The Rivers Webb (16 page)

The truth of the matter was, Arthur couldn't seem to make himself blame Fred. He was reacting pretty much the same way Arthur would. He could just imagine how he would react if he were sitting in Fred's place, left all alone to guard a man that he was certain had brutally murdered friends of his. Of course, this line of thought did nothing to calm his nerves. Because now Arthur was starting to wonder about what thoughts were running through Fred's mind. Exactly how far was Deputy Flandon willing to go to win the approval of Sheriff Roy Rivers? To what extremes would he go to be thought of as more than just ‘the other deputy?'

Worse yet, would anyone so much as bat an eye if he did?

That was when the full weight of his situation fell on him. Arthur realized, perhaps for the first time, what it might actually feel like to be taken from his wife and four children. Even more, he was dealing with an unmistakable fear at what fate awaited him. A trial, and with the way it looked like things were stacked against him, Arthur held little hope of it coming out in his favor. He'd heard stories about the prisons in Georgia, and the kinds of things that happened to a man once he was inside one of them. These were not stories told in mixed company, but amongst sober, fearful men gathered around a bottle of Stovall's Finest, attempting to become less sober and less fearful.

Arthur had never met anyone who had ever been in prison, so he didn't know these things first-hand, or even second-hand. But in his soul, he knew them to be true, now.

It was at this disturbing and disheartening thought that the telltale bell attached to the office door rang, attracting the attentions of the prisoner and his jailer.

The door opened, and the familiar face of Earl Cameron popped in.

“Sheriff?” he asked.

“He ain't here right now. What'cha need, there, Earl?”

Earl stepped in and closed the door behind him.

“Actually, Fred, I was kinda' hopin' he weren't here.”

It got quite still and quiet, then. Arthur noticed Fred's hand drift down a little to his gun belt. He wasn't sure if it was an instinctive response, or if Fred was just taking the sheriff's orders about keeping Arthur safe very seriously.

“What do you need, Earl?” Fred asked again, with a decided edge to his voice.

“I was wantin' to talk to Arthur, there.”

Fred shook his head so hard it seemed it might shake loose.

“That's jes' not gonna happen. Sheriff Rivers was real clear on that point—he don't git no visitors, an' I don't let nobody near 'im. Sorry, Earl.”

“Ah, hell, Fred. Do ya' think I'm gonna try and let him loose on ya'? It's just…”

“I don't care what ya' intend. I ain't disobeyin' an order. The only folks what git to talk to that there man is police—and Mr. Webb, on account o' him bein' part o' the investigation.”

“Well, there ya' have it then!” Earl said with a toothy grin, “Mr. Webb gets ta' talk to 'im 'cause he's on the case. So am I.”

“You are not, Earl Cameron!”

“I am so. Weren't it me that found the good rev'rend's body in the first place? Weren't it me that boated Dan and that Webb fella' out there ta' Grandpappy Island? And, weren't I right there when the bullets started flyin' all o'er the place? I'd say that makes me part o' it all three dif'ernt ways!”

“First off,” Fred countered, “all that just makes you a witness, not an investigator. And second, there was just the one bullet, and it was Mr. Webb what fired it, so you weren't in no danger no how!”

“Well, I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that somebody was shootin' at somebody else.”

Fred was shaking his head in pure exasperation.

“Earl, it's real important that you understand this, 'cause I'm not sayin' it again. The sheriff and his deputies—namely me an' Dan—are paid by the county ta' uphold the law. Mr. Webb, who is also a professional lawman, was invited to assist. You, on the other hand, were not asked to help, nor were you hired to help. Therefore, you ain't helpin'.”

Earl stopped to look at his shoe for a moment, and it looked as though he were just going to leave it at that, until he looked up and locked eyes with Fred.

“So, what yer sayin' is, if I was hired on, you'd jest hafta let me have a little set-down with Arthur if I wanted?”

“Well, yeah, I guess, but…”

“Move on over then, dep'ty. Cause I was give two dollars by Dan—excuse me—Deputy Merrill, to take him and Mr. Webb out to Grandpappy Island, and—I am quotin' this here part, lest ya' doubt me—to be available to assist as the sitch'ation needed.”

“To be available to take 'em up the river if they needed, yeah. But that's all he was sayin'!” Fred persisted.

“Don't matter none. I was hired to help, an' I was asked to help. I gots the right to talk to that man, an' I mean ta' do it!”

Fred was starting to realize that he was losing a battle of wits to Earl Cameron. He didn't like it, and he didn't like that it would certainly get back to the sheriff and Dan.

“Why do you even want ta' talk wi' Arthur, anyways? Why's it so damned important?”

“Because…” Earl trailed off.

“Ain't near good enough, Earl. I got standin' orders, an' they stand for anybody, even the sheriff included, to keep that prisoner safe. So, if I suspect that somebody's comin' here to do him harm, they ain't getting' past me.”

“Harm?! Why, I known Arthur Stovall my whole damn life. I ain't never held a grudge 'gainst him, nor him for me. I wouldn't never hurt him, and that there is a fact.”

“Well then why, if ya' ain't gonna hurt 'im and ya' ain't gonna try and let him loose, why are you so hell-bent on seein' the man? You gots to answer me that question, or by God, you'll turn around an' forget about it, right now!” Fred demanded. Apparently, that was something Earl understood.

“If what they're sayin' is true, and Arthur really did…well, if what they're sayin' is true, then I gotta know why. Like I said, I've known Arthur all my life, and I thought I pretty well knew the man. Hell, I fished with 'im. I've always known he weren't no angel, but somethin' like this? I just cain't git my head wrapped around it, and I ain't gonna be able to sleep until I do. Let me talk to 'im. You can listen in, I don't care. Maybe he'll tell me somethin' he won't tell you.”

Fred looked pained by his own indecision. He knew Earl was being sincere, but he knew how the sheriff would feel about him letting anyone talk to Arthur. What finally made the decision for him, however, was Earl's last argument. Maybe Arthur would come clean to a friend. Then Fred could personally hand over the man's confession. That might even be enough for folks to call him a hero. Or, at least, it would be enough that people would start thinking of him as a real deputy.

“You got five minutes. I'm standin' right behind ya', so don't even think o' doin' nothin' funny.”

Earl smiled and walked to Arthur's cell. For the next five minutes, Earl talked. He asked Arthur if he was the man who killed the reverend, and George, and Opal. He asked Arthur if there was something they did that nobody knew about. He asked as many questions as he could think of.

Throughout the conversation, however, Arthur said nothing. After five minutes, Fred didn't have to interrupt. Earl got up, thanked the deputy, and walked away.

Twenty minutes later, in the overwhelming quiet of a county jail cell, Arthur Stovall broke down and cried aloud, and without shame.

Fred Flandon, who sat with his back turned against that cell's occupant, hardened himself against the gut-wrenching cries of the condemned man, thinking to himself, “if ever I heard the genuine wail of a guilty man, I heard one today.”

*

When it comes right down to it, most human beings can recall one single perfect moment in their life that they go back to whenever they need to be reminded that good things really do happen to them. It might be something from childhood, such as a thirteenth birthday party or a day at the fair. It could be a wedding day memory, or the birth of a child. Regardless of what the memory is, however, it will be added to with every recalling, becoming more perfect each and every time.

Sam Posey was no exception. And, as he sat at the counter at the Boarding House, reviewing the small world around him, he was in desperate need of a perfect memory.

It was 1905, and one of the most beautiful spring days the state of Georgia had ever seen. On that day, a much younger Sam Posey had taken his sweetheart, Eleanor Winston, to a picnic by Wamble's pond. He could recall in his mind clearly how the flowers were in full bloom, as the lilac scented breeze gently rolled across the grassy plains. The pastoral sounds of cows gently and contentedly mooing could be heard, just above a whisper.

Eleanor had packed ham sandwiches with potato salad and lemonade. Sam had brought his old guitar and strummed through all four of the songs he knew, while she listened attentively. Sam knew how badly he played, but Eleanor always asked him to do it anyway, and she always smiled so brightly when he did. She looked so beautiful. Sam could hardly restrain himself from breaking his own promise to wait until tonight before making his big presentation. The weight of the small box in his pants pocket was a constant reminder that today was so much more than an average day…

He broke from this image and ordered another coffee. He never allowed himself to stay in that memory any longer than that moment. Because, beyond that, it was no longer a safe, comforting memory. If he allowed himself to dwell on any part of the memory past that picnic, he would have to relive the day he saw Eleanor dying. Any farther, and he would see, in equally vivid clarity, his vision of Eleanor's last breath, just six months away. It was what caused him to lock the engagement ring in a drawer and stop courting her.

To this day, he tried to tell himself that it was because he believed his breaking off ties with her might change things enough so that she wouldn't die. But a part of him knew that it wasn't the case. He broke it off with her because he was afraid. He didn't want to see her go. He didn't want to have to say goodbye.

Either way, it didn't work. Eleanor died six months later of a heart attack, and even though Sam was not by her side when she passed, he saw it every night in his dreams. It was a goodbye that never ended, and a heartfelt pain that time refused to ease.

It was the pivotal moment in his life. After his horrific vision of Eleanor's death, Sam no longer did his little act at the fairs and carnivals. He set fire to the artful signs he had spent so much time in making, touting himself as ‘The man who saw all things hidden.' He took what little money he had and invested it in the family farm that he had let go for so long.

He set about running that farm like any other man would do. And, although the life of a farmer was something that he had absolutely no desire for in the past, he soon found that he had something of a knack for it.

Oddly, though, it was right around then that everyone started calling him “Doc.” Maybe it was because his demeanor changed, maybe because he became known as a man who could be counted on in times of need. Maybe, however, it was because his gift wasn't just a sideshow gimmick anymore. Sam never actually had to set up a booth at the fair. Rarely did a night go by that someone didn't stop by his place with a question. Only now, the questions weren't casually thrown out to amuse. People came by now to ask Sam the kind of questions that people needed to know. Sam Posey, carnival oddity, got asked how much change a fellow had in his pocket, or what color eyes a young lady's intended had. Doc Posey, respected farmer and neighbor, was asked where a missing horse had gotten off to, or if the drought was going to continue much longer.

Sam never asked for money when he gave answers, but every person that came by always left something behind in gratitude. Sam always accepted, gratefully. He knew the value of pride. And he knew what it would cost for someone to accept his help without doing something in return.

Doc Posey he had become, and he wore it as well as could be expected.

Some days, though, it was harder than others.

“You need a refill, there, Doc?” asked Mr. Ellswhite.

Sam was about to argue that he had just gotten another cup, until he looked down and realized that, at some point, he had drained it. Mechanically, he nodded an affirmative, but said nothing. A part of his mind was still by that pond.

“If you're waitin' on that Mr. Webb, I got the impression he's gonna be out for a spell…”

“No, sir. I'm not waiting for Mr. Webb. I don't think he would be all too happy to see me, anyways,” Sam replied, then thanked the man as he topped off his coffee.

The door behind him opened, and Sam didn't need to turn around to know that it was Gerald Peachtree. Sam sat rock-still as Gerald climbed onto the stool beside him and flagged Ellswhite with a smile and a raised hand.

“Mr. Ellswhite? Could I trouble you for two o' them fine barbecue sandwiches I been smellin' all day? And if it ain't no trouble, I'd surely like to have a container o' that potato salad, as well.”

Ellswhite smiled at the compliment, and hurried back into the kitchen to complete the order.

“How ya' doin', Gerald?” Sam offered quietly.

“Why, and good afternoon to you, Doc. What brings you down to Sales City today?” Gerald asked companionably. Doc Posey smiled in return, but there was a sadness behind his eyes that left the little man beside him a little unnerved.

“It's good to see you, Gerald. As it happens, I needed to stretch my legs a bit, so to speak. The only way to really appreciate the ‘airs of home' is ta' get a good lungful o' what's around ya'.”

“I s'pose that's so.”

Sam looked at the mirror. He saw his face, as if for the first time. He couldn't help but wonder if he looked so old because of the years, or because of the things he had been forced to see.