Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel (45 page)

Boomer
slammed the brakes, shifted to reverse, and mashed the gas
pedal
. More smoke, more noise. Students scrambled, yelled, and cursed as the Ford barreled the length of the lot
, missing one sophomore by mere inches.
The Mustang
left the blacktop and hit the new mown
lawn
.
Boomer
yanked
the wheel and the
front end jerked clockwise. Back in forward, the tires spun again but went nowhere, the slick grass offering no purchase. On the second try and with less gas, the rubber grabbed, and the car shot to the street.

“Are you gonna just stand there and watch the action Billy Ray, or do you think a pursuit might be in order?” Lester said, rubbing his jaw.

“What happened to you?”

“Never mind. The Camaro got gas in it?”

“Yeah, not sure how much, half a tank probably.”

“Well let’s go. I’m driving.”

“Oh, no, no, no. I got enough damage already. Besides, we should call…”

“Hush up, Billy Ray. That’s a direct order. Get in the car, passenger side. I mean it.”

“Aw shit
! Here
we go again,” Billy Ray said.

Lester swung his long legs through the door, or tried to, his knees banging the dash. He made the adjustment and said, “Get on your phone. Call dispatch. See if the city police have a sighting on the Mustang. Have her call the Highway Patrol too
;
give them a heads-up on what’s going on. Which way did the kid go?”

“Toward Main.”

Then which way?”

“Couldn’t tell.”
Lester pushed the clutch and felt for first gear.

“It’s a four-speed Sheriff. Left and all the way up.”

“I know how a four-speed works young man. Don’t be getting sassy with me now.”

The
stick shift
settled into place. Lester popped the clutch. The Camaro lurched, had a spasm, and died.

“Don’t say it!” Lester said and turned the ignition.

The second attempt went well although the shift from first to second was less than smooth. He hit Main and turned east.

“Anything?” Lester asked as he worked through the gears.

Billy Ray held up one finger, the phone mashed to his ear. “Hang on.” Then, “A city cop has him in sight, going southwest on 56. High speeds.”

“Okay, tell her to pass that on to the Highway Patrol boys. I need to turn around.”

The deputy grabbed the dash as Lester geared down and just past Hart Street, did a U turn directly in front an oncoming Toyota 4Runner. The Camaro straightened as Lester searched for second. The transmission protested with a nerve wrenching grind of metal.

“Clutch
!
” Billy Ray yelled.

“I got it, I got it.”

Back through the middle of town, Lester mashed the horn, scattering cars and scaring
dogs
.

“Why didn’t we take your pickup?” Billy Ray said. “You know, siren and lights? Most people pull over you know.”

“Pickups not fast enough to catch that hot Mustang. I suspect that boy up ahead will have his foot through the floor.”

At the end of Main, the Camaro, tires protesting, leaned into the traffic circle that intersected with Highway 56 and sped south, horn blaring. The road made a gentle bend to the west. Lester passed a red GMC pickup but had to cut back sooner than he wanted. The driver of the GMC shot a middle finger at the windshield.
Lester smiled as he goosed the big engine, feeling the g-forces press him against the seat.

“This is fun
,
isn’t it Billy Ray?”

Watching the road for any
slow moving
unsuspecting farmer
s
, the deputy said nothing and
pulled his safety belt tight and snug.
Stores,
homes
, and vacant lots
f
lashed by in a blur of abstract forms and colors.
At the city limits sign, the speedometer
touched
80.

“I see flashing red lights ahead, half mile maybe. Gotta be a city cop,” Billy Ray said. “No Mustang though.”

“The kid’s probably got a mile or so lead by now. That cop will never catch him, not with those old Dodge’s they drive. How fast did you tell me this thing will go B.R.?” Lester asked.

“Too damn fast for you to handle, that’s for sure. Slow down before you kill us all.”

“Humph, ye of little faith. Just sit still and watch.”

The motor roared as Lester
punched it, asking
for
more speed.
Billy Ray cringed. A half mile later, with a flash of headlights and a
honk on the horn
, the Camaro overtook Officer John Bowman
at upwards of 90
miles an hour. The look on the policeman’s face could only be described as shock and awe. He’d missed the call from dispatch about two Sheriff’s joining the pursuit in an unmarked car and as far as the Boise City Police Department was concerned, he now had multiple lawbreakers to chase down and apprehend. It was the most excitement Officer Bowman had seen in Boise City in the last ten years.

“I got a dust cloud ahead, quarter mile,” Billy Ray said.

“He must have spun out or wrecked. Damn it, I hope he didn’t kill himself,” Lester said, easing off the gas. As the lawmen topped a rise
,
the dust was still there, settling, slowly drifting toward a field, but there was no sign of
the
gray Mustang. Lester slammed the brakes, leaving dual trails of rubber on the
asphalt
. Billy Ray mumbled profanities.

Lester said, “Looks like he took that dirt road that leads back to the east end of town. Where the hell is he going?
”
It took two tries, but the Sheriff found first gear and popped the clutch. An eruption of dirt and gravel spewed from the back of the Camaro. Fence posts and the o
ccasional rural mailbox flashed by
as the Camaro gained momentum. Unfortunately for Boomer Kingman, the back roads and billows of dust revealed every turn and change of direction the
Mustang
made
,
making it simple for Lester and Billy Ray to follow. The turn north onto 290 Road was impossible to miss and Lester made the maneuver with a minimum of skid from the rear end. By the time the road turned back into Hart Avenue, they spotted Boomer making a hard left, straight back to the center of Boise City.

“He’s quitting,” Lester said. “Probably headed to his daddy’s place of business and lawyer up.”

“Thank God!”
Billy Ray sighed. “Maybe I’ll still have a car when this is over with.”

“Thing is,” Lester said. “Why would an innocent man hit an officer of the law and then take off like he did? That boy has some serious explaining to do. Looks like he’s slowed down some though.”

Greg didn’t stop at Kingston Ford New and Used Cars, but continued west and then back north until the Mustang came to rest in the driveway of the nicest home in Boise City, a two story, brick and stone, with a swimming pool in the back.

“Think we should call the city boys?” Billy Ray asked as Lester pulled behind the Mustang, blocking it from the street. “They were in on this.”

“Maybe in a bit. I want to talk to this kid first.”

Lester pushed the doorbell, heard chimes, and waited. An attractive woman, deeply tanned and wearing pink shorts with a matching top, opened the door and started to smile. At the sight of the uniforms, her blue eyes, expertly appointed with dark mascara, went wide.

“Oh my God
!
What’s going on? Has something happened?” her voice rising with anxiety.

Lester raised his palms and shook his head. “No Ma’am. Nothing’s happened.
May we come in?
I just need to talk to your son for a minute. I believe he’s home.”

Marlene Kingston
swung the door open for the lawmen, her inbred social skills automatic,
but
she
then
went from cordial, to fearful, to defensive, all in less than ten seconds.

Now frowning, she said, “And just why would you need to talk to
my
son?”

Lester was on shaky legal ground and he knew it. He had no search warrant
; however
there was the matter of speeding, reckless driving, and eluding a police officer, not to mention the poke in the jaw. The fact that the boy was now
denned up
inside the home made things a little more complicated. Charging in
to the home of the most prominent citizen of Boise City
could bring problems later.

“I just need to ask him a couple questions
,
Ma’am. That’s all.”

“A couple questions about what?” Marlene didn’t wait for an answer. “You stay right there. I’m calling Mr. Kingston at the showroom.” She spun and marched away without a sign of a butt jiggle, her trim physique the likely results of
hours on
the Stairmaster in the home gym and hundreds of laps in the pool.

Billy Ray said, “I guess we wait.”

“I just chased that boy at 9
0
miles an hour,” Lester said. “I’m not gonna stand here and cool my heels to wait for a daddy and a lawyer to show up. See those stairs? I reckon his room would be up there somewhere. You stay here and hold mama off of me for a few minutes, okay?”

Before Billy Ray could protest, Lester eased through the
outer
storm door and silently crossed the thick carpeting to the curved stairway. Marlene returned just as Lester disappeared down the second floor hallway.

“Where’s the other man?” she asked.

“Uh, he had to…uh…take care of something. He’ll be right back,” Billy Ray said, searching for any reasonable explanation and failing.

“What’s that strange car doing in my driveway? Is that what you’re driving?” Marlene’s indignity was growing as large as her surgically enhanced breasts. “Shouldn’t you be driving a police car? There’s something odd about this
,
young man. Let me see your badge. Take it off so I can get a good look. You got any other ID? Never mind. I’m calling the police station. I’m checking you out. What’s your name?”

In the face of the verbal assault, Billy Ray blinked his eyes and backed away, nearly fell when he reached the steps, and said, “Ledbetter Ma’am, Deputy Ledbetter.” He thought adding the title might make him look and sound a little more official. The “police car” Camaro with the banged up rear fender did little to aid his credibility. The
ornate
front
door
of the Kingston abode
slammed
shut
with a bang
followed by the click of a sturdy lock.
Sheriff, this is one of those times when you’re gonna wish you had a cell phone,
Billy Ray thought.

The second level of the home had four doorways, two closed, two open
. Lester stuck his head in the first room he came to. He saw a pool table, the playing surface covered in red with a white OU logo in the center. Workout machines—including a full set of free weights—filled the floor space. Photos lined the walls; Greg holding trophies, team pictures with grinning kids in football uniforms and holding championship banners, one signed 8x10 of OU coach Bob Stoops and the team after their win over Florida State in the 2000
national title
game.

Lester moved on, going slow, listened at a closed door, heard nothing, went to the next. An open room at the end of the hallway was dark, shades drawn. He decided to check it next and the others after that. He wondered if he should have brought his pistol along. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the room, didn’t see anyone, and was about to turn away when a voice said, “Don’t come in here.”

Boomer Kingston stepped from a walk-in closet, backlit from a ceiling light. Lester couldn’t tell what kind of gun he was holding but it looked big and it looked ugly.

Chapter 37

The play was a fake draw but William (everyone called him Big Bill) Kingston smelled it out, did a spin move around the offensive guard, and wrapped up the speedy Nebraska halfback the moment he hit the line of scrimmage. It was a mass of flesh and sweat and muscle and pads that fell to the turf that day; legs churning, elbows shoving, spitting, and cussing when Big Bill felt someone roll up on his left leg and despite the roar of the Sooner fans in the crowd, heard a distinctive pop just as the ref blew his whistle. What scared Big Bill more than the intense pain was the odd angle of his leg, a new and strange position he’d never seen before with the lower part of his leg bent forward instead of back.

Later, the surgeon would tell him that it was the worst ACL injury he had ever seen. Big Bill feared that his playing days as a defensive end for the University of Oklahoma might well be over. He was right. At the following spring practice, the coaches checked his progress, and were not impressed. He suited up for the fall season and played the first half of the opener against a marshmallow opponent, but the quick moves that had earned him a starting position were no longer there. It was the last year he would wear the crimson and cream of his beloved Sooners.