“I see,” he mumbled.
“I could adjust to Nancy’s death better if I were working. But Mom is just not strong enough to handle Aunt Helen alone.”
For a brief moment their eyes met. Both blushed, and then looking embarrassed, Liz continued. “I feel guilty for thinking this, but I still wish my aunt and uncle would go home. It only makes the whole thing worse for everybody while they’re staying here.”
“Well,” Granger said. “I suppose we should get on with it.” As the two stood and started toward the front door, Granger placed a hand on Liz’s left shoulder.
She looked up at him and smiled.
Wayne squeezed the steering wheel tighter as he drove back to the trailer. He felt guilty about leaving his Dad in such a serious condition with Doc Sanders. He’d made the feeble excuse that he was driving back to pick up his Mom, and promised to be back at the doctor’s office within minutes. Even as he’d spoken. Wayne had known his Mom was working in Pell City today, miles away in the opposite direction.
But he’d get back to his Dad—just as soon as he rounded up Nancy and returned her to the trailer. How long could she have been gone? How far was she physically capable of traveling without help? Wayne feared that someone had picked her up along the road. If that happened, what would she say? What in heaven’s name would she tell the authorities?
Soon he sped past Meyers Lake, past his trailer, to investigate the road toward Pell City. She would be wearing his clothes—he remembered the flannel pajamas piled on the floor beside his bed and clothes hanging from the dresser drawers that had been hurriedly yanked out and left open.
The loaded Impala screamed around a curve, spraying loose gravel from the fresh pavement and shifting the contents of the back seat into a crumpled heap. Wayne righted the car’s course and floored the accelerator, topping the hill at Linda Greene’s house, where at a party several years ago, he had received his first kiss.
Wayne applied the brakes and skidded the car to a stop. There ahead, at the low point between this and the next hilltop, was a new Chevy II he didn’t recognize, stopped at idle. And at the passenger side, climbing into the front seat, was a slender form with long hair trailing in the wind, wrapped in a plastic sheet of some kind.
It was her.
Once Nancy disappeared inside, the car pulled away.
Wayne collapsed against the seat. It was over. Tears streamed down his cheeks. But why did it have to end this way? Why hadn’t he voluntarily released her? He had told Nancy if she didn’t want to go all the way to North Carolina, he would let her out somewhere along the way. And he had meant it. Or at least he thought he had.
Slowly he turned the car around and drove aimlessly in the direction of his home. But somewhere along the way, he decided to run. It was a chicken-shit thing to do, he knew, but the idea of being hauled into custody was more than he could handle.
As he drove past the narrow driveway to his trailer for the last time, pleasant memories of the improvements he’d planned played in Wayne’s mind. But life in Selton was a thing of the past. Now he would take to the highways until a solution came about.
And if an answer never came, he supposed he’d just keep running.
Nat Mason threw his arms around his father’s waist as the two stood on the front porch and watched Mrs. Hargrove drive away. Preacher scrubbed the boy’s head with his knuckles, his usual show of affection, and said, “It ain’t right to lie, son. I know you’re worried about your brother and all, but—”
“I took the money,” Nat blurted through a burst of tears. “I found the purse and I kept the money. Demetrius didn’t do it, Pa. Honest!”
Preacher led the boy into the house. “You’re not lyin’ again now, are you?” he asked.
“No, Pa,” the boy sobbed. “Last Saturday morn-in’ I found the purse floatin’ in the creek.” Nat pulled a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket and handed them to his father. “It’s bad money. I don’t want it no more.”
Preacher took the money, tossed it to the coffee table, and scratched his head in deep thought. “Son, did you know about the bracelet?”
“What bracelet?”
“It was a heart. On a chain. Did it come from the purse? Or did you find it some—?”
“No, Pa,” Nat interrupted. “I ain’t seen no bracelet.”
Preacher hugged the boy tightly. “I love you, son.”
“Did I do wrong, Pa?” Nat asked. “Will I go to the Booger Man?”
“It was wrong to take the money what didn’t belong to you. And it was wrong to lie to Mrs. Hargrove,” Preacher answered. “But you ain’t goin’ to no Booger Man.”
Preacher hugged the boy again, wondering where his oldest son might be.
Hart dragged the second corpse into the clearing of the dark passage and stretched it flat on its back. Similar stab wounds were present, but this was a heavy-set boy, obviously one of the three from Leeds and not the Mason kid. The smell of decomposition carried faintly through the musty air, as Hart directed the flashlight beam to the enclosed area where the body had been. There was no sign of additional evidence. He examined the hands of the second corpse and found raw, tender breaks and tears around the knuckles. Fragments of skin were embedded under the fingernails. This one had fought for his life, had probably witnessed the first stabbing and knew what was coming.
So it now appeared that two fugitives had fled together. The instigator of all the violence must have been Rufus Rayburn, the suspect about whom little was known. None of the others had a record of violence. Rayburn and his buddy had likely decided the other two were only in the way, so they’d offed their companions and ran. But as careless as they’d been so far, they’d leave a trail. They’d be caught soon.
Suddenly a noise sounded from deeper within the cave. A scuffling, sliding sound, with rocks and dirt spilling to the floor. Hart froze. Was it man or beast? He positioned the flashlight forward and held his weapon steadily in position. The revolver wavered before him, ready to spit death at any moment.
Slowly he crept toward the noise, keeping his body flat against the stone walls for protection. He entered another chamber, smaller than the first, and stopped to listen. Heavy, forced breathing sounded from nearby. He circled the room with the flashlight beam and found the frightened, dying eyes of a third Negro youth, glaring from a ledge above the cavern floor.
“Hold it, nigger,” Hart growled.
The boy tried desperately to speak, but couldn’t.
Hart glared into the bloodshot eyes that pleaded for help and felt a growing hatred burn inside. Slowly he stepped closer beneath the ledge, and held the revolver directly in the boy’s face. He pulled back the hammer, its dull click exaggerated in the quiet catacombs.
“Time to join your buddies,” he snarled.
16
The telephone clanged loudly as Sheriff Arnold dropped the receiver to its cradle. The call was from Sheriff Ames of Dale County in south Alabama. The suspects’ pickup truck had been found abandoned on a country road near Ozark. Blood stains were caked across tufts of cotton from rips in the worn plastic seat cover.
Sheriff Arnold hung his head. Just as he’d feared, there had been more violence. The seating restriction of a pickup truck had forced elimination of at least one member of the runaway gang. And a young, inexperienced boy like Preacher’s son had only complicated matters for the others. He had likely been the one to die.
Leaning back in his chair, the sheriff considered the few delinquents he had been involved with. How easily they were drawn into crime. But those who ran from family problems usually ended up embroiled in far greater trouble.
Preacher should be told about the danger his son was in. But his wife would hardly be able to withstand such a shock. Reflecting on his years of law enforcement in Shelby County, the sheriff now appreciated their relative tameness. Now the world was changing fast, and the stress caused by a more mobile society was difficult to cope with. Fast cars, interstate highways, planes. The
criminal element could strike and move so quickly that a more sophisticated approach to investigative pursuit was now required. Perhaps it’s time to turn in the old badge, he thought, and take early retirement.
But he had to see this one through. And now that they knew in which direction the fugitives were headed, they’d be easier to follow. Already Sheriff Ames was checking out a reported stolen car. Ames sounded young and energetic on the telephone. Dedicated. A good man.
Sheriff Arnold stood, stretched and stepped over to the steaming coffee pot on a nearby table.
Perhaps it would soon be over.
At first, afraid that Wayne might find her along the paved road, Nancy walked along a crude trail through the woods. But finally, as exhaustion settled over her weakened limbs, she knew she would need help. Fortunately, as soon as she reached the road, this kind old man she was now sitting beside had stopped for her.
Nancy sat in silence as the terrain of her youth rolled past. She ran a trembling hand through her tangled hair, recalling how she had finally managed to escape to the safety of this elderly gentleman’s care.
Following their physical interlude the night before, Nancy had been appalled when Wayne tied her again before leaving. His nerves were fraying, she could tell, and he was becoming dangerous not only to himself, but to her as well. He’s doing this out of love, a twisted kind of love, she reminded herself, trying not to resent his most recent actions.
In his harried mental state, Wayne had also grown foolishly over-confident and careless. The nylon strips around her wrists had been loose, and with little effort she escaped her bonds. But dressing had been a problem. Not only were her limbs still sore, but the only clothing to be found was the sweaty outfit Wayne had worn the day before. His other clothes were already packed in the car. Nancy slipped into the soiled jeans and flannel shirt, then searched for a pair of shoes.
Wayne’s closets had been thoroughly emptied. A pair of smelly socks lay curled on the bathroom floor and as she sat to put them on, Nancy decided to check under the bed. Against the far wall, matted with dust and fuzz, was a pair of ragged tennis shoes without laces. Nancy quickly brushed them off, then slipped them on and used two of the nylon strips that had previously bound her wrists to secure the shoes on her feet. They were too big, and walking in them felt awkward, but Nancy realized she had no choice.
Knowing it would be cold outside, Nancy made a quick search for a coat or jacket, but found nothing. Finally, she wrenched the shower curtain from its rod, sending plastic hooks flying through the air. Then, wrapping the plastic sheet around herself, she left her place of captivity.
Outside, she found herself in unfamiliar countryside. But as she adjusted to the sunlight and scanned the horizon she oriented herself by the sight of a long-familiar landmark—the Selton water tower, barely visible above the trees in the distance. After a moment’s concentration, she had remembered the direction she should travel and painfully trudged ahead.
The driver glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
“Are you sure you’re all right, young lady?” he asked.
Nancy cleared her throat and gazed out the side window at sights that vaguely registered in her memory. “I’m fine,” she answered.
The man was obviously curious about her appearance, but she refused to talk. At the moment, her thoughts were centering around the comforts of a warm bath and the love of her cousin, aunt and uncle.
The Chevy II rolled to a creaking stop.
“Here’s the Farrell place,” the man said as he switched off the ignition. “I’ll help you inside.”
Nancy tugged the door handle. “No, thanks. I can manage just fine,” she said. “But I really appreciate the ride.”
“Well,” the man said as he lit a cigarette. “Tell ol’ Tom that Amy Hankins said hello.”
Nancy slammed the car door and stood alone, taking in the view of the house and surrounding land that stirred a million memories. The Chevy II whined to a start and slowly pulled away.
Chickens pecked, carefree in the yard. To the far left, in the adjacent field, was the small pond and willow tree where she and Liz played when they were kids.
Nancy took a deep breath. I’m here, she thought. I’m finally here.
Parked in the driveway was her parents’ car. Tears leaked from Nancy’s eyes. All of her loved ones were here.
Except Charlie.
Demetrius inched back against the cold stone wall, and taking a deep breath, courageously stared the deputy squarely in the eye. What he saw was a look of hatred and evil that seemed to come straight from hell. The revolver wavered in his direction. The man’s face, aglow from the beam of the grounded flashlight, was covered with beads of sweat and he was trembling so much that the revolver wavered in his hand.
Carefully, the frightened youth slid both feet against the hefty rock he was partially hidden behind. Then, thankful for the lawman’s hesitation, he took a deep breath, and pushed with every ounce of his remaining strength.
The boulder tumbled forward over the edge, surprising the deputy who moved too slowly to escape its path. Demetrius cringed at the sound of the man’s ghastly scream, and an errant gunshot that ricocheted off the stone walls.
Painfully, the boy pulled himself to the edge and peered over. The penumbra of the dislodged flashlight faintly illuminated the grisly scene. The deputy lay flat on his back, the boulder embedded in his chest, and a trickle of blood spilling from his lips.
Demetrius felt his stomach convulse, the resulting pain bringing him closer to unconsciousness. His mind spun in confusion as he relaxed his head against the cold, damp wall.
By the time the flashlight batteries finally weakened, Demetrius, too, had eternally joined his companions.
Relieved by the news that his Dad was going to be all right, Wayne hung up the phone in the telephone booth. The nurse had questioned him sternly as to why he had left in such a hurry, and why he wasn’t coming back. Wayne hadn’t responded, telling her, instead, to relay a message to his Mom and Dad. Tell them, he said, that I’ll be going away for awhile. Tell them that soon they will know why. And tell them, above all else, that I love them, that I’ll miss them, and that I’m truly sorry for what I’ve done, that I wish more than anything I could erase everything that has happened.
The nurse had sounded abrupt and impatient, and Wayne hoped she had gotten it all down. But somewhere down the road he would call his Mom. By then, she would have been questioned by the police and would be over the initial shock of learning that her only son had become a fugitive.
Wayne stepped from the telephone booth and returned to his car. The nervousness, the tension and fear of being caught—they were getting him down.
He swallowed hard and turned the ignition. He was never meant for this kind of life and he knew that somewhere, in some faraway town, he just might pull up to the local police station, walk inside and say, “I’m guilty. Send me home.”
But for now, Wayne needed a few days to think things over. California sounded nice. He’d wanted to go there all his life, but had never had the chance. This would likely be his last opportunity.
Within hours Wayne had accumulated road maps of Alabama, Mississippi and Arkansas from service stations he’d stopped at along the way. Poised behind the steering wheel, his travels had just begun.
Nat Mason sat alone on the front porch, rocking in quiet solitude. Skipper lay sleeping at his feet. In Nat’s lap was Pa’s worn Bible. Carefully, he leafed through its pages, then set the book aside.
His brother was dead, he knew. Only moments ago, a sensation had overcome him, a tingling in his body, and an emptiness deep within his soul. It was as if, in his dying breath, Demetrius had reached out to his younger brother. Follow the word, a voice had said to him.
Follow the word.
Nat wandered along the creek, confused by the brief but powerful message. What could it mean? But, upon returning home, when his eyes rested on the family Bible, the meaning became all too
clear. Nat felt a warmth rush over his young body, as if he were cleansed inside and out. He wondered at what age his Pa first received The Calling, and what immediate changes came over his life.
Slowly, Nat stood and descended the front steps, stopping on the barren soil to gaze skyward. Towering cumulus clouds drifted slowly by, aglow from the light of the hidden sun.
Demetrius was gone, he knew. But his life’s mission, to touch his younger brother’s heart and soul, had been accomplished.
Nat smiled at the heavens. He most definitely would follow the word.
Two hundred miles south at a Dothan service station, Rufus Rayburn stuffed ten and twenty dollar bills into his coat pockets with his left hand as he menacingly waved a knife with his right.
“Open the safe!” he growled at a frightened attendant.
“I-I-I-I don’t know how,” the young man pleaded.
Rayburn stepped forward and jabbed the point of the knife into the young man’s stomach, passing through the victim’s shirt and immediately drawing blood. The man winced at the onslaught of pain and staggered against the counter.
“Open the fuckin’ safe,” Rayburn repeated, “or I shove it deeper.”
Clutching his stomach, the attendant watched the blood ooze over his palm and trickle to the floor. Then he glanced quickly at a .38 revolver hidden behind three cartons of cigarettes beneath the countertop. He knew his energy was fading fast.
Screeching tires sounded from outside where a car skidded to avoid collision with an offending automobile. As Rayburn reflexively turned his head toward the noise, the attendant summoned all his remaining strength and lunged for the hidden weapon. Packages of Marlboros and Winstons scattered to the floor, and the attendant could see the shiny blade of the knife glittering in the fluorescent light, as the thief, reacting quickly, stabbed the attendant’s thigh. Sprawled across the floor, the injured man brought the revolver into firing position, leveled it at his assailant’s face and emptied two quick rounds that ended the wrath of Rufus Rayburn.
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