Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel (37 page)

Even though Harley couldn’t see any cats or squirrels, the lab was ready for a stretch and a pee and bounded out the open door. He no sooner hit the ground when he caught a whiff of scent from another dog.
Need to check that out, might be a female.

Billy Ray moved to the rear of the house while Lester gave the front door a few sharp raps with his knuckles. As expected, no one appeared at the door to welcome him in.

As the deputy circled from around the house, Lester said, “Let’s check what’s left of that barn, just in case.”

It didn’t happen. Lester and Billy Ray were no more than twenty paces from J.O.’s dilapidated barn, when an animal, brown with splotches of white, streaked from the edge
o
f the woods where J.O. had been hiding the night before. Clouds of dust churned with every powerful stride, its wide paws digging for traction as it sped across the uneven ground. The animal was not happy to find two strange men and a
black
dog trespassing on his property. The animal
aching to sink his teeth into something, and he didn’t much care what,
was a pit bulldog
—a
very angry pit bulldog.

“Oh shit,” Billy Ray said.

“PICKUP
!
” Lester yelled, and ran. “HARLEY, GET IN THE TRUCK.”

Both man and beast
moved as fast as they knew how with Harley leading the way. Billy Ray grabbed the door handle
on the passenger side
and swung it wide open. The three dove for the
same small
opening at the
exact
same time; feet, arms, paws, and tail, a tangle of flesh, hair, and bone scrambl
ing
for the safety of the cab. Billy Ray slammed the door
just
in time for the metal to take the full force of the charge from the dog called Dammit.
J.O. had found amusement in the name he’d chosen for the pit. He liked to say things like, “Dammit, get your butt out of my chair,” or “Come here Dammit, if you
wanna
eat today.”

The group in the cab sorted themselves out
with
Harley on the floorboard as his haven of choice
.
Lester freed himself from the tangle and
wiggled
behind the wheel
while
Billy Ray watch
ed through the window as
Dammit continued to lunge at the door
. His
massive head and teeth bang
ed
against the window
,
leaving globules of dog slobber to run down the glass.

“That took an ugly turn,” Lester said as he calmly aligned his skewed hat in the rearview mirror. “Might as well go. I believe we
’
re all done checkin’ this place.”

Billy Ray shot him a look and said, “What about J.O.?”

“I swear
Billy Ray
,
you have a one-track mind. You need to diversify your interest’s son, help you to be a more well rounded person. Branch out, my boy.”

There was silence for a few moments before Billy Ray said, “I have just one question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you try talking some of your
eloquence
to this pit bull over here?

Dammit, tired
and panting
from the exertion, sat on his haunches, staring at the occupants of the truck, waiting.
Harley took a peek out the window, decided not to aggravate the situation, and retreated back to the floor.

The question went unanswered.

“Let’s head back in, see if we
can
locate your friend Mr. Jason Woods,” Lester said, turning the ignition. “I sure would like to talk to that young man.”

Ten minutes out, on the road to town, Billy Ray noticed the beginnings of a grin on the Sheriff’s face. “What you grinning about? I haven’t seen anything funny all day.”

“I was thinking about your description of a serious incident
. What
you called it in the military, a
no-shitter
, wasn’t that it?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Your phone within range? I’d like to use it.
Check in with dispatch.
”

“Why don’t you get your own cell phone and quit using all my minutes?”

“Cause the county wouldn’t pay for it is the easy answer.”

“Would that be because the county wouldn’t put it in your name and not pay for your personal calls?”

“Might have been part of it. You gonna let me use it or not?”

Billy Ray checked the signal strength, three bars,
punched the keys,
and handed the cell across the seat.

“Sheriff’s office.”

“Irene, that you? This the
S
heriff.”

“Hi Sheriff.
Why are
you
calling in on a phone instead of the radio?”

“I need to talk to Nelda. Can you patch me through to her house? I don’t have the number.”

“Sure, but she’s probably still asleep at this time of day. Her shift doesn’t start till seven tonight.”

“Yeah? Well
,
put me through anyway.”

Lester found the cell button that said
speaker
and pressed it. Several rings later a female voice groggy with sleep said, “Lo.”

“Nelda, this is Sheriff Lester P. Morrison.”

“After a year of talking to you almost every day, I recognize your voice
,
Sheriff. Why are you calling me at home? I was asleep. I got to be back at work in a couple hours.”

“Sorry, but this couldn’t wait,” Lester said. “We’re gonna have a change in protocol for our radio procedures, a new code, starting today.”

“New code? What’s wrong with our old code, the ten-code?” Nelda said.
“It’s pretty universal
isn’t it? Ten-four, ten-eight,
I’ve memorized most of them
. Why would we want to start using a different one?”

“Times are changing
,
Nelda. We need to keep up. Besides, it’s only one term but it’s a new one.”

“Deliver me,” Nelda moaned. “
Let me find a pencil.
All right, what is it?”

“From now on, when we have a real emergency, something of utmost
importance
, you’re to get on the radio and say, ‘This is a no-shitter.’”

“What?”

“That’s right,
‘
a no-shitter,
’
that way I’ll know the seriousness of the situation.” By now the grin across Lester’s face had grown to ear-splitting proportion. Billy Ray held his hand over his mouth, his stomach lurching in
suppressed
laughter.

“What in the world has gotten into you Sheriff? Have you been drinking on duty? You know I’d never, never say such a word, much less on the radio. That would be against the rules, an FCC violation. Sides that, I’m a good Christian woman and now you want me to use profanity like that on the radio? I won’t do it! I just won’t do it! That’s all there is to it,” Nelda said, clearly indignant.

Tears running from his eyes, Lester waited for the rest of the tirade, but except for the heavy breathing on Nelda’s end, the phone was silent.
“Gosh Nelda, I didn’t dream you’d be so against the new code. We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

Lester winced as Nelda’s phone slammed to the cradle, banging in his ear.

“You got to admit,” Billy Ray said. “That was kind of mean.”

“But funny,” Lester said.”

“There’s that,” the deputy said.

*****

Melissa made a decision. After hours of staring at the remains of her candle, she figured she had no more than two nights of candlelight left, after that…well. It came down to her or the snake. No way could she spend another night in total darkness with that creature slithering around in the same space, not knowing exactly where it was or what kind of snake it was.
One of them had to go, and since Melissa had no option, it had to be the snake. The thing must be dealt with, someway, somehow. With the light of day fading all too quickly, she once again took inventory for any tools, any weapons. But the stock of supplies had not changed, not one i
ota
, unless she counted the
long gone
poncho. She could still cry about that.
She had the jar, the candle, the matches, the cot, a few sticks, and parts of a lawn chair. She picked up each of the
largest
limbs strewn about the floor of the cellar, one at a time, and tested them for possible use as a
weapon, a club to beat the life out of a big bad snake.
None were of proper length or weight, too skinny, and so brittle as to snap with the first blow.

A single piece of
aluminum
tubing, the largest remaining from the
demolished lawn
chair, held promise. It was long enough, at least two feet, and reasonably stout
,
but was so lightweight that Melissa wondered if she could swing it with enough force for a fatal blow. She tried to picture it. A swing, a miss, or a blow to the body, no doubt more painful than lethal, (hitting it in the head was probably wishful thinking). Then what?

Don’t kill it and you just make it mad. Wouldn’t want to be down here
in
this
hole
with a pissed off snake
.
Not good
.

She got a tight grip on the tubing and using a batter’s stance, gave it a few practice strokes, evaluating the possibilities.
Maybe.
Next she tried an over-the-head smash
,
bending at the waist
and
put her back into it. But the tubing hit the top of the cellar, the ceiling, limiting the arc and power of her swing.
She shook her head
as she steadied herself
.

That won’t get it.
Might not have enough left in me to do this.

Back on the steps, she eyed the cot and the supports holding the canvas. The wood looked strong enough, about the right size too
. She
was sure she could break the cot
down
and get to one of the cross braces, snapping it free.

But what if it doesn’t work Lissa? Without a cot to get off the ground at night, it’s you and the snake, both on the floor, sharing the same bed of leaves. And here you are with nothing but a tee shirt, a short skirt, and no underwear.
Another involuntary shiver took her body.
Big step Lissa. Need to be sure. Can you do this? Really do it? Do it right? Kill that slinky thing?
It seemed like she could remember something—was it on TV or did she read about it—where a man grabbed a snake by the tail and snapped it like a whip, breaking its spine? She wasn’t sure, but the idea seemed ludicrous and was dismissed almost as soon as she thought of it, certain that the snake would bite her before she could ever do such a thing.

Melissa closed her eyes and tried to remember everything she knew about snakes. Her mother had said that most snakes were more scared of people than the other way around, and if left alone and unthreatened, were not likely to strike.

Just leave them be Lissa, and they won’t hurt you. Just don’t step on one.

There were the boys at school, always finding a snake on the playground, and waving them in the girl’s faces. Only most of the wiggly things were small, not much bigger than an ordinary fishing worm, not scary at all. Then there was that time, was it May, the year she turned 14, that Albert had hauled the family off to Okeene for the annual Rattlesnake Roundup? She recalled that her father was fascinated with the reptile pit where dozens of
thick brown
snakes coiled and slithered.
The scene, that pit full
of vipers, branded itself in her memory, often reappearing in the night, in her dreams.
Since that time, Albert had developed a weird fascination for rattlers although he never went so far as to hunt them in their dens like some of the people at the Roundup did. No, her dad liked to shoot them with his shotgun and watch them writhe, curling into themselves, and die. Once, he had used his pocketknife to cut out the heart, still beating after death, and showed it to Melissa, how it pulsed there in the palm of his hand, a living organ without a body.

It was coming back to her now, how her dad had nailed the head of that snake
—a five-footer at least—
to the side of the barn
and peeled the skin off it, telling her he knew someone that could make him a belt from the hide. Melissa never saw any snakeskin belt, not that she could recall, but she did remember seeing the strips of meat all up and down the bones, the sun glistening off the fleshy tissue. She asked Albert if anyone ever ate a snake.