9 Murder Mysteries: Volume 2

9

HEAVEN

It’s done. The words linger in my mind. But, I cannot recall where I was or what happened when I heard them. My mind is blank, and I have no memory. I am walking along a quiet country road on a beautiful sunny day with the birds chirping, flowers blooming, and a soft warm breeze kissing my face. Only problem is I have no idea where I am or how I got here. So, I’ll just keep going until I come to where I’m supposed to be.

Taking in the splendor of the rolling hills accented by patches of trees makes my journey enjoyable. I sit on the grass by a brook that crosses under the roadway and watch the water move over the stones as it flows down a gentle slope. The walking makes me thirsty so I cup my hands together, scoop up the cool clear water and drink. It is refreshing and may be the best water I ever tasted.

Back on the road, I look up at the sun. It seems as if it is just as high in the cloudless blue sky as it was when I started. I instinctively look at my left wrist to check the time. There is no watch, just the outline where one once was. Strange, but it is quite possible that I left it at home, wherever that is. Maybe the watch is in one of my pockets. I check, but they are empty. No wallet, keys, or money. Nothing. This is unreal. Could I be dreaming?

I come to a fork in the road. Time to make a decision. One path is narrow, rough, and overgrown. The other is just like the one I have been traveling. The choice is easy. Stay on the broad, smooth road.

My appetite kicks in, just as I come to an orchard. It is unlike any I have seen before. Apple trees, alongside ripe peaches, next to oranges ready to be plucked. There is every kind of fruit tree imaginable. I pick several of my favorites and eat. Satisfied, I fall asleep leaning against a sturdy fig tree and vivid dreams quickly follow.

Don’t hit the boy. He ain’t done nothin’ wrong.

A good lickin’ will keep him from even thinking about doing what I told him not to, Pa said pulling the leather belt through the loops around the waistband of his greasy old dungarees. Stop cuddling him. A man’s got to take his medicine.

He’s my baby.

Tend to the girls, mother. Our only son needs to learn things from his father. And ten years old is as good as good a time as any to learn. He wrapped the belt around his fist and moved toward the boy cowering in the corner.

Please. She blocked off her husband. He slapped her with the back of his hand and she stumbled away.

Pull them britches down. Turn ‘round and grab your ankles. You’re gonna learn what an old-fashioned whippin’ feels like. Just like my Pappy did to me when I needed it.

Daddy, I didn’t mean to drop your whiskey bottle. My hands were wet from washing your truck, the boy cried.

Should’a dried ‘em off. That’s what overalls are for. Now get with it. I got things to do.

Before the first blow was delivered, I wake from my dream with a start knowing the boy was me. While nothing else is clear, I remember this was not the first time this dream occurred. It ignited the memory of growing up dirt-poor in West Virginia. My father worked in a coal mine until it was shut down. After that, Pa did odd jobs to put food on the table and drank himself into oblivion when not working, sometimes even when on the job. The rest of us helped by farming the patch of land our shack sat on. Ma and my four older sisters pampered me when I was little. The old man was a much different story; I was increasingly the center of Pa’s anger until I turned 13. But I can’t recall what happened to change things.

I get up and gather some fruit, not knowing if and when I might encounter another one of these orchards along the way. The sun is bright and still high, but a few scattered clouds appear on the horizon. The light fluffy ones, they’re nothing to worry about.

As I walk, I notice that although the sun is warm it is not hot enough to make me sweat. I wonder why? The smell of meat cooking on an outdoor grill soon drifts my way. It seems to come from somewhere ahead. It must be people having a cookout. My pace quickens.

I reach a wooded area with a clearing where a chicken is turning on a spit above an open fire. I call out. No one answers. The roasted chicken smells so good I pull off a leg and eat it. I don’t think the people cooking it will mind. Besides, they left it and I found it.

The leg is so good, I take the other one. What’s that old expression, ‘A bird can’t fly on one wing?’ Well, I think a chicken can’t cook with only one leg. This is really delicious and no one’s claimed it. I guess it won’t hurt none if I take the rest of the chicken with me. An empty bag lay on the ground. That’ll work. Am I lucky or what?

Walking and eating my way to nowhere is an enjoyable way to pass the time, although I have no conception of actual time. The sun remains high and my feet keep moving. I count my strides and estimate I traveled about three miles by the time my portable feast is finished, so I guess the elapsed time of this part of my journey took about an hour, give or take. I place the chicken bones in the bag, but there is no place to dump the garbage, so the only option is to place these remains under a bush and travel on.

The problem with stride counting is not being able to enjoy the beauty of the countryside I am passing through. So I stop keeping track of my progress and just enjoy the moment. The one thing I did not have to keep track of was being tired. My legs tell me it is time to rest. I spy a big tree off to the right and head to it. I slide to the ground, lean against the large trunk, and fall into a deep sleep.

I am back in West Virginia. Pa was drunk and stumbled home just as the rest of the family was having cake to celebrate my thirteenth birthday.

Why didn’t ya tell me y’all was having a party, he said as he held onto the front door to keep from crashing to the floor.

Take a seat, Pa. We was just going to sing happy birthday to John.

Where did that come from?

What?

John. He’s Johnny or Junior. I’m John!

I’m grown up enough to be called John, I said. You can call me whatever you want. It won’t matter much, ‘cause you never home and too drunk to call me anything when you are here.

Why you little snot. No one talks to me like that, especially you. Pa lunged across the table at me and tried to hit me as he fell face first into the birthday cake. He was covered with icing when he pushed back from the table.

My sisters and Ma held back their laughter. I did not and gleefully pointed to him and shouted, You should see yourself.

Pa looked in the mirror across the room and became enraged. The madder he got the louder I laughed. He reached for the poker next to the fireplace and began to swing it. Ma tried to stop him and took a glancing blow from the weapon. I grabbed his arm and twisted it until the poker dropped onto the table. Instinctively, I picked it up and began to beat him. Pa crumpled to the floor when I landed a vicious blow to his temple, but I did not stop hitting him until the girls intervened. It was then I realized my rage was even greater than his.

My God, look at Pa, my oldest sister said.

Is he breathing? asked another.

Out of the way. Let me tend to him, Ma shouted. Take Johnny outside so he can simmer down.

My two younger sisters lead me through the door while the other two helped Ma. A few minutes later, the eldest came out and said Pa was dead. I felt no remorse, no guilt, and no shame. He got what he deserved and I was proud to be the one that killed my father.

Okay, Johnny, tell me what happened? the sheriff’s deputy asked when he and the coroner arrived on the scene.

He was drunk. Hit Ma with the poker then come at me with it. I took it and beat him, so as he won’t be doing that no more.

That’s for sure. You saw to that. Why didn’t you let up once he was down?

‘Cause he’d just do it again next time he got a load on.

Looks like this all started with you defending yourself, but you took it too far.

You don’t know what living under him was like. He might have killed anyone of us dozens of times.

That’ll all come out at the trial. In the meantime, I gotta take you in. Turn around so I can put the cuffs on. Sorry.

Really? What happens now?

You’ll be arraigned. There’ll be a hearing where bail will be set. And, things will go on from there.

We ain’t got no money for bail.

Then you’ll be a guest of the county until the trial is over, the deputy said.

How long y’all gonna keep me locked up?

Don’t know, but I hope for your sake it’s not too long.

What about Ma and my sisters?

Family Services and your church will probably help out. With two less mouths to feed and no one drinking up the grocery money, they ought to get by. Come on, get in the back of my car. Watch your head.

I did not duck my head and hit it on the door frame. That jolt wakes me. I look up and see I am under a chestnut tree. One of the nuts must have dropped on me. It did not hurt much but did interrupt the dream. Reliving the death of my father was an unnerving experience, but for the life of me I cannot recollect anything that followed. Enough of that, it’s time to move on.

The sun remains a stationary object straight above me. I accept that. But the white fluffy clouds once on the horizon have turned dark and are traveling toward me at a rapid pace. If a storm is to come, maybe the safest place for me to be is under the shelter of this enormous tree.

I see lightning shoot out of the massive cloud which had formed by gobbling up the lesser ones. A clap of thunder follows. The sun disappears as the ominous black cloud now dominates the sky. The rain comes. No, it is hail ripping through the leaves, landing on the grass and sparkling like diamonds. It grows darker by the minute. The lightning is more frantic as it darts down from the cloud and the thunder is deafening. I hear a snap as the lightning hits something close to me. Before the thunder chimes in, a large branch from my tree hits the ground. I am frightened, but there is nowhere to run. I cling to the tree trunk and shiver.

As quickly as it came the storm hastens away. But the sun does not come out. Instead of a warm blue sky a gloomy grayness blankets everything. With it the temperature drops. I think it best to leave and find a place to keep warm.

Everything is soaked by the downpour. The dirt road is checkered with puddles. Frogs hop around the fringes and eyes peer out from beneath the bushes and through the tall grass. Obviously the small animals found refuge in these hiding places. I wonder why I did not encounter any of them before. It doesn’t matter. They’re certainly more afraid of me than I could ever be of them.

My feet are wet from stepping in the puddles. I try to avoid them but there are so many, it’s almost impossible. The strange thing is once I hit one it’s almost as if something is trying to suck me in deeper. Sort of like quicksand. I start to run, but the puddles slow me down. I move to the side of the road but obstacles exist there too.

The sky grows darker. I fear another storm is coming. The wind whips up. Where can I go to be safe? Lightning descends from various locations across the heavy sky. In a flash of light I see something ahead. Could it be a cabin? I run as hard as I can. I get to the building. It looks familiar. I realize it is an exact replica of the shack where I grew up.

A jagged finger of lightning lights the sky. I dash inside as the thunder rumbles behind me. A fire in the hearth warms the room. I look around and see things that spark my memory - some good, some bad. I light a candle and move from room to room and become increasingly convinced that this is how home looked on the day I killed Pa. All that is missing are my family members. Where could they be?

I stop by the fire to dry off and warm up. Could there be any clothes there that might fit me? I go to the drawer that was mine. There were jeans, overalls, and a couple of shirts. The only problem is they are for a 13 year old. I go to my parents’ room. A pair of jeans, a denim shirt, socks, and work boots that belonged to Pa are the right size for me. It feels weird wearing his stuff, but this is an emergency. Besides, he’s dead. The sound of thunder accents this thought.

The aroma of something cooking catches my attention. I did not notice it when I came in, but a pot of stew is on the stove. Biscuits bake in the oven. And, coffee is brewing in a pot on the backburner of the old wood stove. I sit at the table where we had so many meals together and where Pa often showed up late and drunk to spoil everything. The food is just like Ma made. She always found a way to make the cheapest store-bought or homegrown things taste good. I have a second helping of the stew before walking over to the beat-up old couch, where I had to sleep in the two-bedroom house, and promptly doze off.

The defendant has been charged with voluntary manslaughter in the death of his father. How do you plead?

Not guilty, your honor, I said with some prompting from the lawyer appointed by the county.

Point of law, your honor, my attorney said. This young man is just 13 years old. He was defending his mother and four sisters from this drunken monster of a husband and father. The deceased was prone to beating all family members, especially the boy. So I ask that the defendant be free to attend school and help maintain the family’s small farm while awaiting trial. There is no way to post bail, since all the family’s meager savings were used to bury the boy’s father.

Did you see how violently that youngster beat his father to death? No way will we let him out, with or without bail, to await trial. He goes to the county prison ‘til his future is determined in a court of law.

That would put him in contact with hardened criminals, even murderers. Can’t he be sent to the youth facility in Charleston?

This is a county case and he stays in this county. Period.

But—

No ifs, ands, or buts. Next case.

The attorney told me not to expect a light sentence when I finally got to trial, based on the newspapers and television reports of how brutally I had murdered my father. He figured I’d be serving time until I was 18, maybe even 21. The good news was that I would be doing the time at a juvenile work farm rather than an adult prison.

My first night in ‘county’ I was raped by my 30-year old cellmate. The next night, he and three friends had me. I saw no reason to see what was in store for me after that. I had garbage detail and climbed up the back of the truck and dove into the pile of half-spoiled food before the vehicle headed for a local hog farm to dump its load.

As soon as the truck stopped, I pulled some clothes off the line at the farmhouse and headed for a nearby creek to wash up and then get out of that crummy state. I made it to Lexington, Kentucky by hitchhiking and stealing food and clothes along the way. When I got there, I was tired and scared. Whatever I was feeling one thing was certain, I was not going back to prison. I got a job washing dishes in a diner by lying about everything but knew it was only a matter of time before the truth about me would surface. The only person who was nice to me at work was the cook. He was an old black man who served time for selling drugs.

Hey, kid. That’s what he always called me. Want to stop being a pearl diver and make yourself some real money?

What do I have to do, rob a bank?

Nah, this should be right up your alley.

I’m not going to kill somebody.

Relax, relax. I know a guy who needs someone to work the schools in Ohio?

What’s that mean?

He sells drugs, but sometimes it’s hard to get to students. You know, introduce them to the joys of using drugs.

I don’t do drugs and know nothin’ about them.

That’s the beauty of this here thing. You just hand out free samples. When the kids ask for more, you turn them over to my friend’s distribution team.

Why me?

You look like one of the students. Blend right in once you get cleaned up and have some decent clothes. It’s a snap.

When can I talk to your friend?

He’s in town. We’ll meet with him after work tonight.

A week later I was in Cincinnati, looking like one of the students from any high school in the city. My job was to hang out where the other kids did after school and on weekends - diners, movie theaters, malls, any place where they congregated. I was taught how to spot the likely ones, start a conversation with them, and get them started.

I learned fast. After a couple of months, I was sent to Columbus, then up to Cleveland. A year later I was shipped off to Chicago to work for my boss’s brother. Over the next few years I bounced around the country working for different members of the same drug distribution system. I was making more money a week than my father made in a year, although that’s not saying much. But I vowed not use the stuff, because I learned early on what it could do to a person.

On my eighteenth birthday, I asked my latest boss if I could move up in his organization. He had been drinking and drugging heavily that day and took my request as some kind of insult. He stood up, pulled out a gun, and waved it around while chewing me out. Then he stumbled and fell back in his chair. I dove across his desk. Somehow the gun went off, and a bullet pierced his heart. I took the money from his strongbox, ran off, and kept running. I had all kinds of fake IDs used in my job and thought I might be able to hide somewhere until this mess became yesterday’s news. I awake to the rumbling sound of nearby thunder startled, confused and in a cold sweat.

I try to gather my thoughts as the wind howls outside and the windows of the shack rattle unmercifully. Then I hear what sounds like a train moving in my direction. I peer out the nearest window and see a pitch-black sky with a funnel cloud hanging from it bearing down on me. If I stay inside the tornado might swoop up this tired old place or blow it to smithereens. Either way I would