Episode 2
Grampa lit up his pipe and I watched a swirl of white smoke circle his head like a Christmas wreath.
“There’s beer in the ice box. You want one?”
“Uh, no, Grampa.”
“I do. Get me one. There’s a good fellow.”
Outside a cricket started up, kicking a cricket symphony into high gear. A dog passed by the road at the far end, stopped, sniffed, and continued on. I opened a beer, poured it into a tall glass from the freezer, and handed it to Grampa. He took a drink and set the glass on the side table. I sat back down, leaning forward, waiting for the punchline or the explanation, whichever was to come next.
“Giovanni da Verrazzano visited the south tip of the North Carolina coast in 1524 and called the place Promontorium Tremendum.”
I looked at him, dipping my head slightly. He glanced at me.
“Cape Fear,” he said as if I should have known. “And it’s been that ever since. Dangerous place! Fierce weather, treacherous shoals and currents, all add up to bad news for sailors.”
Grampa sat back, puffed the pipe, then leaned forward again.
“Your great-great-great-great… grandfather Thomas Wilfred Donny was a sailor. He sailed from Bristol with the British Navy as a young man assigned the lowest and most dangerous task on board a ship – Powder Monkey – Gunner’s Assistant. The young assistants were treated badly, rarely paid, and had little chance of advancement – in fact, it was most likely they’d be the first killed in any sort of fight.”
“Why’d he take the job? I would have turned it down.” I had him there.
“Couldn’t,” was Grampa’s reply. “It was go to sea or starve in Bristol, and once aboard, you did what you were told. He was a Powder Monkey or he would be hanged – that was all there was to it. Life at sea was hard.”
Grampa sat back, reflecting on how hard the British Navy must have been. Outside, I saw the afternoon light begin to fade. It had taken me most of the day to drive. I looked around for a light. As I did, Grampa twisted in his chair, picked up a dimmer switch from the floor beside him and a light in the corner behind him came alive. He sucked a full breath and continued.
“That was before the light at Bald Head Island. It was tricky working a sailing vessel through those waters, but that is one of the things that made it a haven for pirates. Topsail Island got its name from the pirate ships that moored there; you couldn’t see anything but their topsails.
“It was in 1717 that young Thomas Donny became reassigned at random to the crew of a coastal merchant ship. He leaped at he chance, though he didn’t dare show it. Though it was a smaller vessel under dubious leadership, anything would be better then the life of a Powder Monkey.
“The merchantman was soon captured by one of the most famous pirates there was, one Stede Bonnet, the ‘Gentleman Pirate.’ The crew was taken hostage and informed that they could sail...” Grampa raised his head with the words, “...or swing.” He dropped his head and looked at me through bushy furrowed eyebrows.
“Bald Head Island was their favorite stopping point to get food. Blackbeard himself used the place quite a lot. In fact, it was there that Captain Bonnet met Captain Teach and fate took a turn for your great-great-great… er, grandfather.”
Grampa sat back again, puffed his pipe, turned it over, and tapped it on his palm over a metal trashcan at his feet. The ashes dumped out and he set the pipe on a circular pipe stand on the shelf to his right.
“Grampa, go on – you can’t stop there!” I broke in.
“How ‘bout some food? You hungry?”
“No! Please, go on.”
“Just trying to be sociable is all. Bald Head Island wasn’t just used for a watering hole. No, it was sometimes used as a bank vault. A lot of times a pirate’s loot was more supply than gold: food and water, powder and shot, or tools and lumber. But sometimes there were treasure chests and when they got worrisome, the pirates would put them someplace safe.
“It was just after Bonnet and Blackbeard joined up that Blackbeard set one of his officers to run Bonnet’s ship. Bonnet agreed, though he had little choice in the matter; he wasn’t much of a seaman. Young Thomas Donny was off the ship getting water when a short-crew passed him up with a chest. He had learned that the way to survive, be it British Navy, merchantman or pirate vessel, is to keep your head down. He was busy keepin’ his head down when the short-crew came back the other way only without the chest.
“Once they were gone, he followed the footprints to a place where the ground was just turned. A whistle sounded 'return to ship', so he noted the spot. That night, according to his letters, a squall came up and it rained to beat all, removing any track or trace of the previous day’s adventures.
“It was pretty soon after the siege of Charles Town of that year when they returned to these waters. Blackbeard convinced Bonnet that it would be best if they were to get pardons and Bonnet set out with some of the pirates to see Governor Eden at Bath Town. It was then that Thomas Donny saw a chance to slip away.”
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Powder Monkey of Cape Fear
Episode 1
I suppose you could say I stumbled over my inheritance. After all, I stumbled over everything else in life. I stumbled over my college grant and wound up majoring in horticulture instead of theater. I stumbled over my job making television commercials when a favor to a friend turned into a career. Planning was obviously wasted on me.
Let’s go back. It was not too long ago that I received a call from my grandfather Thomas, age 89, saying that he would like to see me before he “moved along in the great scheme of things”.
Grandfather Thomas Wilfred Donnalson was the colorful old man of the family who was always fond of saying things like that, or “It’s Earth, y’know – no one’s gettin’ out alive.”
I was named for my eloquent grandfather, as he was named for his grandfather and he was named for his. The last name, however, seemed to change with every voter registration. Grandfather Thomas’s grandfather was Thomas Wilfred Donnallton and his grandfather was Thomas Wilfred Donnally, and before him the enigma of the family, Thomas Wilfred Donny, 1698-1763.
The finer points of a cloudy family history, missing certain parts and shrouded in mystery, had been pretty boring to me even as a child. Now at twenty-six I had other things on my mind; but being a dutiful grandson, I made some time and headed down to Grampa Tom’s place in Wilmington.
As I pulled my Jeep off Oleander, the familiar off-white sand and long-needle pine trees reminded me of earlier days visiting Grampa. The house had since become his ‘Hermitage’ and was sorely in need of repair.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” I said aloud, noticing the overgrown yard and neglected porch. Grampa’s boat sat in the yard, not looking very seaworthy.
“Don’t sell ‘er short,” said a scratchy voice from within. “She’s withstood everything Ol’ Lady Nature could throw. Come in, Tom.”
“Grampa Tom?” I said, pulling open the storm door.
“Come in and sit down. There’s a few things to go over and I feel something powerful pulling at me.”
“How are you doing?” I tried to sound like I could do something about it if the answer was bad.
“Oh! Me? I’m doing great! I just can’t stay long. Got places to go and I’m packin’ light. No one takes a knapsack into heaven.”
I smiled – I was in the right place. Gramps was his old enigmatic self.
“What’s up, Grampa?”
“Sit down. There’s history to impart.”
I pulled up a straight-backed chair, the only one in sight, and sat down to await the ramblings of the colorful old dodger with a patient smile.
“Don’t gimme that smile; that’s your father’s smile, I’d know it anywhere. It’s that ‘Go on, rattle away’ smile I always get from him. Listen up, this is important.”
“OK, OK, sorry,” I said, pulling my chair a half-inch closer and trying not to do my father’s cynical smile.
“Why do you think you’re a Donnalson?” He flashed an elfish twinkle.
“Never thought about it.” It was true. I hadn’t.
“Why not a Donnallton or a Donnally or” he paused to be sure he had my attention, then said with great import, “a Donny.”
The old man sat back, smiling, waiting for the light bulb to go off in my head. When it didn’t, the luster faded from his face.
“Alright, boy, I can see I’m in for it. It was easy for me to change it to Donnalson. It was wartime, records were slippery – Giuseppe Verde became Joe Green due to anti-Italian sentiment, Viktor Schmidt became Vic Smith, and so on. Lots of people changed their names, but I changed it because Donnallton was getting a bit familiar in these parts.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason that my grandfather changed it from Donnally and his grandfather changed it from Donny – Blackbeard’s treasure.”
My eyebrows went up.
“I see I have your attention.” He sat back with a satisfied smile.
I suppose you could say I stumbled over my inheritance. After all, I stumbled over everything else in life. I stumbled over my college grant and wound up majoring in horticulture instead of theater. I stumbled over my job making television commercials when a favor to a friend turned into a career. Planning was obviously wasted on me.
Let’s go back. It was not too long ago that I received a call from my grandfather Thomas, age 89, saying that he would like to see me before he “moved along in the great scheme of things”.
Grandfather Thomas Wilfred Donnalson was the colorful old man of the family who was always fond of saying things like that, or “It’s Earth, y’know – no one’s gettin’ out alive.”
I was named for my eloquent grandfather, as he was named for his grandfather and he was named for his. The last name, however, seemed to change with every voter registration. Grandfather Thomas’s grandfather was Thomas Wilfred Donnallton and his grandfather was Thomas Wilfred Donnally, and before him the enigma of the family, Thomas Wilfred Donny, 1698-1763.
The finer points of a cloudy family history, missing certain parts and shrouded in mystery, had been pretty boring to me even as a child. Now at twenty-six I had other things on my mind; but being a dutiful grandson, I made some time and headed down to Grampa Tom’s place in Wilmington.
As I pulled my Jeep off Oleander, the familiar off-white sand and long-needle pine trees reminded me of earlier days visiting Grampa. The house had since become his ‘Hermitage’ and was sorely in need of repair.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” I said aloud, noticing the overgrown yard and neglected porch. Grampa’s boat sat in the yard, not looking very seaworthy.
“Don’t sell ‘er short,” said a scratchy voice from within. “She’s withstood everything Ol’ Lady Nature could throw. Come in, Tom.”
“Grampa Tom?” I said, pulling open the storm door.
“Come in and sit down. There’s a few things to go over and I feel something powerful pulling at me.”
“How are you doing?” I tried to sound like I could do something about it if the answer was bad.
“Oh! Me? I’m doing great! I just can’t stay long. Got places to go and I’m packin’ light. No one takes a knapsack into heaven.”
I smiled – I was in the right place. Gramps was his old enigmatic self.
“What’s up, Grampa?”
“Sit down. There’s history to impart.”
I pulled up a straight-backed chair, the only one in sight, and sat down to await the ramblings of the colorful old dodger with a patient smile.
“Don’t gimme that smile; that’s your father’s smile, I’d know it anywhere. It’s that ‘Go on, rattle away’ smile I always get from him. Listen up, this is important.”
“OK, OK, sorry,” I said, pulling my chair a half-inch closer and trying not to do my father’s cynical smile.
“Why do you think you’re a Donnalson?” He flashed an elfish twinkle.
“Never thought about it.” It was true. I hadn’t.
“Why not a Donnallton or a Donnally or” he paused to be sure he had my attention, then said with great import, “a Donny.”
The old man sat back, smiling, waiting for the light bulb to go off in my head. When it didn’t, the luster faded from his face.
“Alright, boy, I can see I’m in for it. It was easy for me to change it to Donnalson. It was wartime, records were slippery – Giuseppe Verde became Joe Green due to anti-Italian sentiment, Viktor Schmidt became Vic Smith, and so on. Lots of people changed their names, but I changed it because Donnallton was getting a bit familiar in these parts.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason that my grandfather changed it from Donnally and his grandfather changed it from Donny – Blackbeard’s treasure.”
My eyebrows went up.
“I see I have your attention.” He sat back with a satisfied smile.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 6
Sophie Keaton opened her eyes. She sat up, listening. Was it a dream? Or did she hear a shotgun?
It could have been a dream; the memory of waking up to that very sound when she was six, going out to find her mother lying in the front yard. Her father, drunk and barely able to stand, leaning on his shotgun, was cussing her. “You'll never question me again, you shrew!” he screamed. After that she stayed with her aunt in Thaxter country until she was old enough to run away from home without anyone coming after her.
It could have been a dream. But it didn't seem like a dream, it sounded different, not so close up. Sophie put on her robe and went to the back door.
Out through the trees lay Thompson Bog, a place to stay away from, day or night. Lights shone in the distance and she felt a chill that was not from the growing cold of the night. She walked in her bare feet down through the yard to the edge of the trees, when she stopped suddenly. There was a voice. It was the voice of the man who had just left her, Chief McLean.
“Somebody call for an ambulance! Can anybody hear me?” screamed McLean. As Al Gaither came upon him, McLean sat holding Martha Sawyer in his arms, her eyes were glazed over and blood poured from her side. On the bog, a dark figure stood up in a small boat. The man lost his footing and steadied himself with his shotgun.
“Dare we move her?” yelled Al, trying to assess the situation.
“I don't know. She's been shot.”
“I'll go for help. The hospital is not far,” Al yelled over his shoulder as he turned and headed for his car.
McLean called after him, “Sophie Keaton's house is on the way, up Turner's Trace, she's got a phone, that'll save time.”
Al ran as fast as he could, then stopped short at the chief's Chrysler; the keys were still in it. He jumped inside and sped down the road, the last instruction still ringing in his ears.
As he pulled out of the dirt lane onto the two-lane blacktop, he narrowly missed hitting Harlen Eldridge's car. Eldridge recognized the face of his hired detective in the chief's car and followed for news. He spun around and drove after the big Chrysler toward Sophie's place.
Sophie was just opening the front door when the Chief's Chrysler pulled into her driveway. But it was not the chief who got out, it was a stranger.
“I need to use your phone. Chief McLean says you've got one.”
“In here,” said Sophie and she threw the door open. She had heard her name yelled across the swamp by the man who had left her less than an hour before. Now came a stranger in his car to use the phone.
“Hospital? I need an ambulance right away, it's an emergency, someone's been shot. Down Old New Hope Church Road to Thompson Bog.”
As he followed his hired private eye in the chief's car, Harlen Eldridge saw a familiar Ford tearing down the two-lane at breakneck speed; it was his son-in-law, the detective. Harlen slowed a little, letting the Ford get some distance, then made a u-turn and sped up to keep pace. One thing was for sure, thought Harlen, Frank knew the way. They were heading for the Miller place.
Chief McLean sat on the ground holding Martha Sawyer's head on his lap. He smoothed her forehead with his left hand as he held his handkerchief to the wound at her side with his right.
“Don't you worry, Martha. Ambulance is comin', then they'll get you to the hospital and fix you up proper.”
Out on the bog, the dim lantern bobbed gently, set in motion by Collin Miller trying to steady himself in the unstable boat. He had shot at a prowler, someone who came to take his Clara. Now he was standing in water and his boat was sinking.
Off to one side of the pier, a figure was rising as if out of the swamp. The strange, formless shape limped across the few feet of swampland that separated them and into the beam of Chief McLean's flashlight, lying on the ground next to him. It was Ed Riggs.
Before either could speak, the roar of a car engine caught them. The black Ford pulled up to the trailer and skidded to a stop. Without turning the lights or engine off, Frank Morton got out, his gun was drawn.
Behind the Ford, another pair of lights appeared. The large Chrysler slid to a stop behind Morton's car and the door flew open.
Frank Morton saw the figure, dark and formless behind the bright beams. The man raised what looked like a rifle and yelled, “Morton!”
Morton fired. The man faltered. He fired again. The man staggered against the car, slumping into the light from the dome through the open door. Frank fired a third shot before he realized that his target was Harlen Eldridge. What he thought was a rifle had been his father-in-law's walking cane.
Frank felt the pistol taken from his hand, his arms pulled behind him and handcuffs closed on his wrists. He slowly turned his head to see Chief McLean's unmistakable scowl directed at him. Beyond the chief lay Martha Sawyer, her head on the muddy lap of Ed Riggs. The sinking feeling that he felt a moment before continued as he realized that he had all but confessed to Ed Riggs, the man still alive and sitting on the ground next to Thompson Bog.
Ed Riggs sat on the front stoop of the Miller trailer in the glow of the single bare bulb from inside and the headlights from three police cars. The doctor was dressing his leg. Chief McLean came up and rested a foot on the stoop.
“You gonna be OK?” he asked his Detective Sergeant.
“Yeah, Jethro, now I am. The Miller girl is in the swamp, weighed down - I think by the cinder-block anchor from old man Miller's boat.”
“Yeah, we figured. Miller's devastated, but he's also under arrest for shooting Martha.”
“She gonna pull through?”
Chief McLean looked at the disappearing taillights, the waning siren as the ambulance jostled up the dirt road back to the county highway. “I don't know. She was hit pretty bad. She came out here looking for you, you know.”
“She's a good girl. And Frank?” asked Ed.
Chief McLean sucked in a hard breath.
“In cuffs. He shot Harlen Eldridge in cold blood. My guess is he killed the Miller girl too.”
“Yeah, that's my guess too. I think she might have put the screws to him, wanted him to leave his wife or she'd tell, something like that. There's a mark on her head could have been a pistol butt.”
“You saw her up close?” Chief McLean turned back to look at the detective's face in the glow of the car lights.
“Yeah. It's a picture that I won't get out of my head soon.”
Martha Sawyer died from her wounds before she reached the hospital. She was never aware that they had found Ed Riggs in the swamp.
Collin Miller was charged with murder. He died in jail of a heart attack while awaiting trial.
Ed Riggs filled out his report and went home for a much needed rest.
Chief McLean went back to Sophie's place where he poured himself a stiff drink and fell asleep on her lap.
Edna Morton eventually divorced her husband, liquidated her holdings and moved out of state, returning to her maiden name of Eldridge.
Frank Morton was charged with the murder of his father-in-law and that of Clara Miller. The Miller girl was found to have been pregnant at the time of her death. Frank received consecutive life sentences.
Al Gaither returned home to find his wife waiting up for him. She looked up from her book. “Rough night?” she asked. “No, about usual,” he replied.
To this day, no one has moved into the trailer at Thompson Bog.
Sophie Keaton opened her eyes. She sat up, listening. Was it a dream? Or did she hear a shotgun?
It could have been a dream; the memory of waking up to that very sound when she was six, going out to find her mother lying in the front yard. Her father, drunk and barely able to stand, leaning on his shotgun, was cussing her. “You'll never question me again, you shrew!” he screamed. After that she stayed with her aunt in Thaxter country until she was old enough to run away from home without anyone coming after her.
It could have been a dream. But it didn't seem like a dream, it sounded different, not so close up. Sophie put on her robe and went to the back door.
Out through the trees lay Thompson Bog, a place to stay away from, day or night. Lights shone in the distance and she felt a chill that was not from the growing cold of the night. She walked in her bare feet down through the yard to the edge of the trees, when she stopped suddenly. There was a voice. It was the voice of the man who had just left her, Chief McLean.
“Somebody call for an ambulance! Can anybody hear me?” screamed McLean. As Al Gaither came upon him, McLean sat holding Martha Sawyer in his arms, her eyes were glazed over and blood poured from her side. On the bog, a dark figure stood up in a small boat. The man lost his footing and steadied himself with his shotgun.
“Dare we move her?” yelled Al, trying to assess the situation.
“I don't know. She's been shot.”
“I'll go for help. The hospital is not far,” Al yelled over his shoulder as he turned and headed for his car.
McLean called after him, “Sophie Keaton's house is on the way, up Turner's Trace, she's got a phone, that'll save time.”
Al ran as fast as he could, then stopped short at the chief's Chrysler; the keys were still in it. He jumped inside and sped down the road, the last instruction still ringing in his ears.
As he pulled out of the dirt lane onto the two-lane blacktop, he narrowly missed hitting Harlen Eldridge's car. Eldridge recognized the face of his hired detective in the chief's car and followed for news. He spun around and drove after the big Chrysler toward Sophie's place.
Sophie was just opening the front door when the Chief's Chrysler pulled into her driveway. But it was not the chief who got out, it was a stranger.
“I need to use your phone. Chief McLean says you've got one.”
“In here,” said Sophie and she threw the door open. She had heard her name yelled across the swamp by the man who had left her less than an hour before. Now came a stranger in his car to use the phone.
“Hospital? I need an ambulance right away, it's an emergency, someone's been shot. Down Old New Hope Church Road to Thompson Bog.”
As he followed his hired private eye in the chief's car, Harlen Eldridge saw a familiar Ford tearing down the two-lane at breakneck speed; it was his son-in-law, the detective. Harlen slowed a little, letting the Ford get some distance, then made a u-turn and sped up to keep pace. One thing was for sure, thought Harlen, Frank knew the way. They were heading for the Miller place.
Chief McLean sat on the ground holding Martha Sawyer's head on his lap. He smoothed her forehead with his left hand as he held his handkerchief to the wound at her side with his right.
“Don't you worry, Martha. Ambulance is comin', then they'll get you to the hospital and fix you up proper.”
Out on the bog, the dim lantern bobbed gently, set in motion by Collin Miller trying to steady himself in the unstable boat. He had shot at a prowler, someone who came to take his Clara. Now he was standing in water and his boat was sinking.
Off to one side of the pier, a figure was rising as if out of the swamp. The strange, formless shape limped across the few feet of swampland that separated them and into the beam of Chief McLean's flashlight, lying on the ground next to him. It was Ed Riggs.
Before either could speak, the roar of a car engine caught them. The black Ford pulled up to the trailer and skidded to a stop. Without turning the lights or engine off, Frank Morton got out, his gun was drawn.
Behind the Ford, another pair of lights appeared. The large Chrysler slid to a stop behind Morton's car and the door flew open.
Frank Morton saw the figure, dark and formless behind the bright beams. The man raised what looked like a rifle and yelled, “Morton!”
Morton fired. The man faltered. He fired again. The man staggered against the car, slumping into the light from the dome through the open door. Frank fired a third shot before he realized that his target was Harlen Eldridge. What he thought was a rifle had been his father-in-law's walking cane.
Frank felt the pistol taken from his hand, his arms pulled behind him and handcuffs closed on his wrists. He slowly turned his head to see Chief McLean's unmistakable scowl directed at him. Beyond the chief lay Martha Sawyer, her head on the muddy lap of Ed Riggs. The sinking feeling that he felt a moment before continued as he realized that he had all but confessed to Ed Riggs, the man still alive and sitting on the ground next to Thompson Bog.
Ed Riggs sat on the front stoop of the Miller trailer in the glow of the single bare bulb from inside and the headlights from three police cars. The doctor was dressing his leg. Chief McLean came up and rested a foot on the stoop.
“You gonna be OK?” he asked his Detective Sergeant.
“Yeah, Jethro, now I am. The Miller girl is in the swamp, weighed down - I think by the cinder-block anchor from old man Miller's boat.”
“Yeah, we figured. Miller's devastated, but he's also under arrest for shooting Martha.”
“She gonna pull through?”
Chief McLean looked at the disappearing taillights, the waning siren as the ambulance jostled up the dirt road back to the county highway. “I don't know. She was hit pretty bad. She came out here looking for you, you know.”
“She's a good girl. And Frank?” asked Ed.
Chief McLean sucked in a hard breath.
“In cuffs. He shot Harlen Eldridge in cold blood. My guess is he killed the Miller girl too.”
“Yeah, that's my guess too. I think she might have put the screws to him, wanted him to leave his wife or she'd tell, something like that. There's a mark on her head could have been a pistol butt.”
“You saw her up close?” Chief McLean turned back to look at the detective's face in the glow of the car lights.
“Yeah. It's a picture that I won't get out of my head soon.”
Martha Sawyer died from her wounds before she reached the hospital. She was never aware that they had found Ed Riggs in the swamp.
Collin Miller was charged with murder. He died in jail of a heart attack while awaiting trial.
Ed Riggs filled out his report and went home for a much needed rest.
Chief McLean went back to Sophie's place where he poured himself a stiff drink and fell asleep on her lap.
Edna Morton eventually divorced her husband, liquidated her holdings and moved out of state, returning to her maiden name of Eldridge.
Frank Morton was charged with the murder of his father-in-law and that of Clara Miller. The Miller girl was found to have been pregnant at the time of her death. Frank received consecutive life sentences.
Al Gaither returned home to find his wife waiting up for him. She looked up from her book. “Rough night?” she asked. “No, about usual,” he replied.
To this day, no one has moved into the trailer at Thompson Bog.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 5
Ed Riggs groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He was sitting on cold, damp ground, but it was solid. He reached into the water and brought a handful up, pouring it over his calf where the sharp pain fixed his attention. The water felt good on his leg. He touched his pants and found them torn. On his calf was an open wound, a gash. It wasn't deep, but it hurt like the blazes.
He looked around, but couldn't see anything near that would give him a hand up. The trees were smooth with no low-hanging branches. The pier was too far to reach; he had drifted, as did the body of Clara Miller, away from the old pier. There was nothing to do but to sit there and gather his strength. He certainly wasn't going to walk through the swamp with one shoe and an open wound.
He wondered if Clara was pregnant. Did that spark an argument? Frank was easy enough to argue with. There wasn't much you could say to him that didn't illicit a negative response. If she announced she had become pregnant, that could have sealed her fate. Frank didn't want kids. That's just one of the many things that Harlan had against him, that he would never be a grandfather while Frank was wielding the baby-maker.
Ed lay back on the cold, hard ground. His hand fell to his side and into the water, letting him know that he was just inches away from the swamp.
Inches. His life was just spared by inches. Clara had died by inches. The fear in her eyes, the mouth frozen in a silent scream, showed that she probably was still alive when she went under. The coroner would probably find for murder-by-drowning rather than blunt-force-trauma, the mark of the gun butt notwithstanding.
He strained his ears for sounds of engines, of shouting, of someone coming to search for him. If he wanted to, Frank could summon up to six officers to join in the search without even trying. If he roused the town's folk, he could get 30 or more out. But he had just sat there, squatting on the pier, talking to him in his soft voice, the voice that told Ed Riggs everything he needed to know.
“Sorry,” he had said. But Frank Morton wasn't sorry. The soft voice held a sneer that told a different story. Ed Riggs had to face facts, Frank Morton wanted him dead and only left without further violence because he thought that was already the case.
Out on the dirt road, through the trees, came the sound of a car engine, then another. Lights came through the trees and down the dirt road. They drove up to the trailer and stopped. First one light, then another, shown through the complete darkness. Help was on the way.
Al Gaither pulled his car around the far end of the property to a place where he could see the Miller trailer. He was driving without headlights, hoping he wouldn't run into anything, or anyone. He cut the engine a distance from the trailer. He had long since removed the inside bulb, so no light went on when he opened the door. He left the door open, partly so it wouldn't be heard closing and partly to facilitate a fast getaway if needed.
The Miller trailer was dark. It could be he was too early and the lovers were still entwined, or that he was too late and the man had already left. He settled in for a long night in case it was the former.
There was a light that caught his eye, but it wasn't in the trailer, it was off in the swamp. An oil lamp shown through the trees from the bog, slightly moving. Someone had a light going in a small boat.
Al stood up and moved quietly forward. As he moved around the trailer, he noticed that the black Ford was not there. Perhaps he was too late and the visitor was already gone. The Miller girl was probably in her bed fast asleep, looking innocent for when her father came home from his shift in a few hours.
Two headlights came into view down the dirt road from the county highway, headlights moving toward the swamp, toward him as well. It wasn't the Ford that was usually there, the lover; it was a Chevy wagon.
Soon another joined it, a big car, with one dim headlight.
He went around the trailer to see who had arrived. There was still dust settling where the cars had driven up the road. They stopped at the trailer and doors were opened and closed. A flashlight beam broke the darkness. In the beam a man could be seen. There was a short exchange, then the man went to his trunk and brought out a second flashlight.
Together, both beams moved toward the small pier jutting out into the swamp. Al moved closer to find out who took interest in the pier at this late hour. He moved past the trailer, past the two cars toward the pair of flashlight beams. He was about to call out, when he heard the blast of a shotgun.
From the mound where he lay, Ed Riggs looked across the patch of swamp and the Miller yard beyond to where the two cars had stopped. Two flashlight beams were walking toward the pier where he had fallen. They were not that far away, he could yell to them, he thought. But he couldn't get the strength or breath to yell. He tried, but made a weak squeal instead.
He had figured out who killed Clara Miller and felt a renewed sense of purpose. He had to get back to the station, to call the coroner, to call the chief, to find his partner – the one who left him to die. But his body was fighting him, too weak and injured to comply. He looked around, trying to find a way to begin his new quest, to cry out to the searchers, to be rescued and take command of the situation once more. Then he heard the sound of a shotgun blast too close for comfort.
Collin Miller sat in his boat lulled to sleep by the crystal-clear brew the Belter boys had sold him and the gentle lapping of the water against his flat-bottomed boat. He snored himself awake, jerking a bit and having to recover his balance.
He noticed that the caulking had come loose again and the boat was slowly filling up, his boots were in an inch-and-a-half of water. He decided it might be time to go back in. He took the shotgun from his lap and began to lean it against the the seat so he could work the oars.
That's when he noticed the lights in his yard. They couldn't have spotted his truck, which he left in the woods behind his place. They must be coming for something, maybe his boat, which they couldn't see was missing from the pier. Maybe it was Clara's lover, and he's brought a friend. Maybe they were gonna have a party. He would fix 'em!
Collin Miller raised the shotgun and aimed it at the lights just coming onto the pier. He pulled the trigger and the gun went off, knocking him back into the boat, into the inch-and-a-half of water.
The sound shook Harlen Eldridge from his half-sleep. The empty glass fell from his hand and the sound as it hit the wooden porch made him wonder if he had really heard a shotgun report. Perhaps he just imagined it.
No, he was sure, it had been a shotgun. He grasped his ivory-handled walking stick and struggled up to his feet. The sound had come from the other side of the bog that bordered his land. There were some shacks over there, who-knows-what-all lived in them. Some trailers too, poor white trash or worse.
Harlen looked at the pictures still in his left hand and looked up across the yard to the trees that hid the swampland beyond from view. Could it be that old man Miller had found a solution, right or wrong, and had set it into play? Surely Gaither would have been there to record it all on film. Surely the police would come soon and see what the ruckus was. But what if it was something else? What else? He didn't know, but he had to be sure.
He opened the screen door and picked up the keys lying inside on the side table, turned back and hobbled down the stairs to the new Chrysler sedan sitting in front of the house at the near loop of the circular drive. He climbed into the driver's seat, turned on the lights and started it up. He headed toward the highway that would lead to the dirt road leading to the place where the pictures were taken, to where his son-in-law besmirched the family name with an underage trailer whore.
Frank Morton jerked awake. Did he forget to turn the television off? There was a noise that sounded like a shot. He rolled over to look at the clock and fell off of the couch onto the floor, hitting his head on the coffee table in the process. He struggled up from the floor. The television was still on, but there was a test pattern, not a show. The western was over, as was all programing for the day. Frank got up and switched the television off, then went to the front door. Outside a few neighborhood dogs were barking at the sudden noise that woke them as well as him, but all was still otherwise.
Then Frank Morton got a flash of an idea that made his eyes go wide. Had Miller gotten home and found some evidence of him? Had someone found the Miller girl's body, or Ed Riggs? Had the shotgun report been at someone mistaken for the crimes? Or at shadows in the swamp? In either case, he knew he had to somehow insert himself into the middle of the investigation to turn suspicion in other directions.
Frank grabbed his coat from the door, ran down the three steps to his car and started it up. In the side mirror he could see his wife's face appear at the window to see where he was off to at this hour. He saw her face diminish in the mirror as he sped down the gravel path to the two-lane that would lead him to Thompson Bog.
Ed Riggs groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He was sitting on cold, damp ground, but it was solid. He reached into the water and brought a handful up, pouring it over his calf where the sharp pain fixed his attention. The water felt good on his leg. He touched his pants and found them torn. On his calf was an open wound, a gash. It wasn't deep, but it hurt like the blazes.
He looked around, but couldn't see anything near that would give him a hand up. The trees were smooth with no low-hanging branches. The pier was too far to reach; he had drifted, as did the body of Clara Miller, away from the old pier. There was nothing to do but to sit there and gather his strength. He certainly wasn't going to walk through the swamp with one shoe and an open wound.
He wondered if Clara was pregnant. Did that spark an argument? Frank was easy enough to argue with. There wasn't much you could say to him that didn't illicit a negative response. If she announced she had become pregnant, that could have sealed her fate. Frank didn't want kids. That's just one of the many things that Harlan had against him, that he would never be a grandfather while Frank was wielding the baby-maker.
Ed lay back on the cold, hard ground. His hand fell to his side and into the water, letting him know that he was just inches away from the swamp.
Inches. His life was just spared by inches. Clara had died by inches. The fear in her eyes, the mouth frozen in a silent scream, showed that she probably was still alive when she went under. The coroner would probably find for murder-by-drowning rather than blunt-force-trauma, the mark of the gun butt notwithstanding.
He strained his ears for sounds of engines, of shouting, of someone coming to search for him. If he wanted to, Frank could summon up to six officers to join in the search without even trying. If he roused the town's folk, he could get 30 or more out. But he had just sat there, squatting on the pier, talking to him in his soft voice, the voice that told Ed Riggs everything he needed to know.
“Sorry,” he had said. But Frank Morton wasn't sorry. The soft voice held a sneer that told a different story. Ed Riggs had to face facts, Frank Morton wanted him dead and only left without further violence because he thought that was already the case.
Out on the dirt road, through the trees, came the sound of a car engine, then another. Lights came through the trees and down the dirt road. They drove up to the trailer and stopped. First one light, then another, shown through the complete darkness. Help was on the way.
Al Gaither pulled his car around the far end of the property to a place where he could see the Miller trailer. He was driving without headlights, hoping he wouldn't run into anything, or anyone. He cut the engine a distance from the trailer. He had long since removed the inside bulb, so no light went on when he opened the door. He left the door open, partly so it wouldn't be heard closing and partly to facilitate a fast getaway if needed.
The Miller trailer was dark. It could be he was too early and the lovers were still entwined, or that he was too late and the man had already left. He settled in for a long night in case it was the former.
There was a light that caught his eye, but it wasn't in the trailer, it was off in the swamp. An oil lamp shown through the trees from the bog, slightly moving. Someone had a light going in a small boat.
Al stood up and moved quietly forward. As he moved around the trailer, he noticed that the black Ford was not there. Perhaps he was too late and the visitor was already gone. The Miller girl was probably in her bed fast asleep, looking innocent for when her father came home from his shift in a few hours.
Two headlights came into view down the dirt road from the county highway, headlights moving toward the swamp, toward him as well. It wasn't the Ford that was usually there, the lover; it was a Chevy wagon.
Soon another joined it, a big car, with one dim headlight.
He went around the trailer to see who had arrived. There was still dust settling where the cars had driven up the road. They stopped at the trailer and doors were opened and closed. A flashlight beam broke the darkness. In the beam a man could be seen. There was a short exchange, then the man went to his trunk and brought out a second flashlight.
Together, both beams moved toward the small pier jutting out into the swamp. Al moved closer to find out who took interest in the pier at this late hour. He moved past the trailer, past the two cars toward the pair of flashlight beams. He was about to call out, when he heard the blast of a shotgun.
From the mound where he lay, Ed Riggs looked across the patch of swamp and the Miller yard beyond to where the two cars had stopped. Two flashlight beams were walking toward the pier where he had fallen. They were not that far away, he could yell to them, he thought. But he couldn't get the strength or breath to yell. He tried, but made a weak squeal instead.
He had figured out who killed Clara Miller and felt a renewed sense of purpose. He had to get back to the station, to call the coroner, to call the chief, to find his partner – the one who left him to die. But his body was fighting him, too weak and injured to comply. He looked around, trying to find a way to begin his new quest, to cry out to the searchers, to be rescued and take command of the situation once more. Then he heard the sound of a shotgun blast too close for comfort.
Collin Miller sat in his boat lulled to sleep by the crystal-clear brew the Belter boys had sold him and the gentle lapping of the water against his flat-bottomed boat. He snored himself awake, jerking a bit and having to recover his balance.
He noticed that the caulking had come loose again and the boat was slowly filling up, his boots were in an inch-and-a-half of water. He decided it might be time to go back in. He took the shotgun from his lap and began to lean it against the the seat so he could work the oars.
That's when he noticed the lights in his yard. They couldn't have spotted his truck, which he left in the woods behind his place. They must be coming for something, maybe his boat, which they couldn't see was missing from the pier. Maybe it was Clara's lover, and he's brought a friend. Maybe they were gonna have a party. He would fix 'em!
Collin Miller raised the shotgun and aimed it at the lights just coming onto the pier. He pulled the trigger and the gun went off, knocking him back into the boat, into the inch-and-a-half of water.
The sound shook Harlen Eldridge from his half-sleep. The empty glass fell from his hand and the sound as it hit the wooden porch made him wonder if he had really heard a shotgun report. Perhaps he just imagined it.
No, he was sure, it had been a shotgun. He grasped his ivory-handled walking stick and struggled up to his feet. The sound had come from the other side of the bog that bordered his land. There were some shacks over there, who-knows-what-all lived in them. Some trailers too, poor white trash or worse.
Harlen looked at the pictures still in his left hand and looked up across the yard to the trees that hid the swampland beyond from view. Could it be that old man Miller had found a solution, right or wrong, and had set it into play? Surely Gaither would have been there to record it all on film. Surely the police would come soon and see what the ruckus was. But what if it was something else? What else? He didn't know, but he had to be sure.
He opened the screen door and picked up the keys lying inside on the side table, turned back and hobbled down the stairs to the new Chrysler sedan sitting in front of the house at the near loop of the circular drive. He climbed into the driver's seat, turned on the lights and started it up. He headed toward the highway that would lead to the dirt road leading to the place where the pictures were taken, to where his son-in-law besmirched the family name with an underage trailer whore.
Frank Morton jerked awake. Did he forget to turn the television off? There was a noise that sounded like a shot. He rolled over to look at the clock and fell off of the couch onto the floor, hitting his head on the coffee table in the process. He struggled up from the floor. The television was still on, but there was a test pattern, not a show. The western was over, as was all programing for the day. Frank got up and switched the television off, then went to the front door. Outside a few neighborhood dogs were barking at the sudden noise that woke them as well as him, but all was still otherwise.
Then Frank Morton got a flash of an idea that made his eyes go wide. Had Miller gotten home and found some evidence of him? Had someone found the Miller girl's body, or Ed Riggs? Had the shotgun report been at someone mistaken for the crimes? Or at shadows in the swamp? In either case, he knew he had to somehow insert himself into the middle of the investigation to turn suspicion in other directions.
Frank grabbed his coat from the door, ran down the three steps to his car and started it up. In the side mirror he could see his wife's face appear at the window to see where he was off to at this hour. He saw her face diminish in the mirror as he sped down the gravel path to the two-lane that would lead him to Thompson Bog.
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