by WF Ranew
Cleet made an immediate sale to a widow named Grace Harrison, who’d filled out the form slowly and in scratchy handwriting. He mailed it in for her. She should expect her Bible in two weeks. He got his customers to fill out their own forms. He could read OK, but his handwriting wasn’t so good.
The second lady who’d requested his visit, Irma Wade, listened as Cleet spoke of the family Bible’s features. These included colorful Holy Land maps and illustrations along with, of course, the full, unexpurgated version of the King James Version of the Scriptures.
In his one afternoon of sales training, Cleet had trouble with the word unexpurgated. But the sales trainer told him to practice saying it and explained the word meant the original scribes left out nothing.
Mrs. Wade, also a widow, did not order her Bible that day. She’d have to speak with her daughter about a purchase of that magnitude. Twelve dollars plus shipping and handling. She asked Cleet to come back the next day.
Cleet had been selling the Holy Word for three weeks, so he had his short speech down pat. Thing was, he had trouble if they asked a question out of the blue unrelated to the sale itself.
For example, the first person he sold a Bible to asked if he knew whether the Apocrypha was included in the family Bible? He didn’t know that and said he’d have to ask his boss.
That afternoon he went home and tried to read the sales brochure again, all of a tri-fold pamphlet. There it was. The Kingston Publishing Company’s Family Deluxe Bible was only available in the King James version.
* * *
Cleet turned onto a street that led two blocks over in Cracker Town. He didn’t know why people called the neighborhood that, except that place looked crazy enough. Many of the big, old Victorians and cracker houses alike had gone to disrepair way before the war. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time in his seventeen years when many of the Cracker Town houses looked anything but rundown and suitable only for demolition.
The Greenstone house rose three stories and had a sizeable attic and full basement. Cleet had played there as a youngster with a kid whose parents rented the place. He knew every part of the house. Even back then, the roof had several holes that caused flooding all the way through to the house, leaving water puddles in the basement.
The house was haunted, of course.
Cleet moved on down the block where people still lived in the houses.
He approached the home of a pretty girl. Mitsy Elton. She was the kind of girl who scared Cleet some. She was gorgeous with her bright yellow hair and tight short-shorts, and tank top. But Mitsy could be a bit intimidating. She was loud, at times, and bold in coming on to men.
Of all the houses in Cracker Town, the Elton edifice’s dilapidation was the worst for a place where people lived.
Cleet approached with caution. He figured Mitsy might be at home since it was summer. She was out of high school and kept house for her older brother, Jamison, a hot-headed man who owned a small hardware store and seed business. You didn’t want to piss Jamison next to the ax display.
His brogans hit the first step, and Cleet heard a board crack. On up, he noticed several planks were loose or rotted.
He tried the doorbell, but no noise came.
Cleet knocked.
Mitsy answered the door. She was two or three years older than Cleet or just about his cousin Wallace’s age. He knew Wallace had an interest in the young woman, but they'd never gone out as far as Cleet knew.
She wore a man’s T-shirt. It was white but had grease spots on the front. He locked his eyes on her nipples protruding through the thin fabric.
“Come on in, Cleet, baby,” she said.
They sat, and Cleet made his pitch.
“Now, what you going to do, Mr. Cleet, to get me to buy one of them family Bibles of yours?” Mitsy asked.
Cleet fidgeted. Sometimes, this sales business flustered him with certain people, but he remembered what the instructor told him. Listen to the customer. Everyone who has a personal relationship with Christ has a story to tell. Ask them about the time they were baptized. Ask them anything about their church or whatever to get them talking to you. He would repeat back an interesting point and refer to the Scriptures as a selling tool based on what they said.
“Well, Miss Elton. Do you have a personal relationship with Jesus?” Cleet asked.
“Lord, boy, you trying to save me or sell me a Bible?”
He moved his hands back and forth in front of him. Why he didn’t know. Nervous tension.
“I was wondering because there’s a verse in this here book a holy man wrote just for you many years ago,” he managed to say.
Mitsy laughed. “Really? Cleet, I didn’t know you were the preacher type. You know, I just love cuddling up with righteous men.”
Cleet had no idea how to respond to the comment.
Mitsy went on. “You interesting in becoming a man of the lord. A preacher, I mean? Like your cousin Gordon?”
“No, not really,” Cleet said. “I’m selling Bibles to save up for trade school. A lot of people already have family Bibles, but many are very old. From their grandparents. These new Good Books we offer give you a chance to start a family tree fresh.”
That was one selling point he’d learned, but as soon as he said it, Mitsy smirked.
“Cleet, you lovely creature. Wait right there a second, and I’ll buy one of those Bibles from you.”
Mitsy left the room and was gone for the longest time. When she finally returned, she’d changed clothes. Into a nightgown, which revealed much of her natural-born body.
Cleet had gotten an order slip ready while Mitsy stepped away. He started shaking as he saw Mitsy’s body through the cloth of her very short nighty. Cleet also gazed at her lower down region. It was very dark, even though Mitsy had bright blonde hair on her head.
The young man sat there confused. He’d only seen one woman naked before, and that was his Aunt Bessie when he accidentally barged in to use the bathroom as a little kid. She’d just stepped out of the shower, and he caught a full view of a woman in her late twenties or thereabouts.
Mitsy came down and sat on the arm of Cleet’s chair. She leaned over the kissed him on the lips as she took the pen and form to fill out. She did so while moving close in against him. Her left breast dangled right near his mouth. He sensed an erection like none he’d had before.
After completing the order, Mitsy took Cleet by the hand and pulled him over to the sofa. She kissed Cleet again.
His memory from that point on escaped him except for certain flashes of pleasure. They walked upstairs to the attic and lay down on a mattress on dusty boards. He didn’t remember anything else, except her pubic area contrasted so drastically with her bleached hair.
Mitsy unzipped him and lay back. She removed her panties and pulled Cleet onto her.
She helped him along the way, but it was over so quickly Cleet only remembered Mitsy’s nakedness and the feel of her.
Almost immediately, he felt a dazzling sensation. His eyes watered over, and he became dizzy. The feeling grew to such an intensity. Cleet cried out.
His head swam as he passed out and tumbled off the mattress onto the floor. The last thing Cleet heard was Mitsy giggling.
He lost memory after that. He guessed he’d walked home. At least, he remembered sleeping in his bed that night.
* * *
Mitsy slept in the next morning. She got up and took a bath at eleven, hurrying to get dressed and fix a sandwich for brother Jamison’s lunch.
She expected a caller at three that afternoon and knew Jamison had a business trip the rest of the day.
Jamison came home and ate. He didn’t say much and certainly didn’t thank her for the sandwich. Mitsy watched him pour a glass of bourbon in the living room and knock it back. Jamison wandered back into the kitchen, nodded at Mitsy, and said he had to go out of town to see a customer in the afternoon.
“Where’re you going?” she asked.
Jamison rubbed his face
with both hands and turned to leave.
“Over to Cairo,” he replied.
Jamison walked out the back door and left.
Mitsy ran up to her room and changed into a sexy black nightie. She dabbed what she considered Parisian perfume behind each ear. She looked in the mirror, fluffed her hair, and went downstairs to await her visitor.
She heard someone knock on the kitchen door.
Dammit, he’s too early.
* * *
Cleet walked up to the house of a war widow, a young woman named Louise Chatham. She lost her husband in the Normandy invasion eleven years back.
Louise was very pretty, and everyone in town wondered why she hadn’t remarried.
She opened the door, greeted Cleet with a smile, and invited him into her home. She also bought a Bible from him.
Cleet asked Mrs. Chatham if any of her neighbors might need the large edition of the Good Book. She suggested a man a few blocks away.
Cleet thank her and left.
Willard Butcher had been in the war, too, and retired from the Army after serving in Germany during the Marshall Plan. He’d been living in Damville for about two years. Cleet knew this because Butcher had come to his house to do some plumbing work one time.
Mr. Butcher gladly purchased a family Bible on the recommendation of Mrs. Chatham. She’d called him before Cleet arrived.
With success in hand from two easy sales, Cleet decided he’d better walk over to Mitsy Elton’s and collect what she owed him.
It was a day after their sexual encounter, and Cleet wasn’t sure what to expect. Still, he needed to collect the money. The sales instructor told him to collect the money as soon as the sale was made. Mitsy had begged off and seduced him without paying for the Bible.
Cleet walked over to her house.
As he approached, Cleet saw a familiar person walking up the driveway toward the back door.
* * *
Mitsy put on a bathrobe and looked out her window. She hadn’t expected to see the boy again.
She ran downstairs and opened the door. She stared at the person there.
He was grinning.
“Didn’t think you’d be coming back so soon,” she said. “Come on in, handsome.”
The boy walked into the kitchen and looked around.
Mitsy closed the door and, as she turned, a hand grabbed her on the shoulder.
“You’re a pretty lady,” the boy said. He stroked her neck and held her hair.
She turned to face her visitor.
He stood about as tall as her and had a hunger in his eyes. There was something else about him. Something very bad.
She felt the heat of the summer day radiating off his body and in the sweat on his face.
Mitsy looked at his hands. He’d clean up pretty well.
Then she remembered the pain. This boy caused it.
“You hurt me the last time you came ’round here, you bastard,” she said. “Why are you so mean?”
The boy moved closer to her.
“I may not be old enough to please you, little bitch,” he said. “But I can do you better than that retard you screwed yesterday. You’re a whore of Babylon.”
Mitsy walked back several steps. “What, what are you talking about?”
The boy’s demeanor shifted suddenly. He breathed harder. She could feel a growing intensity as he stepped beside her.
Mitsy was taller than this boy, but he seemed so much bigger than her.
“I saw you yesterday,” he said. “That retard was over here. You let him, didn’t you?”
“Cleet? You mean little Cleet?” Mitsy said. “He’s a sweet boy. He was just here selling me a family Bible. That’s all.”
The boy grabbed Mitsy around her waist, lifted her, and carried her toward the front of the house.
“What are you doing?” She marveled at his strength, even as she tried to free herself.
“You’ll see.”
At the foot of the stairs, the boy set Mitsy down. She stumbled and sat back on the third step. The boy pulled her up and dragged her into the front room, the parlor. There he threw her on the sofa. This was the same room where Cleet sold her the Bible.
“Do you really think I’m going to screw you after you hurt me the last time? Like you’re doing now? Go to hell,” she screamed.
The boy knelt beside her. Mitsy pulled up on the corner of the furniture, but she didn’t escape his grasp.
“Oh, stop. You’re hurting me,” she screamed.
The boy stood up by the sofa, loosened his belt, and opened his soiled blue jeans. They hung loosely on his hips. He pulled off his T-shirt.
He pushed Mitsy down when she tried to get up.
“If you want it, you could at least play along with the romance game,” she said. “Even if that doesn’t appeal to you. Better yet, get out of my house!”
“Shut up,” the boy snarled.
She reached up and stroked his left cheek. “Don’t you want to love me, though? Don’t you want to make me feel good, too?”
The boy pushed her back onto the sofa.
“Talk to me sweetly,” Mitsy implored.
The boy leaned over her and grabbed her wrists. At that moment, something fell out of his jeans and banged to the floor.
Mitsy strained to look down. A knife of some kind. A big one.
She lowered her left arm and felt around for it. Her fingers danced across a hard steel blade.
She tried to grip it by the handle, but the boy rose up, bringing her with him.
He held her under each leg. The boy lost his balance, and Mitsy fell to the sofa. Her hand stretched down in vain for the object on the floor.
Bang, bang. Someone on the porch pounded on the window.
Mitsy looked up and tried to scream. The boy covered her mouth with his hand.
“Stop!” The person on the porch cried out. In a moment, the front door shook with the person trying to get into the house.
The boy paid no attention. It was as if he hadn’t heard the interloper.
Reaching out, she felt the wood and tried to grip the handle. Finally, she got her forefinger and thumb around the end.
She fumbled the handle, gripped it, and lifted it.
She lost her hold, and the knife fell onto the floor.
“Leave her alone!” came the voice from outside the window.
Those were the last words Mitsy heard.
* * *
The next day, the sheriff arrested Cleet Wrightman for Mitsy’s murder.
PART IV
OCTOBER 2019 - APRIL 2020
Chapter Twenty-Three
Red headed out from Savannah to Ellijay, Georgia, on a Thursday morning. The October day would offer excellent scenery in the mountains, even as the weather had turned hot and humid on the coast.
He anticipated cooler temperatures once he rolled through Jasper and on up the four-lane highway to Ellijay.
Red gave nothing away about his plan. He loved to surprise the people he chased.
He’d thoroughly backgrounded himself on Cleet Wrightman, aka John Craven, who posed as an Army veteran with a fake driver’s license and birth certificate.
Red could nail him on the fake license.
He also knew that John Craven, now eighty-three years old, was a respected citizen and business owner. For that reason, Red would have to carefully approach Cleet Wrightman.
Cleet was getting old, but Red figured he had lived a comfortable life in North Georgia. Very comfortable, indeed. Incognito.
* * *
Red had talked to a former colleague who’d live many years in Ellijay and Gilmer County. The man had a firm idea of who John Craven was and how his neighbors regarded him.
People admired and respected Craven, who ran the most customer-friendly gas station in town. He provided a full-service in one pump lane decades after the common practice ended as big gas companies moved in and bought out the little guys.
Few people disliked Craven.
&n
bsp; Red had done his homework. Armed with copies of Cleet Wrightman’s forged documents and material he’d researched and collected, along with phone conversations, the private investigator rode into Ellijay in the early afternoon.
It had been a long, cross-state drive.
His first stop was to visit with a former colleague in state law enforcement, Jackson Martin.
Red pulled into an angle parking slot in downtown two blocks east of the courthouse. He walked up to the renovated Victorian house where his friend practiced law. After Jack retired early from the state, he finished his law studies at the University of Georgia.
“Good to see you, friend,” Red said as he stepped into the reception area. Jack was standing at the front desk talking to a paralegal.
“Well, Lord, have mercy on us all. Look who’s here,” Jack said, stepping over to greet his friend. The two men shook hands.
Jack turned to his assistant. “Mary Ellen, this is the top law enforcement officer in Georgia,” he said. “And Florida, for that matter. At least, he was until he moved into the ranks of private investigators. The big bucks.”
Red laughed and said the dollars got fewer every day. He asked about Jack and his practice.
“We’re in a transition phase,” Jack said. “Lucille and I are retiring and heading up to live in Black Mountain, North Carolina. My son, Jack Jr., is taking over the practice.”
“Well, congratulations,” Red said. “Great news. When are you pulling the trigger?”
“This is my last week,” Jack said as he ushered Red back to his office.
Jack held no illusions about the Ellijay man he’d known for years as John Craven. Red informed Jack about his visit in several phone conversations. He’d laid out what he was looking for. Jack promised to help any way he could.
Red sat in a chair by the desk, and his host closed the door after flipping the sign on the handle to Do Not Disturb.
“You got a big one on the line, huh?” Jack said as he set his large leather chair.
“Tell you the truth, Jack, I’m up here to clear up something this man may or may not have done back in the fifties.”
“As you said in our conversations,” Jack said. “He’s been living high and mighty up here all these years. How are you going to approach him?”
