Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel (28 page)

“Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus, I see a drink of water.”

It wasn’t much, the depression in the plastic being only about the size of her hand, but it
was
holding water, enough for one or two life
-
giving swallows
…if
only she could get to it. The puddle was right at the lip of the cellar, touching it in fact, but it might as well have been a county away.
Keeping
just the right tension on the rods, keeping them level, and holding her balance on the steps, was taking every iota of Melissa’s concentration. Now
,
the problem was to lift the small pocket of water up and over the rim, swing the poncho over the jar, and pour it in.

“It’s a simple task Lissa, this is not rocket science. It’s all physical
. A steady
hand, calm nerves,
and
a little coordination will do it, c’mon now.”

Carefully, as careful could be, the girl lifted the rods a fraction of
an
inch
. The
water slid away, but not out of sight.

Wrong, wrong, little more tilt on this side, keep it level.

Another try, this time holding the rods in contact with the lip of the door for maximum clearance.

Another inch, another, and then it stopped, hung up on some unseen object
in the dark
. She gave another gentle tug, but the rods didn’t move.

Damn, damn, damn. So close.

She dare not pull hard, one jerk, one erroneous move, and she’d dump the water for sure.

The hood, that’s
gotta be where
it’s held up.
It’s probably
snagged on something. But what? A stick? A rock? What do I do now?

The jar was at her left elbow,
but
too far away to catch the water from where the poncho was.

Why didn’t I sit it closer? God, Lissa, you are so stupid.

It was a standoff, Melissa, Mother Nature, and death.

Okay
Lissa
,
change of plans
. Forget the jar.

The pocket of water was in front of her, balanced in space and time, beckoning.
Melissa bent at the waist, stretching her neck like a giraffe feeding on an Acacia tree… and came up short. But not by much, two inches, maybe less. Keeping her parched tongue to the plastic she could taste the water, the slight wetness where raindrops had splashed, but the prize of life was
still
out of reach.

Move the rods Lissa. Tilt them down, just a fraction. You got to do it, and don’t even think about screwing this up.

With a touch as gentle as a midnight breeze, the rods moved. And so did the water. A little ran down her chin and the corners of her mouth but for the first time in two days, Melissa Parker had something to drink. She sucked it down, dirt and all. Two wonderful gulps. It was the best water she had tasted, ever, better than home, better than a fountain, better than any fancy bottled water, this was manna from the heavens, the source of life. Melissa licked the plastic of every drop and then licked her lips tasting the last hint of moisture.

“Thank you Jesus,” she whispered. By now the rain was coming down in buckets, driven by the wind, pounding on the door like a jackhammer, or as she once heard her grandpa exclaim, “It’s raining like a cow pissin’ on a flat rock.”

“Lissa, come out of your cloud girl, you’re wasting time and water.”

She yanked the poncho completely into the cellar, breaking the hood free from whatever had
snagged
it outside.

How can I keep this hood
free
so it doesn’t get caught up again
? Hmm.

She thought a moment, losing time
,
but she desperately needed a
better
solution to the problem
.

Well duh, how about shoving the other
end
outside and keeping the hood in here? Oh yes, that’ll work
,
she thought, followed by a small giggle.

She reversed the poncho and quickly slid it out through the crack and listened to the rain hit it, a smile growing on her face as the water collected.

“With rain like this, I’ll fill up that jar in no time,” she said aloud, moving the glass to a better position on the stairs.

“You hear that
,
Lulu? I hope you’re still here. We got water baby
;
we’re gonna make it. C’mon out and let’s celebrate darlin’. But watch out for the snake. I hope that wasn’t you I saw being swallowed up earlier.
I just thought of something
else,
Lulu.
Wouldn’t it be ironic if a tornado came along
and
you and I sitting here in a fraidy hole, maybe the safest place in Oklahoma? Oh, that’s funny. Singin’ in the rain, I’m singin’ in the rain.
C’mon down rain, is that all you got?”

It wasn’t the lightning or even the thunder that slapped the grin from Melissa’s face. It was the sudden gust of wind, part of the warm front moving in from the Gulf of Mexico and mixing with the cold upper level air from Colorado that slipped beneath the makeshift rain catcher of
flimsy
plastic and
lightweight
aluminum,
her
only
hope for survival
, and lifted it up and away, spinning, and tumbling into the night, across an idle field where wheat once grew. But the wind wasn’t through with the girl in cellar, not yet. Before the shock of losing her poncho had time to register in Melissa’s brain, the tail of the gust found its way through the gap at the door, easily sucked the flame from the candle, and plunged Melissa Parker into total darkness. She froze, immobile with terror, too scared to scream.
The best she could
manage
were tiny whimpers, puppy sounds, then a whisper.

“Mama, please help me.”

Chapter 23

By the time
the
sheriff
and his deputy stepped through the front door of the Pirate’s Den, word had spread like a brush fire that the law was on the property. Drinkers who knew damn well they were over the legal limit of alcohol kept their seats, barely glancing at the two men as they stepped inside. Others, doing more talking than drinking, watched with curiosity as Lester and Billy Ray scanned the room.

J.O. Mecham, thoroughly soused from
nine
solid hours of sipping free beer,
hunched over his bottle of Bud
and muttered obscenities under his breath. Behind the bar,
Earl Redman pretended to be busy
,
washing out beer mugs,
and
avoiding the slightest suggestion of eye contact.
Conversations at the tables and booths had gone from shrill and gusty to subdued mumbles and nervous grins.
Suddenly, Willie Nelson’s version of
City of New Orleans,
blaring from the speakers in the back of the room, seemed unusually loud. Sheriff Lester P. Morrison went directly to the old jukebox, found the
power
cord, and yanked the plug from the socket. Idle chatter ceased as every pair of eyes in the place swung to the man with the badge.

“Folks, this bar is closed!
Leave your drinks on the table and go home. Figure out who’s the most sober one in your party and have them do the drivin’. Sorry to cut your evening short, but we have some police business to attend to here.
It’s raining outside so the roads
are probably gettin’ a
little slick
. Be careful
.”

Table by table, the crowd got to their collective feet.
Women retrieved their purses from under their chairs while those at the bar took one last gulp of whatever they were drinking before heading out. Grumbles of protest passed up and down the length of the room, but there were no serious arguments or challenges to the sheriff’s decree…except for J.O. Mecham of course. The big man didn’t stand, (that would have been risky at best) but swung around on the overloaded barstool to confront the antagonist with the audacity to interrupt his excellent evening of
complimentary
beverages.

“Hey, Barney Fife, who the hell do you think you are, walking in here with your tin badge and harassing us citizens? We’re minding our own business here. You got no right. This is the United States of by-gawd America. Get on out of here and leave ussch alone.” J.O. was having a little problem with his
s’s.

Lester and Billy Ray waited at the door as the last of the customers filed out, dreading the inevitable confrontation with J.O.
Earl remained
at the sink
, head down, intent on washing every dirty glass in the house.
Lester
took a moment to massage his temples and tr
y
to remember why he had given up on retirement and wasn’t back home with
his dog, Harley
, a stiff drink in hand, and watching a ball game on the TV.

While Billy Ray took a position where he could watch both Earl and J.O., Lester strode to the end of the bar, his boots making a sharp clump, clump with each step on the hardwood floor of the now silent room. J.O. rose from his stool, caught his balance, and clenched his fists, his reddened face distorted in fury.
Like the strike of a diamondback rattler, Lester’s arm shot out and with the heel of his hand, hit ol’ J.O. in the middle of his chest causing him to lose what little balance he had and stagger backwards, his ample butt flopping on the stool from which it came.

“J.O., I’m only gonna tell you this once so listen tight. I’m not in the mood for your usual line of crap. You’re drunk. Either call somebody to come and get your sorry ass or sleep it off on the couch out there on the patio. If I see you in that pickup of yours tonight you will go to jail, you will go directly to jail, you will not pass Go, and you will not collect two hundred dollars.”

The reference to the game of Monopoly slid past J.O. but he did understand the part about going to jail.

“And you better unclench those fists although it would give me great pleasure to add assaulting a police officer to your list of charges. Now, what’s it gonna be J.O.? Make your play.”

Earl called out, “Give it up J.O. Go outside and have a seat. I’ll take you home shortly. I got a feeling I’ll be turning out the lights pretty soon anyway.”

From somewhere deep inside the mind of J.O. Mecham, one of the last remaining vestiges of good sense found its way to consciousness.

“Okay, okay, you got me,” he said, raising his palms in mock surrender. “I give up.” At the door, he turned back, a menacing sneer across his ugly face, “You and me Sheriff, one day, without the badge, how ‘bout it?”

“Shut up and get outside before I take you up on that Mecham. It’s not really fair to fight a drunk but right now, fair is the last thing on my mind. Now go! Git outta’ here.”

The door slammed hard enough to break the hinges. All inside watched the entrance for a minute or two, waiting for a mad bull full of rage and hate to come charging through the door and take on everybody in the house.
It didn’t happen.

“Earl,” Lester said, “let’s all have a seat at this table over here. I have a proposition I’d like to talk to you about.”

Both Billy Ray and Lester took chairs facing the front door.

“Earl, my young deputy here and I just happened to be in the neighborhood where we observed a young man enter your establishment and reemerge with what the evidence will show was a long-necked bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon, not my favorite beverage, but I’m sure the lad will learn of the finer things in life if he can handle his liquor and live beyond the age of seventeen as his driver’s license clearly reveals. I’m worried about his life span Earl, especially when people sell him alcoholic beverages before he reaches the legal age of 21. Can you understand my concern Earl?”

Earl Redman, sensing that his lifestyle was about to undergo some major changes, could only nod in agreement.

“My deputy and I talked with that boy and his friend who by the way, also had a beer in his hand, and the kids revealed to us that this wasn’t the first time they had sipped on the suds at the Pirate’s Den. Seems they and a good portion of the high school football team have, at one time or another, enjoyed the hospitality of this place despite the illegality of it.”

Earl took a bar rag from his back pocket and wiped at a wet circle on the table but said nothing.

“And as you remember,” Lester continued, “you and I had a similar conversation on this very topic not all that long ago. Do you recall that Earl?”

Again, Redman could only nod.

“A line from the movie Cool Hand Luke comes to mind, ‘What we have here is a failure to communicate.’ one of my favorites.”