Hellbound

by Chester Campbell

  Bryce forced a laugh. “I don’t know anybody from New Jersey. I came from the other side of the country. Anyway, I’m not a Lovely Lane member. And neither is Hamilton MacArthur.” He didn’t bother to correct her, but, as he had learned, MacArthur was not really from Madison, either. Will Chandler was one of those Marge Hunter had told him about, though they were yet to meet.

  Clara frowned. “He caught me sort of off guard. I guess I wasn’t thinking too straight. He said it would be a nice coincidence if his father’s friend was on this trip.”

  Bryce immediately thought of the scar on his leg and wondered if Locasio had mentioned anything about that, though he had difficulty imagining a context in which the subject might have come up. He had mixed feelings as he climbed aboard the bus. The good news was they obviously did not know what name he was using. The bad news was that Clara had placed him and the other two men in nomination for whatever deadly plans they proposed for Pat Pagano. And he was certain they would use any means at their disposal, including the use of whatever force was necessary, to find out which of the men was really Pat Pagano.

  17

  During the remainder of the morning, the group toured two more mansions. First they swarmed over the Banker’s House, an 1838 structure built in connection with the First Bank of Commerce. Then they stopped at stately Magnolia Hall, a classic example of Greek Revival architecture, last of the great mansions completed before the outbreak of the Civil War. Bryce spotted the Cadillac at a distance on one occasion but saw no more of the menacing trio.

  Shortly before noon, Chick parked the bus in front of palatial Stanton Hall, a magnificent structure in gleaming white featuring massive columns and intricately fashioned decorative ironwork. The Silver Shadows streamed out for a leisurely stroll across the broad side lawn, past the twisting tentacles of massive rambling live oaks. Though obviously quite old, the trees appeared only slightly more gnarled than some of his fellow passengers, Bryce reflected. Bolstered by the reassurance of what he had learned from Clara, he took his time, pausing to read the explanatory signs along the way, no longer feeling the need to be on the alert for snipers. There was always the possibility they could decide to kill all three men, but he thought that unlikely now as they seemed intent on narrowing the field.

  Bryce was the last to reach the flower-bedecked terrace that led to the Carriage House Restaurant. Tillie stood at the entrance to the dining room, where she had just dispatched the last chattering foursome. She stood erect, head slightly bowed, in a look of guarded repose. Bryce was reminded of a basketball official during a time out, anticipating only a brief break in the action.

  She turned as Bryce walked up. “Looks like you and me and Chick Townes are all that’s left,” she said. “He’ll be here in a minute. Would you like to join us?”

  Bryce smiled. “I couldn’t pass up a chance to sit with the head lady and the main man.”

  She dipped her head and stared over her glasses, showing no sign of amusement. “If that’s what you want to call us. Here comes Chick. Let’s go find a table.”

  Bryce was forced to move with a lively step to keep up with her as she weaved in and out among the tables, gesturing to the costumed waitresses. She finally chose a spot to one side of her group, pausing to look them over with the proprietary gaze of a schoolmarm.

  Bryce turned to greet Townes, extending a hand of welcome. “I’m Bryce Reynolds,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Reynolds.” The driver turned to Tillie as he took his seat. “We’re ready to head for bayou country soon as you give the word.”

  She waved a beckoning finger at the waitress. “After everybody finishes eating, we’ll give them a few minutes to relax, then head toward the bus. How are we doing timewise?”

  Chick glanced at his watch. “It’ll be about dark when we get there. Depends a lot on the traffic around New Orleans.”

  After the waitress outlined the two entrees, all three of them opted for the chicken dish.

  “We’ll make Methodists out of you boys yet,” Tillie said. “Us Methodists made chicken the main dish long before it became so fashionable.”

  After the waitress left, Bryce looked across at Chick. “You’re doing a great job maneuvering that bus around. How did you come by the name Chick?”

  His close-cropped black hair, sprinkled with gray, wreathed an oval-shaped face marked by lots of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, a mark of frequent laughter. “Thanks. My real name is George Townes,” he said with a grin. “Remember Roots? The character Chicken George, who was always involved in cockfights? Well, I was a young guy when that came out. Liked to bet on the ponies. I don’t do that anymore,” he hastened to say. “Anyway, some of the drivers where I was working started calling me Chicken George. It gradually got shortened to Chick.”

  “Did you ever meet Alex Haley?” Tillie asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I carried a busload up there when he had that place around Norris. I told him about the nickname. He got a bang out of it, said I looked just like he pictured the character.”

  Bryce searched the dining room for the table where Marge sat and got a sudden wake-up call. There, across the room, sat Locasio and his two accomplices. Bryce hadn’t noticed when they came in, but they appeared intent on making themselves conspicuous now. He wondered if it was a conscious act of intimidation.

  “Speaking of characters,” Bryce said, nodding toward Locasio’s table, “I saw those three fancy-suited dudes at Gloucester House this morning. They don’t look like your typical tourists.”

  Tillie checked out the table with her glasses, then tilted them back up into her hair. “They said they were businessmen from New Jersey.”

  Bryce swallowed back his surprise. “You talked to them?”

  “No. But Pauline Sanders did. She told me the good looking one cornered her.”

  “Really? What did he say?”

  “He was looking for a friend of his father’s, someone who goes to our church. Only problem was he didn’t know the man’s name.”

  The same story he had used on Clara, Bryce thought. “Was Pauline able to help him?”

  Tillie shook her head. “He asked about any men on the bus who had only lived in Madison for a few years. Pauline told him she didn’t know that much about everybody. Actually, I don’t know that that’s true, but her specialty is kids in Sunday School.”

  “Clara Holly told me he asked her the same thing.”

  “He did? Well, maybe Pauline was right.”

  “About what?”

  “She thinks they’re really detectives. Or maybe private investigators. I thought she had probably been watching too many mysteries on television, but I don’t know...”

  As the waitress set the plates of food on the table, Bryce gave Tillie a doubtful look. “I should think a policeman would identify himself up front. If he wanted to find out about somebody on the bus, the logical thing would be to approach the person in charge–you.”

  Tillie paused before slicing into a crusty, golden chicken breast. “I guess you’re right. That would sound logical.”

  Chick had listened in silence. Now he spoke with conviction. “I noticed those guys this morning. I don’t know where they come from or what they’re up to, but I know the type. I grew up in the projects. Fortunately, I was raised by a grandma who saw that I got out of there and made something of myself. But I know a bunch of toughs when I see ’em. They’re all the same. I don’t care if they’re dressed up or dressed down or if they’re black or white or something in between.”

  Tillie frowned. “So what do you make of them?”

  “I think you ought to pass the word around to be wary of ’em.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Bryce said as he tackled his mass of chicken.

  In fact, he mused, an excellent idea. That might deter any Silver Shadows from getting too cozy with Locasio, offering further hints about who might fit the criteria for the man they were after.

  He had to admit that cold-shoulde
ring the New Yorkers might go against the grain of some friendly Lovely Laners. Yet one innocent slip could have the effect of painting a big bullseye on his back.

  After a few moments of thoughtful silence, Tillie pulled her glasses out of her hair and rested them on her nose. “Maybe I’ll just have a few words with Clara, tell her I’ve heard this young man has been approaching several of our group. Some are suspicious of what he’s up to. I think we can count on her to spread the word pretty effectively.”

  When the tables began to clear and the bus passengers headed for the exit, the “businessmen” quickly joined them. As Bryce watched, he saw the trio separate, each of them mingling individually among the crowd. Then he realized they were checking the men’s badges. Were they looking for a particular name, he wondered, or perhaps checking out things like height and build? Undoubtedly they had a description of the way he had looked prior to the trial. And while he had done everything possible to change his appearance, height was one feature that defied alteration.

  As Bryce joined Tillie and Chick heading for the exit, he saw the short man with the sharp nose turn on a path that would intercept them.

  18

  Bryce reached one hand casually toward his chest, deftly removed his name badge and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He avoided looking at the man as they passed near the doorway. What little satisfaction he felt was tempered by the knowledge that he was only delaying the inevitable. But he hoped the delay would be long enough for him to come up with some means to thwart whatever they planned for him. In the back of his mind, he knew he still held one trump card.

  As they strolled across the broad lawn toward the bus, Bryce chatted casually with Tillie and Chick. At the same time, he kept an eye on the inquisitive trio, who wandered among a group that had veered off the path to view the front of Stanton Hall. Out at the street, he lingered around the door for a few minutes as the bantering passengers began boarding but saw nothing further of the men or their Cadillac.

  When he started toward the back of the bus, Bryce spotted Troy in the aisle seat beside Marge and looked at him questioningly.

  “We’re pulling another little switcheroo,” Troy said with a grin. “Betty Lou’s sitting with Fred, and Sarah Anne’s back in my seat. She’s a good old gal. You’ll enjoy getting to know her.”

  Bryce threw up his hands, glancing at Marge. “Like I said, this trip is certainly educational.”

  After Bryce had headed on toward the rear seat, Troy turned to Marge. “What do you think of him?”

  She stared blankly. “Who?”

  “Bryce Reynolds.”

  “Oh. I suppose he’s all right. Seems like a decent sort.” She rumpled her brow. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondered,” he said.

  That brought a stern rejoinder. “Don’t start on me like Betty Lou and Sarah Anne.”

  “Start on you?”

  “They’ve been giving me all this stuff about Bryce Reynolds. Why don’t I arrange to sit with him more? Why don’t I get to know him better? If they wanted to fix me up with somebody, why didn’t they make it that Hamilton MacArthur fellow? He’s got money written all over him.”

  “You don’t need money,” Troy said. “Besides, MacArthur already has a wife.”

  “Really? Where is she?”

  “Working. She’s a lot younger than he is. Fred said she’s running a company meeting in New Orleans this week. She’s supposed to meet MacArthur when we get there tonight.”

  “Well, good for her. Anyway, Sarah Anne said Bryce would make a great catch. I told her I wasn’t fishing, thanks. If she thought he was such a great catch, why didn’t she throw out her line?”

  Troy grinned. “What did she say?”

  “What you would expect from Sarah Anne. Said she already had her eye on a professor at Northwestern.”

  Troy was silent for a moment. “He reminds me of Keith in a lot of ways.”

  Marge frowned. She’d had the same thought but didn’t want to admit it. Her reply came out slowly, deliberately. “I have found that people aren’t always what they seem at first blush.”

  “You’re talking about Herbert Hunter, I suppose.”

  Her face tightened. “Why would you suppose that?”

  He hesitated, a look of caution in his eyes.

  Her voice sharpened. “Answer me, Troy Walden.”

  “Well, I...I knew what had happened at church. You know, the flap with Fred, when you all first came back. I just thought–”

  “Did Betty Lou tell you something?”

  He breathed a loud sigh of resignation. “Betty Lou just told me you’d not had a very happy marriage.”

  She looked exasperated. “Oh, God. I was afraid I might have done the wrong thing. I should never have told her. I’ll bet it’s all over the church by now.” She felt sick at her stomach. She had only confided in Betty Lou after much agonizing, because they had been best friends for years. She had thought getting her problem out in the open might be cathartic. That little bit, anyway. Certainly not the whole story. Not the deep, dark secret she had managed to keep locked away for years.

  “It isn’t all over the church,” Troy said. “She told me because I had been your brother-in-law. Forget Herbert Hunter. You were part of our family for forty years. I still think the world of you. All I want is for you to have the happiness you deserve.”

  “Who have you told?” she asked.

  He swallowed hard. “Nobody.”

  “You’re lying.” She could see it in his eyes. Then she had a sudden premonition. “Bryce Reynolds. Did you tell Bryce Reynolds?”

  He twisted his mouth. “Only that you’d had a rough time with Herb Hunter. That he was real jealous. I didn’t give him any lurid details. Betty Lou didn’t tell me anything like that.”

  She dropped her head down into her hand, slowly rubbing her forehead. She could not believe Troy had divulged such personal information to a virtual stranger. No lurid details? The whole marriage had been one long lurid detail. She hadn’t told Betty Lou about the sexual part, but she had begun to wonder if the entire disgusting affair had not resulted from Herb Hunter’s desire to get what he had been denied forty years earlier. And, of course, she had not dared even hint at the source of the hold he’d had over her, a mental hammerlock that left her completely subdued. Something so pervasive that, like an elephant freed from its chain, she had continued to feel almost a prisoner in her home for weeks after Herb’s death.

  He had known her secret.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she turned her head away from Troy toward the window. The secret was not something trivial, something that might merely trigger embarrassment if known. It was horrendous. At times, just contemplating what she knew would literally make her ill. She had been bedeviled over the years until she learned to lock the knowledge away deep inside her mind, like a deadly virus hidden from public scrutiny in some obscure government laboratory.

  What had she done to deserve this, she reflected, her mood bordering on despair. Had it all stemmed from being so insensitive to the way Herb Hunter had been that first year they met when she was a cheerleader at East Nashville High School?

  Marge had grown up a few blocks down Gartland Avenue from the school’s impressive facade, which had gained it a place on the National Register of Historic Places. The James family lived in a one-story frame bungalow. Her parents occupied one bedroom, while Marge slept with her grandmother. Her brother, Ed, several years her senior, claimed the third bedroom until he shocked everyone in 1937 by running off to take part in the Spanish Civil War. Unmanageable as a teenager, he made this his final act of rebellion. They heard nothing further of him except for a report that he had later joined the French Foreign Legion. It was confirmed by a classmate returning from World War II naval duty. He had encountered Ed James on his ship in the Mediterranean, dressed as a Legionnaire.

  Quite the opposite of her brother, Marge caused her parents almost no problems as she grew into a striking blonde t
eenager. She never took boys seriously until the start of her junior year in high school. That’s when Herbert Hunter literally barged into her life. As she sat on the lawn in front of the big brick building talking with a couple of girlfriends during lunch period one day, a tall, well-built boy with thick black hair almost ran over them trying to catch a football.

  “Sorry, ladies,” he said with an apologetic smile. He poked the ball beneath one arm, then froze, looking at Marge James with a curious semi-smile. “You’re the cheerleader, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Sure am. Are you playing football this year?” Like everyone else in school, she knew who he was. She had seen him in plays and heard him MC various programs in the auditorium.

  He laughed. “Hardly. I might knock one of these out.” He bared his shiny white teeth. “Think what that might do to my thespian career.”

  Herb met her after school that afternoon and walked her home. He became a fixture in her life, and they were soon known as “steadies.”

  They went to movies and “sock hops” and did all the usual high school things. Herb also took her to every romantic spot he knew anything about and used all his formidable powers of persuasion to get her to make love with him. But it was fruitless. She had taken her mother’s words to heart and made up her mind long ago. There would be no sex until marriage. Period. End of conversation.

  During a football game that fall, a friend from church who had moved away showed up on the sidelines and chatted with her about old times. Herb grilled her afterward, demanding to know all about the boy. And though she didn’t like his tone, she dismissed the incident in the excitement of winning a big victory over a traditional rival. There were other subtle hints of jealousy she should have heeded, but didn’t. They would return to haunt her years later.

  With World War II in full sway, Herb followed the news of naval battles constantly. A year ahead of Marge in school, he set out for the Great Lakes Naval Training Station early that summer with diploma in hand. Marge wrote him faithfully at first, though after he went to sea his replies became few and far between. The correspondence soon trickled to a halt. She heard nothing more of Herb until seeing him at that reunion a few years ago, where he had renewed his pursuit.