Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  Horton pulled a six-inch, serrated hunter’s knife from a belt sheath and hacked through the kudzu. After a few minutes, he had cleaned out a couple of inches of its depth. He looked in and laughed.

  “What?” Bledsoe asked.

  “Looks like you bagged yourself a Goodyear, Grey. It’s wedged into an old tire.”

  “A tire?”

  “Yeah, somebody must have dumped…” Horton’s voice trailed off as he continued to hack at the vines.

  “What is it?”

  “It ain’t just a tire. I’m hitting against metal now.” He rapped the blade hard against the object so that Bledsoe could hear. “Might be a whole car or truck under here.”

  Bledsoe joined Horton and helped to tear away the vines. Within minutes, they cleared enough to expose the smashed front end of the driver’s side of the auto—the tire with the arrow included. They began to tear the kudzu away quickly now. Both men felt a sudden urgency in their discovery.

  After ten minutes of pulling and chopping, they had exposed the driver’s side dirt-encrusted door, sitting at a downward angle—the car having plowed nose first into the bottom of the hill.

  Kneeling, the two men dug at the remaining stubborn vines and brushed away the dirt with their hunting knives and hands. Bledsoe stood and read the rust-covered insignia on the door. “Macinaw County Sheriff’s Department,” he said, pronouncing each word with deliberation. He stared at Horton. “You don’t reckon…”

  “Gotta be….”

  The two men continued to free the smashed patrol car from its entanglements. Mounds of vines, leaves, and dirt covered the wreck inside and out, darkening the driver’s side window which was rolled down several inches and had spider web cracks throughout the glass.

  “I can’t believe this,” Horton added. “Do you know how many people have been looking for this?” His voice rose with excitement.

  “This is huge, Billy. The find of the century kinda thing,” Bledsoe confirmed. “Should we open it? Get a look inside?”

  The door was pinched in on the sides; the handle rusty and broken.

  “I don’t know,” Horton said. “Maybe we should get the police down here first. What do you think?”

  “Do that, and we’ll never get to see what’s inside,” Bledsoe argued.

  “True that.”

  Horton moved to the door and grabbed the handle. He eyed Bledsoe, and then gave the old door a pull. It cracked open; rust and black dirt poured like a giant hourglass from the angled bottom.

  Horton continued to pull, but the door refused to open any further. Bledsoe stepped in and worked his fingers into the inside of the door. Both men put their weight behind the pull, even going to a timed jerking motion like a two-man tug-of-war.

  The door of the old patrol car finally gave way, flying off its hinges and sending Horton and Bledsoe tumbling to the ground.

  Horton brushed his fatigues as he got up, alternating a laugh with gasps for air. “Man, that was one tough door.” He fell silent as he took in Bledsoe’s stare. He followed his friend’s line of vision, suddenly mesmerized.

  Released from the packed dirt, clay and leaves, the men eyed a set of bones intact, still seated behind the wheel. Exposure and time had eaten away the muscle and tissue leaving only skeletal remains amid tattered clothes. Pinned against the wheel with a hole the size of a quarter in the left temple was a skull, the jaw gaped open and twisted.

  Horton and Bledsoe remained on the ground unsure of what to say or do. They just continued to stare—certain only in that what they had unearthed from the mud and kudzu today would become the latest chapter in the greatest unsolved mystery in the history of South Carolina.

  JUNE 16, 1976

  4:45 PM

  As he slowed to exit US 301, Chandler Adams hung his long arm out of his mint-green, ’68 Ford Torino, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird blasting from the eight-track tape deck. He flicked the ash from his Marlboro Light onto the hot, black pavement below. The summer heat rose in shimmering sheets—the Carolina sun cooking the landscape until all around him seemed a well-done brown.

  He felt welcomed relief from the heat as he made his way onto the Lowcountry highway, a towering pine and shady oak-lined road that would take him the rest of the way into town. The road cut through the Edisto Basin—swampland mostly—with the moss-drenched forest encroaching the thin road, threatening to swallow it altogether.

  Chan slowed as he reached the highway’s first sign of civilization. He gazed out through his rolled-down window and read the sign before him: Welcome to Macinaw, the Heart of South Carolina. Under the words was a county map of the palmetto state. Macinaw was indeed at the center, highlighted as the town seat in the middle of Macinaw County, right between the counties of Orangeburg and Colleton.

  He soon entered the outskirts of the town. The swampy woods gave way to open, dead areas of sandy turf dotted with trailers and small houses. Pinned to one squiggly maple tree were two homemade signs—scribbled in the worst handwriting—advertising bait for sale and a tree stump removal service. Junk cars on blocks, trash-filled ditches and knee-high grass lawns didn’t help in forming Chan’s first impression. He shook his head. Having driven four hundred straight miles, he seemed to have arrived in the middle of nowhere.

  Great choice, Chan.

  He eventually came within the city limits and stopped at the first traffic light. A mom-and-pop convenience store anchored it on his left. He leaned out the window to talk to a fat, sweaty man propped up in a folding chair next to the store’s open door. The man was using a newspaper to fan bugs and heat from his jowly face.

  “Looking for Marshall Street,” Chan said.

  “Two blocks down, take a left at the light and then go through three stop signs. Marshall runs both ways,” the man said gruffly.

  Chan gave him a nod of thanks and then pulled away. The fat man closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and resumed his fanning.

  Chan followed the given directions, then took a chance and made a right onto Marshall. Turning into an old subdivision lined with huge, moss-covered oaks. Chan swore the temperature dropped yet another ten degrees as he rode along under the shade of those giant oaks.

  The houses on Marshall were extraordinarily huge as well, with extended wrap-around porches and spacious yards with mature azalea and hydrangea bushes sprouting from every fence line. Wisps of wisteria hung in the trees like purple puffs of smoke. But the houses were mostly old and in ill-repair. Many sat vacant. Throughout the neighborhood, signs of simpler, happier times remained: porch swings, hammocks, and hand-cranked wishing wells. But like the homes, they seemed old, abandoned, forgotten. Chan likened it to traveling through a ghost town.

  He checked the address again on his notepad: 617 Marshall Street. The house numbers indicated his destination would be on the left.

  He finally steered the Torino down a short drive to a worn-grass parking pad in front of the house. Compared to the neighbors’, the home was a bit smaller, around 1,800 square feet. But it still had one of those over-sized porches of which the Macinaw townsfolk seemed fond—a pair of wooden rocking chairs included.

  Chan hopped out and grabbed a duffel bag and a suit hanger from the backseat and then went to the front door. He dropped his bags and knocked several times, noting the creaking floor boards beneath his feet as he waited.

  The door opened quickly. A woman of sixty with frightful, red hair dressed in a flowery bath robe peered out from behind the door. “Yeah?”

  “Mrs. Hallman? My name’s Adams. I’m here about the apartment.”

  She gave him the one-eyed look-over, taking note of Chan’s six-foot frame and momentarily admiring his boyish good looks. Her eyes narrowed in on his blond hair, which he kept parted down the middle—the length drifting over his ears and below the collar of the back of his shirt. “You some kinda hippie?”

  “Ma’am? No, ma’am, I’m a reporter. I called about the…”

  “Key’s in the box by the door. Take t
he stairs behind the house. Leave your deposit and first month’s rent in my mailbox.” She noticed his shirt pocket. “And I don’t allow no smoking round here.” She slammed the door.

  Chan turned to look out into the front yard and sighed. He popped another Marlboro Light into his mouth and brought it to life.

  Yeah, helluva move coming here.

  6:20 PM

  Chan moped around his one-room apartment for a while and after hanging up a few shirts and ties decided he had been confined long enough. He got back in his car and found his way onto Macinaw’s Main Street.

  The street, like most of the downtown, was decked out in red, white, and blue for the nation’s upcoming Bicentennial—flags and banners hung from nearly every building. In passing, he encountered several banks, two pharmacies, an office supply store, a few garages and salons, law offices, churches, the county courthouse and even a sizable Piggly Wiggly. On the square at the end of Main Street was the building that housed The Macinaw Republic, the local newspaper and Chan’s new employer.

  Chan pulled into a street parking space, ignored the meter, and headed toward The Republic’s front entrance. It was a red brick building with stacks of old newspapers piled next to the door.

  With the front-office unattended, Chan moved into the newsroom, his eyes darting about. The room was empty of people as well except for one black lady in her mid-thirties with closely cropped hair, sitting at a desk. Her eyes were closed—a pencil hung from her partially opened mouth.

  “Excuse me,” Chan started. “I’m looking for Dennis Darby?”

  The woman cocked open one eye then the other. The pencil rolled to her lap as she yawned and stretched, pointing in the direction behind her.

  “You can try his office. He may not have left yet.”

  Chan smiled and then followed her direction across the newsroom. He came to an unmarked glass-paned door and gave it a single knock.

  “Come,” a voice said from inside.

  Dennis Darby stood behind his cluttered desk as Chan entered. Dennis was in his late fifties—completely bald, with a heavy belly that was accented by his short, wide tie. He had narrow brown eyes and his slight nose seemed partially lost atop his bushy moustache. Chan thought he looked somewhat cartoonish—like the guy on the Monopoly game, minus the monocle and top hat.

  “Mr. Darby?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. You Adams? Wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir. I just thought I’d drop by and introduce myself.”

  “Have a seat.” Darby indicated the chair in front of his desk. He went to a file cabinet as Chan sat. The editor-in-chief flipped through files as Chan drummed his fingers along the arm rest. Darby found the file, closed the drawer, and returned to his desk.

  “Let’s see now,” Darby began as he flipped through Chan’s application. “Says here you graduated from the University of Georgia just this past month.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you wanted to start your journalism career here with us?”

  Chan smiled. “Yes, I know most of my fellow graduates wanted positions with larger publications: The Journal-Constitution, the Times, Washington Post; but I wanted to start smaller. Find a nice hometown paper where…”

  “Cut the bullshit, Adams. I’ve got your grades right here in front of me. None of those big rags would have anything to do with the likes of you. You’re damn lucky you even graduated with grades like these. You should be pushing a broom across these floors instead of making copy, am I right?”

  Chan lost his smile and his eyes found the floor. He looked back up and tried the smile again. “Sir, now I know my grades weren’t the best, but if you’ll give me a chance…”

  “Let me tell you how things run around here, Adams. Although I had zero to do with your hiring, you work for me now. You will report to this office every morning by six, and you will stay until the daily is put to bed, whether that’s seven, nine, or midnight. You will get an assignment each day, which may or may not involve writing copy, but probably will involve you getting me a cup of coffee and maybe even picking up my dry cleaning. It’s my job to do whatever is necessary to get this paper out, correct and on time, and it’s your job to do whatever the hell I say, comprende?”

  Chan shifted in his chair. “Yes, of course, but…”

  “How many words can you type a minute?”

  “A hundred,” Chan said, although it sounded more like a guess.

  “Do you know anything about us locally?”

  “Certainly, I reviewed most of the…”

  “How many counties do we have here in South Carolina?”

  “Counties? Well…”

  “Who’s our state’s lieutenant governor?”

  “Well, let’s see. The lieutenant…”

  “How many school districts do we have in our county?”

  “Um…I think it’s…”

  “Who is the chief of police in Macinaw? How does our crime rate compare to the national average? What’s our primary industry? What’s the ratio of blacks to whites in this town? What percentage of our people depends on government assistance?”

  Chan was now perfectly still and mute—Darby’s point having been well-made.

  “Be back here in my office at six in the morning, Adams.”

  Chan nodded and got up from his seat. He opened the office door.

  “And don’t forget my coffee,” he heard as he closed the door behind him.

  The black woman from the newsroom was waiting for him just outside the office door. She chuckled at Chan’s startled look.

  “Sorry, honey, I should have warned you.”

  8:47 PM

  Tyrell James pulled his blue truck to a stop under the sycamore tree that he used as his carport and eased his aching body out of the old Chevy. His ten-hour workday had turned into thirteen, and he was feeling every second of overtime as he labored across his yard to his trailer. A machinist by trade, the twenty-seven-year-old black man worked for Olsen Tools, one of Macinaw’s few industries and its biggest employer.

  Tyrell lived on the North Fork of the Edisto River on the outskirts of Macinaw—far enough away to have an isolated place of his own but only a ten-minute drive across the river from his momma’s house. His momma often worried about him living alone out there in the swamp, but he never felt scared living by himself. Besides, Tyrell James was a good-sized man who had grown up on the black side of town—he knew how to take care of himself.

  “Kean!” he shouted toward the trailer. A brown, German shorthaired pointer came from around the back of the trailer and met Tyrell on the front stoop. They played their daily ritual of good-to-see-you with Tyrell admonishing Kean not to jump up with his big paws.

  Tyrell fished the key to the trailer from his pants’ pocket and soon he and his dog were making their way inside. Kean went to his bowl where Tyrell poured a cup of his favorite dog chow mix. Tyrell then stood in front of the icebox mulling over the turkey or meatloaf TV dinners.

  Kean stopped digging into his late supper and scampered to the trailer’s back door, whimpering a bit to get out.

  “What is it, boy? You want out already?” Tyrell did a double-take at the dog’s half-eaten bowl of food. He shrugged, unlocked the back door, and let Kean out.

  Tyrell stepped one foot onto the back wooden deck and watched Kean bound down the steps and onto the riverbank that served as his backyard. The dog hesitated a bit before running off into the darkness. The hinge on the trailer’s back door was broken, so Tyrell propped it open with an old broom and followed. “Kean? Kean! Come here, boy!”

  Tyrell squinted his eyes as if he could see through the pitch dark; he then heard a solitary bark from somewhere nearby. “Kean? What is it? Kean?” Tyrell stepped further from his house and into the damp night. “Kean?!”

  Now on the top of the bank with the Edisto twisting away below him, Tyrell could only make out the outlines of the monstrous trees across the river. The summer sounds of chirpin
g crickets and buzzing mosquitoes on the deck gave way to the deep night call of frogs somewhere down river. A hot rain had fallen the night before, and Tyrell could smell the familiar pungent odor of the swamp stewing in humidity.

  He followed the Edisto’s edge a few more feet and came to the spot where he often played fetch with Kean, throwing sticks into the river’s turn. “Kean?” he tried again. But again, the dog did not respond.

  Chasing a raccoon or opossum, maybe. Tyrell shrugged and turned to head back to the house. He eyed the darkness a final time as he trudged back up the steps. When he reached the top, he noticed the trailer’s back door was now closed. The broom lay inexplicably on the deck.

  Tyrell picked up the broom and leaned it against the outside trailer wall. How in the world?

  He jerked his head in the door’s direction when he heard noise coming from inside. It was a thumping noise like something large had fallen. Warning bells sounded in his head.

  He eased the door open and slipped inside, careful not to give himself away. He went to the kitchen cabinet over the sink, looked behind the extra place mats, and retrieved his .45 revolver. He kept his shotgun in his bedroom closet and was thankful that he kept his backup here. He checked the chamber, saw that it was loaded, and slid the safety off.

  Tyrell froze when he heard another rumble coming from his bedroom. He strained to listen and within seconds he heard it again.

  He made his way from the kitchen down the small hallway to the bedroom. The door was half-opened and his overhead light was on. I know I turned that off this morning.

  Tyrell pulled back the hammer on the .45 and with his left hand, he slowly pushed the door all the way in. He inched his way over the threshold, his eyes darting back and forth, the muscles in his shoulders and neck as tight as a drum. At the sound of another slight bump, Tyrell realized that the source was coming from under his bed.

  He thrust the .45 straight out and leaned over the right side of the bed. He held his breath, kneeled, and with his left hand, he grabbed the bed covers.