by Ronald Kelly
Clay stood in the darkness outside the Bloody Bucket's front window. He stared through the dirty pane, keeping well enough back in the shadows so that the multi-colored neon beer signs would not illuminate his grim features.
He leaned against a sweet gum tree, the late September air cool on his flesh, the hardness of the gun a constant reminder in the small of his back. The only sounds that reached his ears were the boisterous noises that echoed from within; the faint music of the Opry on Schofield's tube radio behind the bar, the clinking of beer bottles, and the uproarious laughter of drunken men following the punch line of some filthy joke. The sounds that Clayburn once relished now assaulted his ears, mocking him. He longed for the nocturnal symphony of nature's creatures, but there was only frigid silence beyond the saloon. The song of the cricket and the croak of the bullfrog had left with the heat of summer.
He stood there under the turning branches that night, the only outside light originating from a handful of stars and a sliver of silvery moon. His hard blue eyes studied the gathering inside. The place was packed, as it usually was on a Saturday night, but only one man at one particular table interested him. He watched through a choking pall of cigarette smoke as Bully Hanson beat his fifth opponent at arm wrestling, slamming the poor sucker's wrist down on the hardwood table with such unbridled force that it was a wonder every bone in his hand was not broken. The defeat brought a booming laugh from Bully as the loser laid down his money and, with injured pride, hobbled off to the bar to get even more plastered than he already was.
Claude Darnell was not there, but Clay knew where the man was. After their afternoon's squirrel hunting, Claude had checked into Miss McSharron's boardinghouse on Dogwood Drive, while his buddy had headed straight for the seedy nightlife that Schofield's Bloody Bucket provided in full. Claude didn't worry him much anyway. He was like some kind of trained carnival monkey who was only dangerous when his buddy was around to command him. It was Bully Hanson whom Clayburn had his worries about. The man was deadly. In the short time Bully had been in Coleman, he had been heralded by the Bucket's patrons for his roughhousing and his ruthless need to emerge the victor, whether it be a simple bet or a hellacious fight with fists or knives.
And it was not only apprehension that plagued Clay, but a nagging doubt in the back of his mind. What if Cindy was wrong this time? True, her visions were frightening as far as predictions coming to life was concerned. But what if her imagination were stepping in where intuition had reigned before? He could be waiting there in the darkness to kill an innocent man. He knew he had to find out for sure. He had to know without a shadow of a doubt that the blowhard drunkard inside was actually the cold-blooded slayer of his eldest son.
Leaving his post, he moved through the gravel lot, skirting the dark hulks of the cars and trucks parked there. He reached Bully's pickup truck sitting under a black walnut tree, a ghostly splash of primer gray in the night. Surveying the lot and finding no prying eyes cast his way, Clay moved to the passenger door of the cab. He found it unlocked.
Slipping inside the cab, he was hit with the sour stench of corn liquor and bodily sweat. The floor of the truck was cluttered with bits of paper and trash. He started there, rummaging through the mess, searching for a single shred of evidence that might link him to the heinous murders of three innocent boys.
The noise from the beer joint grew louder as someone left to stagger home to his loved ones. Clay hunkered down farther onto the floorboard, figuring he would go unnoticed. His fingers groped through the trash, sorting the rubble, discarding bottle caps and cigarette butts. Then, as he fished deeper beneath the seat, his fingernails located a thin, flat object there in the dank shadows. He turned it over in his hand, a cold chill running through him. Holding it up to the sparse glow of the quarter moon, he found that he held a guitar pick. It was a smooth brown oval crafted from tortoiseshell, the type used widely in the South. But one feature set it apart from all the others. A couple of initials had been scratched into one side of the pick. The letters J.B. . . . Johnny Biggs.
The terrible rage renewed itself, boiling like a fireball in the pit of his gut. He pocketed the guitar pick and started to lift himself from the floorboard. He had found enough to ease his doubt, and now he would settle things with Bully.
That time came faster than he could have imagined. The door to the driver side of the truck was suddenly wrenched open. Bully Hanson stood there, glaring at him in a haze of intoxicated confusion. "What's going on here?" he snarled. Then he saw that it was Clay, and the realization struck him. "So, that little redheaded bitch told you, did she? Well, her snitching just got her old man blown all to hell!" And, with that, he reached under the seat and found his shotgun, shucking the burlap from its sawed-down length and snapping back both hammers with the heel of his free hand.
Clay tumbled out the opposite door, landing heavily on the hard-packed gravel. He slammed the door shut just as Bully unleashed a single load. The bee swarm of double-aught pellets obliterated the truck's side window, showering fragments of glass across Clay's neck and back.
Bully let loose a bellow of triumph, heading around the front of his truck, the stubby length of gunmetal fisted in his meaty hand. His enthusiasm choked off into a fit of cursing when he found no bloodstained body to gloat over. There was only the glitter of broken glass on crushed stone.
"Damn it, Biggs!" he cursed, starting toward the shadows beyond the parking lot. "You get your ass on out here and die like a man!"
His staggering progress was interrupted when Clay kicked out from beneath the truck's greasy undercarriage. The toe of his boot cracked the back of Bully's ankles, sweeping him off his feet. Hanson crashed on his back in the hard gravel, an expression of surprise replacing the leering grin. The twelve gauge spun from his hand, landing with a clatter atop the truck's sloping hood, out of reach.
"Of all the filthy tricks!" sputtered the big man. He sat up to find Clay standing over him, the .45 pistol held firmly in both hands. "Now, just wait a second, buddy," croaked Bully, the gun's muzzle staring him in the face like a dark, unseeing eye. "You got it all wrong. I didn't do it. I didn't kill your boy ... honest!"
Clay's lean face was rigid and uncompromising. "You're a damned liar, Hanson." He thumbed the safety off and began to squeeze back on the trigger. "And a dead one, as of now. This is for Johnny, you lousy bastard!"
A loud voice from across the lot drew their attention. "Hey, what's going on over there?" demanded Otis Schofield, his bulky silhouette filling the door frame.
Clay twisted his head instinctively toward the sound. That was when Bully made his move. Powering to his feet, he closed a massive paw around the barrel of the pistol. The two men struggled for a tense moment, the gun's muzzle lifting skyward. Clay squeezed off a couple of deafening shots before the big man backhanded him hard across the mouth. Bully uttered a low chuckle as he wrenched the firearm from Clay's weakened grasp. He slung it off into the darkness, where it bounced several times in the gravel before skidding to a halt.
"No guns now," said Bully. Grabbing a handful of Clay's shirtfront, he tossed the man up against the hard trunk of the black walnut. "You so all-fired anxious to get at me now, farmer?"
Clay's eyes flashed. "It don't matter to me whether I do it with guns or fists, you sonofabitch. One way or another, I'm gonna kill you tonight."
The big drunk laughed as the tobacco farmer stepped out swinging. Despite his intoxication, Bully ducked the first two punches, the third glancing ineffectively off his broad shoulder. He delivered a single solid jab of his own, nearly caving in his opponent's rib cage. Clay fell back, the breath expelling harshly from his lungs. He felt himself back against the tree, Hanson barreling in on him, his fists flailing.
Otis Schofield stood with a crowd of curious patrons at the honky-tonk door. The saloon owner peered intently into the murky twilight, trying to figure out who was fighting whom. "You need any help out there, Bully?" He held the baseball bat in one hand.
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p; "No thanks, Otis." Bully continued jabbing at the farmer's lean frame, dividing the blows between body and face. "I've got this sucker on the ropes. Won't be long before he's down for the count."
Through the sporadic bursts of pain, Clayburn knew that his adversary was right. Hanson had an advantage on him, for it had been nearly twenty years since Clay had been in a brawl. It looked as though Bully was only beginning to warm up. He knew he had to get away from those merciless blows as soon as he found a letup in Bully's barrage.
It came as the big man brought his right hand rearing back, wanting to savor the sight of the final punch that would shatter the farmer's jaw. Clay slid to a squat as the fist loomed near. Bully bellowed as his ham-like fist smashed forcefully into the tree. Hanson stumbled back in agony, clutching his injured hand. That was when Clay eyed the man's protruding stomach. Coming out of the crouch, he began to hammer away at Bully's midsection, driving him out of the dense shadows into the sparse light of the parking lot.
Unbeknown to the brawlers or their group of boozed spectators, a couple of dark sedans eased up the road from town, their headlights doused. There was the faint crackle of tires on gravel as the vehicles pulled off onto the shoulder and braked to a stop.
White hot anger having possessed him, Clay lit into the man like wildfire on dry prairie grass. Work-hardened fists pummeled Bully, leaving his torso for the ample target of his face. Despite the hoots and hollers for Hanson's benefit, the big man stumbled blindly backward, blood coursing freely from cuts, his cheekbones swelling with ugly bruises.
The primer gray pickup bounced on worn springs as a wicked blow threw Bully up against the bug-speckled grill. Clay was getting ready to continue his assault, when he noticed a confusing gleam of inspiration spark in his enemy's small eyes. Bully's good hand reached behind him, grasping across the hood, and suddenly Clay knew that he had made a grave mistake.
The drunkard lashed around in a sweeping arch, a bulky length of blued steel fisted in his left hand. The barrels of the scattergun struck Clay across the bridge of the nose. A sharp pain traveled through his battered face and a spurt of warm blood splashed across the front of his rumpled chambray shirt. Through the red haze of pain, Clay heard the man's triumphant laugh once again before a heavy blow in the gut doubled him over. He slumped to his knees in the gravel.
Clay looked up to see the twin muzzles of the twelve gauge, like the eyeless sockets of a skull, staring him full in the face. "You know, your boy Johnny was a real bitch to kill, too. Had to chase him halfway around Brewer's back pasture before I caught up to him," Bully said in a coarse whisper. "But, eventually, he lost out . . . got a load of buck through the back of his head. Doesn't look like his old man is gonna fair much better."
Clayburn wanted to curse the man, but a lump of silence constricted his throat. He continued to glare into the depthless pits of those shotgun barrels as Bully thumbed back the left breech hammer with a resounding click.
Bully Hanson was about to lay his finger upon the hair trigger, when a chill traveled the length of his spine. He felt the cold muzzle of a revolver press against the base of his skull, nuzzling into the short blond hairs on the back of his neck.
"You twitch a muscle, Bully, and I'll put a .38 slug right in your brain," hissed Sheriff Taylor White in his ear.
Suddenly, Deputies Ezell and Bishop were standing before him. One eased the shotgun carefully from his grasp, while the other positioned his hands behind his back and snapped a pair of handcuffs around his thick wrists.
"You heard him, didn't you, 'Taylor?" asked Clay, accepting a handkerchief from the portly lawman. He dabbed at the free flow of blood from his busted nose. "He admitted it. He admitted he killed my boy Johnny."
White nodded and holstered his Smith & Wesson. "I heard everything." He turned to Bully and regarded the man coldly. "Ezell, take this murdering trash to the car."
After the deputy had herded the felon across the lot to the waiting sedan, White turned to Pauly Bishop. "I want you to go over yonder and get a statement from every man in that beer joint. I want to know exactly what each man heard or saw out here. After that, I want you and Ezell to go over to the boardinghouse and take Claude Darnell into custody. And you fellas be careful, too. Without Bully there to control him, he might lose his head and do something crazy."
"We'll bring him in," promised Deputy Bishop. He started for the curious gathering at the tavern door.
Taylor helped Clay to his feet. "You okay?"
"Yeah. A little worse for wear, but I'll be all right."
The sheriff walked a few paces and retrieved Clay's .45 from where it lay. He shucked the clip and stuck the pistol in his belt. "I'll hang on to this for a while," he told him.
Clay nodded. All his anger had drained for the time being, his soul purged of the poisonous need for revenge. He slumped against the bumper of Hanson's truck, feeling exhausted and miserable. He and Taylor stood there in silence for a long moment, then the lawman propped his foot on a muddy fender. "How'd you know it was him, Clay? I mean, hell, I didn't even suspect him myself."
"I didn't either at first." He wondered if he should confide in his friend about the true nature of his discovery, then decided that it would be for the best. "Taylor ... it was Cindy Ann who told me. She's the one who knew it was Bully and Claude who killed those three boys."
The big constable stood there, somewhat skeptical at the farmer's statement. "Come on now, Clay. I've heard the gossip about Cindy just like everyone else, but I didn't pay it no mind. I figured all that talk about her having second sight was just a lot of bunk."
"Well, it ain't," confirmed Clay. "It's all true, every last word of it. Cindy does have the gift. And it ain't no small thing either. She can pick up on folks feelings long after something's done happened and can come close to reading a man's mind. Dammit, Taylor, sometimes her power is so spooky it scares me half to death."
The sheriff could see his friend was dead serious. He nodded and clapped a supportive hand on the farmer's shoulder. "All right, so why don't you tell me what she had to say."
Taylor White stood there in the September twilight, listening to the man's story. As Clay told of Hanson and Darnell's murderous act in the shelter of the old curing barn, as well as the knowledge concealed by Harvey Brewer, White felt a mixture of amazement and revelation come over him. Between Clay's rendition and the frustrating aspects of the murder case, things began to become clearer. The evidence began to interlock with criminal motive like missing pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. When all had been said, the constable knew that his investigation had just been given new life. As it now stood, he had more than enough evidence to convict both Bully and Claude; but he knew he had to place both men at the Brewer barn that stormy night in May, and there was only one man in Bedloe County who could do that for certain.
"Clay . . . do you feel up to riding out to Harvey Brewer's place? I figure we oughta have a good long talk with that man."
"I'm with you, Taylor," agreed the farmer. "But could we stop by my house first?"
"What for?"
Clayburn felt a little foolish, but his desperate need to see justice done was much stronger than his pride. "I want us to pick up Cindy. I want her to go along."
The sheriff wanted to protest. He wanted to argue how the interrogation of a witness in a brutal murder case was no place for a child to be. But strangely enough, he knew that Clay was right in asking. In the back of his mind, he knew that Cindy might possibly be the only one who could pry a confession from that stubborn old man, the only one who might be able to transcend Brewer's fear and reach the honesty they all knew lay hidden somewhere beneath the surface.
Chapter Twenty
In spite of the chill of the evening, Harvey Brewer sat on his back porch, the old hickory rocker creaking beneath his weight. The hundred-watt bulb burned overhead, unhindered by the swirling swarm of candle flies and gallynippers that had congregated there during the warmer months. Brewer's porch stood out as an isl
and of pale yellow light amid a sea of dense inky blackness.
He had been rocking and dozing when the rumble of an automobile caught his attention. Instantly, his feeble heart began to race. He had reacted that way to the sound of passing motorists ever since that haunting night last spring. He half expected to see that familiar gray truck roaring into sight, the ugly muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun perched over the lip of the open window.
But, no, he did not want to dwell on that sordid memory again. It had gnawed at his insides ever since those poor lads had been discovered in the barn, invading his dreams like some dark beast with an insatiable hunger. It was over and done with now, and no one could do one damned thing to bring those boys back. There's no need to torture yourself so, he tried to convince himself. Just lay that awful guilt to rest!
That night, however, he would not be able to shrug it off so easily, for the vehicle that pulled around back and halted a few yards from the porch was the sheriff's navy blue patrol car.
"How do, Harve?" called Taylor White, walking over to the porch. Brewer was caught between confusion and deep-seated fear as Clayburn Biggs and his daughter followed the hefty lawman.
"Kinda late for a social call, ain't it, Sheriff?" barked Harvey, dispensing with formalities. He eyed Clay's battered face, the eyes and nose swollen with splotches of violet blue. "What in tarnation got hold of you, boy?" he asked.
Clay stared at the elderly man, unsmiling. "Bully Hanson."
Harvey tried to hide his sudden panic. His heart fluttered in his chest, and for a moment, he thought he might faint. Why are they here? His mind raced at a feverish pace. Could they possibly know? He noticed the little red-haired girl standing beside her father and suddenly knew that they did.
But he would not let on. He mustn't. It was for his own welfare. It was the age old instinct of self-preservation that overruled his common sense, that and pure and simple fear.
