Dumping Grounds (Joshua Stokes Mysteries Book 1) (6 page)

“Now why would you think that, Deputy? Just because I was in a wreck, or do you just think I’m too doggone old,” Stokes replied grumpily, his fifty-year-old body feeling its age after the wreck.

“Well, you were knocked out cold, Sheriff. The paramedic on the ambulance said it can be dangerous, especially with a head injury like yours,” Jim Davis said, injecting himself into the conversation.

Jim Davis had only been with the force since December of the previous year. He was hired to replace one of the deputy’s who was killed in a shootout back in November. That too, was a very trying time for Joshua. It was the first time in his 30 years as sheriff that he had lost deputies to such violence. The shootout followed a high-speed chase through the Wheelerville Community.

The chase was between a Mobile County Sheriff’s Officer and two teenage boys suspected of mercilessly beating and robbing the couple that ran a small grocery store in Mount Vernon, Alabama, just north of Mobile.

When Gary Latham, who was the passenger in the car the deputy was chasing, reportedly began firing on the deputy, the chase turned deadly.

Gary Latham and Michael Williams were once good boys. However, they had gotten on drugs and into no telling what else. Then the boys had just gone rotten to the core. Latham’s parents were pillars of the community; therefore, his association with the lower classed Williams was blamed for his wrongdoings.

Williams died in the shootout; some suspected that Latham had killed him, either intentionally or accidentally. Then panicked, and struck out through the swamp where the shootout took place and headed toward Mississippi.

Jackson County Mississippi deputies finally apprehended him several hours later.

Stokes did not know for sure what all had taken place during the shootout. All he knew was that by the time he got into the swamp where his deputies had chased the two suspects, two of his deputies were dead, another one wounded, and Michael Williams, who was a good sixty feet away, through dense undergrowth, was also dead.

Latham had gone solo and was on the lamb, reportedly heard running through the swamp as soon as the gunfire ceased.

There were probably 300 law enforcement officers from surrounding towns and counties, converging on the swamp by the time Joshua got there. He was all the way up on Roberts Road, in Turnersville, when the chase began and that was a good twenty miles as the crow flies. He knew it was at least thirty miles driving.

Latham was convicted; he would probably spend the rest of his life in prison. After all, he had participated in the murder of three people, two of them sheriff’s deputies. Joshua felt no pity for Latham, only his folks. They were good people.

Deputy Davis’ pleas were ignored though. Joshua’s mind was made up and currently on more pressing matters.

“Davis, I am not going to the hospital, so you may as well just cease your arguments right now. You are not going to change my mind. That goes for you too, Cookie,” the Sheriff informed them.

“But Sheriff”

“No butts’ about it, Davis; I said no and I meant no, plain and simple,” Stokes stated, “Now, if that is all y’all come to do, you can go ahead and leave. I’m tired. I just want to sit here a spell, drink a couple of bottles of booze if that’s what it takes, until I can relax enough to get some sleep. Is that clear?”

“Yes Sir,” they mumbled simultaneously, turning to leave.

“Cookie,” Stokes called to his deputy.

“Yes Sir?” Cook questioned turning back toward Joshua.

“I’m going to need another patrol car. Tell them boys at the garage to get that underway; meantime, I’ll drive my truck if I have to go anywhere.”

“Yes Sir, I’ll see to it as soon as possible.” Stokes poured himself some more liquor, lit a cigarette, and then propped his feet back onto the railings of the porch.

The squirrels were back to running and playing through the moss in the trees, but now, a lonesome dove had perched somewhere nearby, and was making himself heard.

Joshua had read somewhere that doves mated for life. Maybe it was searching for its mate by cooing the mournful call into the surrounding forest…

Its sad and lonesome call left Joshua feeling sad and lonely too. He thought about Kathy, suddenly wishing she were not a married woman. He sure could use some female companionship to soothe his aching loneliness right now.

He closed his eyes and leaned further back in his rocker, trying to tune out the sound of the dove and concentrate on the sound of the slow flowing river.

Emma awoke to the scent of citronella oil; it seemed to fill the room. Hearing the sound of water splashing against the concrete walls and floor, she tried to open her eyes to look around, but her head felt the size of a watermelon and her eyes were swollen shut.

She strained to stay alert and to open her eyes.

A fevered moon, round and red-hot greeted them, causing her to flinch as if hot pokers had been shoved into her eye sockets.

Emma closed her eyes tightly and soon sank back into unconsciousness.

The next time she awoke, it was to complete and utter darkness; there was not a speck of light entering the room. Emma tried to move, but could not get up. When she tried to talk, all she managed was what sounded like a bunch of guttural grunts, much like those a pig might make. It brought back memories of the night before and what she had endured upstairs and it sickened her.

At least, it could have been last night, she was unsure. Then she remembered seeing a glowing red-orange moon the last time she had awakened.

How can that be, Emma thought to herself. I haven’t gone outside and there are no windows in this room.

This time, Emma was fully awake. Whatever they had given her in the syringe, had worn off. She did not like what was in the syringe; it left her feeling awful, body and soul. She felt heavy, confused, and dirty…

The heady aroma of citronella oil hung thick in the air. Emma finally remembered where and when she had smelt it before and how she knew what it was.

When she was about 12 years old, her grandfather Sam passed away. They held his wake in an old funeral home in Citronelle, which was where he lived. It was a town about twenty miles north of Mobile.

Suddenly, she remembered it as if it were yesterday.It was just about dark, and as she and her parents walked toward the entrance, the two-storied funeral home was very spooky looking in the defused twilight.

The funeral home was located in the oldest part of town near the old railroad station, which as the house, was rather dilapidated and in need of major repairs and painting.

The two upstairs windows of the building looked like two large dark eyes staring out at her. She was shaking by the time she and her parents reached the front porch.

The mortuary looked more like an old plantation house than a funeral parlor. The wraparound porch surrounded three sides of it and it looked nothing like the modern brick mortuary in Mobile, the only other funeral home she had been to.

When they stepped up onto the porch, Emma saw a woman standing at the other end. The woman was dressed in a long flowing dress. Her hair was pulled up off her long slender neck and had loosened tendrils around her face, which was very pale. It almost glowed in the fading light.

Her father opened the front door. Emma looked at him and then back to the strange woman. The woman faded to translucent and then disappeared right before her eyes.That was when Emma realized the woman was a ghost. This frightened Emma even more than she was already.

As they entered through the front doors, a heavy odor greeted them; it smelled of lemon and lilies. At the time, she did not know what citronella oil was.

Emma asked her father what the funny smell was, and he told her that it was citronella oil. He said that they made the oil from a native grass with bluish green, lemon-scented leaves. He also told her that it grew abundantly throughout that part of the county and that the town of Citronelle derived its name because of the grasses.

Her father told her that many people moved into the area in the early eighteen hundreds. They settled there because of the mineral springs and naturally growing herbs. The funeral home was once one of the hotels they built in Citronelle for vacationing, wealthy patrons. Some came from as far away as New York City and even England to vacation in the spa-like area.

He had also told her that in the early eighteen hundreds, before their removal, the area was overrun with Indians. Those who lived there were mostly of the Creek and Choctaw Tribes.

The mother of Wale
łé was of the Choctaw Tribe.

Emma remembered getting angry when her father had told her that, because it reminded her of the story of her great-grandfather’s plight in the late eighteen hundreds and how he and his people were treated back then.

They are not treated any better these days, Emma thought sadly. She remembered seeing an angry mob of government agents shooting and beating a bunch of Indians on some reservation out west.

It was on the National News a couple of years back and it had stirred up a good bit of controversy.

Her remembering the funeral home also caused her to remember the last time she was in one and how much her aunt and uncles deaths and funerals had affected her and her family. Her mother, Pearl, had begun living her life ten times worse than she had before her brother and his wife were killed.

Pearl acted as if she herself was to blame, but after a few months, she straightened up. Then, she and Emma’s father had gotten back together, after being separated for a few years. Both were older and wiser, they worked through their differences and for a while things were good.

Emma and her brother Jimmy, who everyone called Boukie, and her little sister Pauline, were the happiest they had been in many a year.

It was good to have their parents back together. The last five years were their happiest ever, at least until their daddy had began running around with another woman.

For most of their younger years, Emma, her brother Boukie, and her sister Pauline, lived with their grandma and grandpa Stringer, which was fine, but they were old and not much fun. Once their parents were back together, they had begun to have fun.

They went camping nearly every weekend during warm weather and sometimes, they went skating. One time, they even went to Chucky Cheese’s Pizza Palace to celebrate Pauline’s birthday.

It was fun, but those years were over much too fast.

As she lay there remembering her life Emma became depressed. She began to lose hope of ever seeing her family again, but just as suddenly as she sunk low, a little voice deep inside her whispered to remind her that she came from tough stock. Her people were not cowards; they did not give up easily. They fought tooth and nail to survive, and for what they believed in. Emma knew she must do the same; she could not give up!

A scuffling on the floor above, snapped her out of her thoughts. Where she was, it was never quiet, at least not for long. The sound of music was always filtering in from somewhere above her. In a way, Emma preferred that to silence, or to the slight vibrations she felt several times. From the way they felt, it could be a train passing nearby.

Emma wanted them to open the door and come down to where she was, but then again, she dreaded it if they did. She was afraid they might give her another injection.

Minutes passed and still they did not come. She mainly wanted them to turn on the lights so she could see around her. It was pitch-black in what she had come to think of as “The Dungeon” and she wondered what had become of the other girl.

Emma realized that she did not even know the girl’s name. If she were to break free of this place, she would not know who to tell them the girl was that was held captive with her.

Emma called out for help. Her voice sounded raspy, harsh, and grating to her own ears. Then she tried to holler, that she was thirsty and needed something to drink, but still nothing. She then tried to yell louder, but her voice seemed to crack and croak. She was hoarse, her throat dry and sore.

Hot tears of frustration wept from her eyes, blinding her to the faint light that crept into the room.

“What you need?” he asked, the sound of his voice beside her caused her to inhale suddenly and yelp in surprise.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she croaked, “I’m really thirsty. Can you at least give me something to drink? I am hungry too. I don’t think I’ve eaten in a week” Emma exclaimed angrily. She had suddenly realized that she needed food in order to stay strong and whatever begging and pleading she had to do, she would do it. She intended to stay as strong as possible.

He looked at her strangely and she wondered at the expression on his face, for it was the first time she had seen him actually have an expression.

“I ain’t s’posed to untie you,” her captor said, still giving her the strange look, which caused her to become slightly uncomfortable. It also concerned her, not knowing what was going on in his mind.

“You don’t have to untie me. Just hold my head up enough to drink something,” she said grumpily, and then decided to add please, hoping maybe he would feel sorry for her and help her.

He turned and walked across the room to the sink on the far wall. Emma heard the water running as he fixed her a glass of water. He brought the water to her and then raised her head enough for her to drink.

After Emma took several swallows, she looked into his eyes and smiled at him, trying to seem sincere in her thanks, although it griped her innards to do so.

“What is your name?” she asked sweetly, adding, “I know the others name is Earl, I heard you call him that. My name is Emma. I would like to know your name so I can thank you properly.” Emma smiled, all the while remembering what she had read somewhere about captives identifying with and feeling sympathetic toward their captors. She thought she remembered it was called the Stockholm syndrome.

The article she read was something about bank robbers robbing a bank in Stockholm, Sweden. The robbers held the employees hostage for five days. After several days, the hostages began to identify with and feel sorry for their captors. It was stupid if you asked her.

Emma knew there was no way in hell that she would ever sympathize with or feel sorry for these fellows, although in many ways, they were pathetic.

“Can I please have something to eat; I am so hungry,” Emma pled as pitifully as she could, and then smiled weakly. She could tell he was not expecting her to talk to him as she was, and his curiosity about her was equal too or greater than hers was about him.

“Okay,” he said slowly, his drawl sounding very much like a hillbilly. “But don’t tell Earl,” her captor said quietly “He won’t like it if he finds out.”

“Please, I promise I won’t tell him,” Emma whispered with as much sincerity in her voice as she could muster.

He stared at her for a minute and then turned and went up the stairs. She did not care what he brought back for her to eat. She was going to eat it regardless, because she needed it. What she wanted and needed was to get her strength back so she could get out of there.

She was trying to befriend him. She had to, if only long enough to escape. Escaping her bondage was the only thing on her mind now.

She was tired of being tied up and she was sick of them. She was scared too, but she tried not show it.

She knew Earl would eventually tire of her and then she would disappear from this room, the same as the other girl had.

Emma did not intend to die, not now or anytime in the near future. She did not want to die until she was a woman of old age, like her grandmother Stringer.