A Tale of the Roaring Presses
Part 5
Possumhaw, Randolph County
The Big Lie
41
The moose heads on the paneled walls smiled down at Roy Henry as his fingers tap-danced furiously on the laptop keyboard.
Carolyn McCallister glanced sadly from the doorway. “The hospital just called,” she told her husband softly. “They don’t think Petey’s going to make it.”
Sheriff Jimbo’s mustache frowned and he regarded the man in the den with sorrowful eye. “Slade Jackson’s there,” he said. “He won’t let anyone finish him, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“That’s n-not…”
“Hush,” Jimbo said, holding her tight. “Grover found the owner of the combine. Out cold. And Petey had a bump on his skull that didn’t come from any farm equipment…”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Hush,” Jimbo said. He brushed her tears. “I was over at the diner when it happened,” he said. “Looking for Randy.”
The pounding of the keyboard grew unbearably loud.
“So, you see?” Jimbo said.
Carolyn stifled a horrified gasp.
“You read his old stories,” the sheriff continued, as she drew back. “I talked to Roy Henry ‘s bosses at the funeral. He lost his nerve. I would’ve. He got it back when that lady tried to kill him. He’ll do this. He’s gotta.”
He choked. “Diner’s serving pie.”
42
Roy Henry put away his cellphone. “I’m good to go,” he said. “My boss is on the way to see Petey. I oughta go too.”
“I’ll drive you,” Jimbo said quickly.
“First you eat, both of you,” Carolyn said firmly, bearing an overloaded tray. “You need to refuel every once in a while. Don’t want to be caught napping these days.”
The newsman quickly moved the computer to make room on the desk.
“Fried chicken, coffee, potato salad, blackberry cobbler – you shouldn’t have,” Roy Henry said, swallowing drool.
“You been out of the country too long, boy,” the sheriff said, pulling up a chair. “This is just a normal refrigerator raid for us.”
Carolyn pulled up another chair. “I bet your refrigerator is full of microwave dinners and frozen pizza.”
Roy Henry nodded as he placed a napkin in his lap. “I’m never home,” he said. “I’m always at the office.” He reached for a drumstick.
Carolyn ladled him some potato salad. “But surely your family cooks for you. Or some lucky girl.”
The newsman nodded thanks. “Family all went to a better place. Miami,” he said. “My girl went with them. She said I never left the newsroom…”
43
The two-lane back road to Sparta wound through trumpet-creepered brushland and red cedars and blackjack oak and mossy boulders made eerie by the waning moon.
“A man could disappear out here and no one would be the wiser,” Roy Henry mused, gazing out the passenger window.
Sheriff Jimbo coughed. “I’ve got a list of all the random hikers, vagrants and college professors who have disappeared here in Randolph County since 1968,” he said cheerfully. “Typed, double-spaced, neatly referenced. It all makes interesting reading.”
The newsman stared at him. The sheriff grinned sheepishly. “Being a newsman and all,” he added helpfully.
“Why aren’t you out finding them?” Roy Henry asked, scribbling furiously in the semi-darkness.
“Man responsible went to prison in the ’80s,” the sheriff answered, watching the road. “I sent him there, me and my brothers, bless their souls. He always said he’d come back. For the Bagoo Festival.”
Roy Henry stopped scribbling. “That’s nice,” he said, watching the road. “Is that the big story you told me about?”
“No.” The sheriff sounded relieved. “Justice has a way of taking care of itself. The next few days will…here’s Sparta. End of the line.”
The police cruiser turned into traffic.
44
Sheriff Jimbo nodded at the huge black man in the chair. He nodded back grimly.
“So it’s foul play,” Greenleigh said cheerfully from the doorway. “Somebody conked Petey and threw him in front of a runaway combine. Sounds like one of your adventures, Scoopie.”
Roy Henry stared at the heavily bandaged person on the bed. “That’s not him.”
Greenleigh grinned.
The big man rose, towering even over the sheriff, and put a heavy hand on the newsman’s shoulder. “That’s right,” he said gently. “Your friend is going to be all right in a couple of days. But we don’t want that to get around to the rest of the world, do we?”
Roy Henry stared upward. The big man smiled. “Now, your job is to watch out for yourself. And Jimbo isn’t about to let anything happen to you.” He patted the newsman on the shoulder and released him. “He got a gun? Give him Jerry Lee’s, for gawd sake.”
Sheriff Jimbo shook his head. “No guns. He’s practically blind. Look at his glasses.”
“Someone’s trying to kill him,” Greenleigh marveled cheerfully, dollar signs in his eyes. “Every day he’s down here covering that festival could be his last. Excellent!”
45
“Now, remember, not a word about all this in your stories,” Greenleigh said as Roy Henry stared down the hallway. “Don’t want to tip their hand. To them, you’re just covering the festival.”
“Why are you so happy about sending me to my doom?” Roy Henry asked quietly.
“I’m never happy about sending you to your doom,” the managing editor said. “Why did you think I gave you that promotion?”
“Because I’m the only one on the desk who can spell?”
Greenleigh smiled. “That too. But the sewer was too much of a close call. My conscience bothered me a little …”
“You sent me there!” Roy Henry’s glare was thunderous. “You sent me there with a stoner and nearly got me killed! All those cats! And that … thing!”
“Keep it down, please!” Sheriff Jimbo interrupted his strategy meeting with Slade Jackson and the imposter in bandages to pull the two men back into the hospital room.
“You got a couple of prizes for that,” Greenleigh said. “I send you to your doom because if I don’t, I know you’re still going after that story anyway. Like now!”
Roy Henry was back in the hallway, waving. “Hello! Bobbie Lee, wait!”
46
“What – is he crazy?”
Slade Jackson stopped the sheriff. “Look,” he said softly, peering carefully out the door. The sheriff did, then quickly stayed back. “Jeez,” he whispered.
“Go after her, Roy Henry,” Slade ordered. “It’s OK.”
But Roy Henry was already gone.
“Bobbie Lee, wait,” he said, overtaking the singer by the soft drink machine. “I didn’t know you were a candy striper.”
Bobbie Lee’s eyes sparkled as she faced her pursuer. “I’m just full o’ surprises,” she said, smiling sweetly as she hugged and squeezed him enthusiastically. “I take it you’ve been to see that hippie picture taker.”
Roy Henry stopped squeezing back and nodded. “I can make extra copies of that picture he took if you need any.” He smiled affectionately.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall.
Bobbie Lee quickly disengaged herself. “One’s all I needed,” she said. “I gotta let you go. I’m still on the clock. My boss’ll kill me…”
“How do I get ahold of you?” Roy Henry flourished his notebook.
Bobbie Lee bolted through the door marked “Stairs,” slamming it shut behind her.
The footsteps grew louder and louder.
“Visiting hours,” barked an elderly janitor, wielding a broom, “are over.”
47
“Swamp Dawg will keep him out of trouble,” Slade Jackson told the sheriff, who was still peering nervously down the hall.
“Excellent!” Greenleigh’s eyes were big as saucers. “I got all his records. Do you think he’ll jam with me? My guitar’s in the car.”
“Swamp Dawg McClain,” Slade and Sheriff Jimbo corrected him.
“Former Fed,” the sheriff explained. “License to kill.”
Slade nodded. “Revoked. Now, how in the world did that sawed-off fatso squirt you call a newsman get involved with the Dragon Lady?”
“Bobbie Lee Gentry?” asked the sheriff. “We’ve seen her around. Looks like someone we used to know a long time ago.” He squinted sadly.
“She dangerous?” asked Greenleigh, wondering where on his office wall to hang the Pulitzer certificate.
“She’s suspect,” said Slade. “Like your escaped murderer, she’s just here for the Bagoo Festival.”
“Excellent.” The managing editor was already choosing the color of his new Lexus. Heck, with all the money that would be rolling in, he could afford to buy a Lexus for his guitar, too. And maybe some upgrades to the paper’s Website. Maybe. “And he already knows she’s dangerous?”
“He’s got to,” Slade said. “He’s not as dumb as he looks.”
48
Roy Henry’s heart pounded a little as the elevator door opened. Seeing nobody, he crept down the hall in search of the nurses station.
Another door marked “Stairs” slammed open and hit him. As he reeled, a heavy hand clamped over his mustache and pulled him into the stairwell.
It was the elderly janitor.
“You’re really after that girl, aren’t you?” he said, scowling ominously.
The newsman nodded.
“She’s really after you. Just stay the hell away from her, and she’ll find you sure as Satan.” He grinned, a mirthless death’s-head grin. “Trust me.”
Roy Henry mulled this over for a moment.
“Here’s the hospital’s duty roster,” the janitor continued. He held a crumpled sheet of paper in front of the newsman’s glasses with his other hand. “She’s not on it.” He grinned again as Roy Henry’s eyes moved back and forth as he scanned the list. “What’s she doing here, you might ask.” He dropped the list to reveal a torn photostat of the picture Bobbie Lee wanted so badly.
Roy Henry’s eyes popped in horror. “Mmngh enngh foooomngooo fvvadd?”
“Morgue. Sparta Times. Amazing resemblance. It’s from ’68. She dropped it. Read.”
The janitor raised his hand. “Peace, brother.”
49
“Ham and Ginger Stewart Jr. of Possumhaw smile for the camera at the village’s Bagloo Festival Sunday afternoon. Fifty or sixty people attended Opening Day. Ham says he’d like to see it become an annual event,” the newsman read softly as he followed the janitor back down to the first floor. Their footsteps echoed up and down the stairwell like ominous popcorn. “I don’t look like him.”
“He’s fat, he’s middle-aged, he’s got that fuzz on his upper lip,” the janitor said. “He’s also got those coke-bottle glasses and that squint. Look at her.”
Roy Henry squinted at the photostat. “That’s her, kinda” he said. “Whatever happened to Virginia Stewart?”
“Whatever happened to Ham Stewart?” The janitor pushed him back, then carefully opened the door and peered out. “Shut your trap,” he warned quietly, “and come on.”
The newsman followed him out into the hall. A heavy hand clamped over his mustache.
“Relax, son, it’s just me.” Roy Henry looked up to see Slade smiling down at him. “Time to leave. He OK, Swampy?”
The janitor smiled. “Got him just in time, hoss. Let her find him, I told him. Lord knows she will. Hell, she thinks he’s Ham Stewart.”
50
Sheriff Jimbo took a different route back to Possumhaw.
“What’s with the cloak-and-dagger?” Roy Henry asked, staring at the dark maples and sycamores on the winding back road.
“Keeping an eye out for strays,” the sheriff said, eyes darting back and forth as the police cruiser sped along at the frightening rate of 15 mph. “How’d you meet Bobbie Lee?”
The newsman thought he could see several sets of glowing eyes staring back at him every time they rounded a hairpin curve. “Saw her sing, got some quotes, Petey got a picture…”
The sheriff swerved to avoid a skunk. “Do tell,” he said, speeding slightly as the car righted itself.
“She took after him like a bat out of…” A bat scraped the windshield. “Nearly beat him to death with her purse until we promised to give her a copy. Then she took off for Sparta with her printout. Said she had to sing…”
“Before or after Petey got run over?” The speedometer needle hovered just ahead of the 20.
“Just before. Swampy says she thinks I’m Ham Stewart.”
The car stopped just short of a pine tree.
“Lord have mercy,” whispered the sheriff, pale as a ghost.
Thunder boomed.