Author's Note: Must be Monday.
As always seems to happen, this here story started out as one experiment, ended up as another. These things have a way of dictating what they want to be.
Relevant canon: This takes place sometime in the late first season. It references (in passing) both High Octane and Swamp Molly. It also borrows Chief Lacey from Deputy Dukes (and sort of references that episode, too) but puts him in Sweetwater County (which he was chief of in The Ghost of General Lee) instead of Springville. Why? Because I liked the sound of Sweetwater. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
It also borrows Claridge County and a few of its unsavory residents from season three. In this case I figure that although we didn't learn about these characters until later, they were always around. Besides, I have a habit of taking what I like and leaving the rest behind.
And that's about it. Except that whole not owning/not earning thing that y'all can recite in your sleep.
Cheers!
Chapter One - Right Behind You
Whispers and murmurs, the domain of women. If Duke men miss them, they can't be faulted; they are deaf to gentle, delicate notes. Long ago their ears got honed to an engine's hum. Pitch and tone, they know the second something goes awry, so long as it's mechanical. Human voices confound them unless they are raised.
Daisy should have heard the whispers.
A scheme, a plot, there's a reason Luke should mastermind those, and not only because he's not interested in being the errand-boy.
"Come on," ran the extent of Bo's persuasion. "I'll be right behind you." A faded shade of the truth, a not quite white lie, more like yellow hope. "I just have to pick up Penny first."
Because 'right behind' would have put Bo here on Miss Minnie's front porch, listening to her tell tall tales of liquor runs and loving under canopies of live oaks, lazy afternoons of skinny dipping. A page out of Luke's own youth, but there's no way he wants to picture the wrinkled spinster in front of him enjoying those same activities; not if, as she hints, Uncle Jesse was a willing participant.
"Those were the days," she sighs again, and he chooses to believe the stories are some warped form of make-believe, the child's games of a woman who never grew up enough to marry and settle into reality.
"Yes, Ma'am," he agrees anyway, because he reckons it'll keep everything moving along. "There was some things you wanted me to take over to the rummage sale?" Daisy's fault, responsibility for this mess ultimately falls at his female cousin's feet. Where she'd likely stomp it with that two inch pointed heel on her right foot. Duty to family and community, she'd point out. And if there were ever two boys that needed to spend some time in civilization, it would be him and Bo. A fundraiser of a sale, and a sweet old lady that needs help lugging the decrepit mementos of a faded past to where they can be sold for a good cause. Ashamed, embarrassed – Luke ought to feel the fool for balking at being helpful.
"Trinkets," the spinster answers, hand over her heart, eyes closed, face lifted to the sun. "From a better time. Nothing an old lady should hold onto. For young people just starting out, they'll be treasures." Her eyes come open, alert and sharp. Studying him and, "You kind of favor your uncle, you know," just goes to prove she's crazy. Looking to some ancient, fantasized past where she and Jesse (who never looked a whit like Luke – he was raised on the family photo albums and ought to know) were sweethearts.
A smile, because it's not nice to make fun of the daft, and he says, "You just show me where them things are, Ma'am, so's I can get them loaded up." And get out of here, back to the dirt roads of Hazzard, where Rosco's antics will seem downright sane in comparison to the odd darkness on this half-rotten porch. Out where Bo's likely showing off new aerial maneuvers for his girl of the week, counting minutes until he reckons Luke's done all the heavy lifting. Or maybe it wasn't work that his clever cousin ran away from this time. Could be that he believed the hushed words spoken in quiet corners whenever Miss Minnie came away from her barely-standing house on this overgrown and dark property. About how she didn't have two clear thoughts to rub together for warmth, and if she did, she'd only singe herself on them anyway.
Either way, shiny Penny, Bo's new toy, with her flowing blonde hair and adoring blue eyes, is no doubt getting treated to a thrill ride that is carefully timed to be sure to miss the real fun, right here at Miss Minnie's.
Bony hand over Luke's heart now, head tipped-back, tinkle of a laugh that flatters him into thinking he's just come out with the most charmingly amusing words ever. He goes tripping back over his own thoughts, can't imagine what it would have been, but he smiles back at her perfect white teeth, matching white hair pulled back into a tidy bun. Once upon a time she might have been pretty, and maybe, just maybe, turned Uncle Jesse's head. His head, but no other part of him, because no matter how many women whisper of the lost long love of one Jesse Duke, Luke will forever believe that the man only loved one of them, and she's gone now.
"Sugar," she says, and it's flirtatious and grandmotherly all in one, "everything's loaded. You just got to cart it over there and let Saul Keenan take care of it at the other end. When I asked for you boys to help, I didn't mean to put you out none. I just needed a driver."
Well. Intentions got lost in translation then. Because the early morning was spent under the old Duke work truck, changing the oil, tweaking the spark plugs and otherwise tuning it well enough to run it out here.
"Oh, my," comes out in an old lady sigh. "Bo's not here." Seems to be a startling realization on her part. Proof, maybe, that she's not firing on all cylinders. Females in Hazzard always note, right off, when a certain oversized blonde with a colossal ego is absent from the scene. Pouting countenances and furtive mumblings follow, debating where the pretty Duke is, when he might arrive, and who will catch his eye when he gets there. But Miss Minnie, she's been too busy seeing an old man when she looks at Luke, and imagining Bo where he's obviously not. "How are you going to drive both trucks?"
Instinct brings his hand to the back of his head, fingers mussing the curls there. Thoughts and logic are needed here, and Miss Minnie's in short supply. "You got a truck loaded up somewhere?" It's a backward stumble perhaps, but those are necessary when trying to find solid footing in the slippery mud of a doddering old mind.
A tsk, a shaking head, and he's four again. Disappointing the adults by being such a childish fool, because of course there's a loaded truck. Somewhere, just nowhere obvious. "Yes, sugar. In the barn." Which a stiff wind could reduce into splinters; in fact, could be that if there's really a truck in there, it's the structure's sole support. "Dear, dear. Daisy said you boys would both come. Now what are you going to do?"
Kill Bo. It's the first thought that comes to mind, but there are punishments worse than death.
"How much stuff you got, ma'am?" A truck in the barn, and since he can't see through wood, there's no telling whether it's a pickup or a semi, whether it's full of feathers or bricks. Doesn't matter, when lifting and carrying time comes, Bo's doing the lion's share.
A grip on his elbow, surprisingly tight, and the woman's distressed. Not quite swooning, but then he's not Jesse, just a poor substitute. Only half of the damsel-in-distress dramatics are necessary. "Now, sweetie," which only goes to show that Miss Minnie's marbles went missing long ago. No one has mistaken Luke Duke for being sweet, not since before he went to war years ago. "Don't you get fool ideas. Why, it took Jacob a whole day to pack that up for me." Which doesn't mean much, not without knowing who this Jacob is, and whether he's the type to con an old lady into paying him a day's work that ought only take an hour.
"Bo will be along directly." There's more to the thought, about how his kid cousin needs to earn his keep, and it won't hurt Penny a lick to lean back on the General's windshield and watch two shirtless Duke boys do some heavy work. But the grip on his elbow tightens, and those foggy gray-green eyes in front of him come clear again. He's being escorted, no, dragged right off to the building in question.
"Fine, fine," feels to him an awful lot like someone being deliberately dense. Though Minnie has no need to act the part, what with being a natural and all. "You can just leave your truck here, then, and he can pick it up. I'll tell him you went on ahead."
Frail fingers pull at the barn doors, and Luke's clearly a clod. He steps up, lifts the latch, shoves until the doors swing wide, revealing a panel truck.
"Packed up nice and snug like a bug in a rug," Minnie informs him. He reckons she would know, being a bit buggy herself. "No need for you to go putting yourself out rearranging nothing. Jacob, he's a good boy, and it's just a shame he couldn't be here to drive the truck. But he's a working boy, a working boy." Sing-song, never recognizing that the words could be taken badly by a man who works hard, but never punches a clock. Then again, the pride of her tone jars something in him, a recognition or memory that never quite comes clear before sliding away from the forefront of his mind again. "Anyway, he did what he could, and all I need from you now is to get this here truck to Saul. He'll take care of it at the other end."
The other end, which most days is as attainable as over the rainbow to Duke boys. In Sweetwater County, with its wide fields and rolling hills, and along its border with Claridge, the river from which it gets its name. Cold, clear water he and Bo used to drink on long hunts along its banks, but that was when Dukes ran free. Before probation and pacts with the government made county lines impermeable. Papers, signed by his probation officer, are what it takes to get him there now, and those are tucked away in his pocket. He reckons it'll feel pretty good to get out on the Sweetwater's roads, even if it is only to drive an old lady's junk to a rummage sale. A good cause, funds for a pediatric wing of Tri-County Hospital. What the heck, he might as well be on his way.
"Keys inside?" he asks, gets a demure little nod and a lip biting smile as an answer. Flirting with Jesse by proxy, as if Luke is a willing vessel to carry her misguided love home with him. "When Bo comes along," he instructs, losing no time in strutting the length of the truck, then stepping up into the open-air cab. "Just tell him to come on ahead to Sweetwater. Him and me can come back later and pick up the work truck." No need to complicate an already confused situation.
"All right, Luke," comes from too close. Sidling, slipping up on him; for such a frail thing Miss Minnie can move pretty quickly. She reaches up to pat his knee as he settles into the overly bouncy seat. "You just drive straight there, now, and don't worry about a thing."
He considers the oddness of the notion that any Duke would worry when they were behind the wheel of a moving vehicle as he signals for her to take a step back. Starts the engine, throws it into reverse, and the second it starts to move, anything close to concern leaves his mind in deference to the feel of freedom under his hands. A last wave to a well-meaning spinster whose head got lost somewhere in nineteen fifty-two or so, and he's on his way. Out of the dark hollow where vines hang low, clawing at the windshield, and up into the sun's glow. It's not such a bad day after all. Once this little errand is complete, and all good deeds are done, he reckons fishing might be in order. Bo will tire of his shiny Penny after a couple of hours and join Luke on the bank of Hound Dog Lake, casting reels and wasting time. Not a bad day at all, now that things are moving along.
Illogical, not possible, though his mind insists on churning through the notion anyway, about how Claridge County's dust is that much thicker, redder, downright dirtier. Choking sensation as he drives through, slick tires of a borrowed truck, loaded down with unwanted souvenirs, kicking up even more particles than the deep treads of the General would. He wishes for a window to close or a door to shut against the onslaught. He reckons it's penance for letting Bo outsmart him, and figures that payback will come in the form of pushing his cousin's pink, pinchable cheeks right in front of Miss Minnie and letting her have at it. After all, pretty-boy probably more perfectly resembles the spinster's faulty memories of a young Jesse anyway.
A dark mood that has him wanting to throw his baby cousin to the wolves, but it lifts and scatters to the wind when he crosses into Sweetwater. Grateful once again for the open design of this vehicle, the freshly-turned-dirt smell to the world, and the sun burning a souvenir of itself into his left cheek and forearm. He can just about hear the whirring spin of his reel, feel the tug and pull, see the catfish at the end of his line. Almost there, and there are sirens.
Heart, breath and foot react first. A spring coiled through the center of him releases, blood rushing hot under his skin, like a sudden fever. Heartbeat pounding in his ears, rhythm suggesting high-speed flight.
But it's Sweetwater, where cops are clean. Straightforward enforcers of law, and Chief Lacey in that cruiser back there no doubt reckons he's got himself a parole violation. Simple enough to set to rights, papers in his pocket will put them both at ease, then he can move on. Good deed of the day done, and he'll be on his back by noon, watching clouds while his fishing pole does all the work. So he drifts her easy onto the grassy shoulder, rolling to a stop and kicking the emergency brake.
"Hello, Luke," he gets greeted by the Sweetwater Chief. "Shut her down, would you? License and registration."
Rhythm like the annoying click of a blinker that didn't get turned off; funny how much of his life's been punctuated with those words.
"Morning," he answers back, digging into his rear pocket for his wallet. "I can give you the license, but I don't know about the registration. The truck ain't mine."
"Now, Luke, you have the right to remain silent," Lacey says, and the tension in his voice stops Luke cold. Hands up, though no one's asked him to surrender. Face calm, he looks the lawman directly in the eye.
"I got permission from my parole officer to be here," he says, trying to shield himself with the truth, but there's no point.
"Keep those hands up," Sweetwater Sheriff Walker's voice suddenly comes from passenger side. A gun, standard issue, is raised and pointing straight at him.
"I'm sure you do, Luke," Lacey consoles. Seems like all of this would be a lot easier to tolerate back in Hazzard, where Rosco yells and labels him riff-raff, rather than here where the law calls him by name and shakes its head in sorrow and good boys gone astray. "Step out, please." He could turn the key, slam his foot down on the gas. Sheriff Walker isn't any more interested in shooting him than he is in being shot. He'd probably get out of here, but not for long. This truck was not built to be a getaway car. So when the chief steps aside to make room for him, he just puts one foot in front of the other until he's standing on grass and gravel. "But you just admitted about how you don't own this here vehicle. And it's been reported stolen."
"Stolen?" It's an outburst worthy of Bo Duke. Too loud, too fast, almost sounds like a guilty man's denial, even to his own ears.
"You have the right to remain silent," Lacey reminds him, punctuated by the jingling clank of handcuffs getting pulled from the clip on his belt. A glance around reveals that there's a whole posse of deputies here, too. All right, so it's only two, but in these parts that's practically an army's worth of men to make sure that one Luke Duke gets taken into custody.
"It ain't stolen," he protests. "It's borrowed. From Mi—from Minerva Jordan." Formality seems important here; if Lukas K. Duke is about to be fingerprinted and booked, stands to reason he needs to give full names of witnesses who can get him released.
"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law," is a droning hum that continues under his protestations. He's spun around, right hand yanked behind his back. Cold metal, three clicks and it's tight against the bone. Left joins it captivity, and he's getting patted down. "You have the right to an attorney."
"Letter from my probation officer is in my right front pocket," he informs the deputy that seems to be getting a touch personal with his legs. "It's the only thing I'm armed with." Well, other than his Bowie knife, which has already been unclipped from his belt.
His rights keep getting rumbled into his ear until he's declared clean and turned around to face the Chief again. "Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"
Understand? Not at all. And perfectly.
"Yes," he sighs. "I also got a right to know what I'm being charged with."
"Grand theft auto, for starts." Sheriff and Chief stand side-by-side now, glancing together at some papers.
"Don't tell me." Sudden flash of insight that Luke can't wait to share. "It belongs to Boss Hogg." Bitter is the sound of those words and the taste in his mouth. But then, that can be blamed on the way his skin crawls against the metal confines on his wrists.
"Nope," comes from the beaming Sheriff. Oh, he's caught him one Duke boy, and in a county where he's just a peon until old Chief Lacey there retires, this is a banner day for the round little man. Round head, round body and even his pudgy hands, which take the registration back from his boss, have a somewhat circular shape to them. Every county has its heavy-set lawman, and Walker is Sweetwater's. "Jacob Jordan. You picked the wrong truck to steal, boy."
Everything in him screams to defend himself against this smug accusation, to be Bo and charge down what threatens him, to stand tall over it, look down on it and just maybe even spit. But he's not Bo, and Lacey's doing plenty of glowering for them both.
"That's enough, Bob. The boy asked what the charges were, not for your opinion of them. But Luke," he says over the thrum of Luke's heart and the whine of cars passing on the highway to the south, and he's not proud or self-righteous. He's just as sad eyed as Uncle Jesse always used to get right before he pulled out the strap to punish wayward boys. "You admitted it's not your truck. We don't need your permission to search it."
Search what's packed up as snug and a bug in a rug, and Luke's stomach curls into itself. "I don't know what's in there," comes out as a plea, not wise. Sounds like an admission of – something. Not so much guilt as complete idiocy, unforgivable indiscretion. Because Dukes have been guilty before, but they've always been smart about it. This time he's an innocent fool.
A click of keys, the clank of rear doors getting swung wide, giant eyes of deputies that are likely day-hire boys, unaccustomed to genuine crime-solving.
The whine of traffic has changed, the pitch climbing only to drop with each shift of gears. Familiar tone, recognizable hum.
"No," he mutters, but it's useless. Long about the time that one jug of moonshine clinks against another as it's being pulled from the back of the truck, the General skids to a halt. Here, finally, comes Bo.
It's instinct, animal. About as smart as a jackass, really, but someone's got to do something.
"Just wait a dang minute!" He's not even fully out of the car yet, hands sliding across smooth metal of the roof as he fights to pull himself out. On a good day, he can be up from the driver's seat and on the ground in one fluid movement that takes less than a second. But Luke's in handcuffs, passive, while men in blue lift clear jugs of moonshine into the air. Evidence, no doubt, that has been planted there by one fat County Commissioner dressed in white. This is not a good day.
"Bo." That's his cool, collected cousin, calming him down. Or trying, but it's a fool's errand that Luke's on. (Not half as foolish as the one that got him into this mess, the one Bo left him to without a second thought, because there was a girl to impress, because Luke could handle it alone. Because Bo Duke was a selfish brat.)
"No, Luke," he answers the words that his cousin doesn't even have to say. "I ain't gonna settle down. This here's a frame up and he," there Bo's finger goes, jabbing at Chief Lacey as if he's Rosco, like the Sweetwater law is in on it, "knows it." But of course, Sweetwater's a straight county, one of the few in the region. All Lacey knows about crooked law comes in the form of rumor and conjecture; whispers from behind the hand about how a once-decent sheriff could be bought for a cut of the take and a poor substitute for friendship. Lacey knows nothing, except that those are bottles of moonshine being pulled from a truck that Luke was driving.
Bo's on his feet now, marching closer to where his cousin's being held for a crime he never committed, or maybe the whole scene is stepping up toward him. Certainly there are men in ill-fitting uniforms advancing in his direction. Deputies-for-a-day; he and Luke know all about that kind, having been sworn in that way themselves not that long ago. Most of that day was spent with his heart doing calisthenics against his rib cage, while he grinned a confidence that he didn't really feel out into the world. Acted tough and if he jostled the killer he'd been deputized to transport, if he shoved and threatened, if he raised his weapon too quickly and without taking proper aim first, it was only because he was doing a job he had no business doing, driving Rocky Marlowe from here to there. Just like the men in front of him, blustering and reaching for their holsters.
"Bo!" penetrates the sound of blood rushing through his ears on its way down to where his fists have clenched. His eyes follow the voice; lock onto the forced calm of Luke's face. His cousin's arms clasped awkwardly behind his back, making his shoulder muscles all the more rigid, he's sweating and he's scared, but those blue eyes never waver. Capturing all of Bo's attention in the same gentle way he'd catch a butterfly in his hands, even as the rest of him is taut with the desire to fight. "Don't."
Quiet, nothing more than birds and scuffling feet as the deputies stop where they are. Something in the near-whispered authority of Luke makes them all listen, eavesdropping on a word meant for Bo alone.
"I'll be all right," is a bluff the likes of which would make a grizzled gambler proud. An older cousin, a leader, a man in up to his neck and sinking fast, but Luke's determined to go down alone.
"No," Bo growls, bravado to mask his own fear. "This ain't right. We ain't—" deep breath, burning against his throat, but there's no time for his own pain. "Luke ain't done nothing wrong," he tells Lacey. Reasonable man, always has been. Tolerates Bo stepping up closer to him, even if the other lawmen around tighten ranks. Prepared to answer any false move he may make, to throw him to the ground where they'd take great pleasure in leaving bruises behind as they cuffed him, no doubt.
"'Morning, Bo," is just out of place. Except it's not really. Spoken in a firm voice, steadfast, reminding every last man (and woman, Penny's back there in the General – at least he hopes she hasn't followed him out here) on this stretch of blacktop who is in charge here. "Luke here is under arrest, and it's up to a jury to see to whether he's guilty or not. You are free to go." So go. The man doesn't even have to say it.
"Bo," reins him in, pulls him closer, regardless of overeager deputies. They disappear from his focus, which is limited to the compassionate face in front of him. "Go on. Ain't nothing you can do for me." But that's not true, he can fight for his cousin, same as Luke's always fought for him. Must flash across his face, what he wants to do, because there's a head shake, then, "You got to take her home." Slight jut of a chin, reminding him that there's a girl back there that's counting on him, but dang it all, she could get herself home. She could just rev the General up and drive back to Hazzard or off to Atlanta and it wouldn't matter one bit which way she went. Not when it's moonshine Luke's accused of transporting, not when it's ten years he's facing. A sentence imposed on them both, when it comes right down to it – Luke to prison, and Bo to loneliness. "You got to go find Jesse and Daisy, tell them what happened."
Subtext, meaning hidden underneath what gets spoken. About how Bo needs to look after their girl cousin and aging uncle like Luke would, were he not about to disappear into the prison system for a decade or so. About how a torch is being passed right here on this dusty stretch of highway at the intersection of nowhere and nothingness, from older cousin to younger. About how he needs to keep his chin up. Dang hard to comply.
"Luke," comes out one more time, whispered regret and sorrow.
Those eyes stay fixed on him, steady, strength cloaking pain and fear. "Go on," Luke says, and leaves out that other word, the one Bo hears in his tone anyway. Please.
A nod is all he can manage, what with how the effort to swallow away tears takes any words he might say down the drain, too. Declarations of how he'll never let Luke go to prison, how these trumped up charges could never stick, and that if it comes right down to it, he'll find a way to get himself charged too, because there's no way he'll ever let Luke go down alone. Reminders of how much Luke is loved.
But then, there are words that never make it out of Luke's mouth either. Like how he's scared half to death.
So, with a deep-seated knowledge that he's a coward and a rat, Bo turns back to the General, slides in the window and starts him up. Backs away from the scene as he watches his big cousin get led toward the waiting seat of a police cruiser.