Hindsight

by Ronald Kelly

  Quickly, she whispered a silent prayer before turning to greet the neighbors who had arrived bearing gifts of food and sorrow.

  Cindy crouched in the sparse shade of a wild tobacco plant. It seemed as if she had been there for hours, clinging to that single spot in Harvey Brewer's thicket. It was where she felt Johnny the strongest. There, in that choking patch of brambled overgrowth, the girl experienced her brother's lingering presence. Like with the abandoned hat, she concentrated on the more pleasant essence and tried hard to ignore the terror and hopelessness that hung around her like an ominous shadow that could never be driven away.

  The sky was darkening with evening when a sound drew her attention. Noisy footsteps and the swishing of thick weeds parting around denim trouser legs could be heard clearly near the edge of the thicket. The progress of the intruder grew louder, nearer, as Cynthia Ann withdrew farther into the shadows beneath the leafy stalk. The approaching sounds conjured harsh memories not her own. They were Johnny's, those lonely panicked emotions that raced through her mind. The cold pelting of rain, the warm even flow of blood and pain, and fear. Most of all fear.

  She held her breath as the man stopped only a few feet from the clump of wild tobacco. She peered past the yellowed, sun-withered leaves and stared at the scuffed leather and rawhide laces of a pair of old work boots. Her anxiety eased, for she knew the footwear by sight. Her father had worn those old boots as far back as she could possibly remember.

  "Pappy," she said softly.

  Clayburn Biggs squatted down on his haunches, no longer dressed in his Sunday best, but wearing overalls and a faded chambray shirt. Cindy had half expected anger to flare in his long face, the type that preceded a good, sound spanking. But his features did not hold that fire at all. Relief softened her daddy's homely face. "Lordy Mercy, girl. I've been looking all over for you."

  Rather than pulling her from under the leafy shade of the wild plant, Clay joined her there, pushing aside a clump of sticky cocklebur to make room for his lanky bulk. He removed his brown felt hat and set it atop his knobby knees.

  Cindy started to apologize for running away at the family's time of sorrow, but her daddy beat her to it.

  "Cindy Ann . . ." he began hesitantly. "I wanna say I'm sorry for what happened today. Well, doggone it, I reckon I just lost my head after coming back from your brother's funeral and all. You oughtn't have come up on me unexpected like that, pumpkin. I was so danged mad I could've ended up hurting you bad." Clay said nothing about the axe flying through the smokehouse wall. He could not rightly say for sure whether it had merely slipped from his grasp or if some inexplicable force had plucked it from his hands at just the right moment.

  The girl took her father's work-calloused hand, and it closed around her own. Thick fingers which could crack walnuts cradled her diminutive hand gently, comfortingly. For the first time in a very long time, she felt truly close to her father. Cindy snuggled nearer to the warmth of his lean body, sensing none of the resentment or cold alienation that had kept them apart since her lengthy stay in the Nashville hospital.

  She did not want to ruin the moment. She wanted to bask forever in the undeniable love of her father. But there was something she knew she must tell him, something that he had a right to know. "Pappy . . . this is where it happened. This is where they killed Johnny."

  Clay stiffened at her knowing words, and at first, she was afraid she had turned a wonderful moment into just another ugly instant in an already dismal day. But her father's reaction soon eased, and he wrapped a protective arm around her, as if to assure her that he understood. The angry scolding words of disbelief, like those he had uttered in the kitchen that stormy night in May, never came. They continued to sit there in silence, until Clay's deep voice, cracking with emotion, asked a question of her. A question she had been waiting for him to ask.

  "Cindy ... do you know who did this? Do you know who killed your brother and his pals?"

  The child's brow creased, and she slowly shook her head. "I just see shadows of them, only hear their voices. I never see their faces, though. Sometimes I think I'm going to, but, no matter how hard I try, I just can't."

  Clay squeezed his daughter's shoulder. "That's all right, pumpkin. I reckon those things come to you by chance. I reckon you can't just pluck thoughts outta thin air at random, can you?"

  "No, I can't." Cindy stared up at her father with sudden wonder. "Pappy, you do believe that I can sense these things, don't you? You do believe that I have the gift?"

  The tobacco farmer ran a hand playfully through her crop of red hair, while his eyes met hers, dead serious, and full of honesty. "Cindy Ann, from now on I'll believe any damned thing you tell me."

  A feeling of such profound adoration filled the youngster's heart that she practically threw herself into her father's arms. She hugged his neck tightly. "I love you, Pappy."

  She could feel the nervous bob of his Adam's apple as he returned her affection. "I love you, too, baby," he croaked. And, although it was hard for her to grasp at first, Cindy felt her father's tears soak through the threadbare material of her cotton dress. Never before had she known her father to cry openly. In the young girl's opinion however, his tears were not those of weakness, but those steeled from an inner strength born out of love.

  They embraced for a moment longer, then, hand in hand, father and daughter began the long walk home.

  Part Three

  Vengeful Autumn

  Chapter Seventeen

  The triple homicide at Brewer's barn served as the main point of conversation during the long, hazy days that led into August. Everyone had his own opinion of who the murderers were and why they had not yet been apprehended. Most of the citizens in town figured the culprits to be drifters who had wandered into Bedloe County, performed their heinous act, and then rambled on. Surely, they all voiced, the killers were several states away by now. On the other hand, those who lived on the rural stretch of Old Newsome Road and the surrounding countryside reckoned differently. Those who gathered on the porch of Woody's General Store for cold drinks and conversation traded their own thoughts on the killings. Most had a gut feeling that the ones involved were local people, the kind you would least expect of such a terrible crime. Why, one farmer countered, it might very well be your dearest friend or your next-door neighbor who done it. And it could happen again, too. Maybe next time to someone's wife or daughter. The thought was disturbing, but one that certainly could not be ruled out.

  The ones most affected by the grisly incident were, of course, the families. Stella Longcreek had taken to bed sick after her son's funeral. She lay day after day in a dark room, her spirit broken some said. After all, Billy had been the only solid thing in her life, her very pride and joy, since the trouble she had had with the boy's boozing father before his abrupt departure. Ransom Potts had changed little in the face of his own son's death. His insolence and impatience toward those he met on the street had increased, and he wore a constant frown of grudging bitterness across his pudgy face. Most of the residents of Coleman chose to avoid him altogether. However, those who chanced to cross the banker's path noticed a subtle touch of melancholy in his hard eyes. Although he did not let it show, grief over C.J.'s violent death gnawed at him from the inside like a hungry rat trying to chew itself free of a corn crib.

  The Biggs family went about their daily activities, constantly aware of that single vacancy in the household; the empty chair at the supper table, the absence of guitar picking on a warm summer evening . . . little things that continuously hammered home the painful realization that Johnny was forever gone from their midst. The children spent their days around the weathered farmhouse, biding their time working the garden or roaming the woods out back, rather than playing with the neighboring kids. Maudie kept busy, doing her daily chores and praying to the Lord to give her the strength to make it through one more day.

  Clayburn had run out of odd jobs and mechanic work, and the temporary job at Pike's lumber mill had run its
course weeks ago. He spent long hours sitting out back of the smokehouse, staring glumly at the weedy acres of lost tobacco land, so very near, but legally out of reach. He avoided going to town, mainly because of the stares of silent sympathy generated toward him. And there was the problem of money. Storekeepers whom he was once friendly with gave him the cold shoulder. They all knew of his dwindling finances and figured that he would come asking for credit eventually. But they should have known the man better. Clayburn Biggs was a proud man, one who shunned the thought of accepting charity, even in the oppressive shadow of such hard times. Clay was again considering seeking work in the mills and factories up north, but he had not mentioned this to Maudie. He knew she would strongly disapprove of him leaving the family, especially during their difficult time of grief and misfortune.

  Besides the kin of the victims, one other resident of Bedloe County was receiving his share of unwanted scrutiny, and that was Sheriff Taylor White. Since the discovery of the triple murder, his skills as a lawman had been pushed farther than ever been before. For twenty years the constable had spent his time locking up drunkards, soothing domestic squabbles, and discouraging the theft of watermelons from Ernest Leslie's half-acre patch. Now he had been forced from the comfortable position of peacekeeper into an area of law enforcement that was totally strange to him. He had to walk in the ill-fitting shoes of an investigator now, an ability that Taylor was not quite sure he was up to.

  He had given the murder case all he had, that was for sure. He had talked to that pawn shop owner in Nashville and tried to determine the identity of the man who had sold Johnny's guitar, but he had gotten about as much useless information as Clay had. Then there had been half dozen free-talking souls who had claimed to have seen the three boys at the Bloody Bucket one Friday night in late May. The tavern owner, Otis Schofield, even admitted that they had been there; that he had nearly gotten into a scrape with C.J. Potts after serving him one his infamous "Golden Mule" specials, but that was all there was to it.

  As July drew on into August and gradually approached the coming of autumn, Sheriff White began to realize that he had come to a standstill in his investigation. There had been precious few leads to begin with, for very little incriminating evidence had actually been found at the scene of the murders. Sure, they knew that a shotgun had been used in the crime, but then nearly every man in Bedloe County had some sort of scattergun in his possession. That gave him about two thousand suspects to consider. There was also no description of the culprits' vehicle or even that of one of the killers that he could go on.

  Recently, a number of citizens and old acquaintances had approached him asking — some demanding—to know what progress had been made in the case. It finally got to the point where White avoided his own friends and neighbors, tired of having to admit defeat time and time again, weary of seeing the same expressions of disappointment and, perhaps, suspicious doubt, in their eyes. Rumors had begun to circulate about the sheriff's competence, pointing out his feet-dragging failure to bring any suspects to light. After a while, Taylor began to wonder about his abilities as a lawman, too. The county elections would be held that November, and that had him worried. Maybe Ransom Potts' threat would prove true. Perhaps the majority of Coleman's citizens would take a long, hard look at him that election and, for the first time in years, seriously wonder whether or not he deserved another term in office.

  Chapter Eighteen

  All the suspicions, all the painful grief and hard feelings came to a head one blustery day in late September.

  The sudden realization of who had actually murdered the teenaged boys occurred, rather strangely, during a simple visit to Woody's General Store. If anything good had bloomed from the tragedy of Johnny's death, it was the renewed affection between Cindy and her father. It was a noticeable contrast to the indifference and downright hateful behavior that Clay had shown toward the child following her long sickness. Before, a barrier of tense silence had separated the two, but now their conversations were sprinkled with jokes, good-natured kidding, and a quiet understanding. To a surprised Maudie, they seemed like long-lost pals, and she was delighted to see Cindy tag along when her daddy did his chores. Clay seemed pleased as well. He appeared to genuinely enjoy his daughter's company.

  That Saturday afternoon, Clay pulled his Ford pickup off the main road and onto the dirt shoulder that fronted the old country store. Woody's mercantile looked like a picture postcard that day, its roughly hewn structure and corrugated tin eaves wreathed by the forthcoming promise of newly turned leaves. Reds, golds, and yellows peeked discreetly from the fading greenery of oak and maple that grew in the V-shaped fork which separated the highway from the rutted dirt avenue of Old Newsome Road. Along with a cloudless sky of rich azure blue, the entire scene was a far cry from the brittle dry heat that had parched the land only a few short weeks ago.

  Cindy Ann jumped down from the cab of the truck, landing awkwardly on the slick leather soles of her new winter shoes. Clay chuckled, and together, they passed the rusty gas pumps outside. As they reached the two-by-four steps of the store's lengthy porch, Cindy breathed in deeply. She always loved the autumn air, for the nippy breezes always seemed to possess some invigorating quality, forever spiced with the tart tang of wood smoke and the damp freshness of fallen leaves after a drenching rain.

  An elderly man, whipcord lean and gray, met them halfway on the steps. Clay shook the man's spidery hand as the gentleman peered at him through thick-lensed spectacles. "Well, how are you doing today, Mr. Loftis?" Clay asked of him.

  "I'm doing fine, Clayburn Biggs," Jasper Loftis replied, finally recognizing the farmer's hangdog face. "Fit as a fiddle in fact. And you and yours?"

  "We're getting by" was Clay's reply. "I was sorry to hear that Miss Alice was feeling poorly. Hope she's doing a mite better today."

  Mr. Loftis scowled sourly. "Aw, she ain't sick one bit. That old woman's been ailing of one thing or another since the day we wed. I reckon the day she stops her bitching and moaning is the day I'll really start worrying about her."

  Clay nudged his daughter, and Cindy turned shy eyes on the wrinkled parchment face of the elderly man. "Afternoon, Mr. Loftis."

  Jasper looked down as if he had not seen the child until that moment. "Now, which one do we have here? Is this little Cynthia Ann?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Mr. Loftis grinned broadly, exposing toothless gums. "Well, now, ain't you growing into a fine, young lady." He fished in a vest pocket until he found a shiny, new wheat penny. "There you go, child. Buy yourself a penny candy on me."

  The red-haired girl accepted the coin with bright hazel eyes. "Thank you!"

  "You're surely welcome," the old man replied.

  "I reckon we'll be seeing you and the missus at bible study tomorrow morning," Clay put in as Jasper ambled, walking stick in hand, toward an immaculately polished Model T.

  "We'll be there, Clayburn Biggs, if we can pry our old bones from beneath the quilts that early in the A.M. The mornings have been getting down-right chilly here lately. My arthritis might give me hell, but I'll be there."

  They reached the summit of the store porch. It's floorboards were loaded with feed bags, wagon wheels, and empty whiskey kegs with JACK DANIELS OLD NO.7 stenciled across the lids. The walls were decorated with all manner of advertisements, some new, some anciently old. Tin signs praising Coca Cola, Lucky Strikes, and Martha White's Self-Rising Flour hung around the screen door, their borders edged with spotty traces of rust and corrosion.

  "Howdy, Clay!" called Woody Sadler from where he smoked a pipe behind the counter. "Pull up a chair and sit a spell."

  Clay waved to a gathering of familiar faces around the potbelly stove at the rear of the store. Andy Grissom, Buster Cole, and Dusty Ballard sat perched on cane-backed chairs in a semi-circle around the radiant heat of the woodstove. A single chair stood empty, one usually reserved for Taylor White during the weekend. Come to think of it, thought Clay, that chair had been unoccupied durin
g most of the past two months.

  "Don't have time for jawing today, fellas," Clay admitted. "Been patching a roof for Pastor Phillips in town, and I gotta get on home to do some chores of my own. Just stopped by to fetch a few necessities." He handed Woody a list scribbled by Maudie. The storekeeper sucked on the stem of his pipe and went to gather the items wanted.

  "Mr. Sadler, I got a penny here," Cindy chirped over the edge of the counter. "I'd like some jawbreakers, if you please."

  "Jawbreakers?" he snorted, taking her money and placing three red-hot Fireballs in her tiny hand. "Once was the time when young ladies nibbled on lollipops and peppermint sticks. What do they ask for now? Jawbreakers, horehound, and hard rock candy!"

  Cindy Ann crammed the cinnamon candies in her mouth, pocketing two of them in one cheek and one in the other. She went directly to a shelf at the far wall where a sparse collection of toys stood among cans of split-pea soup and tins of Dr. Bartholomew's Miracle Mange Ointment.

  "You'd best have a seat, Clayburn," Dusty suggested. "The way old Woody moves, you might be standing there till Thanksgiving."

  The store's proprietor ignored the snide remark. He shook out some paper sacks and began to fill them with cornmeal, flour, and white cane sugar.

  "Don't mind if I do," Clay said. The farmer had always enjoyed the homey surroundings of Woody's store. The rich smells of tobacco and leather goods, the crackling heat of the woodstove, the hearty conversation of men he had known all his life . . . it was an oasis of sorts, a refuge from the hardships that pressed on all their minds during lean times like these.

  They all watched in amusement as Clay produced the makings and constructed one of his single-handed cigarettes. Buster Cole offered him a light, and he accepted it with a curt nod.