Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel (10 page)

Lester followed the taillights as they faded into the distance. “He’s a mean son of a bitch that one, drunk or sober, but worse when he’s drunk, much worse.
If we find that Melissa was actually here last night, we best not forget about him.”

“We could stop him,” Billy Ray said. “I doubt he could pass a sobriety test. Another DUI would set him back a bit.”

Lester thought
about
it. “I’m gonna let him slide for now. I’ll be talking to him again, see if his memory improves when he’s not so
soused and mean.
Besides, J.O.
isn’t
hard to find, drunk or sober.”

The wind had died and the air was cooling down.
A light overcast hid the usual abundance of stars, normally so brilliant and visible in this end of the state, absent of light pollution from any major town or city.

“You think that about wraps it up for today
,
Sheriff?” Billy Ray asked.
“I’d like to take in that football game tonight in Boise City.
Thought I’d swing by and pick up my buddy Jason.
He wants to see it too.
Looks like the
Bobcats have a pretty good team this year.”

Lester said nothing in reply, standing quietly, thumbs hooked in his belt, taking in the smells of the country, feeling the land.
He
checked the sky, horizon to horizon, and wondered if any rain was in the forecast.

Finally, “Get in the truck
,
Billy Ray.”

Chapter
9

The cellar, or as Melissa was now calling it, the
fraidy hole
, was
once again
losing what little precious light remained,
and much too quickly. The dark
ness
was moving with frightening speed from the back wall, across the floor, toward the girl perched
high
on the
stairs
. Melissa’s butt was aching from the long hours of watching and waiting on the hard and narrow
steps
. Her voice was hoarse and raspy from yelling, her hands raw from beating on the bottom of the rusty steel door. Despite her efforts and vigilance, the only things she had seen through the narrow opening for the past nine hours were the same grasses, weeds
,
and blue sky with an occasional cloud to break the monotony.
Three times she had big trucks pass by—semi’s it sounded like—the roar of the diesel engines carried by the wind.
That was when she had screamed the loudest, so loud that for a few minutes,
Melissa was afraid
she had torn something in her throat. But the trucks didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. It was a futile effort of course. She knew her voice could never be heard above the drone of the engines and the whine of the big tires, but she had to try none the less. People were passing by, people that could help her get out of the dungeon. However small the chances, to not cry for help, to give up and accept her fate, to die there, alone in the darkness, was definitely not in Melissa Parker’s makeup.

At
what seemed like mid-afternoon—she
really missed not having a watch—she
’d
heard the approach of dual exhausts, something like a kid her age might drive;
chrome wheels, low profile tires, the kind of cars she saw and yearned for in the school parking lot. The kind of car she had dreamed about since she turned sixteen
,
but knew that her folks wouldn’t (her dad)
or
couldn’t (her mom) buy for her.

When the car sounded close, she
swallowed, tried to work up a little spit for her throat, and started to yell once again. She filled her lungs and put her mouth to the crack…and stopped.

Oh crap.
What if it’s him, the rapist, coming back for more?
She froze at the thought.

It could be him, sure, checking to see if I’m dead or alive.

Scrambling down the steps, she raced blindly to the back of the cellar, the darkest part, crouched down and listened, trying to think it through.

Lots of possibilities here. He knows I’m alive and he’s coming back to rape me again…or kill me. Or both. Then again, maybe he can’t live with what happened, leaving me down here like he did, and he’s coming back to let me out. No,no, that’s not gonna happen is it Melissa? He turns you loose so you can call the cops and have him thrown in prison? Fat chance. Think, think.

But just as with the trucks, the smooth sounding pipes quickly faded away, then silence.

Well, okay. No rapist then but no rescue either. Need to prepare. Need to find something, anything for a weapon, a big stick maybe.

She dreaded the coming darkness, another night in the hole.
There had been no sounds from the back of the cellar since daylight, nothing moving, no rustling of dry leaves.
That, in itself, was a good sign
,
but the girl
had the feeling
that whatever had made those little scurry noises
earlier,
was still there.
After all, there was only one way out, and nothing had passed her on the stairs, nothing she had seen anyway.
At least she had the army cot; she could stay off the ground tonight—
Thank God for small miracles
—but was anything else back there, something she had missed, something she could use?
This would be the time for the candle, she thought, before night comes and I can’t see anything at all.
She retrieved the
jar
from the bottom step, opened it, and inspected the candle.
T
here was quite a bit of it lef
t
, but how long would it last?
Certainly not all night.

I have to conserve it, use it only when I get scared or hear something spooky. Listen to me. What am I saying? I’m scared now!

She took a single match from the box and touched the head of it to the striking area. The match flared on the first try. Even though there was no breeze inside the cellar, Melissa instinctively protected the flame with the cup of her hand and held her breath as she touched the tiny blaze to the black dot in the center of the candle.
The wick accepted the fire, at first, and then lost it, the single trail of smoke mocking her effort.
The match burned her finger and she was forced to drop it.
For one terrifying moment, she thought the leaves would catch fire and burn her alive, like being baked in an oven. It didn’t happen. She counted the matches, six left.

Not enough wick, that’s the problem.

She went to the floor with her hands, moving the leaves, searching, feeling, until she found a
twig. It was small and rotted
,
but it would have to do. There was no time to find another.
The light was
nearly gone
.
She had to hurry.
Back at
the top of the stairs and oh
,
so carefully,
Melissa
used the tip of the
twig
to
dig out the wax from around the wick.
When about a quarter
of an
inch
was
showing
, s
he
took another match
from the box
. Five left.
She closed her eyes
for a moment
, took a breath, staying calm, or trying to, and struck it.
Fire, again. This time the candle eagerly took to the flame, sputtered once, but caught.

“Let there be light!” she said and
allowed herself a smile
.
She blew out the match but put the remainder back in the box in case she needed it
later
.

Using the candle, she decided to take one more look around before lying down for the night. Hoping she had missed something she could use
—like
a big club if the bad guy came back
. She
inched her way to the rear,
moving mostly b
y
feel,
kicking leaves as she went.
There was nothing, just more leaves and little sticks, nothing on the walls, nothing else on the shelf where she had thankfully found the candle, nothing hanging from any hooks, and no back door
…
of course.
“Damn it
,
” she said again,
kicking out at the
leaves in frustration.
But with the very next step, her
foot
landed on
something
cool and smooth
. She bent over
to investigate, holding
the candle close to the floor
, and touched it with her hand
.
Plastic, a clear, thin piece of plastic, dirty and half buried.
Garbage sack?
Using both hands, the girl gently placed the candle on the shelf and
held up
her
latest
find for a better look.
It was a raincoat, a poncho
to be exact.

Oh yeah
.
I’ve seen these in Wal-Mart,
she thought.
Emergency rain gear they call it. Sells for a dollar or two.
Yep
, that’s what it is all right. Makes sense, it being down here.
Somebody threw it on when a storm was coming and then forgot about it. Probably knew it was good for only one use anyway, flimsy as it is.

She shook
out the dirt and leaves as best she could
and returned to the cot. “Got me a blanket, that’s what I got.
”
Then, with
as much sarcasm as she could muster, the girl yelled
out
at the night, “
Boy, things are really looking up around here
.
” Wincing from her injuries, she gingerly lay back on the cot, pulled the poncho over her bare legs, and tucked it in.
Within minutes, Melissa felt the warmth, her body
heat
held close by
the
insulating plastic.
With one last look around, she mustered her courage, brought the candle to her lips, and blew out the flame.
As the sun slipped below the horizon, the faint halo of red at the cellar door faded to black.

At the
rear
of the cellar, in the far right corner, leaves moved.

*****

At fifteen minutes after
five
,
Lester pulled up to the chain link fence
that
surround
ed
the football field for the Boise City Bobcats.
Cars were already beginning to trickle into the parking lot for the game. A yellow bus with the name Shattuck Public Schools on the side sat unoccupied at the far end of the stadium.
A
gate between the concession stand and a booth marked
Tickets
was open
. The woman inside nodded at
Lester
as he
walked in
, the badge being his pass
.
Tiered
metal
bleachers
ascended on
ea
ch side of the playing surface,
twenty rows
for the home crowd, only ten for the visitors
. Depending on the success of this year’s team, the school had tentative plans to increase the seating capacity and enlarge the closet
-
sized announcer’s booth.

A
group of boys
wearing orange jerseys and black pants
limbered up on the field.
Some sat on the grass with one leg out in front, stretching their hamstrings, while others ran short wind sprints between the forty-yard lines.
A few were throwing a football around.
The visiting team had yet to make an appearance.
Two men wearing matching orange ball
caps, stood on the sidelines with their arms folded, deep in conversation
, watching the
warm up
activity
.
As
Lester
approached
, the coaches turned to meet
him.
One of them extended his hand.

“Sheriff Morrison?
My name’s John Blankenship.
I’m the coach of the team out there.
My second job is
math
teacher at the high school.
Neither one of them pay that well but what can you do?
This other fella here is my assistant, Roy.
He has the
title
of assistant, but he doesn’t get paid a lick.
Mr. Moody told me you
’d probably drop by. Said you
were looking for a missing girl, a student.”