Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  She leaned up in her seat and kissed Crawford on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Justin. I know you didn’t want to have to do that.”

  “All a part of this madness, Dixie. I didn’t want to have to do any of this shit to be honest. But three quarters of a million dollars will make a man do almost anything.”

  She smiled and ran her red fingernails through his hair. “We’ll start over. Find some little tropical island somewhere. Live out our lives together.”

  Crawford nodded. “We will. After the devil pays us his due.”

  “Here he comes now.” She pointed through the windshield at the figure approaching. Crawford rolled down the car window part of the way—the rain finding its way inside.

  He was wearing a black trench coat and hat and carrying a bag. He leaned over and peered inside the open window and saw Haskit’s body. He blew strands of wet hair from his face. “Last minute business, Justin?” Watts asked with a laugh. “I knew from the moment I saw your reaction to Henry Brooks’ execution, you were cold-blooded enough to get things done.”

  “Never mind that. Show it to us.”

  Watts smiled. He opened the case and revealed stacks of hundred dollar bills. “Seven hundred thousand. One hundred thousand for each kill. Just like we promised.” He closed it quickly. “My client wishes to thank you both. And I wish to thank you for honoring Henry Brooks so precisely—your right hand, Miss Love, and your left hand, Sheriff. Abaddon and Michael thank you.” He laughed again and then quoted Hamlet, “Angels and ministers of grace defend us.”

  Crawford hurried him on. “The deed’s been done. And I returned the knife to the hiding place in the house yesterday. So, what’s the plan now?”

  Watts produced two plane tickets and identification papers and handed them to Crawford. “After we get rid of this patrol car, you and Miss Love will fly out of Charleston at 3:00 a.m.—destination Bogota, Columbia—then you’re on your own. I will be heading in another direction. We shall never speak again. Is that clear?”

  “Fine by us,” Crawford said. He reached back and grabbed Dixie Love’s hand.

  Watts tilted his head slightly. “Aww. Isn’t that sweet? The couple that slays together, stays together.” He looked back at Dixie. “Now aren’t you glad I found you in that awful jail cell in Savannah? You must admit we’ve had so much fun together.”

  “Watts, it’s getting late. Give us the money and let’s get on with this.” Crawford said.

  “Oh, yes, of course. But there is one more thing…” Watts said as he dropped the bag and reached inside his coat again. He pulled out a .45 with a Blackslide silencer and instantly popped Crawford in the temple. The sheriff’s head slammed against the seat. Dixie Love screamed but there was no escaping her fate. Watts fired again splitting open her throat. Blood splattered all over the back windshield. He watched her squirm until she became completely motionless.

  With the rain falling all about him, Watts felt in his coat pocket again for his cigarette case. “Damn…” He picked up the bag then turned and headed back toward the house. He would gather his things and then return to dispose of the squad car and the dead bodies. Everything was going to work out perfectly.

  Henry would be so proud.

  OCTOBER 6, 2016

  4:15 PM

  Tindal brought two shots of Johnny Drum to the table in the Jack Rose Dinning Saloon, Washington D.C.’s premier whiskey bar. Chan was seated across from her—his eyes scanning the thousands of bottles that lined the saloon walls. She sat down and slid his shot towards his open hand. They quickly toasted the moment.

  “Here’s to you, Chan.”

  “To both of us,” Chan corrected. He took a drink and then raised the glass again. “To the end of a very long story.”

  Tindal drank and then put her glass on the table shaking her head. “Unbelievable. I just can’t freaking believe it. Congressman Trey Richards.” She smiled broadly. “Who would have ever thought Richards was behind all this?”

  “I know. It’s all so surreal. But in a way, I should have known. He was always so close to the family. Always hanging around with them. And then there he was in Sonny Watts’ same firm—just a phone call away. It all seems so easy to piece together now.”

  “Nothing easy about it, Chan. Quite frankly, it was brilliant journalism on your part.”

  Chan shook his head. “No, there was some hard work and long nights but a lot of lucky guesses, too. And, of course, there was that huge push from a certain reporter—Reuters’ next Pulitzer Prize winner.” He winked at her.

  Tindal smiled. “The piece is extraordinary. My bosses love it. They can barely contain themselves.” She paused for another sip and then, “And what about Crawford? He was also involved?”

  “Apparently so. I’m not sure of everything, but when the FBI put the cuffs on Richards, he started ranting about how he didn’t kill anyone. How it was all Watts’ plan and how Crawford and Dixie Love had been hired as the assassins to kill the Seven.” He shook his head. “If any of that turns out to be true, it will shake Macinaw to its foundation. Crawford was a legend there. I just can’t believe he would have had anything to do with it.”

  “Seems to be an unfortunate truism, Chan, but even the good guys can be corrupted if the price is right.”

  “Must have been a helluva price.”

  “Yeah, which takes us back to Watts. He may have assassinated his assassins and taken their share too.”

  Chan nodded his agreement. “Made it an even bigger payday for himself.”

  “Why do you think he went through the trouble of pretending to die in that fire?”

  “Again, just my theory, but he probably thought the Macinaw Seven would start coming after him, pressuring him with what they knew. Or he may have thought that if the press had continued looking into his life, we would have eventually discovered his connection to Henry Brooks. And he couldn’t have that.”

  Tindal nodded. “My friend at the Savannah Morning News made Watts’ connection to the Henry Brooks Disciples. She said while at Bingham and Dodd he represented Jack Neufeld.”

  “Diamond Jack?”

  “Yes. The same man who started the Disciples. And she also told me Watts represented another Savannah jailbird: Audrey Sawyer. You know her better as Dixie Love.”

  Chan grinned and shook his head at the mind-boggling connections. “Damn…”

  Tindal’s phone lit up and she read the text. “It’s Sheriff Monroe. He’s outside now. I’ll go get him.” Tindal was quickly out of her seat and headed for the front of the saloon.

  Chan sat in contemplation, running his finger along his empty shot glass, still shaking his head. Within seconds, Tindal returned with the Macinaw sheriff in tow. Monroe was dressed in his Sunday best—looking huge in his blue sport coat. Chan stood and shook his hand.

  “How was your flight?” Chan asked. He then signaled the bartender for three more shots.

  “Pretty good,” Monroe said as they all sat back down at the table. “But, hey, with the news you guys broke, I think I could have grown wings to fly up here if I had to.” They all laughed.

  “What’s the plan now?” Chan followed.

  “We’re gonna take Richards back to South Carolina. Charge him with seven counts of first degree murder—murder for hire, plus a whole lot more. He’s gonna pay dearly for all the pain he caused.”

  “He’s one of many that caused that pain,” Tindal said. “I don’t think we’ll ever find him, but I wish we could get our hands on Sonny Watts too. He manipulated the whole thing.”

  Monroe sighed and tilted his head a little. “Yeah, well, about that…”

  “What?” Chan asked.

  Monroe reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded manila envelope.

  “What’s that?” Tindal asked.

  “It’s a copy of the FBI’s DNA analysis of the three bodies found in the squad car.” He threw the envelope on the bar table. “It’s a game changer.”

  OCTOBER 7, 2016

/>   7:56 AM

  “That’s a fascinating story, Mr. Adams. But I’m still wondering why you had to bother to come all the way up here to tell me this,” Andrew Searson said. The CEO of the Searson-Thompson real estate firm was standing at the door of his incredible estate on the outskirts of Hartford, Connecticut. He wore a black silk robe over his tall, rotund form. His pudgy face was a mixture of pleasantry and concern.

  “Well, it was on that property your company bought thirty years ago, sir. We thought maybe you’d just want to know.” Chan was standing tall on the immense front porch. Tindal had remained in the driver’s seat of the rental car in the estate’s driveway, waiting.

  Searson held his position, rocking on the heels of his bare-feet, his hands jammed in the pockets of his robes. “Okay,” he said, measuring his words. “But I thought you said this Watts person died in that fire at his house. How could he have been the one to sponsor all those crimes if he was dead?” His words had a bit of undeserved anger behind them.

  “We don’t know everything for sure, but our theory is that he set the fire himself. We think he invited one of the migrant workers to his house that night. He was always hiring them to do menial chores around his place. The workers were there in South Carolina illegally so there would have been no record if one went missing. And they would have thought nothing of going to his place. Watts probably killed him and placed him in his den. I saw the body myself during the fire—thought it was him the whole time.”

  “But I still don’t get it. How do you know it was Watts who organized all this in the first place, Mr. Adams? You say you found a couple of his type of cigarettes in the Brooks’ house, but really those could have belonged to anyone.”

  Chan smiled. “That’s the interesting part, Mr. Searson. You see, the FBI’s DNA evidence report came back yesterday from the tests performed on the remains found in the squad car.” Chan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Sheriff Monroe’s copy of the document.

  “And?” Searson asked timidly.

  “And…they confirmed the bodies of Dixie Love and Sheriff Crawford. But not that of Deputy Haskit. You see, the body that everyone believed was Haskit, even wearing Haskit’s tattered old uniform, was really that of Sonny Watts.”

  Searson felt a pain in the pit of his stomach; he lifted his now trembling chin. “I don’t…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t understand.”

  “Actually, I think maybe you do. You see, I believe Haskit might have been wounded during the exchange of gun fire, perhaps even severely, but it did not kill him. The police found a bullet from Crawford’s weapon lodged in the passenger side of the squad car where Haskit was probably sitting. Those two must have gotten into an argument—perhaps Haskit found out Crawford’s true intentions. And later, when Watts terminated the sheriff, he wasn’t counting on Haskit still being alive.” Chan leaned forward and looked Searson directly in the eyes. “I figure the deputy somehow managed to open his door after Watts walked away. He pulled his own weapon and fired. The FBI confirmed that the person in Haskit’s decayed uniform was shot in the back…with Haskit’s weapon.”

  Searson’s face darkened; he took a deep breath. He grabbed the door jamb to steady himself.

  “With Watts dead, and the assassin’s money now lying there, Haskit saw his chance, a golden opportunity if you will. He switched clothes with Watts, threw him in the passenger seat and then put the squad car in neutral until it rolled down the embankment and came to rest in that thicket of kudzu down there near the Edisto on what is now your property—where it remained hidden until recently.”

  Searson began to look ill; he closed his eyes briefly as it all came flooding back to him. He then opened his eyes and cast them heavenward as if cursing that one moment of fate.

  Chan continued, “With the money, Haskit was probably able to make a new life for himself. New identity. Plastic surgery. The works. With plenty left over to start a new business.” He looked beyond Searson and into the interior of his palatial home. “Live the good life.”

  Searson cleared his throat and asked weakly, “Do you think they’ll go after this man, this Haskit? Now that they know.”

  Chan paused for a long moment and stared at the man before him. “I imagine. He killed that bastard Watts, but he also took all the money. I imagine the FBI will have a lot of questions for him. But I don’t think they’ll know where to look for the deputy, Mr. Searson. It happened such a long time ago.”

  Searson nodded and whispered, “Yes. A long time ago.” He looked directly at Chan. “And what about you, Mr. Adams? Will you be pursuing this matter any further?”

  Chan pulled down the corners of his mouth as he thought about it. “Deputy Haskit saved my life way back then; I reckon I owe him for that. Besides I’m retired now. I don’t have any interest in chasing ghosts anymore.”

  Searson wiped tears from his cheeks and nodded.

  “Well, I thought you would want to know, Mr. Searson. Know the whole story.”

  Searson looked at Chan and forced a little smile. “Very kind of you to tell me.”

  Chan turned to go but swung back around. “Oh, one more thing, Mr. Searson. You might want to think of selling that property down there in Macinaw—the old Brooks farm. Nothing but swampland down there.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Adams. I’ll take that into consideration.” Searson made a final head dip of gratitude then backed into his mansion and shut the door.

  Chan turned and bound down the steps toward the rental car. Tindal fired up the engine as he slid in on the passenger’s side.

  “Well…?” she asked. “Were you right? Was it him?”

  Chan looked out at the mansion as they pulled down the estate’s drive. “I don’t think so.” He turned to her and grinned. “Maybe. Who knows?”

  Tindal returned the smile. “Well, I got all I wanted out of this story. Maybe we should just let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “A very southern thing to say, Ms. Huddleston. And I happen to agree completely.”

  11:22 AM

  Chan and Tindal stood together near the United Airlines ticket desk at the Bradley International Airport. Tindal held her flight ticket home in her hand. “I got lucky,” she said. “I leave in ten minutes.”

  Chan smirked. “Another four hours for me to wait.”

  She smiled. “Sorry. I could change flights if you want me to.”

  “No, no, no. You go ahead. Maybe I’ll grab a book and read a little bit.”

  “Maybe you should grab some paper and start writing your next book, Kicking Henry Brooks’ Ass.”

  They both laughed.

  “No, I think I’m done with all that.”

  “Really, Chan, I’ve got plenty of friends in the publishing business. It would be a bestseller for sure.”

  “You write it. Maybe I could do the forward or something.”

  She smiled. “It’s a deal.” She paused, looking long into his sad eyes. She recognized his need for long-awaited closure and whispered in his ear, “She would have been proud of you, you know.”

  Chan nodded and then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for everything, Tindal. Have a safe trip home.”

  Tindal smiled, turned and headed toward her gate. Chan watched until she disappeared into the swelling crowd.

  OCTOBER 8, 2016

  10:10 AM

  Chan leaned against the rail on the far-left edge of Watkins Bridge watching the Edisto twist and turn its way underneath. The sunrays caught portions of the river as it flowed southward casting a reddish tinge on its unsettled waters. Chan held still for a moment listening to the river as it went past, carrying away fallen leaves, sand and debris.

  He knew he was but a few hundred yards from that sandbar where he and Jean had fallen in love those many years ago. The sun felt the same on his skin now as it had that day. He dug into his front pocket and produced a small box. He hesitated and then opened it. It was an engagement ring, Jean’s engagement ring. He had planned on giving it to
her that night after they had dined in Mt. Pleasant. He was going to drive out to the Isle of Palms and take her for a walk along the beach. He would have gotten on one knee, told her that he was in love and wanted to be with her the rest of his life. You would have said yes, wouldn’t you?

  Chan held the diamond in the morning sun allowing it to glisten in its light. He then brought it close and kissed the top of the ring. “I miss you, Jean, and I’ll never forget you,” he said as a solitary tear fell. “But it’s time to move on—time to let you go.” He then dropped the ring over the side. A simple splash and it was gone forever.

  The Edisto welcomed the ring into it depths as it does with all things destined to be forgotten. Her waters swept past the bridge and continued as they have for centuries—past the tall oaks, the Spanish moss, the kudzu, the cotton fields, the small towns, the dirt roads—washing the banks clean of blood and tears, easing the hurt and cruelty of times gone by, ever moving forward, picking up steam, heading for the coast.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Like my first two novels, Carolina Cruel, has taken an unorthodox path to publication. It has been a long road of false hopes, heartache and delays, but I believe the end of that journey has led me to some place wonderful. I am proud to now be associated with Rivers Turn Press, and I look forward to shepherding new and engaging southern fiction for many years to come.

  I’d also like to sincerely thank all the experts upon whom I relied to help steer Carolina Cruel into the novel that it has become. The contributors are far too numerous to name; however, I must give a huge thank you to Phil Webster, Joseph Sutcliff, Gregg Frierson, Fred Jeffers, Turner Perrow, Holly Holladay, and Jeanna and Billy Reynolds for their invaluable input, creative eye and sage advice. And please note: any errors in content and storytelling fall strictly on my shoulders.