A Bloodhound to Die for (2 page)

“When I started school, I skipped more days than I
attended. I ran away about twice a week. Once I stayed with Granny Rose for a week, and my mother didn’t even bother to try and find me.” Jasmine sighed.

“When I was twelve, a new preacher came to mother’s church. He had a concept about disobedient children that was very close to tough love. He encouraged her to toss me out on the street and make me fend for myself. She followed his advice, had the locks changed, and refused to feed or house me even on a cold night.

“I became a prostitute to survive. I went back every once in a while, begging my mother to let me live with her again, but she never let me back in the house and has never forgiven me.

“You know the rest of the story. Hank helped me to leave the streets and co-signed a loan so I could buy my little diner. I lived there like a nun, never leaving the place except to go to church. I was afraid the city police would arrest me. With my record, they could have picked me up on the church steps. I had been a Christian recluse for six years when I met you and accepted your job offer.”

“My God, Jasmine. No wonder you never spoke of her, or forgave her. I would have done the same! What a terrible thing to do to your only child. She was wicked.”

“You’re wrong, Jo Beth. I did forgive her. I couldn’t have become a Christian without forgiving her. I wanted her to forgive me, but she’s never answered my letters or my knocks on her door, although I keep trying.”

“You’re still trying?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“On the first Sunday in the month, after church.”

“She’s a bitch! She doesn’t deserve any consideration, or an ounce of your love. Can’t you understand that?”

“You’re wrong, Jo Beth. She’s blameless. She truly believes that I am beyond redemption. She keeps avoiding me to save her own soul and her beliefs.”

“That’s bull!” I yelled in anger.

“Have you ever argued religious tenets with your friends? Are you familiar with the scenario of the Chinese whore’s daughter?”

“I argued religious issues long and hard in my early twenties, but not lately, and I haven’t ever heard that one.”

“Once upon a time in a small and remote hamlet high in the mountains of China, there lived a woman who was the village whore. The entire population treated her with dignity, as her services were needed for the single men in the village who could not find a wife. No one ever traveled to or from other cities. It was a completely isolated community.

“There wasn’t a church, and Christianity was unknown. In fact, they didn’t practice any type of religion. There were no radios, TVs, or communications with the outside world.

“The whore had a teenage daughter. When the daughter was old enough, the mother retired and passed on her customers to her. Question: When the daughter dies, does she go to heaven or hell?”

“Are you sure they hadn’t been visited by any Jehovah’s Witnesses, ringing doorbells and handing out religious pamphlets?” I quickly threw up a hand before she could respond. “Just kidding.”

I pondered the enigma. “She goes to heaven. She wasn’t aware that she was sinning; therefore she is without blame.”

“You took the non-Christian approach. Frankly, that is the answer I lean toward, although it’s not the official doctrine of the Southern Christian churches, or at least it is not the correct answer for the church I attend. They believe the girl will go to hell and burn for eternity. I think their answer is weak and you could drive a truck through their logic.”

“How do they justify their belief?”

“God calls forth thousands of people each year to go forth and preach his gospel to the heathens and the uninformed. Missionaries. The Christians support and donate money for this purpose. It’s tough luck for the girl that they hadn’t as yet gotten to this remote village, but they’re working on it. The Bible clearly states that you must be born again. That means that she has to be saved to get into heaven. Case closed.”

The phone rang before I could answer. It was Sheriff Hank Cribbs.

“Hi, you busy?”

“Nope. I’m available. What’s up?”

“I’d like to come by and go over something with you. Sure I won’t be interrupting anything?”

“Jasmine and I were only discussing a remote Chinese village, Christian dogma, and folding unmentionables.”

“Say what?”

“Being granted a visit isn’t too expensive. A large deep-pan pizza with double cheese and pepperoni, please. If you still like those disgusting anchovies, remember to have them added to only one-third of the pie.”

“Salad?”

“Jasmine and I will toss one here. Beer or iced tea?”

“I’m on duty. See you in thirty minutes.”

Jasmine left to make the salad. I slid the drawers with the folded clothes back into place. I picked up the wastebasket, quickly picked through the items that Jasmine had tossed, and rescued about half of them. I crammed them willy-nilly into the bottom drawer.

  
2
“Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts”

H
ank arrived as I was setting the table.

“Pizza delivery!” he yelled, as he made his way through the office and stood momentarily framed in the kitchen doorway.

Hank is quite a hunk and he’s well aware of this fact. As sheriff, he can wear anything he wishes but he wears the uniform of the department because he looks so good in the tailored light tan shirt and pants with a dark brown stripe down the leg. He’s tall, slim and trim, with dark, flashing eyes and coal black hair.

Hank and I had an affair a while back that lasted a little longer than six weeks. We fought tooth and nail over every issue and found out that we couldn’t make it as a couple. We salvaged our friendship and
the only time he quits speaking to me is when he knows I’ve circumvented the law or lied to him. He was a rock for me during my trial and sometimes I ache for what might have been. Even as I feel regret, I know that it’s ended finally and forever. He’s actively seeking a wife to be the mother of the children he desires.

“You look spiffy,” I said, smiling.

“Both of you are gorgeous, as you always are. I’m starved. Let’s eat.”

Jasmine put the salad on the table and emptied the contents of the pizza box onto our plates. I poured the iced tea and when we were seated, I asked Jasmine to say grace.

While we ate, Hank kept us entertained with a report on the latest screwup by his newest deputy.

“I told the guy to park on the corner of First Street and Highway 301, and monitor the traffic. There’s been too much speeding going on. We’ve had two near misses out there recently, both of which could easily have produced a fatality. I told him to give it two hours and report back to me.

“Two hours or so later, he came into my office and told me that I had been correct, he had seen many speeders. He had carefully listed the cars and their speeds. I didn’t believe he was serious until he handed me his notebook. His list began, ‘Ford Truck sixty-five MPH in a thirty-five-MPH zone, Chevy Blazer,
seventy-one MPH in a thirty-five-MPH zone,’ et cetera.

“When I asked him how many summonses he had written, he looked at me askance. ‘You said to monitor them. Did you want me to give them speeding tickets?’”

After the table was cleared, Jasmine left to train a class of six-month-old puppies. Hank popped into my office and returned holding a buff file folder with the usual fingerprint smudges. He must have dropped it on my desk so I wouldn’t see it before eating lunch. I recognized the cover and knew it was from his department files.

I groaned audibly while slowly shaking my head.

“Hey, don’t jump to conclusions. This is just to refresh my memory. I want to tell you a story.”

“Sure you do.”

“Don’t be such a cynic. While I’m telling you about this guy, you can stop me any time and I’ll go back to work and you can return to whatever you were doing before I called.”

“All right.” I was remembering how much time he had spent with me during my arrest when I was scared and waiting for trial. How could I stop him before he even asked for a favor? We’d been through this scenario before, but I owed him a big one, several big ones in fact.

“Whatcha got?” I made myself sound like I was interested in hearing his tale. Well, to be honest, it
wasn’t
all
put on; I was sorta curious. Okay, I was very curious. I reminded myself that curiosity killed the cat.

He started his presentation with a question. “Do you remember Jimmy Joe Lane?”

I gave it some thought. “I’m hearing a faint bell, but I can’t bring him to mind. You’ll have to tell me.”

“I didn’t think you’d remember him from school. He was two years ahead of you and dropped out when he was fifteen. You were thirteen when he quit, and probably still playing with dolls.”

“Your memory isn’t too hot either. I was playing with the likes of you and Leroy, not dolls.”

Hank began humming, “Way down upon the Sewanee River.”

I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand to indicate my stupidity.

“Of course, the local hero who had a ballad written about him—new words to a familiar tune—about a good man gone bad and so on. Instead of the Sewanee, it was the Okefenokee. You have to remember, Hank, when he became famous or infamous enough to have a song written about him, I had a life of my own. Not much of a life, I grant you.

“I was working two jobs, Sanders Insurance during the day and Attenburg’s King Steer Steak House at night. Then came the six months’ vacation lying in the hospital having surgery every couple of weeks so I could look human again after Bubba beat me up.
Another six months in physical therapy before I could return to work. I’m a little fuzzy on details about a bandit and a ballad during that period.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Did you think I had forgotten? I was right there for you, as much as I could be as a lieutenant under Sheriff Carlson.”

I think I forgot to mention that Hank is also a great manipulator. I forget this character flaw when I’m recounting his virtues. I resigned myself to doing whatever he was about to ask me to do.

“Jimmy Joe Lane is thirty-five now. At eighteen, he and a former buddy got into a hassle and tried to beat each other to a pulp in the parking lot at Porky’s. I had been a deputy three weeks when we got the call. Friends had waded into the fight until there were over a hundred brawling men trading punches and a lot of women pulling hair and scratching when we arrived.

“We had a first-class riot and there were only nine of us on duty. We waded in, taking our lumps like everyone else. We didn’t accomplish anything but black eyes, bruises, two concussions, scraped knuckles, and a few bites from the ladies.

“Two cruisers were overturned and one was set on fire, which resulted in a total loss of one, and two out of service for several days. Sheriff Carlson was beyond anger; he was almost catatonic with hate.” Hank fingered the file.

“Too many of the crowd were voters—he couldn’t
arrest them all—so he concentrated on the two who’d started the brawl. Jimmy Joe’s opponent was a county commissioner’s son, so he could only get satisfaction by focusing on Jimmy Joe. Jimmy Joe had a large faithful family behind him, but none of them had any pull. They all contributed to get him a good lawyer so he wouldn’t have to use a court-appointed attorney. His lawyer bargained the charge down to simple assault, with a ninety-day sentence on the county farm. Carlson wasn’t satisfied with the sentence but the district attorney hung tough, so there was nothing he could do.

“This should have been the end of it. Jimmy Joe should have served his ninety days, chalked the time up to experience, and gotten on with his life. There are some men on this earth who cannot accept confinement. Jimmy Joe was first and foremost a swamp baby, then a swamp puppy, and grew into a swamp man. He hadn’t ever traveled more than sixty miles from home. He lived, ate, and breathed the swamp. He can’t make it anywhere else. He walked away from the county farm after serving ten days.”

“Your man sounds as if he’s a couple of bricks short of having a full load. That was dumb.”

“It was a dumb move, but he’s far from stupid. Raised anywhere else and under different circumstances, he could have joined MENSA. His IQ is way up there. He just can’t tolerate being away from his swamp.”

“How long was he free?”

“Three months. He was fishing and his trolling motor quit on him. He was paddling home when the game warden happened to come his way. He was tried for escaping, and given a three-year sentence. The jails were crowded and he would have been released in about ten months, but he escaped again after serving three months. He stayed free six months and was sentenced to seven years. At this point, he owed the state ten years.”

“He just kept digging his grave deeper. How accurate are those IQ tests anyway?”

“His love of swamp life is stronger than his brain. He escaped from Carlton Prison after two years. He was out this time for four years and the sheriff was having duck fits about not being able to catch him. He organized midnight raids, rousted Jimmy Joe’s relatives, and set up roadblocks up the ying-yang.