October Storms

October Storms

By Amanda Collins Beams

Copyright 2019 Amanda Collins Beams

Smashwords Edition

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Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chapter 1

October 10, 1975

By all appearances, it was a perfect day for a road trip. Traffic was light, skies were clear, the sun was shining, and temperatures were on the rise.

Leaving the capital city behind, Belinda Page blended into the flow of traffic on eastbound I-72, set the cruise control on her Chevy conversion van to fifty-five miles per hour, and settled in for the trip ahead. After a quick check in the rearview mirror, she glanced over at her best friend.

Dressed in her customary faded blue jeans, tie-dyed T-shirt, and tennis shoes, Julie Stephens was kicked back in the passenger seat, legs crossed at the knee, pouring over a pamphlet advertising their destination. A cascade of coal-black curls fell over her left shoulder, shielding her face from view.

They were on their way to Robert Allerton Park, an anomaly tucked away amongst the cornfields of central Illinois. Once the private estate of its namesake, the park held a Georgian-style mansion surrounded by European-inspired formal gardens, riparian woodlands, and grassy meadows--all peppered with statuary gathered the world over.

As the interstate snaked steadily north and east, Julie slowly paged through the booklet, stopping occasionally to read aloud a paragraph describing one of the sights awaiting them at the park.

Shaking her head in wonder, Julie looked over at Belinda. When you called last night and said you had something special planned for today, I had no idea what it could be. She shot a glance at the booklet, before turning her attention back to Belinda. This place is unbelievable.

Honestly, Jules, this wasn’t what I had planned for your birthday. I was going to take you to the Arch but . . . I don’t know . . . once I saw that brochure, I just knew we had to go to the park instead.

Julie was quiet for a moment, then cocked her head at Belinda. Where’d you get this brochure? Did you send away for it?

No. It’s the strangest thing. I found it lying on the ground in the parking lot next to my van when I came out of work on Thursday. It had just stopped raining after pouring all day and everything was still dripping wet. Everything, except that brochure. When I picked it up, it was dry as a bone--not a speck of water on it, not even on the underside. It was like it had been dropped at just that moment but there wasn’t a soul in sight.

I didn’t give it much thought, just tossed it up on the dashboard, and forgot all about it. I came across it again yesterday when I was cleaning out the van and decided to thumb through it before putting it in the trash. As soon as I turned the first page, I knew we had to see this place.

Julie looked over at Belinda and smiled, her blue eyes alight with excitement. I’m so glad you didn’t throw it away. I can’t wait to get there. If the park is half as cool as the pictures, it’ll be awesome!

While they chatted, a flotilla of puffy white clouds began to creep in, thickening with each passing minute. Trailing behind were scores of towering thunderheads, rising thousands of feet in the air, their underbellies dark and menacing.

Setting the brochure aside, Julie tucked her unruly curls behind her ears and gazed out at farm fields stretching as far as the eye could see. Shadows cast by the gathering clouds freckled the distant landscape, creating an ever-changing patchwork of sunshine and shade.

She turned to look out the oversized panoramic window that dominated the driver’s side of the van. What she saw was an ominous-looking line of thick gray clouds pushing in from the northwest. I know the smoked glass makes everything look darker but those sure look like rain clouds to me.

Craning her neck, Belinda looked up through the side window at the ever-darkening sky. Well that sucks. Last night on the news, old ‘best guess’ Jess said it would be sunny today. I swear that woman never gets the forecast right.

Shaking her head in disgust, she turned on her signal and eased over into the passing lane to avoid a motorhome plodding along under the speed limit.

Completing the pass, Belinda caught sight of her own image in the rearview mirror. Staring back at her was a square face softened by a rounded chin, a straight nose, and dark sunglasses. Her thick brown hair, pulled back into a high ponytail, fell below the shoulders of her Illini sweatshirt.

Julie stabbed her finger at the passenger window, the fear of disappointment coloring her voice. Those clouds are seriously dark, too. I hope we don’t get rained out. We need to check this place out!

We still have about twenty miles to go. If we’re lucky, we’ll run out from under the clouds by the time we get to the park.

Spotting a sea of flashing lights ahead in the distance, Belinda straightened in her seat. It looks like an accident or something up ahead. I can’t tell from here if it’s on our side of the highway or not.

Minutes later, the traffic ahead slowed to a crawl. An eighteen-wheeler out of Oklahoma forced its way into the line of traffic right in front of the van, blocking their view of the road ahead. Hugging the semi’s bumper, they inched along for a couple of miles before all forward motion came to a halt.

This doesn’t look good. Do me a favor, Jules. Get the map out of the glove compartment. Let’s see where we are.

Julie pulled out the map, studied it for a few seconds, and zeroed in on their position. She pointed to a spot northeast of Decatur. We’re about here. The next exit should only be a few miles ahead. Once we get to that exit, we can take country roads over towards Monticello.

Belinda glanced up at the darkening sky. Sounds like a plan. With traffic at a standstill and those clouds getting thicker by the minute, anything that will get us there faster is fine with me.

It took nearly thirty minutes to reach the exit. Judging from the line of vehicles ahead of them as they left the interstate, they weren’t alone in seeking an alternate route.

We need to hang a right at the stop sign, Julie said, studying the map.

Belinda turned east onto a narrow, two-lane road. A few miles later, the road ended at a T intersection. They turned north onto a rock-and-tar road even skinnier than the one they had just left. The pavement was dotted with potholes and steeply crowned in the center.

Belinda steered the van down the center of the bumpy, tree-lined road. I sure hope we don’t meet any oncoming traffic. I’m not sure this road is wide enough for two vehicles.

They bumped along, dodging the worst of the potholes, for about ten minutes before Belinda asked, Any idea how far north we need to go before we turn back east again?

Not really. The map doesn’t show rural roads. We’ll take the first crossroad we find and see how close it takes us. The brochure says the park is out in the country a few miles southwest of Monticello so we should be getting close.

Belinda glanced at the dashboard clock. It was just past twelve-thirty. She turned on the headlights and peered up at the menacing, pitch-black sky. Those clouds are looking pretty wicked. I hope it’s not pouring rain when we finally find the park.

It just can’t rain us out today. Not when we’re this close to getting there.

As if on cue, a blinding-white bolt of lightning zigzagged across the blackened sky directly ahead. A split second later came a deafening crack of thunder that shook the ground and reverberated across the rolling countryside. Before the echo had died away, the clouds burst their seams and it began to pour.

The rain came down in buckets, drenching everything in sight. The wind began to howl as the storm intensified. Bolts of white-hot lightning flashed like a celestial strobe light across the pitch-black clouds on their way to the ground. Explosive rumbles of thunder came one upon the other, echoing into the distance.

Belinda turned the windshield wipers on full speed and hunched over the steering wheel trying desperately to see the pavement. Even at full speed, the wipers couldn’t keep up with the onslaught of wind and rain. The headlights could barely penetrate the curtain of water falling from the sky. Visibility was reduced to mere feet in front of the van.

Holding the steering wheel in a death grip, Belinda fought to keep the van on the road. The shallow ditches paralleling the road quickly filled with muddy rainwater. Within minutes, only the center crown of the road was visible.

Swerving to avoid a rain-filled pothole, Belinda shook her head. This is crazy. I can barely see the road. I’m stopping until the rain slacks up a little.

She turned on the emergency flashers, coasted to a stop, put the van in Park and shut off the engine. There was nothing to do now but wait for the squall to pass.

Julie and Belinda sat in gloomy silence and stared out the windshield in dismay.

Well, there goes all of our plans, Belinda huffed. What a bummer.

Julie wasn’t ready to give up just yet. She picked up the brochure and pointed to an illustration on the back. This little map shows a road that runs through the park. If all else fails, we can just drive around, see what we can today and try to get back over here another time to hike the trails.

Belinda sighed and shook her head. It looks like we may have to settle for that.

For thirty long minutes, the storm raged overhead. The van rocked in the gusty wind as the rain beat a lively staccato on the roof and poured down the windshield in a steady stream. Lightning lit up the sky and deafening claps of thunder echoed across the plains. Conversation, like their dreams for the day, dwindled with each passing minute.

Belinda was slumped in her seat lost in thought when a brilliant flash of lightning spidering across the sky illuminated a massive oak tree a hundred yards ahead. The tree stood on the far side of a crossroad that only seconds earlier had been invisible in the gloom of the pouring rain.

She sat up quickly and turned to Julie. Did you see that?

What?

There’s a crossroad just up ahead.

Hey, that might be the one that gets us to the park.

It just might be. As soon as the rain lets up, we’re gonna find out.

Chapter 2

October 1897

Archibald Deeder was bone tired, furious and for the third day in a row, drunk. His latest bender commenced with the arrival of a strong tropical storm packing forty mile-per-hour winds and drenching rains. The storm, riding the coattails of a stretch of unseasonably warm sultry weather, had ushered in an invading army of black clouds so heavy they seemed to be purposely dragging their underbellies against the treetops in a desperate attempt to relieve their soggy burden.

Leaning heavily on his massive forearms, his greasy head bobbing a few inches off the scarred wooden table, Deeder pounded his meaty fist and roared, Louise. Get down here. I’ve got something to say to you!

He hadn’t been away from the farm in weeks. The persistent driving rain and gusty winds had forced him to abandon his plans to go into town. The road to Sauteur, rutted and pocked with wheel-swallowing holes in dry weather, was impassable after days of unrelenting downpours.

Deeder was aching to get back to Marylou, the buxom redheaded whore he had on his last trip to town. Marylou’s tight little ass just begged for his attention. She would do whatever he wanted as long as there was money to be made. She had charged him double last time, but she had been worth every penny. He couldn’t wait to have another go at her.

He was also itching to win back his money from that cheatin’ card shark, Russell Grant. That thieving polecat had taken his entire stake last time they played, and he was hell-bent on winning back every cent.

Worst of all, he was near out of whiskey. No man could be expected to work on a God-forsaken farm like this one without a jug of whiskey to wash the dust from his throat and numb the yearning in his loins.

Archibald Deeder was imbued with powerful thirsts—for sex, revenge, and whiskey. He needed to get into Sauteur to satisfy those thirsts but, thanks to the damnable storm, he was unable to go anywhere.

He raised the nearly empty bottle and took another long pull of whiskey. Through angry bloodshot eyes, he watched the raindrops create ever-changing, meandering streams down the windowpane. The constant drumming of heavy rain on the roof was driving him plumb crazy.

He pounded his fist again, nearly upending the bottle. Louise, get down here. You’ve been up there long enough. Those sniveling brats can go to sleep without you fussing over them all night!

As his whiskey-soaked gaze swept the interior of the small cabin, his bloodshot eyes came to rest on the small tintype photograph of Eli Hawkes on the rough-hewn mantel. Although they had never met, he had a deep abiding hatred for the man in the tintype. Eli Hawkes had disappeared months prior, but his ghost stood squarely in Deeder’s way.

He tipped the bottle again and felt the last swallow of rotgut whiskey burn its fiery path down his throat. Louise, I said to get down here now.

* * *

Up in the tiny loft bedroom, Louise Hawkes, gripped by fatigue and utter despair, sighed deeply and closed the book she had been reading to her seven-year-old son, Randall.

Randall watched his mother set the book on the nightstand next to his bed. Mama, we haven’t finished the chapter. You said we’d read a whole chapter tonight.

Fearful of Archibald’s wrath in his drunken state, Louise whispered, I’m sorry poppet, but I must go downstairs now. The story will have to wait until tomorrow night.

But why can’t we finish the chapter, Mama? Why can’t he wait until we’re finished?

Hush, Randall! He’ll hear you! Louise hissed. You know how he is when he’s been drinking.

In the relatively short time Louise had known Archibald Deeder, she’d seen him inebriated on several occasions. She’d seen him drunk before but never like he had been for the past three days.

At the first sign of rain, he’d virtually camped out at the table in the small kitchen, alternately staring out the window and grumbling discontentedly under his breath about the weather; a seemingly bottomless bottle of whiskey his constant companion. Louise had tried to avoid him as much as possible because she knew whiskey made Deeder a mean, vicious drunk. Over the past seventy-two hours, Deeder had grown more and more hostile towards her, her children, and Duke, her son’s beloved, three-year-old, mixed-breed hound.

Louise’s mind raced back to the last time Deeder had been in his cups. It had only been a few weeks since she’d witnessed his sadistic barbarity first hand and she’d been terrified of him ever since.

It had been a sunny, albeit chilly, late September day. She had been out in the vegetable garden battling the unconquerable weeds when she’d witnessed Deeder savagely kick Duke when the dog lunged at him as he’d exited the barn. She’d watched in horror as Deeder’s kick had connected with Duke’s ribs, the impact lifting the dog’s back legs from the ground, causing Duke to yelp loudly and crumple to his side, injured and in pain, just outside the barn door.

She could still hear Randall’s anguished scream as if he’d just let it loose. She’s instantly dropped the hoe and scrambled to get to Duke as fast as her legs would carry her. She could clearly remember the fear that had coursed through her as she saw the look of pure hatred on Deeder’s face, an evil glint in his cold, dark eyes as he’d turned towards the cabin. And she could still feel the gut-wrenching fear that had coursed through her when Deeder has turned back to lash out at Randall; loudly threatening to kill the dog if it ever came near him again.

Mortified by the hulking farmhand’s savagery, Louise had ordered Randall to keep Duke tethered day and night. Duke, who’d previously had free reign over the farm, had been imprisoned by a ten-foot length of rope since that September day.

Randall was heartbroken at the interruption of their nightly ritual. What about my prayers, Mama? You haven’t even heard my prayers.

Randall, please. Just say your prayers to yourself tonight, Louise pleaded. Be sure to ask God to bring Pa home to us real soon. I promise we’ll finish the rest of the chapter tomorrow night.

Though Louise did her best to hide it, Randall saw the look of fear in his mother’s eyes. He noticed how tense his Ma became whenever Deeder came into the cabin. He, like his mother, had grown leery of the burly farmhand.

Randall knew it was wrong to hate, but he hated Archibald Deeder. He wished the stranger had never come to their farm.

Louise rose to her feet, tucked the worn flannel blanket under her son’s chin, kissed him on the forehead and turned to check on her twenty-one-month-old daughter, Rebecca. Louise was thankful that Becca, as she had nicknamed her, was sleeping soundly in her crib beside Randall’s bed.

Louise softly caressed the tawny silken curls that covered Becca’s head like a cap, kissed the tip of her index finger, gently touching it to Rebecca’s warm chubby cheek. She stole a glance at her two beloved children before descending the stairs into what she had come to regard as her own personal hell.

She knew Deeder was lying in wait for her, besotted, belligerent, itching for a fight.

Fear and dread growing with each step, Louise reluctantly left the loft. Reaching the landing, she carefully stepped over Duke, tied with an old rope to the newel post, curled nose to tail in a tight ball of coarse brown and black fur.

Physically, Duke had recovered quickly and, as far as Louise could tell, completely from his encounter with Deeder, but he’d changed. Duke had had a happy, friendly carefree spirit before he’d been so terribly abused by Archibald Deeder. Afterward, the dog seemed depressed, dispirited, and skittish; cowering whenever Deeder neared him.

Reaching the bottom step, Louise nervously wiped the sweat from her palms on her drab gray cotton skirt and made her way to the kitchen. Deeder was slumped forward in the chair, staring vacantly at the empty whiskey bottle. He appeared to be lost in thought, unaware of her presence.

* * *

Archibald Deeder was deep into his whiskey-soaked brain where memories of the past briefly materialized only to rapidly fade into a thick swirling gray fog. One after another, scenes from his past flashed before his mind’s eye.

The first image that arose from the mist was of his Pa. It had been fifteen years since he had laid eyes on his old man. He clearly remembered the day his Pa had run him off, at age thirteen, for diddling with his sister.

On that ill-fated day, Pa had found them in the root cellar. His sister, Paulette, naked as a jaybird, was lying on a horse blanket stolen from the barn. He was standing over her, his drawers around his ankles when the cellar door opened. Pa had let out a yell, grabbed him by the throat and dragged him out of the cellar, throwing him to the ground like a sack of rotten seed.

Hearing the commotion, Ma had come a-running, wrapped Paulette in the blanket and rushed her into the house. Ma had screamed at Paulette and called her names, but never laid a hand on her because Paulette had lied. She lied and said it had been his idea.

Pa gave him the worst beating of his young life that day; told him to get out and never come back. Forced to leave - on foot - with no food, water, money or skills, he had hightailed it with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Remembering brought a renewed sense of resentment and anger. He didn’t deserve the merciless punishment that he, alone, had received.

It was all Paulette’s fault. Four years his senior, she was the one who had offered to let him see her naked. She was the one who had encouraged him to remove his clothes and lay with her. Once caught in the act, she had lied and pinned the blame solely on him.

He had sworn an oath that day that a lying woman would never victimize him again.

Since then he had spent his life on the road, drifting north and west, taking work where he could find it, all the way to eastern Illinois from Coffee County Georgia.

The past fifteen years had hardened him. He had learned to take care of himself, answering to no one. It had been a hardscrabble life.

As that scene faded into the cloying mist, another emerged.

He had been working over near Paris but had to move on after barely escaping arrest for assaulting a hooker. He had falsely claimed that the whore had stolen money from him and put up a resistance when caught in the act. Fortunately, the harlot hadn’t been able to contradict his story due to the shattered jaw she’d suffered at his hands. He had skedaddled before she could talk. He had heard tell there was work to be had in the stockyards at Peoria. He had decided to push on and try his luck there.

Then he saw himself on the day he had first set eyes on the farm, six months prior. He had just emerged from a dense stand of oak, birch, and poplar, his bedroll slung across his back when he stopped to scan the distant, softly rolling prairie landscape.

In the near distance, he spotted a small farm. At first glance, it was painfully evident that what had been a prosperous farm in the past was now free falling into a state of complete and total disrepair. He took note of the grayed, zigzagged, weather-beaten split rail fences listing willy-nilly around the fields. Several sections were dangerously close to collapsing.

The field north of the farmstead lay fallow, overgrown with weeds. Huge patches of mares tail and ragweed had reclaimed the land; joined by dense, irregularly shaped areas of pigweed and red clover.

His view settled on the large Pennsylvania-style bank barn, with entrances on two levels. The barn appeared to be losing its grip on the side of the hill on which it was built. He could see that one of the large ground-level barn doors had slipped from its hinges, laying abandoned, partially sunken and rotting in the mud.

His eyes came to rest on a small rectangular story-and-a-half log cabin southwest of the barn. The unkempt farmyard surrounding the cabin was bare hard-packed dirt; littered with an array of broken-down implements.

An old wooden wheelbarrow bleached white by the sun; a broken-handled grain shovel and a long-abandoned corn planter, all looked as if they had been there for months. The disheveled yard had but one redeeming feature; an enormous honeysuckle bush. In full bloom on the west side of the cabin, it provided a dazzlingly colorful contrast to the depressingly drab, monochrome-grey farmstead.

The bright white blooms of the honeysuckle had drawn his attention to the disheveled farmhouse. He had started to turn away and continue his journey when he spotted a young woman in the field east of the dilapidated cabin.

She was wearing a thin blue cotton dress that clung to her body, revealing large shapely breasts, a narrow waist, and wide hips. She was strapped to a rusty old single-furrow turning plow hitched to a half-starved swaybacked mule. A skinny young boy was tugging at the halter, trying to urge the old worn-out beast to move.

Of a sudden, the mule lurched forward, knocking the lad flat on his back and wrenching the stilts from the woman’s grasp. The unexpected motion jerked the thin unsuspecting woman off her feet. She cried out in pain when she hit the ground, landing heavily on her right side. He was delighted when her skirts rode up revealing her shapely left ankle and calf.

He left the shelter of the timber, stepped over the dilapidated fence and traversed the field. The woman’s back was turned to him. She hadn’t witnessed his approach, but the young whelp spotted him when he was still some thirty yards away and quickly