Bridge To No Good

By Michael George

After the murder of his fiancée, Mack Thomas leaves Minnesota and goes to his uncle’s ranch in Texas. While there, he learns that the death of his wife two years ago wasn’t an accident but murder. After getting a description of the murderer and knowing that it had something to do with a resort complex being built in a wildlife

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Dec 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643457949

Michael George

Michael is a retired carpenter with a varied working background - operated and programmed the old main frame computers, managed a 24/7 service station, managed a dairy farm, owned and operated a furniture building company, worked in various warehouses and food stores, and even picked potatoes with Mexican migrant farm workers. He was married for 55 years, had 5 children with only 3 still living, and has countless grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Books by Michael George

Horses Lemons and Pretty Girls

Rains Barrels And Bridges

Finding Peri Gray

The Refuge series

Why A Refuge

Bridge To No Good

Grass Was Greener

For my siblings:

Eloise—She got me started writing.

Bud—We had so many good years, and he taught me carpentry.

David—It’s his encouragement now that keeps me writing.

Ellen—It seems we almost always agree, and she is a great friend.

Prologue

Shaking with anger, he walked to the door of the small motel room.

Well, Julie, he said, putting on his hat and picking up his suitcase, I’m going. He took a single key out of his pocket. Here’s the key to the truck. He set it on the dresser near the door. I’ll catch a ride with Jimmy. You come when you want to or stay here, it’s up to you.

She picked up the ashtray from the bed stand and threw it at him as he went out.

Damn you, she yelled. You don’t have to ride in this one!

She dropped down on the bed, wondering why he couldn’t understand how tired she was, and cried until she fell asleep. Four hours later, she woke up with a start, for a moment not sure where she was. She reached over to touch him, then realized he was gone. She cried again, remembering why. The fight seemed so silly now.

She got out of bed slowly, showered, slipped on her clothes, put the room key on the nightstand, and went out into the night. The old truck started instantly, its engine finely tuned, even though it looked as though its pockmarked body was about to disintegrate.

I don’t care what it looks like, he’d told her a hundred times, but I’m not about to let you even drive it around the block if it isn’t mechanically sound. You mean too much to me to ever take that kind of a chance.

You mean as much to me, she said to herself as she put the old truck in gear, so I’ll be there tomorrow to watch you ride, no matter how hard I have to push it to get there.

She quickly left the motel parking lot and was doing a steady eighty before she was out of the seemingly deserted town. She opened the driver’s side wing window and felt the soft summer air swirl around in the cab and caress her cheeks. She felt better now, knowing she would see him in about eight hours, knowing he would be glad to see her, and knowing that when night came again, making up would be special. Their fights were few, and they always made up quickly. She knew their lovemaking would be intense and lingering when she joined him again and suddenly wished he was with her now.

There were four hundred miles of rough, winding, two-lane highway to drive, through a barren desert and sometimes mountainous land, with no stops because there were no large towns. Only cactus and scrub mesquite. Most of the grass was gone, and the few cattle grazing were kept off the highway by barbed-wire fences on both sides of the road. The three a.m. highway was deserted and would, she knew, stay empty most of the drive. All she needed to do was push hard, on the edge, taking advantage of every straight and level stretch, only taking care going through the mountains.

She would be there in eight hours, on time for his first bull ride. Early enough to be terrified for that endless, heart-stopping eight seconds he fought so hard to stay on one of those huge angry animals.

She always brought him luck, he said, though it was hard to believe given his lack of winning lately. Maybe he’d do better at this one. A lot of the regulars weren’t going to ride, so most of his competition would be local cowboys. He’d been right all along, and she regretted starting the fight about it. The prize money wasn’t much, she was right about that, but if he won, it’d be more than he’d made for a while. They did need the money, of that there was no doubt.

It took less time than she expected to reach the foothills. She was filled with confidence and continued to push the old pickup as she climbed constantly upward into the high country. The first long run downhill was straight, with a wide, sweeping curve at the bottom. Normally, she’d have used the brakes, along with shifting into a lower gear, much of the way down. This time, she let the truck choose its own speed. She was halfway down and doing sixty miles an hour before she applied the brakes. They slowed her some, then failed. She pumped the brake pedal frantically. It dropped to the floor without responding. Desperately, she tried to downshift from third to second gear, the transmission grinding loudly. It was too late. She was doing ninety when she entered the curve. She quickly lost control, and the truck flew across the ditch on the left side of the highway. It swerved sideways hard until a front wheel hit a rut, then rolled over.

How could this be happening? she wondered as the truck went over. Mack was always so careful about maintaining the brakes.

Chapter 1

Mack Thomas stood on the front porch, watching the sun slowly light the rugged Texas landscape. There was a chill in the air, so the mug of yesterday’s microwaved hot black coffee went down easy as he slowly sipped it.

Watching the sun come up while standing on the porch of his uncle Roy’s ranch house was something he’d done since his first morning there. Yet the sight never bored him. He faced north. On his left were mountains, in front of him and to his right, the high desert. The corral and outbuildings were behind the house, and the only sign of human life he could see, in the vast panorama stretched out before him, was a narrow dirt road and power lines alongside it, carrying the electric and phone lines. There were fences out there he knew, after having repaired so many of them, yet he appreciated the fact that he couldn’t see them. Given the way he’d felt since the death of his fiancée, Mandy, six months before, the less he saw of humanity, the better.

The bitterness her death had left him with was nearly gone. His sense of loss wasn’t. If anything, it was deeper than ever. Without his friend Wanda there, he wasn’t sure he could handle it. Especially at night when the terror came and he woke up with cold sweats, his hands trembling and his heart pounding wildly.

If it were only the dreams of Mandy haunting him, he was sure he’d have them under control. Mandy wasn’t the only one, though, to bring on the night terror. A year before she was killed, he lost his wife, Julie, in an accident. An accident he blamed himself for, even though he wasn’t directly involved in it. He blamed himself for Mandy’s death too, although there was nothing he could have done to prevent it either.

Wanda was always there now, although he sometimes wished she wasn’t. Having her stay with him left him with a deep sense of guilt. Wanda loved him, he knew, and he cared for her deeply. But he doubted he could ever love her the way she loved him.

With the exception of one night, which started with a terrible nightmare and turned to incredibly wild yet very gentle lovemaking, there was never anything physical between them.

It happened shortly after they came to the ranch from Minnesota. His memories of the morning after were still stronger than those of the night. She woke up holding him, her eyes filled with hope. All he could give her in return was his heartfelt guilt. He wanted her to leave then. She asked for another day, which turned into a week, and now it was months since the night. He never again asked her to go and she never volunteered.

She was always there in the night when he needed her, holding his hand and wiping the sweat from his face, waiting until sleep returned to him. She never complained and never asked for anything. How she always knew when he needed her while she slept in another bedroom was something he didn’t understand. She always knew though, and she was always there for him.

The way she was there now, making breakfast. The scent of perking coffee and frying bacon was drifting out onto the porch. He knew she’d soon be calling him and his uncle Roy to sit down and eat. The meal would be simple, filling, and adequately cooked. Quite unlike her first attempts at breakfast. Wanda was a quick study though, and after two lessons on how to fry an egg over-easy and bacon crisp, she did fine. Other meals she’d cooked on her own from the beginning and always did a competent job.

As he did most days, Roy joined them at the breakfast table with bare feet, wearing yesterday’s jeans and an unbuttoned clean shirt. His hair was in a state of disarray and his naturally heavy beard still unshaven. As always, he had a smile on his face and the same comment for Wanda.

*     *     *

You’re spoiling this old man, Wanda, he said as he sat down. You keep it up and I might be wanting to marry you.

Never’ll happen, Roy, she answered, until you stop running from me.

I haven’t been running, I’ve been polite.

If that’s polite, I wish you’d get rude.

Mack laughed at them, then said, She might be telling you the truth, Roy.

Could be, Roy answered. Time will tell.

As Roy and Wanda continued to tease, Mack became quiet, thinking that Roy and Wanda would be perfect for each other. As their banter continued, he let his thoughts drift to Mandy and Julie.

He tried, as he always did, to understand why they died. As always, he couldn’t find a reason. He knew how Mandy died. Julie was another story and the way she died more difficult to accept. She never drove as fast or as reckless as she did the night she had the accident. Why did she that night? He doubted he’d ever find the answer to his question. The accident happened too long ago and too far away.

Chapter 2

Johnny Earle was eighteen, and it was only his second day on the job. When he yelled at the foreman to stop the concrete pour, it was difficult to get the man’s attention. Nobody ever listens to a rookie construction laborer. Especially not when he’s trying to be heard over the din of a large construction site and the foreman considers him to have the equivalent value of a wheelbarrow with a flat tire.

What’s your problem, boy? the foreman, Lester Accrid, yelled back when, after a great deal of effort, Johnny finally got his attention.

There…there’s somethin’ down there, Johnny stammered, terrified of the seemingly huge bully of a man.

What’s down there, asshole? We got a bridge to build and concrete to pour. We ain’t got time to be stoppin’ because some pussy-faced diptwit sees something or another in a hole. You don’t go stoppin’ a concrete pour. Now back off before you’re what’s in the hole!

But…but… Johnny stammered again, more from fear than the cold March wind blowing up his back. But nothing. Move!

There’s somebody down there!

Whadda ya mean?

There’s somebody in the hole.

Jee-suss Kee-riste! Tell ’em to get the hell out of it.

I can’t.

Why not?

’Cause whoever it is looks dead…I think.

He damn well better not be. We ain’t got time for this today. Too much concrete to pour.

Lester walked over to the hole, shaking from fury with Johnny and whatever was in the hole he wanted to fill. From his point of view, nothing was as important as the work he wanted to get done that day. As he reached the hole, he swung out his left arm, pushing Johnny out of the way, even though there was enough room for several people to stand there and look down at the bottom of it.

Well, hell! he said when he saw the body. Why’d you have to stick your nose down there. This is going to cost us a lot of time. Cops’ll be all over the place now. You’re going to be lucky if I don’t fire you, causing us problems like this. The company sure ain’t gonna like what this is gonna cost.

I’m sorry, Johnny said. I thought I should tell you before it got buried in all that cement.

The shit’s called concrete, you mindless twit. Next time, do your job and keep your nose out of these holes. Now get up to the superintendent’s trailer and call the cops since you’re the one what found it.

Johnny moved as fast as he could over the muddy and sometimes ice-covered ground. He knocked on the door of the heated trailer because he was as afraid of the construction superintendent as he was of the foreman.

What? the superintendent, Russell Blitz, bellowed in answer to his knock.

I need to use the phone, Johnny answered.

Toilet’s outside.

I need to use the phone.

He opened the trailer door and glared at Johnny. I told you the toilet’s…

I know where the toilet is, Johnny said, keeping his eyes on the ground. Lester said I had to be the one to call.

Call who? Lester knows better than to send some useless laborer in here to use the phone. Maybe I’ll get a new foreman. What do you want the phone for?

To call the police.

What for? Whatever tools were taken ain’t never coming back even if you call the police. It’s a waste of time. Get back to work.

You don’t understand—

Listen, you stupid idiot, I understand more than you ever will, even if you’re around here for a million years. I was working construction twenty years before you ever sucked your mama’s tit. Now get back to work before I fire you and that fool, Lester.

You don’t understand. I have to call the police and tell them about the—

No point in telling them about the tools. Tools don’t mean nothing. Time. Time’s the only thing means a damn, and you better real quick start making it. You’re burning daylight with nonsense, and I hate that. Not to mention, I don’t like paying to heat the outdoors. He slammed the door.

Johnny knocked again. The man opened the door, his face now a lobster red. Johnny was sure he could see smoke pouring out of the man’s nose and ears, so he hesitated for a second, waiting for the fire to start. When he spoke, he talked as fast as he could, racing to finish explaining before he was interrupted.

You found what?

A dead body down in one of the footings we were going to pour. Lester said I had to be the one to call the police because I was the one who found it.

Well, for Christ’s sake, call them and be done with it. I think you’ve wasted about enough time standing here already. That’s the trouble nowadays. You can’t get decent help nohow. Stand around talking ’stead of doing what needs to be done. He looked at Johnny, who was still standing outside the door. Well, why are you still standing there?

Where is the phone, sir?

Right there, he said, waving his hand toward one end of the trailer, where did you think it was?

Johnny found the phone on a desk under a pile of blueprints and dialed 911. The lady listened carefully to him, got his name, then asked for an address.

I don’t have an address, Johnny said. It’s at the construction site in the wildlife refuge where we’re building the bridge over the river. The body’s in one of the holes that was dug for footings. Can you tell the police to hurry? Everyone’s mad at me for finding it. They want to pour the cement as soon as they can. The trucks are already here.

I imagine they are, Johnny, the lady said. I’ll get someone there as soon as possible.

Thank you, Johnny said, then hung up the phone.

Well! said Superintendent Blitz, glaring at Johnny as he hurried out of the trailer.

Johnny heard a siren before he got back to the hole with the dead body in it. Within minutes, Sheriff Dale Magee arrived at the construction site. Lester met him on the road.

Let’s hustle it up, Sheriff, he said. We got work to do here. We’re running behind schedule and we got no time to waste, waiting on you.

Is that right, Lester? Dale answered, suppressing a smile. He’d dealt with Lester before and was aware of his incessant impatience with all aspects of life. Show me where the body is.

Lester led the way, stopping frequently in an attempt to hurry Dale’s intentionally leisurely pace. When they neared the hole, he grabbed Dale’s arm to speed him along the last few feet. Dale peeled his fingers loose and walked slower than ever the last few feet. He peered down the hole for a few minutes before saying anything, staring at the obviously dead body, then turned to Lester.

Okay, Lester, Dale said, it does appear to be a body down there. I think it’s a kid. This construction site is now officially shut down until the body is removed and we’ve made a thorough search of the area. I’m going back to my car to call the backup I need. Have a ladder ready for me so I can climb down there when I get back.

But…but…but you can’t do… Lester sputtered.

Dale waved a hand at him and walked away. He made the necessary call, then took a moment to look at the progress they’d made since his last visit to the bridge.

It was going to be a high one. The new roadbed was nearly a mile long. The span crossing the river was over nine hundred feet for a river that was less than a hundred feet wide where the bridge was being built. It looked ridiculously out of place now, even though it would soon be needed. A huge dam was being built downstream to create a lake, and this was the best spot for miles to build the bridge. The lake would be narrower here, so it was being built at what was considered a reasonable cost.

The bridge was crossing a section of the St. Catherine River that was recently part of the Clayborne National Wildlife Refuge. It was now owned by the Lands Magnificent Corporation, and they were making a lake out of the river. A huge resort was being built around it. The bridge was necessary to tie the north end of the resort together. The existing bridge was way too low and short and would be under water after the lake was formed. So the county, the State of Minnesota, and the federal government were kind enough to pay for the construction costs. After all, the general public would also be using the narrow county road that was soon to be a highway.

Dale shook his head, hating the destruction he was witnessing. Absolutely no care was being taken to preserve any of the surrounding wildlife habitat or the quality of the river’s water. Hundreds of trees, some of them giant oaks over a century old, were ripped out and burned. The few days it would have taken to salvage the trees for timber were considered, by the construction company, as too time costly. The destruction of the trees was considerably more extensive than was necessary, only to make it slightly easier to move heavy machinery around. Already, huge ravines had formed where the ongoing snowmelt and rainwater washed away the now-bare riverbanks.

Dale was in favor of the huge project initially, believing it would be a boost to the local economy. He now knew better. The construction companies involved in building the bridge, dam, and resort were using nonunion labor and subcontractors from out of state because wages were lower. All the subcontractors brought their own crews with them. The only jobs filled by local people were on the very low end of the pay scale because none of the few Minnesota subcontractors involved used union crews either. It was a stretch to find anyone on the job with adequate training.

As was the case around the bridge, with the exception of one eighty-acre plot, everywhere construction was taking place, the damage to the environment was enormous.

It wasn’t only the natural environment that was being damaged. The human environment in the region of the project also had a multitude of new problems. Crime was up in the surrounding towns, mostly fights and public drunkenness on Friday and Saturday nights among the various out-of-town construction crews. Traffic problems were way beyond the scope of the meagerly financed sheriff’s department.

No provisions were made on any level to increase the amount of law enforcement, so often less serious crimes were ignored. The state and county were able to provide all the money necessary for the construction of roads and bridges to support the new resort yet claimed there simply wasn’t any money for increased patrols by the Minnesota Highway Patrol or additional personnel for the sheriff’s department. None of the towns in the area provided any additional support either, believing it was up to the county and state to do so.

Local schools were being pushed to the limit trying to provide for the families of the imported construction workers, and reasonably priced housing was impossible to find. Many local families at a low-income level were already forced out of their apartments, mobile homes, and rented houses and were now living miles away. Many of them didn’t have adequate transportation to commute to their jobs, so they were forced to go on welfare.

It was an all too typical situation. Contrary to the promises made by the business people and politicians directly involved in the project, rather than improving the local economy, it was now a disaster for everyone other than a few local businesses, with the poor and anyone providing any kind of social service bearing the brunt of the load.

It was with a feeling of complete disgust that Dale went back to check on the body.

Down in the hole, he found it lying facedown, with all but the head and an arm covered with a light layer of sand. Rigor mortis had already started. There was no blood around the body. The massive damage to the back of the head, just above the neck, was enough to indicate the cause of death. He gently turned it over, instantly knowing who it was.

Damn it all, Dale said to himself as he stared into the face of fourteen-year-old Gary Brown Jr., the son of the president of the Kingsburg State Bank, which was the local bank providing the bulk of the financing for the resort.

He climbed out of the hole with a feeling of despair overtaking him. Solving a murder amidst the chaos of life as it was now would be tough enough. Solving the murder of a child, he knew, might prove to be more than he could handle.

Worse than any of that, from a law enforcement point of view, the cause of death appeared for the moment to be the same as that of three young women who were murdered the previous summer. Murders which were never solved to his satisfaction.

Chapter 3

They rode all day, and it was the first sign of game they saw. Dix, the oldest and best shot of the three, quickly dismounted. He pulled his rifle out of its saddle scabbard, took careful aim, and fired. He was off by no more than an inch. The jackrabbit took off running with a hole in his ear and was lost among the rocks before Dix could fire again.

I hit the damn thing, he groaned. I know I did.

You did, Dix, said Wyman, another of the three cowboys. Trouble is, all’s you got was a piece of his ear.

What’re we gonna do now? asked Tom, the third cowboy. I’m gettin’ hungry. We ain’t ate nothin’ since yesterday mornin’.

I don’t know, Wyman said.

I can tell you somethin’ we ain’t gonna do, Dix said. We ain’t gonna sit here and whine.

Ain’t none of us whinin’, Dix, Wyman said. Tom was just wantin’ to know what it is we’re gonna do now. I guess I’d kind of like to know the same thing. There sure don’t seem to be the game to hunt we figured there’d be when we rode up here. This keeps up, stayin’ here could get to be as bad as livin’ in town and workin’ a regular job.

About the only thing we can do, Dix said, his voice grim, is to head down into the foothills where we was this morning. Find them strays.

I don’t think we ought to be doin’ that, Dix, Wyman argued. This here is Roy Thomas’s land.

So who cares if it is?

I do, for one, Tom said, frowning. Man’s gotta be stupid to be messin’ with him.

"He ain’t no different than no one else. He’s gotta catch us