Tuesday, May 24th, 1942
You know it’s going to be an interesting day when you get up, walk outside, and find a peacock sitting on the hood of your car. Certainly for John, this seemed to have all the makings of a classic omen of some kind, though what type of omen exactly, or what it might be pointing to, he couldn’t even venture a guess.
And yet, here he was in his best suit, at 7 a.m. on his second day in Coweta County, staring blankly at the bright blue and green bird squatting contentedly on the hood of the Studebaker he’d been lent by his estranged aunt so that he could investigate the murder of his uncle…
Actually, if he decided to take a good hard look at his situation, it shouldn’t really seem that odd at all. Still, it caught John off-guard. It was only after a few moments that he broke out of his reverie long enough to wonder what people might think of this very odd scene, should anyone see him. But not quite soon enough…
“I suppose they don’t have peacocks in New York?”
John turned with a start. He hadn’t heard anyone coming up, and felt more than a little embarrassed. Normally he might have tried to mask it, but the bird had already unnerved him, and he was unable to do anything but point and look stupid. Fortunately, the woman that had found him didn’t seem to notice.
“There’s a…” Still flustered, John couldn’t finish his own sentence.
“A peacock on the hood of your car. Yeah. I don’t know why, but they seem to like car hoods in the mornin’.”
“I didn’t know that peacocks were wild in Georgia.”
“Oh, only in Coweta County,” the woman said matter-of-factly.
John’s blank stare was apparently enough to tell her that more explanation was necessary.
“There was this traveling circus that came through town about twenty-five years ago,” she continued. “Actually, ‘circus’ is kind of a generous word…there were a couple of clowns, some horses, a monkey, and peacocks. Lots of peacocks, in fact. That is, until George Rivers thought it would be funny to see them let loose all over town. His mama nearly blew her own house down yellin’ at him. Well, you know how your aunt Wilhelmina can get. He was just 10 years old back then, but I’ll bet if you ask him, he’ll still remember that whoopin’!”
There were a lot of reasons why John just stood there dumbfounded throughout the whole story. But probably the most relevant one was the simple truth that he still had no idea who this woman was that had appeared at this, his most embarrassing hour.
“So, anyway, that’s how come we got wild peacocks all over the place now. Twenty-five years of open space and plenty of breedin’ room have done pretty well for them birds.”
John was still staring. She was a rather attractive woman in her mid-forties, with a broad smile and eyes that seemed to challenge you not to like her. John instinctively felt like he ought to know who she was, but couldn’t put his finger on it. Apparently, his discomfort was showing.
“Oh my gosh, would you take a look at me! Yammerin’ away like we’re old friends and I haven’t so much as introduced myself.” She stuck out her hand in an oddly formal way, as if mocking the entire notion of introductions. “Annie Ruth Stovall. I was real close with your mother, once.”
Realization, relief, and a strange blend of conflicting emotions ran through John’s mind as he took the offered hand, but he managed to recover quickly.
“It’s good to finally meet you. I’ve had the opportunity to read through several of your letters. Mom was quite fond of you,” John finally answered. Uncharacteristically, Annie Ruth blushed at the kind words.
“I was real fond of her, too… I’m sorry to just jump on into your mornin’ like this.”
“It’s okay. I was just walking across the street to stretch my legs, when…” John nodded over to the peacock, still contentedly sitting on his hood.
“Yeah, we’ve had them around for so long, I guess I never realized how strange somethin’ like that would be if you weren’t expectin’ it,” she said with a slight laugh. Then she paused for a moment, getting a little more serious.
“But if you don’t mind, Detective Webb, there was a reason I stopped by.”
Fifteen minutes later, John was in his car, now peacock-free, with Annie Ruth in the passenger seat. They were headed toward Mulfry, Georgia, where Annie Ruth would introduce John to one Doctor Posey, who supposedly had information about the case. Annie Ruth wouldn’t say any more, only that he was a distant cousin that she had known since she was just a little girl, and that he was trusted by every man, woman, and child in three counties
When he asked her what sort of information he might have, Annie Ruth just smiled with a sense of old country wisdom.
“Doc Posey knows everything.”
John only had about another hour before his aunt would be sending the car for him, but Annie Ruth assured him that this would just take a few moments. And sure enough, before John could even register that they had left Sales City, they were driving down Main Street Mulfry. Annie Ruth pointed down one narrow dirt road that led to a modest little brick home just a hundred feet from the railroad tracks.
“Is the man deaf?” John asked, only half-joking. Annie Ruth looked at him as if she didn’t understand, so John expounded.
“This close to the tracks, your Doctor Posey must either be deaf, or have the loudest radio in town.”
“Actually, I just know when the train’s coming, so I know when to make my trips into town,” came a booming voice from the front door. John turned to see a man that, despite the countless wrinkles and bleach-white hair, seemed to transcend age. There was a strange timeless quality to him that made John uneasy and wary.
“Annie Ruth, it’s so nice to see you. And this must be John…” Doc Posey stepped toward them robustly, despite the obvious limp that belabored his movements.
“Sam Posey. Good to meet you.” He grabbed John’s hand in a firm, strong handshake, then paused for the briefest of seconds. The moment was barely noticeable, but John saw something reflected in the man’s dark grey eyes that unsettled him. Without fully understanding why, John suddenly had the feeling that he had been judged—critically—and been found to be in need of something.
Sam Posey led them into his home, and led them to sit at his kitchen table. John didn’t want to be rude, but he was in a bit of a hurry, and he hoped that the man would be forthcoming soon about why he had been dragged out here.
“Doctor Posey…”
“Sam. Please. It’s one thing when the folk around here want to hang some kind’a title on me, but I’ll only give my arrogant pride so much room with strangers.”
“So, you aren’t a doctor?” John asked, beginning to wonder what kind of expert help this man might have to offer.
“Certainly not! I barely made it through grade school, let alone college and medical school. No, ‘Doc’ is purely honorific. It’s just somethin’ they pinned on me years ago.”
“Still, I’m sure your wife is very proud,” John said, noting the many pictures on the mantle of a fair-haired, beautiful woman. At this, Sam went a little stiff.
“No, I’m afraid I never got married. Came close once. That’s Eleanor in the pictures. I was all set to propose thirty-seven years ago. Had the ring and everything—but I just couldn’t go through with it.”
“Thirty-seven years, and you still have her picture up? Seems like maybe those fires are still burning, if you don’t mind me saying. You ever hear from her?”
Sam got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. John’s trained eye couldn’t help but make note of the way his hand shook as he did.
“No,” he said flatly. “No, she died six months later. Her heart gave out on her.” Sam seemed to lose himself for the briefest of moments, as his glance fell on to one of the many pictures of Eleanor. It should have been an awkward, uncomfortable moment, but something in the wistful longing in the old man’s eyes placed that odd drama in a light that was above such childish emotional displays. It was almost a disappointment when he broke off and returned his gaze to John.
“Well, I know you got the funeral, and you probably are wondering what kind of thing Annie Ruth would have dragged you out here for…so let’s get down to the point, huh?”
John could tell that the man desperately wanted to change the subject, and since it got him what he wanted, he was happy to oblige.
“Yes, sir. Anything that you know could be very helpful.” John had his little notepad out, and was already writing down the man’s name, the date, and the time.
“Well, first off, you’re gonna have to work out your feelings about Roy. Nothing’s gonna happen if you aren’t able to put some o’ them demons to rest.”
“I’m sorry…” John held up his hand and put his pencil down.
“Don’t think of it as me gettin’ into your business, it’s just that we’re dealin’ with a lot o’ them mixed up feelin’s—that’s just gonna get in the way.”
Sam’s gaze was level and unrelenting, as if he had just issued a statement of inescapable fact. Sighing heavily, John closed his notebook and returned the man’s look without even a hint of blinking.
“Mr. Posey, I don’t mean to be rude, so if it comes out that way I apologize, but I thought I came down here for information, not a counseling session about my father.”
There was a moment of very palpable silence as both men looked confused, and Annie Ruth looked guilty.
“Annie Ruth?” Sam asked sternly, “What, exactly, did you tell Mr. Webb you were bringing him here for?”
“I didn’t have a choice, Doc. I knew if he met you and heard what you had to say…”
“What is going on here?” John demanded.
“Mr. Webb…John, I think you’ve been brought here under false pretenses, and I am sorry.” Sam set his coffee down on the table, as if signaling that this meeting was, indeed, concluded.
“Wait just a damn minute, here. You’re telling me you have no information about Carl Rivers’ death, whatsoever?”
“What I am telling you is that the information I have, you may not want.”
“And why is that?”
“Because what I know, I saw…in a dream”
John didn’t quite know how to respond to that.
“It was three nights ago, under a full moon. I was watching your uncle walk across the Parrot river bridge, and then it went dark like the blackest Georgia night you ever saw, but I could still hear things. I heard the gunshot, then suddenly I could see again, and I saw the reverend fall into the water.”
John got up.
“There’s more—you need to know it.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
“John, wait, please.” Annie Ruth was trying to get him to sit back down.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to listen to some two-bit hustler hand me a nice big piece of obvious-pie.” He was furious. Beyond furious.
“I’ve seen too many of your kind where I come from for you to expect me to swallow anything you have to say. You’ll pardon me, but I’ve got things to do.” John was halfway out the door when Sam called out after him.
“I’m sorry I appear to have wasted your time, Mr. Webb.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Rather, I think you’re more disappointed that I wasn’t blind and stupid enough to take your psychic ramblings to heart,” John retorted.
Sam Posey stood and extended his hand. “I am sorry you feel that way. I truly am. But if you’ll allow me to offer a bit of helpful advice, Mr. Webb, you’ll do well to consider the possibility that the answers you’re lookin’ for ain’t gonna be found the way you’re lookin’.”
“I doubt seriously I’m going to find Uncle Carl’s killer in a clump of tea leaves, or at the bottom of a deck of tarot cards, if that’s what you mean!”
“What I mean, Mr. Webb, is that the killer you’re looking for isn’t going to be found by herdin’ in half the county, or by runnin’ stiff interrogation—you’ll find your killer when you figure out who in this county knew the good reverend well enough to know what he had done that was bad enough to kill him for, and who in this county would have been so unwilling to forgive him that they couldn’t stand to have him around anymore.”
John turned and left the house, without accepting the proffered hand. He pretended not to have heard those last words, but they kept running through his head all the way back to Sales City.
Though it seemed much, much longer, the whole trip, interview included, took just over 45 minutes. John still had time for a few sips of coffee to settle his nerves before the Rivers’ limousine came by to gather him up. The ride to the graveside was stifling. Not the heat—it was actually a rather cool day. It was the company. Aunt Wilhelmina and his father were the only two faces he recognized, but he could take a stab at the rest. The prissy, timid woman in her early fifties would have to be the younger sister, Opal. Her dress was plain and modest, but carefully stitched. John was sure if he listened closely, he would hear her tell everyone who could stand to listen how she had had it shipped in from Paris, or Spain, or perhaps just a modest San Francisco boutique. She said nothing, now, as she clutched her small matching purse to her, as though she feared that he might mug her for it before they reached the cemetery.
There were two other men in the car. One, with the well-tended paunch and stiff posture of a man of “big business,” had to be Arnold Rivers, Roy’s youngest brother. Arnold, he knew, had dutifully taken over the Rivers’ many business interests since his father’s death. As the oldest son, it was actually Roy’s responsibility, but he had chosen to play policeman instead. Since Carl had found God, he was certainly in no shape to run a company, so it fell to Arnold. From what John had already learned, it seemed a good fit. Arnold had managed to move a great deal of the family wealth into national companies that had shown promise, and the return had been significant. There was also a good bit of evidence that he had discovered a few “less than upright” business avenues that John was certain Wilhelmina had no idea about.
The other man in the car looked to be about John’s age, and if it weren’t for the ridiculous grin that seemed plastered to his face, John would never have had a clue as to who he was. But something about the goofy look on his face brought to mind the bird on the hood of his car this morning, and then John knew that this just had to be Peacock boy himself, George Rivers.
Little was said on the way to the funeral. It was awkward. It didn’t seem right to give introductions, and nobody knew how to start a conversation without them. As the car pulled into the cemetery, John suddenly felt a rush of guilt. He had been reading everyone as if he were looking at suspects. But the reality of entering the graveyard snapped him into the overwhelming realization that these were not just empty faces. These were people who had known and loved Carl Rivers, just as much as he did, or perhaps even more. As Roy reached for the door, John put a hand out to stop him.
“Wait.” John fumbled for words. He knew he should say something, but he found it difficult to actually force the sentiment out.
“I just wanted to say thank you, before we go out there. I think that I have been a little selfish, just focusing on how much I missed Uncle Carl. This is the second family funeral for me in just three months, and I guess you could say I’ve got a lot on my mind. But at least for this one, I’m not standing by a graveside alone. And I really do appreciate that. Aunt Wilhelmina, Aunt Opal, Uncle Arnold, Cousin George…Dad.” That hurt. But at least it took the edge off of the moment. “I just wanted to let you all know how I felt.”
The smiles that directed themselves back to him were genuine and heartfelt. When they marched up to the grave, they did so as a family. No strangers were present.
Wilhelmina led the entourage, followed dutifully by Opal—it was clear that she had much practice over the years—Roy stepped in behind her, then Arnold, with John and George bringing up the rear.
George was idly playing with a pinkie ring as they walked. It was a rather bright bauble, designed to be noticed.
“New ring?” John asked innocently, awkwardly searching for conversation. George immediately stopped turning the thing and stopped in his tracks for just a second or two.
“No,” he stammered, “No, I’ve had it for years… Just a nervous habit.” Then George hurried to catch up. Something told John that he should press, but decided it would be better left to later. As if on cue, John got a whiff of that same strange fragrance he had noticed earlier. Once again, it held an odd sense of familiarity, but he just couldn’t place it. For a moment, he was tempted to ask someone about its source, but something kept him from forming the question, as if this seemingly innocuous query would break the tableau of a Georgia funeral. Besides, they were nearing the graveside, and it was clear that the minister was set to begin.
John was not surprised by much at this funeral. This does not mean to say that it was unmemorable, or that he was disappointed in how it was undertaken, or that it was any less moving than it should have been. It was, simply, one of those rare occasions where the reality of an event was equal to the expectation.
Just as John had imagined, the entire town—and quite possibly a good portion of the county—was present and accounted for, in their best Sunday clothes, suitably teary-eyed, nodding along to the thoughtfully rendered words of the eulogy. The minister was a Methodist Bishop from Atlanta that Carl Rivers had often spoken with and exchanged letters. His brief sermonette had included a story that Carl had once told him, about a botched baptism involving a shaky teenager and a bobcat. And the laughter that followed was both respectful and heartfelt, with many a head nod and whispered, “That was Pastor Rivers, all right.”
In short, John’s ingrown pessimism had no place to go. On that beautiful Tuesday morning, with the sun shining down and long-lost family sitting beside him, John Webb had no natural defenses against his grief. He watched with tears as six Methodist deacons slowly marched, casket in hand, toward the final residence of his Uncle Carl. Images flashed through his mind without mercy: Uncle Carl teaching him to swim; Uncle Carl at his birthday; Uncle Carl leading a standing ovation when he had received his citation from the mayor.
Aunt Wilhelmina’s hand touched his briefly. As he looked over, she smiled and whispered, “I know it’s all so sad…I only wish you could have known him better.”
It was the slap in the face that he needed to bring out his cop’s cynicism again. He should probably have thanked her, but it would have spoiled the moment. Instead, he began to do what he came here to do in the first place. Turning back to the crowd of people, he started taking mental notes.
The Stovalls were there, sitting toward the back with the rest of the unimportant people. The two sheriff’s deputies had taken up position on the opposite side of the grave, but close enough to the front to let everyone know how far up they were in the social pecking order. And, although he had never met the man, John knew Earl Cameron the second he saw him, standing in the back, looking ashamed to be there. The pained look on his face was not completely from grief. John was certain that the evident hangover had a lot to do with it.
John continued to subtly scan the gathering crowd. Somewhere in there was a killer, and not a particularly clever one. In theory, this was where he made his short list of suspects. He was looking for the face in the crowd that was showing too much grief, or not enough, or just plain indifference. He was looking for bad acting, a twinkle in the eye, a smirk that someone accidentally let slip. For the most part, he had no names to go with faces, but there was one exception. Arthur Stovall. He didn’t like it, but there it was. Arthur Stovall had every reason to hate the Rivers family, and he was certainly big enough to overpower a man. His expression was blank, today, like a man with a straight flush who’s desperate not to give it all away.
John had seen that particular look a lot in his line of work, the facial equivalent of ‘name, rank, and serial number.’ It almost always meant the same thing. Guilt.
The close of the sermon gave John the pretext he needed to meet and greet those other faces. He made his way through the crowd with relative ease. It helped that, being in a small town, everyone already knew who he was. One by one, he came up to those who had struck his interest. Some he could dismiss immediately, others he took special note of. Hank Groves, who owned the only liquor store in the county, and was in danger of losing his business if a referendum passed to make Coweta a dry county. Reverend Carl Rivers, who was heading up the committee, would never see that happen, now. Clorace Ann Ruthers, who had repeatedly tried to gain the attention of Carl Rivers, despite his insistence that he was a confirmed bachelor. It wouldn’t be the first time John had seen infatuations end this way.
There were others, too. John made his way through, listening and asking the right questions. It still amazed him how much information people were just willing to throw out there for you. He remembered an old saying his captain always quoted, “the best way to get a confession is not to ask any questions at all, just get the guy into a decent conversation, and let him tell you everything.”
It worked. As he talked to people, one on one, he found out more about his uncle’s everyday life in Sales City than he would have ever known otherwise. It was an interesting revelation, in many cases. The last person he was going to talk with, however, was Arthur Stovall. He couldn’t completely understand why, but he wanted to put all his energies into that conversation, as though he needed to prove that he was innocent or guilty before he could do anything else.
He never quite made it to Mr. Stovall, however. Just as he was finishing up with James Finney, who’s wife had recently insisted he quit the local lodge because of the things she had heard went on there—things he stoutly believed that Reverend Rivers had told her—a latecomer had arrived. He did not walk up to the grave, or mingle amongst the gathered mourners, but kept a respectful distance. That is, until he saw Detective Webb. When he locked his ancient eyes on John, he marched purposefully forward.
John’s expression grew dangerously dark as Sam Posey walked up to him. He closed the distance, as though refusing the man access to the others gathered together in memory of his dear uncle.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but you pack up whatever crystal ball or tarot cards you’ve got with you and leave these people alone!” John whispered hostilely, as he closed with Sam.
Sam looked at him as if he hadn’t heard a word he said.
“Mr. Webb, I know you don’t think much of me, but you should really read this,” Sam handed a note over to John. “Just read it. After that, you can rip it up, pass it around to your friends back in New York for a good laugh, or you can drive up to my house and call me a liar and a cheat—I don’t care. Just you read it!” Unsure of what really to do at this point, John took the note from Sam Posey’s hand. “Maybe I’m a fool for comin’ out here. I ain’t decided yet. But I’ll not be able ta’ live with m’self if I don’t at least try…”
John cut him off with a single harsh, barking laugh.
“I took your damn note. You said that’s all you want? Well, mission accomplished. Leave these people to their grief.”
Having done what he came to do, apparently, Sam Posey walked away, and left the cemetery without another word to anyone.
With the note still held loosely in his hand, John caught Annie Ruth staring over at him from where she stood by her husband. And then, all of a sudden, John Webb didn’t want to have that conversation with Arthur. He didn’t want to think about him being guilty or not guilty. Without knowing really why, John just wanted to go someplace where no one was looking and read that note.
The funny thing about funerals is that different people can have very different reactions to them. Some people want to find someone or something to be close to, in order to remind themselves that they’re alive. Some prefer the reflection of solitude. Many people like to tune everything out, as though the numbness of thought would seep into their emotional state and dull the pain of loss. Still others, like Sheriff’s Deputy Dan Merrill, became oddly alert, as though afraid they might miss some important clue to life hidden within the details and ritual of the proceedings.
*
Dan Merrill had wanted to be a cop since he was four years old; ever since he had watched one Roy Rivers stare down an angry crowd when Henry Johns, a black man, had been accused of raping a teenage white girl from three counties over. Henry was well known and well liked, but that day, he was just a damn nigger and fit to be hanged. Roy threw Henry into the lock-up until he could get some answers, but several of the men from town wanted justice first, and bother with a trial later. Most sheriffs would have just let them have their way, rather than face that kind of hate and rage, but Roy stood there at the door of the sheriffs office, shotgun in hand, and promised to shoot the first man to put a foot on the steps. No one took him up on the threat. That evening, when it was revealed that the “teenage girl” was actually a recently released patient from the Chattahoochee mental hospital and had a bit of a history of accusations, the whole story fell apart. Henry Johns was completely innocent, just the unfortunate individual that happened to be delivering several large sacks of salt to the hotel she was staying at.
Since that day, Dan knew that he was going to be a policeman. He followed Roy around constantly, asking questions, until his mother was certain Roy would be sick of the sight of him. Instead, Roy seemed to take a special interest in the boy. He spent hours with Dan, quizzing him on police procedures, making him memorize every face in Coweta County, and every life story behind it. The job of deputy was his the day he graduated from high school, if he wanted it. But the problem with that was, Dan wanted it too much. With Roy’s blessing and a few dollars to his name, Dan Merrill took a bus to Atlanta to spend the next year at the Police Academy.
When he returned home to Sales City, he could have taken a job with the Atlanta Police Department making twice what he would as Roy’s deputy, but he was committed to serving his hometown. Just like Roy had taught him, he considered the people of Coweta County to be his responsibility, and he could never forget that. Not even when one of them had passed on…
Especially when one had passed.
Deputy Merrill was keenly aware of many things going on during the funeral. He noticed John’s surreptitious examination of the crowd earlier, and the subsequent observations and interviews afterward. He could guess what the northerner was doing. Truth be known, he was keeping an eye out on some of the same people.
Dan wasn’t surprised to see Sam Posey arrive, but when he shoved a note at Webb, that got his interest. The angry look on Webb’s face made him especially curious. Webb had just arrived in town—when did he have time to even meet Posey?
Dan kept a quiet vigil over John Webb throughout the funeral. Nobody else seemed to notice the distracted way he smiled and shook hands with all the well-wishers, but it was obvious enough to Dan that John’s mind was somewhere else.
Because Dan was watching, he was close enough to hear John Webb make a quick request to Gerald, the Rivers’ houseman. He watched as he took the keys from him and headed toward the car. It took him a few moments to extract himself from the other family, but the look on his face was determined—even under the stern reproach of Wilhelmina, whose voice could be heard even from where Dan stood in the distance:
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, John, and I will not stand for it!”
“I’ll be right back. I just forgot something in my room,” John responded. Wilhelmina just threw her hands up in the air and went back to talking with everyone. In a moment, she was right back into the same conversation she was engaged in before John interrupted. As far as anyone could tell, his indiscretion was forgotten. Dan knew better, but he wasn’t sticking around to watch it happen. He was more interested in where John was in such a hurry to get to.
Funny thing about backwoods counties and country towns, roads were always an afterthought. John Webb couldn’t have known this, so he assumed that the quickest route between any two points would be by road. Dan Merrill knew better. For every winding, nonsensically designed road in Georgia there were a hundred horse tracks, laid out as straight as an arrow’s path. When Webb turned left on Funeral Line Road, he knew there wouldn’t be another turn or stop for another twelve miles. Plenty of time to “borrow” one of Ed Nelson’s horses and make his way toward Creek Bed Road, which was the next crossroads.
Sure enough, Dan beat the good detective and traced him just another mile further, where he pulled off and made his way down to the very spot where Dan had first met Webb, just shy of the bridge where Reverend Rivers had been shot. Dan hadn’t planned on spying on anyone today; otherwise he would have had his field glasses to see up close. As it was, he had to content himself with peeking out from a safe vantage point. But he could still make out Webb, still clutching that damn paper, working his way along the edge of the river towards Parrot River Bridge. He was looking down at the rocks. Looking, as though the whole fate of the world was down there. He waded into the river, got down on his knees. Dan didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for, but it was important.
Dan watched for a few minutes, until Webb froze in place. His hands were clearly trembling, even from this distance, as he plunged his fist into the water and brought up…
Dan had no idea. Webb moved around so that his back blocked the view, and whatever it was that he found, was tucked into his jacket before Dan could see it. And then the show was over. Webb got out of the water, walked up to the car, and drove off toward town. Leaving poor Deputy Dan to wonder. With more questions than answers, Dan worked his way back up to the horse, then headed back to old Ed Nelson’s to return the horse.
*
Had he stayed but a few minutes longer, Dan would have had yet another question to add to his list, because within moments of driving away from that quiet stretch of water, John Webb coasted onto the Parrott River Bridge. With Dan now gone, no one was there to bear witness as John got out of the car and came over to the edge of the bridge.
The weather had done a fine job of clean up, but John’s trained eye was still able to make out the brownish discoloration that he knew to be dried blood. Placing his hands on the wooden rail, he took a moment to contemplate what might have been going through Carl Rivers’ mind before the end. Then, reaching into his left pocket, he brought out Sam’s note. The contents of his right pocket, which he had just found in the river, was too disturbing to even think about right now.
John read and reread that note, as if searching out a loophole in the language. Maybe he could find some bizarre grammatical error that would change what it meant, somehow. Perhaps there was some trick or double meaning that would alter the course set before him. In the end, however, he resigned himself to its reality. With a heavy sighing breath, he put the note back, and eased himself over the edge of the rail to peer down.
He saw what he was looking for after a few moments of hard looking. It was no surprise that no one had seen it thus far. The paper was caught in a wood joint set far back into the bracing of the bridge, where shadow concealed it from all but the most scrutinized observation.
It took a bit of doing, and not a few close moments, but John managed to work his way down to where the scrap was lodged and freed it. He didn’t wait to climb back up, but slowly, fearfully opened the paper to see what was written on it. His face was a leaden mixture of anger and regret as the words played out. For a moment, it seemed that all the strength left him, and his arms began to lose their grip on the bridge supports. The drop down to the river probably wouldn’t kill him, but the current would certainly finish whatever part of the job remained.
Before it came to that, however, he managed to collect himself enough to haul his body back up and into the car. He sat there for a good solid hour with that note clenched in his hands. Then, with a grim look on his face, he started the car, and headed back to the funeral. John Webb tried to clear his head and focus, realizing that he would have to face everyone back at the cemetery, and then at the dinner to follow. He had already decided he could not show this evidence to anyone else, but he also knew what it meant, and he knew that his work in Coweta County was far from over.