Bubba and the Missing Woman

by Bevill, C. L.

  “Howell Le Beau,” Bubba said simply.

  “Can’t talk about him,” Neely said immediately. Her cheerful face closed off.

  Bubba frowned. “Have the police called about him already?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from the police,” Neely replied after a moment of thought.

  “Do you know Howell Le Beau?”

  “I cannot confirm or deny that,” Neely barked.

  Bubba puzzled over the answer. It wasn’t exactly what he was expecting to hear.

  The PSS turned to them after nudging the Wandering Jew plant into a patch of sunlight. “My superhero senses determine that the social worker knows more than she’s letting on.”

  “Has he made any threats of suicide?” Neely asked about The PSS.

  “Have you?” Bubba asked The PSS.

  “Superheroes don’t commit suicide,” The PSS professed. “Unless we’re sacrificing ourselves for the good of human kind. And that’s kind of a rarity. It usually involves saving the woman we love or the universe from catastrophic disaster. That sort of thing.”

  “Howell Le Beau,” Bubba repeated, trying to get back on point.

  “I cannot divulge information about Mr. Le Beau,” Neely said firmly.

  “You have an outpatient clinic here,” The PSS said thoughtfully. “I notice the building goes back significantly, leading me to believe that there is a substantial amount of working space. Is the church licensed for inpatient clinical work, as well?”

  Neely frowned. “We have a small inpatient clinic for special-needs patients. Mostly they’re drying out from substance abuse. We have two psychiatrists on staff and a clinical psychologist.”

  The PSS nodded firmly. “She can’t talk about Le Beau because he’s a patient here,” he said astutely.

  Neely’s mouth opened and then snapped shut.

  Wow. The PSS is better than truth serum, Bubba thought. But then he immediately glowered. It wasn’t as though Bubba was getting the information that he wanted.

  “But client/therapist privileges of confidentiality are somewhat obscured when it comes to psychotherapists who are not licensed,” The PSS went on. “And unlicensed social workers,” he added perceptively.

  Bubba glanced at David. Is David the psychotherapist back?

  “I’m almost licensed,” Neely protested. “And I’m not practicing right now.”

  “Knowledge of mental health laws aids in the business of being a superhero,” The PSS added smugly to Bubba.

  “Le Beau is a patient at your clinic?” Bubba asked. A sinking feeling began at his chest and was pushing all of his intestines into the ground. “How long?”

  Neely bit her lip. She was trying to think how she was supposed to handle this.

  “A social worker can reveal the length of treatment for an individual,” The PSS said gently. “There’s no violation in protocol if you’re not revealing why the individual is being treated.”

  “He’s been in treatment for several months now,” Neely said reluctantly. “I’d have to check the dates, but there’s no question of his commitment to the course of treatment.”

  “Outpatient treatment,” The PSS stated. “How long in inpatient treatment?”

  “Since last week.”

  “Because he lost his place to live?” Bubba asked mildly.

  “How do you- ” Neely started to ask and then cut herself off. “That’s part of it,” she added.

  “Do you know what day Le Beau came in?” Bubba insisted in a moderate tone. “It’s very important.”

  “It’s a matter of life or death,” The PSS supplemented.

  “Whose life?” Neely asked quickly.

  “There’s a woman missing,” Bubba said. “The woman that Le Beau was convicted of stalking.”

  “Knowledge of threats against individuals is part of a therapist’s obligation to divulge to the potential victim or the rightful authorities. In specific situations, clinicians are compelled to breach confidentiality in order to protect. The case that brought this to light was Tarasoff Versus Regents of the University of California.” The PSS paused to allow Neely to grasp the information. “The young woman was murdered by a man under therapeutic treatment who had made explicit threats against her person.”

  Neely goggled at The PSS.

  The PSS glanced at Bubba. “More useful information to use in my superhero capacity.” He meaningfully tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “Knowledge is power.”

  “Howell’s trying to work past that,” Neely protested indignantly. “And he was inpatient here a full day before that sheriff’s deputy disappeared. They’ve got checks every hour, and he certainly was present the entire time so- oh, crap.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that,” she mumbled through her hand.

  Bubba’s heart dropped. If Neely was correct, and he had every reason to think that she was being honest in her indignation, then Howell Le Beau had nothing to do with Willodean’s disappearance.

  Someone else was involved, and Bubba didn’t have a clue as to who the person was.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bubba Hits a Brick Wall, The PSS Blows Chunks Again, and

  Then Some Other Stuff Happens

  Thursday, January 5th

  In the parking lot, Bubba’s legs collapsed like rubber. He’d managed to herd The PSS and himself out of the First Unity Fellowship Mental Health Outreach clinic before the social worker called the police on them. Neely Smith abruptly realized that the obscure pair wasn’t Joe Friday and Bill Gannon. Neither were they Perry Mason and Paul Drake. They might have been a bizarre Abbott and Costello, but all bets were off.

  Bubba sank onto a grass median and put his head down.

  The PSS stopped near him and didn’t say anything. Finally, he touched Bubba’s shoulder and murmured, “It’s a good thing. We found the stalker. That’s good, right?”

  Bubba let out a dismayed breath. “It’s good, but it ain’t good.”

  The PSS sat down beside Bubba and spent a moment adjusting his purple mask. “It’s cold today,” he commented. “Wonder if I can find a purple coat that’s suitable?”

  Bubba wasn’t aware of the temperature at the moment. But once The PSS has said something about it, all Bubba could wonder was, Is Willodean cold right now? Does she have a jacket?

  Then self-flagellation came like a lightning bolt out of the sky during the spring. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. It’s not Le Beau, at all. He sent the letters, but he’s practically as good as gold as to be excluded. If not Le Beau, then who? How many days has she been out there? How many days before a small woman like that dies of dehydration?

  “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered.

  “Why isn’t it good?” The PSS enquired politely.

  “Willodean went missing on Thursday, December 29th,” Bubba said brokenly. “Le Beau was here then. No chance of mistakes, ifin that gal, Neely, is correct. I don’t believe she’s incorrect, but I’ll tell that police investigator about Le Beau all the same. Christ, Le Beau probably mailed his letters from here.”

  The letter that Bubba had read popped into his head. Le Beau had written to Willodean, “I’m watching out for you. I hope for forgiveness.” Bubba had put the worst possible connotation on the words, but it was imaginable that Le Beau had been doing exactly what Guillermo Sanchez and Neely Smith said he was doing. He was trying to rehabilitate himself.

  Are the letters a way of saying sorry?

  But the letters really didn’t matter anymore if Le Beau had been at the inpatient program when Willodean vanished. Bubba clenched his large hands into fists and wished that he could break something.

  No, I don’t want to break something. I want to break someone. The someone who had snatched Willodean away from the rest of the world.

  “We could go back inside and ask to speak with Le Beau,” The PSS suggested. “Just to be certain.”

  “They ain’t gonna let us,” Bubba said, “and it might be a bigger waste of time tha
n what I’ve already done wasted.”

  “You’ve done what you could do,” The PSS said positively. “It’s been a good effort.”

  Bubba didn’t know how to respond to the man that was clearly certifiable. Voluntary commitment? Really? No, really?

  “The police will have to confirm the man’s whereabouts,” The PSS commented. “But there must be other suspects.”

  “Some person who wanted to do something against Willodean,” Bubba said slowly. “Maybe a random fella who thought she looked perty.” The latter conjecture made his guts twist into tight knots of despair. A random individual would be next to impossible to trace. Ten years from now, the random individual might get apprehended in another crime where DNA evidence was extensive. In order to get out of the death penalty, someone might confess to Willodean’s abduction and murder and say he threw her body in a river of which he couldn’t quite recall the name or location.

  “Indiscriminate kidnappings are extraordinarily rare despite extensive media exposure.” The PSS thought about it. “And kidnapping police officers is even rarer.”

  “But they do happen,” Bubba snarled.

  “Mostly, abductions are committed by family members or people known to the victim,” The PSS continued, a note of seriousness in his voice reaching out to Bubba.

  That note of please-pay-attention-to-me made Bubba’s head snap up. “What do you know, David?”

  The PSS looked at the sky. “Looks like it might snow today. I hate the snow. It zaps my superhero strength. Can we go back to Walmart for a jacket? I think I saw a purple one in the women’s section. It had fake fur around the neck. It also had Tinker Bell on it.”

  “David, you tried to warn me about Nancy,” Bubba said. “I’m right sorry I didn’t see it. You and Jesus Christ and Thelda. All three of you tried in your own way. I didn’t see it or listen to it on account that you’re, well, crazy. But I’m listening now.”

  “I’m not crazy,” The PSS asserted forcefully. He put his hands on his waist and puffed out his chest, which was difficult considering he was still seated. “I’m a superhero.”

  Bubba looked away to keep himself from saying something that he would later regret. He saw the security guard coming around the corner of the building, accompanied by three other security guards. He jumped to his feet and motioned at The PSS. “Come on, David. I cain’t go to jail again. They won’t let me out of county for the next thirty days ifin I show my face to the judge here again.”

  “I like judges,” The PSS said as he got to his feet and followed Bubba. “Judges like superheroes.”

  Bubba put his hands in the air and called to the security guards, “We’re leaving.”

  The guards paused and watched them as they crossed over the parking lot to the old Chevy truck and clambered inside. Precious glared at the guards from the open window. She had scrambled over The PSS’s lap to get to the window so that she could show them her utter disregard.

  They got back on the interstate and headed into downtown Dallas. Bubba didn’t have a plan to keep him focused any longer. All he had was bits and pieces of what-the-hell-am-I-doing. He had a Basset hound who enjoyed nipping first and asking questions later. His truck was on the edge of implosion because it was nearly a sexagenarian and there weren’t enough stock parts in the world to make it run exactly right. His mother ran an illegal poker game when someone wasn’t trying to murder her for perceived past offenses. He hadn’t gotten beat up lately, but that was probably because he hadn’t been standing still. No one had come digging holes on the Snoddy Estate for possibly a week or more because they were all thinking that murderers were gathering en masse, and it might not be safe with a shovel there.

  And finally, Bubba had a loony riding shotgun.

  Nothing made sense.

  “David,” Bubba said again. “Tell me what you know about Willodean’s disappearance.”

  “My superhero powers have detected nothing of the deputy’s mysterious vanishing,” The PSS intoned solemnly.

  “You said abductions are by folks who know the person and who are close to them,” Bubba said. He narrowly avoided a Ford Pinto and received a single-fingered salute from a woman wearing a ten-gallon hat driving a Toyota Tacoma.

  “People who are known to the victim,” The PSS corrected.

  “You’re saying Willodean got kidnapped by someone known to her,” Bubba phrased.

  “Oh my, I think I need another Dramamine,” The PSS said faintly as Bubba’s truck lurched into another lane.

  “Did Nancy Musgrave say anything about kidnapping Willodean Gray?” Bubba demanded.

  “No,” The PSS said firmly. “Nancy Musgrave did not say anything about kidnapping Willodean Gray.”

  Bubba thought about it. That sounded as if David was trying to tell the truth but not the whole truth. “Did Nancy Musgrave say anything about killing Willodean Gray?”

  “Oh great balls of fire, no,” The PSS said scathingly. “She wanted to kill Miz Demetrice. She wanted to kill the sheriff. She wanted to kill you, but that was later on. She wanted to kill her ex-husband, but that wasn’t related to the Christmas list of killings. Her ex-husband had some issues about strippers that were very fascinating to hear about. She wanted to kill her mother for naming her LaNell Nancy Roquemore. She thought about killing her manicurist, but that was a joke, I think. Can you not swerve so much, Bubba?”

  “Did Nancy even talk about Willodean?”

  “No. I’m pretty sure about that, but that was while I was in one of my alter egos, and Nancy was able to subdue me with psychotropic medications.” The PSS smiled grimly. “They wouldn’t work now.” He considered. “But possibly Dramamine has an effect on me that other human medications don’t.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Like kryptonite on Superman, except it doesn’t weaken me. It saves me from puking on your dog.”

  Precious whined and inched closer to Bubba on the bench seat.

  Bubba slowed down. It was the way that The PSS had answered the question about whether Nancy had wanted to kidnap Willodean. He’d said, “No. Nancy Musgrave did not say anything about kidnapping Willodean Gray.” If there had been a little emphasis on the words, “Willodean Gray,” then the statement would mean something very different. “Did Nancy ever talk about kidnapping anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  Bubba glanced at The PSS. He was busy hanging his head out the half-open window. The wind was whipping the tail of his scarf around. Several people riding in a yellow Chevy Camaro were goggling at him. One even had his iPhone out and was taking a picture of The PSS.

  “Who?” Bubba insisted.

  But The PSS immediately vomited out the window. The Camaro instantly veered. Two other cars swerved in reaction. Bubba sighed as he heard horns honking and squealing brakes from behind him.

  •

  By the time they reached the bedraggled hotel, The PSS was equally bedraggled. Another trip to Walmart had involved getting replacement clothing for The PSS so he could change and they could wash the vomit covered ones. Bubba had spent the time at the Laundromat cleaning out the passenger-side of the interior of the truck.

  Precious had spent the time rollicking with a beagle who had clearly escaped the confines of a local yard. The beagle fled when a middle-aged woman carrying a leash approached calling, “Here, Socrates. Here, boy. I’ve got treats.”

  The PSS laid on the floor of the Laundromat recovering from motion sickness. He answered Bubba’s insistent questions with aggrieved moans of misery. The other customers of the Laundromat had congregated on the far side of the store while trying to ignore the man in the purple mask rolling around on the floor.

  Two hours after their impudent visit at the First Unity Fellowship Mental Outreach, they returned to the hotel. The PSS was feeling better enough to suggest dinner. “Buffalo chicken wings,” The PSS said loudly, “with ranch dip. Possibly greasy fries.”

  Bubba was about to demand The PSS tell him who Nancy had talked about kidnapping, when two other
noteworthy things happened. He pulled into a parking place that wasn’t far from the front stoop of the dilapidated hotel, and a small figure stepped off the bottom step.

  Janie stood on the sidewalk, gazing at them with impunity. She wore a little “DPD” t-shirt and jeans with Twinkle Toe shoes peeping out. She also had a jacket that looked too light for the diminishing temperature. She stared at them expectantly, and Bubba knew she had been waiting for them to arrive. Bubba looked around but didn’t see anyone nearby even remotely resembling a mother figure.

  “Look, it’s that little girl who knows about purple straightjackets,” The PSS exclaimed cheerfully. “I like smart little children.” He frowned. “Except Brownie. That kid’s going to kill someone. Or maybe grow up to be President.” He turned to Bubba. “Did you see him on the news the other morning? There’s nothing like a good tasering to a national news figure to make institutional patients laugh like loons.” He paused again. “That wasn’t a pun.”

  Bubba got out of the truck and let Precious out. The Basset hound bounded over to Janie and licked her hand. The dog had been stuck with two increasingly melancholy humans and desperately needed tactile reassurance. Janie made a cooing noise and was happy to comply.

  The PSS followed and put his new purple jacket on with exaggerated flair. He adjusted the fake-fur collar and his eyes perused the area for local super villains about to strike. Instead he found people on their way home from blue-collar jobs and on their way to anywhere else and anywhere in-between.

  “Janie,” Bubba said as he came around the truck, “what are you doing here? This ain’t the best of areas for a kid. And where’s your mama? Or your granny? Or maybe a SWAT team?”

  “I caught a ride with one of the patrolmen who came down to look for Auntie Wills,” Janie said peremptorily. “He dropped me off at the house. Although Dad’s undercover in Fort Worth, we’ve got all kinds of other family at home. My dad’s sister, Alexa, and her kids, Dakota and Austin. Granny Redgrave, that’s my dad’s mother, is there, but she was drinking Muscatine wine. So I slipped out and caught the DART.” The look she shot him said, “Duh, what else would I do?”