Season 2- "Episode 4"

   In Preacher's office, the young lady in the floral sun dress sat nervously on the other side of his desk. Olivia Benoit was twenty three years old. She had always been a small girl, thin build. It was known around town that at a young age, she left her home to escape an alcoholic and abusive father. Since then, she has been forced into finding work where she could. Two weeks prior, she had taken the job as a bookkeeper for Preacher's church.

   As they sat in the silent room, Preacher placed his black framed glasses on, and ran his eyes down Olivia's tan legs, all the way down to the wedged shoes strapped to her foot. As subtly as she could, she tugged slightly at the end of her dress to pull it down a bit.

   Preacher reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit one. He squinted at her through the smoke that rose through the air. He smiled. With his left hand, he grabbed a coffee mug that sat on his desk and scooted it closer to him, tapping the first round of ashes into it. Olivia shuffled the papers she had been holding in her lap.

"So hunny, what can I do for you?"

   Olivia reached forward to hand Preacher a few pieces of the paper work. He didn't reach back, so after a few seconds she laid them down on his desk.

"You hired me to be you bookkeeper, sir....."

He tapped his ashes into the mug.

"That I did. I trust things are going well? Everyone is treating you appropriately?"

"Yessir. The thing is, you hired me to be your bookkeeper, and it's been a while since anyone has kept record here at the church."

"That's exactly why we needed you. You leave things unkempt for too long and things start slippin' through the cracks."

"Well, I have found some inconsistencies in some of the financial records, specifically with the donations."

   Preachers eyes glared over the paperwork laying on his desk, they followed each line. Slowly, he set the papers down on his desk and raised up out of his chair. On the wall behind him, a bookshelf was lined with novels and other assortments of text. Among them sat a framed picture of his father, yellowed with aged. It was black and white, his father a younger man in the picture than Preacher was now. He picked it up with both hands, looking at it. After a few moments, he sat it back down. His back remained to her. Olivia continued.

"The church has received a lot of donations over the past year. Some from anonymous donors, and others from church members themselves. And sir, these donations are more money than some of these people make in a year or longer. I'm not sure....."

"Olivia, do you believe that God can use evil men to do good? To serve his purpose?"

"Well, I guess I believe he can do just about anything."

"I believe that too. Now who am I to question God's will? These people that come to my church, some of them are lost, Olivia. Some of them are bad men who do bad things. I don't know how they make their money. I hear rumors.
But if God puts on that man's heart to give to this ministry, I will not turn it away. I will not turn God away. I must take that donation and make it work for God's purpose. We must work for God's purpose, Olivia. As hard and confusing as it may be sometimes."

   He turned back toward his desk. He tapped his ashes into the mug.

******

   C.D. sat parked on the side of the highway, taking slugs from his whiskey bottle. He looked on as the man he had been watching slumped onto the ground in front of the Hot Wells dock. The orange glow of a cigarette lighter ignited.

   He cranked the car and turned the headlights on, revealing the man and his car. Slowly, he pulled out onto the road and drove until he was parallel to the sitting man. His window screeched as he lowered it with the handle. The man didn't look up at first. He took a drag off of his cigarette.

"You broke down?"

Redman didn't budge.

"I can give you a ride if you broke down. Won't charge you nuthin'. Long as you ain't wantin' to go back to town. I done run into the law once tonight, don't wanna make it two."

   Redman took another hit from his cigarette and exhaled deeply. He put his hand underneath him and pushed up out of the grass. He read the words along the side of C.D.'s car. Redman's mind raced, as he knew the implications of this man seeing him here. He looked back at the car he was leaving behind.

"Yeah, you can give me a ride."

   As he walked around the other side of the car, he flicked the lit cigarette onto the black pavement of the road. The tip smacked the ground and scattered into red sparks. As he closed the door of the car, all of the noise from outside went silent. All of the crickets, all of the frogs were replaced by the car engine and the blues music oozing out of the stereo. C.D. pulled the car's shifter into the drive position.

"Any place in particular?"

"Yeah, take the long way around and drop me at that bar going out of town, toward Big Woods road."

"Jack and Dorothy's? I know just where you talkin' about."

   The car pulled out onto the road and headed off down the highway. The red taillights slowly left behind Redman's car sitting silently in the dark. And three black bags at the bottom of the swamp.

   The car drifted through the night, a night thats darkness was only broken by the light of the moon. Like two glowing eyes, the headlights of C.D.'s cab rattled on down a lonely stretch of road.

"What'chu doin' out there anyway? This time of of night. Was you fishin'?"

   Redman remained in silence. He stared out of the passenger window, watching the part of the ditch lit by the headlights whip by.

"I didn't see no pole, if you was fishin'. You musta been doin' it with yo hands is all I know. Strange to be out there alone at night."

   In the pocket of his military jacket, Redman's fingers held tightly around a folded pocket knife. With two fingers, he slowly flipped it open until he felt it click into place. Still, he gazed out the window.

"Turn here."

   The wheels of the car took a hard right. The gravel of the first road growled against the fenders beneath the car. The small sign atop a pole at the entry of the road that met the highway read "Bayou Scie Rd." C.D. knew that this small detour would bring them to the road their destination was on. Still, he grew uncomfortable with the man's silence. He glanced over at Redman.

   He was staring out through the windshield, as if into another world. A world all his own. Where no one else existed but himself. His greasy hair blocked the side of his face, so that C.D. could barely see him plainly. The smell of sweat and cigarettes permeated off the man.

   Suddenly, the man turned his head and stared directly into C.D.'s eyes.

"Stop the car."

C.D.'s stomach sank.

"Mister, I'll take you......."

   Redman braced himself against the dashboard with both arms and screamed.

"Stop the damn car!!"

   C.D. gasped as he turned to see a car turned sideways blocking the entire road. He closed his eyes as he slammed down his foot as hard as he could on the brake pedal. The cab began to fishtail on with a loud grind until finally coming to a stop.

   Dust swept through like a cloud and swallowed the two vehicles. The cab stopped just feet before colliding with the car blocking the road. C.D.'s headlights blazed through, revealing three men standing between them.

   Two men stood on either side of one that held a shotgun that had been sawn off at the barrel. He held it at his waist, pointed directly at them. As the dust settled, the man holding the gun became clear. He wore black from head to toe, until it met a white priest's collar at his neck.

   Preacher stepped forward, wearing a scowl across his face. He tapped the tip of the gun against the hood of the cab.

"Redman, get your ass out here! And bring that biscuit lip with ya!"

Season 2- "Episode 3"

   And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then I said, 'Here am I, send me'." Isaiah 6:8

   In the darkest moments of our lives, we have the least to lose. When everything has been emptied, and all has been stripped away, even hope. Those can be the times when a person can be used by God to a maximum capacity. When a person can be set on fire and keep walking. And sometimes that's exactly what God needs.

   When no one else will stand up. When everyone around that person has too much to risk. An unlikely hero can be found in the most unlikely person. When God says, who shall I send? That person says send me.

   And in that moment, all that emptiness, all of that hollowed out part of that person is filled. Not with money, not with love, not with hope or joy, but with a mission. And there is nothing more dangerous than a person with nothing to lose.

********

   The man in the cowboy hat stepped closer to C.D. His boots continued to click against the pavement with every step. He stopped just in front of C.D. and spit a thick brown stream of juice onto the asphalt.

"What you doin' out here?"

"I'm a free man, Sheriff. Didn't you hear? Your side lost, I can go wherever I please."

"Don't give me that civil rights horse shit. What's in your pocket? I seen you foolin' around back there when I was pullin' up."

   The sheriff reached forward, pulling C.D.'s arm and spinning him around. The top of the flask shaped bottle protruded from his back pocket. He pulled it out and held it up against the light from his cruiser. The golden liquid splashed around inside. He lowered his eyes to C.D.

"You still on the clock?"

"No sir, headed home."

"You know it's against the law to have an open container? Hell, I can smell it on you. If I lit a match, I bet you'd catch fire."

  The sheriff turned, reared back his arm, and threw the bottle as far as he could. It spun head over end through the air. In the distance, it smashed across the railroad tracks separating the gas station and the wood mill.

"Last thing we need is another death. After what this town's been through. We've had enough tragedy. Now what say I pretend I never seen that bottle, and you ain't about to drive this car. You were just about to walk home for all I know. And when I drive away, for all I know that's what you'll do. See, I ain't such a bad guy now am I?"

   The sheriff tipped his hat to C.D. and turned to walk back to his car. C.D. spit loudly on the ground where he had stood. The spotlight dimmed and the headlights turned away from him as the car pulled out of the parking lot. The taillights left a trail of red off into the darkness.

   The door of C.D.'s cab creaked open as he slumped down behind the wheel. His hands gripped it tightly as he wrung them around it angrily. Then, his right arm stretched out and his fist slammed down loudly against the dashboard, in front of the passenger seat.

   A small orange light broke through the darkness as the glove compartment fell open. There, laying inside, was a new unopened bottle of whiskey. He pulled it out and shut the compartment again. The cap made a small snapping noise as he twisted it off for the first time. He turned it up and took a long, hard swig.

   The burning sensation flowed through his throat and up into his eyes until they burned. C.D. rested the bottle between his legs and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared awake. A mixture of twanging guitar and bass bled through the speakers. Blues music filled the car.

   As he pulled out onto the road, he began to drunkenly sing along. The lights of the gas station disappeared behind him, and the hiss of the mill grew quiet.

*****

   Redman's keys jingled in his hand as he shut the door to the car he was driving. The night air was damp and warm. Frogs croaked along the edges of the water and crickets chirped in the distance. Hot Wells was located on the edge of the swamp, miles outside of town. Cypress trees sprouted out of the dark waters and let their limbs droop back down to touch its surface.

   Redman placed both hands on the roof of the car, and hung his head in despair. The thought of what he knew he had to do, alone in the darkness, was weighing on him heavily. A quiver ran through his throat, but he choked the emotion back down. The roar of the nocturnal insects grew louder in his ears as he delayed the task for as long as he could.

   He looked at the keys in his hand and thumbed through them until he came to the one that unlocked the trunk. He made his way to the back of the car, put one hand down on the top of the trunk and inserted the key with his other hand. A deep sigh escaped his lungs as it turned inside the lock. A click echoed out across the water.

   As the lid lifted, a dim light illuminated the area in front of him. Three black trash bags lay inside an otherwise empty trunk. Redman pressed his finger into the one that lay nearest to him and the contents gave way like mush.

   His lip began to shake. With a finger from each hand, he tore at the bag slowly, stretching the plastic to it's breaking point until a hole broke free. Through that hole, a blood stained human nose and mouth looked back at him. The mouth hanging open as if it were about to speak.

   Redman stumbled back on his heels and spun around just in time for the vomit to spill out onto the ground. His stomach rolled, and a sense of anxiety engulfed his body in a sweat. Again, the contents of his stomach released into the dirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

   The face in the bag was a familiar one. The brother of the man who had stabbed him with a screwdriver the week before. But Redman had already gotten the sense of what to expect after the conversation with Preacher. Still, seeing his lifeless face detached from his body and lying in a bag was unsettling to say the least.

   He spit the remaining taste of bile that lingered in his mouth and made the dreaded steps back to the car. He quickly closed the hole back up and pulled the bag from the trunk. The contents sloshed around inside. He held the bag steady to ensure no droplets of blood spilled out onto the ground.

   Jutting out into the dank swamp stood a weathered, wooden pier. It ran just above the water's surface. Old wooden planks ran along the floor, accompanied by rusty nails sticking out in random spots like infected teeth forced out by a swollen gum. His footsteps clapped against the pier, sending the noise out into the night.

   Redman rested the bag on the ledge and gave a look into the greenish, brown water below, only visible by the reflection of the moon above. The water was as still as glass. He picked the bag up again.

"In another life, my friend."

   The black bag hit the water with a splash, and its weight engulfed itself. A few bubbles were its last dying breath of reality. Then, it was gone. What wasn't eaten by a gator would surely be picked apart by turtles, leaving nothing but bones at the bottom of the swamp.

   Two bags remained in the car. What he assumed were the torso, arms and legs. He slung one over his shoulder and the second one he lugged along at his waist. Both bags met an identical fate as the first. Through moss and peat they sank.

   After it was done, Redman collapsed onto the ground and leaned against a post at the entrance of the pier. He pulled a soft pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his tattered military jacket. He tapped the pack against the back side of his hand until one popped out.

   He held the stick of tobacco between his lips and sucked as the flame of his lighter reached the tip.  It lit his face up in the darkness, as it burned brightly, red and then orange. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the air.

   Just as his thoughts began to drift, his entire body tensed as his attention was drawn. A little ways down the highway, a pair of headlights lit, breaking through the night. The car sat on the shoulder of the road and the sound of the engine cranking caused Redman's breaths to quicken.

   The car pulled onto the road slowly and headed right in his direction. The sweating anxiety returned, crawling up his back. The headlights pointed directly at him and washed over his whole body. The lights blinded him.

   As the lights faded from his eyes and he adjusted, the car pulled up until it sat with its side facing Redman. It was an old square bodied car with an unusual paint job. A deep purple with yellow lettering along the side. "C.D.'s Cab Service".

Season 2- "Episode 2"

 

   Small towns can be like science experiments. Closed off from the rest of the world. Miles away from any major city. We are just a group of bacteria swimming around in the little dish waiting to see what grows. If you live here, the rest of the world will never know you exist. If you die here, no one will notice. Not outside the dish.

   We are confined to our small space. Surrounded by an all encompassing wall of trees, we are forced to live, react and grow. Our roots stretch out wide and across years. And within our space.......we exist.

   But make no mistake, within those streets, inside those homes, in our small town a small fire rages. One that threatens our way of life, and everyone in it. Whether we acknowledge it or not, it's coming.
   Matthew 10:16 says, "I am sending you out as sheep among wolves. Therefore, be as wise as serpents, yet innocent as doves." We appear to fight this battle unarmed and outmatched by the viciousness of the wolves. By the cunning of the serpent. Yet, the deception of looks can often ensnare those who oppose us.

   Because what is not seen by the wolf, is that the fire not only rages around us, but within us. And as the flames move in to destroy us both, only one will perish. As the howls of the wolf echo from inside the flames, the smoke will break against the wings of the dove as it rises above.

**********

   Asher Lejune, simply known as "Preacher" to everyone that knew him, had taken over the ministry at his father's church. Five years prior, his father had fallen too far into dementia to carry on his duties. Upon stepping into his stead, Preacher quickly renamed the old building, New Zion Baptist Church. Almost overnight there were new faces in the congregation. Not strangers, but strangers to the church.

   A new set of deacons were appointed and slowly the old crowd who had been faithful for years, and loyal to his father, stopped showing up to pray. It didn't seem to affect attendance. The building was always full, every Sunday and Wednesday.

   On this particular Sunday evening, Preacher stood behind the podium, in front of the large group. A mixture of people, some dressed in their best and others in torn jeans and dirty shirts. The yellow light from the ceiling shown down on his shaved bald head, as tiny bugs fluttered around the bulb. The night air was hot. He loosened the top button of his shirt, letting hang the white priests collar he had worn.

   He gripped the sides of the podium and leaned down against it. Both arms were riddled with tattoos that went all the way up his neck. He finished out the service by reciting a line of scripture.

"Then I will tell you to call upon the name of your god, and I will call upon the name of mine. And the God who answers by fire..... he is the true God."

   Preacher lifted his hand in gesture to the pianist to his right. Immediately, a song began to play and the congregation rose to their feet and began to sing.

   He stepped down from the stage and exited the room via a door behind him. The light from inside the sanctuary lit the dark hallway where a man leaned against the wall, a long rifle propped up beside him.

"Pick that up and follow me."

   Redman picked up the rifle by the barrel and let it swing by his side as they walked. The hallway was wood paneled on both sides and a tile floor that scratched with grit was beneath his shoes. The sound of keys jingling from Preacher's pockets as he selected one to put into the door. It clicked loudly, followed by the creak of the hinges as it swung open.

"Shut that behind you."

   There were no windows in the room. Redman had visited Preacher's private office many times and every time it was the same. The room was dark, save for a neon blue cross that hummed on the wall and a small desk lamp.

   He leaned the rifle against the desk and slid into one of the two chairs in front of it. His feet ached from a long days use. They were his only means of travel, other than his bicycle. He stunk of sweat. Preacher sat down across from him, peeled his white priest collar and tossed it on the table between them.

"They come, they hear, they leave. They go right back home and drink Jack, Fuck Jill, and the world keeps on spinning. And I ask myself, 'Asher....how do you go on doing this'....and do you know the answer to that?"

"No Sir"

"Two words, brother. Collection plate. I tell ya, the man that came up with that little racket was a hell of a man. Now that's a man that knows business.

Sure, we could go out there, break their legs and take every dollar they got, but then that well is dry. We never see them again. You see, you gotta get a little bit every week. Just bleed them a little at a time, and they'll keep coming back. That's the difference between a thug and an entrepreneur."

   Preacher threw his hands up with a big smile as if he had just revealed the secret to life. Redman answered quietly.

"Easy money."

   Preacher leaned forward, the desk lamp illuminated a swirl of dust in the air around him. He pointed one finger at Redman.

"Easy Money! That's the way I like it. We washed money from the sell of 100 pounds of cocaine through those donations last week. Not to mention, the sell of Ketamine. As far as the government is concerned, or the local homers, we are as clean as a whistle. And with what we have coming from down south, our numbers are only going to grow. Easy money.

But I don't have you here to talk shop, do you remember those Blanchard boys, the brother you left a phillips head screwdriver in? That's a problem for me. That's not easy money. See, the people that work for me need to pay up freely.

Now, the one with the hole in his neck, he won't be giving us a problem anymore I don't reckon. Hell, he might even start paying early."

   Preacher removed a toothpick from his desk drawer and placed it in his mouth.

"Now the brother....the brother is a dog that ain't been whipped. And worse yet, he's vengeful. He's full of anger, and that anger will do nothin' but grow like a weed. You let one weed grow and it will spread. That's bad for business."

"You want me to take care of it?"

"The thing about weeds is, you can't wait, you gotta pluck em as soon as they pop up. That weed's been plucked. There's a bag in the trunk of a silver car out back. I want you to take it out to the Hot Wells and dump it."

   Without a thought Redman stood from his chair, leaving the rifle behind. As he made his way toward the door, a quiet knock echoed through the room. He turned the knob to open it. A young girl stood wide eyed as she noticed the ragged man and the gun leaning against the table.

   Her hair was dark, straight down to her shoulders. Brown, tanned legs stuck out from beneath a floral patterned sundress. Her eyes moved to the preacher.

"Don't worry about the gun, hunny. We been getting some not so nice phone calls. Our friend is here just to make sure we're safe. Security. The devil has just as many vessels as the Lord out there."

"Yessir, you're right."

  She turned back to Redman.

"Thank you for your help."

   Redman looked down and began to exit the room. Preacher's voice faded behind him.

"It's a big bag, brother. Take help if you need it."

*****

   Across town, the plywood mill hissed steam into the night air as it had for years. An older black man leaned against the driver's side door of his car. Parked in the lot of a small gas station known around town as Kwik Trip. The man gazed into the sky as the moon light bounced off of the white smoke puffs billowing through the air.

   His car was a deep purple, with yellow lettering along the side. It read "C.D.'s Cab Service". In the small parish of Sabine, he was the one and only car service, and business was scarce. He would not hesitate to tell you that most of his business were drunk kids and women carrying trash bags of clothes, fleeing an abusive husband.

   Known to everyone in town as Crawdaddy, he was a transplant from Southern Louisiana. The way he tells it, "When my momma died, I wasn't left with nothin' but this here car. So I started it up, and drove until the gas run out. And I ain't left here since."

   As he sat in thought, a car's headlights approached from the street. Then, a spotlight washed over him until he couldn't see a thing. He held one hand up in front of his eyes. The other hand shoved a small whiskey bottle into the back pocket of his pants. He heard the car door open, then shut.

   The click of the heels on the man's cowboy boots mixed with the scratch of the gravel beneath them. As he stepped in front of the light, the silhouette of a tall man wearing a cowboy hat appeared. C.D. looked down and acknowledged him.

"Sheriff."

Season 2 - "Episode 1"

   There is a theory in ancient Egyptian philosophy known as the "Eternal Return". It says that the universe and all of its existence has occurred, will occur, and continue to reoccur an infinite amount of times. That is to say, our lives as we know them, have already happened an unknown amount of times on a repeat cycle. And we are destined to live them over and over throughout eternity.

   Now, one could say, "Well, I'm not Egyptian and I really don't believe that." Well, you would be right and wrong. Ecclesiastes 1:9 states "What has been, will be again. What has been done, will be done again. There is nothing new under the sun." It is then repeated in Chapter 3, verse 15.

   The dilemma this leaves us in, should this be true, is are we destined to make the same mistakes, fall victim to the same tragedies, and die repeatedly as we will in this life? Can we influence or effect the past in the same way that we think we can affect our futures. Or are we merely just a hamster on a wheel spinning against time, in a stationary position?

   If we are, what could change that? What could be the stick in the spoke that jolts us to a stop, hurtling us into space? The answer....an element of chaos.

  We are all affected by the past, and then in turn affect our future. And on it rolls like an unstoppable boulder. In 1993, where our story left off, the town of Zwolle was left reeling from a string of murders.

   Beyond the thick layer of pine trees, separating the town from the rest of the world, Sabine Parish lives on quietly. Continuing to piece together its past.......and its future.

********

Sabine Parish Sheriff's Department

6:53 pm

1998

   A small styrofoam cup filled a third of the way with thick, brown tobacco juice, sat on a metal table. On one side of it were seated two uniformed deputies. They were dressed down in their matching khaki. On the other side, a dark green military jacket riddled with holes and tears had the long, dark unkempt hair of a Native American man resting on its shoulders. The man stared expressionless under a bandana that covered his disfigured scalp. 

   The deputy with the thick black mustache leaned forward to pick up the small cup centered between them. The coarse hairs on his lip scratched against the styrofoam as he let the brown spit slide into its receiver. He shifted the tobacco leaves in his mouth and returned the cup to its spot on the table. He sniffed loudly, then cleared his throat.

"You've lived somewhat of a storied life."

   A blank stare was the only return. The second deputy looked down slightly, a bit uncomfortable, and then up at the other deputy to await his next move.

"You were in the service?"

Redman nodded.

"See any action?"

"Grenada.....'83"

"Hell, that was a vacation wasn't it? Shootin' fish in a barrel."

"Didn't see you there."

   The indian spoke back in a condescending tone and brushed the arm of his coat off with the other hand, never making eye contact.

"I can see you're a hard man.", the deputy spat back sarcastically.

"Hard ain't got nothin' to do with it."

"Then what are ya?"

"Tired mostly, tired of this skin. It's worn out, I've overstayed my welcome in it."

   The deputies looked at each other confused. The mustached officer, Richard Wendell, sat and stared at the weathered man for a few moments. Pulling a sheet of paper from inside a manilla folder that had been sitting on his lap, he lay it on the table. On it were pictures of a crime scene from years before. A bedroom covered in blood, and a body. He also clicked his pen open and prepared to take notes.

"You made a phone call five years ago. Reported a disturbance that by our figurin' hadn't even taken place yet. In fact, it didn't appear to start until our units arrived on the scene."

Redman stared back blankly. Wendell continued.

"What'doya call that deputy Rivers? Telekenetics?"

"No sir, I believe that's when you can move stuff with your mind, like bending a spoon. I think what you're lookin' for is ESP."

Wendell gave him a stern look.

"Sorry sir. I seen a program on it."

   As the two men conversed, a trickle of bright red blood made it's way from beneath the cuff of Redman's jacket and continued to roll down his hand. The red droplet dangled from the tip of his dirty finger. It trembled in the breeze of the air conditioning, until finally it fell onto the linoleum floor.

   Redman placed the toe of his boot on top of the spot so that it could not be seen. He decided to speak.

"Everything I had to say about that, I said back then. I just as soon let the dead rest."

****

   With the sun slipping below the top of the courthouse, where the sheriff's department's offices were located, a man waited a block down the street. Smoke rolled out of the window on the driver's side, and dissipated into the evening air. A cigarette was held by a steady hand.

   The driver wore a pair of black dress shoes that were shined to perfection. Black slacks that led up to a short sleeve black button down shirt. Resting inside the collar of the shirt was a white band, signifying a priest. Tattooed arms extended out from beneath the shirt.

   The man's eyes stared toward the doors that led to the back of courthouse, until finally they opened. He leaned forward, and with his left hand twisted a knob. His headlights flashed on, and then off again.

   He continued watching as reman hobbled down the street. He held his right arm as he walked, wincing in pain. The driver flicked the half burned cigarette out onto the pavement and rolled the window back up. The passenger door groaned open, and Redman slid down into the bucket seats of the car. The driver glanced over. 

"New cock on the walk. Tryin' to shake loose some dust off old memories."

"He get any?"

"Not a grain."

   The old car drove steadily down a tree lined road that led from one town to the next. Redman stared out of the passenger window as the headlamps whipped along the road. A few minutes later, they began to slow as it had made it's way halfway back to the town of Zwolle.

   A grey building with blacked out windows sat along side the highway. Neon signs flashed through the tint and out into the darkness of the night. Trucks and motorcycles were parked in no particular pattern out front.

   As the car pulled up, the headlights illuminated the bar's name painted on the wall facing the road. "The Silver Bullet" was a local pool hall. One of the many such places peppered across the parish, where people could unwind under the dim lights and loud music after pretending to be upstanding citizens all week.

   With one leg propped up on the side of the building, a man squinted and held his hand in front of his eyes until the preacher turned the car off and the lights shut off. By the time his eyes adjusted to the change, the preacher and his accomplice were already out of the car. The man met them near the trunk and peered from beneath a camouflage hooded hunting jacket.

"I don't want no trouble."

The preacher's eyes narrowed.

"Don't want no trouble? Boy, you started the trouble. My man here took a screwdriver to the ribs. Now you don't want no trouble?"

"It was a mistake. Your feather head over there crossed a line."

   In one solid movement the preacher lifted the man off his feet by his collar and slammed him against the car.

"Let's make one thing perfectly fuckin' clear. I MAKE the lines around here."

   Slowly, he lowered the man back to the ground. The preacher adjusted his collar and cracked his neck.

"Now, we have a business to operate. An exchange was agreed to. It seems when my man came to follow up on that exchange, you boys gave him a bit of a problem. Problems are no good for me...."

   The preacher reached deep into his pocket and pulled the keys to the car out. A slight grin crawled across his face as he put them into the trunk's lock and turned them. As he lifted the lid open, the neon lights from the bar revealed a man laying inside.

  Around the man's wrists and legs was packaging tape, and another strip around his mouth. He lay still, shallowly breathing. His eyes looked up at the men begging. Through his neck protruded the handle of a screwdriver. Blood dripped down onto the carpeted bottom of the trunk. A wheezing noise filled the air with each breathe the man took.

"You mother fu......"

   The man leaped forward to grab the screwdriver and attempt to pull it from his brother's neck. Before he could, the preachers hand grabbed hold of him.

"Compassion is man's greatest weakness. Today I have revealed a weakness to you, brother. The next time you don't have my money, you will not see it again.

Your brother is not dead yet, but you pull that screwdriver from his neck and he'll bleed out before you make it out of Zwolle. 

Put him in your car and take him to the hospital in the next town. It appears he has had an accident."

Season 2 begins June 11th!

"Big Woods" returns with Season 2!

FINALE

     The ringing of the phone echoed throughout the house and down the wood paneled hallway. J.W. walked out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom of the house. A pair of white cotton boxers lay at the foot of his bed, folded neatly. The towel around his waist dropped as he pulled the boxers up onto himself, taking his time. The phone rang impatiently.

     He walked through the house slowly and steadily, without any impending purpose. Rounding the doorway to the kitchen, he lifted his hand to reach for the long cord phone that was fixed to the wall. The ringing stopped as he lifted the receiver. He put it to his ear without saying a word. He listened silently.

“J.W.?.....Is that you?....It’s Travis.”

“Yeah it’s me. What is it?”

“Most people answer the phone by saying hello.”

“Well, most people ain't suppose to be dead.”

“I guess it would seem odd if a dead man picked up if you called someone’s house. Been layin' low?
Listen, I got word from my man. I know where she’s stayin’ and I know her shifts. All we gotta do is wait till she’s working and grab her. No fuss, it's done.”

“Nah, we ain't hittin’ her at work. Somebody could see us and call the law. When she gets home, she’ll have someone waiting on her.”


     Travis sighed through the telephone.

“Whatever man, it’s your town. Your rodeo.”

“Give me the address.”

“It’s out on Big Woods Road, go down about a half mile, its got a red roof and a broke down chevy in the driveway.”

“3 am, she should be coming home from her shift at the bar. You take care of your end, make sure no one comes into that house behind her. I’ll take care of mine.”

“J.W., you think we oughta just tell them what happened? Let her face her judgement? This just doesn't seem right.”

“You held her, just the same as I did, Travis. Did that seem right to you? She will face her judgement,  but this is beyond the law.”

     The receiver clicked as he set it back on the wall, and the cord tangled beneath it. J.W. leaned his hand against the refrigerator that stood beside him and hung his head. When he closed his eyes he could only see one thing, Rebecca’s pale face staring back.

     He choked back the lump rising in his throat and blinked away tears. For once in his life, he felt that he had control over his life. What happened next was up to him alone, and he intended to find justice. Maybe not the kind of justice that was morally or ethically right, but justice nonetheless.

     As he made his way back to his bedroom he stopped at his nightstand. Sitting on top where he had left it, was his Bible. A thick, black leather bound book that has been with him since childhood. He smiled slightly as he brushed his fingers across the cover. They skipped over every bump and wrinkle.
     He sat on the edge of his bed and began to pull on his black lace up boots. He pulled the strings tight and knotted them at the top, tucking the loose ends inside so they couldn't be seen.

     He stood in silence as he buttoned down his shirt, all the while thinking of Rebecca. The cold touch of her hand that he could still feel. The stickiness of the drying blood that covered her hair. All of the memories he had, all of the smiles and laughter, had been blotted over with these images. He could no longer imagine the day they met or the day they married. Everything was a black void, and at the bottom of that void was her lifeless body.

     J.W. reached one arm into the air and shoved it through the arm hole of his department issued Kevlar vest. His head and second arm followed behind it. Tightening the Velcro straps around the chest, he grunted slightly. A full length mirror across the room shown back his reflection.

     He stared back at it for a moment. This would be the first time in his life he had ever put his uniform on to do anything but enforce the law. And this could very well be the last time in his life that he put it on at all.

******

     At the police station, in the small town of Zwolle, which was now the working headquarters of the state police, people swarmed liked bees. Files upon files were spread out across desks and tables. The entire building buzzed with conversations and the sound of papers flipping.

In a backroom, a long conference table sat with one man at the head of it. His uniform was a dark blue with yellow lining, and a wide brimmed hat of the same color sat on the table to his right. He read the papers of the file, as a younger officer approached him with a manila file folder. The man sitting spoke first.

“Ain't this a damn cluster of police work? It’s a wonder this town hasn’t eaten itself alive. Uncharged murders, domestic abuse, stabbings. Look here, this is a report of a body being found in the parking lot of a bar called Coon Ridge. That’s it. You know what they did? Nothing. No arrest. The family didn’t even file a complaint.”

“Yessir, it has that reputation.”

“It’s a damn shame is what it is. This ain't the wild west. There has to be law. All this frontier justice is chaos. That’s all it is. What’s this one you got?”

     The man reached over to grab the file that the young officer was holding.

“Reported as a hit and run. Young girl found beaten and bloody, left in a ditch a few years back. No arrests. The girl never described a vehicle or anything.”

“She live?”

“I didn’t see a matching name in the system or a report of death. I’ll ask the dispatcher if she knows anything about it.”

     The young officer turned to walk out of the room just as another entered. He seemed nervous and a bit excited as he began to speak.

“Sir, there’s a call for you out front.”

“Take a name and number, tell them I’ll call them back.”

“You might wanna take this one sir. He asked for you by name and said it was urgent.”

     The man let out an irritated groan and stood himself up from his chair. He shoved his hat down on his head and stepped heavily toward the front of the building. When he reached the front office desk, he rested one arm down on the table, and picked the phone up with the other.

“Hello……speaking….”

******

     J.W cut the engine of his truck off half a mile from the house Morgan was staying at. He parked off the road, into a small trail so that some trees covered his truck from sight of any passing vehicles.  With ease, he snapped the door shut , before heading out. As he walked past, he dropped his keys into the bed of the truck. He had no intentions of coming back for it.

     For thirty minutes, he stepped through the woods. He zigged in between trees and ducked under branches, trying to make as little noise as possible. The moon was covered by a thick layer of dark clouds, making it that much harder to see. He could hear cicadas buzzing in the distance, singing the soundtrack of his arrival.

     The porch light of the house came into view just on the other side of a tree line. His palms began to sweat. His heart beat began to increase rapidly. He had never even fired a gun at someone his entire career before he killed Campbell. Now, 2 days later, he planned to use it again.

     Every light in the house was off. Darkness bled from inside, while the light from the porch fought against it. The grass in the yard was tall and wet with the dew of the dampening air. As silent as he had arrived, his shape disappeared behind the house.

     The knob of the back door resisted as J.W.’s hand clenched around it and attempted to turn. He took one look around before slamming his fist through one of the four glass panes. Shining splinters rained down onto the floor. Reaching down, he unlocked the door from the inside and turned the knob, which this time cooperated.

     The glass crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the threshold. Blood from his hand dripped along the tile of the kitchen floor as he made his way through. The house was fairly clean on the inside, besides a few dirty dishes lining the sink. On top of the kitchen table sat a stack of 2 or 3 envelopes. He flipped through them, all addressed to Morgan.

“Hmmmmm….”

     He sat them back down and looked to his right, down a dark hallway toward one solemn room at the end. The red letters of a digital clock illuminated the bed. A few clothing items lay on the floor, that were clearly that of a female.

     His steps thundered down the hall. He looked around the room briefly, before removing the pistol that had been resting in the waistband of his pants. Gently, he sat down on the edge of the bed, his boots firmly on the floor. Then, almost robotically, he placed each hand down directly on top of his knees. His right hand clutched the gun.

     For twenty minutes he sat still, the only movement being the blinking of his eyes. They focused so that he could see clearly into the darkness. What began as shadowy blobs were now clear forms to him. Stillness and silence ruled the night. The only sound was his steady breathing.

     J.W.’s thoughts flickered in and out like an old home movie. He thought of his time with the police department. Working with and studying Campbell to learn everything that he knew. As a young man, he looked up to him in many ways. And still, as hard as he had studied him, he hadn’t known him at all.
     For years, Campbell had lived as a mad man and presented only a mask to J.W. Even now, he could not remember his face. Now, he was left wondering, if he could be fooled that easily, what else he could have gotten wrong in his life.

     His wife had certainly seen something in him that made her leave. The love they shared disappeared overnight and as hard as he fought, he could not get it back.

     Suddenly, headlights poured in through the windows of the house and J.W. could hear the engine of the car approaching. Brakes squealed to a stop under the carport and the engine killed. J.W. waited. The door of the car creaked open and then shut behind the driver. J.W. waited. Footsteps up to the front door and a jingle of keys. J.W. waited. Metal slid against metal as the key entered the door. The knob turned and the door swung open. Still, J.W. waited.

     Morgan entered the living room, walking right past the light switch, she left the room dark and tossed her purse onto the couch, with a thud. Next, a polo shirt, with the logo of the bar she worked at, flung across the top of the sofa. In her jeans and bra, Morgan walked toward the kitchen in order to flip on the light.

     As the sole of her shoe hit the tile of the floor, it squeaked and slid a few inches forward. She stopped to look down at the floor and picked up the bottom of her shoe. Her fingers ran across the ridges and she brought them close to her face to examine the wet substance she had stepped in. Her stomach sank as the red blood came into focus. Without looking around, she turned to walk quickly back toward the door.

“Stop!”

     Morgan froze in fear, reaching up only to cover her exposed bra with crossed arms. She began to shake. A voice from the back room spoke.

“Walk in here, slowly.”

“I knew this wasn’t over. I knew it in my heart.”

     As she turned to face him, J.W. used the tip of the gun to flip the light switch on in the bedroom. He waved the gun, motioning  her to walk forward. She did so, hanging her head.

     Morgan walked to the opposite side of the room, while J.W. stood at the door. Tears rolled down her face as she stood cowering, covering herself. J.W. held the gun up, pointed it at her.

“Tell me why! Why?!”

     Morgan looked toward the floor.

“I am broken. Everything was taken from me. My innocence. My Safety. My sight. I lived in fear. Fear that never went away.”

“That had nothing to do with me, that had nothing to do with Rebecca, you bitch!”

     J.W. screamed through his own tears.

“Sometimes you can get buried so slowly, you don’t even know you’re dead. You shoulda killed me in that cemetery, J.W.”

     J.W. shook his head.

“You tried to kill ME. You killed Rebecca!”

     Morgan lifted her head and brushed back the hair away from her blind eye.

“No….the first time….when you did this.”

     Confused, J.W. looked back at her. The gun trembled in his hand.

“Campbell. It was Campbell, you said. You told me.”

“Wake up J.W.! There’s no fucking Campbell. It’s you. You did this to me. You did it to Elizabeth. It was you.”

“No! That’s not true. What are you trying to do?”

     Flashes of memories jumbled through J.W.’s mind. He saw Elizabeth in her car smiling at him, then she screamed as he grabbed her arm. He saw Rebecca’s face as he punched her and dragged her into the back of his truck. He saw Morgan as she crawled away from him crying.

     J.W.’s eyes filled with tears. He shook his head in disbelief, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “It wasn’t me,” he repeated. Morgan rushed across the room. J.W. screamed as her knee jammed into his groin, causing him to buckle over and drop his gun.

     Frantically, they wrestled to retrieve the weapon. J.W. grabbed a handful of her hair as she crawled toward it. She quickly turned and scratched him across the face. With both hands, J.W. held his face and screamed. He only stopped when he heard the cocking of the gun.

“Get up you bastard!”

   J.W. sat, staring up at her, as she now stood over him. The gun was pointed right at his face, held by Morgan’s delicate hands. Suddenly, she swung the gun up toward the door of the bedroom as footsteps bounded in their direction. Travis’ voice yelled.

“J.W.!”

     As he entered the room a shot rang out and J.W. put both hands over his ears. He felt a warm spray of blood across his skin as his eyes clamped down tight. The floor shook as Travis’ body collapsed behind him.

J.W.’s breathing was quickly increasing and he could feel himself hyperventilating. For the first time, he was afraid. He waited for another shot and expected his own death to follow. When it did not come, he slowly allowed his eyes to creep open.

     Standing across the room, Morgan stood crying. She held the point of the gun under her chin with both hands. Her finger rested on the trigger.

“It was you, J.W. It was always you.”

     Red and blue lights broke through the darkness of the night, just as the shot went off. Debris from Morgan’s skull stuck to the wall and slowly dripped down in a red parade of macabre. Her body lay lifeless in front of J.W.

     Police cars filled the yard of the house, every one with lights swirling on top. Officers descended on the property like a swarm of ants. What was once a dark, silent night was now chaos. Guns drawn, yelling at the top of their lungs, officers order J.W. to put his hands behind his head.

     Just beyond the cars and out of the yard, two tires sat on the cool, black highway. A long haired man sat atop a bicycle looking on at the madness. He shifted the bandanna around his head as he put his feet down on the peddles. Redman Smiled as he rode away.

END.

     In 1995, J.W. was committed to the Angola State Prison system. Charged with four counts of first degree murder, he pled guilty.

     Two life sentences without parole kept him there until he succumbed to a heart attack in 2015, spurring the telling of this story.

     In a transcript of the court proceedings and sentencing, it was shown that the judge that handed down the sentence was quoted as saying,

“Evil men will do evil deeds, but in the end, your sin will find you out.”