Hart nodded again. “Ever think about blocking the entrance again?”
“Shit, yeah.” the man said. “But nothin’ short of cavin’ the damn thing in will keep ‘em out.”
“So, what about cavin’ it in?”
Cramer eyed the deputy with impatience. “Hell, I don’t want to do that,” he said. “Might need it for a fallout shelter some day.”
Hart shrugged and pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “Do you have signs posted? Have you verbally warned these kids?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“Can you give me any of their names?”
Cramer stroked his chin, trying to recall which kids frequented the cave most. “Let’s see now—only one I know for sure is Tommy Martin. And I’ve seen that damn Gibbs boy down there a couple of times. Hell, I don’t know!”
Hart pocketed the notebook. “I can talk to their parents, if you like.”
“Please do,” blurted Cramer, adding, “And I wish you folks would patrol this area more often. Then you might happen to catch them damn kids sneakin’ around. Hell, just look for their bicycles on the side of the road.”
“We’ll do our best,” Hart mollified the man as he returned to his car. Hart opened the door as Cramer spoke up again.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Lately there’s been a bunch of niggers goin’ in there. Big, mean-lookin’ guys, you know? Don’t know if they’re playin’ hookey from school or not, but I don’t like ‘em hangin’ around here. Makes the wife nervous.”
Hart’s attention quickened at the last remark. “Just when did you last see these niggers?” he asked.
“Oh, must have been Friday or Saturday. Can’t remember which. Saw three or four of ‘em headed for the cave through the woods. I was gonna run ‘em off, but, hell, there was four of them and one of me. And one of ‘em looked meaner than hell.”
“Did you happen to see when they came out?”
“Hell, no! I got better things to do. Didn’t stand around waitin’ for ‘em, if that’s what you mean.”
Hart eased into the driver’s seat and closed the door, then remembered another important question. He rolled down the window and yelled to Cramer, who was sullenly walking away.
“One more thing,” Hart yelled. “Was there a car parked along the road that day?”
Cramer stopped to think. “Don’t rightly remember,” he said. “Might’ve been an ol’ pickup truck. But I could be wrong.”
“Remember what color?”
“Shit!” Cramer roared. “I don’t even remember for sure if there was a damn truck. How the hell could I know what color, for God’s sake?”
Hart shrugged off the man’s insolence. “I’ll check it out,” he said as he twisted the ignition. He backed the car onto the main road and stopped, then took a flashlight from the glove compartment and checked its batteries. They were excellent. Then he laid his service revolver aside the flashlight on the passenger seat and pressed the accelerator.
The squad car rounded the curve, then came to a stop at the side of the road. To the right Hart saw a narrow trail twisting through the heavily wooded hillside toward an outcropping of rocks. Silently he exited the car, flashlight and revolver in hand. Feeling certain the trespassers had long since departed, he hoped valuable evidence might be found. Enough to put him in good graces with the press anyway.
The gentle sound of cattle echoed over the hilltop, as Hart took a deep breath and entered the path.
15
James Crocker’s heart sank as he steered the pickup truck into his son’s driveway. Wayne’s car was gone. He was too late.
Cursing at himself for taking so long to get away from Edith, James stopped the truck and quickly got out. As the cooling engine ticked behind him, he carefully regarded the boy’s trailer. Suppose I should look around, he thought. Couldn’t hurt.
Stomping to the front door, James twisted the knob. It was locked, just as he’d expected. He tugged the door harder, hoping to jar it open, but it wouldn’t budge.
Next he tried the back door, with the same result. James spat on the ground and trudged over to the bed of his truck. Hell, he’d find a tool to pry the damn door open. As he sorted through the scattered collection of rusted tools, James noticed out the corner of an eye that the curtains in the back bedroom were pulled slightly apart.
The window was too high off the ground for him to peek through, so he surveyed the area for a suitable object to stand on. In a small clearing away from the trailer stood a fifty gallon drum in which Wayne burned his trash. James knocked the barrel over, spilling ashes and partially burned garbage over the ground. Then he rolled the container to the bedroom window, turning it bottom end up on the ground below. Next he braced himself against the trailer walls with soot-blackened hands and clumsily climbed atop.
Craning his neck, James peered inside.
Its opening approximately five feet in diameter, the mouth of the cave receded in a frozen yawn into the rocky hillside. Fallen leaves covered the entrance floor along with beer cans, ashes from long abandoned campfires and a scattering of depleted flashlight batteries. Hart stepped through the rubble into the quiet darkness, bending over for several feet until the tunnel enlarged enough to accommodate his height. Cryptic messages scarred the cavern walls from generations of visitors who had documented their presence by defacing the vulnerable stone.
Hart directed the flashlight beam up, down and around. A massive stalactite hung from the ceiling, its pointed end chipped away by souvenir seekers. Ahead, the chamber sprouted a smaller second passage which veered to the right, away from the main catacomb. The floor of the cavern grew increasingly wet.
Every few steps Hart stopped to listen, hearing nothing, save for the steady, rhythmic dripping of water. Climbing a slippery incline, the deputy braced himself against the wet walls to maintain his balance as he continued ahead.
Abruptly Hart entered an unusually large underground chamber, its ceiling thirty to forty feet above his head. The flashlight beam appeared thin and weak as it traced a maze of cracks in the cavern walls and settled on a cluster of bats, hanging upside down from the ceiling. Hart stopped and swallowed hard. Although the temperature was warmer than outside, the air was clammy and damp. He considered yelling to see if anyone happened to be inside the cave, but realized he would lose the element of surprise if by some wild chance the suspects were still there.
A pile of refuse caught his attention near the base of a large flat rock. Hart picked through the litter—wax paper wrappers from sandwiches, potato chip bags, beer cans, a Dr. Pepper bottle—nothing of any substance, though more than one person had obviously eaten here within the past few days. But, of course, that wasn’t unusual—spelunkers often carried food. Hart leaned against the rock, noticing dried streaks of crimson that trailed over the edge. It looked like—blood. The flashlight beam followed a scarlet trail up the side of a large rounded boulder to a ledge six feet or so above the flat-topped rock. And hanging over the ledge, perfectly still, was a human arm.
Startled, Hart retreated and drew his weapon. Realizing the hand belonged to a colored man, the lawman planted both feet firmly and pulled back the hammer of his revolver. Steadying his aim with both hands, he took a deep breath.
“Freeze!” he yelled, readying himself to squeeze the trigger. The figure remained perfectly still.
“You!” he screamed again, louder this time, his voice breaking into a nervous twang and echoing in the cavern depths. “On your feet!”
Still nothing.
Cautiously he leaned his weight against the stone wall beneath the ledge, extended an arm upward, and barely reached the overhanging fingertips.
They were cold and stiff, and without a doubt, very dead.
Maybelle Mason was confined to bed, her blood pressure dangerously high. Preacher stayed home from work, attending to her needs and trying in every way to calm her nerves. Over and over she accused him of betraying their son whom she continued to maintain was inn
ocent. Preacher patiently sat at her side, wondering why the prescribed sedative had yet to take effect.
“Now, honey, don’t fret no more. Try to get some rest.” Preacher gently pushed back the locks of hair from her forehead. “I believe the boy’s innocent, too. And if he is, the law will protect him.”
“Huh!” she huffed. “You know better than that! What with lawmen like that Deputy Hartz running around.”
Noticing a slight droop in her eyelids, Preacher smiled. She was finally succumbing to sleepiness. “It’s Deputy Hart” he corrected her. “But that don’t make no difference. We got to cooperate with the law.”
“No … I … her voice drifted lazily. “The law and the Good Book, they should work together,” he reminded her.
But his last words were lost to her in sleep.
Steering the Chevy along the bumpy drive, Wayne panicked at the sight of his father’s pickup truck parked outside the trailer. And there, below the bedroom window, was his Dad struggling to free himself from the trash container whose bottom had obviously collapsed from his weight. Wayne brought the Chevy to an abrupt stop and bounded forward, his heart pounding against his chest.
James Crocker’s face was a mask of pain. Jagged edges of rusted metal from the barrel’s bottom had ripped through his trousers and pierced both legs. Dark stains of blood soaked the torn fabric.
“Wayne!” James gasped. “Get me out of here!”
Wayne worked diligently to free his father’s legs. The rusty metal was brittle and broke away when pushed down, but a few fragments remained impaled in James’ thigh.
“Watch it!” James blurted at the burning pain when Wayne held his father’s shoulders and helped him from the filthy container. Quickly examining the wounds, Wayne could see that they were serious and would need treatment and shots as infection from such dirty cuts was highly likely.
“What are you doing here?” Wayne demanded. “Why aren’t you at work?”
Still leaning his weight against his son, James’ lungs heaved as he tried to catch his breath. “You saved her, didn’t you?” he said in a breathy tone. “You saved that Barnett girl.”
Wayne stood paralyzed.
“I saw you,” James continued with a hard swallow. “I was drunk as hell. But I was there Friday night, across the creek.”
Wayne’s head suddenly began to ache. He hadn’t planned for this. His Dad could spoil everything. “I …"he began, but found himself suddenly lost for words.
“She’s inside the trailer.” It was more a statement than a question. “That’s why you’ve acted so funny lately.” James paused, trying to read the strange expression on his son’s face. “I saw somebody’s shadow in there this morning while you were outside. She’s in there.”
His father’s hip was bleeding badly. Wayne suddenly felt sick.
“No … you’re … wrong,” he stammered, turning quickly away. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
James wavered on his feet, then gasped at the sight of blood pooling at his feet. “Son, you’ve got to … help me—”
Wayne’s skin tightened with a burning fear. What could he do now? His Dad needed help.
James sank to his knees, his complexion pale. Without hesitation, Wayne hooked his hands beneath his Dad’s shoulders and dragged him to the door. With the door opened wide, he pulled James up the steps and laid him to rest on the living room floor. A smear of blood trailed behind James’ left leg.
Grabbing the first-aid book he’d checked out from the library, Wayne rushed to the bathroom closet for strips of old rags to devise a tourniquet.
James’ head was wobbling now, his tongue continually moistening his lips. Wayne tore his father’s left trouser leg to the hip and found a large gash on the outer thigh. Blood oozed steadily from the wound, and there was barely enough space between the cut and his Dad’s crotch to tie off the tourniquet and slow the circulation of blood.'
Wayne worked frantically, his hands awash with crimson, until finally the blood ran in a smaller stream. James’ head was rocking from side to side, and he mumbled incoherently, “Where’s … the girl? Where’s …?”
Wayne froze. A cool rush of fear tingled down both arms and met at his chest. Where was she?
He leaped to his feet and ran to the bedroom.
The nylon strips lay in a loose pile on the floor.
The bed was empty.
Mrs. Hargrove, the Weems Elementary School principal, took the thermometer from young Nat’s mouth and held it near a lamp for a better view. “No fever,” she said, then turned to the boy. “Nathan, are you sure you’re sick?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he muttered. “It’s my stomach.”
Mrs. Hargrove shrugged and reached for a pad and pencil on her desk. “Minute ago you complained of being hot,” she said.
Nat avoided her eyes. “Yes, Ma’am. But now it’s my stomach.”
She scribbled a brief note on the pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to him. “Give this to your teacher and you’ll be excused for the rest of the day,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll call your Mama,” she added, reaching for the telephone.
“We ain’t got no phone,” Nat interjected.
The principal exhaled in exasperation. “Then how do you expect to get home?”
Nat shrugged and pocketed both hands. Mrs. Hargrove glanced at the wall clock over the door. It was almost 10:30 a.m. “Can’t you wait just a little while longer?” she asked.
“Oh, no, Ma’am,” he answered with an exaggerated grimace. “It’s gettin’ real bad now.”
“All right, all right,” she conceded. “I’ll drive you home myself.” A spark flashed in the boy’s eyes. “But you’d better not be lyin’ to me.”
Wayne floored the accelerator en route to the nearest doctor in Vincent. Perhaps along the way he would find Nancy. But then again, she could easily have traveled in the opposite direction. And what would he do if he found her? Talk to her again, and plead with her not to report him to the police? Or force her inside the car and proceed with the original plan after dropping his Dad off for medical treatment?
The elderly Crocker was unconscious now, slumped against the front passenger seat, his blood spilling slowly to the front mat. He had lost a lot of blood, Wayne knew, but it was difficult to concentrate on his father’s condition when his own future was also in jeopardy.
Wayne sped past Meyers Lake, ignoring young Tommy Martin who recognized the Chevy and waved hello from a boat a few feet offshore. Wayne wiped his brow. The movement of the automobile made his stomach pitch and roll, and the smell of blood only added to his feeling of nausea.
Finally Wayne could drive no further, and pulled off to the side of the road to vomit.
The corpse’s overhanging arm was slightly misshapen from the drainage of blood to its lowest extreme. Hart braced himself against the inclining boulder beneath the ledge and carefully eased the body to the ground. Retrieving the flashlight from its resting point, he examined the remains, noting multiple stab wounds in the abdomen. A search of the deceased revealed no wallet or other documentation—the victim had apparently been robbed.
The dead Negro could not be readily identified as Demetrius Mason. Unfortunately a photograph of the suspect had somehow bypassed Hart on circulation through the courthouse. Another of the sheriffs demeaning acts, Hart suspected.
With his right foot, he rolled the body away to face the stone wall. A faint stench of death irritated Hart’s nose, although decomposition had been mercifully slowed by the cool temperature of the cave. Hart smiled. Again, lady luck had shined upon him. Soon he would bathe in the glory of still another major break in this case.
Anxious to report his latest discovery, Hart turned to leave the cave and froze in his tracks. There, in a small recessed area he’d blindly passed only moments before, lay a second body.
It was almost lunchtime when Deputy Granger knocked on the door of the Farrell home. Liz had asked him to stop by and speak to Nancy’s parents again. Dis
traught over speculation that foul play might have been involved in the disappearance of their daughter, the Andersons had since lost any emotional gain derived from Granger’s earlier visit.
Liz hurried to the front door and slipped outside to speak with the deputy privately. “I’m so glad you came,” she said with a smile. He grinned back at her and then timidly looked away, but quickly regained his professional composure.
“It’s nice to see you again,” he said. “But I really don’t know what else to say to the Andersons.”
Liz invited him to sit in the front porch swing. She settled beside him and set the swing in motion. “What do you think really happened?” she asked.
Silent at first, Granger finally opened up. “I really can’t say,” he said. “The Sampson case seems pretty airtight. But we’re stumped about your cousin. It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard of.” He paused a moment, staring ahead in deep thought. “The Mason boy was involved in some way in the Sampson death. And then there’s the bracelet that implicates him in the Barnett case. And, of course, there’s the purse.”
Liz looked at the deputy with increasing admiration. “But what doesn’t make sense to me,” she began, “is that these boys were so careless in the Sampson murder that they were immediately identified as the killers. But if Nancy’s accident was only a cover up—well, the whole thing had to have been planned so precisely, it seems too advanced for amateurs. See what I mean? The two acts just don’t go together.”
“Exactly,” Granger interjected. “It makes no sense at all. But when the suspects are arrested and your cousin’s body is found, we’ll put all the pieces together.”
Liz sighed and glanced at the front door.
“I agree, there’s really nothing new you can tell Aunt Helen,” she said with dismay. “But I can’t stand this much longer. She’s driving me crazy.”
“Do you work?” Granger asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “At Smithson’s Flower Shop in Pell City. But if I stay off work much longer, I could lose my job.”
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