

  Joshua gripped the steering wheel tightly and moved a few more vehicles out of his way, using his lights and siren.

  His foot was already heavy on the gas pedal and getting heavier as the song got faster and Steppenwolf crested in his song.

  Topping Wolf Ridge, he saw that the traffic backed up at least a quarter mile because of the accident. He grimaced and wondered aloud, “When is all this bad shit ever going to end?”

  His grandfather’s voice echoed through Joshua’s mind. He remembers they were standing over a spotted puppy that lay dead in the road in front of his granddad’s farm and asking his grandfather why did the puppy have to die and him saying, The misfortunes of life come back to haunt you, Son, no matter how hard you try to avoid them. Joshua had asked him why do they come back to haunt you and his grandfather replied, They just do, Son. There’s no answer to why and there is no way to avoid them.

  ‘Well, when, do they end,’ Joshua asked. ‘When you’re six feet under, Hoss, when you’re six feet under,’ his grandfather replied. It was what his grandfather had always said and it was what Joshua had come to believe too.

  Being the Sheriff sometimes had its advantages though. He had made the trip from Fairview to Crichton in record time, two songs by Steppenwolf. He played this game sometimes, whenever he headed toward town, not just to see how long it took him to get there, but because he loved his music too and it gave him a chance to listen.

  He ejected the tape as he drove up to the scene of the accident, wanting to save the next song until later. It was one of his favorites by Steppenwolf, called the ‘Pusher Man.’ It was long and intense and just what he needed occasionally to relax or to get jacked up, depending on which he wanted or needed to do. Just like when he listened to Joe Cockers, With a Little Help from My Friends and I Put a Spell on You, by Creedence Clearwater Revival. Those types of songs were exactly what he needed to hear occasionally. Joshua got tired of listening to the same old thing all the time that w
as why he was a fan of various genres. He enjoyed country, rock, pop, and the blues. About the only music, he could not stomach, was opera.

  Deputy Cook was at the scene of the accident when he arrived. He looked as happy as a kid in a candy store while directing the east and westbound traffic around the overturned truck.

  “Sheriff, we got us a situation here,” the deputy hollered from his stance in the middle of the highway.

  “Well, I can see that, Deputy,” Joshua replied as he looked around.

  “No, Sir,” Cook exclaimed. “I’m not talking about the traffic. I’m talking about what we found in this here truck.” Cook’s bug eyes were about to pop out of his head.

  6

  Expectation

  Emma opened her eyes to complete darkness. Briefly, she wondered where she was, before she remembered her captors and the stinky rag they placed over her mouth and nose before she lost conscious.

  As she lay there, she could hear music coming from up above her. It was a song called, ‘When I Was Young,’ by Eric Burdon and The Animals.

  The psychedelic sounding yells and echoes of the singer, sent chills down her spine. She could hear people moving around overhead and other weird noises besides the music and people.

  Her brain felt heavy and dull. She wondered if she were awake or if she was dreaming.

  If they’re getting wasted, I might have a chance to get out of here, Emma thought, before realizing that she was still strapped to the contraption upon which she lay.

  “If you are out there Goyaałé, please help me,” she whispered, falling back on her grandfather’s tales of Geronimo; refusing to lose faith in her upbringing.

  A while later, she opened her eyes again and felt even groggier, if that was possible. She thought she might have dozed off for a minute, but it could have been five minutes, five hours, or five days. Emma was not sure, but the next time she opened her eyes, echoes from the music were still coming from overhead. It was one of those long, deeply obsessive songs. ‘Kashmir,’ she thought was the name of it, by the band Led Zeppelin. Emma was familiar with their music and she liked them.

  At home, all they ever listened to was country or gospel music, but Emma had heard many of these songs at several parties she had attended in high school.

  One such party was actually a frat party, held off campus by some students who attended the University of South Alabama. She had gone there with her friend and neighbor Rhonda Kay Hamilton.

  Rhonda had a knack for getting them into some strange situations, such as the frat party.

  At that party, was the first time Emma had ever drank, or been wasted as they called it, and it was the first time she had ever been exposed to illegal drugs.

  She and Rhonda both smoked pot at the party and drank beer. It was quite an eye-opened for Emma. Those college kids were a different breed than she was use to.

  In her mind, Emma pictured her captors on the floor above her. She wondered if that was what was going on. Were they getting high on pot and listening to music to get in the mood for whatever they had in mind to do to her. She tried sniffing the air for the aroma of tobacco, but all she could smell was some sort of disinfectant. Maybe they’re simply relaxing to the music… What did they have planned for her, she suddenly wondered. She would get her answer shortly, because she heard the door opening and then a light was switched on.

  It was not a bright light; it was one of those florescent black lights. The kind that caused everything white, to glow in the dark.

  Emma noticed the window again, the one where she had seen the mimosa tree. In the black light, the lightest colors glowed brilliantly, oddly bluish in color, causing her to wonder if the window were real…

  When Emma heard their footsteps on the stairs, she pried her eyes from the window and closed them tightly. Her disappointment was immediate.

  She wondered if it were even a real window. It was possible the scene on the window was painted on.

  Someone had probably painted a picture onto an old window and then hung it on the wall just to give the illusion that it was a bright and cheerful room. She now feared she was in a dungeon like cellar with no windows or other means of escape.

  Emma peeked through her lashes. She saw two men coming down the stairs. They were leading a young black-headed woman down the stairs.

  The girl was staggering badly. Several times, she slumped forward and almost fell, causing the men to grab her around her naked waist and tote her down the remaining steps. At the bottom she still could not stand.

  Emma knew she should pretend to be asleep, but her curiosity was greater than any cats could ever be; she just could not help herself; she had to look.

  She tried to follow them with her eyes and not turn her head. As they reached the bottom of the steps, she lost sight of them, causing her to raise her head to look. When she did, she looked right into the face of one of her captors. He was the one who had come toward her with the gun at the campsite!

  Suddenly, some of her memories returned, flashing through her mind like pictures in one of those slideshow thingamajigs.

  Emma saw him let go of the woman and start walking toward her. Too late, she tried to close her eyes and lay still.

  “Ain’t no use trying to hide now, Girly,” he whispered, leaning in over her.

  She could feel and smell his hot, liquored breath on her cheek. It caused her to gasp and cringe, and he laughed at her for being scared.

  Emma’s eyes popped open and she glared at him. Suddenly, something inside of her snapped, causing her to become furious. No longer able to control her anger, she screamed at him to get out of her freaking face before she bit his nose slap off his head.

  She meant it too, because she wanted to bite him. She wanted to bite him so hard it would take the smirk clean off his face. Emma never remembered being as angry in her life, as she was at that very moment.

  “Looks like we got us a live one,” the one leaning over her said. As she protested, he untied her, and then jerked her off the small metal table.

  “Don’t hurt her yet, Earl,” the other one said.

  “You need a bath, you smell like a whore,” Earl, spat the words at her. His touch disgusted Emma. She wriggled with all her might trying to loosen his grip as he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

  The two of them began to drag her up the stairs and as they got several steps high, Emma looked toward the other girl whom they had strapped onto another table against the far wall. The terror in the girl’s brown eyes let Emma know that she was in for an awful experience.

  Emma fought harder but it was no use; she was not strong enough.

  At the top of the stairs, they adjusted their grip on her and turned down a hallway.

  When they drug her through the door into the bathroom, Emma caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. All of her breath left her body.

  Her once blondish, red hair, now cropped, was just above her shoulders, and dyed jet black. Her face and pale eyes looked like the image on an Egyptian sarcophagus’ picture she remembered seeing in history class.

  Emma was stunned into submission, compliant as he made her get into the bathtub. Once seated in the tub, she sat there in silence as one of them turned on the faucet and began running water for her a bath.

  Emma’s mind was bombarded with images of what they might have done to her and what they may have in store for her. She wondered why they had changed her appearance. Her hair was cut in the same style as the girl they had led down the stairs.

  Did they do all of this to fulfill some sick fantasy of theirs, or was it to keep her from being identified by anyone who might see her, or find her body after they murdered her. Emma’s thoughts were racing though her mind so fast that she felt her brain would explode!

  7

  The pusherman

  “You know I smoked a lot of grass, oh Lord, I popped a lot of pills” sung Steppenwolf, and the sheriff was singing right along with him. Joshua sung louder, mashing the gas
pedal harder after rounding the 90-degree curve on the Georgetown-Wilmer Road. He was thinking about the overturned eighteen-wheeler from the day before.

  The driver of the vehicle had jumped and run as soon as the truck stilled its overture and the homeless bums who stayed in and around the intersection, that consisted of a creek, a railroad crossing, and a trestle were looting when deputies arrived.

  There is no telling how much merchandise got stolen before they arrived either, he thought to himself. Well, at least they didn’t find the cocaine.

  “You know I seen a lot people walking round with tombstones in their eyes. But, the pusher don‘t care Aw… if you live or if you die. Goddamn, um hum the pusher. I said, God… damn, yeah, the pusher man,” Stokes sung at the top of his lungs, his cruiser rolling through the back roads of Wilmer.

  He knew some folks did not understand his love of this type of music, but he considered himself a connoisseur of good music and music that soothed your soul had to be good for you, right.

  The Sheriff was on his way to Cuss Fork, a community north of Fairview, to investigate the report of a flourishing field of marijuana.

  Someone had reported that the Vice boys were growing it out behind their daddy’s fallow cotton fields, near the old Stringer Cemetery.

  Joshua knew exactly where the caller was talking about. They had pulled up that same field and had a burning several years earlier.

  The homegrown the Vice boys were growing was not worrying him; it was stuff like that uncut heroin in the overturned truck that was his concern. He did not want that in his county. At least they now had the name of the company that shipped the cargo, and they knew the truck had come out of Texas.

  Joshua was feeling in a charitable mood that morning and had decided he was just going to have himself a talk with the Vice boys and give them time to clear the field. They could dispose of it ever how they seen fit.

  The caller had accused the Vice boys of being drug pushers, but Joshua did not see it the same way. He did not want to see the boys sitting in jail, booked for pushing pot.