by Ronald Kelly
"And it'll be on the house, too," the storekeeper promised. The citizens of Coleman complimented his generosity and knew that the lawman deserved it. Some folks had had their doubts about Taylor White in the past months, but now that uncertainty was forgotten.
"Let's go home, pumpkin," Clay said.
As they walked toward the blue Ford pickup, Willard Shaw met them in the parking lot. He stood there as if he had been waiting for them. Clay shook the lawyer's hand vigorously. "I want to thank you for all you've done. You did a fine job of seeing justice done."
The attorney smiled that wry grin of his. "My only regret in this case was that I never got to know Johnny. From all I gathered, he was a talented boy."
"He would've liked you, too, Mr. Shaw. You remind me of him in a lot of ways."
Willard shifted his satchel to his left hand and dug into his vest pocket for his keys. "Come on over to the car for a moment. I've got something for you."
Clay and Cindy followed the man to a black Chevrolet. Shaw fiddled with the lock to his trunk for a moment, then withdrew an object and handed it to the lean farmer. "Here, I wanted you to have this."
Clay could not believe his eyes. It was Johnny's flat-top guitar, the one he had last seen hanging in the window of a Nashville pawn shop. He took the musical instrument in his work-hardened hands, running his fingers gently along the smooth varnished surfaces of the contoured wood. He looked at the big city lawyer with wonder. "You shouldn't have done this."
"I had to," Willard Shaw told him flatly. "It really griped me knowing your boy's pride and joy was gathering dust in some sleazy hock shop downtown. I ran over there yesterday evening and made a deal with the slob who owns the place."
"But, I can't pay you for this," Clay admitted shamefully. "I barely have enough to feed my family, let alone fifteen dollars for the guitar."
"Don't give it a second thought," Willard assured him. "I jewed the guy down to five bucks. Besides, I really wanted you to have it. You already lost your son. At least you'll have this as a keepsake."
Clay felt all choked up. "Much obliged," he said. Again they shook hands, and then Clay and his daughter started for the truck.
Halfway there, the red-haired child stared up at her father and saw the glint of tears in his eyes. "Pappy, are you crying?" she asked.
"Yes, pumpkin." He nodded, unashamed of the emotion. He squeezed her hand tightly, reassuringly. "But it's all right. Everything's all right now."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ransom Potts entered the Coleman Citizens Bank, walked through the lobby, and headed straight for his office. The tellers who stood idly at their stations suddenly began to shuffle papers and turn their attention elsewhere; anything to give the impression of being busy. But the bank president did not give his employees a second thought. He seemed to have much more somber matters on his mind.
Rose Baxter, the head cashier, approached him before he reached the frosted glass door of the rear office. She spoke to him reluctantly, but knew that someone should mention the result of that day's trial. Rose had worked for Potts for nearly thirty years and had grown to truly loathe the man and his arrogance. But ever since his son had died in such a grisly fashion, she had almost found herself pitying her penny-pinching boss. C.J.'s death had hit the man hard, devastating him physically and softening his snobbish attitude. It just went to show that the banker was not quite as heartless as everyone thought.
"We heard about the verdict, Mr. Potts," said Rose. "We would all just like to say how glad we are that things turned out for the best."
Ransom regarded her absently and nodded, his eyes glassy and distant. "Thank you, Mrs. Baxter." He took a couple of steps, then stopped. "Oh, you and the others may have the rest of the day off. Just lock up after you leave. I'll be in my office until late."
The cashier couldn't believe her ears. Ransom Potts giving time off? She thought she would never see the day. "Thank you, sir," she blurted, then went to inform the others before he could change his mind.
Ransom went into his cramped office, shutting the door behind him. He plopped down into a great leather chair. His wait was brief, and soon, he heard Mrs. Baxter locking the front door. The banker sat motionless for a few minutes more, then reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. He withdrew a crystal decanter of bourbon and a shot glass.
The sun hung high in the cloudless Tennessee sky and then gradually dropped toward the western horizon. The brilliance of a glowing sunset seeped through the slats of the venetian blinds, splashing an eerie crimson hue across his desktop. The bottle was half empty now. He poured himself another shot and sipped it slowly. The liquor no longer burned his innards. He felt nothing in the way of physical sensation anymore. Only the awful, searing pangs of mental anguish remained.
His bloodshot eyes stared straight ahead, past the leather desk blotter and the engraved box of Cuban cigars. They focused on one single point of interest, a framed photograph of a cocky young man in a tweed jacket and knickers, his hair slick with pomade, his face clean-shaven, void of the scraggly, pencil-thin mustache the boy had grown the previous winter.
Ransom took another swallow of the amber liquor. He reached for the golden frame, gripping it so intensely that the scalloped edges dug into his fatty palms. It had been the only photograph that C.J. had ever agreed to sit still for, the only lingering image of a lost son. The banker's small eyes grew shiny as he continued to stare, studying each line, the texture of his clothing, the jaunty set of his face. Ransom Potts had contemplated the photo many times since C.J.'s tragic death, perhaps to make up for all the attention he had neglected to show over the last eighteen years.
In a fit of despair, the businessman slammed the frame down on his desktop with such force that the glass shattered. Bitterly, he poured himself another drink. He could not figure it out. He had given the boy everything money could buy, had provided him with opportunities that any other young man would have jumped at. But would he listen to his old man? No, he only shunned his advice, going out of his way to show contempt for his father. Running off with that hayseed trash and getting himself killed! That was what you got for associating with bad company like that.
But who was he to determine exactly who was bad company or not? After all, he himself was not exactly the most loved and respected of Coleman's citizens. No wonder C.J. had grown up hating him. He had forever been surrounded by greed, prejudice, and utter disdain for those his father did business with. C.J.'s world had been assaulted by talk of foreclosure, tax evasion, and illegal banking practices since birth. Had Ransom ever taken his boy to a baseball game or read him a bedtime story when he was little? Had he ever taken the time or inclination to even tell his son that he loved him?
Tears came swiftly and without warning. With a shuddering sigh, Ransom took the gun from his jacket pocket. It was a snub-nosed .38, nickel plated with grips of polished ivory. I should have shot those bastards, he thought. I should have shot someone. Bully, Claude, even that meddling Clayburn Biggs! I should have shot—who? Who should I have really killed?
The last rays of sunlight glinted off the empty liquor bottle, and he saw his haggard, pathetic image reflected in the chiseled glass. He began to laugh and cry at the same time. I see it now. The answer is so very simple. So damned simple to see!
The following morning Rose Baxter would find her boss slumped over his desk, the gun in his hand and the ugly wound of a .38 caliber slug in his right temple.
Part Four
Deadly Winter
Chapter Thirty
Percy Evans sat by the window of his motel office in the late of the evening. He supped on a modest meal of white beans and cornbread, his attention focused on the steady drift of virgin snow. It sifted down from the heavens in a swirling, frantic flurry. Snowflakes the size of goose down lit on the frigid ground and froze instantly, creating huge drifts that measured a foot deep in some spots.
Halfway into December and it's starting already, thought Percy glumly,
for his rheumatoid arthritis scorned the cold and complained feistily with pain. Why, I can hardly see past the mailbox out yonder! Dadblamed winter sure is getting off to a dreadful start!
Most everyone in Tennessee had voiced similar opinions of the weather in the past twenty-four hours, for it was the heaviest snowfall that had hit the state so early in December since 1889. Usually the really rough weather held off until January or February at the latest, but not this year. The bitter frost of late November had served as a subtle omen of the brutal season to come.
Percy's radio became so hindered by static that he finally turned it off. He continued to sit there in silence, eating his supper and watching the darkness set in for the night as it cast an eerie blue sheen upon the crust of pure white snow. For a while all he could hear was the minute ticking of ice crystals collecting on the tin roof of his cabin. Then the faint roaring of an engine reached his ears, muffled at first, then growing in depth and resonance as the automobile churned its way up the snow-clogged highway.
The motel owner stepped to the window as the blinding flash of headlights arched across the small parking area out front. Percy nodded in approval as a sedan marked with the insignia of the Tennessee State Troopers pulled up and two men waded through the drifts for the office. At least he would make a little cash that night, if nothing else became of it. The five cabins that Evans owned were empty now. His busy season was summer, when travelers took the long route from Nashville to Memphis. Oh, there were a few cabins occupied during hunting season, when those city fellows came down hoping to bag a deer or two, but between December and April, business at the roadside motel was few and far between.
A draft of unbearably cold air slapped his wrinkled face as he held the door open in cheerful welcome. "Come on in, boys, and warm yourselves by the stove. Ain't fit weather for man or beast out there tonight."
The two men, clad in long overcoats and hard-billed caps bearing brass badges, accepted his hospitality without reply. They tracked slush across the hardwood floor and stood, shivering, before the cast-iron woodburner. As they passed cold-numbed hands over the comforting warmth, Percy Evans appraised the two officers. One was a big, stocky fellow, while the other was whipcord lean. He could not see their faces clearly. The troopers had their collars pulled up and their hat brims down against the bitter bite of the storm.
"Cold enough for you gentlemen?" he ventured in a chipper tone of voice.
The big one turned and regarded him with humorless eyes. "Yeah. Cold as a witch's tit."
Percy didn't know whether he should laugh or not, so he dispensed with formalities and came right down to business. "I reckon you fellas want to wait out this storm for the night. I usually charge a dollar a person, but you being officers of the law and all, I'll knock it down to seventy-five cents a head. That includes fresh linen, hot water, and there's a hot plate, too. All the conveniences of home, wouldn't you say?"
The trooper stared at Percy wearily, then dug into his pocket. He came out with a crumpled dollar bill and a Franklin fifty-cent piece and tossed them on the old man's supper table. "Which one?"
Percy handed him a key from off a hook on the wall. "Cabin Two. Checkout time is eight o'clock tomorrow morn . . . but if you'd like to sleep longer, I won't charge you extra."
"We ain't figuring to stay that long," piped the thinner of the two. His face was gaunt and strangely pale in the shadows of his collar. "Just gonna get a couple hours' shut-eye, then be on our way."
"Oh, I see."
The pair reached the door and stood there for a moment, letting frigid air and snow blow inside. "You got any tools around here we could borrow?" asked the big fellow.
"There's a tool shed out back, officer," volunteered the old man. "Ain't locked. Y'all just help yourselves to anything you need in there."
Cold eyes raked Percy. "Much obliged."
Then they were gone, the door slamming loudly behind them. Percy shuddered in the chill that now occupied the small room. Hesitantly, he walked to the window and watched as they went back to the patrol car. Percy's heart skipped a beat when the big fellow reached into the backseat and withdrew a pump shotgun, a Winchester Model 97 from the looks of it. After delivering a withering glare toward the office, the two shuffled off toward the tool shed around back. Absently, Percy locked his door and immediately felt foolish. What the hell are you getting so jittery about? he lambasted himself irritably. They're officers of the law, state troopers. They mean you no harm.
Angry at his underlying suspicions, Percy went back to his supper of beans and cornbread. Both dishes were cold, so he bitterly pushed them aside. His appetite seemed to have been dampened considerably by the disturbing twilight visit.
"Hold that door open," said the hefty police officer. The smaller man obeyed. As his partner rummaged through the clutter of rusted tools and accumulated junk, he watched in growing agitation, knowing what he was looking for and for exactly what purpose. He trembled, not from the cold, but from sheer nervousness.
"Found it," roared the burly man with a grin of triumph. He held a hacksaw. Its frame was speckled with the rust of neglect, but its blade was clean and missing only a few teeth.
As he tossed more clutter aside, another grin replaced the previous one, a grin brimming with cruelty and, yes, even bloodlust. He held an object out to his compatriot. "Here, you'd best hang on to this. You might need it." He chuckled deep in his throat, as if relishing the lurid humor of some obscene joke.
The skinny trooper could only gawk at the object. It was a hatchet. Its short handle was turned of seasoned hickory, its heavy, edged blade forged from a wedge of thick steel. "I don't want it," he gulped in little more than a whisper. He vividly recalled what had happened the last time he had held one of those things in his hand, and he quaked at the very thought.
"I said take it!" the other grated angrily. "You're sure as hell gonna need it."
Dumbly, more out of fear than anything else, he accepted the hand axe. He quickly slipped it into his coat pocket, where he would not have to look at it or think of the violent implications that its possession might eventually lead to.
Hiking back through the snowdrifts, they locked themselves into the small cabin. After stoking the woodstove with dry kindling, they shed their coats and hats. Instead of the snappy, navy blue uniforms of state troopers, the two wore drab coveralls of faded gray, the standard issue clothing of the Tennessee penal system. The leader of the two, who had twin revolvers stuck in his waistband, immediately went to work on the twelve gauge. First sawing the flare of the walnut stock down to the wristpiece, he then hacked a good-sized piece from the barrel. With a smile of grim satisfaction, he worked the pump a couple of times, then deftly loaded the gun with double-aught shells.
The lanky fellow paced the floor nervously, wringing his hands and glancing at his partner worriedly. Finally, he gathered the courage to stand his ground. "I've got something to say to you, and I want you to hear me out. Okay?"
The big guy shrugged and sat down on the single bed, an amused expression on his broad face. "All right. Say what you want."
Surprised by his friend's graciousness, he went on. "I don't think we're going about this right. I mean, we're heading in the wrong direction. We oughta be heading up to Kentucky to your Uncle Zeke's place. Not back there! For heaven's sake, not back to Bedloe County!"
The stocky man with the blond crewcut approached him with a warm smile, his hand outstretched, as if offering reassurance. But suddenly, anger flashed in his small gray eyes, emerging swiftly and without warning. The hand of warm understanding lashed out savagely, knocking him off his feet. He stumbled backward and crashed into the far corner.
Gasping in shock, the slight fellow put a hand to his nose. His fingertips came away red with blood. It was the first time in all the years they had traveled together that his buddy had ever struck him. All he could utter was a silent sob as he stared up in terror at the man he had chosen to follow most of his adult life.
"You ain't got no say in this, you idiot," said Bully Hanson, brandishing his sawed-off shotgun. "We got us a score to settle back in Coleman, so you'd best get your head straight. You chicken out on me and I swear I'll kill you where you stand."
And he meant it. Claude could sense the truth of Bully's deadly warning. He struggled to his feet and eyed the cabin door, before slumping on the bed in near exhaustion. They slept for the next two hours or, rather, Bully did. Claude lay there and listened to the other's snoring. He continued to stare at the door almost forlornly, weighing the possibility of slipping out unnoticed. All he wanted to do at that moment was to make it outside that cabin and run like hell. But he knew that his effort would be wasted. He would hear the click-clack of the shotgun action, and then Bully would put a round of buckshot squarely between his shoulder blades.
Claude Darnell forgot about escape for the time being and thought about Bully's vengeful plans. The horror returned in full force… the horror of what had taken place that rainy night last May. In a couple of hours, they would be back in Bedloe County and it would start all over again; the gunfire, the blood, and the screams of the dying. Lying there, he wondered if facing the electric chair could be any worse than facing the senseless bloodletting that he would participate in later on that dark, winter night.
Chapter Thirty-One
"I've been looking for you all over, Clayburn Biggs." Sheriff Taylor White closed the door of Woody's General Store and made his way carefully down the cluttered aisles of merchandise. A few power lines east of Coleman had snapped beneath the weight of snow and ice, plunging the rural community into darkness. A faint orange glow lit the rear of the store, the result of two kerosene lanterns and the fiery slats of the cast-iron stove door.
