Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  She cut across in front of the stage and entered the dressing room. She always liked to get there early as to take her time in putting on her make-up and to give the pills in her little bottle time to work their magic. But as she made her way to the dressing mirror, she found out she wasn’t alone.

  “How’d you get in here?” she demanded.

  Chan turned in the little stool in front of the mirror and stood—a cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Walked right in the back door. Apparently, security is not on par with everything else in this fine establishment.”

  She pointed behind her. “Yeah, well, you better get the hell outta here, or I’ll start screaming.”

  Chan laughed. “They’re probably used to screams coming from in here.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Chan held up his hands. “Look, give me two seconds and I’ll leave on my own.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I told you the other night. I want to meet with Grubbs. I want you to set it up for me.”

  Dixie’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “Just someone who wants to get on the train, that’s all. Tell me what you know about Grubbs. Or his connection to the Henry Brooks Disciples. I want in.”

  Dixie shutdown completely. She reached into her bag, pulled out a .45 revolver and stuck it in Chan’s face. “Get outta here now.”

  “Look, I just want….”

  She pulled back the hammer until it clicked. “I said now.”

  “All right, all right. I’m going,” he said, heading towards the door. This was getting him nowhere and he knew it. Darby would be disappointed, but this story angle had reached a definite impasse. Chan left the building through the same back door he had entered, jumped into his Torino and took off.

  From the back exit, Dixie watched him drive away. She then walked over to the bar area in the main room. She reached under the lip of the bar counter and pulled out the house phone. She sat it on the bar and dialed up a number. She waited and then, “Yeah, it’s me. We’ve got a problem.”

  6:22 PM

  Every time William Anderson walked across the cabin floorboards they creaked like an old sailing ship being tossed at sea. This posed a bit of a nuisance as he had been given to fitful pacing ever since Sheriff Crawford hand delivered him to Deputy Haskit’s cabin the night before.

  From what Anderson discovered, the cabin was a nice enough place—simple in design and accouterments—a one bedroom, one bath, and kitchenette log cabin. It had a stone fireplace centered living area that Anderson admitted would have been a nice addition during the winter months. As it was the end of a very hot July, it was still the best area to sit and read as the room received the most sunlight.

  The cabin was far out in the country of Macinaw County, on hunting land, Anderson supposed. There were trees in every direction and the only visible road was the dirt one that led to the cabin door. Anderson assumed a pond was nearby as the walls were covered in mounted fish and duck trophies. It was isolated, that much was certain, which for Anderson was both a blessing and a curse. He hated to leave his family behind but Crawford convinced him they would be safer without him around and he would be safer being away from his known hangouts. But being alone was incredibly painful for Anderson. Not only did he feel vulnerable, but he worried his mind would get the best of him.

  He sat on the overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace and thought the scenario through as he had done thousands of times now since Tyrell James was killed. He was the last of the Macinaw Seven. He was the only one to know the truth. Of course, Crawford and Haskit tried to pry the information from him, but he had made that blood pact six years ago, and he knew one wrong word would bring Henry Brooks. And that’s what bothered him so. Did all his friends go back on their word? Did they all betray the devil? The Watts man told them if they did there would be hell to pay. Anderson closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. He had not said a word about what he saw. He knew he would be okay.

  He grabbed his well-read Bible and flipped to familiar verses trying to take comfort in the good word. But as he read, the holy passages bled together and his mind formed those images from six years before. Running to that white man’s barn, spray cans in hand, they were going to make a statement for the entire world to see. They would not let the deaths of their Orangeburg brothers-in-arms go unforgotten. A jury had found the troopers not guilty. Once again, society had turned a blind eye to justice. But to William Anderson and his friends, the deaths of Smith, Hammond and Middleton, the three students shot dead that day in the Orangeburg Massacre, would not be in vain. They were to paint their names on the side of Dover’s barn, the most visible symbol of privileged society in Macinaw. It was a small gesture, perhaps limited, maybe even foolish, but their anger and their desire to express that anger needed to happen. It superseded all rational thought.

  They stealthily approached the barn and heard noises coming from inside. They crept closer and together watched from a crack between the old barn doors. Both men were naked—the one behind the other—a gold and blue tie tight around Robert’s neck—his face turning scarlet red. At first the young blacks were amused to see such a sight, barely containing juvenile laughter. But then Robert collapsed, panic set in and the cover-up hastily followed. They continued to watch as Robert’s body was quickly redressed. A rope was found and a noose went around the dead man’s neck. His body was then lifted from the barn’s hay loft, as the other man pulled the rope through the barn rafters. It was at that instant when the stunned watchers crowding against the barn doors caused one of the old doors to swing inward. They all turned and ran—Luther and Tyrell yelling at the rest to follow.

  Anderson ran as fast as his short legs would allow. His heart pounded in his chest and his lungs burned as he sucked down air. He flew past the barn, Mrs. Glazer’s house, down the back side of the hill and continued to the two waiting cars. He threw up in the grass before being pushed into the backseat of the second car.

  They took off, speeding away, riding in frightened silence. It was the longest ride of their young lives—made all the longer when the flashing blue lights appeared behind them. They were beaten, cuffed and hauled away. And then thinking it could get no worse, they were herded into that room in the jailhouse, summoned by the Devil himself.

  Anderson looked up from his Bible as he forced the thoughts of the rest of that terrible day away. He stood with the Bible in hand and walked to the window, gazing out at the deep forest. He was meditating, clearing his mind when he heard the noise—the creaking sound of the cabin’s floorboards. He held his position and scanned all around him. But the noise wasn’t coming from inside the cabin. Someone or something was on the porch outside. Crawford and Haskit told him they would not be back for two days. That they had left him enough supplies for at least that long.

  He strained to listen for a few moments more and heard nothing. Anderson was close to dismissing the noise as happenstance when it came again—the same creaking as before. It was outside on the porch, nearer to the door now. He placed the Bible down on the windowsill and lightly moved near the fireplace mantle. Haskit had also left his Beretta 12-gauge shotgun there for him with plenty of shells—two were already in the chamber. Anderson grabbed it off the mantle and continued his slow walk to the door. Despite his light-footed approach the cabin floorboards gave him away as well. Sweat formed on his forehead as he inched closer.

  Anderson made it to the door, a solid oak piece with two locks. He carefully took the safety off the shotgun and raised it to chest height. With his left hand, he turned both locks on the door. His heart was pounding as fast as it did six years prior. He felt he may even throw up again. He grabbed the handle and then in one quick motion he yanked the door open and leveled the shotgun—his finger heavy on the trigger.

  He brought the barrel down to the floor in a flash, relaxed his shoulders and blew out his held breath. “That was too close. I thought you were Henry Brooks.” H
e put the gun by his side and stepped back. He then curled his sweaty brow. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  7:39 PM

  Chan looked over at Jean and smiled. She was next to him in the Torino, the windows were down and the wind was playing with her hair. As gorgeous as she looked in the little blue dress he had brought for her to wear, he had to admit he was more anxious to see what she looked like out of it. He had it bad for her now and he believed she felt the same for him. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but the night, this night, had a certain magic in the air. And he was going to make sure the magic continued.

  “Music?” he asked as he pointed to the tape deck.

  “Sure.”

  “What do you want to hear?” He pointed again, this time to his eight-track carrying case at her feet. She picked it up and dug through the selections. She found Wings at the Speed of Sound and popped it in. Silly Love Songs started playing and they both laughed with embarrassment, recognizing exactly how on the nose the song was.

  As the music continued, Jean turned to Chan. “So why the special trip tonight?”

  Chan shrugged. “Like I said on the phone, I thought you could use it. I know I could. Just couldn’t wait for the weekend.”

  She agreed as she pulled back stands of her hair. “Any word on the story? What’s the latest?”

  Chan frowned a bit. “It’s weird. William Anderson has all but disappeared. Norma can’t find him anywhere. And with the police pulled back in dark corners, Macinaw is almost like a ghost town now. I’m running into dead ends myself.”

  “Such a nightmare,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t know if the town will ever be the same.”

  “Probably not, Jean, too much has happened. But I have noticed something about your town…the Lowcountry…the whole state for that matter—the people are resilient. Blacks, whites, everyone. You’ve dealt with a lot of tragedy and heartache, but you’ve met the challenges and you’ll be a stronger people for it.”

  Jean smiled at that. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am.” He paused before adding lightly, “I’m always right.”

  She laughed but then noted the sudden change in his expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Chan indicated the rearview mirror. “Those guys behind us. They’re coming up fast.”

  Jean turned and saw two motorcycles eating up the distance between them. They got very close to the back of the Torino, riding the bumper. Chan put both hands on the wheel and kept glancing in the mirror.

  “Take it easy,” Jean said softly. “They’ll pull around us in a sec.”

  But they didn’t. They pushed them for several more minutes. When Chan slowed down, so did the bikes. When he gave it the gas, they stayed with him.

  “What do they want?” Jean finally asked—her voice a little shaky.

  Chan kept quiet although he knew. He knew all too well. Unfortunately, this part of the Lowcountry Highway was a swampy stretch with no turn-offs and nowhere to pull over. The drop-offs to the swamp on either side were rather steep.

  One of the choppers finally broke around and raced up to be even with Chan’s window. It was Orton, the guy he had beaten in pool. Orton looked directly at Chan and then flipped him off.

  “Do you know these jerks?” Jean asked.

  “Yeah. They’re part of the investigation I was telling you about,” Chan admitted. “Definitely not the friendly types.”

  Orton sped up some more and got in front of the Torino. They had them blocked in now.

  “Jesus, what are they going to do, Chan?”

  “I don’t know, but if he tries to stop us, I’ll run right over his ass.”

  A semi came barreling down the road from the opposite direction. Chan saw his chance and tried flashing his lights and honking the horn. The trucker just honked back and waved as he passed.

  Orton slowed again and began fishtailing in front, covering both lanes of the highway. He then reached into his leather vest and pulled out a pistol of some sort. He waved it back towards them. Chan glanced over at Jean—her eyes big with worry.

  “Jean, grab hold of the arm rail and the dashboard.”

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “Just do it. Brace yourself.”

  Chan jammed on the brakes and whipped the wheel hard to the left. He timed it perfectly—the Torino skidded into the far lane and did a complete 180 turn. The other chopper rider, whom Chan believed was Wolfe, flew past them in the right lane and nearly slammed into Orton. Chan gunned the accelerator and headed back toward Macinaw.

  Their escape however was short-lived. As Chan made it up a small rise in the road, he saw Grubb’s red truck bearing down on him. “Shit!”

  Chan pulled the same maneuver as before—he whipped the car around and headed back the other way. He figured he had a better chance with a head to head against the two bikes. And those two were obliged to bring it—Orton was heading towards him in the right lane and Wolfe was in the left.

  “Y’ all might be crazy as hell, but so am I,” Chan said. Jean pressed herself as far as she could into her seat—every muscle in her body tight as a drum. Chan gripped the wheel and stayed in the right lane—he wanted Orton bad. He maxed out the speed to over one hundred miles per hour. The Torino was now but a few yards from a head- on collision with the chopper. At the very last moment, Orton veered to his left. The Torino clipped his tire sending the Henry Brooks Disciple spinning off the road and tumbling ass over handlebars down the embankment. Chan flattened the brakes and smoke screamed from the singed tires. The Torino spun again and skidded to a stop on the left side edge of the embankment.

  The car vibrated for a moment and then everything became completely still. Chan gathered himself and looked to Jean. “You all right?”

  Before she could respond, Grubb’s truck came out of nowhere and slammed into the driver’s side of the Torino. The car was lifted several feet into the air, and when it came down, the edge of the embankment could no longer hold it. Chan’s car rolled three times down the twenty-five-foot drop. Glass and metal erupted all around them. There were sickening sounds of crunching and popping that followed the car all the way to the bottom. The Torino came to a sudden rest in an upright position in the watery ditch.

  At first Chan thought his body was covered in blood, but it was only the water that had entered the car from the river’s swollen run-off. Besides the seat belt that ripped a permanent scar across his hips and pelvis, and the glass cuts to his forehead, he was not seriously injured. He took a few more deep breaths to overcome the shock and then, “Jean? Are you okay?”

  He looked to his right. Jean was still in her seat—the seatbelt holding her upright. Her head was hanging forward and her eyes were open but there was no spark in them. “Jean?”

  Chan unbuckled his seatbelt. He reached over and touched her face. “Jean? Can you hear me? Jean? Jean!!”

  Chan got on his knees in his seat and unbuckled her. She slumped over in his arms. “No, no, no! Jean, please, no!” He looked around frantically as if there was something he could do. He started panic breathing—his chest heaving at an accelerated rate. He grabbed her face in his hands. “Jean!! Goddamnit no!!! No!!!”

  He pulled her to his chest and held her there—tears streaming down his face. “No Jean, please don’t do this, please don’t….”

  OCTOBER 4, 2016

  10:42 PM

  “Chan? Did you hear what I said? Chan?”

  Chan turned from the passenger side window. “What? Yeah, sorry. You were saying…?”

  “How much further down the Brooks’ road should we go?” Tindal pointed ahead at the meandering dirt road.

  “Pull off anywhere around here. We can travel through the fields to the house from this point. I don’t think Monroe would send patrols down this far anyway.”

  She pulled her rental car off the road and into the cover of the weed-infested field. She shut off the engine and they exited the car. They were both dres
sed in black for their covert action and they easily disappeared into the night.

  “You know, I’m surprised no neighboring farmer has thought to buy this property,” Chan whispered as he picked his way forward. “If for nothing else but the land.”

  “When I researched the property, I found that several locals had made offers over the years, but Searson-Thompson, the real estate management group, refused them all,” Tindal said.

  For the remainder of their journey, they kept silent, watching their feet for snakes and listening out for police patrols. Within twenty minutes they made it to the edge of Henry Brooks’ yard. They could make out the outline of the house against the night sky. They crouched down in the brush and surveyed the area.

  “See anyone?” Chan asked.

  Tindal shook her head. “I think they are more concerned with protecting the patrol car site than the house. Let’s go for it.”

  They approached the dilapidated porch of the old house. Yellow crime-scene tape encircled the entire worn structure. Tindal eyed the front. Besides the underbrush that had grown through the porch and blocked the way, the old door also appeared to have a police padlock around the handle. “I don’t think we’re getting in that way.”

  “Come on,” Chan said. He led her around to the side of the house. Next to the chimney a broken window about seven feet off the ground was partially open. He found a half board and used it to inch the window open even more. He then went to one knee and cupped his hands together. “Go ahead. I’ll boost you up.”

  Tindal grinned. “Chan, I was a level ten gymnast in high school.” She leaped up, grabbed the edge of the windowsill and pulled herself up and through with no problem.

  After dusting herself off, Tindal pulled a small flashlight from her pocket and scanned the interior. It was as expected: a fifty-year-old time capsule. Nothing much had been touched since the day Henry Brooks was arrested in 1963. Of course, time had whittled the house down to a shell of its former self. There were cobwebs everywhere, the ceiling had fallen in at certain points, the floors were sunken if not completely rotted away and a few of the walls were fragmented. But all his furniture and possessions were basically where Brooks left it. Or maybe as Sonny Watts left it. She saw a table, a gas stove and an ice box and figured she was in the kitchen area.