The Devil's Road: A SERIAL NOVEL
The Devil's Road: A SERIAL NOVEL
CHAPTER 03: AN ITCH TO BE SCRATCHED --- ISSUE 03: THE ORGANIZATION
Welcome to Issue #10 of The Devil’s Road, a serial novel following the exploits of Samantha Hart, a Sequoyah County Sheriff, full of vengeance and fury using her badge to hunt down her sister's killer as she uncovers a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. If you missed it, you can read last week’s Chapter 3/Issue 2: An Itch to be Scratched/Heather’s Temptation.
If you are new to the series, I recommend you check out Chapter 1 which you can read or listen to for free here:
If you are enjoying this series, please consider sharing it with others, and don’t hoard all the good tales for yourself.
And now, please enjoy Chapter 3 Issue 3 of … The Devil’s Road.
In 2004 an Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations analyst discovered a crime pattern along the Interstate 40 corridor between Oklahoma and Mississippi. Subsequently, The Federal Bureau of Investigations (F.B.I.) started the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They discovered over 500 bodies of women along the interstate highway system with more than 200 potential suspects, a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. The Devil’s Road is a serialized novel based on this horrific discovery.
Putting your trust in the system is about as comfortable as putting your fingers in the garbage disposal without first turning off the power. The switch on the wall is in plain sight, but the fear that you will be forever maimed by this machine designed to pulverize is inescapable. Sheriff Samantha Hart can’t help but clench her jaw as she considers the fact that she must return the files of missing persons she’s kept in her trunk back over to that very same system. The one that has ignored the bodies that continue to pile up, bodies of women who have been forgotten due exclusively to the fact that they were sex workers, as if this decision (because it can rarely be deemed a choice) somehow makes them less important, less necessary, less human. Her sister wasn’t less human, and her death will not go unanswered.
Sam comes to a stop behind a couple of local black and white cruisers out of Gore, Oklahoma. Across the street from the cruisers is a brown Chevy Caprice overturned in the ditch in front of trailer that looks like it should be condemned. The officers are standing with their hands resting on their hips and revolvers looking down at a man, sitting on his butt in the grass. She kills the engine and steps out into the heat of the day.
“Afternoon fellas, what do we have here?” She says.
“Ma’am,” the first officer starts.
“Sheriff,” Sam corrects flatly.
“Okay. Sheriff, this here is Mac Gibbons, and that there overturned automobile across the road there appears to be his car,” says the officer whose brass tag states his name is Johnson. The other officer whose tag reads Williams nods along.
“And how can the Sequoyah County Sheriff’s office assist you? I can smell the booze coming off of him. Not sure what you need from us. Got a full plate today gentlemen,” Sam says.
“Well, as you can see, Mr. Gibbons here has crawled from his car over there on that side of the road to here,” Johnson replies. Sam’s dead stare back at him is enough to clearly insinuate she’s going to need more of an explanation.
“That’s county land, and this side here’s in Gore’s jurisdiction,” he continues.
Bandy’s cruiser pulls up and parks behind Samantha’s. He checks himself in the rear view mirror, pop’s a piece of gum in his mouth, and straightens his vomit stained tie before joining the group.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, is that Mac Gibbons?” Bandy says as he walks up to the trio. “What the hell you gone and done son?” He asks Mac.
Mac can barely get this head up high enough to look Bandy in the face. He squints against the sun and a smile begins to form as he sees a familiar face. Mac’s body hitches and bounces as laughter slowly bubbles up from his large belly.
“Holy shit! If it ain’t ole Band-Aid,” Mac says as he tries to stand up. Officer Williams puts a hand on Mac’s shoulder pushing him back down on his butt. “Hey, what the fuck?” Mac says as he hits the ground again falling backwards into the dirt.
“You know Mr. Gibbons, Bandy?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, we went to high school together. He’s always been a bit of prick.” Bandy replies.
“That his car?” Officer Johnson asks.
“Well, that’s his trailer. Not sure about the automobile,” Bandy says.
“Tell you what. We’ll go take a look at the car, and see what’s what, and you two stay here and keep an eye on Gibbons. However, so we are clear, he’s being booked in Gore.”
“But his car…” officer Williams starts.
“As you said, his car is on the county side. Mr. Gibbons is on Gore’s side,” Sam says. She motions to Bandy to follow her as they walk across the street towards the over turned car. As they leave Mac rolls over on his side and a loud gaseous fart erupts from his body followed by what could only be the sounds of him shitting his pants.
“Goddamn it! He ain’t ridin’ in my cruiser,” Williams says.
“The hell he ain’t,” Johnson responds.
Sam and Bandy leave the two officers to tussle over who get’s to cart the soiled drunk to the station and approach the overturned automobile. The roof of the interior is littered with cigarette butts and little plastic liquor bottles. Bandy picks up one of the small bottles.
“Is this like those ones you get in hotels? Why in the hell is he drinking out of these?” Bandy asks Sam.
“My daddy used to drink those. A lot of alcoholics like the little ones cause they fit your pocket. It’s always vodka too. They think their hiding the smell, but they most certainly are not.” Sam says as she kneels down beside the car. She pulls a pen out of her shirt pocket and turns over pair of ratty blue jeans revealing a plastic shopping bag. Another shopping bag.
The bag floating away in the wind at the crime scene earlier today immediately flashes in her memory. The logo on the side is the same, a red wheel with flames coming out of one side. It’s generic, and could have come from anywhere. She carefully peels back the opening to see what’s inside. No blue rags this time, just more empty liquor bottles and a waded up receipt.
“Let’s take a look at the trailer,” she says.
“But if it’s just a drunk driving stop,” Bandy stops short on a look from Sam. “Yep, let’s check that trailer,” he agrees.
Bandy and Sam both wince at the odor that emanates from within the structure. “He’s definitely been cooking in there,” Bandy says.
Methamphetamine labs have popped up all over rural Oklahoma, and the noxious smell of a lab is a very distinct odor. Once you’ve come in contact with it, it’s hard to forget. Bandy walks up the concrete block steps and try’s to see through the window in the door. It’s covered with paper on the inside making it impossible to see through.
“Covered. I could crack the window on the door. We see something, that’s probable cause,” Bandy suggests.
“No. This needs to be by the book,” Sam says.
They walk together around the trailer, looking into the other windows, but each is covered from the inside. It’s sealed up tight as a tick. Around the backside of the trailer they find a pile of construction materials. Sawdust blows in the wind and the smell of recently cut lumber floats in the air.
There is a large mound covered by a blue tarp. Several two by fours hold down the edges and keep the tarp from blowing away. Sam kicks the boards free as Bandy tugs on the tarp. Underneath are tools, an electric saw, and a raised mound with a newly installed door that leads into the ground.
“Building a tornado shelter?” Bandy guesses.
Sam bends down and sticks her hand in the hole where a handle should be. “No harm in taking a look,” she says as she pulls open the door.
Bandy clicks on his flash light and the two walk down the dirt stairs into the shelter. The air is dusty from the unfinished walls. Two by fours have been installed to give the crumbling dirt walls structure, but that doesn’t stop the light Bandy’s holding from shaking as they climb deeper into the ground.
“I’m not so sure we should go down here,” Bandy says.
Sam puts a hand on his shoulder and presses him forward. The touch gives Bandy a little jolt of energy and more importantly courage. He keeps heading into the darkness.
The stairs end in a large open room with a concrete floor. Plywood has been installed around creating walls to the room. There are shelves with canned food and a desk against the far wall with a ham radio and microphone sitting on top.
Sam sees a cord on the ground and points in it’s direction. Bandy traces his light along the cords path until it splays open and the raw wires attach to a switch that sits on one of the shelves. Bandy uses the end of his flash light to flip the switch on, being sure to keep clear of the raw wire.
A number of lights illuminate around the room. Behind the desk and radio, running from the top of the plywood panel to the bottom and nearly five feet across is a mural. A hangman’s noose swings from the gallows on a hilltop while below a mass of bodies burn in red flames. Over the painting it reads, “The Day of the Rope.”
“What the hell’s that mean?” Sam asks.
Bandy lowers his head and ignores the question, but keeps poking around the perimeter. He pulls back an old canvas cloth slung over a pile of crates. The lid of the top crate slides to the floor revealing a small cache of rifles. Bandy picks one of the weapons up.
“Sam. Think we might have a bit more going on here besides a drunk driving incident,” Bandy says as he shows her the weapon.
“Holy shit. Is that an automatic?” She asks.
Bandy nods to affirm her suspicion. Sam takes the weapon from Bandy, ejects the clip from its housing and looks inside to see it’s fully loaded.
“I’ll, uh … I’ll go call it in I guess,” he says dumbfounded as he backs out towards the stairs. Sam nods as Bandy runs back to his cruiser to use the radio. She replaces the gun in the crate and continues to walk around the room. On the desk are stacks of dogeared journals, maps of the surrounding area with pen markings along some of the local highways.
On top of the radio is a book with a red cover. The title reads, “The Turner Diaries.” Sticking out of the book like a little bookmark is a Polaroid. Samantha can see the content of the picture. She wants to reach out and grab it, but she doesn’t. She can’t because all of of a sudden she’s unable to move. She can hear rain falling, but it’s still sunny up above. However, that doesn’t stop a drop from running over her forehead and down her cheeks as it falls. Another lands on the arm of her shirt turning it a darker color. She stares at the water stain, knowing that it can’t be real.
She’s not sure how, but suddenly the Polaroid is firmly gripped between her thumb and forefinger. More drops fall, soaking her shirt and pattering on her hat. It’s really coming down now. She hold the photo up, bringing it closer to her face. Staring at her inside the thin foil pod of the photo frame is her sister’s smiling face.
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