The Deputy

By C.M. Albrecht

An escaped convict finds refuge as a hired hand on a small farm. But the farm belongs to a deputy sheriff.

In this dark tale everybody has an agenda, the fugitive, the sheriff, the sheriff’s wife and everybody else in the small town of Ashley.

Things in Ashley have to come to a head ...and they do. In a terrible way!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Jun 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781613861448

Book preview

Chapter 1

Somewhere along the way he had heard people speak of the butterfly effect, and at three in the afternoon on that chill and hazy autumn day, Willis Knapp, Jr. thought about that for a moment as he hopped and scrabbled over rough terrain between dogwood trees, boulders and broken fencing. His thin lips twisted in a sardonic grin. He remembered hearing that someplace and it suddenly came to him that the saying made a sort of crazy sense. But in this case the catalyst wasn’t a butterfly.

It was a coyote.

And the result produced effects no butterfly or coyote could ever dream of.

The sky above grew more menacing and with a sinking feeling, Willis knew it was going to rain. He could smell it coming.

Only half an hour earlier the bus carrying him and five other prisoners had been rolling smoothly along the empty highway that ran from the county jail to the Interstate. Willis sat with his hands cuffed to a chain belt. Another chain dropped to cuffs on his ankles. There was no way to get comfortable. He slouched sadly in his seat staring glumly through a discolored Plexiglas window as the drab indistinct countryside rolled by.

The bus smelled. It smelled of the prisoners and their two guards and the driver and it smelled of all the other prisoners and guards and drivers who had gone before them. It would always smell. Willis thought briefly about that in his despair.

He dropped his eyes and stared hopelessly at his knees. The sleeves of his denim jacket covered his muscular tattooed arms. Only his bronzed hands cuffed with steel cuffs remained visible, tucked down at his sides.

The bus rumbled along. No one spoke, each prisoner wrapped in his own personal misery while the guards had nothing to say, neither to the prisoners nor to each other.

Life without parole. Willis had been half-expecting that. After all, he was a three time loser. He smiled faintly as a speck of saliva appeared at the corner of his thin lips, clinging to his unshaven beard. Three time loser. Hell, he was a full time loser. Born to lose. That song could have been written especially for Willis Knapp, Jr. It sure fit.

Just at that moment the bus gave a slight bump jolting Willis out of his forlorn reverie and then it happened.

Through the fogged window his eyes caught the flash of a coyote as it ran out onto the highway directly in the path of the oncoming gray-green prison bus.

Taken by surprise, the driver instinctively slammed on the brakes swerving at the same moment and as the terrified coyote disappeared into underbrush on the other side of the highway, the bus tilted, skidded and slid back toward the highway. While mouths flew open all yelling at once adding to the confusion, the frantic driver fought to regain control of his bus, but he was too slow and too clumsy.

Tires screeched sickeningly and the bus skidded around until it slid sideways on the highway and then as it began a turn toward the direction it had just come from, it tilted ominously and amid the cries of its occupants, the bus slowly rolled over onto its side landing with a heavy thud against the asphalt, and skidded into the ditch that ran alongside the roadway.

One of the guards had banged his head against the roof and lay unconscious at the rear and the nearest prisoner rolled out of his seat and got a hand close enough to grab the keys that hung from his belt. The other guard, conscious but dazed, failed to see this until it was too late.

Heavy fists crashed down on his head as hands scrabbled for his weapon and more keys. In less time than it took for the bus to crash, most of the men were free, scrambling for the door, some laughing, some cursing. The hapless driver, unarmed, lay buckled in his seat, unable or unwilling to move.

Willis felt his feet coming free and then his hands as one of the prisoners unlocked his cuffs. His heart exulted in a leap of joy. Resigned a moment ago to spending his life behind bars in a gloomy prison with a dangerous reputation, he found himself suddenly and unexpectedly free, free to go wherever he pleased.

Willis had not yet had time to think about the possibility of having authorities catch him and return him to prison. Even if he had taken a moment to consider the consequences, he’d have said facing life without parole didn’t offer many options. There wasn’t much more they could do to him now.

As Willis climbed up through the door a deafening blast from a guard’s shotgun blew away the head of the hapless driver for no reason at all. Momentarily deafened by the blast, Willis turned his head sharply and saw a skinny older convict throw down the shotgun. He turned and followed Willis.

Willis easily pulled himself up and from the side of the bus, lowered himself down onto the turf. As he ran he realized the skinny shooter was at his heels. But Willis was fast. He left the other behind as he took off at a dead run.

A bit farther down the highway Willis headed off into the countryside. Sticking to the highway could only prove dangerous unless he was able to secure a ride immediately and at that moment no rides were visible in either direction, the main highway still being a couple of miles distant.

Prisoners had scattered in all directions, some in small groups, others singly, Willis took his own route. He didn’t know any of the others well enough to want to join up with them, and he instinctively felt that he had a better chance alone than running with the other felons.

Before he got fifty feet into the countryside, he turned his head at the sound of heavy breathing to see the man who shot the driver only twenty feet behind him.

Willis stopped short.

Don’t try to follow me man, he told the prisoner. We need to split up.

I’m hurt, the prisoner said, holding his left arm. I cut my arm bad when the bus turned over.

Willis looked at him, seeing blood on his torn left sleeve, but not feeling any sympathy.

Why’d you shoot the driver? he asked. He was just driving.

The man looked drawn, embarrassed. I don’t know. It was just the excitement of the moment, I guess. I don’t know exactly why I did that. You’re right. He wasn’t even armed. But shit, they got plenty more drivers where he come from.

Willis looked at him. A skinny little guy, about the same size as Willis, but older maybe… and rattier-looking.

Well, we need to split up, Willis said. There’s less chance to get caught if we split up.

The man stood there nursing his injured arm. My name’s Max. Max Condor. I’m up for murder, man. His wizened face fell. I don’t know what to do.

Willis sighed. I don’t either…Max. I just think we better split up. Stay out of sight and keep away from populated areas. That’s all I can tell you.

Without another word, Willis turned and hurried off across country again. After he’d gone some hundred yards, he turned and looked to see Max standing where he had left him. A sorry sight, standing alone under a dogwood tree, holding his left arm and following Willis with his eyes.

Despite himself Willis felt vaguely sorry for the man, but at the same time, as bad as his situation was, he didn’t want to be connected to the cold-blooded murder of the driver…or to this convicted murderer either for that matter. He turned and picked up his pace as the hazy sky cast a pale waning light on his surroundings and he felt the first thick drops of a viscous rain hitting against his face.

Willis wasn’t sure how far it was to the nearest town. When he had been brought to the last facility it had been dark when they arrived and he wasn’t at all sure where he was. Now he decided his best course was to strike out across country. To head in the direction the bus had taken seemed like a bad idea because the authorities would assume the prisoners would head in that direction and most of them had, spreading out but still heading in that general direction.

Rubbing his wrists, Willis ran off at an angle, wishing as he did so that he could have got his hands on a pistol, but the guards’ weapons had disappeared quickly. He had nothing but the wet clothes on his back, and he knew the night ahead would be cold. He was already shivering from the cold and the wet, even after his long run and now the sweat cooling under his clothing chilled him even further and he foresaw a miserable night without food or shelter.

The last time he looked back he no longer saw any sign of Max Condor and sighed at that.

Slowing now, Willis stumbled along over the rough terrain, tripping here and catching his foot there against half hidden rocks or weed covered dips in the duff. The hard cold rain continued to pour unmercifully down on his head and back but there was nothing at all Willis could do about that. He kept slogging along into the dark wet evening, a little bandy-legged convict with nothing to live for and a lot to lose.

His eyes constantly scanned the countryside around him for signs of life. He saw nothing. But sooner or later....

Job One was going to be to get rid of his prison garb. Both his jacket and the shirt beneath it had been stenciled in large white letters.

Slogging over wet, often muddy ground now he saw no signs of shelter. The scrubby trees around him offered no cover and he could only duck his head and keep walking.

Hours later, just in the last light of the day, he spied a small farmhouse off to his right. A light in the window blinked at him through the rain.

Ten minutes later, Willis stood just behind a tumbledown barn peering out at the house. Smoke rose from the chimney. Willis knew full well that anyone living out here would keep a rifle or shotgun in the house, and he wasn’t about to deal with that. He moved slowly forward and peeked through the open barn door into the barn. A tractor and an old Ford pickup stood forlornly on the damp earthen floor. On one barn wall a couple of canvas coats hung from nails. Willis stepped quickly over and found that the first one he took down had a warm flannel lining. He pulled off his rain-soaked denim jacket and zipped the canvas coat up. The denim coat he shoved down behind some piles of rubble in a corner. It probably wouldn’t be seen for months.

He looked around in the dark barn but found nothing else small enough to be of use to him. Easing open the door to the pickup he saw that the owner had left a rifle on a rack by the rear window. Tempting. But deciding it would be too dangerous for him to wander around carrying a rifle, Willis chose to leave it. He opened the glove compartment and found a Hershey bar and a pair of worn leather work gloves. He took these and slipped quietly back out into the rainy night.

The coat held up well against the rain, better than he had hoped for. He continued to stumble along throughout the night.

In the gray dawn the rain let up and he found himself approaching the outskirts of a small town.

Willis had no money, but he hoped somehow to find something, anything, to eat and drink. The Hershey bar had disappeared quickly but did little assuage his growing hunger.

Just as he stepped out onto the road that led into the town, an old Dodge station wagon came rolling along. It was too late to duck for cover. The best thing now was to act as natural as he could and keep walking.

The wagon pulled up alongside Willis and, rolling down the passenger window, the driver leaned over and called out.

Hi Stranger. Want a lift on into town?

Willis hesitated, then nodded.

Gratefully he got into the car beside an elderly man wearing bib overalls under a heavy plaid coat. His gray mustache covered and hung down around the sides of his mouth and a ratty old fedora covered most of his gray hair.

He stuck out a dark brown weathered hand. Thick blue veins stood high on its back.

Name’s Jacob, he said.

I— Ned. Ned Carlisle, Willis said, mentioning the name of someone he had once served time with. He took the farmer’s hand, and the lines around Jacob’s eyes crinkled as he smiled in a friendly fashion.

I was just heading in for breakfast at Tillie’s place, Jacob said. Great place for breakfast.

Oh...well, I’m not too hungry, Willis said, looking ahead, listening to the slap-slap of the windshield wipers.

Jacob gave him a narrow look. Maybe you’re a bit down on your luck Ned. I been there. Hey, I’d be proud to stand you a nice filling breakfast. Nice to be able to talk to somebody different for a change. Folks around here always talk about the same thing, day after day. Crops, weather, whose cow dropped a calf, price they payin’ for eggs this week…always the same.

Willis turned his head to look at the farmer. He sighed. I can see you’re a pretty good judge of people…Jacob.

Jacob merely smiled under his mustache.

Well, you’re right. To tell the truth I’m starving, but I didn’t want to impose. I— I’m not a panhandler.

Never thought you were, Ned. Like I said, I’ll be right proud to have breakfast with you.

The Dodge passed a few small shops, mostly still closed at this early hour and nosed into the curb before a brightly lighted storefront with Tillie’s Cafe in white letters on each window to either side of the door.

Smells good already, commented Willis, sniffing.

It is good, Jacob assured him.

Chapter 2

A hundred miles to the east and a mile and a half from the small town of Ashley, the Terwilliger farm covered ten acres of flat, mostly cultivated land surrounding a small faded white frame house shaded by several tall elm trees.

Out back of the house, Janie Terwilliger was hanging clothing on the lines. Alongside the washer on the back porch sat a dryer, but she liked the fresh clean smell of line dried clothing, the fresh smell she had grown up with, and when the weather permitted, she always chose to hang her laundry outside.

That’s why I love farm living, she liked to say. That’s the way I grew up, clothes hanging on the line, waving in the breeze. I just loved to hold the sheets to my nose and breathe in their clean fresh smell, the smell of the great outdoors. Still do.

Wayne’s uniforms, his dark brown shirts and trousers, al ways went to the Louie’s Laundry and Dry Cleaners because they of course had to be perfect, and although Wayne never said so, Janie knew he didn’t trust her to do the job to his satisfaction. On the one hand it meant less work for her, but on the other hand, it did hurt just a little, feeling Wayne didn’t think she could do a good enough job. She always felt she was a disappointment to Wayne. She felt so stupid much of the time, so addle-brained. He had expected more from her, she was sure. It was no wonder he seemed more and more remote all the time. And Janie didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

A light breeze ruffled her sandy hair and the sheets and towels on the lines. She breathed in the fresh country air and sighed.

At first of course, the smell of horses and their cow turned out to be more than Janie had remembered. It had been a long time since she lived on a farm, and they never had horses, only a couple of milk cows, but once here on her very own property, she quickly adapted to that and now she simply never noticed. Besides, she kept the stables clean and sprinkled fresh straw under the horses’ hooves frequently, and during the daytime they ran free out in the pastures. Six of them, each a beauty, at least in Janie’s hazel eyes. And the cow she called Betsy. A fat Jersey that seldom strayed far from the barn. Betsy had been giving milk when they bought the farm, all the livestock included, but soon the milk ran out. No matter. Janie still liked Betsy’s big brown eyes and her friendly attitude.

Beneath Janie’s feet half a dozen chickens wandered about, clucking and pecking at whatever they found of interest in the dust. Several maple trees to the back side of the barn had begun to lose their leaves, leaves the wind had scattered about in the duff at her feet. Wet maple leaves can be very slippery and the stems seemed to last forever. She sighed. If only Wayne could find a little more free time to help with some of these chores. Still, it was something she could get around to in a day or so.

Humming softly with one eye on the forbidding sky, Janie picked up the empty basket and headed back into the house. Hopefully the laundry would be dry before it decided to rain, but she’d have to keep one eye open. She placed the basket on top of the dryer and opened the kitchen door.

Wayne always ate lunch in town, but there was dinner to think about and Janie liked to take her time and not feel rushed at the last moment. And the one last thing she really enjoyed each evening was her leisurely bath just before the final preparations for dinner. Of course Wayne more often than not came home late, more so now than before. Janie knew a deputy sheriff’s hours can be irregular. She understood that. Lawmen don’t work by the hour and get off every day at five. Nominally Wayne had a shift all right, but here at least, in Durant County, deputies were on duty twenty-four hours a day and Janie had learned to live with that. She didn’t like it, but she lived with it.

But all at once and quite unexpectedly, while she stood peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink, tears welled in Janie’s eyes as the loneliness she felt overcame her. One hand instinctively grabbed at a paper towel. She dabbed at her eyes, feeling her heart pound in her ears. She stood for a long moment, and then pulled herself together, took a deep breath and started peeling another potato, hearing the drip of water into the sink.

The slow drip-drip of the kitchen faucet no longer bothered her. Wayne had promised to do something about it two months ago, but he was always so tired by the time he got home at night. A couple of beers before dinner and another with and he was out. By now however, Janie had grown accustomed to lying in bed watching TV with the sound turned low while Wayne snoozed away beside her. He came home so tired, and while she was tired too, she simply could not roll over at ten o’clock and go to sleep. Sometimes at one or even two in the morning she still lay on her back with her eyes open, long after she had turned the TV off and hoped to go to sleep.

Knowing Wayne was actually so busy so much of the time would have made it more bearable, but down deep Janie didn’t really know. She had begun to have a nagging suspicion that other occupations kept him away. More than once she was sure she caught a faint scent of perfume. Janie remembered that one occasion when she asked him about it. He got indignant that she should even mention such a thing and finally he explained he had to arrest a drunken old gal at Lennie’s Pool Hall.

It was not in Janie’s nature to slip away from the farm and go snooping around town to find out exactly what Wayne was up to. He was always so sincere it was hard to doubt what he told her. Besides, Janie wanted to believe Wayne. She had been brought up to believe that marriage was a sacred union and a husband and wife never lied to one another. Empirically she realized this wasn’t true in many marriages, but she wanted it to be that way for her marriage. She willed it.

In their first two years of marriage Wayne couldn’t keep his hands off her. Morning and night his appetite was insatiable. It was almost too much for Janie, yet at the same time it flattered her enormously, knowing that Wayne was so crazy about her. And he showed it in other ways as well. She knew the farm was definitely not on Wayne’s list and a more selfish man might have refused to consider it, but before their marriage Wayne had promised. Unwillingly perhaps, he kept his promise and they bought the farm. He bought it for her and she loved him all the more for that.

But lately...Janie realized with a shock that it had actually been close to three months since Wayne was always too tired, or upset, or had a difficult case on his mind. Little things, and taken separately, it was understandable. After five years of marriage she imagined no one still maintained that same urgency that comes with being newlyweds. Still....

Her head came