Rivers Turn Press
617 Rivers Turn Road
Orangeburg, SC 29115
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Lawrence Thackston
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review, without permission in writing. For information, address Rivers Turn Press, 617 Rivers Turn Road, Orangeburg, SC 29115
First edition, first printing May 2017
Book Design by Holly Holladay and Major Graphics Author photo by Joni Thackston
Manufactured in the United States of America
Hardback edition ISBN 978-0-9985755-1-3
Trade Paperback edition ISBN 978-0-9985755-0-6
“Omnes enim ex infirmitate feritas est.”
“All cruelty springs from weakness.”
—Seneca
Seneca’s Morals: Of a Happy Life, Benefits, Anger and Clemency
In Memory of: The Emanuel Church Nine
Charleston, SC
“There’s nothing that evil fears more than love.”
Advance Praise for Carolina Cruel
“This page-turner offers equal parts violence, regret, love, evil and hope. Thackston’s compelling characters and gripping plot keep the suspense amped up until the last page. Much like a trip down the meandering black waters of the Edisto River, the journey through Carolina Cruel offers plenty of unexpected turns and wild surprises. I devoured this novel at breakneck speed; it was just that good!
- Michel Stone, Award-winning Author of The Iguana Tree and Border Child
Praise for Lawrence Thackston’s Tidal Pools and The Devil’s Courthouse
“Tidal Pools is a great South Carolina story, well-told, by one of our best.” Ken Burger, Award-winning Author of Swallow Savannah, Sister Santee, & Baptized in Sweet Tea
“It will keep you guessing to the last page, and you can’t get there fast enough.” John Warley, Author of Bethesda’s Child, The Moralist and A Southern Girl
“The author’s characterizations were spot on. The hero, Tyler Miles, sizzles on the pages.” Tracey Lampley, Go Articles
“The writing is excellent and the story is well-paced.” Maryann Miller, It’s Not All Gravy Reviews
“…a shivery, autumn read.” “…unexpected ending…” “…unique Southern thriller.” Joshua Simcox, Western North Carolina Magazine
“Thackston knows how to seed and pace a plot.” “A well-constructed roller coaster…” Rob Neufeld, Asheville Citizen Times
“Chilling…” “A page turner…” Sara Marshall, Mountain Xpress
OCTOBER 11, 1962
10:41 PM
Trina blew out a deep breath and leaned forward in the driver’s seat. She grabbed the keys dangling from the ignition, made the sign of the cross over her chest with her left hand, and said a hurried Hail Mary. She pumped the gas pedal as she tried the starter once more. The engine of the black 1960 Lincoln Continental coughed and spit but then died into silence just as it had done the past twenty times.
She gazed out of the window. The moon, peeking through moving clouds, lent a bluish tint to the night, and she could make out the woods and open fields around her. She turned to her right and caught Sara Beth’s nervous smile in the glow of the dashboard. “I don’t know anything about engines,” Sara Beth admitted. “Do you?”
“Only that they run on gas. And I know that the tank was full when we left Orangeburg.” Trina tapped on the gas gauge with her index finger. She then frowned and slumped in her seat. “We should have never taken my uncle’s car. We should have ridden with Amy and the rest of the girls. We could have all squeezed in.”
Sara Beth knew it was futile to second guess their actions at this point. “Where are we exactly?”
“I saw a sign not too long ago. We’re halfway between Columbia and Charleston – near some place called Macinaw.” She scanned the darkness again. “Great short-cut, huh?”
“Maybe we should walk to Macinaw. See if they have a station or someone who can help us.”
Trina eyed the road ahead of them. It had been a lonesome highway to this point, meandering through the quiet towns, swamps and cotton fields of the South Carolina Lowcountry. “It may be a couple more miles. And then there may not be anything open once we’re there.”
Sara Beth shrugged. “Beats sitting here though, right?”
Trina agreed with a tepid smile. But as she reached over to unlock the door, a figure appeared next to her window. She screamed and practically leapt into Sara Beth’s lap. Both girls latched onto one another as they watched the shadowy stranger move slightly from side to side.
The figure hunched over, pressed up against the window and then banged on the glass with a fist.
“What do you want?” Trina yelled.
“Y’all okay? Y’all need some help?” a man answered. Though muted by the glass, Trina could pick up on the man’s high-pitched, southern voice.
Trina gathered herself enough to respond. “Can you…? Will you call someone for us, please? Our car has engine problems.”
“Ain’t got no phone,” the man replied. “But I can drive you two into town. My truck’s up yonder at my farm, ‘bout half-a-mile.” He waited through their silence, “It’s eight more miles to Macinaw.”
Trina looked at Sara Beth who discretely shook her head no. “I think we better go with him,” Trina whispered harshly. “Unless you want to stay here all night.”
“But we don’t know anything about this guy. He could be one of those weirdoes we’re always hearing about.”
“Don’t be paranoid. He’s probably just a local farmer.”
“Walking all alone out here so late?”
“I don’t see that we have much of a choice, do you? I think we’ll have to trust him.”
Sara Beth bit down on her lip and eyed the figure through the window. “Well…okay, I guess,” she relented.
Trina leaned forward, popped the lock, and eased the door open. She instantly regretted it as she took in the man before her. He was razor thin—skin and bones wrapped in a long-sleeved blue shirt and baggy jeans. The in-and-out moonlight revealed his severely angular facial features, causing Trina to gasp. His skin seemed translucent—as if someone had taken a thin sheet of cellophane and simply wrapped it around the man’s skull. His eyes bulged out like a rabbit’s, and he was bald except for long thin patches of hair that hung like rat-tails off the back.
He smiled as he stuck his head in the door to look at the girls. Both were wearing skirts, and his eyes lingered on their young, shapely legs. “Havin’ some problems, is ya?”
Trina tried to muster a smile. “Something with the engine. It won’t turn over.”
He smiled wickedly. “Transmission maybe. That could do it. Why don’t y’all follow me to my farm? It’s right up there.” He pointed down the road with a long, boney finger. “I can take ya to town. Find ya some help.” He smiled again—all jagged teeth and cheek bones.
Both girls eased out of the car, grabbing their purses. As Trina locked the doors, Sara Beth stood completely still, eyeing the man guardedly.
Trina turned to face him, interlocking her arm with her friend’s. “So, how far is it to your farm?”
“Just up the road a piece.”
They fell in behind the man as he walked along the shoulder of the road. The night air was cool and the girls, still arm in arm, kept close behind. They
felt the long, wet highway grass brush up against their ankles as they walked further into the darkness. Soon, they were no longer able to look back and see the car.
“Where you ladies headed?” the man asked, keeping his back to them as he marched on.
“Charleston,” Sara Beth volunteered. “A friend’s parents have a place down there. We’re going to hang out at their house for the weekend.”
The man nodded and turned slightly toward them. “Sounds real nice.” He pronounced the word “nice” slowly so that he made a hissing sound like a snake.
“You girls look kinda young. Y’all still in school?”
“We’re freshmen at Winthrop College,” Trina said. “Do you know Winthrop?”
He wheezed a little laugh. “Don’t know too much ‘bout schoolin’. But I’m sure it’s real nice.” He hissed the word again.
The girls eyed each other as he turned around. They walked in silence for a few more minutes, branching off the road and deeper into the woods.
“How much longer until we get there?” Sara Beth asked. “We’ve been walking for a while now, and I don’t see any lights ahead.”
“Depends…” the man said.
“On what?”
He stopped and turned to face them. His smiled widened. “On whether you girls is good girls or bad girls?”
Sara Beth squeezed down on Trina’s arm tightly. Trina’s heart raced and she felt weak in the knees. She wanted to turn and run but could not move. “Sir?”
“Good or bad. I’ve got to know if the good Lord has forsaken you. Will you fight for the kingdom of heaven or spend the eternal war in hell? It’s a simple matter really.”
“What do you mean?” Sara Beth protested. “We’re both good…”
“Hold it now,” he said interrupting and raising his hand. “I can’t depend on your words. Many is the time the devil has protested his innocence. We should let the angels decide.”
“Angels? What are you talking about?” Trina demanded.
The thin man drew an eight-inch pointed boar dagger from his pocket with his right hand and held it up in the moonlight. “This is Michael—the good angel of death.” He then transferred the knife to his left hand. “And this is Abaddon—the destroyer—an angel of Satan. They will decide who is good and who is bad. And then one will call you home tonight.”
Trina threw her pocketbook at the man’s feet, and then did the same with Sara Beth’s. “Please, sir, don’t hurt us. Take our money, if that’s what you want. You can have it all. The car too.” Unable to speak, Sara Beth only rapidly nodded her head in agreement—tears in her eyes.
The man took a step forward, passing the knife back between his hands. He whispered a few words—a conversation with himself. “No. We ain’t interested in your money, little ones.” He reached out his left hand and held Trina’s face while using his right to bring the knife’s point under her chin. “Congratulations,” he said before plunging the knife in her throat, “The angel of the Lord desires you in heaven.”
SEPTEMBER 28, 2016
6:46 PM
Greyson Bledsoe stepped cautiously around the knotty cypress tree. The move failed to disperse his 230 pounds evenly, and his Kevlar snake boots sunk several inches into the bordering pluff of the Edisto River. He took another wary step, his boot sucking free from the muck before sinking again into the black, watery ooze that crept past the boot’s rim and sought out his rubbed-raw ankles.
Bledsoe, decked out in his favorite camo fatigues, looked like a tight-rope artist as he balanced himself, arms out, his right hand clutching his prized crossbow. With one false move, he could wind up with his backside soaked, or with his face planted in the thick, soupy chunk. Neither option especially appealed to him.
He made several more laborious moves toward another clump of trees. Moving ten feet felt like walking ten miles. His calf muscles had tightened into knots, and he felt shooting pain working into his fifty-year-old hip-joints and knees.
He arrived at the little hump of an island and found solid ground at the base. This is far enough, he figured. He turned his back to the Edisto and scanned the dark forest on the riverbank in front of him. A steep hill hidden in mounds of kudzu climbed beyond towering trees dressed in thorny vines and poison ivy.
He was now safely in the honey-hole, a thin strip of land that was the headway to a heavily-trafficked deer trail. Previous hunts there had taught him that as the day drew to a close, white tails wandered down the trail and out into the inlet to drink from the cool run-off of the twisty Edisto.
He positioned himself by leaning his meaty shoulder against the centermost tree—an old walnut, gray and disfigured; animal burrows littered its rotting trunk. The hardwood had shed its last leaf and wouldn’t last many more seasons out in the swamp.
Bledsoe put his foot in the bow’s cocking stirrup and locked it into position. He then raised it to shoulder height. It was a new model crossbow, a Barnett Ghost 410 from Cabela’s—a bit pricey, but coin well-spent in his mind. He knew he could hold his position for several hours, supporting its light weight. He slipped an arrow from the quiver mounted underneath and lashed it into the bow’s arm. He counted the yards between him and the water’s edge. He was far enough away to keep his stink from reaching a deer’s nose but close enough to bring a ten-pointer to its knees should the situation arise.
With the safety on, he settled closer to the dead tree, focused on his target area, and waited.
Time passed like the pour from a bottle of Carolina cane syrup, but eventually his patience paid off. From the darkness of the wooded path, a young buck emerged. It was big one, 170 pounds or so, with six perfectly spaced points on its titillating rack.
The animal hesitated a few yards out, eyeing its surroundings warily. But after a twitch of its pink ears, it moved again toward the river.
Bledsoe leveled the bow, disengaged the safety, and locked in on his target. He hoped for a perfect strike into the animal’s meaty throat or chest. The great hunter eased out the last of his held breath and steadied his aim. The deer dropped its head to drink and then quickly bobbed back up, looking directly across the water to where Bledsoe was hidden.
Hold still, ol’ buddy. Bledsoe felt the pressure of his finger on the trigger and heard anticipation buzzing in his ears. It was now or never.
But in the quiet moment before the kill, an electronic squelch rang out, echoing across the swamp.
The noise shocked both hunter and prey. The deer leapt backwards and then turned to dart back toward the woods. Bledsoe took a hurried step from the islet and lunged into the cold river. Knee-deep now in the black water, he took a desperate shot at his prey. The arrow whizzed far off the mark and into the kudzu-filled hill behind the trees.
“Dammit!”
By the time he could even think about reloading, the deer had scampered off into the forest—a golden opportunity lost.
Bledsoe stared at the deserted trail and then glanced down at the walkie-talkie attached to his belt. An orange signal light winked back at him.
He had left it on. All that preparation, all that hard work, and he had simply forgotten to turn off the radio. He grabbed it in disgust as he sloshed his way to the bank.
“Whatcha want, Billy?” Bledsoe said into the device.
“I’m done. Ain’t seen nothing over here. Where you at, Grey?” Billy’s voice crackled back.
“I’m in the hole. Watching a buck give me the sideways smile.”
“Do what?”
“Never mind. Get down here and help me find my arrow. I can’t afford to lose another.” Bledsoe plopped down on the bank and drained the slush from his boots.
By the time his anger had whittled into mild disappointment, Billy Horton, his hunting partner, had arrived. Horton was a mirror image of Bledsoe, same heavy build, same scruffy beard, even the same style of camo fatigues. He looked down at his partner on the ground and saw that Bledsoe’s pants were soaked.
“Go swimming?” Horton ask
ed with a slight laugh.
“Wouldn’t had to if it hadn’t been for your perfect timing,” Bledsoe said, a bit of the anger’s heat returning.
“Don’t blame me if you can’t shoot worth a shit.” Horton chuckled and looked around. “Where were you aiming at?”
Bledsoe hopped up and pointed. “That hill over yonder. Missed him by an inch.”
“Yeah, right. Yellow and red? Or blue and purple?”
“Yellow and red,” Bledsoe said, confirming the arrow’s colors.
Both men waded through the underbrush and squeezed past the tall pines and oaks until they faced the waves of kudzu. A southern curse of epic proportions, kudzu was a vine-filled mess that sprouted without much prompting and grew heartily with little inhibition. This strand had enveloped the fifty-yard hill in a looping bed of tangled misery.
“It went in here?” Horton asked.
“Here or about,” Bledsoe said.
“Shoot, you ain’t gonna find anything in here.”
“Just help me look for a minute. I done lost three arrows since the season started.”
“All right, all right, don’t get your panties in a wad. I’ll help you look.” He hesitated for a moment. “But you ain’t never gonna find it.”
Bledsoe smirked. “C’mon.”
They fanned out, each walking from the center of the mass of the perennial vine toward the outer edges. Both men periodically brushed at the offshoots in a vain attempt to see anything yellow or red.
They searched for what felt like forever, and Bledsoe was ready to give up when Horton shouted out, “Over here! I found it!”
Bledsoe ran over and stood next to Horton. A little lower than waist high, the yellow and red feathered end of the sixteen-inch arrow was peeking out from under the vines. Horton had reached in to pull it out. “It’s wedged into something,” he said as he struggled to loosen it.
“Let me try,” Bledsoe said. He moved in and grabbed hold but felt resistance, too. He gave it several hard jerks but with no success. “Take your knife to it, Billy.”
Carolina Cruel Page 1
