Keeper

by Michael Garrett

  The sheriff reached for a bottle of aspirin in a bottom desk drawer and trudged to the nearby water cooler. Perhaps it was time for him to retire.

  “We’re leaving, “ Wayne announced as he packed clothing and other personal items into grocery bags. Nancy looked on in bewilderment, trying desperately to understand.

  “What … do you … mean?” she muttered.

  “I mean we’re leaving,” he answered, a blank expression in his eyes. “We’re heading for North Carolina, into the mountains where no one will find us. Where we can live normal lives again.”

  “But Wayne-”

  He wasn’t listening. The cool morning chill rolled inside the open door as he exited to load the automobile. Nancy peeked outside—the trunk was almost full. Clouds of frozen vapor floated from Wayne’s mouth and nose as he stepped quickly through the frigid air between the trailer and the car.

  “But Wayne,” she cried. “I don’t want to go! You can’t do this!”

  He stopped and gazed at her wildly. “Why not?” he said. “It’s the only way, as far as I can see.”

  Nancy grabbed his arm as he reached for another sack of clothing. “Wayne,” she pleaded. “You misunderstood last night. I’ve been under a lot of pressure and—”

  “So have I,” he interrupted. “And we both need a rest.” Carelessly, he jerked away and carried the sack and his guitar outside. He forced the sack into the trunk and slammed its lid shut. Then he placed the guitar in the back seat among books, records, shoes and other assorted paraphernalia. Next he opened the hood and checked the oil.

  Nancy’s mind was racing with panic. What could she do to change his mind?

  Wayne slammed the hood and came back inside. Nancy was huddled in a corner of the bedroom.

  “Wayne?” she sobbed. “This is kidnapping!”

  He stopped beside the bed and regarded her briefly, then sat. “According to you, it’s that already.”

  “But, Wayne, I trust you now—or at least I did.”

  He reached for her, but she wrenched away.

  “It’s all right,” he said calmly. “You don’t have to go. If you really hate the idea, I’ll let you out somewhere along the way.”

  Nancy eyed him with a fixed stare. What had happened to him during such a short span of time?

  “I’ll be away awhile,” he continued. “To the bank, and then to pick up a few supplies. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  “Wayne—“ she pleaded.

  “And that reminds me,” he added. “I’ll get the … the … Kotex … for you when we stop in another town along the way.”

  Collapsing onto the cold tile floor, Nancy realized she had forgotten about her impending period. Either she was pregnant or the stress of recent events had caused a shift in her menstrual cycle. She suspected the latter, since she and Charlie had shared a dismal sex life of late. Desperately, she turned her attention to the task at hand. What would be her best course of action? To attempt another escape, or try to reason with Wayne again?

  He reached for her and helped her to her feet. “I want you to rest while I finish packing,” he said. “We’ll have a long ride ahead of us.”

  Nancy trembled at his touch, but meekly obeyed.

  After suffering through an unusually restless night, James Crocker awakened at sunrise and quietly slipped from the bed without disturbing Edith. He’d tried unsuccessfully during the periods of sleeplessness to discount a growing suspicion that haunted his mind. Still confused, he had decided to investigate. Now he found himself trudging on foot, the frosted grass crunching beneath his shoes as he hiked across the pasture, over the hill to Wayne’s trailer.

  The more he’d thought about it, the more convinced he’d become that the vision of Wayne’s rescue efforts seemed too real to have been only a dream. And since Friday, Wayne had acted strangely. Normally the boy was proud to receive visitors into his home, to show off his handiwork. But on James’ last two visits, his son had aggressively kept him at bay. Never had James seen such forcefulness from the boy. And it had been impossible to reach Wayne by telephone—he’d claimed his line hadn’t been repaired since the ice storm, yet James knew that was a lie—all the neighbors’ service had already been restored.

  James’ growing concern had finally gelled the night before, when a news report suggested that there might have been more to the Barnett deaths than a mere accident. The idea was outlandish, to say the least—but could Wayne be holding the Barnett woman inside his trailer? Noting the increasing numbness in his feet from the frigid earth, James shuddered at the thought. Sure, the prospect was outrageous. But since he’d sobered up and picked his own memory, James would swear on a stack of Bibles that he’d seen Wayne pull that woman out of Kelley Creek. Of that, he was quite certain. But what could Wayne have done with her? And why would he hold her against her will?

  With a growing need for answers, James topped the hill behind Wayne’s trailer. Only the backside of the small mobile home came into view, that and Wayne’s car, parked in its usual spot, but with the trunk suspiciously open. James hid behind a massive oak and watched his son carry personal items from the trailer and load them into the car. Was the boy going somewhere?

  A sickening feeling wrenched James’ guts. God in heaven—why would the boy have reason to flee?

  Easing himself down, James sat on the cold ground at the base of the tree. There was too much to comprehend. He needed a drink in the worst way. But it was liquor that had created the distance between himself and his son before. Perhaps if he hadn’t drank so frequently, hé would have been a better father. The very thought of what Wayne might be involved in was alarming. But Wayne was his own flesh and blood. He’d stand by his son to the very end, if need be.

  Feeling his lips quiver, James rubbed his hands together briskly and watched the trailer. The lights were on inside, as the morning sun was still dim. And as Wayne raised the hood of his car to check the engine, James’ heart leaped—a shadow crossed the curtain inside the trailer. Someone was in Wayne’s living room, possibly the Barnett woman. Something strange was definitely going on down there.

  His suspicions all but confirmed, James began the cold journey back to his own home. He’d wanted to ease closer to the trailer, to learn more, but found the frigid morning air too threatening. Instead, he would go back to the house for warmer clothes and return later in his truck. Perhaps he could stop Wayne before he got into deeper trouble.

  But at first sight of smoke rising from the chimney of his house, James stopped, paralyzed by a horrible thought.

  Perhaps the shadow in Wayne’s trailer belonged to the missing colored boy. And maybe Wayne was in cahoots with the nigger, and had engineered the whole thing.

  Relieved to have escaped Sheriff Arnold’s icy stare, Deputy Donald Hart solemnly steered his squad car through the narrow empty streets of Columbiana en route to Selton. During the morning’s meeting there had been an unmistakable tone of both caution and dislike in the sheriffs voice, whenever he’d addressed him. The asshole’s trying to get rid of me, Hart realized as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. This case has got to blow first, he thought, before the son-of-a-bitch gets a chance to dump me.

  This morning it had been obvious that the sheriff favored Granger and had shifted many of the latter’s menial duties over to him. Granger was an okay guy, rather drab but generally likable. But Hart knew Granger couldn’t match his own ability. Granger was too soft—that was his peer’s major weakness.

  Turning onto Highway 25, the police vehicle headed in a northeasterly direction. Hart’s mind continued to wander as he proceeded to his first call of the day, a nuisance assignment the sheriff had given out of pure spite. Jeb Cramer had complained for days that he wanted to file an official complaint against kids trespassing on his property. The irate farmer had phoned the sheriffs office three times during the past week. Sheriff Arnold had intended to speak to Cramer personally since the two had been acquainted for years, but the sheriff had been si
detracked by the Barnett and Sampson investigations. Hart had met Cramer once before and recognized the man as a loud-mouthed smart aleck. Sheriff Arnold had likely gloated over the opportunity to pit Hart against Cramer.

  Hart grimaced as the highway unrolled before him. Reviewing the list of routine calls the sheriff had given him, he knew there’d be little time for tracking down the fugitives. But then, he’d also realized that the suspects had likely fled the state already. He shrugged and tapped the steering wheel lightly. How could he manage to take credit for these cases? Nothing fresh came to mind, but he knew a solution would come soon. In recent days his run of luck had been unusually smooth. There was no reason for the streak to end now.

  Multi-colored plastic pennants fluttered in the early morning breeze around the Pell City Raceway service station as Wayne guided his Chevy across the air hose that rang a loud bell inside the small office. Jumping out of the car, Wayne reached for the “regular” gas pump, glancing up at the rack of glasses and dishes that had been re-stocked for premium giveaways. Leonard Stokes, Wayne’s boss, stepped quickly from inside the office. He was a tall, skinny man, long-faced and wearing his usual grease-stained baseball cap with the bill turned up.

  “Hold on, hot shot,” Stokes warned Wayne. “You ain’t workin’ here no more. You’re a paying customer now, just like everybody else.”

  Wayne silently relinquished the gas nozzle, then stared at a stack of oil cans as he listened to the rhythmic smack of chewing gum in Stokes’ mouth. Gasoline fumes permeated the air—it was a smell Wayne had gladly forgotten these past few days.

  “Ain’t got no use for undependable boys,” Stokes continued. “Your ass is fired.”

  Wayne grinned at the thin man. “I’m cryin’ my heart out,” he said.

  Stokes glanced through the back window of the Chevy at the pile of personal belongings stacked in the rear seat. “You goin’ somewhere?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Wayne answered glumly. “I’m movin', and I want my paycheck.”

  Stokes topped off the tank and returned the nozzle to its receptacle on the gas pump. “Can’t help you there,” he said. “Have to mail it to you later.”

  “Mail it?” Wayne growled, his temper flaring. “I’m leaving town and I need that money now!”

  Stokes glanced at the gas pump. “Sorry,” he drawled. “That’ll be $4.60.”

  “Listen, I’m serious,” Wayne pleaded. “I need the money now.”

  Stokes turned away. “No can do,” he mumbled. “You know my bookkeeper has to draw all my checks. Take out taxes and shit. You know that.”

  Wayne swallowed hard, his patience wearing thin. “Clean the damn windshield,” he ordered the man.

  Stokes ignored the command and studied his former employee. The boy had always seemed meek and timid, never this demanding. “I’ll make a deal with you,” Stokes said. “We’ll settle in cash. But for half of what I owe you.”

  “Fuck that!” Wayne snarled.

  “It’s that or nothin',” Stokes beamed. “I’ll throw in $4.60 for the gas you just bought.”

  Wayne shook his head in disgust. The crook had him over a barrel. “All right, all right,” he gave in. “I’ll settle for half a week’s pay in cash.”

  Stokes pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and counted out a twenty, and five one-dollar bills. Wayne took the money and tucked it into his wallet.

  “Where you headed?” Stokes asked.

  Wayne scowled at the man and flipped him an upturned middle finger as he slid behind the steering wheel. After a quick stop at the bank, he’d pick up Nancy and they’d be on their way.

  After secretly calling his employer and asking for a day of vacation, James Crocker grabbed his lunch pail from a kitchen counter and kissed Edith goodbye. For all she knew, James was going to work as usual. But her husband had a secret mission—to save his son from a confrontation with the law. Running would accomplish nothing. Somehow, he would convince Wayne to face up to his responsibilities, admit his error and make amends in whatever way possible. Wayne was an intelligent, reasonable young man who would surely listen to reason.

  James opened the door of his truck and waved to Edith who stood smiling on the front porch, unaware of her husband’s suspicions. Today was her turn for volunteer work at a local nursing home, and she’d be gone until late afternoon. He would protect her from the truth as long as was practical, James decided, turning the ignition switch. The engine sputtered, then roared to life at fast idle, its manual choke pulled out to the maximum. Driving along, James mulled over the feeling of fatherly responsibility that had settled over him. He knew he’d disregarded the well-being of his family for too long, and perhaps now he could rightfully resume his role as Wayne’s guardian.

  For a moment, he remembered the fishing excursions with an adolescent Wayne. The hunting trips. Christmas. The boy’s graduation. Where had the years gone? James shrugged, knowing the answer all too well. An era of his own life had been bottled and sealed in a Tennessee distillery. But such shameful thoughts were no strangers to James Crocker, who, despite his feelings of guilt, had always found himself back on the bottle again.

  Perhaps this time would be different. Hell, recently he’d kept away from the hard liquor and stayed primarily with beer. That was at least some improvement. He laughed to himself as the truck rattled down the bumpy dirt road toward Wayne’s trailer. Shit—he needed a drink already.

  Nat Mason sat at his desk absorbed in deep thought, oblivous to Mrs. Rankin’s boring geography lecture about the climate of eastern Europe. The boy chewed nervously at his fingernails, scribbling occasionally on a ruled pad as if taking notes, while his teacher’s monotonous voice droned on.

  Demetrius was in trouble. Nat didn’t know exactly what his brother had done, but he knew it was serious. Ma and Pa had stayed in their bedroom since last night’s visit from the sheriff, and all he’d been able to hear was bits and pieces. Ma wasn’t feeling well either. She wasn’t herself. The image of her holding a gun on the sheriff still burned in the young boy’s mind.

  But what troubled him most was the purse. He heard the sheriff mention that the purse was found close to the house. Did they think Demetrius stole it? If that was his brother’s crime, Nat could clear the air by confessing that he’d found the purse floating in the creek, and took the money himself. Losers weepers, finders keepers. But would the sheriff then not think that he, Nat, had stolen the purse? Nat shivered at the thought. The idea of going to jail himself was terrifying.

  Nat sank lower into his desk, seeking solace from a Fantastic Four comic book hidden in the back of his loose leaf binder. He would do some serious thinking before he admitted his own involvement. No telling what Pa would do if—

  “Would you like to share with the class, Nathan?” Mrs. Rankin’s voice screeched into his ear. She was standing beside him, staring down at the comic book.

  Nat cringed and slowly closed the notebook, rolling his eyes from side to side.

  “Nathan—answer me!” she snapped.

  “N-N-N-No, Ma’am,” he drawled sheepishly.

  “Well, I think you should,” she said in a cold, stern voice. “Take your funny book to the front of the class and read to us.”

  Nat stared at her in disbelief.

  “Go on,” she nagged.

  Reluctantly Nat dragged himself to his feet and trudged down the aisle amid the scattered snickers of his classmates.

  Demetrius was suddenly the farthest thing from his mind.

  At the sight of the squad car pulling to a stop in front of the house, Jeb Cramer turned from his partially dismantled tractor inside the barn, dropped a wrench onto the hay-strewn earthen floor and wiped grease from his hands onto a soiled rag. Angrily, he marched from the barn and yelled, “Well, it’s about goddamn time!”

  Hart diverted his attention from the neat white house bordered by neatly trimmed shrubbery and glanced in the direction of Cramer’s voice. A barbed wire fence surrounded the barn and stre
tched over the distance, enclosing a herd of cattle. Piles of cow manure dotted the terrain, its odor permeating the air.

  Cramer owned one of the larger spreads in the Selton area, including one landmark in particular that lured youngsters like a magnet. In the side of a rocky wooded hill was a cave, with interconnecting tunnels and home to thousands of bats. Cramer had warned the kids repeatedly to stay away, fearing for their safety and his own liability. Twice he had attempted to block the cave entrance, but both times the pesky kids managed to slip through anyway. Now Cramer was ready to do legal battle if necessary to keep the juveniles off his property.

  “I hear you’re havin’ trouble with cave explorers again,” Hart answered with forced politeness.

  Cramer strolled forward and spat on the ground. “Where’s that good-for-nothin’ sheriff?” he asked in a jesting tone.

  Hart stepped forward and the two shook hands vigorously as Hart introduced himself. “I’m Deputy Don Hart,” he said. “I believe we met a couple of years ago, but you may not remember—”

  “Hell, I never forget a face,” Cramer said tamely. “I appreciate you comin’ all the way out here.”

  Hart smiled. Cramer was warming up to him. This assignment might not be such a pain in the ass after all. He turned his head 180 degrees and admired the countryside. “Nice spread you’ve got here,” he said with a nod. “Where’s the cave?”

  Cramer motioned for the deputy to follow him across the front lawn. From this new vantage point Hart noticed the land dipped for a hundred yards or so away from the house, then rose steadily farther away.

  “You see that hill there?” Cramer asked, pointing in the distance.

  Hart nodded.

  “Cave’s on the other side. Runs underground all the way below my house and farther. I want those kids out of the damn thing. They might get hurt, and I sure as hell don’t want to get sued.”