Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel by Warren Williams Page A

most of them absent of any brand names. The workshop shared many of the same traits as the family living room, aged , but clean and well organized. If Albert Parker had a hob by, there was no evidence of it here.
    The smaller shed held nothing of interest; sealed buckets of lubricating grease, a scoop shovel, and a couple of hayforks, both rusty from non - use. Fan belts, large and small, dangled from nails driven into a two-by-four mounted across the wall. Plastic coffee cans separated an assortment of nuts and bolts.
    The barn was of a decent size but with a design that had not been popular since the 1920’s. It had a sharply pitched roof with animal stalls on either side. Two Jersey milk cows, seeking shade, occupied one of the stalls. Both stared at Billy Ray —as only cows can do —until he was out of sight. Inside were granaries, both left and right, and there was a haymow above that with stacks of baled hay. Billy Ray looked in each of the grain bins, most of them empty, but it was dark and hard to see all the way to the back. He needed the flashlight from the pickup to make a thorough search, but decided to check the haymow first. At the back of the barn was a ladder of sorts, made of two by fours, and nailed to the studs. Billy Ray used it to climb up to the loft.
    “Melissa?” he called to the darkness. “You up here? Sheriff’s department.” He listened for a moment, heard nothing, couldn’t see a lick, and decided he definitely needed a flashlight. Lester would be all over him for not taking one with him in the first place. At the bottom of the ladder, one foot on the floor, an angry voice called out.
    “Stop right there you son of a bitch. Don’t move or I’ll blow you in half.”
    The deputy inched his head around for a look. Albert Parker, outlined in the doorway, had a shotgun steadied against one shoulder and was looking down the length of two barrels. His feet were spread and balanced, like a hunter waiting for a hidden covey of quail to erupt from the brush.
    “Don’t shoot , Mr. Parker, I’m a deputy sheriff. I was here this mornin ’ , remember? I’m gonna turn around now so you can see me.” Billy Ray stepped off the ladder and did a slow turn with his arms out to the side, his gun hand slightly lower than the other. “ Do you recognize me now , Mr. Parker ?”
    The shotgun never wavered. “Well, it’s awfully dark back there. I think what I see is an intruder, a thief maybe. Someone tryin ’ to steal some tools or somethin ’ . Looks like he has a gun too. I might have to defend myself.”
    Billy Ray went over his options, his Army training kicking in. The Glock at his side had a magazine full of forty caliber bullets, but there was the matter of clearing the holster, jacking a round in the chamber, aiming , and firing before this psycho could pull the trigger and kill him . He could drop and roll, and hope to evade fire until he could get his gun out. It wouldn’t take long, three…four seconds at the most. The dim light would help but the pattern from the shotgun covered a lot of area. Fifty-fifty chance of pulling it off sounded about right, not good, but better than doing nothing. Suddenly, the odds improved.
    The man with the shotgun was more than a little surprised when something cold and hard touched his left temple. He was pretty sure he knew what it was.
    “Lay it down , Albert or I’ll drop you and butcher you like a fat pig.”
    The pressure on his skull from the stainless steel Colt revolver made Albert Parker’s next decision an easy one. The stout little man lowered the twelve-gauge to the straw-covered floor and turned to face his adversary.
    “Billy Ray,” Lester said, his voice as calm as if he were having a conversation over a glass of iced tea, “Come get this idiot’s shotgun and then search him, see if he’s got any other weapons. Jesus Christ , Albert, what were you thinkin’?”
    The deputy un-holstered his Glock, racked it, sprinted toward the