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Where Skeletons Lie

A Thomas C. Flynn Story


Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn
Copyright © 2013 Marvin Thomas Cox
dba: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn
All Rights Reserved
Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 1
Where Skeletons Lie
Written By Marvin Thomas Cox Flynn
Copyright © 2013 Marvin Thomas Cox
DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox Flynn
All Rights Reserved

A Thomas C. Flynn Story

Chapter One: The Old Farm


Leaves were dropping from trees, as fall made its debut that year. For most folks in Smalltown,
it had been a decent year with plenty of rain, without threats of hail or tornadoes, and this past
summer had proven to be unusually mild, with temperatures hovering in the mid nineties most all
summer long. Cotton was looking good this year, and farmers were in high hopes of recouping last
year's losses, because last year was a miserable one if you were a cotton farmer in West Texas.
Farming is sort of like gambling: Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose — most times you
lose. Folks tend to think that farmers are rich and living high off the hog on government money.
Common sense alone should tell people that notion is pure horse hockey. The number of small farms
in America1 has shrunk each and every year since the early nineteen hundreds, with small farmers
finding it increasingly harder to survive in competition against larger, big business, farms owned by
large corporations that operate along the same line of reasoning Sam Walton built his Walmart empire
upon: Purchase in large quantities and sell quality for less.
This logic was simple but deadly, for mom and pop small businesses all across America,
because Walmart's vast purchasing strategy gave Sam Walton's enterprise a competitive sales edge, the
likes of which had never been seen before. Your mom and pop stores — small businesses that had once
raised families, putting kids through school and college — soon became a forgotten thing of the past.
People have to eat. They also must have clothes. This fact gave corporate farming an edge that
even Sam Walton never had: Owning large quantities of land — gobbling up small farms — does not
necessarily mean selling quality, nor selling for less.
The truth was, if owning a small farm was a get rich quick — get rich at all — business, then a
hell of a lot more folks would be buying farms. Of course, they would have to work it, sunup till
sundown, and folks just don't take to working these days. Besides, what small farmer could afford to go
head to head with the big boys? So, local farmers simply eked out whatever meager existence they
could in struggling to hold onto their land for as long as time and Mother Nature would allow. Time
was against them and, more often than not, so was Mother Nature. But even cruel Mother Nature can
show mercy at times and, by the looks of things, this year's cotton harvest might well be one of those
rare occasions when mother nature chose to take pity upon West Texas farmers. Time, and the
weather, would tell that story.
1 http://www.dailypaul.com/229840/the-family-farm-is-being-systematically-wiped-out-of-existence-in-america

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 2


Sonny O'Bryant was a man farm born and raised, his parents also the children of farmers. He
prayed to the heavens above for a good cotton harvest this year. Anything less, and he would lose the
farm — land tilled by his family for over three generations.
Everyone deals with stress and worry in their own way. Sonny, all too often, attempted to drink
his troubles away — a half case at a time …
____________

… A storm of trouble had struck. This time it was not mother nature, but time. His wife had
said, time and again, that she'd had enough of his drinking. Time, and her patience, had run out. This
time, she meant it. He was sure of it. Right now, cotton was the last thing on his mind. Joann was all
he could think of ...
He was sitting on the edge of the bed downing another beer, his head down, raining tears, while
he looked at pictures of not so long ago when life was good and love was their life. For him, it still was.
Tears and beer splashed randomly upon the photos of her pretty face. The irony of this brought a
chuckle to his lips. She had run him off because of his drinking, and now he was slowly drowning them
both, one beer, one tear, at a time.
Thoughts of suicide filled his mind. It seemed the only solution to his misery. God knew, she
deserved to be happy — without his drunk ass.
A tap at the door rocked him out of his dark fantasy.
“Fuckin' Smalltown,” he mumbled under his breath, in slowly rising to answer the door.
Smalltown was just that: Small. It was a town where everyone knew everyone else's business.
Gossip traveled faster than the speed of light. How could folks have possibly found out so fast where he
was staying? Clearly old Bob, the motel owner, had wasted no time in spreading the news that Sonny
and Joann were separated, and Sonny was shacking up with his booze in room one twenty three. He
had spoken to no once since leaving home.
“Who is it?,” Sonny asked sharply, in reaching for the door.
“It's me, who do you think it is, dumb-ass?,” the man outside replied.
“Oh, okay, hang on a sec,” Sonny responded a bit surprised, as he unbolted and opened the
door for his friend of many years.
“You look like shit, Sonny! Always heard misery loves company, so thought I'd bring you some
… Misery, that is,” the man exclaimed jokingly, holding out a freshly opened fifth of whiskey.
“You know I can't handle that stuff,” Sonny remarked laughingly. The truth was, he couldn't.
“You ain't handlin' nothin' right now, Sonny. Have a swig, it'll make your troubles go away.
Hell, you'll sleep better,” his friend offered convincingly.
“Well shit, pour us both a shot then. Plastic cups are on the table over there,” Sonny replied,
waving his friend on in and closing the door behind them.
“I gotta drive home. Already had me a few good pulls off that bottle, anyway. Enjoy my friend.
I'll have me a Bud.”
The two friends sat drinking and laughing over old times, for quite a while, before Sonny finally
got around to talking about Joann. Not long after that the conversation died out, with Sonny breaking
down in front of his friend. He was on his third shot of whiskey when he passed out. His friend sat and
watched him for a while, seeing that he was sleeping peacefully.
Before quietly leaving, he picked up the whiskey bottle and poured the contents down the
bathroom sink, tossing the bottle into the waste paper basket near the bed.
The man stared down at the photos of Sonny and his wife for several minutes, then he began
shredding them into pieces, setting fire to a couple and tossing them into the trash basket after
allowing them to burn — just enough.
“Pussy whipped motherfucker!,” he commented disgustingly to the sleeping man, while lifting
Sonny's keys off the night stand.
Sonny remained motionless. He was out cold.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 3


“A man has right to drink himself a beer. Woman's place is a kitchen … Or a bed. Bitch needs
to be taught a lesson,” the man murmured to himself, gently easing the door shut behind him.

____________

… The night was dark and overcast, without moon or stars. The O'Bryant family farm lay about
a mile west of town. The old farm house sat on a rise several hundred yards away from the county road
and entrance to the property. The lights inside lit the old home up like a beacon in the night ...
… The knock upon the front door came rather unexpected. She truly wanted no company, not
now, maybe never.
“Hey, surprised to see you … What brings you? … Sonny's not here,” she responded a bit
nervously, through the crack of the partially opened door.
“Was out this way. Saw the lights on,” the man replied coolly.
“Didn't hear you pull up. Usually see folk's when they turn off the county road heading up to
the house. Hear'em coming, lights a bobbin' for quite a spell, before they ever pull up out front. You
drive or walk?,” she asked curiously, easing the door open a bit more to glance out front.
A pickup parked in the darkness, a good ways from the house, answered her question.
“Was out spottin' deer. Thought I'd stop by to say hello. May I come in?,” he asked quietly.
“Well … Just for a minute … Have a seat … Guess you heard me and Sonny are splits? This
time, is the last time,” she added firmly. “No more!”
“Yeah, well I'm sure things will work out,” the man commented sourly, seating himself on the
sofa.
Clearly he had been drinking. His eyes told her that much when he stepped into the light, not to
mention the vapor trail that had followed him inside.
“Men and their booze!,” she thought to herself, shutting the front door in turning to address
his statement.
“I don't think so this time. It's over!,” her voice trembled, fighting back the tears.
“I'm here for you, Joann. Anything you need. I'm here,” the man replied, a bit too warmly.
“I'm free, white, and twenty one 2, so I can take care of myself. Thanks for offering, but no
thanks. I'll make it on my own,” Joann replied, cold chills suddenly making their way up her spine.
Funny, she had never felt uncomfortable around him before. What was different, this time?
“'Sup to you,” he added, with a bit of a slur to his voice.
Something in his voice — his tone, maybe his slur — triggered her reaction.
“You'd best go, you've been drinking, and I need to be alone right now.”
“Sure thing,” he replied icily, rising from the sofa, as though he were headed for the door ...
He was on her before she had an inkling of what lay within his heart. He was a big man, some
might say a fat man, for a Mexican. He had been a long time, trusted, friend of the family's for many
years now. She had trusted him all this time, 'till now ...
Joann fought valiantly to free herself from his grasp, but to no avail. He was simply too strong,
and too drunkenly determined to carry out the vile thoughts his mind had harbored all these years;
waiting for this opportunity, just waiting ...
She was nothing more than a rag doll in his hands, as he forced her through the house, and into
the bedroom where he had fantasized of this moment so many times before.
“Fucking bitch!,” he groaned, when she bit the lips that sought to kiss her, his hands now
ripping at her clothes.
The war for her modesty was lost in a matter of minutes. She fought bravely, trying so hard to
stop him, but she simply could not. All she could think of, while he savagely beat her, was how much
2 Free, white, and twenty one — I am free, white, and twenty one: A commonly heard expression in the southern states of America that simply means a
person is old enough, is an adult, and therefore has the freedom, to do as they choose or wish to do. Intentional or not, it is a racist statement of the old
South adopted by whites who are often insensitively inconsiderate of its true connotations and historical significance in that this expression is equivalent to
stating: “No one owns me... I am my own master.”

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 4


she truly loved her husband. What would he think of her now? Would he ever touch her again? … After
this, would she want him to? ...
With all the strength she could muster, Joann made one last desperate attempt to fight the man
off of her, sensing that he was about to conclude his business — inside of her body. She fought with
everything she had. She fought for herself, she fought for her husband, and she fought for the little girl
who needed her mommy, desperately snatching at his shirt pocket while he reacted instinctively to her
burst of fury.
But it was no use. He simply beat her harder, smashing his heavy fists into her face until she lay
in a dazed, semiconscious, helpless state. She could fight no more. He was now free to plant the seed
of conquest within her ...
… Through a bloodstained haze, she watched him zip his pants.
“Please God! Let him leave, please!”
She wanted to get up, run, hide, do something, but all she could do was lay there and watch him
leave the room, to only return minutes later sipping a can of beer. He had brought something else
along with him: A can of gasoline.
Terror gripped her, when she realized what he intended to do. She struggled to get up only to
be met by his fists smashing into her face once more.
“Damn shame I can't trust you to keep your mouth shut. But then, how would you explain your
bruises? You shouldn't have fought me,” he continued, putting his hand to his upper lip.
His lip was slightly swollen, with a trace of blood. His face suddenly grew dark and sinister ...
“Please, please no!,” Joann pleaded weakly, her voice barely audible.
“You bit me bitch!,” he growled coldly, dowsing the room with gasoline.
“Sonny don't know what he missed,” the man added, flipping open his zippo. “You're a damn
good fuck!”
In seconds the room was engulfed in flames, as he made a hasty retreat into the hallway. They
say your life passes before you the moment you die. All Joann could see was this bastard — this trusted
friend — standing there with a beer and a gas can, looking at her naked on the bed — smiling
sadistically, like he had done something to be proud of.
She could no longer bear to look upon the beast. So, she closed her eyes, focusing all her
thoughts upon her husband and the little girl who needed her so. If she wanted to see them again, she
must survive — somehow ...
“Be brave Joann … Patience! … He can't stand there forever … Be strong … Be strong for those
who love you!,” Joann encouraged herself, while flames ravaged the room around her.
Raped, beaten and battered, she gathered strength from that special place inside that no one
really knows where it comes from, surrounding herself with images of those whom she loved more
than anything in this world … Waiting, she hoped to live ...
He watched her fade into unconsciousness, covering his mouth with a handkerchief, before
turning to leave. Looking back one last time, he spoke his goodbyes to her with a most savage of
smiles.
“Adios bitch!”
Leaving the house, he locked the front door behind him. Then, climbing into Sonny's pickup,
he turned the lights on high-beam, and headed hurriedly back towards town.

____________

When the man reached Sonny's motel room, the guy was still out cold from the mickey his
friend had slipped him earlier in the evening. Pussies should not drink whiskey, especially drug laced
whiskey.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 5


Placing the pickup keys back on the nightstand, he surveyed the room. It was a mess, with
clothes strewn all about; the floor covered in the shredded pictures of Sonny and Joann. Beer cans
filled the room, many of them floaters from the three day drunk Sonny had pulled in pretending he no
longer loved his wife, while crying his eyes out over losing her.
The odor of something burning still lingered in the air from the partially burned photos of
Joann lying at the bottom of the trash can, alongside the empty whiskey bottle.
After checking on his friend, making certain to leave the door unlocked, the man quietly left,
leaving this time in his own vehicle parked on a darkened side street.
The man whistled to himself all the way home, listening to Bronco's, Dos Mujeres Un Camino 3,
on the radio.

____________

Thomas sat bolt upright in the bed. It was his first night back in Smalltown. Now, he wondered
if returning to this West Texas town had been such a wise decision.
Clearly it was a dream, but this was the first time he had dreamed such as this: To feel the
emotions of a woman. He had only thought that he had felt pain before in his dreams. This dream
hovered over him like a specter that refused to go away, even after several cups of late night coffee. It
was as if she were crying out, not only for help but, to tell the world what had happened to her. It left
Thomas unnerved, a mental wreck, in pondering the meaning of it all, and the why, of the why, of the
why, he had dreamed it in the first place.
“What is it? What's wrong, Thomas?,” Daniel and Elena asked in unison.
“She has a daughter!,” Thomas exclaimed, jumping out of bed to fire up his computer.
The dark writing4 was starting — again!

____________

… Out at the farm, the local volunteer fire dept. had put out the fire, saving most of the home.
A nearby neighbor had spotted the blaze almost immediately. Firefighters had stated that it was a
miracle the whole house hadn't gone up in flames.
The neighbor had also seen Sonny's pickup leaving the house. He seemed to be in a hurry ...
Joann's naked body was found, beaten and badly burned, lying just inside the hallway.
Apparently, after the fire started, she was only able to make it to the hallway before succumbing to the
smoke. She was pronounced dead at the scene by authorities. She was only twenty seven, a week away
from her next birthday. Thankfully, her little girl had gone to spend the night with a friend from
school. She had just turned nine last month.
Authorities were seeking to contact next of kin. Sonny had some explaining to do …

3 Bronco: Dos Mujeres Un Camino — http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_TAH4987KA


4 See the Thomas C. Flynn stories, Animal Justice, A Writer's Dilemma, Ravenous, and Wired For Sound by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn at:
https://www.scribd.com/user/272515081/Marvin-Thomas-Cox-Flynn

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 6


Chapter Two: Storm Over Smalltown

It was shortly after six am when the phone began ringing off the hook.
The man grumbled as he reached for the phone. “Que! Quien es?,” he spoke irritably into the
receiver.
“This is officer Walters with Smalltown PD. Sorry to wake you, but there's been a fire out at the
old O'Bryant place. Joann O'Bryant is dead. We're trying to locate Sonny, to let him know what's
happened. Folks around town say you guys are friends.”
“Haven't seen him in several days,” the man replied groggily. “If I do, I'll let him know, okay?”
“Well, if you do see your friend, tell him we need to talk to him,” the officer replied firmly in
hanging up.
Later that morning, the man gathered his clothes of the night before. His wife lay sleeping, just
as she had been when he had come home. He had brought Louisa over from Old Mexico. Mexican born
women were hard workers, obedient, and submissive — his kind of woman.
After the phone call, he had thought it best to get rid of his boots and clothes. Attempting to
shake off a hefty hangover, he set his mind to searching for last night's prize. But, where had he put it?
Puzzled, he removed his wallet, keys, pocket knife, and loose change from his pants — nothing more.
His worry now hinting of desperation, he picked up his shirt. Lifting it for inspection, he could already
see that it held something hidden within its pocket. Reaching inside, he removed a small ornate
locket, suspended from a broken gold chain. The chain had snapped when he tore it from her neck.
“Ah, something special to remember the puta by,” he said, in smiling to himself. He could still
smell her scent, and the fear she oozed when he had taken her.
Getting into his pickup for work, he dropped the locket into the ashtray to join other mementos
he had collected over the years, closing it firmly with a slap of his hand.
He left for work a little early. Upon arriving, he promptly disposed of the boots and clothes in
the company's incinerator. It was a quarter 'till eight. Work started this time of year at eight am.
After making coffee for the guys, the man poured himself a cup, and lit a cigarette. He sipped
his coffee slowly savoring it, smoke drifting from his nostrils. It would be an interesting day …

____________

Sonny heard the banging on the door only distantly, through the haze of fog that had consumed
his mind. By the time he managed to sit up on the bed, the motel room door had burst open, and he
was immediately swarmed by police.
He sat bleary eyed and disoriented, not believing his ears, while they told him about his wife. At
first, he was too shocked for tears … Then, drop by sprinkling drop, they began to fall in torrents down
his face ...
Smalltown's finest watched him weep with faces of stone. The room was a shambles, with beer
cans and shredded photos everywhere. The air was filled with the smell of a fire. It took only moments
to locate the source, in a waste paper basket, along with an empty bottle of whiskey … The cuffs came
out almost immediately.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 7


“She can't be gone! … She just can't be,” Sonny shouted through tears, fighting to free himself
from their grasp. “She just can't be gone!”
Blood spurted from Sonny's lip, as he caught a hard right fist in the face.
“How's that feel! … You like that! … What do you think she was feelin' inside, while you beat
the shit out of her? You sick fuck! You raped your own wife! But that wasn't enough, you had to burn
the house down too. Now she's dead. The O'Donnell family has been through enough, over the years,
with the car crash and death of her parents. My folks raised that girl from the time she was twelve
years old. She was my cousin, you piece of shit!”
“I'm sorry John,” Sonny attempted to say, just before another fist landed upon his face. “I loved
her more than anything in this world! I didn't do what you're saying I did! … I swear it!”
Sonny was heart broken with grief, and baffled and confused all at the same time ...
“Bullshit! … Everybody in town knows the only damn thing you're in love with is Budweiser ...
So where the fuck was you last night, smart ass? Yeah, go ahead. Think up some shit to cover your ass,
'cause your pickup was seen leavin' your house right after the fire started.”
“I was here, passed out drunk all night!,” Sonny replied, while the officers read him his rights.
“Like I said, he's in love with his Bud! Clean up this fuck, and get him in a cruiser! Book his ass
on suspicion of rape, arson, murder, and resisting arrest!”
With that the officer stormed outside, while the others cleaned up Sonny's face with a wet wash
cloth and towel. Cleaning would not hide the cuts and bruises once he arrived at Smalltown PD. But in
small-towns things like that often go unnoticed, especially after a gruesome crime has been
committed.
Slammed into the backseat of the patrol car, Sonny fought to remember last night. The truth
was, he could remember nothing at all, except drinking, crying, and looking at pictures of Joann —
beyond that, anything else was black and blank. He'd had himself more than his fair share of
hangovers in his life, but this one felt different — downright odd …

____________

… It was a Saturday morning. Sonny's week had been a living hell on earth. He was beaten
black and blue by inmates several times during the week, as they took their righteous indignation out
upon him. The guards seemed oblivious to what was taking place — blind to his blackened eyes,
disfigured nose, and bloody clothes. He was pretty sure he had a couple of broken ribs, but did his best
to not favor his side for fear the next attack might be launched towards that part of his body. Hell, even
his own lawyer had made light of the shape he was in.
Sonny was awash with hopelessness, wishing to God that he really had killed himself. Maybe
then Joann would still be alive. More than that though, he wished he knew who had raped his wife.
His burning rage was all that kept him going. If he could just get out of this hell hole, he would find the
son of a bitch who had done that to his sweet Joann, the love of his life — the only love he had ever
known.
He'd not had a visitor, other than his lawyer, all week. Honestly, he expected none. Joann was
loved by everyone who'd ever known her. This town had a vigilante personality. If he made bail in
putting up his farm, he wasn't too sure he would be alive to make the trial. His lawyer had told him so,
advising him to tough it out in jail until the trial was over. The man who had been his friend and legal
adviser for years seemed to hardly know him now, offering little hope of a good outcome at the trial
unless some hard evidence of his innocence turned up … There would likely be none ...

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 8


… Sonny had never been more glad to see anyone in his life than when his friend showed up for
visitation. The two men had been friends since high school, and drinking buddies throughout
adulthood.
“What's up, dumb-ass?,” the man asked, greeting Sonny the way he always had.
“You actually need to ask that?,” Sonny replied seriously.
“You got yourself into some deep shit, my friend. What the hell happened?”
“That's the problem, buddy. I can't remember what happened … Or didn't happen. The whole
fuckin' night is a blur! It looks like I bought some whiskey and got blitzed enough to tear up all Joann's
pictures in the motel room, that's what it looks like. But I don't remember leaving the room the whole
fuckin' day.”
“It looks bad, Sonny, real bad,” the man commented quietly. “You sure you don't remember
nothin'? Anything at all? For Christ's sake man, you got to help yourself here!”
“I would never hurt Joann. You have to believe me. You've known me most all my life!”
You could hear the desperation in Sonny's voice. He knew that if he lost his friend, then he had
no friends left. His parents were dead, and his brothers had him convicted already, before the trial date
was ever set. His reputation as a drinker and a hell raiser had caught up to him at last.
“I don't know what to think, Sonny … Or what to believe … But friends stick together. I am
here for you, Sonny. I'll do what I can to help,” his friend offered sincerely.
“Thanks buddy. You have no idea how much that means to me,” Sonny replied emotionally.
“Who will look after your daughter?,” his friend asked curiously.
It was obvious his friend believed the outcome of the trial would not be a good one. He was just
being realistic was all.
“Probably my asshole brother, unless I can work something else out,” Sonny answered, truly
concerned for his daughter. “They won't let me see her right now. As far as she knows, I killed her
mother, and I can't even tell her that the bullshit folks are sayin' about her dad is a pack of lies!”
Sonny was feeling that aching lump in his throat now. He could not let anyone here see him cry.
“I spoke to her for you, day before yesterday. She's at your older brother's house for now. The
girl's fine. She said to tell you that she loves you. Wants her mommy,” his friend offered consolingly.
For a moment, silence filled the air around them ...
“I would be proud to take care of her for you … If things do not work out … Raise her like she
was my own.”
“We'll see. I guess we'll see a lot of things soon enough,” Sonny answered despondently,
fighting back tears.
“Take care my friend. I must go,” the man added in leaving.
“Sure thing. Thanks for coming,” Sonny shared in saying goodbye.

____________

… His fingers were a blur upon the keyboard, while he sought to write down everything he
could remember about the dreams. Sometimes he was able to remember every detail. Other times,
there would be holes in his memory that would later return … Some never did. Those that did not
terrified him even more than those that did. To continue writing stories inspired by his dreams was
not what young Thomas Flynn wished to do … It was what he felt compelled to do — often as not,
almost against his will …

____________

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 9


… Five years had passed since his first Roto Rooter killer dream, and the writing of, Wired For
Sound5. Now retired from the Dallas Police Department, Samuel Bernstein had become a trusted
friend and father figure. The man had spent every spare moment of his time encouraging Thomas to
pursue a career in law enforcement.
“My boy, God has given you a precious gift that comes at a price to yourself, and with great
responsibility. If you do not use it, you may one day lose it,” Bernstein hammered at him almost
mercilessly when last they had met.
“That's exactly what I'm hoping for, Sam. I want to lose it! It's a curse, not a gift. I want to
write, but not the shit that comes to me in my dreams,” Thomas had replied defensively.
“So you sit at your computer and make up bullshit stories, when God, Himself, sends you true
stories that could save lives. He doesn't even mind that you write them down, as though you were the
author instead of Him. You ungrateful little bastard!,” Samuel had responded angrily.
It was no secret that returning to his Rabbinical studies had done nothing to clean up Samuel's
unsavory language, acquired in serving over thirty years as a cop.
“I enjoy writing love stories, Sam,” the young man added sincerely.
“Your aunt says that you wake up screaming from the dreams. But do you write them down?
No! Instead, you write silly ass, Sue-wants-to-fuck-Chuck, stories that do nothing to help those in
need. You gotta be totally outta your fucking mind, boy!,” Samuel had fumed in fatherly fashion.
“That's what the shrinks say, Sam. I want to write happy stories, not sad, dark, stories.”
“Who gives a flying fuck! People are dying out there, Thomas, and you can do something to stop
it. The stories you dream are only sad if you don't do something to stop the sick fucks you are
dreaming about. I wish to God that I had your gift. I damn sure wouldn't waste it the way you are!,”
the old man had snapped sarcastically.
“No you don't, Sam. You just think you do, but you don't have a clue what it is like to live each
day not wishing to even sleep at night, for fear of what may come to visit you in your next dream. I
can't write every sad story out there. I sure as hell can't save everyone that something horrible is
happening to. There is simply too much fucking crime and evil going on in the Dallas, Fort Worth
area. I can't take it anymore, Sam,” Thomas had stated pleadingly.
“Listen Thomas, you can only save one person at a time. You have to give a shit first, though!
But, since it's all about you, I've already spoken to my friend, Race Chance, out west in Smalltown,”
Samuel had added sourly.
“What about?,” the young man had asked curiously.
“There's an opening for a day dispatcher at the PD. Think you could deal with a little
Smalltown petty crime to help pay your way through life?,” Samuel had asked, in suddenly softening
his tone.
“Gotta be better than this Metroplex shit-hole,” Thomas had answered eagerly.
Samuel had smiled that smile he always smiled, when he had outsmarted someone. The young
man was getting away alright, but also taking a job in law enforcement. A dispatcher gets to hear it all,
every little complaint and problem that goes on in a police department's jurisdiction. The boy would
do alright. Samuel was banking on it, but he couldn't have his young friend know this for a fact.
“Course, you said you'd never work in law enforcement. Makes me wonder whose side you're
on, sometimes. If I didn't know you in the sick fucking way I do, that is … You, and your invisible
Daniel and Elena munchkin people. There ain't no yellow brick road here to play the Wizard of Oz
with, Thomas. We're talking about people's lives. So run off to Smalltown, and rest your wimpy ass
mind … More power to ya!”
“Well … Since you say it like that … When do I leave?,” Thomas had asked ever so seriously.
“Tomorrow, if you mean it,” Samuel had answered, rather bluntly, to his young friend …

5 See the Thomas C. Flynn story, Wired For Sound: http://allpoetry.com/story/11010163-Wired-For-Sound-by-Thomas_Cox

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 10


____________

… And so, the young man, Thomas Flynn, had returned once more to Smalltown — where he
had first met his little friends, Daniel, Elena, and their son, Matt — the resting place of older author,
Thomas C. Flynn. The dreams started again only a few days after arriving back in Smalltown, with
Thomas starting his new job as day dispatcher for the Smalltown Police Department ...
“You sons of bitches set me up, didn't you?,” Thomas stated flatly to Sam's friend, Detective
Race Chance.
“What do you mean, Thomas? Samuel told me you needed a job. All I did was to help get you
hired,” Race replied impatiently.
“The dreams have started again, and the story I am now writing begins right here in Smalltown.
It's bad, Race, real bad.”
Race could see the seriousness in Thomas' face. He knew the young man was not exaggerating.
He had read the kid's stories. The ones that sprang forth from his dreams contained a power and
emotion that spoke of true life events about people who were victims truly in trouble, at the hands of
those whose minds were also truly demented.
“You say your new dream story begins in Smalltown?,” Race demanded.
“Yeah, and I think you guys tricked me into coming back here so that I could write the damn
story, and help you solve some clueless ass case,” Thomas admitted angrily.
“Don't have any unsolved cases right now,” Race replied.
“Yes you do. You just don't know it, Race. This dream begins right here in Smalltown, about
ten years ago. There was a fire on a local farm. A woman was raped and left for dead in a house set
ablaze.”
“You're talking about the old O'Bryant farm house. Joann O'Bryant was raped and died from
smoke inhalation, after her attacker set the house on fire. Her husband, Sonny, was seen leaving the
house right after the fire started. He was convicted and sentenced to life in prison. This town loved
that girl. If he had been found innocent, someone here in Smalltown would have likely killed him
themselves, first chance they got. Folks 'round these parts don't take kindly to men who rape women,
much less murder them. The bastard should have gotten the death penalty, but the judge thought the
case was a little strange and that the trial left a lot of questions unanswered, despite the evidence
against him. It was rape and murder cut and dried. That's the way folks in Smalltown saw it. That's
the way I saw it then … That's the way I see it now,” Race firmly informed the young man.
“He didn't do it, Race,” Thomas interjected sincerely.
“Well, you'll play hell convincing this town otherwise. People here prefer to let sleeping dogs
lie. If you start stirring things up, you won't be workin' for the Smalltown Police Department for very
long.”
“I know these dreams are real. I can feel it in my bones,” Thomas added.
“I believe your dreams are real, Thomas. You've dreamed something that really happened, but
long ago. The case is closed. Write your story if you must, but don't start digging for reasons as to why
it should now, suddenly, be reopened. Folks won't take kindly to that kind of digging up the dead. Let
Joann rest in peace, son,” Race advised the young man seriously.
“And so the real killer simply walks, is that it?,” Thomas inquired emotionally.
“The real killer paces within his cell, while time creeps slowly by. Shit! Let it go boy … Let it
go!”

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 11


Chapter Three: Guilty As Charged

Kathryn awoke to the sound of Savage Garden's, Madly, Truly, Deeply. They were a has been
band, but she loved their music. Washing the sleep from her eyes, she paused in front of the mirror in
deep thought. Today was exactly ten years since the fire, since her mom, since her dad had been
imprisoned. To this day, she was convinced of her dad's innocence.
After all, why would any man who planned to murder his wife, rape her before burning their
home? If he had wished to make her death look like a rape turned murder, he could have simply raped
and killed her. Besides … Anyone at all who truly knew her dad, knew anything about the O'Bryant
family, should have known that he would never, in his life, have set fire to his family's old homestead …
She also knew, in her heart, that there was no way in the world that her dad would have ever hurt her
mom ...
No … Someone wanted to erase evidence. Someone wanted the truth to remain hidden —
forever. It seemed so strange, even this morning years later and Kathryn Joann now nineteen,
that the cops could not seem to reason this logic out, rather than convicting her father of crimes he did
not commit.
She had told her adopted uncle, Fabian, this very thing, time after time, over the many years of
awaiting the day her dad would come up for parole, in hopes of his release from prison.
Her uncle had never said so but, at times, she almost felt as if he believed her dad was guilty.
He had been good to her over the years, after she had run away that last time from her dad's
brother's. The state had finally given in, and allowed her to stay with him and his family, giving Fabian
Salazar full custody of the girl ...

____________

… Kathryn worked at a local florist shop. She loved flowers. They reminded her of her mom.
Her days were filled with nothing special. She was a tomboy. She had few friends, only memories.
High school had given way to dreams of college, but college costs money. So, she had resolved herself
to the fact that she would likely live out her days here in Smalltown, an invisible girl with a stained
past. Would the day ever come when folks ceased to stop and whisper when she walked by? She
seriously doubted it.
Because of this all too clear reality, she had long since chosen to go by her mother's maiden
name, rather than that of her dad's. She hoped he would understand. She wrote him regularly, but he
rarely replied to her letters. Each reply spoke strongly of how much he loved her, and unwaveringly of
the love he had felt for her mom. He never spoke of his innocence, or complained. She had come to
believe that the only thing that kept her dad alive, from day to day living in prison, was the hope he
held out that his little girl knew her father would never hurt her, or her mom. If so, he was right. But
in the meantime, she had to live in this town of professionally inspired gossipers.
Only recently, had she moved into a place of her own, with her uncle Fabian's help. She was a
young woman now, and no longer a child. It was only natural for her to want the freedom of a place of
her own. Besides, lately his eyes had begun to linger upon her rather unpleasantly. Something felt
different about him; something she could not puzzle out.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 12


She was a radiant beauty, the spitting image of her mother years ago, with long flowing red
hair, soft milky complexion, and dazzlingly beautiful blue eyes set heavenly above a wonderfully warm
smile that simply melted the hearts of all who met her until, that is, they learned she was tainted ...
Kathryn suffered from mental illness. Some thought it was due to the trauma of her mother's
death at the hands of her father. Others said the O'Bryant family had always been a bit flaky. Either
way, it was impossible to hide her trips to the local MHMR clinic in keeping her appointments each
month.

____________

Thomas was almost certain his heart had stopped beating — for a split second — as he gazed
into her eyes for the very first time. It was his first week back in Smalltown, and he had just made his
first appointment at the clinic. He found it hard to believe that he had run into her twice in the same
day — pleasingly so.
Smalltown was the resting place of older author Thomas C. Flynn. So, he and Daniel, Elena,
and Matt had made their way to the local florist shop to purchase something nice to leave in planning
to visit his grave ...
“Hi,” he uttered somewhat awkwardly, “I need something nice in memory of a friend.”
“Guy or girl?,” she asked curiously.
“Does it really matter to the dead?,” Thomas asked a bit jokingly.
“It matters to you,” the young beauty replied seriously.
“You pick. They're just flowers for a man I've come to admire,” Thomas answered, trying his
best to keep his eyes from drinking in her beauty ...
… Thomas left the florist shop, his heart aglow. He'd had a few teenage crushes on girls
growing up but, this girl, she took his breath away.
“Thomas is in love,” Elena chided heartily.
“Give me a break, Elena,” Thomas answered irritably, trying to hide the obvious.
“What woman, you expect the boy to live a single life, while we raise a family?,” Daniel asked
his wife jokingly.
“I think it is wonderful that he has found someone for himself … That is, if she is interested in
him too,” Elena replied. “My instincts say, she is.”
“Well, I'll tell you this: I swear she can see us. Looked me right in the eyes,” Daniel added.
“She's absolutely beautiful.”
His remark drew an instantaneous slap in the face from his wife, who only heard his statement
about Kathryn's beauty while ignoring his comment that perhaps she really could see them … So did
Thomas … His mind was on Kathryn, and Kathryn alone.
“Does your precious Leprechaun Law say anything about you guys minding your own damn
business?,” Thomas asked the little couple sternly. “I don't meddle in your lives, so leave my life
alone!”
“Okay, okay, the two answered together, choking on their laughter …

____________

… A few days later, Thomas placed a call to the florist shop.


“Yes, this is Thomas Flynn with dispatch at the Smalltown Police Department. May I speak
with the lovely red head please?”

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 13


Moments later, her sweet voice came on the line. She sounded a bit nervous to be receiving a
call from the police.
“Yes, may I help you?,” she asked politely.
“I hope so. This is Thomas Flynn. You sold me some flowers,” Thomas replied quite seriously.
“Oh, was there a problem with your flowers, sir?,” the young lady asked, her voice truly
concerned.
“Yes … They wilted,” Thomas answered jokingly.
“Well, of course they wilted. What did you expect?,” she asked, her voice a bit puzzled.
“I didn't expect that I'd wilt too,” Thomas added in making his play.
“You, you wilted?,” the young woman inquired curiously, smiling to herself now, realizing it
was the cute redheaded boy from the other day.
“Yes, I wilted,” he answered, attempting to sound distraught.
“How did you wilt, exactly?”
He had her interest up now. She was dying to know what he was going to come up with next.
“My heart wilted, and I will die soon if you do not promise to let me take you to dinner
sometime.” The young man bared his heart, hoping she would not shred it to pieces.
“Sorry, but I don't date cops,” she answered promptly.
She meant what she'd said. Cops had put her father in jail.
“I'm not a cop. I just work dispatch for the PD. Come on, what do you say? I'm dying to take
you out, here.” Thomas held his breath, hoping.
“You don't even know my name,” she replied in torturing the boy for as long as possible,
knowing full well she wanted to say yes.
“I'm terrible with names, but never forget a pretty face,” Thomas answered clumsily, his hopes
beginning to fade.
“So call me, when you know my name,” she replied coolly, hanging up the phone.
She knew he would call back, and loved it. There was something special about this boy.
Besides, he was the only guy she'd ever met who had an Irish last name, and actually spoke with an
Irish brogue ...
… He never did. His pride was probably wounded. Days went by, and she'd heard nothing
more from him. It surprised her just how much she already missed the sound of his voice. He was the
first boy to call her in a long time. Now, she wondered if her bit of girlish fun, in toying with him, had
been a mistake. What if he never called her again? That thought made her sad ...
… Weeks went by, and not another word. Then, he walked into the shop early one morning,
taking her completely by surprise. She'd overslept, arriving at work late, and had not had time to do
hardly more than give her hair a quick lick and a promise at brushing. She was embarrassed, not to
mention mortified. Things got worse when he walked right past her without speaking, and began
giving an order for flowers to one of the other girls.
The young woman quickly retreated to the rear of the shop, hiding her tears …
A few minutes later, while she pretended to busy herself — seething over what he had done to
her — she heard her name called out over the intercom.
“Kathryn O'Donnell, please come to the sales counter.”
“God, please let him be gone! I don't want him to see me like this. I don't want to see him
again, ever!” She was determined to not shed another tear ...
It was hard for her to leave the safety of the shop's small supply room. This room had become
her secret place — her shelter and refuge — where she often fled to regain her peace of mind when life's
little storms were about to get the best of her. Of all mornings, why did he have to pick this morning to
walk into the shop? On any other morning she would have been nicely dressed with her hair freshly
washed and neatly combed, her face glowing without a touch of makeup … But, this morning she
looked a mess … And he had walked right by her, like she was not even there … This thought started
her tears to flowing again — staining her beautiful face — her eyes now swollen ...

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 14


To her dismay, upon approaching the front, she could see that he was still there, his back to the
counter. When she reached the sales counter, he suddenly turned to face her. In his hands, he held a
dozen red roses. He smiled warmly as he held them out to her.
“Kathryn, will you go out to dinner with me? If you refuse, I will simply die,” Thomas stated in
his most serious tone ever.
She stood speechless, tears pouring down her cheeks. Then, she smiled that wonderful heart
melting smile. His heart had melted the first day they'd met.
“I would love to,” she said. They were the most beautiful roses she'd ever seen, and she worked
here …

____________

Dispatching had proved to be much more interesting than Thomas had ever imagined. He
actually enjoyed his job, except for the really bad calls. But, it was a job, and Samuel was pleased to
see him working with law enforcement, still hoping that one day he would apply to the police academy.
Thomas seriously doubted that would ever happen.
He had been dating Kathryn for almost a year now. She was the most extraordinary girl he had
ever met. There was seldom a moment during the day that she was not on his mind. This made him
smile, even after awakening from the dreams that continued to haunt him — still.
Joann had a daughter out there, somewhere. He had to find her, but how? He had quizzed
Kathryn a time or two about the old O'Bryant farm. She had become quiet, offering him nothing to go
on. After a while, he had stopped asking her.
Clearly, her uncle Fabian did not really approve of Thomas dating his niece. The man seemed
friendly enough, despite his occasional remarks that had begun after seeing Thomas leave the MHMR
office one afternoon. They had even had a few beers together over barbecue at Fabian's home, and
Mrs. Salazar appeared to be a very good woman, though she walked on pins and needles around her
husband — almost fearfully so. Thomas couldn't help but wonder why.
“Mr. Salazar, are you familiar with the old O'Bryant farm?” Thomas asked over a cold beer one
evening, while the two sat chewing the fat.
“That old place has been sold,” Fabian answered a bit sharply.
“Did you know the folks who lived there?,” Thomas asked. I'm just curious about a story that I
heard when I came to town.
“Don't know much about them. Try to mind my own business. Need another beer?,” Fabian
asked crisply.
“Sure. Funny thing. Nobody in this town wants to talk about that old farm, or the folks who
used to live there. It strikes me as odd, is all,” Thomas added, popping the top on the fresh beer
Fabian had handed him.
“Shit ain't worth talking about,” Fabian offered, in changing the subject.
That was the last time Thomas bothered asking anyone in Smalltown about the O'Bryants.

____________

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 15


Chapter Four: The Memento
Several months passed by. Summer had arrived in its full force of scorching heat and
sweltering endless days without any sign of coming rain. This past spring had seemed to promise a
good year for local cotton farmers after they were blessed with ample rain just prior to planting time.
Then, the heavens had simply turned to blistering scowls, of hot windy days carrying taunting and
teasing clouds across a harsh sky of blue, to unkindly inform local farmers that rain did still fall
elsewhere, at times only a short distance away, but nowhere near Smalltown's local farms ...
Thomas awoke from his dreams to meet yet another summer day. Forecasters were predicting
temperatures well into the hundreds. The dreams were becoming more and more intense, yet hazily
unclear in some details of what was to come. He struggled desperately to remember all he had
dreamed. A few things were crystal clear: Joann's daughter was was out there somewhere, and she
was in danger. But when? … Where? … And from whom? … That haunting information eluded him
each morning, upon awakening. Daniel and Elena watched quietly from their perch upon his shoulder,
while he quickly typed what he could remember of last night upon his computer.
He took a longer shower than usual, attempting to absorb the images of the night before. After
dressing in a rush, wolfing down toast and coffee, the young man got into his car, headed for work.
His old clunker had never failed to start. It did, this morning. That repetitive click, click, clicking
sound, when he turned the ignition switch, told him the battery was dead.
It seemed the whole town was now aware — thanks to gossiping police officers and local coffee
shops — of Thomas's dreams and stories. He had soon come to be treated like a recluse fruitcake. It
seemed no one paid any attention to the fact that his dreams, penned to page, were always based upon
true events that came to pass. All the townsfolk took heed of were the tales told of the little people who
were rumored to reside within his head. It was like he had the plague.
No matter how modern the world had become — for all of mankind's technological advances —
superstition continued to rule over people's hearts, more than common sense and logic. Rather than
gaining him fame or respect, Thomas had quickly found that his stories were regarded by many as
curses written upon people's lives — by his very own hands. Gossiping church goers had it that his
hands were guided by the little demons ruling his mind, turning him into a shaman of dark
forebodings, rather than simply a man who dreamed things about people and events that were already
taking place or about to happen. Very few folks would bother to give him the time of day. No rain was
all the curse the people of Smalltown could tolerate. They damn sure didn't need stories written by
some mentally disturbed, demon possessed, newcomer from Ireland.
The only people he truly knew, here, were Race, Kathryn, and Fabian. Reluctantly, he chose to
call Fabian this morning, in hopes of getting a ride or a boost, to avoid being late for work. Fabian
pulled up out front about ten minutes after Thomas had rang him on the phone. He was running late
this morning himself, and so suggested that they look at the car later this evening, when there was
more time to spare, offering to drop Thomas off at the PD, while he had plans for cutting wood this
fine Saturday morning.
“What's up dumb ass?,” Fabian asked the young man, upon pulling up out front of the boy's
house.
“Same shit, Fabian, just a different day, I guess,” Thomas replied, in hiding his anger at the
remark.
He wondered why Fabian always chose to address him as dumb ass. A joke, maybe, but it did
not sit well with him.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 16


“Are you sure it's a different day?,” Fabian asked jokingly, in driving the two off towards town.
“Not really,” Thomas answered honestly.
“Gotta stop and get some smokes, then we'll be on our way,” Fabian added, after wheeling into
a convenience store and rolling to a quick stop.
“No problem,” Thomas replied patiently. “I got a few minutes to spare, and a ride beats the hell
out of walking to work.”
Slamming the door of the old Chevy pickup, Fabian headed for the entrance of the store.
Outside, Thomas sat wondering how his day was about to go. Normally, he did not work
Saturdays at all. It was a religious thing taught him by his mom, passed down from generation to
generation by her family ancestors who had landed upon the isle of ire centuries ago from a land far
away.
But last evening he had received a call asking if he could possibly work today, because the
weekend dispatcher had come down with a serious stomach virus or, more likely, was working on a
next morning hangover from hell. What choice did he have? PD had to have a dispatcher, and so
Thomas had agreed to fill in.
Waiting for Fabian to make his purchase, Daniel and Elena gnawed at him for calling Fabian in
the first place. Neither of them cared for Fabian, feeling that something — something they couldn't
quite put their finger on — was just not right about him. They were very vocal in sharing their
thoughts and feelings, to say the least.
“I just don't trust him, Thomas. You should have called Kathryn, not this asshole,” Daniel
commented in all sincerity.
“I don't want to beg Kathryn for a ride. Besides, Fabian may be an asshole, but he is her uncle,”
Thomas replied somewhat defensively.
“You mean adopted uncle … Uncle, or not, I don't trust him,” Daniel stated matter of factually.
“You worry too muchhhh,” Thomas began to say, when Elena abruptly interrupted their
conversation.
“Thomas, didn't you write something from your recent dreams about a locket dropped into an
ashtray?,” Elena asked rather curiously.
“Yeah, I remember the locket vividly. Just wish I could remember the rest of the dreams I
dream over and over again each night. Why do you ask, Elena?,” Thomas asked his little friend.
“Well, do you think perhaps this might be it?,” she asked, standing upon the edge of the
pickup's ashtray, pointing to what lay inside. “I know I'm nosy, but I just had to look.”
The air in the pickup cab became deathly still, as Thomas peered into the ashtray to have a look
for himself. Fear stirred within him. His heart told him that, without doubt, this was the locket. It
was a gold locket and chain, with a lovely green shamrock raised upon its face. He was just about to
reach into the ashtray to lift it out and have a closer look, when Fabian exited the store, cigarettes in
hand.
“You hung over or something, Thomas?,” Fabian asked in getting in the pickup. “You look a
little fidgety.”
“Yeah … Drank one too many last night,” Thomas replied, lying through his teeth. His mind
was simply spinning at the moment.
“Nothin' a cold beer won't fix,” Fabian remarked, in driving the young man to Smalltown's
police department for work.

____________

After watching Fabian drive away, Thomas stormed through the PD's entrance, hoping that
Race Chance had come in this morning. Surprisingly, Race sat at his desk shuffling through papers in
a case folder. The look upon his face said that something had him concerned.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 17


“Ah, Thomas, just the man I wanted to see,” Race remarked in pointing to a nearby chair.
“Have a seat. Got a few things I want to run by you.”
“Go on duty in a few minutes,” Thomas replied, sitting down. “I wanted to visit with you too.”
Clearly something was up. Race looked serious, dead serious ...
“I know I dissed you pretty bad when you first came to work here, telling me about your
dreams. I knew your dreams were trustworthy, but my mind was set in stone when it came to the
events surrounding the death of Joann O'Bryant. Something you told me that day has been nagging at
me. You said, 'so the real killer simply walks,'” Race explained to Thomas apologetically.
“I still believe this to be true, especially this morning.” Thomas replied quietly.
“Look … I didn't become a cop to see a guilty man walk, and an innocent man locked up … I've
been spending some time over at the District Attorney's office going over the evidence presented at
Sonny O'Bryant's trial.”
“I take it you found something?,” Thomas asked, all ears now.
“Well first off, Sonny's lawyer filed for a change of venue, declaring that his client had no
chance of receiving a fair trial in Nolan County. But it was denied by the Judge,” Race added, stepping
from behind his desk to pour them both a cup from the small coffee maker in his office.
Passing a cup to Thomas, he continued, “It also appears that semen samples were taken during
the autopsy. Samples of Sonny's DNA were also taken. The samples did not match.”
“So why is the man in prison?,” Thomas exclaimed disbelievingly.
“At that time DNA testing, and its use in court was considered laughable at best. The
prosecution gaffed off the DNA evidence, handily, as unreliable, focusing upon Sonny's drinking and
reputation for fighting at the drop of hat in fits of anger. The prosecuting attorney explained that
Sonny's fits were quite understandable for a man who was struggling to hang onto his family's old
farm, almost sympathetically so. Then, he moved in for the kill, revealing that Sonny stood to collect a
tidy sum of life insurance money upon the death of his wife, money that could save the farm. The rest
was child's play: Sonny unable to account for his whereabouts; his sudden separation from his wife;
and the eye witness testimony from the neighbor who stated he saw Sonny's pickup fleeing the
O'Bryant home that night, right after the fire started. It was child's play because; the jury's mind was
already made up. No one gave a shit that cotton was expected to bring in a bumper crop that year, so
why would Sonny choose to murder his wife for the insurance money, when there was still hope of
saving the farm? The prosecution simply put icing upon a cake that was already baked as a guilty
verdict.”
“So, Sonny never had a chance in hell, did he?,” Thomas commented inquiringly.
“Nope … To top that off, I've learned that Sonny's lawyer has filed for several appeals over the
years since the trial … All denied.”
“Why would his lawyer file for an appeal?,” Thomas was puzzled by this news.
“I spoke with him on the phone a few days back. He told me that, shortly after his
imprisonment, Sonny began remembering bits and pieces of the night his wife died. Sonny admits
that some details are still fuzzy, but he attests firmly that Fabian Salazar was there with him in the
motel room that night before he passed out. Fabian's testimony could help to set him free …”
“That's what I came to talk to you about, Race,” Thomas interrupted.
“Hang on … Problem is, Salazar has never budged from his original statement that he had not
seen Sonny for several days before the fire, his wife also collaborating his story, stating that her
husband was at home with her that entire evening.”
“He's lying, Race! His wife too! … She's scared to death of that man. I've seen it,” Thomas
added earnestly.
“I think so too, Thomas … But I can't prove it. Fortunately for Sonny, times have changed. If
the evidence were examined by today's experts in the field, it might well prove that Sonny O'Bryant is
innocent of raping his wife … Probably of her death too. Sorry, Thomas, for being such a hardheaded
ass,” Race said, smiling at the young man.
“Forget it. Let's talk about Fabian. In my dreams, I keep seeing a locket shoved into the pocket
of Joann's rapist. Some things I cannot remember when I wake up. It usually takes some time for all

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 18


the details of my dreams to solidify. But ...I remember that locket in every detail, even where the
rapist placed it the next morning,” Thomas stated intensely.
“That locket was never found,” Race replied inquisitively. “Whole town knew she wore it.”
“I found it, Race. Saw it this morning. It's in an ashtray … In Fabian Salazar's pickup! Kathryn
O'Donnell's uncle!”
“Is that the girl you've been seeing this past year or more? Man, you picked yourself a beauty,
that's for sure, but her last name isn't O'Donnell … It's O'Bryant. She's Sonny O'Bryant's daughter …
Joann, was her mom,” Race answered informatively, the pieces of Thomas's puzzling dreams
beginning to fall into place.
“She's next, Race. I've seen it in my dreams, night after night … He's been planning it for years
… Waiting patiently for the right moment … Don't know what I'd do if something happened to her!,”
Thomas stated in an emotional frenzy.
“Let's pay him a little visit … What say?,” Race commented in reaching for his hat ...
“Sounds damn good to me!”
“Hang on a second. Gotta tell the night dispatcher that his morning relief is a no show … Bet,
thaaa ...”
The young man was already out the door before Race could put his hat on and make his way
out from behind his desk … A sense of urgency filled the air …

Chapter Five: A Burning Desire

Kathryn had dressed in jeans and a tee shirt this morning, hoping she didn't melt in the
summer heat, with her hair in a pony tail tucked through the back of her cap. For the past several
years, she had spent most of her weekends helping her uncle Fabian cut wood. He sold most of the
wood they cut, keeping some for use around the house for family barbecues. She had better things to
do with her time, but remained clueless as to how she would ever explain that to him. She owed him
so much more than she could ever repay. She had crawled out of bed a little late this morning,
wondering if he had already come by. But locking her door, in stepping outside, she smiled to see him
round the corner in his old Chevy pickup truck.
As he rolled up, she could see the cooler in the back, just like always. Uncle Fabian never went
anywhere without a cold beer. Kathryn rarely drank alcoholic beverages. When she did it was usually,
a wine cooler, maybe one or two.
“We're late,” he snapped at her. “Had to give dumb ass a ride to work.”
“Why do you insist on calling him that?,” she asked, the sound of her voice making clear his
words hurt her.
“Cause he's a dumb ass white boy,” her uncle answered sharply. “You should find yourself a
real man … Not a boy.”
“You mean a Mexican man,” she replied angrily. “I love Thomas, no matter what you think of
him, uncle.”
“Suit yourself, Katie Joann,” he answered, slipping the pickup into gear.
“My name is not Katie … It's Kathryn … I hate it when you call me Katie!”
The drive out to the old O'Bryant farm was a quiet one. Fabian had been cutting wood from
undeveloped acreage there, off and on, for many years now. Sonny's brothers had refused to sell the

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 19


farm to the opportunistic vultures of Corporate Farming. At least, in this they had stuck by their
brother's side. One day, perhaps, another generation of O'Bryant's would till the soil. Until then, the
land would be allowed to rest, and Fabian would be allowed to look after the old place and cut wood
from areas that would, one day, need clearing for cultivation — if that day ever came.
Only in recent years had he begun to ask Kathryn to accompany him on his weekend
excursions. What else could she say to him? … But yes … He seemed coldly oblivious to how she
might feel about returning almost every weekend of the summer to see the remains of the home where
her mother was raped and left for dead, only to die in the fire set by her attacker. He told everyone he
owed it to her family to keep an eye on the old place. It made her angry that he had never asked her
how she felt about it — after all it was her family …

____________

… The old house stood majestically in the heat of the morning sun, a memorial of the hard
working O'Bryants, who had poured their blood, sweat, and tears into this old farm, spending their
lives tilling its soil. The scars from the fire, now also served as a memorial of her mother's death.
Each time he drove by, uncle Fabian always stopped — looking the place over as if
remembering old times — before driving on to the uncleared fields where they would be cutting wood.
This morning proved to be no different. In fact, this morning seemed almost special to him.
He headed for the wood cutting area, whistling some old Bronco 6 tune, to himself, while they drove
along.
Pulling up beneath the shade of a stand of older mesquite trees shielding them from the sun
and from view of the old road leading back to the house, her uncle parked the pickup truck.
Coming here always swept Kathryn away to those better times, times when life was so very
good, and her mother was still alive with her dad by her side. Long ago, this area had come to be
known as the O'Bryant family picnic and barbecue area. In her mind, she could still savor the scent of
fresh barbecue cooking on the grill, and hear the laughter of her mom and dad that sprang to life every
time they spent a day here at this special place where nature had kindly afforded a Wash 7 that had
given rise to the tallest trees on the farm by carving out a small, deeper, area that, in times of a good
rain, served as a natural pond — that is, until the lack of rain and the harsh summer sun saw it return
to being every bit as dry as a Dry Wash always is. It was a beautiful place that one could easily picture
— right after a much needed good rain — as a little oasis, right smack dab in the midst of, an often dry
and desolate, West Texas. Her thoughts sought to keep her immersed in the memories of those
yesterdays, but her uncle's voice shook her loose from her reverie ...
“Time to go to work lazy girl,” uncle Fabian commented casually, stepping out of the truck to
pop a top on a Bud from the cooler.
Kathryn slowly got out of the pickup, to face the summer heat head on. His old truck's AC did
not cool very well, and so lessened the shock of meeting the hot summer air. Stretching her legs in
readying herself for some hard work, the girl reached into the back for a bottle of water.
There was no point in staying angry at her uncle all day. Born and raised in Mexico to later
become an American citizen, she doubted seriously that he would ever change his old fashioned,
traditional, ways of thinking about life and people — especially a woman's place in the home. He had
wasted no time in insisting that she speak Spanish in his home, working side by side in the kitchen
with Aunt Louisa, cooking meals and making fresh, handmade, tortillas.
6http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_TAH4987KA
7 Wash — An arroyo (/əˈrɔɪoʊ/; Spanish: [aˈroʝo], "brook"), also called a wash, is a dry creek, stream bed or gulch that temporarily or seasonally fills and
flows after sufficient rain.[1] Flash floods are common in arroyos following thunderstorms. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arroyo_(creek)

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 20


“What! … No water uncle? … You forgot about me, this morning,” Kathryn exclaimed with a
laugh and a smile.
“Ah shit!,” her uncle replied, grinning sarcastically. “Forgot to buy water … Guess you'll drink
beer today.”
“You know I rarely drink alcohol … Can't stand the taste of beer.” The girl's smile quickly faded
at the realization that it was a long time until sundown without water, or something to drink. The
stubborn tomboy in her said, she'd just have to tough it out ...
Her uncle lowering the tailgate, Kathryn grabbed the chainsaw and plastic fuel jug. She was no
slouch at working with power tools. The girl had helped her uncle with many projects over the years.
Within a few minutes, she had topped off the fuel, and filled the chain oil reservoir. Giving the pull
rope a tug or two, the sound of a two cycle engine, purring sweetly, soon filled the air. Moments later
wood chips began to join the sound of the now screaming chainsaw, as the young woman set herself to
work attacking a nearby mesquite, the unfortunate tree having become the focus of her anger.
“No, no ese árbol!,” Fabian shouted. “Those trees there!,” He pointed excitedly.
Whether she heard him, or not, was not clear. One thing, was clear: There would be no mercy
for the poor tree she was currently taking her anger out upon. Her dad's brothers had stipulated to
Fabian that they never cut down any tree that sprouted up in the area near the pond, in hopes that one
day it might grow as tall as the other trees here. She butchered it down to a small stump in a matter of
minutes before setting herself to stomping off across the wash towards the trees she'd had already
known she was to cut today. She would make him pay dearly for that water he forgot to bring …
“Asshole!,” Kathryn mumbled under her breath, sweat already pouring down her face,
drenching her tee shirt, which was now decorated with wood chips.
True to his nature, Fabian sat on the edge of the tailgate, cradling a can of beer as though it was
the last one on earth. To hear him tell it, he worked his ass off all day at work, but those who knew him
would tell you that Fabian's idea of working was to shout and point at work for others to do. He had
made a career of talking his way through life, the smoke of his years of hard labor a handy salve used to
excuse his sitting on his ass, watching, while others did all the work.
Today was no different. Most average Hispanic men would have shouldered up the hard work,
leaving a young woman with not much to do or worry about, except gathering small branches into piles
to be burned, or fetching a beer when they needed a break from the heat, but not Fabian. He had his
own concept of a woman's place in life, taught him well by his father many years ago, and it was a place
well below that of a man's …

____________

When the two men jumped into the police cruiser, Thomas suddenly grabbed the steering
wheel from the passenger side, where he sat looking intently at Race.
“I know I'm no cop, just a dreamer, but it seems to me that if Kathryn might really be in danger,
then maybe we should make certain she's safe first.”
“Hell boy, you think like a cop already. Besides, I know you're sweet on that girl. Point the way
to her house, and we'll have us a look see,” Race answered jokingly, starting the car and slamming it
into reverse.
Minutes later, they pulled up outside Kathryn's apartment. After several knocks upon the door,
it was obvious that she was either sleeping in all day, which was not like her at all, or she was not at
home. Thomas rarely saw her on Saturdays during the summer, but had never really thought to ask
her why.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 21


She was probably fine. They did not know for certain that the locket Thomas had seen earlier
this morning was actually the one from his dreams. But then, how many shamrock lockets could there
be in the world, not to mention Nolan County, Texas? They also did not know, for a fact, if his dreams
of late were accurate, at least not yet, but their instincts told them both that wherever Kathryn was,
Fabian was there too and, if so, she was in danger.
A short drive across town brought them to Fabian's home. The knock on the door was quickly
answered by Fabian's wife, Louisa. Her English was not very good, Spanish mixed with English, but it
did not take a linguist to understand that she was saying her husband was out at the farm. What farm
was the question?
“Fabian was Sonny O'Bryant's best friend, before Joann's death. He looks after the old place. I
think that's where they're at,” Race explained to Thomas, while they sped off towards the west end of
town.
“Where's it at?,” Thomas inquired worriedly. “He said something earlier about cutting wood.”
“Just outside of town on the county road,” Race replied curtly. “I'd call for backup, Thomas,
but how can I call your dreams in, just because I believe they're true?”
“Yeah, I understand. You should live with this shit, Race. It's no fun at all. Right now, I don't
care. I just want to find Kathryn, and see with my own eyes that she is okay. I don't give a rat's ass
about my damn dreams.”
“Well, your dreams may be a pain in the ass, but they did lead you to Fabians ashtray,” Race
added thoughtfully.
“Elena discovered the locket, and pointed it out to me,” Thomas replied truthfully.
“Your Leprechaun friends again?,” Race inquired curiously.
“Yep, they're here with us right now,” Thomas replied matter of factually.
“I don't wanna hear no more. Never believed in Leprechauns. Never will,” Race informed him
lightheartedly.
“Neither do I,” Thomas responded with a smile.
“But you see'em?,” Race asked him, studying the young man from the driver's seat.
“Yeah,” Thomas answered quietly.
Race Chance was an open minded man, but he simply could not deal with any talk about
Leprechauns. Thomas simply had no idea how many strings had been pulled — favors owed cashed in
by himself and Sam Bernstein — in convincing Smalltown's Police Chief that Thomas's mental illness
was harmless and would not hinder his performance as a dispatcher. To dare speak to the chief about
Leprechauns was unthinkable — utter insanity … “Let sleeping dogs lie,” he had told himself at the
time ... The rest of their drive out to the O'Bryant farm was spent quietly, without a lot of talking.
Pulling through the cattle guard, Race drove up the rise and past the old farm house. Thomas
had dreamed of this house, burned roof and all. Race drove slowly, attempting to follow the fresh tire
tracks leading down the old farm road, away from the house …

____________

… While the girl stacked wood cut to length on the trailer they would be pulling back to town,
his eyes watched her. Reaching into the cooler for a fresh beer, he pulled out two. Popping the top on
one and taking a hearty sip, he held out the other in her direction, waiting to catch her eye. After
stacking a few more logs on the trailer, Kathryn gave a nod his way, acknowledging the fact that she
could see the beer and, yes, it was looking better all the time. She had worked herself up a Texas sized
thirst.
Her uncle smiled mischievously as he handed her the beer, watching intently while she opened
it and downed it voraciously. It was ice cold, and even tasted half way decent to her surprise. Clearly
her thirst had overridden her taste buds.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 22


The man laughed, reaching into the cooler to fetch her another beer. Waving her uncle off,
Kathryn turned away, headed back to work, her clothes soaked in sweat. It was a little after noon, with
the temperature already well above a hundred.
Fabian watched her finish piling up all the wood she had cut so far that morning, before calling
out to her, after she fired up the chainsaw once more.
“Slow down, slow down! Come take a break, before you have yourself a heat stroke!,” Fabian
shouted above the noise of the saw.
The girl could not believe her ears. He had never told her to slow down before, much less take a
break. Her breaks usually came when she was at the point of total exhaustion, and could simply go no
further without resting. Normally, he bitched when she took a break, calling her lazy Katie. She hated
that!
Fabian had retired to the driver's seat, sitting beer in hand, the door open.
Stopping the chainsaw, Kathryn made for the shade of the pickup truck, removing her cap to
wipe the sweat from her brow. The summer sun could not outshine her beauty, even covered in wood
chips and soaked in sweat. Tossing her cap through the open window and onto the dash, the girl
opened the passenger side door and slid into the seat. A cold Budweiser sat there expectantly awaiting
her arrival. Foam ran down its side and onto the seat, when she snatched it up, popped the top, and
downed half of it in a couple of thirsty gulps. Wiping beer from her lips, she glanced over at her uncle.
He seemed to think it funny that the girl who hated the taste of beer was enjoying it so much today. He
laughed as he opened himself another beer, his laugh inspiring Kathryn to laughter as well.
The two sat in the pickup truck, relaxing and drinking beer. The sun hovered ominously above
seemingly intent on scorching the earth below. She had downed three — or was it four? — beers,
when the alcohol began to make itself known. Common sense told Kathryn it was time to slack off.
There was still a lot of work to be done, and drinking would probably make the afternoon heat seem
even worse than it was. Still, the beer actually tasted good today.
“Back to work,” she stated jovially, tossing her empty can into the back.
“Ah, one or two more won't hurt nothin'.” Fabian held another beer he'd already popped the
top on, before getting back in the truck.
Offering her the beer, he motioned for Kathryn to take it. She hesitated only momentarily,
before accepting it with a smile. Truth was, she was enjoying just sitting and talking with him. They
had never done this before. Work could wait, she guessed.
Sipping slowly on her beer, they chatted lively about old times, both of them steering clear of
talking about her mom or dad. Every can of beer runs dry and so, no matter how slowly you sip, you
will reach the bottom sooner or later. This can having run dry, she looked up to see that her uncle had
another, already open and waiting for her. The conversation was too good to refuse one last beer, so
she took it, sipping even slower now, because she was beginning to feel a bit drowsy.
With Fabian rambling on, telling her a story about something that had happened at work,
Kathryn struggled to fight off the alcohol. The girl had grown quiet. The sips of beer becoming farther
and farther apart, she sat staring off into space, her eyes drifting downwards. It was then that
something caught her eye. She had made many trips, as a little girl growing up, in this old truck. The
rules for riding in the truck had been strict and clear: Never touch anything without asking first. The
memory of that first stinging slap across the face — so many years ago now — still lingered in her
mind, as she had learned for the first time that he meant business.
The ashtray he never used and attempted to keep closed, had always aroused her curiosity. At
first glance one might occasionally notice a few dead butts stubbed out by those, riding with him, who
failed to take note of the fact that Fabian never smoked in his pickup. Whenever this happened, the
ashtray would be open for a short time, before her uncle closed it again. A quick peek would reveal to a
child that treasure lay hidden within the shallow depths of this tomb for dead cigarettes. But, what
kind of treasure? She had always wondered ...
Strangely, the ashtray was open. Perhaps, someone had smoked in the truck recently, and her
uncle had not yet noticed. If he had, it most certainly would not be open.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 23


It was something that stood out from those shallow depths that caught her eye, just now, while
she fought to stay awake — something that stirred deep memories within her.
Without thinking, she instinctively reached inside … Seconds later her fingers began lifting out
a small gold chain. At the end of the chain was a gorgeous locket.
Kathryn gasped for breath as she struggled to focus her eyes upon it. The locket was a family
heirloom passed on to her mom by me-maw O'Bryant when she had married her youngest son; the
only son willing to continue working the family farm.
The locket had come all the way from Ireland when the O'Bryant family sailed to America many
years ago. Handmade, of fourteen karat gold, the locket boasted a lucky Irish shamrock upon its face,
while protecting precious memories inside. Her mom had worn it always — only taking it off to bathe
— yet it was never found when she had died.
Releasing the latch, Kathryn slowly opened the locket, still not believing her eyes which were
now fighting desperately to stay open. Inside, there was a photo. It was a picture of a dad and mom in
love, so many years ago. The mom held a newborn baby in her arms. The baby was Kathryn ...
It seemed quite obvious that her mother's locket had been right here, dropped callously into an
ashtray, waiting for someone to find it; someone who would reveal the truth about her uncle Fabian.
The young woman glanced over at her uncle, shock painted upon her face. He sat glaring at
her, angrily, from the driver's side of the truck ...
“I've warned you about meddling with things in my truck,” he growled at her savagely. “But,
who would believe a mental nutcase like you anyway? Who would believe anything that you might
have to say? So … You will say nothing … You will keep your mouth shut, about today!” His voice had
become low, cold, and cruel.
She should have known it was coming. Why would he change his behavior now, after all these
years, or his reaction to disobedience? She was far too busy fighting off the drugs he had slipped into
her last few beers, struggling to remain conscious, to consider what might be coming next. Before her
clouded reflexes could respond, his large open hand came across the interior of the truck to slam
viciously against the right side of her face, knocking her unconscious. She slumped slowly forward, her
head dropping against her chest in the seat. The stinging impact of the slap reverberated through the
air like a clap of thunder, startling birds in nearby trees, sending them to seek shelter elsewhere.
Blood had begun trickling from her ear ...
“Little puta!,” Fabian mumbled to himself, as he finished his beer.
Stepping out of his truck to grab another beer, he popped the top and began sipping on it.
Standing by the driver's side door, slowly downing the beer, he stared hungrily at the unconscious girl
in the front seat. She was helpless.
Possessed by years of lust filled anticipation of this moment, the man reached through the
driver's side to lay Kathryn down across the seat, her head and shoulders resting behind the steering
wheel. She was beautiful, the very image of her mother from so long ago, a memory he continued to
savor to this very day. The locket had slipped from her fingers, dropping onto the floorboard, landing
just beneath the brake pedal.
Stepping around to the passenger side of the pickup, Fabian stood at the open door, gazing at
her, before making his first move.
Sliding her tee shirt and bra up to her shoulders, his gaze fell upon her breasts. Then, removing
her shoes, the man unbuttoned her jeans and unzipped them, slipping them down and off her legs,
dropping them to the ground. He paused for a moment, hungrily devouring her body with his eyes,
before sliding her panties off to join her jeans. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined,
more beautiful, even, than her mother.
Grasping her left ankle, he slid her leg over into the floorboard, pulling her towards him.
Slowly, he began unzipping his pants. He was ready to mount her, when he heard the sound of a
vehicle coming across the field …

____________

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 24


… It was one of those unmarked cars that the cops use. Two men were in the car. The one on
the passenger side looked a lot like Thomas Flynn. The driver looked familiar, but Fabian couldn't
place him.
Thomas spotted Fabian standing just inside the pickup's open passenger door. Kathryn was
nowhere to be seen. He knew in his heart what was taking place. It wasn't so much where Fabian was
standing, but how he was standing, that sent fear spiraling through Thomas's mind.
“Hurry Race, hurry!,” Thomas screamed frantically.
“We got'im!,” Race shouted, gassing the auto, its tires sending dirt flying, as he sped across the
field towards Fabian's pickup.
The man who had talked his way through life and work found himself panic stricken for the
first time. Struggling to zip up his pants, Fabian made his way around to the driver's side of the truck.
Reaching behind the seat, he grabbed for the twenty two revolver he knew lay hidden there ...
… The police car bouncing almost uncontrollably, Race maneuvered his way across the field,
dodging tree stumps, brush and branches. There was no time to wonder where Kathryn was, or if she
were even safe. He saw Fabian make his move to the other side of the pickup. His years of experience
on the force told him that Fabian was going for a weapon.
“Get down, Thomas! Now! He's got a gun!,” Race shouted, fighting to steer the car towards the
stand of mesquite trees. Fabian had positioned himself behind the front of the truck. The gun barrel
sticking above the hood made it evident that he, in fact, was armed.
Shots rang out, as Fabian fired at the approaching car, bullets perforating the windshield.
Sliding sideways to a stop, Race screamed at Thomas to stay put, before opening the door and
rolling out of the vehicle. Instinctively Fabian fired again, his aim directed at the man he saw exiting
the car. The man tumbled several times, before coming to rest in the grass a short distance away from
the car.
With his heart pounding, his mind raced into high gear. Fabian was certain that he had at least
wounded the cop driving the car. He was already planning Thomas's murder, and how he would pin
the cop's death on him, along with Kathryn's rape and murder. He was well aware of the fact that
Thomas, like Kathryn, was an MHMR patient. It would be a simple cut and dried case of a mentally
deranged young man, motivated by mindless jealousy and lust, who had lured a local cop out to the
farm to kill both him and the woman he craved after, raping her first before shooting her. Fabian
would then, tragically, arrive too late in discovering what had transpired ...
The cloud of dust from the sliding stop was likely all that had saved Race. Fabian was an expert
marksman and a member of the local gun club. So was Race. He knew he was lucky that Fabian had
missed. He also knew the man was watching from behind the pickup, waiting for him to move. If he
did, the next shot would not miss. He lay in the grass, hoping for Fabian to make a mistake.
Several minutes went by, while Fabian thought things over, and watched to see if the cop
showed any signs of movement. The old confidence returning, he relaxed his guard, stepping from
behind the front of the pickup. He' d only taken a few steps in Race's direction, when his eyes thought
they detected movement.
It was too late. Before he could retreat to the cover of the pickup, Race suddenly rose to his
knees and squeezed off three rapidly patterned shots.
The shots took Fabian totally by surprise, with the big man crumpling face down upon the
ground, blood pooling in the dirt around him …

____________

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 25


… The air in the field around them grew suddenly still after the gunfight ended, as if a
moment of silence were being observed for the fallen man — without even the slightest hint of a breeze
or chirp of a bird. Only the sun continued its merciless beaming from above, doing its damnedest to
give the man a taste of hell, before he might arrive there within the cool depths of the earth below …

____________

… Race slowly rose to his feet. Thomas bailed out of the police car and ran to the passenger
side of Fabian's pickup. Kathryn lay there on the front seat, unconscious and naked, but alive. Her
clothes lay fallen upon the ground beside the pickup.
Race busied himself with making certain that Fabian was no longer a threat. A quick glance
assured him the man was dead.
“Any sign of the girl?,” Race yelled towards the truck.
“Yeah,” Thomas replied, emotion filling his voice. “She's unconscious, but I think she's okay.
From my dreams, I'm pretty sure he drugged her. She's naked Race. Son of a bitch stripped her!”
“I'm sorry, Thomas, but damn glad we got here when we did,” Race replied in trying to cheer up
his young friend.
Race had only taken a step or two in the direction of the pickup, when Thomas yelled out.
“Do me a favor, Race. Stay there, please! She shouldn't have to wake up to find out she's been
seen naked by half the town, stripped by the man who raised her — a man she trusted. Her clothes are
right here. Come on, can't we spare her that?,” Thomas pleaded from beside the pickup.
“It's against procedure … But fuck procedure! After what her mother went through, her father
too, I think we can spare the poor girl that shame. Can you get her dressed before she regains
consciousness? I got to call this in,” Race replied understandingly to his friend.
“I hope so. Wouldn't ever want her to know I saw her like this,” Thomas answered gratefully.
Thomas fought back tears while he dressed her, praying she would not come to, just yet. He
had lowered her tee shirt and bra into place and was putting her panties back on, when he noticed the
swollen redness on her left cheek and the blood oozing from her ear.
Rage consumed him. Red was all he could see. Storming around the pickup, he headed for the
body of Fabian Salazar.
“Fucking piece of shit!,” Thomas screamed at the man, tears streaming down his face, as he
drew back his foot to kick the dead man in the face.
Two strong hands suddenly gripped his shoulders, jerking him backwards and almost off his
feet.
“She's more important than this asshole right now. Don't you think?,” Race asked, looking
squarely into Thomas's eyes. “Take care of your girl. Hurry, before folks get here … ”
Regaining his composure, Thomas went back to the pickup to finish dressing Kathryn. After
carefully lacing up her shoes, he looked up at her beautifully sweet face. Even in sleep, she found a
way to smile. He knew, at that moment, he was truly in love with this girl, and would do anything to
spend the rest of his life with her. He also now realized that his dreams had not been such a terrible
curse. After all, his dreams had led him to her …

____________

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 26


There were no officers scurrying to drive off to the scene at high speeds, no ambulance sirens
blaring, after the request for assistance was called in by Race Chance. It was all over, except for the
cleanup, and so there was no hurry in arriving to haul away a dead man — most especially a bad dead
man ...
Using a stick to open the cooler, so as not to touch any evidence, Race and Thomas enjoyed a
cold Budweiser, while they waited for the drugs to wear off of Kathryn's system. Help began arriving
about the time the two men were finishing their beers.
The paramedics took a quick a look at Fabian, checking for vital signs, before moving on to
Kathryn. The girl was already showing signs of stirring, when they passed the broken ammonia
capsule beneath her nostrils. Seconds later, Kathryn sat up in the seat, groggy, disoriented, and
surprised to see paramedics and police at the farm.
Struggling to regain her bearings, the young woman smiled in seeing that Thomas was there
too. Her smile was soon to fade as she finally saw her uncle Fabian on the ground, apparently dead
from multiple gunshot wounds. Policemen were taking photos, while paramedics prepared to load
him in an ambulance.
Tears began welling up in her eyes. She had loved that man. It was still so hard to believe how
deceitful he had been, all these years; how desperately wicked he truly was; what he had surely done to
her mother; framing and betraying her dad. In that moment, she knew what he had also intended for
her. She shivered at the thought, wiping the tears from her eyes. She loved him, but this man did not
deserve her tears. She would save them for her mom's memory, and for her dad.
This thought inspired a desperate search, before she spotted her mother's locket lying on the
floor board. Cradling it in her hands lovingly, she turned her tear stained eyes towards Thomas.
“How did you know?,” she asked curiously.
“I didn't, until I saw that locket in the ashtray this morning,” Thomas replied comfortingly.
“Had to work this morning. Race was waiting for me when I got there. He wanted to talked to me
about some evidence that was ignored at your dad's trial. I told him what I'd seen, and about some of
the dreams that I've been having. We put two and two together. Went by Fabian's place and his wife
told us that you two would be here cutting wood today. We got here as fast as we could!”
“I've heard gossip around town about your dreams. Thought you were just mentally ill, like me,
she answered with a smile.
Opening the locket, she summoned up her best girlishly official tone, “Thomas Flynn, I would
like you to meet my parents, Sonny, and, Joann.”
“Met them in my dreams, Kathryn. Dreams that led me to you.” Thomas gazed dreamily into
her eyes.
“I'm glad,” the girl choked out with a smile. “I love you Thomas … And your little friends.”
Race had remained quietly by Thomas's side until now, but could no longer contain himself.
“You mean to say, you can see these little people?,” Race asked in disbelief.
“Well sir, they say I'm a bit touched but, yes, I can see them,” the young girl replied, smiling
now at the detective.
“Thomas, here, says they claim to be Leprechauns,” Race added heartily.
“Mr.....?,” She began to say.
“Chance, Mam, Race Chance.”
“Mr. Chance, I don't know who or what they are really, except my imagination and apparently
Thomas's as well … But there are, sir, no such things as Leprechauns.”
“Ah, shit!,” Race exclaimed. “Here we go again!”

____________

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 27


After the dust of yet another scandal rocking Smalltown had settled, the DNA samples taken at
Sonny O'Bryant's murder trial were located. New samples were taken from Sonny at the prison, and
from Fabian Salazar's body.
For the second time in many years, Sonny's DNA did not match the samples taken from his late
wife's body. To the shock of the residents of Smalltown, Fabian Salazar's DNA was a perfect match.
Upon further investigation of Salazar's activities, details began to surface about his travels for
the company where he had worked. It was learned that during certain times of the year, Fabian had
traveled to both Corpus Christi and Lubbock, where he worked there for months at a time. The dates
and times he had worked in the two cities, over the years, coincided exactly with several unsolved
rape/murder cases there. Upon contacting and speaking with family members, it was also learned that
several assorted mementos found within the ashtray were, in fact, personal items belonging to his
victims — mementos tossed callously into an ashtray; a tomb for dead cigarettes; tombs being the
most common place, Where Skeletons Lie …

Chapter Six: An Overdue Reunion


A soft summer breeze rustled through the trees as the couple awaited the bus. Hints of sunlight
appeared to be busy teasing the sky, in promise of rising upon a beautiful day. Kathryn had not felt so
excited since she was a little child. Thomas stood beside her, his arm around her waist. Daniel, Elena,
and their son, Matt, sat expectantly upon his shoulder. They, too, were excited.
As the bus pulled into the Smalltown bus station, Kathryn held her breath. What would she say
to him after all these years — after all he had been through? What would her dad say to her?
Time stood still for just a moment, before the bus rolled to a stop and its door opened to allow a
single passenger to exit the vehicle — small bag in hand. The man stood there, unsure of what to do
next. It had been over ten years since the death of his wife and his conviction for her murder; over ten
years since he had last seen his daughter. Fear suddenly gripped at him, though he knew he should be
overjoyed to be home. How could he ever make things right for her after all that had happened?
A decent community would have turned out in mass to greet any man vindicated of crimes he
had never committed. But this was Smalltown and, so, the stigma of past words spoken in whispered,
cruel, gossip would likely haunt Sonny O'Bryant and his daughter, Kathryn, for the remainder of their
lives.
Thomas stepped forward, hand outstretched, in breaking the ice. “It's good to meet you Mr.
O'Bryant. Thomas … Thomas Flynn's the name. How was your trip?”
“Uh, good as any ride on a bus, I guess,” Sonny replied, setting his eyes upon his daughter for
the first time in so many years. She looked so much like her mother — so much like Joann.
“Dad! It's so good to have you home. I've missed you so much!,” Kathryn exclaimed, throwing
her arms around her father — tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I've missed you too baby!,” Sonny answered emotionally, wiping away all the years spent, in
fear and doubt, wondering if his baby girl hated her dad.
Thomas stood by their side quietly, giving them the time they so much deserved. Elena cried
softly upon Daniel's shoulder, while little Matt wondered what all the fuss was about.
“It's okay Elena,” Thomas whispered to his little friend.
“They're happy tears, Thomas,” Elena replied, struggling to control her sobbing.
“Yeah, yeah they are,” Thomas answered, smiling.
After a while the years of pent up emotion began to die down, and Sonny stepped back to take a
better look at Thomas. Thomas wasn't sure what to do or say, as the man sized him up.

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 28


“Dad this is, Thomas, my husband,” Kathryn told her father proudly.
“Do you love my daughter young man?,” Sonny asked, looking Thomas squarely in the eyes.
“Yes, I do sir. I love her more than anything in this world,” Thomas replied nervously.
“Good. That's exactly the way I felt about her mother … About Joann.” Tears had welled up in
Sonny's eyes once more.
“I know Mr. O'Bryant. I know how much you loved her, believe me,” Thomas added
comfortingly.
“How could you know what I felt for her; how I felt when she died; how I feel right now?,”
Sonny asked, his voice breaking up as he attempted to fight back mixed tears of anger and sorrow.
“Because I know your daughter sir,” Thomas replied proudly.
“Yes … Yes, I think I understand what you're trying to say. She is every bit as beautiful and
wonderful as her mother was. How did you two come to meet?,” Sonny asked, in smiling lovingly at
his daughter.
“It's a long story dad,” Kathryn answered softly. “We'll fill you in over coffee sometime soon.”
“And you young man? Are your going to make me wait for an answer, too?,” Sonny asked
curiously.
“Well sir, you see, your daughter literally is the girl of my dreams,” Thomas answered
laughingly steering the two towards the car.
“That's good enough, then,” Sonny said, stepping into the backseat of the car.
Driving away from the bus station, Thomas peered into the rear view mirror at his father in
law. He grinned, posing a question.
“Do you believe in Leprechaun's, Mr. O'Bryant?”
“Hell no, do you son?,” Sonny answered. “Why would you ask?”
“Ah, nothing, just wondered,” Thomas replied. “Uh, neither do I, sir.”
Thomas smiled warmly, enjoying the pleasure of driving them all home. Every now and then
he could not help but steal another look into the rear view mirror at Mr. O'Bryant. The man sat
happily in the back seat, proud to be home again, totally unaware of the three little people riding upon
his shoulder with him. Clearly, Daniel, Elena, and Matt approved of Kathryn's father.
His smile left for a second, as a sad thought struck home: His little friends might leave him.
He had grown very attached to them over the years.
“Nah, he ain't crazy,” Thomas thought to himself comfortingly, pulling into the drive of the
their small home.
Stopping the car and turning off the ignition, he turned towards the backseat.
“Welcome to your new home, Mr. O'Bryant,” Thomas shared sincerely.
Kathryn was beaming from the passenger side.
“Daniel, Elena, behave yourselves,” she snickered in whispers.
“Call me dad, son … Call me dad,” Sonny replied in smiling joyfully at his new family.
Laughter filled the car, with Thomas and Kathryn cracking up at the sight of Daniel and Elena
dancing to an imaginary Irish jig, with their son upon Sonny's shoulders.
“What? What's so funny,” the old man asked.
“Life sir … Life is funny … Let's enjoy it,” Thomas replied merrily. “Come on dream girl, let's
get your dad inside, and start making all of our dreams come true … ”

(Written July 17th, 2013)

Where Skeletons Lie by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 29

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