Ginger’s first reaction was not of a serious nature, but after a few drinks and encouraging words supplied by Dot, the idea seemed less foolish. Ginger definitely needed a source of income after the death of his father. The raising of quarter horses had lost its appeal, as well as its profit. Within a few months, Ginger sold the working part of the ranch, keeping only a small amount of land on the lake, where he began to immediately construct a place to live. Although twenty miles from town, it wasn’t too far to commit to his new bar, especially with Dot running it. He loved the small muddy lake and walked his land every night, constructing his dream home. It would take time, but time he had plenty of, perhaps even enough to resume his passion to write.
After a little coercing, Ginger walked Matt and Dot to the door. He watched them drive away and, once convinced everything was all right, he prepared to lock up, but not before he noticed a red pickup driving slowly around the corner.
Ginger and Buckshot pulled down the dirt road toward the small cabin. Buckshot now in the front seat, wagged his tail, his eyes bright with knowledge of home. The other dogs ran down from the patio to greet the black Ford SUV. Ginger pulled behind the small house next to his other truck, a white Chevy, old, but still going. Bev’s blue Blazer was in the driveway beside the house. She had not been to her apartment in days. He was glad she was still there. He climbed from the truck, yelling at Buckshot to be patient.
“Hi, momma and babies,” he said to the labs, all jumping and begging for attention, taking time to smell Buckshot, curious about where he had been without them.
He walked into his home to find Bev in the bedroom in one of his T-shirts. She was curled on the bed, fast asleep, the television still on. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek, removing the remote from her hand. He moved to the kitchen, where he found a box of fried chicken. He grabbed a leg and found a Coke in the refrigerator. With hands loaded, he walked to the front door, where he watched the pups tussling around and Buckshot examining to see if Satin was in heat. After a few growls, Buckshot jumped onto the picnic table, where he curled into a ball for a night’s sleep. The pups gathered around the patio, on some pieces of carpet, with their mom. They were blocked from the wind and were all quite comfortable. Ginger could see the ripples of the lake bumping the shore, not more than thirty feet from his door. He imagined the pier he would build, the house he wanted. He felt tired, but happy. He returned to the bedroom, undressed and crawled in beside Bev. He flipped the channel to an old Marx Brothers movie. He yawned, but he loved the Marx Brothers too much to go right to sleep. Bev was awakened by a semi-restrained laugh. She rolled over, putting her head on his chest and went back to sleep.
CHAPTER 16
“Well, it’s eleven o’clock, Saturday night,” Hopkin’s wife purred as she nuzzled his ear. “The boys are staying next door. Your beautiful wife has a buzz going. Her inhibitions are low. She finds her husband too handsome to resist, so… any suggestions?”
Hopkins pulled his wife next to him. “I have a lot of suggestions. You get the shower steamy and I’ll open that bottle of champagne we’ve been saving.”
They shared a warm, loving kiss and went about their romantic evening. The boys would be back in the morning, full of stories and large appetites.
* * *
Joe had not seen the door of Ginger’s bar open, nor did he see a man looking out the door at his red truck.
He was too consumed by his dislike of Ginger. He was curious to see if Marjorie’s white Continental had reappeared at the bar. Although he was relieved it was not there, he still felt an extreme hatred of this new adversary. Everyone else was a pat on the back, but there was something in Ginger’s eyes, disapproval, a threat. Joe had seen threats before, a waitress in a Houston nightclub. She had insisted on commitment, no drinking if she wasn’t part of it, and a regular paycheck that she could count on and, above all else, supporting her children even though her ex-husband refused to. Why she thought he would commit to such a relationship was beyond him. He paid for a month of pizza to stay in her apartment. He bought her a fake ring that she thought was expensive and spent nothing on the children. She was more than happy until she found out the ring was cheap, and he was spending his spare time with the other waitress. Her tears meant nothing to him, and a sudden threat and an angry slap sent him packing, but not before he left a reminder. The bruises only confirmed her love for him. She pleaded with him to stay, apologized for her errors amid the blood and swollen lips. His suitcase was already packed, as usual. Leaving was not only easy, but an absolute pleasure. He stayed a few nights with the other waitress, then moved to another part of the city, a new bar, and a new opportunity.
Pam was not unlike the other women he had known, but his situation was quite different. He needed an alibi, a place to stay, a degree of security. Lindville was not like Houston. There were not as many places to hide. Different faces did not blend into each other. They stood out among the regular, the everyday familiar face.
Joe wanted to make Ginger uncomfortable, to look bad among his friends, especially Marjorie and Hopkins. But for the moment, he needed to control, fully dominate, and be adored by someone. He would drive to Pam’s apartment, sleep, and prepare for Sunday’s interview. He would also plan a way to produce money without working on a roof. Maybe not right away, but in the near future. For a while, he would appear the hardworking subcontractor trying to desperately make a dollar.
Joe’s mind was crowded with thoughts. He knew he should go to Pam’s and sleep. Wait for her and stay put. But he had a buzz and a thirst for something to happen. He had time for a slight detour, just to pay his old homestead a visit, keep in touch with loved ones. He pulled a bottle of vodka from under the seat. It had remained there since he had stolen it from the liquor store. A flash of remembrance. He pulled his watch from his pocket and slid it on his wrist. He had never received such a gift from his family. He swallowed some vodka and his head spun, burning with bad memories that returned only to taunt him, prey upon his lost youth, and drive a stake through his future.
Joe Cooper knew a place where he could get some money, perhaps a few thousand dollars. He turned south and headed across the tracks to a place he hadn’t been in years, but a place he remembered quite well. A place he remembered with hatred. He recalled a red fire truck and a small Christmas tree positioned on an end table, but most of all, he had recollections of a heavy-set, white-haired woman, smoking and coughing throughout the night and most of the morning. She drank bad-tasting, cheap whiskey that some white-haired man brought her. The afternoons were quiet, until she awakened and either yelled or hit a small boy and another child, a boy who was smaller and had fragile bones. Joe remembered hiding from her, taking the small boy and going next door, a vacated house that was padlocked, but had an entry no one knew about. Joe could not remember what happened to the small, fragile boy. He could not really remember what happened to himself. Another woman, younger, almost positively his mother, took him someplace else, a small town with a lot of trees and a building with a jukebox and loud noise, mostly women, either laughing or screaming. He could never really tell the difference, until the cops came. Then someone would go to jail and the same voices would turn to tears. The next night he would be someplace else, usually at the white-haired woman’s house. He preferred the place with loud music. He was left to play outside with other kids and sleep in the car with the wind blowing through the window. That was better than the white-haired lady. She smelled bad, slapped him in the face, or tried to kiss him and touch him in places that left him feeling uncomfortable.
The house was pretty much the same as he remembered, the yard full of dirt and weeds, the house covered with loose paint and cracked windows. A yellow porch light, like at the Worthy’s, cast an indifferent glare at indistinguishable numbers. An emotional flood rushed through Joe Cooper’s body. Had he been drinking too much? Had he even had a drink? Did it even matter?
Joe Cooper walked around the house, looking next door t
o the vacant house in which he had once sought sanctuary. Most of the building was buried remnants, but the fear and anger still stood within his heart. He walked alongside an evaporative air conditioner positioned outside a bedroom window, the same window of the room where the white-haired lady had slept and made sick noises. He could hear those same sounds, as if nothing had changed. Perhaps it had, perhaps it had not. He could not distinguish the difference. But within his mind, the noises he felt he heard were the same from his youth. The reality mattered only to the others, the ones inside, and they mattered little within his framework.
Joe Cooper was in the house. How? He was not sure. He walked to a bedroom, the one he had tried to sleep in. Fast asleep, dreaming of comfort, peace, and happiness was a child, himself so many years before. He allowed the child to sleep, an internal sleep. He even kissed the child goodnight. The next bedroom was inhabited by two white-haired individuals. One indistinguishable and one who promised warmth and love but reeked of something that Joe Cooper knew led to death. He placed a pillow over a white-haired female and pressed down. When she began to struggle and awakened her mate, he discovered a gun from somewhere. He fired into the drowsy face of someone, indifferent to the small child in the next room. He pressed the pillow harder until it promised no more fears, no more nightmares, no more abuse. He finally lay across the pillow until he felt the child sleep, never to wake to such a world again.
Down the hall was another bedroom, one that was usually empty except for those times of mental heartache. There were tears and pleas from the child to go to his momma, sleep next to her, and promises that they would never part again. But within a day, perhaps two, she would leave with promises of an immediate return. Joe looked into the bedroom. He heard no urging from the boy’s mother to join her, to lay beside her and sleep in her protective arms. The boy had no need of a mother now. He slept peacefully without her.
Joe walked to the kitchen. There were two pieces of chicken in a frying pan. They were layered in grease that had grown cold and solidified. Joe ate both pieces. He opened the refrigerator and found only milk to drink. He drank from the carton. The cold milk hit his warm, alcohol-laced stomach and sent waves of heat across his face. He dropped the carton and struggled for the front door. Once outside, he threw up into the cold darkness of the night. His insides burned, and his head was swimming. He looked for his truck and couldn’t find it. He walked blindly into the night, desperately seeking his escape. The red Dodge, as if hearing his commands, came closer to him, urging him to enter its protective custody. Somehow, the truck started and drove itself toward Pam’s apartment. Joe peeled the latex gloves from his hands and tossed them out the window as the truck crossed a busy intersection. Somewhere in his mind, he remembered the handgun, but he wasn’t concerned. It wasn’t his and didn’t have his fingerprints, only the black man’s from the liquor store. That should send a wave through the police department. Detective Hopkins would be scratching his head. Joe’s throat burned from throwing up. The taste was disgusting, and the sight of Pam’s apartment was most welcome, as was the absence of Pam’s car. He would have time to shower and compose himself.
Once inside, he gargled and brushed his teeth with Pam’s toothbrush. He found soft drinks and beer in the refrigerator. He opted for a Coke and returned to the bathroom, where he steamed the entire room. His head was clearing, and his stomach had calmed, although it complained of emptiness.
Joe liked smelling Pam’s soap and shampoo. It was richer, thicker and had a more pleasant aroma than his. It made him think kindly of Pam. He hoped she would shower before coming to bed. He wanted to smell her cleanliness, not the smoke from the bar.
Steam curled into his nose and into his lungs, making him cough and spit up phlegm. He breathed deeper, inhaling more steam into his lungs. He wished he could stay there forever, only leaving to sleep and make love with Pam. But suddenly, he felt overheated and quickly turned the shower off and began to dry off. He opened the door to release heat from the bath before he fainted. He wrapped himself with a towel and returned to the kitchen for another Coke. He threw his clothes into a stackable washer/dryer unit. He washed everything together in warm water. He wanted them clean, free from the bad odor his memories had forced upon them. He lay his wallet and change on the dresser and put his watch back on his wrist. He knew the watch could easily bring a thousand dollars, maybe more, but selling it could be more dangerous than wearing it. He would price it in the near future, just so he would know. He lay on the bed and turned on the television, just for the noise. Within minutes he was asleep. Unsettling dreams would wake him, but not until near morning. For a few hours he would sleep as he imagined others slept.
When Pam came home around two-thirty, she found a naked man asleep in her bed. She kissed him without waking him, then departed for her own shower. Afterward, she discovered his wallet and resisted the temptation to sneak a peek. She found his clothes in the washer and shook her head with amusement. She tossed them into the dryer and turned it on permanent press. It was better than nothing, she supposed.
She tossed the empty Coke cans into the trash and got a Coke for herself. She returned to the bedroom and managed to get herself and Joe under the covers. She was tempted to slip from her gown and sleep naked beside Joe, but she decided not to. Perhaps Joe would wake up and do it for her. She, too, was tired, but not for the same reasons. She found sleep easily and would sleep well past the time Joe would rise and leave for his news media appointment.
CHAPTER 17
Hopkins led Joe Cooper into the Channel 5 studio, where Davis Wilson greeted them and introduced them to the cameraman and a few other technicians.
“Joe, I would like to have a brief interview about the general facts and such and then, with your approval and Detective Hopkins’, I would like to take our mini-cam and go to the Worthy’s house for an interview. Mrs. Worthy has requested a meeting with you.”
Joe had a cue, and he knew where and how to enter. “Wait a minute, Mr. Wilson. I don’t understand what going to the Worthys has to do with this?” He spoke with confusion and hostility.
Davis Wilson and Hopkins looked at him with astonishment.
“Joe, their son, Jeff, was the other person Brown killed.”
“Jeff Worthy?” He grabbed Wilson by the arm.
“Yes, didn’t you know?”
“God, I don’t believe this. You can’t be serious?”
Wilson motioned for the cameras to roll.
Hopkins touched Joe’s arm. “Joe, are you all right? What’s the matter?”
“Rick, I never heard anything about the other murder. I have been working over there. I know both Dr. and Mrs. Worthy.” Joe just stared at Hopkins, wanting a response.
“God, Joe, I’m sorry. I never even considered it.”
Wilson interjected, “Hey, guys, let’s get a grip here. What is going on?”
“Davis, I’ve been working at the Worthy’s house. I had no idea their son was killed. It’s quite a shock.”
“You mean all the questioning you’ve been through and you didn’t know the victim’s name?
“No! I was at the liquor store. I was never questioned about anything else. I just knew that Brown might have killed someone else that same night.”
Hopkins looked at Wilson. “He’s right. He was probably never told any names about the other crime.”
Wilson looked at Hopkins. “This is strange, really strange. Do either of you have any objections to going to the Worthy’s?”
He looked at the cameraman. “Turn that damn thing off! Now!” The cameraman obeyed his orders without any comment or expression.
“I insist upon going over there. Mrs. Worthy has been extremely nice to me.” Joe looked at Wilson. “I have to go. OK with you, Rick?”
Rick felt lost, but knew he had to answer. “I suppose so. I really can’t prevent it. I just wish you would delay the broadcast like we discussed.”
“Of course, Rick,” answered Wilson. “But, at least
you’re here. It looks a lot better for your department if you’re here. You’re part of the discovery, the solution, not the problem.”
“Let’s go,” Hopkins said. He felt like a mouse in a trap. He definitely wasn’t prepared for this situation. Hopkins and Joe Cooper rode in Davis Wilson’s Mercedes. The crew followed in a Channel 5 van. Hopkins rode in the back, watching the other two men in front. He not only felt physically in the back seat, but mentally subdued in the rear of what was going on.
He tried to start a conversation, which was lacking in the front. “This is really a coincidence, Joe. I’m sorry I haven’t told you the names. I just never in my wildest dreams thought of such a thing.”
“It’s not your fault, Rick. You could have mentioned the name and I just spaced it off. I’m like you. I wasn’t connecting anything that happened with my job or knowing anybody. I’m not personal friends with the Worthys, I just work there. We’ve talked a lot and they have been very easy to work for. It’s just a shock.”
“We believe you, Joe,” said Davis Wilson. “You should have seen your face.”
Rick interrupted. “Had you ever met their son, Jeff?”
“No. Mrs. Worthy told me about him, but I never met him.”
“Were they expecting him home that night?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why is that?”
“She had mentioned he was on call and probably wouldn’t be there for a few days.”
“Anything else?”
“Just that she hoped I could meet him before he left.”
Joe, feeling his role, turned to look at Hopkins. He shook his head in amazement. Hopkins nodded his head in confirmation.
“It’s really ironic.”
The ride from the television station to the Worthy’s house took about twenty minutes. The station was located near the local airport just outside of town, and the Worthy’s house was across town. The conversation took on a lighter tone for the remainder of the drive. As they approached the house, Rick Hopkins expressed his appreciation for Wilson’s car.
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