Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  The current finally whisked them away from the sunken tree and Chan had to kick a few strokes to make it back to the sandbar. He picked her up out of the water and gently laid her down in the sand. She reached out and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

  On this little strip of isle, in the middle of this black water river, time stood still for Chan and Jean. There was no past, no future, no stress, no worry. Only the present. Only the moment. Only them.

  3:48 PM

  Ellis Dover drove his black Cadillac Eldorado convertible through the back entrance and down a small privacy drive of Macinaw Memorial, the town’s oldest cemetery. He was alone, but he had his handgun in the glove box. He motored through the old, shabby, colored section which was filled with unmarked graves of former slaves, sons of slaves and their forgotten descendants.

  He passed through a cut-road which climbed a small hill and which led to the white burial section. He passed the giant oak at the top of the hill and then branched off to the right where the hilltop not only provided a scenic view of the nearby winding Edisto but was also a parcel of prime real estate where only the most aristocratic of Macinaw’s citizens were laid to rest. He pulled off under another oak and parked. He sat there and debated his next move. Caution won out—he grabbed the gun from the glove box, stuck it in his waistband, and exited the car.

  As he had done hundreds of times before, he made his way near to the river’s edge where his family marker, a large handsome granite slab stood. The massive and ornate memorial ironically had a sword waving statue of the Archangel Michael rising from its center. All the Dovers, beginning with Ellis Dover’s great grandfather, were buried in the plot. His was a family of farmers, planners, town makers, and history creators—important people in both life and death. Ellis Dover held all who were buried here in the highest regard including his beloved wife, but his attention was always drawn to Robert’s small bronze marker.

  Dover went to his knees in front of Robert’s grave. He closed his eyes and hung his head.

  “Can he hear you?” a voice called from behind.

  Dover turned and then rose to his feet. He stared down Ryan Grubbs. “Yes, I believe that he can.”

  “Can you hear him?”

  Dover furled his brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Ain’t he in there saying ‘Daddy, daddy, get me out. I can’t breathe down here,’” Grubbs said laughing.

  “That’s not funny, you sick son-of-a-bitch,” Dover shot back.

  Grubbs held up his hands. “Take it easy, big daddy. Just trying to lighten the mood—out here in a damn graveyard of all places.”’

  “This place is sacred to me, so no more jokes, understand?”

  “Fine. It’s your dime. You invited me here. What does the richest man in Macinaw want from a guy like me?”

  Dover straightened, trying to calm himself. “I just wanted to let you know that I got word the police are backing away. They’re gonna be pulling back from the other two.”

  “The other two?”

  “The two remaining of the Macinaw Seven. Crawford and the cops are gonna be pulling back their forces. Those colored boys will be vulnerable again.”

  “What’s that to me, old man?”

  Dover took a step forward. “So that you can strike. So that you can get rid of them. Finish them off.”

  “What makes you think I give a damn about that?”

  Dover drew a heavy hand across his forehead. “You’re a Henry Brooks Disciple for Christ’s sake. The other five have had the angel sigils carved into them. Surely you and your gang are behind this.”

  “Hate to disappoint you, Dover. But like I’ve told the police: I ain’t had nothing to do with it.”

  “Then who?” Dover asked.

  Grubbs shoved his hands in his front pockets and shrugged. “I ain’t got no idea.” He motioned to the grave beyond. “You’re good at talking to ghosts apparently. Maybe you should be thanking Henry Brooks himself.”

  8:22 PM

  Chan entered the kitchen door of Jean’s house and dumped the cooler’s ice in the sink. He heard Jean call out to him from the back of the house, “Chan?”

  “Yeah, I put the canoe back behind the pump house like you asked.”

  Jean came into the kitchen carrying bandages and a bottle of iodine. “Okay, thanks. Have a seat there and let me take a look at the cut.”

  Chan sat at the kitchen table and held up his injured right hand showing the laceration to his palm. “It’s not too bad. The bleeding has stopped.”

  “Well, let me see,” Jean said as she sat next to him. “I can’t believe you’re so injury prone.”

  “I’m not really. I just wanted to see you in action as a nurse again,” he joked.

  “And on my day off too,” she said, doctoring the wound. “Next time we’re on the river, no more diving from the sandbar for you, Mister.”

  “I was just trying to keep up with you. Who knew another underwater branch would be right there waiting on me?”

  “You’re not a professional river rat yet, remember? Maybe you can move up the ranks one day,” Jean said with a smile. She completed the wrap. “Done. How does that feel?”

  Chan flexed his fingers in and out. “Better than ever, thanks.”

  “So, what now?” Jean asked.

  Chan hesitated and then looked to the phone on the kitchen counter. “Maybe I should call Norma. See what’s happened today.”

  “Can’t let it go, can you?”

  “No,” he drew a cigarette from the pack, lit it and leaned back in the chair. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Your need to know mirrors Macinaw’s need. And it’s gotta be in your hands first before it’s in ours.”

  Chan paused as he blew smoke. “What do you remember about Henry Brooks?”

  Jean shook her head as she thought about it. “Not much. I was twelve at the time of his trial. Daddy probably kept most of the horrifying news from us. I do remember stories he told me later about how on pins and needles every parent was during that time. They talked about it in hushed tones and made doubly sure the children were always safe.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “I do remember the day when they caught him. Dad came in the house all relieved, told us it was over. He was shocked too—that it was Brooks. Dad had done some work for him out at his house years before. Thought he was a nice enough fellow.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Shelves, I think. Or cabinets. I told you dad did carpentry work on the side.”

  Chan nodded. “When was this?”

  “Before all the madness began. ’61 or ’62.”

  “He didn’t notice anything strange about the man?”

  “Just that he was super skinny—a bean pole, my dad called him. But he was pleasant and he paid him right there on the spot.”

  Chan flicked his ash in a plastic cup. “I wonder what made Brooks snap.”

  “Lord knows, but it was quite the turn to evil, wasn’t it?”

  “Deputy Haskit told me the other day that the Macinaw Seven believe that it really is Henry Brooks coming after them—that his body may be dead but his evil presence lives on, hunting them down. You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “Maybe not in physical form, but I do think strong emotions can transcend time and place. And hate is very powerful.”

  “So how do you stop it?”

  Jean smiled. “With love of course. There’s nothing that evil fears more than love.”

  Chan smiled back. He extinguished his smoke, reached over and locked his fingers within hers. They became quiet—their eyes connecting.

  “Stay with me tonight,” she whispered.

  Chan leaned over the table, kissed her cheek and then said in his own whisper, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  OCTOBER 4, 2016

  12:17 PM

  Tindal glanced over at Chan who was still lost in thought staring out the passenger side window. She didn’t want to disrupt his thought
processes but her questions couldn’t wait.

  “You knew, didn’t you? You knew that the sodomy of Robert Dover was what was redacted from the coroner’s report.”

  Chan nodded, but continued to look out the window. “I had a feeling.”

  “So why didn’t the prosecution use it in court? It could have been more fuel for the fire if they believed the Macinaw Seven had also raped the boy.”

  Chan turned to face her. “That wasn’t the evidence. Remember there were no other marks or bruises on Dover’s body. He hadn’t been beaten up, nothing broken; his clothes had not been torn. If he had been raped by the Seven there would have been more evidence of that.”

  “He was a willing participant in the sodomy?”

  “Yes. And those seven black kids had nothing to do with it. I don’t know why they were there at that barn exactly, probably had some harmful intent, but they didn’t carry it out because of what they witnessed.”

  “And what did they witness?”

  “Do you know what a gasper is?”

  Tindal nodded. “Someone who is engaged in erotic asphyxiation—I actually did a report on it for Reuters several months ago. They intentionally restrict oxygen to their brain for sexual arousal. Are you saying that was what Dover was doing?”

  “It makes sense forensically, doesn’t it? He is strangled to death while someone is sodomizing him from behind. Probably used a shirt or even his underwear to bind around his neck. They say that when the brain is deprived of oxygen and combined with orgasm, the rush is more powerful than any drug.”

  Tindal nodded and tapped the top of the steering wheel with her hands. “That’s true. Back in the day during public hangings male victims often developed erections that lasted even after death.”

  “Right. Some even ejaculated after death,” Chan said. He then smiled and added, “What a way to go though, huh?”

  Tindal rolled her eyes. “So accidental death. And then Dover’s partner freaks out and tries to make it look like a suicide.”

  “Which might have worked except you had seven witnesses caught running from the barn. Seven black kids who saw the whole thing.”

  “Which changes the cover-up from suicide to blaming the Macinaw Seven.”

  “Yes, except the evidence for that scenario did not add up and the Seven are set free.”

  “But they are forewarned by Sonny Watts not to say anything or else.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So who was Dover’s partner? Watts?” Tindal asked.

  Chan shook his head. “Watts was meeting with clients in Macinaw. They say he got a call that day and then rushed down to the jailhouse.”

  They both went quiet for a moment. Tindal finally spoke up, “Do you have a suspect in mind?”

  “No, not really. Someone connected to Watts obviously. Someone with the power to make it happen. The Dovers were allied with some very powerful people—the list could be endless.” He paused and then, “How many times did Watts meet with Henry Brooks?”

  “Five documented times. Who knows outside of that? Hopefully we’ll get some more info once we get to his old office.”

  “Right.” Chan turned again to the window and looked at a scarecrow in a passing cornfield. “We’re coming after you, Henry Brooks. And this time we’re gonna nail your ass.”

  MARCH 15, 1966

  10:52 PM

  Father Andrew Carroll sat in the waiting room at the Columbia Correctional Institute where the families of death row inmates would gather before being led into the observation room of the “death house” to watch the execution. It would have been the priest’s job during this hour to comfort the grieving family before the horrendous deed was to take place. Tonight, however, he held his Bible and looked sadly at the other chairs—all empty—there would be no family members, no loved ones, coming to witness the death of Mr. Henry Brooks.

  Carroll had done this unfortunate calling twice before—two black men who had pleaded with him in their final hours, begging for forgiveness, seeking mercy of the highest order. It had been gut-wrenching to listen to the men relive their crimes, desperate for forgiveness and redemption. He did not know if he had the stomach to go through it again. He was a last-minute substitute for this execution and had not yet met Henry Brooks. But he knew all men in the fore moment of death seek some form of absolution and there was always a critical need for a man of God to be present.

  He anxiously rose from his chair and went to the oblong-shaped, grate-covered window. A powerful spring storm stirred outside the old building. God’s wrath, thought Carroll. The Supreme Being would have nothing to do with man’s killing of his fellow man.

  Chick Haynes, a correctional officer, stuck his head into the waiting room. “Time, Padre.”

  Carroll followed Haynes through a series of heavy doors, out into the rainy prison yard and then back inside the institute’s death house. A dark hallway led to the cells where the condemned awaited their fate. The cells were small, foul-smelling and frighteningly old. They reminded Carroll of the catacombs in Edgar Allan Poe’s gothic tale, Cask of Amontillado, which he had read as a boy. He was at least comforted that most of these dreary cells were empty.

  A second guard met up with Haynes and then led them all to cell number six where Henry Brooks sat in a folding chair facing the cell door. Brooks had been completely shaved and looked sickly thin, his prison garb falling off his shoulders. He was hunched over but sat up a little as the door was opened. Carroll walked in and stood in front of Brooks. Chick Haynes closed the cell door but stayed at attention behind it with the other correctional officer.

  “Mr. Brooks, I’m Father Carroll. I’ve come to talk with you. See if you’d like the comfort of the good book. Maybe you have a favorite verse I can read to you? Or perhaps you’d care to repent at this hour.”

  Henry Brooks stared the man down with his vulture eyes, cleared his throat and said, “Isaiah 13 verse 9: Behold, the day of the Lord cometh, cruel both with wrath and fierce anger, to lay the land desolate: and he shall destroy the sinners thereof out of it.” The convicted murderer then laughed and said, “Repent? Nosah, I have nothing to repent. I have been a vessel for my God. I have carried out His wishes here on this earth and I shall be richly rewarded.” He hesitated and squinted at the priest. “You, however, have much to repent, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. Yessah, you do. Why does Abaddon call you to the fire?”

  Carroll shook his head. “Abaddon? Sir, I have nothing…”

  “Oh, you do, Father. What is your vice? Little girls? Little boys?” Brooks moved around his seat like a stirred cobra in a basket, moving his head to different angles. “That’s it, isn’t it? You like the little ones.”

  Carroll scrunched his brow. “Sir?”

  “You will lead dark forces in Armageddon’s final wave. Until then you shall burn for your unforgivable sins.”

  “This is absurd, Mr. Brooks. I’m here for your comfort.”

  Brooks flashed his crooked teeth. “But you’d rather be back at your church screwing them little fat-bottomed choir boys, ain’t cha?” He snapped his teeth down like he was biting him.

  “The hell…?” Carroll backed away.

  The priest turned to Haynes who just shook his head. “Alright, Brooks. That’s enough.” He unlocked the door again. Carroll quickly stepped out, shaken and confused. The guards entered, cuffed Brooks, forced him to stand, and walked him out of the cell.

  Brooks turned to look behind him and laughed at the holy man. “They gonna fry me now, Father, but your time is comin’. Yessah, your time is comin’.”

  Carroll followed them as they made their way through the labyrinth of the old building—rain falling through the leaky ceiling. He tried to read a verse of scripture he had prepared but stumbled through the words. Once they reached the execution room, Carroll went gratefully into the viewing area and stood with his head down behind the others.

  The guards were met by Warden Perry Haldwell and Doctor Nate Carlson who wou
ld call Henry Brooks’ death. They strapped Brooks to the chair with belts that crossed his chest, groin, arms and legs. They moistened a sponge with brine and attached it and a metal skullcap with an electrode to his head. Haynes lifted Brooks’ pants leg and attached an additional electrode to his shaved calf. They rolled up his shirt sleeves to tighten the straps holding his bony arms to the chair. On his right forearm was the Michael sigil, and on the left was Abaddon’s—they were not tattoos but carvings done by his own hand. As a last measure, Chick Haynes blindfolded Brooks.

  With Brooks strapped to the chair and everything prepared, the four men joined the others who had come to watch the proceedings. In addition to the priest, Macinaw County solicitor Tommie Frierson, Macinaw Sheriff Justin Crawford, The Macinaw Republic reporter Norma Wiles, WIS TV reporter Frank Beacham, and defense attorney Matt Campbell stood in the observation room watching through the glass windows. Also there, but standing away from the others was Sonny Watts.

  Although Watts now worked for another law firm, he had asked his former bosses at Crane and Campbell for permission to attend. Though bewildered by the request, they granted him access and Watts’ guarded appearance in the observation room went largely unnoticed by the others.

  Warden Haldwell pressed the call button. “Any last words, Mr. Brooks?”

  “You think it’s done? Nosah, it’s just beginning. Remember what I told you. Good and evil—souls are but one or the other. The true power lies in who decides which is which!” He laughed heartily again.

  Haldwell released the call button and all went silent in the observation room. He checked the wall clock, turned to Haynes and nodded. Haynes signaled the executioner who pulled the switch and sent 2,000 volts into Henry Brooks. Brooks jumped and shook as the electricity ran through him zapping his life away. His pale skin reddened and those rabbit eyes of his finally popped out of their sockets, blood seeping into the blindfold. Only Crawford and the correctional crew didn’t turn away from the horror.