Cicada (21 page)

“So? Where is he?” Tippen demanded, his eyes falling on each of them in turn. They shrugged dumbly. “Where’s Nugget? You call ‘im?” Tippen asked Jeffery.

“TR did.”

The deputy turned to TR. “Um, yeah,” he mumbled, “nobody answered.”

“So? Did ya go out there?”

“You didn’t tell us to. You said to come here,” Jeffery explained defensively.

From his place off in the shadows of the warehouse, Miles Perkins guffawed in disbelief and spat again.

“Pritchard, you shit for brains, drive out there and get that morbid fucker back over here,” Jimbo ordered. He turned to the deputy and rolled his eyes as if to say his other two companions were the problem, not him.

“Why me?” Jeffery whined.

“And you,” the deputy sighed to Jimbo in a hushed voice, as if fearing someone else might hear, “Get that damn rebel-flag painted piece of shit you call a truck and park it out back. How do ya think Sayre know’d it was y’all in the first place?”

Miles Perkins couldn’t take anymore. “Better yet, why don’t the lot of ya get the hell away from my place of business altogether? I don’t need you dragging me in on this.”

“Yes, sir,” Deputy Tippen said, followed by a round of muttered acquiescence from the rest.

Nobody, not even the deputy, wanted to get on Miles Perkins’s bad side. He was the Klan’s Grand Dragon, after all. The four men shuffled obediently out of the warehouse doors and into the rain.

Although it was TR who initially spotted John standing at the left end of the loading dock with his shotgun leveled at them, John ignored him and shot Deputy Tippen first. After all, the deputy was armed. Tippen had just begun to turn to John as the blast tore into his ribcage, spinning him about, snapping and splintering spine. TR screamed an incoherent guttural wail but didn’t move. Jeffery, not even sure what was happening, instinctively dove for the parking lot. Jimbo turned to run back inside after freezing in shock when the deputy spilled at his feet. It was a pause that proved fatal. As John was pumping another round into the chamber while bringing the barrel back down from the recoil, his second shot caught Jimbo Henry David Dillard in the neck and jaw. Jimbo’s all but decapitated frame was violently blown sideways into the dazed TR, who made no effort to catch the body as it thudded and sloshed onto the loading dock like a split sack of grain.

Jeffery Pritchard might have gotten away if he hadn’t slipped in the mud and fallen twice in his panic. John turned his attention on him then and was firing the second of two rounds into his back when TR finally managed to come to his senses. He screamed anew and charged across the loading dock. John whirled about to fire his fifth shot into TR, but the man was too quick and got to the side of the barrel as it went off, completely missing him. TR’s fist caught John in the temple and the two went down in a heap.

With the startling report of the first shot, Miles Perkins’s head snapped up from the pornographic magazine in his swollen hands. At first he thought lightning had struck. But in an instant he knew that was not the case. He could see John from his vantage, but he could see the boys. Absolute terror distorted TR’s face as first the deputy went down and then Jimbo’s head exploded. Because of his obesity Miles was slow to his feet, but as he struggled he freed his dog Mack.

“Git that sumbitch!” he roared.

Mack did as his master commanded, flying across the concrete floor in a flurry of scrambling feet. Miles produced a sawed-off double barrel twelve gauge from behind the hay bales near at hand, and, leaving his cane behind, followed as best he could in an awkwardly hurried waddle. He was just reaching the warehouse doors when, from the loading dock, three sharp pops were fired in rapid succession. The fat proprietor recognized that a pistol had now come into play and so as he ducked out into the rain he ridiculously held one hand outstretched in front of him as if it could ward off or catch any bullets meant for him. As Perkins emerged with his eyes all but closed and his head cocked to one side locked in a grimace of trepidation, two more reports rang out, punctuated by an anguished yelp from Mack as John hurled the dying dog off of him and on top of the bullet-riddled body of TR.

“You mother fucker!” Miles leveled his shotgun on John Sayre, who was sitting up on the dock in a swirl of bloody rainwater, his legs stretched out towards Miles Perkins in an inverted V. Where Mack had gotten to him, John’s left forearm was torn open and gushing.

Perkins fired and John answered with the last round of the snub-nosed pistol he’d just used to finish off TR and Mack.

Their shots were simultaneous, but completely different in outcome. John Sayre took the full blast in his chest and left shoulder and it blew him down onto his back. In return, John’s slug ripped off the better part of the big man’s right ear. Unlike the gaping hole in John Sayre’s chest, Miles’s mutilated ear was hardly a mortal wound. John realized this as his vision swirled, as though he’d entered a vortex of water, and the lead sky seemed to be closing in around him. Rain filled his open mouth, but he was helpless to close it. Then, as Miles stepped forward—his own bearded mouth twisting with the relish of shooting John one more time for good measure—the fat man’s face blanched. The shotgun slipped from his grip and clamored to the loading dock.

One of the last things John Sayre witnessed as his life scattered off into the rain was Miles Perkins gag and claw at his chest before collapsing face down at his feet; the Klan’s Grand Dragon had been struck dead from a massive heart attack. Relieved, John let his head droop to the side. In his fading vision the fiberglass stallion coin ride seemed to be leaping over him, mane flowing wild, lips turned back, mouth open wide, a magnificent beast frozen in its eternal charge.

Green Pines Cemetery caretaker Dennis Hart pulled himself up from the finished grave. “Nearly the smallest and most certainly the last,” he said to the inquisitive crow which had been observing him for the past fifteen minutes. It cocked its sleek head to fix one glassy eye on him, and in so doing, the man was sure it understood. Dennis paused to close his eyes and take in the scent of fresh earth that was all about him.

“My sweet Granner used to say bury the wicked face down. That-a-way they can see where they’re headin’. But as for that lot of scoundrels,” he said and spat dryly off over his shoulder for the other bodies soon to follow in the days ahead, “well, for what I care, they can rot right out here on their backs gazin’ on Heaven, lookin’ on the place that they ain’t ever goin’ to know. I’m finished.”

Dennis tossed the shovel in what would soon be Timothy Sayre’s final resting place and left the cemetery in search of the bottle he hadn’t been acquainted with in several years. Once he’d gone, the crow, black and shiny as wet paint, alighted on the freshly overturned earth and began its search of grubs and other helplessly exposed insects.

The following day, Dennis’s head was still throbbing mightily even after the exertion of covering John and Timothy Sayre’s graves. The dull pain was almost enough to convince him to not attend the wake he’d been shocked to be invited to. He’d been standing nearby after the services when he realized that Frances was crossing the cemetery to speak with him. For the life of him he couldn’t imagine what the poor woman might have to say. Hopefully he’d done nothing to upset the widow. Did he appear as poorly as he felt, he fretted? Had he disrespected the proceedings in his besotted condition? But before his clouded mind could worry through another consideration, she was in front him.

“Ma’am,” Dennis said, bowing his head just enough to avoid her eyes.

“Mr. Hart, I just wanted to thank you for seeing after my son and husband.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sayre. Wished there was more I could do. Very sorry,” he repeated.

She held her small clutch purse tightly against her midsection with both hands and nodded. “We’ll be attending to the wake now at my home. I know we don’t know one another, but would be only fitting that you attend. Will you please accept my invitation?” she said.

Dennis almost mumbled something about it being his job and nothing more. Thankfully, however, he wasn’t the kind of man who spoke the moment words came to mind. After a brief hesitation he said, “It’d be my honor, ma’am.”

Now, with the mourners all gone, and the graves finished, Dennis wished he could get out of it. Nobody would take notice that he’d failed to appear, he told himself even as he showered and laid out his only formal wear.

…

Many of the men had moved out onto the front porch, but to no avail; there was no breeze and the stifling heat cocooned them in their obligatory dark suit jackets and strangling ties. Four of that number were idling together around the porch swing, none too quietly discussing the events of the days just passed. All stood. They were men not accustomed to one another’s company, but after several rounds of drinks they’d begun to abandon their unfamiliarity with each other. This was especially true for Sheriff Gladwell and Dennis Hart, both of whom were on the verge of drunkenness from the bottle of expensive bourbon Dennis had brought. The gravedigger’s saving grace was his Navy dress white uniform. He’d created quite the flurry of hurried and hushed exchanges when he’d arrived.

The third of the small party of men on the porch, the man known by all as Uncle Ned, the barbershop owner, was nursing a highball of lemonade mixed with gin and letting the Sheriff do most of the talking. Dennis was silent as well. Ben sipped a sweaty bottle of beer, hardly speaking, but repeatedly nodding agreement through watery eyes.

“Tippen never mentioned you stopping by,” the Sheriff was repeating for the third time to Dennis. “And don’t think I don’t find that odd. Maybe John Sayre knew more than we’ve figured so far. My investigation ain’t over by a long shot.”

Minister Joshua Lee Scott stepped up, squeezing one foot into their small circle as if to better join them as he firmly planted the other in his mouth. “This only proves what I have ministered for weeks now…the coloreds are nothing but trouble,” he said as he moved in and quickly turned to Ben with, “No offense.” And then to the others, “I have promised—”

The folks gathered in the living room couldn’t help but hear him begin his declarations only to hear as he was berated and then completely drowned out by those sharing the porch with him but not his opinion.

“Blue ribbon nitwit,” the Sheriff growled after they’d finally shouted him down and sent the man running inside for more sympathetic ears. He would find none.

Uncle Ned snorted his amusement to see him go and two of the other three men nodded.

Sheriff Gladwell polished off his bourbon with a great shaking of the few ice cubes left behind and then elaborated as he refilled his glass. “See, there, see there’s more than half the problem. You got people…people who should be trying to lead this community towards something Christian, and instead they’re climbin’ on their soapboxes an’ shittin’ in the pot. Jus’ stirrin’ and shittin’.” As he continued repeating himself, the Sheriff looked to Ben for an affirmation. “Am I right?” The big man only nodded once more seemingly in agreement.

The Sheriff abruptly dropped his voice, although far from low enough for what he said next. “You should heard mister high and mighty in there the other day when he called my office. ‘Sheriff, Sheriff, you gotta do somethin’. He’s gotta bat and I fear he’s goin’ after ‘em what to do somethin’ awful.’”

The other three men exchanged nervous glances.

“Bat. Phewff. Must have been John changed his mind by the time he got out there, huh?” the Sheriff said with a dangerous wave of his bourbon. “He sure gave that lot what they had comin’.” The Sheriff reached out and grabbed hold of the porch swing’s chain to steady himself. He swayed as though at sea. Dennis watched him for a moment and was forced to take up the other side of the swing to keep from mirroring the Sheriff’s motion.

“You fellas mind,” Uncle Ned said as he eased onto the swing. “I live on my feet, don’t you know and my boys are barking.”

The other muttered their
not ‘t’alls
as the big man shifted his weight onto the creaking swing.

“Miles Perkins. I’m glad to see the son-a-bitch go, too,” the Sheriff carried on. “I can tell you that. Goddamned Klan.”

Several women who had been sharing the living room exchanged nervous glances to hear so clearly through the open windows. As such, they all rose as one and moved off for the kitchen under the direction of one of their elder members. As they went, Uncle Ned smiled and nodded politely if not apologetically through the screen. He was relieved he wasn’t going to have to ask the Sheriff to
pipe down
, or worse, ask him to leave.

“I’d better be goin’, I ‘magine,” Ben said, looking for a place to discard his still half-full beer bottle. He wasn’t about to go into the kitchen.

“Like hell!” Gladwell argued. “Here now, let’s get another round. I’m off duty and I might just stay that way. Permanent, you know what I mean? Y’all understand? Permanent!”

Dennis Hart raised his glass to this and the two men drank.

“No, I really should go.”

But the Sheriff kept at him. He stepped in and lowered his eyebrows while raising a finger. “You,” he paused over-dramatically, “are a family friend here. You helped this man work his farm. He thought the world of you. You can’t just up and go. Stay a spell. Sit, sit,” he urged as Uncle Ned slid over to accommodate him.

Ben was sure it was only the whiskey taking the Sheriff’s tongue out for a walk—as his Uncle Saul was wont to say—but he couldn’t help but be moved to think there might be some kernel of truth to what the drunken man said.

“Okay, then. Just for a little bit longer, I ‘spose.”

“There you go. Now you’re talkin’. Yes.”

And with that the porch grew quiet for a long while. It was a silence welcomed by all, even for the man who had been speaking.

Frances was a bit surprised to find the back porch empty of mourners, only then to discover that it was not. Far off at one end, Casey sat with his legs dangling over the side and his shoulder against the house. The boy was just the size of Buckshot and in finding him there so unexpectedly, Frances gasped. Casey turned, clearly startled as well, and Frances exhaled just as audibly to realize her foolish mistake.