The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 14

Marshall, Thomas and Milly rode silently until they got about a quarter of a mile from the farmhouse, then Marshall spoke.

“Tom, let me out at home.”

“You’re not goin’ to the church?” Milly asked her new brother-in-law. “The ladies have made up a big meal for all of the family.”

“I’m not hungry,” He said. “Besides, too many people.”

Thomas stopped the car at the edge of the drive and Marshall got out. Before he closed the door, he stuck his head back inside.

“Where’s your Springfield?”

Thomas stared at Marshall a moment then at Milly then back at his brother.

“In the corner next to our bed.” Thomas voice was quieter than usual. “Shells are in a box on the windowsill behind the bed.”

“You goin’ huntin’ today?” Milly asked

“Yea, huntin’ helps me relax.” Marshall said, closing the door and talking through the open window. “Tell him and Momma not to worry. I may be gone a few days. Be back when I’m finished.”

“Be careful, Marsh.” Thomas said as he stared at his brother.

“Will be!” Marshall turned and walked toward the house as Thomas pulled off.

“Is he goin’ deer huntin’ or somethin’?” Milly asked Thomas.

“Or somethin’,” Thomas answered her in a tone that did not invite any further discussion, so she dropped it.

Upon arriving at the church, Thomas and Milly went directly into the fellowship hall. It seemed like everyone who had been at the cemetery was there as well. Earnestine Ray, the pastor’s wife, was acting as a combination cheerleader/traffic cop.

“Don’t be shy,” She said as she motioned to the tables full of food. “Just help yourself and the ladies’ll bring your drinks to ya.”

Since no one seemed to be moving, Uncle Billy took the initiative, picked up a plate and began helping himself to fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and all of the rest of the feast the members of the church had prepared.

“C’mon Carl, get ya some food.” Uncle Billy looked at Carl while spearing a huge dill pickle.

“I will, Billy,” Carl smiled. “But I need to do something first. Have you seen Marshall?”

“Marshall? No, I sure ain’t, Carl” Uncle Billy put his mounded plate on the first table he came to and sat down. “’Least not since we got to the church.”

“I saw ‘im with Gerald at the cemetery,” fifteen-year-old Lee Bentwood said.

“He said he was goin huntin,” Milly said not noticing Thomas stern look, so she went on. “He rode with us from the cemetery, but we let him out at the house”

“Well, why didn’t he come and eat?” Mrs. Ray butted in. None of the men answered her so Edna spoke up.

“He’s takin’ it ‘specially hard, Earnestine,” Edna’s voice was beginning to regain some of the perpetual strength it had had before her son’s death. “Ya know he likes to be by hisself when things like this happen. He wouldn’t talk for a month when Carl’s father died. He’ll come around, though.”

Will he? Carl thought. He and Edna had talked about Marshall since the death and, she was as much in the dark about their son as he was. But she was skilled at putting on a good front for outsiders, especially for what she called her church “family.”

“He said not to worry.” Milly added. Thomas just shook his head.

Carl glanced at Edna who stared at him with troubled, hollow eyes.

“Anything?” Lampkin asked when Barnes returned from the funeral.

“Nothin’ definate, but I’d bet my life the Borden kid knows something,” Barnes said as he sat down at his desk. “He wouldn’t say anything specific, but he was awfully nervous. Plus, he said somethin’ about ‘killers’, like he knew that there was more than one.”

Lampkin nodded slowly then said, “Well, I’ll guarantee ya if he knows somethin’ then the Bentwood boy does, too. Ya didn’t get a chance to say anything to him did ya?”

“Na, he got outta there pretty quick. Saw ‘im get in the car with his brother. Went to the church I guess.”

“It’s after four now,” Lampkin said. “And I know it’s you’re anniversary, so I’m guessin’ you’ll be busy the rest of the day. But tomorrow I want ya to find Marshall Bentwood. Arrest him if ya have to. Just bring ‘im in so we can talk to ‘im.”

“Will do,” Barnes said, then added. “And by the way, Betty the kids and me are going to the movie tonight. Kids make anniversaries a little different than they used to be.”

“That’s for sure,” Lampkin said, chuckling. “We’ll have a good one, kids and all.”

At just before 6:00 that Wednesday, Al Lawrence was on Highway 64 driving his ‘37 Ford sedan east out of Wynne. James Bentwood had been buried earlier that day, but the boy he had killed was a long way from Lawrence’s mind. He was concentrating on the fine young lady who was going to be waiting for him at nine o’clock in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis.

He wished he were already in Memphis, but business took precedence. Before he could hook up with her, he had to drop a load of “shine” off at the Midnight Dream Club outside of Parkin, fifteen miles east of Wynne.

If he were lucky, he could conclude his business and be walking into the hotel right on time. And at twenty-four, with no wife or anyone else to answer to, he was not expecting to be back in Wynne till sometime the next afternoon.

An hour earlier, however, he had been wondering if he was going to get to the hotel in time, because he and Prichard were having it out again about James Bentwood’s killing.

“I swear to ya, Bill,” Lawrence had said for at least the fifth time. “I thought it was him. Looked just like ‘im. I mean, remember, I never saw ‘im before. And I didn’t get a good look at ‘im in the pool hall that night. And I just saw him from the back at the drug store. So, what do ya expect.”

“I expected ya to be sure of who ya were killin’.

“Look, I followed ‘im into town on that nag, then into the alley, then I put ‘im away just like ya wanted. How was I to know it was his brother? I even heard someone call him “Marsh.” I promise ya, if ya had to work as fast as I did, you’d’a made the same mistake.”

Prichard shook his head in irritation and disgust. It was a simple thing, eliminate Bentwood and make him an example. That would scare Borden so bad he would get their money back to them or die trying.

Now, though, not only did they still have the problem of the two boys, but they had the cops snooping around asking questions. And with a little luck even the hick cops in Wynne might just stumble onto the truth.

Regardless of those things, they had orders to fill, and they were beginning to get behind on production. So, Prichard pulled a fifty-pound bag of corn from his truck and slowly poured the contents into the hopper of his still.

“Look, Bill,” Lawrence said as Prichard worked. “I know I’m not as sharp as you are, but I think this may work out. Think about it. I think killin’ that kid’s brother’ll scare ‘em both enough to get us our money. Now we got two scared kids instead of just one.”

When the corn was all in the still, Prichard took the empty two sack and threw it on the fire a few feet away.

“You know,’ Prichard said, thoughtfully. “There may be somethin’ to what you’re sayin’. It may work out for the best. If Bentwood has anything to do with it, he’ll make sure Borden gets that money to us.”

“Ya think he’ll try anything?”

Prichard snorted, “Borden definitely won’t. A frog’s got more guts than him. Bentwood’s another thing, though. If he’s got any sense, he won’t try anythin’, either. But ya saw what he did at Sulley’s. He ain’t afraid of a fight so we still better keep an eye out for him. Ya got the load ready for Parkin?”

“Yea, I’m haulin’ a batch to Simmons, then I’m headin’ on inta Memphis. Gotta date lined up. Be back sometime tomorrow”

“Okay but come straight back here when ya get in and I’ll have another load for ya’. This’n’ll go to Little Rock.”

“Gottcha.”

The “batch” was in the false gas tank and made the car rock slightly if he went around the curves of the Ridge too fast. So, he was taking it nice and easy and had just struck a match to lite the Pall Mall in his lips when the passenger side glass exploded inward, showering him in a glittering, transparent rain. He simultaneously felt a thud in his right shoulder as if someone had tried to bring a “frog” up on his biceps, but the pain that followed was much worse than any “frog” he had ever felt.

The cigarette fell from his mouth and he cursed the sudden pain, then, like the car glass, the left side of his face blew outward along with teeth, gums, skin, and blood. His arms jerked reflexively to the left causing the car to careen across the road and up an embankment until momentum could carry it no further. Then it slowly rolled to the right and completed two full lumbering rotations down the hill until it came to rest once again on all four wheels perpendicular to the road.

As the car settled, the front windshield imploded as the third and final bullet entered the car and Lawrence just above his right eye.......but, he was already dead.

At the time Al Lawrence was dying, Bill Prichard was on the Ridge about seven miles from Wynne near Wittsburg the former Cross County seat. The glory days of the town were long past. It now had a store and seven houses and could barely be called a community.

Some of the highest elevations and most grown-up areas of the Ridge were close to Wittsburg and that’s what attracted Prichard to that area to set up his still. It had been his grandfather’s, then his father’s and now it had been passed down to him. His family was familiar with making “mash”, but he was the first one to do it as his primary means of income.

The family knew what he was doing, but they didn’t approve of it. The “shine” that they made had always been for friends and family, not for sale. And it had also been “triple-passed” to make sure it was clean with no impurities the like of which had killed so many people over the years. None of them said anything to him about it, though, possibly realizing that times had changed and that they might be doing the same thing if this was their time.

While he and Lawrence were partners, technically, Prichard knew that without him Lawrence would be nothing but a penny ante thief at best. Prichard had all the knowledge while Lawrence was just a mule that he occasionally used for muscle. He didn’t have the brains or even common sense to be any more than that. Case in point - he had murdered the wrong man in James Bentwood.

Now there was nothing they could do but try and make sure Bentwood and Borden knew who was in charge. Overall, he felt good about the situation. After all, Prichard thought, what’re a couple of kids gonna do?

It was after 8 p.m. when Prichard finished loading the jugs into the back of his pickup. His only light was a lantern he had hung on a low limb in a tree six feet away A steady wind was coming down from the north causing the lantern to swing and the wick to flicker. Adding to the scene were the trees which were swaying and undulating in a sort of ghostly Indian fire dance. Prichard didn’t notice the lantern or the trees or the figure that was coming out of them some fifty yards away and walking toward him.

Just as he picked up another jug-filled box, he heard a branch break behind him. He snapped his head around and saw, first, the rifle aimed squarley at his mid-section and then the figure behind it. Prichard froze as Marshall walked toward him.

He had his 45 in his back pocket, but there was little chance he could get to it before the rifle was fired. So, with few other options, he spoke.

“Ya know it was Lawrence that killed ‘im,” Prichard said as he slowly turned to face the rifle, box still in his hands. Then he lied, “I didn’t want nothin’ to do with it. I told ‘im it was wrong.”

“Ya right there!”

The flash from the rifle’s muzzle amazed Prichard. The bullet tore through the boxed jugs and into his stomach from almost straight ahead. When it exited, it clipped his spine making his legs suddenly useless and causing him to drop to his haunches spilling the jars onto the ground. Then he began screaming. No words, just screaming.

The second bullet ended the screaming. It drilled through his windpipe and out the back of the neck ironically hitting the spine once again and causing his arms to drop limply to his sides. The third and last bullet missed him since he was falling. It ricocheted off a rock hitting the lamp which instantly shattered, throwing burning kerosene out over a twenty-foot circle. Prichard, his truck, the still and many of the trees were in that circle and were turned into an inferno in an instant. Unlike Lawrence, he felt the pain until he passed out. Soon after that, he died.

To Be Continued........