by Ted Minkinow
Hattie told them about the store…how it made cash like a churn whipping butter…how she worked there each day…how she fell in love with Jerome.
“There was a delicate balance,” Hattie said, “between the whites and us.”
Warren nodded as if he’d heard it before…perhaps from his own grandfather.
“Delicate,” Hattie said, “but at the same time resilient.
Hattie removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She had reached the difficult part of the story.
“Things could upset the balance, though. Everyone knew. When it happened, we always ended up paying. And that’s what happened in the summer of ’28…why we are here tonight.”
Date: Undefined, Time: Undefined, Copper Gulch
Marlin sat alone in the shack. The others departed earlier…walked right through the pulsating wall. At least Marlin assumed The Man vamoosed, he never saw him leave. One moment The Man stood near, the next…gone.
Marlin the Sniper inspected the equipment stacked in one corner of the shack. Army-issue M21 Sniper Rifle and five, fully loaded magazines of M118 NATO cartridges, match grade, of course.
Nothing blocked Corporal Tilbury’s view of the house, not the surrounding forest and the dump’s walls faded to a wispy outline. Tilbury raised his M21 Sniper Rifle and sighted through the ART, or Adjustable Ranging Telescope. In my sight, you lose the fight.
“Not just yet, Corporal.”
Marlin sensed The Man moments before. Snipers inserted themselves like wake-less submarines stalking merchant convos. The Man displaced a lot of water.
Marlin tuned the ART until people inside Hattie’s house came into focus. The crosshairs settled on Tom Brunson, Aunt Hattie’s protective pal.
“When the time is right my friend, he’ll belong to you.”
Nearness and clarity made a heart shot child’s play. Too easy, so he moved target to just above the breastbone, right where Tom’s throat emerged. That would ruin his whole day. A different thought hit him with the force of a sledgehammer on delicate china.
Where in the hell was Janitor Marlin? He seemed able to push that old timid codger from the top layer of their shared consciousness. His finger caressed the trigger.
“Not now, Corporal,” The Man’s voice came with more force…and something else.
Lost some of that arrogance. Then another thought fluttered through his mind.
Kiss my rear, he thought.
Nothing.
You’re an ugly mass of ox droppings.
Nothing…no response from The Man.
That’s it! He smiled and increased pressure on the trigger. “Bang!” he said, and could have sworn the sniveling thing behind him jumped…maybe just a little.
Brain’s a one way check valve. The Man could get in and stir the slop bucket, but nothing else. Influence only, no mind reading like before.
Maybe this gig’s got too many balls to juggle.
Corporal Tilbury’s smile widened as he lowered the rifle.
Tuesday, July 17, 7:58 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
Hattie knew the whole story would come out this evening…it had to. But rushing things could cause more harm than help. She decided to trust her instincts.
“Couple of people were found dead,” Hattie looked over to Warren, “Murdered.”
Warren Anderson perked up. “Do you remember anything about these killings?”
“Actually I do,” Hattie said. “First was a hobo of African descent. You’d see these men looking for food and maybe a place to spend the night. Two children hunting sassafras roots right here in Copper Gulch found the body.”
Warren’s mouth dropped just a bit and his face said, “déjà vu.”
“At first the death seemed more a sensation. Most people supposed the victim got into a fight with another drifter…probably over money, food, or maybe a woman. And that’s how the town opinion remained for a few more weeks.”
“You say town opinion,” Warren said, “what about yours?”
Hattie smiled without humor. “My opinion differed.”
CHAPTER 69
Tuesday, July 17, 8:05 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
Rufus and the black man slinked up the hill toward Hattie’s house. Had any measure of human curiosity remained, they might have noticed they never ate or slept…or that years rolled by in instants. They considered only the mission.
Destroy the house and everyone in it…but not until Leland Graves said to. He would keep close control of those two…between them was enough residual hate to power the miserable little village. Hate sometimes summoned instincts that even The Man did not understand.
Hattie’s aura drew Rufus and the black man so Leland Graves needed only to animate and point. The pair reached Hattie’s house and arrayed themselves according to orders—the black man hidden in the hedge near the front door, Rufus below the dining room window where he directed every atom of his being at the house and the five souls seated just a few feet away.
Tuesday, July 17, 8:06 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
1
“You said the town folks thought another hobo did the murder and that you thought differently.”
Hattie said, “I did think otherwise…later.” She paused, and then, “Too late.” Hattie focused on Warren. “I knew Leland Graves killed that drifter, no doubt about it, though this is the first time I’ve shared my suspicions.”
Warren gave no response…at least not with his voice. His look pretty much said, “Uh-huh. Some old coot scares you once and you see his signature on everything that happens from that point forward.”
“He did it all right,” Hattie said and she heard that evil voice in her mind as if it all happened yesterday.
“Old Rufus be seeing you again real soon,” he had said. “You and that boy what runs that store.”
Hattie shooed the voice and told Warren about walking home that day years before…how the bull gator accosted her and how she ended up running all the way to Nana Sally’s house.
Nobody said anything for several seconds. More remained to say though Hattie seemed to stall for a moment. She mumbled something under her breath.
“Kept looking back to see if Rufus was chasing me.”
Cassandra and Warren both tensed as if electrodes buzzed in their chairs.
“Did you say this guy’s name was Rufus?” asked the Chief before anyone else could speak.
“I’m certain of it,” said Hattie. “Said so on the dirt road.”
“Just for grins, said Warren, “did he give a last name?”
A pause.
“No, he didn’t mention it.”
2
“McCarran,” said Cassandra even before the sound of Hattie’s reply had died. Don't get riled, Missy, I've known Hattie an awful long time. That’s what the ogre had said at Tom’s little airport. He also promised they would meet again, a promise he kept in the emergency room at Grimes Hospital.
Everyone looked at Cassandra.
“That’s the name you’re looking for, isn’t it Chief Anderson…Rufus McCarran.”
Date: Undefined, Time: Undefined, Copper Gulch
Sensing the big transaction ready to close, and with wondrous orbs within reach—not to mention his own startup firm—Leland Graves mutated Copper Gulch. He opted for Civil War Vienna…Enough familiarity to recognize the landscape and yet sufficient differences to upset mental balance.
Leave the trees alone, he thought. And the sharecroppers’ shacks…they need rebuilding. Not exactly true to period, but Leland Graves felt comfortable with the results.
Advantages existed to rolling back the time curtain. For one thing, there would be no call for extrapolations. Divining future always proved troublesome.
Oh for the days when the race took things at face value.
He wondered what made humans so cynical, so much…Like me?
That brought a grin.
Tuesday, July 17, 8:09 pm, Hattie Ja
ckson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
Chief Anderson spoke first. “How do you know that name?”
Cassandra considered the answer. She was, after all, a medical doctor; a person trained to speak with care.
“Yes,” she could say, “met the odiferous slug when he appeared behind me at the airport. Then, he and I had a private moment at the Hospital.” She could say that, but then everyone—most importantly Tom—would think…
“What Tom thinks—or does not think—will not change the truth,” her mind said, “no matter how unlikely,” it added when Cassandra hesitated.
Time to let the secrets loose. It made sense.
So she told them everything…Almost everything. Cassandra described bumping into McCarran at the airport and then how he somehow appeared in the ER…when she was napping. But Cassandra stopped there…mostly because she sensed Rufus McCarran as supporting cast. To what…she wasn’t sure. No need to place Tom’s attention to a bit player by recounting the fondling in the ER. Cassandra decided she needed to divert everyone’s focus and do it quickly.
“You seem pretty interested in the person,” she said to Warren.
The Chief smiled, but Cassandra could see nothing happy in the grin.
“I think I must have met this fella’s grandson or something,” he said. “Maybe the same person as you because Aunt Hattie’s description just about matches a man who came into the station today.”
In a baritone game-show host voice Jeremiah said, “And his name was.”
“Said it was Rufus McCarran.”
Cassandra’s thoughts came in paisley blotches. Could Aunt Hattie’s character and this person she—and Chief Anderson—ran into…be the same man? Something said the proposition was not as crazy as it sounded.
“Oh you can go ahead now Missy,” he had said. “I'm sure we'll get to know each other better real soon.” Cassandra stifled a gasp. Real soon, she thought.
CHAPTER 70
Monday, July 16, 1928, 6:12 pm, Sally Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
Hattie did the only thing she could do without thinking…she fried chicken for Jerome’s supper. Thoughts of Miss Elizabeth—raped and dead—almost made her vomit...several times.
My Jerome’s going to be hungry…He’ll know what to do…
Was Julius involved in a white woman’s murder? Hattie didn’t think so…Nana Sally didn’t think so either.
That’s why she went out, thought Hattie. For answers…everything will be just fine tomorrow.
Hattie decided she’d stay at the store until quitting time tomorrow—no getting scared of the dark and leaving early—if that’s what Jerome wanted.
The door opened and Hattie was certain it was Jerome.
He’s locking it again. That wasn’t like Jerome to lock the door. Doesn’t mean anything at all.
One look at Jerome as he walked into the kitchen and all of Hattie’s bravado—all her hope—melted like a block of ice thrown in the summer ocean.
Disheveled and out of breath, Jerome panted over his knees like he’d run a footrace. Hattie’s heart jumped into her throat and fear wrestled for control of her bladder.
Same as me two hours ago. She remembered the redneck—Rufus—and…“Darkie doe oughta take her salt closer to the big house.”
Hattie put her arms around Jerome and when he looked up she saw trouble.
“What in heaven’s name?” she said.
Jerome held up a hand—“Just a second”—and Hattie swallowed several times. Still the lump would not go down.
“I’m sorry,” Jerome said.
Hattie didn’t understand. He wasn’t that late. Chicken’s not even ready.
“No need to gallop,” she said, “I expected you about now.” Having to close up by yourself.
“I’m sorry,” Jerome repeated, and he broke into tears. Through sobs he kept repeating those two words.
Jerome allowed Hattie to lead him to a chair where he sat down and put his head in his hands. Certain she wanted no more of this, and with bile eating at the heart trapped in her throat, Hattie sat down in Jerome’s lap and put her head against his chest. It did not last long.
A ruckus outside the house and then the door flew in…muddy boots across Nana’s clean floor and ten white men crowded into the kitchen.
Didn’t even knock. Later she would wonder why the thought even crossed her mind.
Ten white men, some petite and skinny, others pudgy and whiskered, every size and shape standing like a pack of cur dogs. They wore no white hoods and didn’t carry a burning cross, the lack of both made the image more terrifying.
“Come’on pretty boy. You goin’ with us.”
They pushed Hattie out of the way and threw Jerome to the floor.
They’re going to kill him…right here in Nana’s kitchen.
Some carried shotguns, others wooden ax handles. Chief Bennett was there and Hattie thought for a moment he might step in and calm the craziness. Instead, the Chief snapped handcuffs to Jerome’s wrist. That’s when Hattie started screaming. One of the skinny rednecks leaned over and put his mouth next to Jerome’s ear.
“Tell sugar britches to stop her braying or she’ll go too.”
Four of the beefier men yanked Jerome up, two at each arm and leg. That’s how they carried him outside and down a few paces to the woods. Hattie followed begging, sobbing, and pleading for them to stop.
The parade moved deeper into Copper Gulch and into a clearing a half mile from Sally’s house. A couple of automobiles sat just to the side of an old wagon path. Barely able to see through her tears, Hattie followed the headlight’s beams…and felt her legs evaporate. Her face was the first thing to hit the mud.
As her consciousness flowed out of her mind and into the slime that formed Copper Gulch the image in front flashed through her brain like a neon-gas light.
Julius. Hanging stretched and limp from one of the larger trees, feet only a few inches above the ground. His eyes were closed and his neck sat so that one ear touched a shoulder.
“Get moving,” she heard one of the white men say and after that growling voice she heard nothing else. Hattie had fainted.
CHAPTER 71
Tuesday, July 17, 8:13 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
In her mind Cassandra could see the intruders—usually no more prone to violence than the Birmingham suburbanites she called neighbors as a girl—with their ax handles and shotguns. She saw Aunt Hattie’s Jerome…compliant…resigned…no defensive moves. Hattie’s voice broke Cassandra’s vision…and at first she was glad for that.
Now the tears began—slow and leaking like dew dropping from kudzu in a morning baptism of red clay below.
“And when I woke up,” said Hattie, “still in the same dirty grime where I had fallen, well, that’s how I saw my own beautiful Jerome. Up in that same tree,” she said, “right beside his brother.”
Now Hattie broke into sobs, covered her eyes, and cried like a child cries. Tom stood, put an arm around her, and pulled her face into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” was what he said, and words did the job. It stopped her tears. Only that familiar combination of words could have done that.
Date: Undefined, Time: Undefined, Copper Gulch
Old and new comprised Marlin in unequal parts and from the duality rose a turmoil that battled The Man’s spell. Marlin’s thoughts synched in some areas, repelled like identical magnetic poles in others. The dominant mind belonged to the sniper. And the sniper knew he could be of little consequence if sequestered inside of a sometimes there, sometimes not, shack.
Quiet as still air in the Appalachian foothills, he crept to a higher piece of terrain a few hundred yards away, closer to Hattie’s house, but still inside the gulch. Instinct told him that when the time for action arrived, he would direct his shots into the clearing, not the house.
He discovered the perfect den and slid into it like a rat snake muscling into a mouse hole.
The M21 Sniper‘s rif
le rested against his cheek. Marlin sighted through the optical scope. His perch brought the entire clearing into his field of view. He was ready.
“Silent death,” he said, “stalks the jungle.”
Tuesday, July 17, 8:16 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
“By the time my senses returned, most of the pack had departed. I guess they had their fill of justice for the evening. A few gawkers remained; some of them fresh from town because they brought their children.”
Cassandra’s mind saw youths of no more than ten years old hand in hand with Daddy, staring in slack-mouthed fascination at the lifeless twins.
“They were proud of their work…one man snapped a photo.”
This seems the night for visions, thought Cassandra as the flash boomed in the back of her mind leaving outlines of ghosts…no, not ghosts…just one figure visible in the light.
Hattie said, “In the camera’s flash I saw Leland Graves and when my eyesight settled, I thought he would disappear, kind of a hysterical mirage. But there he stood about twenty feet behind my Jerome. He stared straight into my eyes, and spoke.” Hattie paused. “Not with his voice, but with his mind.”
Jeremiah spoke in a quiet tone, “What did he say?”
“Well, he brought his hands up to shoulder level and turned them palms-up to the sky. He grinned at me and shook his head as if to say, Isn’t this just the darndest of luck? Then he turned like he was going to walk away, took a couple of paces then stopped and rotated his head back in my direction. That’s when I heard the words in my mind.”
Hattie looked up for a moment.
“You got away with it this time, that’s all he said. It came to me in a growl like the mountain lion that automobile company used in their old commercials. Then he winked. After that he faded into the brush. I’ve never seen Leland Graves again.” Then she added, “Well, almost.”