Stones Unturned

By Terry Marsh

Rescue your kidnapped half-brother, recover millions of dollars stolen from your father, solve your mother's murder, blackmail your stepmother for a mint 1968 Camaro, and make friends with the Testosterone Twins?

Tall orders for a downtrodden high school senior.
Not a problem, though, because Frank Chandler has four days.
That should be enough time.
Right?

Frank's father has secretly sold his sizable real estate holdings for seven million dollars, all in cash. He plans to desert Frank's stepmother, Vikki, for his half-brother's sixth-grade teacher.

This plan is progressing well until Vikki finds out. She talks her brother, Marco Leish, into killing Frank's father and the poor drunken uncle Frank lives with, for a small share of the fortune.

With a taste for better things and a propensity for violence, Marco soon decides to find and keep all the money. Problem is, the fortune has vanished. Unable to extract the location of the money from Frank's father or uncle, Marco eyes Frank's half-brother with a murderous glint.

Before he met Marco, Frank's biggest problem was his lack of a car. Now that seems small.

And four days pass very, very quickly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yucca Road Productions
• Release date: Jun 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463914380

Terry Marsh

Lancashire-born writer and photographer Dr Terry Marsh specialises in the outdoors and travel. He has been writing guidebooks since the mid-1980s, and is the author or revision author/editor of over 100 titles, including the award-winning Cicerone guides to the Coast to Coast Walk (first published in 1993), The Shropshire Way (1999) and Great Mountain Days in the Pennines (2013). Terry has a long-standing interest in Cumbria and the Lake District and the Yorkshire Dales. Academically, he is an historical geographer holding a Master of Arts degree with Distinction in Lake District Studies and a PhD in Historical Geography. He is a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society (FRGS), a Life Member of the Outdoor Writers and Photographers Guild and Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland (FSA (Scot)).

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Stones Unturned

By Terry Marsh

Copyright 2020 Terry Marsh

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Other Yucca Road books by Terry Marsh

Half of What You See

Why Not?

Yucca Road Productions

Contents

Chapter 1: Exculpate

Chapter 2: Chess with Charlie

Chapter 3: And the chicken goes...

Chapter 4: She’s crazy, Frank

Chapter 5: Vikki will take good care of you

Chapter 6: gimme keys lemme drive!

Chapter 7: Careful, lady; there’s a stranger in the house

Chapter 8: Doo-wah diddy diddy dum diddy dee!

Chapter 9: Never let your pet have a pet.

Chapter 10: Like brother and sister

Chapter 11: Money, money, who’s got the money?

Chapter 12: Beer in the sun?

Chapter 13: And those two buffoons in the basement?

Chapter 14: Pretty ugly, isn’t it?

Chapter 15: the last place anyone would ever want to look for anything?

Chapter 16: As snug as a bug in a rug.

Chapter 17: Dude, I got you a present

Chapter 1: Exculpate

After the final bell on the first of October, I trudged over to the bicycle rack with the rest of the down trodden, miserable, car less bottom of the barrelers and mounted up.

The bald English teacher Mr. Barstow quickly moved toward us. You boys. Sheriff Tucker says there are a couple of bad men in town, and you should all be very careful. They grabbed one of the young Parsons boy’s crutches as they drove past him…

We all looked up at that. Is Jimmy okay? The kid had some strange disease and had used those crutches all his life.

Barstow’s forehead furrowed high on his hairless dome. Banged up, but okay. You fellows be careful, okay? He turned back toward the school.

The group shoved off in small clusters.

I pushed the torn padding of my seat together. I put all my weight on the pedal and shot down the street, keeping my distance from the others, as was my habit.

I slipped my newly acquired aviator-style sunglasses from the pocket of my jacket and curled the springy steel around my ears. For a moment, I felt cool, as if sexy women on the sidewalk (had there been any) could not see the battered bike and thread-bare blue jeans. Shades make the man. Something like that.

Those were my thoughts as I wheeled off the main drag and headed home.

I didn’t notice the gray Chevy minivan easing up behind me on the narrow street.

In the passenger seat, a thin man in a green t-shirt screwed the lid on a near-empty bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label and placed it on the floorboard in front of him. You know what would be cool, Marco? We got that crutch we grabbed off the kid with the bum leg. I could take that crutch and stick it through the spokes on this kid’s front wheel. I’ll bet that old bike would flip about twenty times, throw that kid flying right through the air like Superman. And everybody would think it was an accident—look at that old piece of shit bike, ‘bout to fall apart anyhow. He turned and reached into the back seat for the aluminum crutch.

Staring over the steering wheel at the bicycle ahead, Marco scowled. He shook his head and said, Nobody would believe that was an accident. They’d find the crutch wedged in there and know.

Hey, I was gonna get the crutch back, afterwards.

But a jolt like that would tear the crutch all up. What if you don’t get all the pieces and the cops find a single piece of it somewhere, with your fingerprints and DNA all over it?

They don’t even know what DNA is here, this little piece of shit town.

Allright, but suppose this young man here lives through the wreck. He might be able to identify the car, maybe put the finger on us, too.

Nah. Nobody around here knows us. We’ll be long gone before he gets out of the hospital anyways. And plus, we gonna ditch this car anyhow.

Marco looked over at his companion. Phil, do you understand the risks involved?

Slumping into the seat, Phil let out a long sigh. Yeah. I just thought, hey, watch the kid go flying, you know? But you’re right. I won’t do it.

Oh, I never said don’t do it. I just want to be sure you understand the risks.

Phil’s face lit up. Yeah? Well, kick this car in the ass and pull up alongside this loser.

I can do that.

I heard the car accelerate and glanced quickly over my shoulder as the minivan nosed into the lane beside me. I did a double take—what was that skinny fellow doing with the crutch?

Marco did a double take himself.

The thin man was laughing, his head and arms through the window, lining up the crutch with the moving bike.

Wait, Phil, the driver called to his reaching accomplice. He whipped the steering wheel suddenly left, away from the bike. Accelerating at full throttle, he passed me and whisked quickly on ahead.

Not that one, he told the surprised Phil. I know that one. We’ll let him go. The tight grin on Marco’s tanned, handsome face revealed straight white teeth. For now.

Phil rolled his eyes, but settled back in the seat and picked up the bottle. Whatever you say, Marco. He looked with concern at the remaining bit of liquor. You know, this sour mash shit must have a helluva rate of evaporation.

With a sidelong glance at the bottle, the driver shook his head slowly from side to side. I’m as broke as you, and I can’t get my ‘social security’ quite yet.

Looking forlornly from the near empty bottle to the roadside that flew by, the thin man said, They call it a hick town because only hicks would have it. Hicks and rednecks.

The driver turned a serious, thoughtful gaze on the pale man; his eyes of lightest brown were penetrating, hardened.

Oh... hey, I didn’t mean... Not that any of your family are hicks, of course. It’s just that...

Marco held up his hand to silence Phil. No, you’re right, unfortunately. I was just wondering, what’s the difference between a hick and a redneck? I mean, you guys all look the same to me.

Phil’s brow furled.

Marco grinned his tight grin. Oh, that reminds me. Get the dictionary.

Are you serious, man?

Marco fixed a dead-faced glare at Phil.

Oh, the dictionary, sure. Phil fairly bolted between the bucket seats to find the book on the floor behind him. Kneeling, he put the book on the back seat, opened it quickly, and stuck his finger on a page before looking down. Excruciating?

No, I know that one. Very well, in fact.

Excul… exculpate?

That’s good. What’s it mean?

To declare free from blame. Prove innocent.

Use it in a sentence.

Phil rolled his eyes, but said, Uhh… okay. How about… I’m glad I didn’t stick a crutch in that kid’s spoke, ‘cause it’d be tough to exculpate myself?

Marco grinned and turned his gaze to the road ahead. You should get a reward for that. So. Liquor, huh? I know just the place. Let's go visit Mr. Banacek.

Yeah, let's go visit Mr. Banacek. Wait...who's that?

♦♦♦

Uncle Lou was busy repairing fence when I arrived at the little house surrounded by low cedars and piñons.

As I pedaled up the long drive of hard-packed sand, I tucked my new sunglasses into my pocket once again, before Uncle Lou could spot them.

He looked up and grinned when I came into view. Hey, little pard.

Hey, I said, frowning.

He gave me a long appraising look. Whatcha so down in the mouth about, amigo?

I slipped off the bicycle and let it fall to the ground. I frowned at it. Then I kicked it.

Lou shook his head and feigned a frown. Go get the shotgun, kid. We’ll shoot the son of a gun. He reached down, picked up a cedar post in one hand, and perched it on his shoulder. He repeated the process with the other hand, effortlessly. He gave me a wink and said, Pump a few of these, Frank. It’ll make you feel better; take your mind off the bike. What happened, anyhow? Flat tire?

No, I said, frowning.

What, then? You got diarrhea?

No.

Dyslexia? The heartbreak of psoriasis?

I shook my head and started to relax.

V.D.?

I couldn’t hold back a half grin. No.

Well, pard, whatever’s buggin’ you could be worse, huh?

By this time, I had forgotten about the two men in the gray minivan. Yeah, but that don’t make it better.

Well, get off your skinny behind and grab up one of these posts. Some knothole, some asshead, tore down my fence so’s he could ride his motorcycle over here on my property, and now I gotta go cancel his ticket.

I knew what he meant, but I said, You’re gonna kill this guy? That's a bit harsh, don't you think?

Lou laughed easily. I didn’t say anything about strangulation, mangulation, or murderization; just said I’m gonna fix the fence. Make it a little harder for the next guy.

Uncle Lou was one the biggest men in our county. At six foot five and three hundred pounds, with shoulder length blond hair and a scraggly honey-red beard, he looked almost sinister in his dirty overalls. His menacing appearance was belied by the good nature that rang in his voice. His physical strength was awesome, his generosity was phenomenal, and his capacity for Coors beer was legendary.

We stacked posts and barbed wire in the bed of his old Ford pickup, Scarlett O’Hara, and headed up into the rough foothills, with Lou driving. The truck back fired once and he reckoned as how Miss Scarlett was comin’ down with somethin’.

Maybe she has truck-inosis, I speculated. She may have to have a trucky-otomy.

Oh, god. That was the worst pun you’ve made all week. Out of the mouths of boneheads. He shook his head, rolled his eyes, and reached into the beer cooler on the seat between us. You’re drivin’ me to drink, boy. And all I can say is, thank you. The big hand slapped around inside the cooler noisily. He gasped in horror. Look! he shouted, Look!

I peered uncertainly into the cooler, then shook my head sadly. Its true, Uncle Lou: no beer!

Yep. Time to see Mr. Banacek.

Uhh... I think the Walmart is having a sale. Shouldn't we go there?

Naa. Too far.

What about the drug store downtown? They're cheaper, right?

What? We always go to Banacek's. You ain't wrecked once on the way over there.

True, but don't you think we need to save a couple bucks...

Since when you worry about savin' bucks?

Maybe it's time one of us did. Whattaya think?

Come on, Scarlett, we’re burnin’ daylight. He spun the wheel abruptly and headed us back past the house. Near the gate he stopped and looked over at me. I been drinkin’ all afternoon, Frank. We better not take any chances.

He braked the old truck to a gentle stop.

I nodded in agreement and slid behind the wheel as he got out and went around to the passenger seat. So I’m the designated driver.

And I’m the designated guzzler. Now, you be careful, pard, or I’ll have to nail your hide to the fence like an expired coyote. Y’know, we still haven’t straightened Miss Scarlett’s bumper from the time you ran her into a post.

I shot him a rueful glance.One time! One time! I think it's about time we forget about that.

He put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. Alright, alright, all I’m sayin’ is, just be careful. He looked out the window and muttered softly, Truck wrecker.

So, the designated driver gets to pick the destination. I say we go to the store downtown. To save a couple bucks.

What? We might save a buck on beer and spend two on gas. Mr. Banacek's waitin' and we don't want to disappoint him, now, do we? Let's go.

I definitely did not want to go to Banacek's, but Uncle Lou was determined. I crammed the well worn shift lever into what I thought was first, revved the engine, and popped the clutch. The old truck lurched forward a yard or two, sputtered, and died. I looked at Lou, expecting some remark.

He sat patiently, waiting for me to select the right gear.

I found the gear and let the clutch out slowly, moving the old truck forward. Sorry.

No problem. The transmission’s getting worn. You usually do real good. Everyone has an off day now and then.

I looked over at him. I’ve been having a lot of ‘em lately.

He put a beefy mitt on my shoulder. I know. Welcome to the human race, little pard. Believe it or not, we all got doubts about ourselves. At least, most of us do. And them that don’t... well those guys are the ones you gotta look out for. What’s that cute little term Charlie’s always usin’?

Jackassoid?

Yeah, that’s it. People who got no doubts about anything they do—they’re jackassoids. Run away from them suckers as fast as your little spindly legs will carry you.

I know what you’re sayin’, but the jackassoids really aren’t my problem right now. My whole life is up in the air. I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me or what to do after high school or...

I don’t want to over simplify things, Frank, but if you’ll just hang out and grin, things will fall into place for you. You recognize your problems— that’s good. You got doubts about yourself— that’s good too. Makes you think, and that’s how you grow. But, now, you gotta relax. Hang out and grin. Face it; you’re ‘at an awkward age.’

You're a philosopher now? Okay, so tell me, Professor, how long before life gets less ‘awkward’?

He rested his arm on the cooler between us. I guess, really, it’s always awkward. You just kind of get used to it, like you get used to zits or b.o. or lumps in Aunt Carol’s mashed potatoes. I mean, if it was easy, Carol would still be here, instead of…

I wanted to avoid the conversation about Aunt Carol, knowing it would bring us down, and shot him a quarrelsome look. I gotta go through life like some jerk with a corncob up his... nose?

He nodded his head knowingly. Just like the rest of us poor slobs. He grinned. Fortunately, you got room for a whole bag of corncobs in that hooter of yours.

Hey! Watch it, now.

Oh, did I say that? So sorry!

No you’re not. That was a cruel, mean, nasty thing to say to a sensitive young man like myself, and now you have to make it up to me. So, can I borrow Miss Scarlett this weekend? I might have a date.

A date. You? Go on.

Hey! I’ve had dates.

Lou looked at me and nodded. Yeah, I know. Regular, too. Let’s see, it’s been about a year... so I guess you’re due.

I shrugged. True, I hadn’t done much dating. Guess it’s one of those things... some do, some don’t.

He patted my shoulder. One of these days, some little filly... He stopped and leveled a doubtful look at me. You did mean to ask out a human, didn’t you?

I gave him a quick jab in the shoulder. No, I’m in love with a sheep.

He made a fist and banged on the dusty dash. I knew it. Baa-aa-ad boy. Baa aa-ad boy.

I gave him two more quick jabs, and said, If you must know, I might ask Penny Barstow.

You mean that new teacher’s baby girl? He wiggled his eyebrows up and down. Holy moly, I’d ask her out myself if I was twenty years younger. But it’d ruin her for a mere mortal.

Geez, I moaned.

We lumbered down the long drive to the pavement, turned right, and drove slowly past scattered vacant lots and newly constructed houses in the growing residential area. We crossed Cedar Street in silence, and I saw Lou looking up toward Willie and Vikki’s huge house with the two Cadillacs in the garage and the swimming pool and tennis court out back.

Trying to get a rise from him, I said, Hey, Uncle Lou, just get that nice Mr. Chandler to give you a raise. Then you can afford a new transmission for Miss Scarlett.

He kept looking out the window.

It wasn’t like him to ignore me, and his lack of response was disquieting. I tried to change my tack. Did you hear that Ford recalled a bunch of cars today? Yeah, ol’ Henry Ford himself saw a Model T passing by, and he said, ‘Hey, I recall that one.’ Then he saw a Crown Victoria and a Mustang and said, `Whoa, I recall those, too.

Oh, man, that was the worst, Lou said, but he grinned and gave my short brown hair a quick rumple.

The Banacek Liquor Store shared a dirty white building with a run down Laundromat. The laundromat was run by a mousey little man who constantly complained to the owner of the liquor store about inebriated customers sleeping on his sidewalk. Mr. Banacek placated the little laundryman with complimentary Jack Daniels, which did not resolve the situation by any means but served to make the ornery fellow more benevolent for a time.

There were nicer places in town, but this one was nearby.

I eased the old truck up beside a newer model gray minivan that was facing the street, its motor running.

On the sidewalk in front of the laundromat the small bespectacled owner was using a broom handle to wake up a man on the sidewalk, prodding indelicately at the dirt caked crotch and ribs.

That’s pretty odd, Lou said.

Naw, I’ve seen him do it lots of times. He’s really tough on those winos, boy.

Lou caught my hand as I reached for the key. I don’t mean him; I mean that van. Looks like it’s ready for a quick getaway.

I looked over at the boxy gray Chevy, unsure whether it was the one I had encountered on the road earlier. We peered at the liquor store window but saw only reflections of the parking lot against the sale signs.

Lou patted my shoulder and gave me a wink. Tell you what; let’s play James Bond, just for kicks. You pull Miss Scarlett around the building. If anything goes strange, you put this sucker in gear and get out of here. He swung his door open and stepped onto the hard-packed dirt.

But… wait!

He held up his hand for silence. Now, nothin’s gonna happen— there’s probably nothin’ wrong here. Probably somebody just left their car runnin’ because the battery’s no good, and faced it toward the street so they could get a jump if it died. He was talking in a hushed tone. I’ve done that before, too, when ol’ Scarlett had a shot battery.

That’s practically a brand new car.

No theory is flawless.

But what if... I mean, let’s call the cops. For the ten-thousandth time, I wished I had a cell phone.

Sheriff Tucker? He’s worthless. But, I’ll ask that nice laundry guy to call the ol’ jerk, just to keep you happy. With that, he was off.

I silently shook my fist at his backside, but did as instructed, and drove to the side of the laundromat. I did a u-turn, eased the truck alongside the building and parked so that I could see down the sidewalk to the liquor store.

Uncle Lou looked back at me and turned on the sidewalk, Anything happens, you hightail it out of here. Okay?

And leave you here? I couldn’t do that.

That's what I thought you'd say, so promise.

But what if...

Promise?

From the expression on his face, I knew there was no sense in arguing. It was the same expression he had always used, as long as I could remember, to get me to go to bed on time, or pick up my room, or recant a little white lie.

I rolled my eyes and threw up my hands. Okay.

Lou, hands tucked casually into the big overall pockets, strode down the sidewalk toward the laundry owner. He smiled nonchalantly at the little man. Hello there.

Sweeping furiously, the mousy fellow backed toward his door and ducked inside.

Stepping over the inebriated body on the sidewalk, Lou poked his head into the door and said, Say, you wouldn’t be the fella that’s been pokin’ my brother here with a broom, would you? He made his voice deeper, sounding very serious, and jabbed his thumb in the direction of the recumbent figure, whom he had never seen before. Bubba told me about you.

Oh, no, not me, the little man said, Must be somebody else. I just sweep so’s he’ll have a nice clean place to lay down!

I see! Lou growled. He backed out and closed the door behind him, looking down the sidewalk to give me a wink. Then he stuck his face against the window of the laundry and licked the glass, making gnashing gestures with his teeth and rolling his eyes about wildly.

Shaking mightily, the little sweeper backed nervously behind the counter and grabbed the telephone receiver.

Lou looked to where I sat in the truck. He gave a big grin and held a hand to his head, thumb and little finger extended to indicate a telephone, then twirled both index fingers in the air above his head, imitating police lights. With a hand to his mouth to cover his laugh, he turned and headed for the liquor store, pressing his bulk against the wall and glancing back and forth in a melodramatic style intended for my amusement.

If I hadn’t known him, I would have called the cops myself.

At first Lou could see only rows of bottles and colorful liquor ads cluttering the aisles. Moving carefully toward the door, he came in view of the counter and the owner of the shop standing behind the cash register.

A pale, thin man in a green T shirt faced the register, his back to Lou. A