The Pendant (The Angela Feetwood Paranormal Mystery Series Book 1)

by Lawton Paul

  “What Carl?” Angela says, touching his arm, dried bits of mud falling onto Bo’s kitchen floor.

  “I heard two, uh…”

  “Yes?” says Angela in her best 2nd grade teacher voice.

  And then Carl’s voice doesn’t work and his breathing gets heavy so Angela sits him down mud and all and Bo doesn’t say a word. Angela gives Bo a look and Bo understands, jumps over to the sink and gets some water, and then Angela changes her mind, gives her another look and somehow Bo understands, heads for the ice chest and digs out a frosty bottle, pours out the paper cup of water and fills it with vodka.

  Carl takes a drink, another deep breath, then another big drink. He swallows and seems to gain his composure.

  “Sorry. I ain’t one for this spy shit.” He rubs his hand over his face and more dried mud on the table. He looks up at Angela. “Two shots,” he says. “High caliber. Weren’t no varmint gun. I went into the woods. Mud up to my knees and pitch as tar.” He gulps the last of the clear alcohol and taps his cup on the table and Bo fills it up again. “I couldn’t find the boy. I’m sorry. I can drive the boat and winch the nets up, but the old ticker can’t handle running around in the dark with bullets flying around.”

  “We’ll go again in the morning,” says Angela. “You just relax. You did fine,” she says, and gives him a hug.

  ……

  Angela’s alarm goes off at 4:30am and immediately she goes for the cup of cold coffee she brought from Bo’s a few hours before. Then she turns on a small lamp, reaches under the sofa and pulls out the Winchester. Dog starts wagging his tail. He looks at her: We going somewhere? “Yes, Dog. We’re going to see the man in the old car. And hopefully find Dave.”

  She moved the truck earlier so Larry could park his van next to the house. The truck is aimed towards the alleyway on a slight incline, so all Angela has to do is let out the brake and roll down the hill so no one will hear. The trick is turning the wheel hard enough left before it goes into the ditch on the other side.

  She opens the driver’s side door as quietly as she can but it starts creaking, so she stops. Waits for a second, then opens it some more. More creaks. Finally just gives it a jerk all the way. Dog jumps in and she doesn’t close it, just climbs in and lets out the parking brake.

  But the truck doesn’t move. So she slides out, puts one hand on the wheel and one on the door and pushes as hard as she can, tries to get it rocking. She leans into it, Dog watching with ears pricked up. Still nothing. The wheel is turned a little to the right so she pulls with both hands, dry turns it until the wheels are pointed down the alleyway.

  The truck creeps forward. The tires crunching on the gravel. She jumps back in and keeps turning left like a trucker, the right front tire heading straight for the ditch. Every foot she moves forward she’s able to turn that much more until finally she’s got the wheel all the way to the left. She takes out a few bushes but the front tire doesn’t go over the edge and the truck starts down the hill and then she’s got to turn right again so she doesn’t crash into the Salheimer’s mailbox.

  At the bottom, still rolling, she puts it in first, pops the clutch, and the engine starts. She eases down River Rd. and she can just catch a glimpse of the old house up on the hill. Carl is in a guest room. He and Bo will be fine, she thinks.

  Fifteen minutes later she’s out of Chickasaw on rolling two-lane county roads, dark oaks on either side with moss hanging down, the night sky clear and every star visible. With the Winchester leaning against the seat, Dog’s head on her lap, and the soothing rhythm of the engine, she’s almost calm. Just another redneck in an old truck, she thinks. Cool air blows in through the open window and she realizes she’s smiling. Is this happiness? An old truck with Dog and a Winchester?

  US17 comes too soon. She wants to keep driving and forget about Johnny, forget that Dave is missing and Walt is gone. But she can’t. She makes the turn and is suddenly alert. Dog wakes on cue and sits up in the seat. Angela tells him to stay quiet.

  After a few miles she turns onto Hopper Rd., an old dirt one-laner. The truck bounces and squeaks with every bump. She kills the lights and creeps along. It’s just after 5:00am and a young boy with a big sack tied to his handlebars rides by chunking the Times Union onto every driveway. An old lady in slippers and a nightgown makes her way out to a giant roll of paper. Angela rolls up to the edge of the lady’s driveway.

  “Ma’am,” she says in redneck mode. The old lady looks up with a blank expression, starts to turn back to her house. “Ma’am, you know who lives in the house on the end? I’m looking for my friend’s house and am kinda lost.”

  “Your aunt named Spence?”

  Angie ponders a lie, thinks better of it, nods no.

  “Well, Mrs. Spence passed away not long ago, but I seen her son in and out recently.”

  “Old green car?” says Angie.

  “Naw. Old blue car,” says the woman.

  “Do you mind if I park my truck here?” says Angie.

  The old lady just gives her a come-on wave and shuffles back to her house. Angie pulls the truck onto the dirt driveway and stops behind a shed. She jumps out with Dog and the rifle once the lady is back inside. So far so good, she thinks. She pets Dog and heads for the house at the end of the street, the rifle pointed down at her side.

  It’s still dark but she is out in the open. The house next door is quiet, about fifty yards away, nothing on the other side except woods. She starts to run for the red garage, thinks better of it, tries to walk like she’s walking the dog. Like she’s not carrying a rifle.

  No lights inside the house at the end of the road. No mailbox out front with an address. She makes it to the garage with her heart beating fast. The big roll-up door is open, looks like the entrance to an empty cave. Inside smells like oil and exhaust fumes. There’s an old blanket on the floor with elastic all around: a car cover. In the middle is a picture of a muscle car, and under that Big Al’s Car Corral, Middleton, GA. In the corner she picks up a magazine with the address torn off. She looks around and finds more stacked up on the desk, tears off the address from the top magazine and pockets it. She checks her watch: 5:17am, and decides the address is enough.

  She steps out into the driveway, half expecting the sheriff to show up and arrest her for trespassing, but no one is there. The air is still cool, and the stars have disappeared, replaced by the gray light of morning. Another dog barks in the distance, but Dog stays right at her heel. She reaches the end of the dirt driveway, takes one look back and breaks into a run for the truck. It’s like someone’s chasing her. She looks back and nothing but an empty street and big oaks and gray moss.

  She backs the truck out and starts to breathe easy again when she makes the turn onto 17. She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out the little piece of paper: Margaret Spence, 1440 Hopper Rd., Chickasaw, FL. She dials Larry on her cell.

  “Luke. Princess Leah,” she says.

  “Yeah, uh, Princess, kinda early, eh? Whatcha need?”

  “If I give you an address can you give me a name?”

  “Who you talkin’ to? Shoot.” She gives him the details and he says he’ll call back.

  So its her and Dog in the truck again on a morning drive before the traffic hits, but the traffic doesn’t amount to much more than a few uptown rednecks heading into Jax to work, or a few locals off to the pulp mill. Her breathing starts to settle and Dog is asleep.

  Larry calls. “Margaret Spence. Deceased, 2009.”

  “That’s all you got? Hang on,” she says, putting the phone down next to Dog, then grabs the stick and puts it into third. She picks the phone up again, puts him on speaker.

  “You got anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Larry says. “You ain’t gonna believe who old Mrs. Spence’s son is.” Angela shifts down into second at the bottom of a hill at a stop sign, wonders why there’s a stop sign in the middle of nowhere. “Wilford Andrew Jackson,” says Larry.

  “You mean, our Andy Jackson?” sa
ys Angela, her heart starting to pound. “Is he our man?” she says, her voice cracking.

  Devil Dog

  Jesus opens his eyes and the bright sunlight blinds him for a moment. He tries to get up and a stab of pain tears through his left shoulder and he cries out. His mouth is dry and he’d kill for a drink of water. And then he remembers. The bastard sheriff.

  And that is enough to make his legs work again. Every step sends another shock to his left shoulder. His right hand is still holding the sphagnum moss in place and he’s afraid to move it. Afraid he’ll start to bleed again.

  He bushwhacks through the scrub heading towards the mill and the river, but steers clear of the fence. This time he’ll have to go around. He makes it through the palmettos and is soon in the muck again, cool and silky soft on his feet. He wades straight into the water and looks out onto the river.

  There’s an orange buoy bouncing on the surface, 2845 painted on the side. That’s old Fat Bill, he thinks. And sure enough, five or six buoys down the line is an old crab boat circling a trap. Bill’s round body is easy to spot. He leans over to pull up a trap and the boat nearly takes on water he’s so heavy. About fifteen minutes later Bill comes up to the buoy closest to Jesus, humming a song.

  “Hey Fatman. How ‘bout a lift?” says Jesus, voice hoarse and scratchy, still standing in a foot of water. Bill jumps around.

  “Who dat?” he yells towards the trees.

  “Me. You dumbass,” says Jesus. Then bends over from the pain.

  “Holy shit, Jesus!” says Bill. “What happened?”

  “Accident, can you take me to Bo’s dock?”

  “Yeah, sure, but they ain’t enough water fer me to get to ya. You’se gonna hafta come this way a bit.” So Jesus walks up about waist high into the river to the boat and Bill pulls him in, Jesus screaming in pain.

  “Damn if you ain’t light,” says Bill. Jesus slumps down onto the deck, his arms and body covered in dried blood. “Damn, son. You look like death warmed over. I’ll git you to Bo’s in a jiffy.”

  “Water?” says Jesus. Bill hands him an old milk jug full of sulfur water, turns his hat around backwards and pushes the throttle down all the way, the big Johnson outboard growling.

  ……

  “You sure it’s him?” says Angela, still idling at the four-way intersection in the middle of nowhere on 17, just blue sky and planted pines in neat rows all around.

  “Yeah, that’s our boy,” says Larry.

  “He was sick.”

  “And then he came to Chickasaw. We’ll talk later when you get back to, uh, St. Augustine. Have a nice trip, Leah.” Then he hangs up. For a second she wonders just who the hell Leah is, then remembers it was her idea.

  And for the first time since Walt died she feels purpose, true and pure: I’m gonna kill that bastard. She hugs Dog, then pulls the rifle up to her lap, chambers a round and sets it back down. Now I’m ready.

  She puts the old International Harvester in gear, eases off on the clutch and starts to roll forward into the intersection. She hears another car, the first all morning, looks left and suddenly two round headlights and a chrome bumper are coming right at her. It blows through the stop sign, a big dust cloud in its wake, the front grill getting bigger and bigger. A light blue hood. Or maybe green. She hits the gas and the truck surges forward but it’s too late.

  The old muscle car hits the rear of the truck and sends it spinning into the empty intersection then off into the ditch on the other side. The steering wheel rams into Angela’s stomach and her head hits the windshield. She hears one short yelp from Dog and then the truck is rolling down into the ditch upside down, dirt and grass flying into the cabin as the roof digs into the earth and mud.

  The truck lurches to a stop, upside down, one last violent shake, and her head comes to rest on the passenger side glove box as her vision goes black around the edges, shrinking into a circle of color and light, and then nothing.

  ……

  Fat Bill brings the boat right up to Bo’s dock and Dave is still a muddy, wet rag, curled up in the bow. A stray blue crab makes his way right past Dave’s head, one remaining blue claw out and ready for action, but Dave doesn’t even try to shoo it away. Bill ties the boat, tosses the big crab into a box and tries to pull Dave up into a sitting position. Dave screams out in pain, clutching his left shoulder. The sphagnum moss, still held tight against the wound with his one good arm, is a bloody, brown mess.

  Dave looks up at the dock and can see under the deck. Sun light shines through the cracks in the weathered, gray 2x4s, the boat five feet below. It’s low tide.

  “Git on the dock and pull me up,” says Jesus. Bill takes his hat off and scratches his head.

  “Well, shit, Jesus. I cain’t make it up ‘at high…” They sit there for a moment, the boat rubbing against the creosote piling. Seagulls fly overhead, eyeing the last of the stink shad in Bill’s bait bucket.

  Dave knows his brain’s not working: Bill would never make it up. His legs are so fat he had to take the fillet knife and make a vertical cut down the top of his boots so his big feet and calves would fit. He ain’t a climber.

  “I know,” says Bill. “I kin push you up. All you gotta do is hang onna som’un, an I’ll gitcha up.”

  So Dave grabs the railing and pushes off of Bill’s outstretched hand like a platform and rolls onto the dock. He wants to scream again but he’s too exhausted so he just lies there and moans for awhile, Bill underneath fretting and worrying. He starts yelling towards the old house but no one comes.

  Then finally Carl comes out onto the lawn, barefoot and sleepy eyed. He sees Dave and breaks into a run. “Dave!” he says, picks him up. “Good to see, you, Boy!” Bill is down in his boat, grinning. “Thank you, Bill,” says Carl. “Who did this?” he says, looking at Dave’s shoulder.

  Dave looks up at Carl. “Sheriff shot me. He thinks I’m dead, I’m sure, or he would have come for me this morning,” he says. “Gotta tell Angela.”

  Bo takes one look at Dave and has Carl carry him up to a guest room. Then she gets on the horn to Greg. “You gotta come now. We need you to patch Dave up. Looks like a gator chewed on his shoulder.”

  “Bo, I’m a medical examiner, not an ER doc,” he says.

  “Well you’re all we got. That boy needs you and goin’ to the hospital ain’t exactly our best move right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “The sheriff done shot him.”

  “The sheriff? Why?”

  “He’s dirty.”

  There is a long pause at the other end as Greg tries to process the idea of the sheriff shooting Dave. And the more pressing situation: dealing with a gunshot wound.

  “Where is the wound and how long ago?”

  “Shoulder, last night,” says Bo.

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m going to take a look and if it’s not too bad I’ll do what I can, but if it’s bad he’s going to the hospital. The fact he made it all night is a good sign.”

  They hang up and Greg runs through the list: suture kit and antibiotics. Bentadine. An IV. And luck. He’ll have to run by the hospital. Maybe they don’t know he’s been shit-canned yet. It doesn’t matter. He’ll take what he needs. What are they gonna do, fire him?

  At around 11:00 Greg comes down from the guest room, throws a pair of white latex gloves into the trash and washes his hands. Carl and Bo are sitting at the kitchen table like worried parents, each with a cup but neither drinking. They watch Greg pour himself some coffee, add some sugar, then sit down. Greg takes a sip, looks out towards the river, then notices Carl and Bo staring at him.

  “What?” says Greg, then clues in. “Sorry, I usually don’t have to talk to worried people after I examine a dead person. But our living boy is fine. He’s very lucky. The bullet just took a little muscle tissue from his shoulder. He should make a full recovery. Especially here. He claims the corridor saved him, but I think him stopping the bleeding in the field was crucial. I gave him something for the pain and s
ome antibiotics so he’ll sleep for awhile. Where’s Angela?”

  “Sleeping, I imagine. We were up late last night waiting for Carl and Dave to come home.”

  Greg knocks on the cottage door. No answer. So he goes around and knocks on the window, puts his hand on the glass to block the glare and peeks inside, and the bed is made and Dog is gone.

  “The truck’s gone, too,” says Greg, back in the kitchen.

  “Bet she went to Hopper Rd.,” says Carl.

  “And that ain’t good,” says Bo. Just then the phone rings. It’s Larry. He tells them about the sheriff’s mother owning the Hopper Rd. property. Bo puts him on speaker.

  “Where’s Angela?” says Greg.

  “I spoke to her this morning a few hours ago. She was in the truck with Dog. Wanted me to look up the address. She was fine.”

  Greg calls her cell but no answer.

  “Larry, can you find her position with her cell phone?”

  “Yeah. Give me a second.” They could hear short bursts of keyboard noise. “I got her. Intersection of 17 and Cromwell, NE corner, down in the Northside, Duval. Off the road a smidge.”

  “What’s she doin’ off the road? That’s just a pine plantation.”

  “Pit stop?” offers Bo.

  “Naw, it ain’t moving. She’s camped out.”

  Greg looks at Carl. “We’ll take my car,” he says. “Bo, keep an eye on Dave.” Bo knods okay then runs to the freezer.

  “You boys need a little backup.” She grabs a black bag from under the freezer, hands it to Carl. Out comes a shiny gun with a long barrel.

  “It was Milton’s,” says Bo. “I ain’t touched it since he died, but I figure you might need it. Now go get Angie.”