Unraveled
Authors: Reavis Z. Wortham
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by Reavis Z. Wortham
First E-book Edition 2016
ISBN: 9781464207129 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
Contents
This book is dedicated to The Hunting Club, a loose, unofficial group of outdoorsmen I've camped, fished, and hunted with for the last thirty years. Thanks to the original core groupâLarry Williams, Jerry Halpin, Dr. Gary Reeves, and Pat Chumleyâfor providing the fun, laughs, and inspiration that created the syndicated newspaper column, which morphed into the gang from Doreen's 24 HR Eat Gas Now Café, and eventually provided the author's voice that led to the Red River series.
Many people have supported my work by reading early manuscripts, offering suggestions, and spreading the word about my novels. Thanks to my mentor and good friend John Gilstrap (I'll never be able to repay my debt), C.J. Box, Craig Johnson, Sandra Brannan, Jeffery Deaver, Joe Lansdale, T. Jefferson Parker, Michael Morris, Owen Laukkanen, and Jan Reid, to name only a few authors who have supported my work. The same goes for Sharon Reynolds, Mike Miller, and Steve Knagg (for reading the manuscripts). Ronda Wise is my go-to gal for all things medical. Things wouldn't be the same around here without my English teacher daughter, Chelsea Hamilton, for offering academic insights and our youngest daughter, Megan Bidelman, for the jacket photo. Thanks also to my agent Anne Hawkins, and Poisoned Pen Press editors, Annette Rogers and Barbara Peters. You gals are great.
All this rides on one foundation, the love of my life, my wife, Shana, who is always at my side (good luck in your new adventure)! You all offer more faith than I deserve.
And thanks to you, the Readers out there who support my work. It is humbling.
Frisco, Texas
Grandpa Ned always said our quiet little country community in northeast Texas was like a stock pond, calm and smooth on the surface so there's not much to look at, but full of life and death down below.
Center Springs wasn't much to see back in 1968. I guess what you'd call the hub of our community was an unpainted domino hall squatting between two clapboard country stores at the intersection of Farm to Market Road 197 that ran east and west, and FM 906 that started there and crossed the Lamar County Dam.
A skinny county oil road angled to the northwest behind the domino hall and past the Ordway place, a fine two-story house full of ghosts and bad memories.
Mostly all you ever saw up at the stores were a few farmers loafing either on Uncle Neal's porch, where we did most of our trading, or under the overhang at Oak Peterson's competing store that carried the same staples, plus gas.
Houses were scattered beside pastures full of fat cattle everywhere along Sanders Creek and the Red River bottoms. Those small scratch farms that survived the Great Depression and hung on tight to the land had been in the same families for generations.
A lot of folks lived way back in the woods off dirt and gravel roads. Most waved when they saw you, except for a few old soreheads who turned away so they wouldn't have to wave back.
Since he was constable of Precinct 3, Grandpa got called out both night and day for more than you'd expect for such a small place. There were family fights, reports of whiskey stills, misunderstandings, cattle on the roads, fistfights, farm accidents, or car wrecks.
Because of a cluster of cinderblock beer joints called Juarez across the river in Oklahoma not five miles away, drunks came weaving through our little community most every week.
Most of the time Grandpa pulled 'em over and hauled 'em to jail in nearby Chisum, the county seat. But sometimes he came along to find cars all tore to pieces and bodies on the road, or in a ditch, or slammed into trees. The ones that made Grandpa the maddest was them that took other good folks with 'em.
It was a car wreck only a few weeks after Reverend King had been laid to rest that tangled Grandpa Ned up in what folks started calling the Lamar County Accident.
Oh, and I'm Top Parker, and this is how we wound up in the middle of all that trouble.â¦
The scruffy man slipped out of the house in his stocking feet. The eastern sky would soon brighten, but he'd be long gone by then. He'd stood in the shadows for a long time, watching the sleeping couple tangled in the damp sheets and listening to their soft breathing. He sat on the edge of the porch as if he owned the place, pulled on his shoes, and walked in the open until he reached the woods, not caring that he left a trail in the wet grass. It might make it more fun if they noticed.
***
The Motorola mounted under the Plymouth's dash squawked. Deputy Anna Sloan's soft voice cut through the static. “Ned, you there?”
The slender deputy was on desk duty, working dispatch after nearly dying from a gunshot wound early in the fall. It always startled Ned to hear Deputy Sloan on the radio instead of Martha Wells. Martha had worked the day shift on dispatch for thirty years.
Without taking his eyes off the road, Constable Ned Parker leaned over and turned the volume up to drown out the stock report coming through the dash radio. His grandkids in the back seat sat forward to hear. Fifteen-year-old cousins Top and Pepper were so similar in appearance that strangers thought they were twins, though Top was unusually short for his age.
Ned plucked the microphone off the bracket. “Right 'chere.”
“There's been a bad wreck on the Lake Lamar Dam. Somebody missed the curve and went off the backside.”
“Oh, my God!” In the passenger seat, Ned's Choctaw wife, Miss Becky, covered her mouth and closed her eyes, saying a quick prayer for those in the car.
Ned stomped the foot-feed and the Plymouth Fury's big engine roared. They were on Highway 271 and had to loop through Powderly to come in from the east side. “I'm on the way, and don't you try to come out here. You ain't healed up enough yet.”
“I won't.”
Miss Becky patted the big purse in her lap, as if that would emphasize her words. “Drive careful, Ned. Don't forget them kids in the back.”
Top frowned in exasperation. “I'm not afraid of going fast.”
Ned ignored the boy's comment as warm, humid air blowing through the open window threatened to snatch the hat off his head. “I knew somebody'd go off that dam, but I didn't think it would happen so quick.”
“They got reflectors there.” Top's near-twin Pepper could never sit back and not be a part of any adult conversation. She held her long brown hair in the slipstream, adjusting the headband with one hand and holding an eagle feather in place. An Indian boy gave it to her in New Mexico and she wore it attached to a headband almost all the time.
“It don't make no difference. That curve sneaks up on you if y'ain't payin' no attention to it.”
She wouldn't quit. “You expected somebody to drown, first.”
The Lake Lamar Dam wasn't a year old, and the lake itself not quite full. Ned nearly worried himself sick from the time he heard they were going to build it only a mile from his house. His baby brother drowned when they were kids, and Ned never got over his fear of water. It was the thirty-degree bend near the midpoint of the dam that scared him the most, because he was always afraid someone would miss the shallow angle.
“Y'all hush.” He keyed the mike as he made a U-turn on the highway. “John. You get that?”
Deputy John Washington's rich, deep voice cut through the static. The huge, almost mythical black deputy was always at Ned's side. “On the way, Mr. Ned.”
The familiar voice of Sheriff Cody Parker came through. “This is Cody, Ned. I'm almost to Deport. It'll take me a while to finish up and get back there.”
“All right, then.” Ned slowed to make the left hand turn onto the winding road lined with pine and hardwood trees. Talking softly to himself, he alternately slowed and accelerated, depending on the whim of the two-lane. The lake broke into view. When they passed the recently constructed overlook point cut into the woods, he saw two pickups parked several yards away from the curve at the midpoint in the mile-long dam.
A knot of locals stood in the middle of the road, making no effort to do anything but stare downward off the backside toward the spillway.
That's when Ned knew it was bad.
Grandpa braked to a stop about twenty yards from the ragged hole in the guardrail. Several posts were sheared off at the ground, and the mangled rails bent outward over the steep drop. He angled the car to block both lanes and yanked the door handle. “Y'all stay here.”
Miss Becky folded both hands on top of the purse in her lap. “My stars.”
“It's too hot to sit in here.” Pepper rolled her window down and we watched Grandpa join the two men I recognized as Uncle Neal Box and Jimmy Dale Warner. I believe it was the first time I'd ever seen Uncle Neal out of his store, and for some reason he didn't look as big as he did behind the counter.
Pepper was right, the humidity hung heavy over the bottoms. The men milling on the road already had sweat stains under their arms and it was barely nine in the morning.
“I need some air.” In two seconds Pepper was out of the car with me right after.
“You kids don't get underfoot! Stay close to the car and don't be looking over there.” Miss Becky closed her eyes again and I figured she was praying. She spent a lot of time doing that, especially for Pepper.
“Yes ma'am!” I called over my shoulder, because I knew my dumb girl cousin wouldn't answer.
Grandpa was talking to Uncle Neal when we came up behind him, trying to stay out of his sight as long as possible. “Either of y'all been down there?”
“My knees won't let me.” Uncle Neal ran his hand through wavy white hair that stood straight up. I almost laughed at the thought of the big, soft, barrel-shaped man huffing and puffing down and back up the steep slope.
Miss Becky's eyes were still closed, so I peeked over the guardrail and saw what was left of a red car not far from the spillway at the bottom of the earth dam. It looked like it had been through the wringer because every square inch was scraped or dented. The hood and a fender lay in the dirt halfway down a long swipe through the dew that showed the car's path. A set of tracks angled down in the soft ground where someone had already worked their way down to the car.
Jimmy Dale shook his head at Grandpa's question. I knew him from the store, but he lived on Bodark Creek, not far from Telephone. “I did. There's a woman inside, and a man's body under the car. I think he was throwed out right there at the end and the car rolled over on him.”
Grandpa blew his lips out like he did when he was thinking. Sometimes he talked to himself, but there were enough men so he didn't have to. “I don't recognize the car, what there is left of it.”
Uncle Neal rattled the change in his pants pocket. “Well, it's a Pontiac Bonneville convertible and it belongs to Maggie Mayfield.”
“She's that high yeller gal from Slate Shoals.”
“She is.”
“Wonder what she was doing out this way?”
“That's the
other
piece of the puzzle. It's Frank Clay under the car.”
Grandpa studied the car, both hands in his pockets. “
Mayor
Frank Clay?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, hell. That ain't no puzzle. It's a problem.”
Jimmy Dale pulled at his ear. “What do you mean?”
“I don't know if you remember, you were probably too young, but the Mayfields and Clays got crossways during the war right after Pearl Harbor. Before it was over, more than half a dozen people were dead, some on both sides. I like to never got all that sorted out, and wouldn't have done it if Old Man Mayfield hadn't died of a heart attack one day while he was drawing water from their well.
“Somebody would have said he was murdered, if his wife and a couple of kids weren't right there in the yard when he dropped the water bucket and fell over dead as a doornail. He's the one kept it going for so long, and things settled down a few months later. Now here they are all tangled up again.”
“Maybe nothing'll happen.” Jimmy Dale stared across the lake. “Do you reckon?”
Grandpa grunted. It was answer enough.
“Nobody else in the car?”
Jimmy Dale looked like he was more interested in the lake itself than the mangled car on the other side of the dam. “Nope. Her and Frank was the only two.”
Grandpa followed his gaze and studied the calm water like the answers were floating out there on the surface. Drowning trees with shimmering green leaves fringed the edges. “She's separated from her old man. I heard she was living with her daddy-in-law, Hollis Mayfield, instead of her mama's people.”
“I don't know nothing about what niggers do.”
“Well, Jimmy Dale, her mama's white, so I reckon you ought not call her that.”
“Don't matter. Her daddy's black as⦔
“So's John Washington, but that don't make him any less a man.” He jerked a thumb toward me and Pepper. “Them's my grandkids, so watch what you call people.”
It was a shock to realize he knew we were there, even though he still had his back to us and we'd moved side to side like two of The Three Stooges to stay behind him. I always figured he had eyes in the back of his bald head, and he sure proved it to me that time.
Jimmy Dale wouldn't leave it alone. “Why? She didn't have no business riding around with Frank Clay. They're married to different people.”
“She might have give him a ride.” Grandpa rubbed the back of his sweaty neck. “I do that all the time with Mrs. Peters.”
“It ain't the same.”
I always thought Mrs. Peters was the sweetest old woman I ever met, besides my Miss Becky. Though Mr. Peters had a truck just like every other man in Center Springs, Mrs. Peters walked everywhere she went, hoofing it in her old sensible shoes. She even walked from their unpainted house up behind the cotton gin to the Assembly of God church across the pasture from our house, no matter if it was Sunday or for night services, rain or shine, cold or hot.
Grandpa looked a little aggravated. “Everybody gives her a ride, if she'll take it, and she usually does. They pick up Cliff Vanderberg, too. Folks still help others.”
Uncle Cliff walked just as much because he didn't have a car, only it was mostly from his house to the store and back.
Mr. John Washington's highway patrol cruiser rounded the bend and came past the overlook to slow down and squeeze past Grandpa's Plymouth. He crept past us to the other side and used his car to block the highway from that direction, putting us in a safe pen on top of the dam.
Jimmy Dale turned so he didn't face Mr. John straight on when he walked up. I guess it was better than turning his back on him, but not by much.
Mr. John winked at us. “Mr. Ned. You was right. This old lake is already tied to death and it ain't a year old.” As usual, he was chewing on a toothpick. “Who is it this time?”
“Maggie Mayfield.”
He sucked in his breath and sidled over to the steep drop-off to see the car below. “I reckon somebody's done made sure she ain't hurtin' down there.”
“I did.” Jimmy Dale didn't take his eyes off the lake.
Pepper whispered close and the eagle feather in her hair tickled when it brushed my neck. “He was worried they didn't go down and check on somebody who's colored.”
Her comment shook me, because I couldn't believe anyone would leave a person alive and hurting in such a bad wreck. “How do you know that?”
She didn't answer, because she wanted to hear the men's conversation.
“Was Tylee in the car with her?” Mr. John directed his question toward Grandpa, because he could already see that Jimmy Dale didn't think much of him.
“Said Frank Clay's underneath.”
“Ohhhhhh.” He trailed off.
Grandpa didn't look at Mr. John. He studied the torn up slope of the dam. “What'n hell's a big wheel in a small town doing out running around with a colored girl? They were just asking for trouble.”
Pepper whispered in my ear again. “Frank Clay's the mayor and Tylee's that woman's husband.”
“How do you know all this?”
She rolled her eyes and we leaned again. I bet it looked like one of those
Wild Kingdom
shows in TV where birds bob their heads around to one another. “I listen.”
“Well, I listen too, but I don't hear these kinds of things.” A car pulled up and two men got out. I recognized them both.
“That's 'cause you tune people out when they're not talking about hunting and fishing. You ought to get your nose out of them books of yours and you'll hear a lot more than you do.”
She was probably right. I spent a lot of time reading when adults were around, because they usually talked about things I didn't have any use for. I stood there wishing I'd paid more attention.
The two new arrivals hadn't said a word. One was Chester Davis, who farmed in the bottoms, and the other was Rod Post, the community's shade tree mechanic who worked on everything from cars to tractors.
Mr. Rod let out with a low whistle. “That roll beat the
hound
out of that Bonneville.”
Beyond them, I saw Mr. Ike Reader's green GMC pickup coming our way from Center Springs. Grandpa saw it too. He reached around, grabbed my shoulder and pulled me to his side. “Go get your grandmother and tell her Ike Reader's gonna take y'all home.”
“We're not going to town after all?” That's where we were headed when Grandpa got the call. Going to town was a big deal for me. Miss Becky bought groceries while me and Pepper went to the show. We usually made a stop at the Woolworths so I could get either a comic, a book, or a model car. Pepper always bought 45s that she played on her red and white portable record player.
He gripped tighter without looking at me.
“Yessir.” When he turned me loose, I walked to the car. “Grandpa says Mr. Ike's gonna take us back to the house.”
Miss Becky gathered her purse like she'd been expecting it. “That'll be just fine. We can get groceries later.”
Pepper fell in beside me and didn't say a word as Miss Becky led us past the men who all said hello but really wanted to get back to talking about the wreck. I knew Pepper was planning something, though. I just couldn't figure it out.
We passed through the men and the hole torn in the guardrail. There was a really short set of skid marks that led to the gap. I could imagine the shriek of rubber as the car went through the rail.
Grandpa met Mr. Ike before he could get to the knot of men. The jerky little farmer was talking long before he got to Grandpa and it aggravated that old bald man to no end.
“Ned, listen, you need for me to do anything?”
Grandpa took off his straw hat. “Sure do.” He rubbed the sweat off his head and replaced it. “I need you to take Becky and these kids home.”
Mr. Ike's face fell, and I could tell he'd rather do anything than drive us to the house.
“Thank you, Ike.” Miss Becky gave his skinny arm a pat through his gray shirt sleeve and led the way to the truck, with us marching along behind like baby ducks.
Mr. Ike stuttered a little. “Well, all right then. Listen, listen Ned, I'll be right back once I drop 'em off.”
“That'll be fine, Ike. Thank-yee.”
With Miss Becky in the cab, and us kids riding on the tailgate with our feet dangling into space, Mr. Ike carefully turned his truck around. When he was backing up, I looked across the creek bottom from that high point like I always did to see our house, over a mile away. Behind it was the barn, sitting on the hill above
our
hill. Down and to the left, I could barely see the roof of Uncle Cody and Aunt Norma Faye's house that Mr. Tom Bell willed to them after he disappeared down in Mexico.
Mr. Ike stopped and as he ground the gears into first, I looked down between my feet and saw a two-foot skid mark shaped in a crescent moon over the solid yellow lines in the middle of the highway.
Mr. Ike accelerated as a wrecker pulled up from the far side of the dam, followed by two ambulances. One of them was a sprung Cadillac from the funeral home the colored people used.
It was a good thing, because the other one wouldn't have transported a high-yellow woman for love nor money.
