by Jeremy Tyler
They made no sense, and followed no order—at least, none that John could follow. He was used to New York, where roadways were designed purposefully to get you from one place to the other as quickly and efficiently as possible. According to Dan, roads in Georgia were laid out according to what homesteads were in place at the time they were laid out.
“Now this road, here,” Dan said, indicating the stretch of red clay they were currently occupying, “this road was laid out so’s to connect the Hamilton home with the Starkey home, then on over to the Wilber’s farm, then cut over to the Posey house, then back to town. Now, accordin’ to your reasonin’, they shoulda’ jest made four differ’nt straight roads to town, then make one big one all the way ’round, so’s ever’body could git where they needed right quick. Or, jest make roads so that the important folks could git ta’ town easy. Fact is, though, when they laid out these dirt roads, they weren’t so heartless as ta’ leave nobody without a ways inta’ town, but they didn’t have the means to spend labor on all ‘ose roads. So, they made one big road that meandered around ’till it hit ever’body someways. And, maybe it might take a little longer ta’ git where ya’ want, but nobody around here is ever in that big of a hurry, so who cares?”
John half heard him as he studied the points he had marked on the map. He didn’t like having the deputy around, and he knew well enough that Dan would prefer to be somewhere else. But the sheriff had been insistent that Dan follow him around, whether he liked it or not. And the truth was, it was John’s own fault. He had raised enough questions about Arthur’s guilt that the sheriff had taken extra precautions to keep his family safe, in case the real killer was still out there. And, as the sheriff had pointed out, whether or not John considered himself family, he was still Roy Rivers’ son.
So, there he was, his efforts at defending Arthur Stovall against a premature lynching having earned him a babysitter.
It’s true what they say. No good deed goes unpunished.
“Can I ask you a question, Dan?”
“Unless you can find someone else ta’ talk to, I guess so,” Dan responded, absently.
“I’ve heard some rumors…about some of Arnold Rivers’ newfound business associates.”
Dan smiled, “Yeah, I heard them rumors, too. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, though. Folks ’round here don’t trust anyone who don’t get nostalgic at the sight o’ a confederate flag. So, o’ course, when Arnold goes and throws the Rivers’ money in with a bunch o’ Italians from Florida…well, imaginations do wander.”
“Still…”
“John, this ain’t New York. We don’t got a mafia. The closest we got to organized crime is when the Turlinger boys get together for a few rounds and end up peein’ on the courthouse lawn.”
“How would that be organized?”
“They pee in shifts.”
John waited for just a moment to let that sink in.
“This town is weird.”
“Seriously, though. You don’t really think that any o’ this had anything to do with Arnold’s business partners, do ya’?” Dan asked.
“No, not really. I just don’t want to leave anything to chance. But the fact is, none of these murders fit a professional.”
“Yeah, well, they just plain don’t make sense any way around.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean they really don’t make any sense. I been tryin’ to wrap my head around this for a while now, but its just getting’ more and more confusin’.”
“What are you talking about?” John asked.
“You said it yourself. Carl Rivers was killed face to face. Cold-blooded. Simple.”
“Yeah.”
“But when poor George was killed, that was a whole other story. There wasn’t nothin’ cold-blooded about it. The way he cut inta’ him—it was pure…”
“Rage,” John finished the thought.
“In a word, yeah. And then there’s Opal. She gets blown up. Blown Up, in a granary. That’s…That’s…Hell I don’t know what that is!”
John remained quiet for a moment. He just stared down at the earth, as if deep in thought, until Dan assumed he was completely lost in thought.
“A warning,” John finally said, then looked up from the ground to stare Dan straight in the eye. “When I look at Opal’s murder, separate from everything else, it feels like somebody is trying to send someone a warning.”
“What do you really expect ta’ find in that map, anyways?” Dan asked finally-if, for no other reason, to change a suddenly uncomfortable subject. He had been waiting patiently for over an hour while John thoroughly traced through and pored over the incomplete map without saying much of anything about it, but his patience was limited.
“I don’t know, about as much as I would expect to find by looking over Grandpappy Island a week after Uncle Carl’s death. But we did that anyway, didn’t we?” John said, looking over his shoulder to the deputy.
“I should point out, we did find somethin’ now, didn’t we?” Dan said in defense.
“Exactly. Sometimes, even a dumb idea will turn something up. We tried yours, and it worked out. Now we’ll try mine.”
“Alright then,” Dan said as he walked over to the car. “Would ya’ mind at least tellin’ me what exactly your ‘dumb idea’ is?”
John pointed down to the marks on the map.
“I’m looking at the spots where the murders were performed, trying to see if there is a connection, geographically.”
“And you needed a map for that? Hell, ever’body knows where they all happened. This is a small town in a small county. There ain’t no kinda myst’ry there.”
John sighed in exasperation. He was getting tired of explaining himself.
“Things look a lot different on a map. Sometimes, when you get a ‘God’s-eye view,’ you can see things that you’d never notice.”
“Like what?”
Pointing to the first mark on the map, John began his explanation, “This is where Carl died. At the Parrott River bridge. It is exactly seven miles, as the crow flies, from the Rivers home, where George was killed, which is about 7 miles from the silo, where Opal was killed.”
Dan looked at him with an odd look on his face.
“That’s what you come up with? Seven miles to seven miles to seven miles?”
“It’s a pattern…maybe. It might also be a coincidence. But if it’s not, it could help us track where the next target is.”
“Alright. Fair enough. What else ya’ got?”
“Well, this a topographical map, so I’m having to guess at roads and modern landmarks. But it does show where the natural ridges and hills form in this area, and that led me to this:”
John flipped the map upside-down and started tracing out several lines across the maps.
“Driving a car across the county at night might draw attention—especially in a small town in a small county, where everybody knows everybody’s business. So it only makes sense that our killer would be traveling on foot whenever possible. I found these sections of naturally occurring ridges and ditches that connect our murder sites, combined with areas here and here,” he gestured on the map, “where heavy wooded areas would cover passage.”
John looked up at Dan. He breathed in the air around him, and was struck once again by that naggingly familiar scent. What was it about that peculiar smell that he found so distracting?
“We cover those areas,” John said simply, “and we might just get the jump on our killer.”
*
Lots of things can happen in a small town, especially when you’re not looking. The truth is, there really are very few actually quiet places. But the sounds, sights, smells, and feelings of everyday life tend to get lost in the great background noise of existence, and before you know it, you are standing there, oblivious to everything around you—even yourself.
But sometimes, when it seems really quiet, when you’ve been cut off from the bulk of the cosmic white noise, a person might find
themselves face to face with their own consciousness.
Just like Arthur Stovall. He had been locked up for five hours now, with absolutely no one to talk to. Fred wouldn’t even look at him, and Arthur’s futile attempts at conversation early on had proven to be a waste of time. In the eyes of Deputy Flandon, Arthur was a murderer of the worst kind. At the moment, the poor deputy couldn’t make up his mind whether he was more angry or frightened of the man in the cell.
The truth of the matter was, Arthur couldn’t seem to make himself blame Fred. He was reacting pretty much the same way Arthur would. He could just imagine how he would react if he were sitting in Fred’s place, left all alone to guard a man that he was certain had brutally murdered friends of his. Of course, this line of thought did nothing to calm his nerves. Because now Arthur was starting to wonder about what thoughts were running through Fred’s mind. Exactly how far was Deputy Flandon willing to go to win the approval of Sheriff Roy Rivers? To what extremes would he go to be thought of as more than just ‘the other deputy?’
Worse yet, would anyone so much as bat an eye if he did?
That was when the full weight of his situation fell on him. Arthur realized, perhaps for the first time, what it might actually feel like to be taken from his wife and four children. Even more, he was dealing with an unmistakable fear at what fate awaited him. A trial, and with the way it looked like things were stacked against him, Arthur held little hope of it coming out in his favor. He’d heard stories about the prisons in Georgia, and the kinds of things that happened to a man once he was inside one of them. These were not stories told in mixed company, but amongst sober, fearful men gathered around a bottle of Stovall’s Finest, attempting to become less sober and less fearful.
Arthur had never met anyone who had ever been in prison, so he didn’t know these things first-hand, or even second-hand. But in his soul, he knew them to be true, now.
It was at this disturbing and disheartening thought that the telltale bell attached to the office door rang, attracting the attentions of the prisoner and his jailer.
The door opened, and the familiar face of Earl Cameron popped in.
“Sheriff?” he asked.
“He ain’t here right now. What’cha need, there, Earl?”
Earl stepped in and closed the door behind him.
“Actually, Fred, I was kinda’ hopin’ he weren’t here.”
It got quite still and quiet, then. Arthur noticed Fred’s hand drift down a little to his gun belt. He wasn’t sure if it was an instinctive response, or if Fred was just taking the sheriff’s orders about keeping Arthur safe very seriously.
“What do you need, Earl?” Fred asked again, with a decided edge to his voice.
“I was wantin’ to talk to Arthur, there.”
Fred shook his head so hard it seemed it might shake loose.
“That’s jes’ not gonna happen. Sheriff Rivers was real clear on that point—he don’t git no visitors, an’ I don’t let nobody near ’im. Sorry, Earl.”
“Ah, hell, Fred. Do ya’ think I’m gonna try and let him loose on ya’? It’s just…”
“I don’t care what ya’ intend. I ain’t disobeyin’ an order. The only folks what git to talk to that there man is police—and Mr. Webb, on account o’ him bein’ part o’ the investigation.”
“Well, there ya’ have it then!” Earl said with a toothy grin, “Mr. Webb gets ta’ talk to ’im ’cause he’s on the case. So am I.”
“You are not, Earl Cameron!”
“I am so. Weren’t it me that found the good rev’rend’s body in the first place? Weren’t it me that boated Dan and that Webb fella’ out there ta’ Grandpappy Island? And, weren’t I right there when the bullets started flyin’ all o’er the place? I’d say that makes me part o’ it all three dif’ernt ways!”
“First off,” Fred countered, “all that just makes you a witness, not an investigator. And second, there was just the one bullet, and it was Mr. Webb what fired it, so you weren’t in no danger no how!”
“Well, I didn’t know that at the time. All I knew was that somebody was shootin’ at somebody else.”
Fred was shaking his head in pure exasperation.
“Earl, it’s real important that you understand this, ’cause I’m not sayin’ it again. The sheriff and his deputies—namely me an’ Dan—are paid by the county ta’ uphold the law. Mr. Webb, who is also a professional lawman, was invited to assist. You, on the other hand, were not asked to help, nor were you hired to help. Therefore, you ain’t helpin’.”
Earl stopped to look at his shoe for a moment, and it looked as though he were just going to leave it at that, until he looked up and locked eyes with Fred.
“So, what yer sayin’ is, if I was hired on, you’d jest hafta let me have a little set-down with Arthur if I wanted?”
“Well, yeah, I guess, but…”
“Move on over then, dep’ty. Cause I was give two dollars by Dan—excuse me—Deputy Merrill, to take him and Mr. Webb out to Grandpappy Island, and—I am quotin’ this here part, lest ya’ doubt me—to be available to assist as the sitch’ation needed.”
“To be available to take ’em up the river if they needed, yeah. But that’s all he was sayin’!” Fred persisted.
“Don’t matter none. I was hired to help, an’ I was asked to help. I gots the right to talk to that man, an’ I mean ta’ do it!”
Fred was starting to realize that he was losing a battle of wits to Earl Cameron. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t like that it would certainly get back to the sheriff and Dan.
“Why do you even want ta’ talk wi’ Arthur, anyways? Why’s it so damned important?”
“Because…” Earl trailed off.
“Ain’t near good enough, Earl. I got standin’ orders, an’ they stand for anybody, even the sheriff included, to keep that prisoner safe. So, if I suspect that somebody’s comin’ here to do him harm, they ain’t getting’ past me.”
“Harm?! Why, I known Arthur Stovall my whole damn life. I ain’t never held a grudge ’gainst him, nor him for me. I wouldn’t never hurt him, and that there is a fact.”
“Well then why, if ya’ ain’t gonna hurt ’im and ya’ ain’t gonna try and let him loose, why are you so hell-bent on seein’ the man? You gots to answer me that question, or by God, you’ll turn around an’ forget about it, right now!” Fred demanded. Apparently, that was something Earl understood.
“If what they’re sayin’ is true, and Arthur really did…well, if what they’re sayin’ is true, then I gotta know why. Like I said, I’ve known Arthur all my life, and I thought I pretty well knew the man. Hell, I fished with ’im. I’ve always known he weren’t no angel, but somethin’ like this? I just cain’t git my head wrapped around it, and I ain’t gonna be able to sleep until I do. Let me talk to ’im. You can listen in, I don’t care. Maybe he’ll tell me somethin’ he won’t tell you.”
Fred looked pained by his own indecision. He knew Earl was being sincere, but he knew how the sheriff would feel about him letting anyone talk to Arthur. What finally made the decision for him, however, was Earl’s last argument. Maybe Arthur would come clean to a friend. Then Fred could personally hand over the man’s confession. That might even be enough for folks to call him a hero. Or, at least, it would be enough that people would start thinking of him as a real deputy.
“You got five minutes. I’m standin’ right behind ya’, so don’t even think o’ doin’ nothin’ funny.”
Earl smiled and walked to Arthur’s cell. For the next five minutes, Earl talked. He asked Arthur if he was the man who killed the reverend, and George, and Opal. He asked Arthur if there was something they did that nobody knew about. He asked as many questions as he could think of.
Throughout the conversation, however, Arthur said nothing. After five minutes, Fred didn’t have to interrupt. Earl got up, thanked the deputy, and walked away.
Twenty minutes later, in the overwhelming quiet of a county jail cell, Arthur Stovall broke do
wn and cried aloud, and without shame.
Fred Flandon, who sat with his back turned against that cell’s occupant, hardened himself against the gut-wrenching cries of the condemned man, thinking to himself, “if ever I heard the genuine wail of a guilty man, I heard one today.”
*
When it comes right down to it, most human beings can recall one single perfect moment in their life that they go back to whenever they need to be reminded that good things really do happen to them. It might be something from childhood, such as a thirteenth birthday party or a day at the fair. It could be a wedding day memory, or the birth of a child. Regardless of what the memory is, however, it will be added to with every recalling, becoming more perfect each and every time.
Sam Posey was no exception. And, as he sat at the counter at the Boarding House, reviewing the small world around him, he was in desperate need of a perfect memory.
It was 1905, and one of the most beautiful spring days the state of Georgia had ever seen. On that day, a much younger Sam Posey had taken his sweetheart, Eleanor Winston, to a picnic by Wamble’s pond. He could recall in his mind clearly how the flowers were in full bloom, as the lilac scented breeze gently rolled across the grassy plains. The pastoral sounds of cows gently and contentedly mooing could be heard, just above a whisper.
Eleanor had packed ham sandwiches with potato salad and lemonade. Sam had brought his old guitar and strummed through all four of the songs he knew, while she listened attentively. Sam knew how badly he played, but Eleanor always asked him to do it anyway, and she always smiled so brightly when he did. She looked so beautiful. Sam could hardly restrain himself from breaking his own promise to wait until tonight before making his big presentation. The weight of the small box in his pants pocket was a constant reminder that today was so much more than an average day…
