But maybe that was assuming too much. Wayne could possibly be a psychotic, a split personality. In a blood-freezing instant, Nancy couldn’t help but remember mild-mannered Norman Bates in that terrifying movie “Psycho” she and Charlie had seen a few years earlier.
Suddenly Nancy became aware of the tension that had stiffened her sore body as she had been trying to gather her thoughts. This mental agony was accomplishing nothing, she thought, as a familiar heaviness slowly settled over her eyelids, sleep gradually returning. But as she wavered along the boundaries of consciousness, she knew one thing for certain: Although her life might still be in danger, she felt the threat was not quite as immediate as before.
Sheriff Arnold gazed thoughtfully at the trail of dust kicked up from behind the departing ambulance. Inside the emergency vehicle was a female corpse, nude with multiple stab wounds. A group of rescue workers loitered along the creek, their numbers increasing as news of the shocking discovery spread.
“What do you make of it, Sheriff?” asked Luke Fletcher between chews on a plug of tobacco.
Sheriff Arnold turned to the crowd, which immediately quieted for his response. “Now, listen, all of you,” he said in a loud, stern voice. “I don’t have much to say about this. All I know is that this body belonged to a young colored girl, obviously murdered and possibly raped—we’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report. This new investigation will keep me busy awhile, so I’d suggest that you folks get back to searchin’ for the Barnett woman while I look into the other girl’s death.”
The group noisily dispersed, their various grumblings and complaints drifting back to the sheriffs ears. “It’s only a nigger,” he heard someone say. Another wondered aloud, “What the hell has happened to our community?”
That same question dominated the sheriffs thoughts. This was the first non-domestic murder to occur in Shelby County in over a decade. And complicating the issue further was the wide-spread racial unrest in Birmingham that was beginning to spill over into Pell City and surrounding areas. The Klan had been relatively inactive in Shelby County, or so the sheriff thought. Regardless, just a few short days ago he had hoped for a new challenge. Now he had almost more than he could handle.
A few feet away Deputy Hart mumbled softly to a small group of passers-by. The sheriff couldn’t catch the gist of the conversation, but discerned that every other word was “nigger.” With rising impatience, he considered how to deal with the prejudiced deputy. He felt like reprimanding the young lawman on the spot. But public sympathy toward negroes could be dangerous. Unfortunately, most local residents were as biased as the deputy. No, he’d have to contend with Hart later, in privacy. Give himself time to calm down and approach the situation logically.
“Hart!” he yelled and motioned for the deputy to break away from his audience. Realizing from the tone of the sheriffs voice that he was in trouble, Hart sheepishly trudged to his boss’s side.
“Yessir?” Hart answered.
“Hart,” the sheriff began, staring coldly at his subordinate, “I want you to get back to the courthouse and file a report on this. Check any missing persons bulletins to identify the victim.”
Hart nodded, avoiding the sheriffs eyes.
“I’m gonna try to catch Preacher Mason at home again,” the sheriff continued. “And I’ll see you later this afternoon. But in the meantime,” the sheriff leaned closer and lowered his voice, “try to keep your damn mouth shut.”
Verbally beaten, Hart ambled slowly to his squad car. His heart raced as he slid behind the steering wheel. The sheriff was definitely on his case. He’d have to be extra careful.
Sheriff Arnold pivoted and faced the creek. That bastard has got to go, he thought. Ahead the curiosity seekers were breaking up, some walking back to their cars parked aside the narrow dirt road, others resuming their search along the creek for the Barnett woman’s body. Sheriff Arnold gazed downstream. Couldn’t be more than a half mile to Preacher’s house, he thought. Might as well walk.
Along the way a number of volunteers, recognizing the sheriff was in deep thought, gave him a wide berth. For a moment the lawman considered turning back when he was faced with the first of the many detours caused by the numerous downed trees littering the shores, but he forged ahead.
Integration would be spreading soon to Shelby County. It was inevitable. Already several Birmingham schools had been desegregated amid protests and violence. Why do people have to be so damn cruel and inconsiderate? the sheriff wondered. There was no common courtesy and respect offered anymore. Racial prejudice had been passed from generation to generation in the South. It wouldn’t go away overnight. But was there really any need to assign blame? Bigotry was wrong, as anyone who took the time to understand the other side would plainly see. But life in the Deep South had always centered strongly around the family unit. Kids believed, without question, what they were told by their parents. And, unfortunately, most parents had taught their children wrong.
Sheriff Arnold recalled the distress he himself had experienced when at age twelve he had asked his Dad, “Pop, why are niggers bad?” His Pop had had no answer, instead offering the vague excuse of “Says so in the Bible.” But young Chester had known that wasn’t true. His parents had led him to dislike and distrust colored people for no good reason. But Chester’s bitterness toward his parents had faded when he finally understood. Decent, God-fearing people, who would do no harm to anyone, they were only passing on to him what their folks had taught them decades ago. His parents were too old and set in their ways to change, he had decided. But he could alter his own views. And, he had determined, no longer would he automatically accept anyone else’s philosophies without question.
Sheriff Arnold stared ahead and waved at Ned Peters who was now paddling alone in a canoe. People were the cruelest of all living creatures, he thought as he trudged along. Young Chester had learned early not to speak out in defense of the coloreds. The resulting white backlash could be deadly. For years, he had kept his views to himself, feeling strongly that one person alone could do little to change a whole region. Even now his sympathies remained secret for he knew when he first took office that more could be accomplished this way. Were he to verbalize his true feelings, he would merely be defeated in the next election. But as long as he held office while keeping his views to himself, he could at least assure equal justice to the colored folks of Shelby County. On that issue, he would never budge.
Just ahead a young colored boy was tossing rocks into the creek at passing driftwood. Probably one of Preacher’s boys, he thought.
“Howdy, pardner,” the sheriff greeted the young boy. “Are you one of Preacher Mason’s boys?”
The young lad jerked at the sight of the lawman. Awed by the husky figure of authority, he nervously answered, “Yessir.”
Sheriff Arnold squatted beside the boy. “Is your Daddy home?”
“Yessir.”
“Well,” said the sheriff, “I’d like for you to do me a favor. I need to talk to your Daddy a few minutes, and I want you to keep that dog of yours from chewin’ on my leg. Think you could do that for me?”
“Yes-sir!” the boy grinned, standing now proud and erect. Sheriff Arnold followed as the boy began tö jabber. “He ain’t no bad dog. Ain’t never bit anybody. ‘Ceptin’ me.”
“What’s your name, son?” the sheriff interrupted, keeping a watchful eye out for the dog.
“Nathaniel,” answered the boy. “I want to be a fireman when I get big.”
Ahead the dog bounded from the house to greet his master, then quickly crouched, growling on sight of the sheriff.
“It’s all right, Skipper,” Nat said, reaching down to stroke the animal’s back. “The sheriff here is our friend.”
Grudgingly the dog allowed the two to pass. Around a bend in the trail, the house came into view. Seated on the front steps was Preacher Mason, dressed in a white shirt and faded blue slacks, knife in hand, whittling on a small block of wood.
“Got
company, Pa,” Nat proudly announced.
Preacher looked up with a start and dropped the knife. Then, regaining his composure, he stood and offered a firm handshake.
“Good to see you, Mr. Sheriff,” he said. “How have you been?”
Sheriff Arnold smiled. “No complaints. How about yourself?”
“Aw, the Lord’s been mighty good to me,” Preacher answered. “Been real good to me. What brings you out this way?”
Leaning informally against the top step, Sheriff Arnold watched as Nat raced away, chasing Skipper who had playfully run off with the boy’s catcher’s mitt.
“Been some strange things goin’ on around here,” the sheriff began. “Guess you heard about the accident.”
“That was a real shame, Mr. Sheriff,” Preacher answered. “But those two Georgia folks is knockin’ on the doors of Heaven right now.”
The sheriff hesitated, then continued. “The woman’s body hasn’t been recovered yet, but her purse was found not far from your house, over by the creek. Somebody took what money was inside.”
Preacher raised his head, a look of surprise on his face. “Yes?”
“Have you seen or heard anything unusual around here in the past few days?”
Preacher searched his thoughts, then nervously answered, “No sir, can’t say that I have.”
Sheriff Arnold gazed through the open front door and windows of the house. There seemed to be no movement inside. “Where’s the rest of the family?” he asked.
“Well, the missus is over at Uncle Walt’s. He ain’t been feelin’ too good, and she’s helpin’ Aunt Maggie take care of him. Lurlene, she’s my oldest, she done up and got married last year. Livin’ over in Bessemer now.”
“Don’t you have an older boy, too?”
“Demetrius? He ain’t here.”
“When will he be back?”
“Don’t rightly know. That boy is in and out all the time.”
Straightening up, the sheriff took a deep breath. “Preacher, about a half mile upstream, we found a teenage colored girl’s body.”
Stunned, Preacher stood silently, his mouth hanging open. “Colored girl, huh?” he finally muttered.
“Murdered. Stabbed. From the looks of her body, she ain’t been dead more than two or three days at the most. Do you know of anybody around these parts that might be capable of such a thing?”
Preacher shook his head slowly. “Not right off, no sir,” he said, his lips quivering. “But that scares me, sheriff. That scares me real bad. I hear talk about the Klan.”
“We’ll find who did it,” the sheriff reassured him. “I’d like for you to ask the missus and your older son if they’ve seen or heard anything unusual. I’ll stop by again tomorrow and have a chat with them.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Sheriff,” Preacher answered. “I sure hope you find him quick.”
The sheriff turned and headed for the creek. “You take care now, you hear?” he said.
Preacher reached a shaky hand to retrieve his pocket knife from the ground. “You, too, Mr. Sheriff. You, too.”
Efforts to withhold from the press the discovery of Mrs. Barnett’s purse had proved unsuccessful. Sheriff Arnold attributed this to the fact that the situation had gotten out of control, thanks primarily to Deputy Donald Hart. By late afternoon, the sheriff was besieged by reporters from as far away as Huntsville and Columbus, Georgia. “No comment” was his response, recognizing with a degree of reluctance the danger of allowing journalists to speculate. But what else could he do?
The body of the young colored girl had been identified as seventeen-year-old Bertha Mae Sampson of Leeds, Alabama, reported missing since Thursday night. Miss Sampson’s murder, impacting on top of the Barnett investigation, had brought confusion to the minds of all concerned, including Sheriff Arnold. Could the two events be connected? The answer would have to come later, the sheriff thought with exasperation, knowing he would be hounded by the media for an answer today.
As twilight settled over the area, Sheriff Arnold parked his patrol car beside Highway 231 for a brief rest. For the first time in years, anxiety was coursing through his body. Having sent an enraged wbrc-tv news team back to Birmingham minutes before, the sheriffs pulse had yet to slow. Taking a deep breath, he glared at the oncoming traffic. A few automobiles had begun to switch on their headlights. Tomorrow, this entire operation must be reorganized, he thought. The day’s developments had caught him off-balance. The sting of embarrassment still burned when he considered the inept picture he had presented to the public.
Tonight he’d do some serious planning.
“Don’t you worry about Uncle Walt,” Maybelle Mason said, noting her husband’s grave expression as she slid into the front seat of the car. “He’s gonna be just fine.”
Preacher steered the old ‘53 Chevy down Uncle Walt’s driveway back to Selton Road. He had stopped to pick up his wife on the way to church in nearby Pineville. After his usual complaint about having to wear a bow tie, young Nat had fallen asleep in the back seat.
“It ain’t Uncle Walt what’s worryin’ me,” Preacher said as he switched on the headlights. “It’s Demetrius.”
“Oh, he’ll come home. You know he will,” Maybelle said. “The boy just needs attention. That’s why he invents those crazy stories.”
Preacher stared at his wife, his lips trembling, his eyes filling with tears. “Sheriff Arnold come by this evenin',” he said. “I’m afraid we got real trouble this time.”
Maybelle shifted uncomfortably. She had feared this day would come. Every night she’d pray for the Lord to give guidance to young Demetrius, to lead him away from the troublemakers he palled around with and ease the boy’s rebellious spirit. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Preacher wiped tears from his cheeks. “Bertha Mae’s dead.”
“Oh, Lord, no—“ his wife moaned.
“And that ain’t all,” he continued. “The sheriff says they found a purse not far from our house. It belonged to that white woman that was in the accident the other night. But I don’t believe the sheriff thinks it was no accident. Not by the way he was talkin', anyways.”
“Oh, God, no,” Maybelle moaned. “Oh, Lord, please don’t let Demetrius be mixed up in this!”
Preacher guided the car to a stop along the road. “Hush now,” he said. “You’ll wake the boy.”
Maybelle glanced over the seat at Nat, asleep in the back. He was such a precious boy. Surely the Lord would protect him from evil. Grasping for support, she slid closer to her husband and held tightly to his arm. “But we don’t know for sure that Demetrius was involved,” she whispered. “He was talkin’ out of his head when he ran off.”
“Woman, he had to be involved—you know what the boy said!” Preacher snapped. “Now, get a-hold of yourself. We got to go on to church, just like nothin’ happened. And then we got to find him.”
“But what will you do with him?”
“I’ll do what the Lord tells me,” Preacher said, then took a deep breath. “If Demetrius broke the law, he’ll have to be punished. It’s out of our hands.”
Slowly he steered the car back onto the pavement, wondering what effect his emotional turmoil might have on tonight’s sermon. No one must know of his family problems.
Nothing could interfere with the Lord’s work.
Wayne quietly approached the darkened bedroom and took two cautious but determined steps inside.
“Are you awake?” he whispered.
Amid the rustle of bedsheets he heard Nancy’s response. “Yes.”
Slowly he stepped to the foot of the bed and settled into a comfortable seated position. Outside a myriad of crickets sang as Wayne’s vision adjusted to the dark of night. A glimmer of wandering moonlight was reflected from her staring eyes.
“I think we should talk,” he said.
Nancy gazed wonderingly at his obscure form. “Okay … if you want,” she answered.
Wayne breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced at the nearb
y light switch. “Would you like the light on?” he asked.
“No—“ she answered sharply, then explained, “I like the dark … and the moonlight.”
Wayne fumbled nervously with the loose fringe of the bedspread. “Nancy, you know I really—” but then he stopped. She looked so soft, so feminine in the moonlight. Momentarily breathless, he finally continued, “I want you to try to understand. Please?”
Her eyelids lowered. “Understand what?” she asked.
Now Wayne looked away, staring out the window. A glowing cloud passed before the moon, and the wind swept gently through the trees. How could he make her understand?
“It’s all true, what I told you before,” he said. “I saved you from drowning and brought you here for shelter. You saw the report of the ice storm on the news. There was really nothing else I could do.”
Her face remained expressionless.
What was she thinking? Wayne wondered. Was she once again blocking out everything he said, refusing to believe him?
“I’m sorry about what I did, Nancy. But I never had any bad intentions. I know the way everything happened, I must seem awfully guilty. But won’t you please try to understand?”
Nancy refused to speak, and Wayne noticed her lower lip quiver nervously for a moment.
“Listen to me—please!” he implored. “I’ve taken care of you. Do you honestly think I would hurt you?”
Finally she looked up at him and their eyes locked for one burning moment. Then clearing her throat, she slowly forced out, “Why … are you keeping me here?”
Turning from her sight, Wayne said, “I want you … to believe that I’ve … meant you no harm. I want you … to like me.”
“Like you?” she screeched, her sudden outburst startling him. “Like you? I despise you! I don’t know what’s happening to me anymore. All I know is, I want to go home and you won’t let me!”
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