Keeper

by Michael Garrett

  Liquor could really fuck you up sometimes.

  The shed was shaped like a crude quonset hut with two large front doors that opened outwardly to allow for the movement of bulky objects inside. Parked adjacent to the unsightly garage was a run-down wrecker, and the smell of gasoline and motor oil floated through the air. Zeke Allen keyed the padlock and snapped it open, then pulled the wobbling, rattling doors out and to the side.

  “She’s right here where we left her,” Zeke drawled through a wad of tobacco. “Sheriff said to keep her under lock and key, and that’s exactly what I done.”

  Deputy Donald Hart peered into the murky darkness inside. A musty odor hung in the air and particles of dust floated through sunbeams that seeped through cracks in the side walls. An assortment of automobile parts lay scattered along the edge of the earthen floor, but more importantly, at the center of the room rested the battered remains of the Barnetts’ ‘63 Ford Falcon.

  “Sorry to mess up your Sunday afternoon like this, Zeke,” Hart apologized. “But the sheriff thought I should go over this thing one more time to be sure we didn’t miss anything.”

  “Aw, that’s all right, Don,” Zeke said. “You and me go ‘way back—you know I’ll do anything to help.”

  Hart paced around the car, rubbing his chin in thought. “Nobody’s touched it?” he asked.

  “Hell, no—I got strict orders from the sheriff about that. But lots of folks come around to take a look. I let some of ‘em peep in through the window. Was that okay, Don? Didn’t see no harm in it at the time.”

  The deputy grinned, knowing Zeke all too well. The old fart probably charged fifty cents per peek. “Nothing wrong with that,” Hart answered. “Nothin’ at all.” Zeke had yet to leave his side.

  Hart cleared his throat and faced Zeke. “Now, what we got here,” he began, “is a confidential police investigation. Has to be done in complete privacy. Understand?”

  “Sure, I get the message,” Zeke said as he backed away. “Guess I’ll just get on back to the house. Watch the ball game. You’ll lock up for me, won’t you, Don?”

  “Sure, sure,” Hart said, escorting Zeke outside. “Thanks again for the use of your garage. And I appreciate you comin’ down here with me this evening.”

  As soon as Zeke was out of sight, Hart returned to the car. To hell with tromping down that muddy creek to find real evidence. Probably nothin’ there anyway. But right here, in this shed, was a veritable gold mine of hard proof. All he had to do was find something the sheriff had missed on his visual inspection. Thank goodness, the vehicle hadn’t been stripped and inventoried yet.

  Both doors of the Falcon stood slightly ajar, having been warped and rendered virtually inoperable by the accident. Hart pulled the passenger door open and leaned inside to rummage through the glove compartment. The smell was awful, but the contents were the same as before—tire pressure gauge, soggy road maps, unused straws from McDonald’s. It was all there, but nothing that could be specifically linked to the car or, better yet, the girl. And, besides, the nigger-lovin’ sheriff had seen all this stuff, and might remember if a particular item turned up missing.

  A dried layer of mud blanketed the interior. Bending to inspect the area beneath the front seat, Hart could tell that any loose contents had likely been swept away by the swift current. Abruptly the unbalanced passenger door swung shut, startling Hart and depositing a sprinkle of powered mud on his trousers.

  “Shit!” he cursed, and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The car stank and seemed to taunt him, almost as if it was saying, “You won’t find anything here, Mr. Unscrupulous Lawman. My secrets are safe".

  Got to hurry up, before the sheriff stops by.

  Backing away from the vehicle, Hart stretched and regarded the wreckage again from afar. There had to be something he could use within this piece of junk. There just had to be.

  Should I try the trunk? he wondered. Hell, it might not even open, and he couldn’t afford to break into it. Curiously, he peeked inside the steering column. A key chain still dangled from the ignition. What the hell—I’ll give it a try, he thought. I’ll just have to be careful not to force it.

  Hart pulled the passenger door open and again leaned inside, supporting himself as he leaned across with his left hand anchored in the crack-ridden mud of the front seat. As he reached for the keys, several loose strands of pine straw tumbled into the small opening where the lower seat adjoined the upper half. He pressed harder on the seat and peered into the opening at its back. Soggy chewing gum wrappers appeared. A wicked smile crept across Hart’s face. If anything had fallen from the woman’s purse or the man’s pocket, it could still be hidden in this back section of the seat. Using both hands for more pressure, he pushed the cushioned upholstery harder and found a comb, two quarters and a penny. Interesting. Carefully, he worked both hands further along the seat until his heart almost sank at the sight of a small object. Jewelry. A gold-plated band of some kind. With his right hand he twisted the metal strip free and backed away toward the garage door for better light.

  Oh, this is perfect, he thought. Absolutely perfect! He rolled the tiny bracelet in his palm, noting the corrosion that marred the band in several places. Wetting his thumb with saliva, he wiped away a film of mud and grime from a front flat section and held his breath. An engraved heart appeared, and inside its borders were the initials “N.S.B."—Nancy Sue Barnett.

  “Whooo-eeee!” he whooped. Nothing he found could have been better than this! Pacing about with nervous excitement, he pocketed the bracelet and closed and locked the garage doors. Now to clean this little jewel, he thought, and get it inside the nigger’s house. Hot damn!

  Sheriff Arnold smiled through the screened order window of the local Burger Shake restaurant. Inside young Trudy Kates was busily preparing his usual hamburger, French fries and chocolate shake. Trudy’s long auburn hair hung loosely over a white smock that disguised her shapely figure.

  “I swear, Miss Trudy,” the sheriff drawled. “You look prettier every time I see you. When are you gonna get yourself a husband?”

  Trudy blushed and flashed her long eyelashes nervously. She knew it was true—she was more attractive now than when she was named Senior Beauty three years earlier. Still she remained outwardly modest.

  “Oh, sheriff, that’s sweet of you,” she said as she pushed the lawman’s lunch through the sliding door of the countertop. “Maybe someday I’ll surprise you.”

  “The only thing that surprises me is that some fellow hasn’t snagged you already,” the sheriff chuckled.

  “Have a nice day, sheriff,” Trudy called as he carried his meal to a shaded redwood picnic table.

  The town appeared peaceful today, as were most Sundays. Harry Wilson, son of the local dentist, circled the Burger Shake parking lot in his metallic blue GTO, its chrome wheels glistening in the sun. Two weeks earlier the sheriff had been lenient with the boy, ticketing him only for speeding, when an arrest for reckless driving had probably been more appropriate. Maybe it had done the boy some good. Embarrassedly, Harry spotted the sheriff, dropped his speed considerably and waved, his face visibly red even from the sheriffs vantage point.

  Oh, hell, thought the sheriff, returning to his meal. Life goes on.

  As he’d been tied up with Jeb Stevens, President of Arbor Construction Company, the sheriff was famished and his late lunch was revitalizing. Munching on French fries, he maintained a steady vigil of the passing traffic, nodding hello to one and all, as almost every car was familiar to him.

  Stevens had been evasive about his company’s safety precautions at the construction site. The accident had struck a public nerve, and a criminal negligence suit appeared likely. Under the advice of an attorney, he refused to discuss the tragedy and informed the sheriff that, not until a court order was received, would his company’s personnel records be available for inspection. The sheriff tried in every way to “smooth-talk” the nervous executive, but to no avail. Even now, though, the lawman k
new his efforts with Stevens had been only half-hearted. The “foul play” aspect of the Kelley Creek accident was a long shot, lacking in substance.

  Returning to his meal, the sheriff finished off the burger and fries, slurped the milkshake dry, then tossed the paper refuse into a nearby garbage bin. He stood, took a deep breath, and stretched. Possibly he could catch Preacher Mason at home about now. Preacher might still shed some light on the subject. But as he slid behind the wheel of his car, a confusing thought occurred to him: The woman’s shoe and the flashlight had been found on the opposite shore from the purse. The car had plunged into the creek from the east, and the purse had also been found on the eastern side. But the shoe, which matched another found inside the car, was discovered on the western shore. Would an alleged abductor have forced her to remove her shoes and leave them inside the car? No, she must have been inside the car when it entered the water. Assuming that to be the case, a sex crime should logically be ruled out. The purse and shoe could have been swept from the vehicle and drifted to opposite shores. That was possible. A closed patent leather purse with air trapped inside could float indefinitely. More and more this explanation seemed to fit. Someone had merely found the purse and ransacked it. But the shoe, on the other hand, could hardly have floated. True, the current was strong enough to deposit the shoe practically anywhere. But logically—would such an object lacking in buoyancy likely to have been found in such close proximity to the accident site? It seemed more probable that the shoe would be carried further downstream, if indeed, it ever surfaced at all. It just didn’t make much sense. But then again, what if the woman had escaped the car and made it to the shore while still wearing one shoe? The passenger window had definitely been rolled down, and the woman was missing. But that was silly—of course she hadn’t made it to shore—she would’ve turned up by now.

  Sheriff Arnold shrugged. If there had been foul play, it had taken place against all probabilities. He felt annoyed at himself for having pursued it seriously in the first place. But law enforcement had to work that way. Every theory must be investigated and put to the test. And a case could unwind through several blind alleys before the truth was finally known.

  Twisting the key in the ignition, the sheriff raced the engine and watched a cloud of exhaust smoke rise through the rear view mirror. Trudy waved goodbye from behind the plate-glass window and Sheriff Arnold grinned. Chester, you dirty ol’ man, he thought. You shouldn’t be thinkin’ such things about Miss Trudy.

  Assembling a splint around Nancy’s injured leg had been easier than he’d expected. With the help of the first-aid book, Wayne’s childhood Boy Scout training had come back to him quickly.

  He relaxed a moment to examine his work. Fabric strips held the thin wooden slat firmly against her leg—tight, but not excessively so. Next he would assemble a sling for her shoulder.

  “Does that feel all right?” he asked.

  She nodded, her eyes unblinking and finally empty of tears. Upon his return from the library, she hadn’t appeared as upset as he might have expected. She seemed to be accepting the situation more. Or had she simply given up?

  Wayne breathed a sigh of relief. The book described in detail the symptoms and proper treatment of shock. At first he was frightened, reading that during the late stages of shock, a victim would appear apathetic, unresponsive, vacant—just as she had been this very morning. But somehow, perhaps by the grace of God, she had come out of it. Unknowingly, he had treated her condition properly. It was with satisfaction, he read that the prescribed treatment for exposure was the removal of wet clothing. Likewise, the removal of restrictive undergarments improved blood circulation, a necessary procedure for shock victims. He had kept her warm, given her orange juice and plenty of rest—all of which had brought her through. But he had been lucky, so very, very lucky. Had her condition worsened only slightly, she might not have lived through the first night. Shock, he’d read, can be fatal when left untreated.

  She smiled again as he gently placed a blanket over her lower body. He massaged her temples lightly and stroked her silky hair. She’s beginning to trust me, he thought. She’s an angel.

  And she’s mine.

  10

  A line of rowboats parted the calm waters of Kelley Creek as dragging operations continued. Hurriedly, Deputy Hart paced along the path to the water’s edge, hoping his absence had gone unnoticed. As he had been placed in charge of the search efforts, Hart had been nervous about leaving long enough to rummage through the mangled car. But now, he could relax. Reflecting on the discovery of the bracelet, Hart smiled and waved at Ned Peters who was reeling in a grappling hook at midstream. Everything was falling into place.

  “Any luck, Ned?” Hart yelled.

  “Hell, no,” answered Peters with a tone of disgust. “Pulled in a couple of dead dogs—that’s about it.”

  Hart stepped between two boulders at the shoreline for a better view. “Got any ideas?” he yelled.

  “Sure, I got ideas,” Peters growled. “Ain’t gonna find nothin’ here. Ought to be further downstream.”

  Hart nodded in silent agreement. If the body had been in this general vicinity, it should have been found by now. “Stay with it awhile longer,” he yelled. “Youngblood has a team a mile or so downstream.”

  “Youngblood?” laughed Peters. “That bastard needs a map to find his own asshole!”

  The scattered laughter of nearby rescue workers carried faintly across the stream, for Ned’s good-natured humor was a welcomed relief.

  “Get out of here!” Hart gibed, with an obscene gesture to his buddy. It was time to hike downstream and check on Youngblood, and as Hart turned away, Ned’s voice trailing behind him, “Hey, fellas—ol’ Deputy Don is sure enough worried now. He’s headed for the bushes to find his own asshole!” An accompanying roar of laughter slowly faded.

  Ned Peters is a real character, thought Hart. Cheerful son-of-a-bitch, that’s for sure.

  Just ahead lay the favorite swimming hole of the local boys. A long section of steel cable hung from an overhanging oak tree and gently swayed with the breeze. In the summer this place would be packed with screaming teenagers, drinking and carrying on. Wouldn’t it be funny, Hart thought, if the woman’s body were never found, and one hot summer’s day some smart-ass kid dropped from that steel cable right on top of her rotted corpse? Hell, that would be one hell of a sight to—

  From a short distance downstream came a frantic yell. Shielding the sun from his eyes, Hart gazed ahead—young Reggie Martin was racing breathlessly toward him.

  “Deputy!” the boy yelled again.

  “Right here, son,” Hart answered.

  The boy bounded forward, picking up speed as he huffed for air, his face red with exhaustion, his feet slapping rapidly against the packed soil of the shoreline. Finally Reggie reached Hart and collapsed against a nearby tree to catch his breath.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Hart asked. “Did Youngblood send you?”

  “Yessir,” panted the boy. “Mr. Youngblood said for me to find you quick.” Reggie hesitated for a deep breath, then continued. “They found her, Deputy. They found the dead lady.”

  Nancy lay awake in the bedroom, listening to the dull clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen where Wayne was doing the dishes. The surges of pain had finally faded, only to be replaced by an irritating soreness and she now felt as if her normal thought processes were returning. But there were so many details. And it was difficult to discern recent memories from what might have been only vivid hallucinations.

  Nancy closed her eyes, breathed steadily, and tried to concentrate on one fact at a time. First, her current physical condition. Without question, she had been injured. But what had been the source of her injury? Was it the result of a beating from Wayne? Or had she actually been an accident victim? While Wayne had roughed her up in their earlier altercations, she could not recall him inflicting brutality on her in any form or fashion. On the other hand, sketchy images of an automobile accid
ent flirted with her consciousness. Obviously, there had been a mishap—that realization had occurred to her earlier, she suddenly remembered. But she had never come to a firm conclusion as to whether or not Wayne had orchestrated the whole thing.

  The news report on television had omitted any hint or suspicion of foul play. But, of course, if the whole thing had been carefully planned and executed, the authorities could have been easily fooled.

  Or had the TV news been part of an elaborate dream? God, it was so confusing! Tears trickled from Nancy’s closed eyes. She wished she could open them and find everything back to normal. Even the problems with Charlie had been easier to deal with than this unending frustration of not knowing what had happened in her life over a period of … days? She had lost all concept of time.

  Wayne was humming as he worked in the kitchen. He seemed such a kind and gentle man, and yet, his behavior was unpredictable. Where and how he had entered her life remained a mystery. And even though he had bound and gagged her … once? Twice? It was difficult to imagine Wayne doing harm to her. But there were the unexplained photographs—or had they also been unreal?

  Nancy raised her right hand to her forehead, the soreness of her arm irritated by the movement, and slowly massaged her temples—this intense concentration was giving her a headache and she had irritated her sore arm by moving it. Perhaps she should try to go to sleep.

  But, no. All these things must be sorted out in her mind. It was vital that she understand her situation, so she would know how to react to Wayne.

  Was Charlie really dead? It seemed more and more likely. But she couldn’t worry about that right now. Her own safety was at stake and she decided not to dwell on any thoughts that might distract her from her current situation. It was sad to think that Charlie might have been killed—but, no, she wouldn’t entertain those thoughts at all. And any consideration that Wayne could have murdered Charlie, well, that was preposterous. Despite what little she knew of her captor, she felt confident he wasn’t capable of murder.