Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  JUNE 18, 1976

  7:28 AM

  “Mr. Adams, how’re you feeling this morning?”

  The woman’s gentle voice woke Chan from his sleep. He was lying on his stomach in a hospital bed with bandages across his face and hands. His hospital gown was pulled up around his waist, and his exposed right bottom cheek was still throbbing in pain.

  He had somehow driven to the emergency room at Macinaw General. His failed conversation with Luther Jennings seemed like a distant dream now—well, more like a nightmare. Chan had never had his life threatened like that, and his heart skipped a beat thinking about that gun barrel being leveled at his nose.

  “I’m Nurse Reid. I will be taking over the next shift.”

  Chan picked his head off the pillow and turned slightly to look at his new nurse. He didn’t remember much of his night-shift nurse except that she was a short, grey-haired woman who woke him every hour to check on his pain levels. But Nurse Reid was certainly worth remembering.

  She was five and half feet tall with wavy, golden blonde hair that reached past her shoulders. She was studying his chart, but he could tell that there was something special about her—alluring certainly, but more. Her nose wasn’t perfect, a little large perhaps for her slender oval face; however, everything else seemed just right. She was about his age, maybe a year or two older. She reminded him a bit of the model-actress Farrah Fawcett.

  She placed the chart on the end of the bed and approached him. From his prone position, he could see that her legs were slender and well-defined despite the white nurse’s tights that she wore under her uniform. She bent at the knees to be level with him—her blue eyes inquisitive yet compassionate.

  She reached over and pulled aside strands of his hair hanging in his face. “Do you need anything?”

  “A new nose.” He paused. “Maybe a new ass.”

  She smiled and then took a quick glance at his backside. “No, everything looks just fine back there to me.”

  Chan tried to smile, although it hurt to do so. “I’m Chan Adams.”

  “Jean Reid.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jean. I’m afraid you’re catching me at a bad time.”

  “No need to apologize. I’ve seen much worse.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Truly. I expect you to be up and around in a few days. We’ve been known to work miracles in this hospital.”

  “Good, because it feels like I’m gonna need one.” Chan’s half-smile faded. “What about the guy who peppered me? Any word on him?”

  “The police have the information. I’m sure they’ll be contacting you sometime today. And…” she pulled a note from her uniform pocket and read, “…someone named Norma called to check on you—said she’d be here later.” She looked back at Chan. “Is Norma your wife? A girlfriend?”

  “Surrogate mother. Although to be honest, what kind of mother sends her child into the streets to be shot at anyway?” He winced as he finished the words.

  “Do you need anything else for the pain?”

  “Yes, the whole drugstore, please.”

  Jean smiled again and stood. “Listen. Get some rest. I’ll check with the doctor about upping your meds. And I’ll be back to check on you soon, okay?”

  “I hope so. I’ve been here in this town for two days, and you’re about the only person I’ve met who I’d care to ever see again.”

  She leaned back over and brushed the hair from his eyes again. “Then it’s a date.”

  Chan watched as she left the room and then he closed his eyes. The pain was severe, and he could use some relief, but for the moment, just the thought of this angel of mercy was medicine enough.

  10:11 AM

  Sheriff Crawford bounded down the steps of the courthouse and headed for Chief Deputy Haskit and the waiting squad car.

  “Luther in the pen?” Crawford called out.

  “Yes, sir. Took three deputies and two city cops, but we managed him outta his house. He’s at the complex now in the holding cell.” Haskit waited until he was face to face with the sheriff. “I ain’t never seen anything like it. He was completely non-compliant. You want us to stand on his head a little?”

  “Standing on his head” was Macinaw police talk for roughing up a prisoner. Crawford was not above such measures, but he shook his head.

  “Did he give you his whereabouts from two nights ago?” Crawford asked.

  “He ain’t talking, Sheriff. Least not to us. He was acting very antsy like he was high on speed or cocaine. You think he might’ve had something to do with Tyrell’s death?”

  “I don’t know. But to have two of the Macinaw Seven involved in anything causes me great concern.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the mark they found on Tyrell. That’s just…well, that disturbs me even more.”

  Crawford’s words sparked a recollection for Haskit. “Did you read that reporter’s statement from last night’s shooting?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “He said before Luther started shooting, he was shouting at him to go away. Said he called him Henry Brooks.”

  “What?!”

  “Yes, sir. That reporter said Luther thought Henry Brooks was after him.”

  10:52 AM

  Crawford proceeded down the corridor of the Macinaw Law Complex, a civic building that housed his office as well as the offices of the city police. The corridor separated those offices from the temporary holding cells in the back. He passed a deputy behind a guard desk and slipped through an open metal door, bypassing the larger drunk tank and continuing to the individual cells at the end of the hall.

  Luther, in a green Macinaw prison jumpsuit, sat rigid on the edge of the wall bunk in the last cell. Crawford grabbed the bars of the cell and leaned his head near an opening. He took a moment and looked around the cramped quarters.

  “Beats the hell outta the old jail, don’t it, Luther? New walls. Paint. Clean sheets.”

  He waited, but Luther remained quiet.

  “Smells better anyway,” the sheriff’said. “They say they’re gonna tear down the old jail. Maybe put up a shopping mall. Can you imagine?”

  Luther did not react.

  Crawford pulled the key from his belt and unlocked the cell door. He stepped in, closed the door until it locked, and moved in front of Luther. Under the cell’s florescent light, Luther’s eyes looked a dull yellow.

  “So, what’d you go and shoot that white boy for, Luther? What’d he do to you?”

  Luther angled his yellow eyes to meet the sheriff’s but said nothing.

  “He must’ve really pissed you off about something, huh? Good thing it was just bird shot, or that boy mighta woke up in the morgue.”

  Luther held his peace, but his right leg started to bounce.

  “Truth of the matter is, I don’t care much for reporters myself—they can be irritating as hell—sometimes I feel like shooting ’em myself,” Crawford joked. He then looked toward the hallway and lowered his voice. “But I’ve got to know something, Luther. Why Henry Brooks? I know you’ve grown up in these parts, and I know you know all about that son of a bitch. But why call his name? Why think he’s gonna show up at your door? He’s been dead now for years.”

  Luther maintained his stare, but his bouncing leg picked up speed.

  “Maybe the reporter misunderstood you? Or maybe there’s another Henry Brooks I’m not aware of, huh?” More silence greeted Crawford. He straightened up again. “Listen. Your buddy, Tyrell, is dead. I don’t know who got to him, but maybe you do. If you two were into something, you need to tell me. I can protect you, but you’ve gotta trust me.” He waited and then said, “C’mon, Luther. Think about your life outside these walls.”

  Luther dropped his stare and hung his head. The cell light above him hummed through the silence until the sheriff’sighed.

  “Okay, okay, you win. But remember, cooperation will get you outta here sooner.” Crawford exited the cell and slammed the door shut to
lock it. He held up for a moment—waiting, hoping for a change of heart.

  But the sheriff would get nothing from Luther Jennings.

  3:47 PM

  Norma sat in a chair next to Chan’s hospital bed as Chan paced the small strip between her and the door. He looked pathetic hobbling along in a hospital gown, covered with scrapes and bruises, and with black eyes developing above his nose bandage.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to call your mother for you?” Norma asked.

  “God, no. She would freak out—insist that I come back to Georgia. Better to keep this from her.”

  “But how will you manage?”

  “I’m fine, Norma,” he said. “Just give me a few days, and I’ll be good to go.”

  Norma stared at him for a bit, broke into a smile, and then covered her mouth to muffle a laugh.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She paused and then added, “Except that you look like a blonde-headed raccoon that didn’t quite make it to the other side of the road.” She laughed aloud.

  “Glad my injuries can bring you some joy, Norma.”

  She held out her hand as if to beg forgiveness. “I’m sorry, really.”

  “You should be. It’s your damn fault I was there in the first place,” Chan said, unable to suppress his own grin.

  “Welcome to the newspaper game,” she said. “I’ll bet they didn’t teach you how to dodge bullets in your advanced journalism classes, did they?”

  “Must be the ‘on-the-job training’ they kept talking about.”

  A single knock on the door interrupted them and Sheriff Crawford stuck his head in the room. “Sorry, if I’m barging in. Just wanted to know if you had a little time to talk.”

  “Of course, Sheriff. Come in,” Chan said.

  He backed up and Norma rose from her chair as Sheriff Crawford entered.

  “Recovering okay?” The sheriff’s words sounded appropriate, if not entirely sincere.

  Chan nodded.

  “Would you care to sit?” Crawford offered.

  Chan shared a smile with Norma. “No, I’m okay standing.”

  “Fine then,” Crawford said. He looked in Norma’s direction. “I’m sorry, Norma, but would you excuse us for a few minutes?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I need to be getting back to the paper anyway.”

  Norma glanced at Chan before heading out. He assured her with a knowing look.

  Crawford shut the door as she left and turned to Chan. “We wanted to let you know that Luther Jennings has been arrested for his assault on you. We have him at our law complex awaiting arraignment.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. It was scary as hell, but the truth is, I don’t think he knew who I was. I got the feeling that it may have been some manner of mistaken identity.”

  “Oh?” Crawford feigned surprise. “And what makes you say that?”

  “He thought I was somebody else. In his rage, he called out another name: Henry Brooks.”

  “Are you sure of the name?”

  “Well, Luther was inside the house, and it was a bit muffled, but that’s what it sounded like to me.”

  Crawford nodded thoughtfully as he paused. “What else did he say to you?”

  “To go away—to get away from him.”

  “Is that it?”

  Chan pursed his lips. “Yeah, mainly. He was acting wild—crazy.” Chan gave it a moment’s more thought. “He also yelled that he told ‘nobody nothing.’”

  “Nobody nothing? Nothing about what?

  Chan frowned and gestured with his palms turned up. “I have no clue. But that’s what he was yelling.”

  “I see.” Crawford said, as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  Chan could tell the wheels in Crawford’s head were spinning. “So, should I be aware of this Henry Brooks?”

  “Actually, I’m surprised that you aren’t. He’s a fairly notorious figure around here.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A cold-blooded killer, Mr. Adams. One of South Carolina’s worse.”

  AUGUST 6, 1963

  6:47 PM

  Sheriff Marion Newton’s patrol car bounced up and down the deep washed out areas of the dirt road he traveled. He continued to follow the clay-bound road as he passed abandoned plows, rusty irrigation wheel lines and dried corn fields, which even the starving crows dared not approach.

  When his term expired with the upcoming election, the sixty-eight-year-old sheriff planned to retire, move with his wife Alice to Florida, take up golf, and end his days in tropical sunshine. But a heavy cloud hung over Macinaw’s popular constable. Death had come to his small county in an unimaginable way, and he had made a vow to the populace to stop the madness before he left.

  He drove by a ramshackle house and assorted clapboard pot sheds until he saw the man outside an old barn—it, too, grey and worn—a strong wind away from collapsing. He pulled the patrol car next to an empty hog pen and came to a stop.

  Sheriff Newton sat inside the patrol car and watched his target digging a pail into a feed bin. The man was thin, too thin, even frightfully so. He had on a blue work shirt that seemed to swallow his upper torso. His jeans were dirty and saggy, held up by twine instead of a belt. His head was small and mostly bald, save the clumps of stringy hair that hung down the back. He appeared sub-human, and it gave Newton chills just to be watching him.

  Newton grabbed his wide-brimmed sheriff’s hat and got out of the patrol car. As he neared the feed bin, he detected the man’s faint voice—he was whispering, talking to himself.

  “Henry…” Newton called out.

  Henry Brooks jumped a bit, turned toward the sheriff, and smiled. “Sheriff Newton, didn’t hear ya coming up.”

  “Didn’t mean to scare you, Henry. I just wanted to speak with you for a few minutes.” Newton stood in front of the man and rubbed his lower back. “You really need to work on that road of yours. You’ve got some real kidney busters out there.”

  “Yessah, I’ll get right on that. Been meaning to do that for a while.”

  “And your fields, Henry,” Newton said. “They’re in bad shape. They need some attention right quick like—before the weeds come calling.”

  “Yessah, I’ll get on that, too. Damn tractor been broke now for weeks.”

  Newton saw through the man’s hideous appearance and felt a twinge of pity. “You need to take better care of your place and yourself, Henry. It’s what men do. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Yessah, yessah, I know. I know.” He paused to eye the sheriff and then asked, “Is that what you come all the way out here for, Sheriff Newton? Ask about my fields and welfare?”

  “Well, no, Henry. I was headed home to grab some supper, and I just decided to stop by. I thought you and I might have us a little chat about what’s been happening lately in Macinaw. You know, with the people disappearing and then their bodies turning up with them weird marks on ’em.”

  “I sure don’t know nothing ’bout that, Sheriff. Nosah, I surely don’t. I told Deputy Crawford the same thing a couple of months ago.”

  “Yes, I know. But maybe I could just ask you a few more things about it and see if it stirs your thinking some.”

  Henry Brooks hesitated and then looked at the pail of grain at his feet. “I got my hogs to feed, Sheriff. If I don’t feed ’em on time, they’ll cause a ruckus and a half.”

  “Go on about your chores then,” Newton said. “I’ll just follow behind you. That is, if you don’t mind.”

  Henry smiled—a skull full of yellowed and crooked teeth. He struggled to pick up his pail and then entered the old barn—Sheriff Newton directly behind him.

  “This used to be my daddy’s cow barn, but now I keep my hogs in it,” Henry announced.

  The potent smell hit the sheriff as soon as he entered. It smelled like death. It was dark too, unkempt with hay and farm tools strewn all about. Little light streamed through the roof and illuminated a series of pulleys and hooks hanging from the raft
ers. Newton nearly tripped over long, thick ropes and leather straps that were lying on the barn floor, and he stepped carefully around them. He didn’t think much about the riggings, as he assumed they were a way for Henry to move around hay bales or heavy livestock.

  Henry stopped at the first stall and poured the pail into a trough at the stall’s head. Newton heard the grunting hogs moving about in the dark, positioning for their grub.

  “So, what is it you wanna know, Sheriff?”

  Newton leaned back against an empty stall opposite of Henry and eyed the little man the best he could. “Like I said, Henry, it’s about those murders we’ve had over the past few months. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like Catfish Jones for instance. You did know him, right?”

  “Yessah, me and him was good friends,” he said, “despite the fact he was a colored boy. Me and Catfish would hunt and fish together sometimes.”

  “And you don’t know who got to him—stuck him in the throat and then left him to die on the banks of the Edisto? Carved that weird mark on him?”

  “Nosah, don’t know who would do that to ol’ Catfish.” Henry moved from the first stall to a second and again poured from his pail. More grotesque snarling and bumping came from this hog bin as well.

  “How about the two college girls then? The ones traveling from Winthrop.”

  Henry shook his head. “Nosah, don’t know nothing ’bout that neither.”

  “They found their car only a mile from your farm, Henry—their bodies in a field just up the road from Watkins Bridge. You sure you didn’t hear or see anything that night?”

  “No, like I said, Deputy Crawford done come out here ’bout that. He already done asked me a million questions. I told him like I tell you, Sheriff, I don’t know nothing about it.” Henry continued to move back and forth between the stalls as he talked.