Smiley

by Ezell, Michael

  Smiley

  By

  Michael Ezell

  Cover design by Valdas Miskinis.

  © 2017 Michael Ezell. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission. This novel is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Thanks to the wife-with-endless-patience. April, I love you for putting up with so much more than the time I spent in the writing cave.

  Thanks to Christopher J. Valin and Steve Barr, who along with a missing quarter of our group made me a better writer. (Chris gets 2x the Thanks for helping me format this book!)

  Thanks to the Two Dans, who each enriched my life in different ways. Daniel Fraembs and Danny Grossman. The world is a lesser place without them.

  Table of Contents

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  Evil is unspectacular and always human, and shares our bed and eats at our own table.

  - W. H. Auden

  1

  West Virginia Route 45 - Midnight

  Unaware she was experiencing the last few moments of freedom she would ever know, Taylor stuck both middle fingers in the air.

  “You fat asshole!” The cold air burned her throat, but it was worth it to scream her rage at the sonuvabitch truck driver. Not that he heard it. The eighteen-wheeler’s taillights were already a good quarter mile away, headed back toward the highway onramp.

  Needles of freezing rain hissed against the frozen black pavement and made a dull drumming sound on the hood of her parka. Taylor had screwed seven truckers to get the money for the puffy Gore-Tex coat. It made her look like a bright blue teddy bear.

  This last asshole had waited till he drove her up here to the rest area, and then tried to talk her back on her price. Screw him. She’d rather walk the mile back to the truck stop than let his flabby ass wallow around between her legs for a lousy twenty bucks.

  She started back down the access road to Burton’s Truck Stop. Not all her goose bumps came from the cold. This time of night, she knew there wouldn’t be much traffic. Just her, the empty dark highway, and the black woods out to her left for the next mile. She flinched when some freaky bird let out a high-pitched cry among the tall trees. Wide wings beat the air once, twice... then nothing. Taylor noticed she’d stopped walking.

  She set off again at a jaunty pace, following the highway boundary line down the mountain, the clack-clack-clack of her high-heeled boots as good as whistling past the graveyard.

  Something out there in the still woods went pfffap!

  When the silver dart hit her in the thigh, Taylor let out a little shriek. She blinked at it, trying to comprehend how it came to be there. Her brain told her to snatch the shiny thing out of her leg, but... her arm seemed to move in slow motion. Her fingertips brushed the dart and she fell face down in a snow bank the plow had piled beside the road.

  It was like being smothered with a frozen pillow. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She felt panic rising in her throat— Panic turned to sweet relief when someone rolled her over. The relief lasted a few fleeting heartbeats.

  The burning hatred in the man’s pale blue eyes made Taylor wish she had suffocated in a downy bank of snow. And it wouldn’t be the last time she wished that wish upon a star.

  ***

  “Michelle is dead and buried in California and there is nothing I can do about it.”

  Garrett Evans knew one day he wouldn’t need to say his mantra before he got out of bed. Today wasn’t that day.

  It took him exactly twenty-five minutes to get out the door with a travel mug of coffee. He took his time driving to the office. Nothing pressing. Not today, not yesterday. Hopefully, not ever. The quiet had drawn him back here more than anything.

  Artemis, West Virginia was about as rambunctious as an Amish funeral. Red brick storefronts that hadn’t changed since voters liked Ike, quiet streets with American flags hanging from the eaves of most houses, rundown farms that didn’t produce much more than tumbleweeds and eviction notices these days.

  Not exactly a one-horse town at around nineteen hundred residents, but in the early morning quiet like this, you could almost believe you were in an abandoned outpost in some zombie movie. It definitely made for a different commute than sitting bumper to bumper in the filthy morning air of Los Angeles, headed into Rampart for another day of dealing with gangsters, dealers, crackheads...

  Just thinking about LA made his chest start to tighten. Leading edge of a panic attack. He took a deep breath through his nose and blew it out through pursed lips.

  “Calm and focused,” he said.

  His therapist didn’t teach him that one. Garrett read it in a book somewhere, and while it didn’t always work, he found saying something aloud helped break a negative chain of thought.

  He parked in front of May’s Diner and got out. He put on his jacket to cover his .45, even though he had his badge on his belt. The city gave him a uniform, but the stars on the collar made him feel like he was doing a bad impression of George C. Scott in “Patton.” His old man had worn the official uniform for the 4th of July parade and funerals. It stayed in the closet otherwise. To Garrett’s knowledge, the only “uniform” Chief Lamar Evans ever wore at work, rain or shine, winter or summer, was a white button-down Western style shirt, a clean pair of jeans, and hiking boots. Garrett’s shirt was blue, but everything else was the same.

  On the way into May’s, he saw Melvin Davis, Earl Hunsacker, and Poor Boy Willis sitting on a bench outside Davis Hardware. (The only business in Artemis older than May’s.) Collectively, the old boys were about 290 years old.

  “Mornin’, boys,” Garrett said.

  “Mornin’, Johnny Law,” Earl answered.

  Earl probably had this same conversation with Garrett’s dad for thirty years.

  “Every time I see you get outta that car, it reminds me of your daddy when he first started here,” Melvin Davis said.

  “Yes, sir,” Garrett said. “People always tell me I’m the spittin’ image.”

  For years, Garrett pretended he didn’t see it. More out of rebellion than anything else. He’d finally grown old enough to admit he had the old man’s square jaw and the tendency to knit his brows in a scowl when he was thinking. But the green eyes and sarcastic wit came from Mom.

  Garrett noticed Poor Boy going out of his way to ignore him. He grinned and said, “Gettin’ pretty dang cold at night. Poor Boy, you might wanna think about shutting down the still for the winter. You break a hip out there, we won’t find you till Spring thaw.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Revenuer,” Poor Boy said.

  The first month after he moved back home and took over his dad’s spot as Chief of Police, Garrett had a long discussion with Poor Boy about the difference between Federal Agents and the local law. It didn’t take. To Poor Boy, anyone with a badge was a “Revenuer,” out to shut down his still.

  Major corporations sold moonshine openly in grocery stores, licensed and all, so Poor Boy had fallen behind the times. Kind of like the town.

  Garrett strolled into the diner and saw a few of the old gray heads he normally saw, making their way through chicken fried steak and eggs, grits and sausage, and May’s specialty, the Allegheny Mountain Omelet. Garrett had never s
een anybody finish one.

  These would be the only customers for most of the day. Everyone ate lunch at the new buffet place out by the highway. Cheaper, wider selection, and to the younger people, not the tired old place their grandparents ate breakfast.

  Misty Heideman placed three disposable aluminum pans on the counter. Her blonde hair already frazzled by the kitchen heat, the young woman gave Garrett a tired smile. “Scrambled eggs, three chicken fried steaks, gravy on the side, and hash browns. Anything else, Chief?”

  There was never anything else. But small town folks have to talk about something, don’t they? “Nope. That’ll do, Misty. How’s Angela?”

  “She’s getting too big for her britches.”

  “We all do sooner or later, don’t we?”

  Garrett paid for the food and over-tipped Misty as usual. Single mothers struggled everywhere. A single mother in Artemis, West Virginia struggled harder than most. They’d long ago gotten past her halfhearted refusal of the tip.

  On his way to the station, the radio crackled with Shirley Rankin’s voice. “Chief, we got a call of a deer down in someone’s front yard out on Fourth Street. Smiley’s already out there.”

  “Sounds like everything’s under control, then. I’m on the way with breakfast.” Garrett hung the mike back on the dash, but he turned around and headed toward Fourth Street. He knew Shirley never called him on the radio without a good reason.

  “Smiley’s asking for you. I’ll warm up the breakfast for the boys after you get here.”

  Garrett grinned and double-clicked the microphone. His way of acknowledging the call. He cut through the parking lot of Sanderson’s Bows ‘N’ Bullets and drove down the alley for two blocks before turning onto Middleton and heading north toward Fourth Street. He smiled, remembering using the alley as an escape route after toilet-papering the house of his first big crush, Mary Schaeffer.

  By the time Garrett made it to Fourth Street, Smiley’s winch had dragged the deer carcass up a wood plank and into the back of a faded white pickup with the County badge on the doors.

  Jebediah “Smiley” Carmichael cut a tall, lean figure in his khaki uniform and shined cowboy boots. Almost like an Old West gunslinger, except for one thing. His quick laugh and infectious smile were legendary around these parts, and had earned him the obvious nickname way back in grade school.

  Smiley wore a Smith and Wesson Model 586 .357 Magnum clipped to his belt in a leather holster older than Garrett. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to carry a piece within city limits. But to Garrett’s knowledge, Smiley had never taken the gun out of its holster. And since Dad always let him carry it, Garrett never said anything about it. Everyone else just assumed because Smiley wore a uniform, it was legal.

  When he didn’t get the trademark goofy smile, Garrett smelled something bad in this. But he’d begun to assume these “gut feelings” were just the PTSD making him instantly wary of every little thing. This time he ignored it.

  Garrett looked at the dead deer in the truck bed and saw the bloody spot over the white belly fur.

  Contrary to his nickname, Smiley looked highly pissed off. He didn’t even say good morning, just started right in. “Somebody who wants to stay anonymous said they saw an old green Dodge pickup parked back along the road last night. And that hole in the belly is from a broad-head. You know what dirty son of a bitch did this, right?”

  “I probably do. And you and I both know we need more evidence than a broad-head hole in a deer’s belly to arrest him,” Garrett said.

  “He still ain’t got any better with his damn bow. Poor thing wandered around gut shot and miserable.” Smiley stroked the deer’s face. The deep lines and fine blue veins on the back of the old-timer’s hand reminded Garrett that Smiley reached retirement age years ago. Probably taking everything personally to hang onto it for a while.

  “Well, I guess at the very least I can go out and talk to him. Maybe put the fear in him,” Garrett said.

  “Wouldn’t do no good. He’d just look you in the eye and lie to you. Whole family’s never been worth a damn, and they always been proud of it,” Smiley said.

  One of the more basic rules of small town life. If your relatives have done something bad, your whole family isn’t worth a damn. Garrett started to make a smartass comment about it, but he got a sideways look at Smiley and thought better of it. He could probably warm his hands in the heat coming out of Smiley’s pale blue eyes right now. You had to work pretty hard to piss off a man who would laugh at a kid’s knock-knock joke so hard he nearly wet himself.

  The more Garrett thought about it, the more he figured, what the hell? He didn’t like Robert Lee Withers much anyway. He’d cheer Smiley up and serve notice to a poaching asshole at the same time.

  “Wouldn’t hurt to talk to old Robert Lee. Maybe it’ll make him settle in for the winter,” Garrett said.

  Smiley shook Garrett’s hand with a strong grip. “Thanks, Garrett. I appreciate that. Your dad would’ve done the same.”

  “Dad probably would’ve driven out there and whooped his ass.”

  At last, a brilliant smile creased Smiley’s weathered face, showing perfect white dentures he’d had since he got his teeth kicked in by a horse as a kid. “They call that police brutality, these days. Prob’ly wind up on the WhoTube, if you ain’t careful.”

  Smiley climbed into his County pickup and Garrett watched him drive away. Some of his earliest memories were of hunting and fishing with his dad and Smiley. In fact, Smiley reminded Garrett of his dad in a lot of ways. Including the angry heat from his eyes.

  ***

  The rutted road leading to Robert Lee Withers’ place beat the hell out of the Crown Vic’s suspension and sloshed eggs and hash browns around in Garrett’s belly. The police special had been engineered for pursuits on streets and highways, not four-wheeling down old country roads. Garrett hoped the ruts would break something vital so the city would finally have to buy a new Chief’s car.

  Tom Poston followed behind him in the city’s newest police car, which had a hundred thousand miles on it. Tom probably wished the same calamity for his car’s suspension.

  On the outermost edge of the actual city limits, the Withers family had long considered themselves beyond the local law. They were farmers at one time, producing hay for the surrounding dairy farms. But somewhere around the mid ‘70s, they gave up on hay and settled on being minor criminals. Moving stolen farm equipment, dealing the occasional pound of weed they grew behind the barn, and poaching anything that would stand still long enough to be shot.

  The wide dirt yard in front of the Withers place doubled as a parking lot for various rusting hulks, an archeological record of the US automotive industry buried under the thick white sediment of winter. Garrett drove around a long dead ‘59 Buick and parked next to a green Dodge pickup. A quick peek into the bed. Garrett saw dried blood and telltale bristly hair that could only belong to a Whitetail deer. Too fresh to be leftover from deer season.

  He hit the thumb snap on his holster, loosened his Colt Commander just a bit. He’d dealt with Robert Lee before and knew he’d be wearing a gun. Perfectly legal on his own property, and Robert Lee had never threatened anyone, but in his time with LAPD Garrett had attended too many cop funerals. He didn’t take chances with anyone.

  “Hey, Tom, just flank out wide of me on the right, okay?”

  A senior patrolman who grew up under Garrett’s dad as Chief, Tom only arched an eyebrow. He didn’t have to ask the question.

  “Just being cautious,” Garrett said.

  Robert Lee had heard them coming from the proverbial mile away, of course. Garrett could see his outline behind the screen door. Waiting there in the dim house, under the shadow of the sagging covered porch.

  “Robert Lee, can you come out and talk to us for a second?”

  “What about?” A drunken slur. Not the best time to talk to Robert Lee, but then, there rarely was a good time.

  “About a deer that wandered onto F
ourth Street and died in somebody’s front yard. Smiley figures somebody shot with a bow, and a witness saw a green Dodge—“

  The screen door slammed open and Garrett’s suspicions were confirmed. Robert Lee had a wide leather belt stretched under his ample belly. A Ruger Redhawk .44 mag sat snug inside the belt on his right hip, no holster. Gun people called it the Mexican Carry.

  “You tell that old son of whore he can stop pointin’ the damn law at my house every time he finds a dead deer! He done the same thing to my old man, harassed him to death, wore his heart right out.”

  Garrett didn’t bring up the fact that old man Withers died of a heart attack climbing into a tree stand. And not during deer season.

  “I think you and I both know Smiley doesn’t have to point me out here. I could probably stretch the blood and hair in your truck into a probation violation. But I don’t want anything like that. I just want you to shut her down for the winter. Maybe think about getting yourself a hunting license like everyone else next Fall, when you get off probation.”

  Robert Lee’s eyes got squinty and his face went red. Spit flew from his lips when he screamed at Garrett. “If you got somethin’ on me, then take me to jail. I don’t like you Garrett Evans, and I ain’t gonna pretend I do. Come back here with college behind ya and think you’re smarter than all us hicks.”

  “Not true at all, Robert Lee. I was born here just like you. And I didn’t finish college, so it really doesn’t count for much.”

  That seemed to dampen the fire in Robert Lee’s belly. He wobbled to the left and had to catch a porch column to stay upright. He opened his mouth to say something, but caught movement to his left. Swaying like a sailor on a rolling deck, he faced Tom Poston.

  “You sneakin’ up on me, Tom?”

  “Nope.” Tom said nothing else. Garrett had trained his guys on Contact and Cover. Right now Garrett was Contact, which meant he did all the talking.

  Garrett showed his empty hands, but kept them close to his waist. “No one’s sneaking up on you, Robert Lee. We drove right to the front yard in the open. We just want to talk, that’s it.”