Dead to Rights by Jack Patterson (fiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

door was Hank, who was wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He chuckled at the scene.

“I see you two just met crazy Corey Taylor,” Hank said. “Just ignore him. He means no harm; he’s just our village idiot.”

“He’s not exactly the poster child for the Pickett County Chamber of Commerce, is he?” Cal quipped.

Hank chuckled and shook his head. “The Marsh Monster isn’t givin’ up that spot any time soon. But I’d pay money to see him square off against Crazy Corey. It’d be epic.”

Cal glanced at his watch. It was getting late in the afternoon, and they still had work to do.

CHAPTER 8

DURING THEIR RIDE ACROSS TOWN to The Pirate’s Den, Cal processed aloud with Kelly what they had learned so far. Cal tried to ascribe motive to Drake—and then to Sheriff Sloan and Jordan Hayward.

“You really think the sheriff could kill his own daughter?” Kelly asked.

Cal stared at the green pasture dotted with grazing cows. “I think you know as well as me that it’s wise not to put anything past anyone.”

Kelly furrowed her brow. “But his own daughter?”

“Maybe not, but he’s hiding something for some reason; that much we know—or at least strongly suspect.”

“And Hayward? Why would he do it?”

“Jealousy? Revenge? We’re still a long way from figuring out the why. I’m more interested in the who at this point.”

“Those two questions are strangely intertwined.”

Cal shook his head. “Don’t I know that all too well.”

He put on his blinker and turned right into the parking lot for The Pirate’s Den. The sign by the road was painted red and black, matching the local high school’s color scheme. A caricature of a pirate wielding a sword stood atop the main sign. Below, a lit sign with boxed letters advertised the local cover band for the evening and drink specials.

Cal skidded to a stop in the gravel parking lot next to a truck that towered over his rental vehicle. The back mud flaps depicted Yosemite Sam with guns blazing and the not-so-subtle message of back off. Cal noted the gun rack in the back and the dirty baseball cap resting on the dashboard.

They walked past a row of motorcycles and toward the entrance.

“This ought to be fun,” Cal said.

Kelly smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you to take me to a place like this for a long time.”

“Best date night ever?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Happy hour had just begun in earnest at The Pirate’s Den, and everyone inside the establishment was reveling in the moment.

Cal noticed a seat yourself sign and took a seat with Kelly against a wall, away from all the locals. They hadn’t been there more than a minute before a hefty man who appeared to be in his fifties lumbered up to the table.

“First time at The Pirate’s Den?” he asked as he pulled a pencil from behind his ear.

Kelly nodded. “What gave us away?”

He smiled and winked. “My name’s Burt, the owner of this here joint. What can I get you two to drink? It’s Happy Hour, and all drinks are half priced.”

“I’ll just have a glass of sweet tea,” Kelly said.

“Make that two,” Cal added.

“All right then. Sweet tea it is.” Burt hustled off and returned moments later with their drinks. “So, have you had a chance to look at our menu?” Burt asked as he placed the glasses on the table.

Cal and Kelly ordered and then asked Burt to return because they had some questions for him.

“Y’all aren’t lawyers, are you? My ex-wife has been tryin’ to squeeze more child support out of me, and I ain’t havin’ it,” he said.

Cal chuckled. “Far from it. We just have a few questions for you about Isaiah Drake.”

“Ah, Isaiah Drake, my favorite Pickett County High player ever,” he said, nodding toward a pennant on the wall. “Let me put this order in, and I’ll be right back.”

“This should be interesting,” Kelly said to Cal.

“Guys that run places like these always know everyone’s business.”

They watched as one of the bikers tipped back a pitcher of beer to the raucous chants of his companions. When he finished, the biker took two steps before toppling to the floor.

Burt returned and grabbed a seat at Cal and Kelly’s table.

“Sorry about that,” Burt said. “They’re my best customers, but they can be intimidatin’ to people who haven’t been around this kind of drunken revelry.”

Cal waved off Burt. “It wasn’t that long ago that I was in college. No need to apologize.”

Burt clasped his hands together. “Good. So, who are you folks, and what do you want to know about Isaiah Drake?”

Cal offered his hand. “Cal Murphy, and this is my wife, Kelly,” he said as the two men shook. “We’re here on assignment from The Seattle Times. I’m writing a story about Drake. He’s close to running out of appeals, and my editor sent me down here to write a story about him and what’s happened in those dozen years since he was sentenced to death.”

“Life has a funny way of stayin’ still in the swamp,” Burt said. “Time goes by, but there’s no tide around here to measure it by. We all seem stuck in our lot in life. Hell, if you hadn’t told me it’d been twelve years since they convicted Drake, I wouldn’t have known it.”

“So, same ole, same ole?” Cal asked.

“Pretty much. Avoid the Gators and find a job that can pay your bills. That’s how the people around here live their lives.” He turned around and gestured toward the patrons behind him, imbibing and laughing. “And find joy where you can. Life’s too short to be bitter about it all.”

“Not everyone around here thinks like you,” Kelly said. “We’ve met a few who take an opposite perspective.”

“I pity those people,” Burt said. “But you’re right—there are a few who haven’t yet learned that life is more than money and prestige. Those people fight for scraps at the table.”

Cal took a swig of his sweet tea. “So, let’s talk