When The Last Leaves Fall

Greenwood, Mississippi

1943

The door of The Mississippi Jug closed behind him. It was five minutes until the town bell would announce noon. He straightened his waistcoat, assessing the face of each man in there, but only the women reacted to his arrival. One approached him, a petite woman, the buttons missing from her dress hinting at her lures. Her fingers played with the next button down, already half-slid from its fastening.
‘You lookin’ for some lemonade, honey?’
‘I am not.’
‘You gov’ment?’
‘You go on now, miss,’ he said, looking away, over her head.
He was told that he would be found; to wait inside at midday. But not one man in there was alone. Playing craps or cards. Entertaining girls. Drinking.
The smell was of wood that had got wet and someway dried before getting wet again. Daylight turned dirty yellow where it wheezed through the dust on the windows.
The girl sat on a man’s knee and she pointed at the tall stranger. The man whose knee she was upon looked him slowly up and slowly down. The girl’s hand slid inside his shirt. He spat on the floor, pushed her from his knee and resumed his game.
The stranger turned towards the barkeep, meeting his glare. One of the barkeep’s hands was beneath the counter. The stranger put his hat and leather case on the bar.
‘Get me a drink. Whiskey.’
‘You gov’ment?’ the barkeep asked. ‘It ain’t legal not to say if you is.’
‘I am not.’
‘You here to stir trouble?’
The stranger placed his hands on the counter. ‘Do I look like I’m here for trouble?’
‘Only sayin’. In a place like this, you might git trouble even if you ain’t lookin’.’
An argument arose from one of the tables. The slam of fists on wood and raised voices. The barkeep’s eyes slid to the side and back.
Outside, the bell tolled noon.
‘I’m here to meet Hunter,’ the stranger said. ‘He told me to mention his name if I encountered any issues.’
The barkeep’s eyebrows shrugged. He took his hand from beneath the counter.
‘You from the north? You sure ain’t from round here. Wouldn’t’ve come in here if you was.’
‘I’m from the east.’
‘Florida?’
‘No-no.’ The stranger laughed a humorless laugh. ‘Overseas. England.’
‘And you find yourself here?’
The Englishman didn’t offer a response.
‘Someone sure has trouble headin’ their way, if it’s Hunter you’re lookin’ for.’
The Englishman felt the heat of eyes upon him. Along the bar, in a low hat, with a thick moustache, sun-dark skin prickled with dark stubble. One hand was on the bar, holding a cup. The other was inside a thick jacket made of an animal hide, even in the heat.
The Englishman returned his attention to the barkeep. ‘Give me a whiskey.’
‘Well, alright,’ the barkeep said. ‘I’ll warn you first, it’s warm as piss.’
‘I assume you have nothing chilled.’
‘You assume right, friend.’
‘Then give me a whiskey.’
The Englishman picked up his hat and leather case and took his cup to a table next to an opaque window. He looked again around the room. He peered up into the wooden rafters, where a bird was strutting along one of the beams. He dabbed his brow. He was no longer acclimated to the Mississippi heat; his blood was for moist, green lands.
He tapped a finger on the table. The wood was soft. He turned his hand and saw dirt beneath his fingernails. He unlatched his bag and took out a nail file.
A figure arrived on the opposite side of the table, standing there, blocking the light. The Englishman looked up from the gun at the hip to the weathered face. The dark eyes, heavy-lidded. The thick moustache and skin that looked like it could smooth wood. The Englishman slid the nail file back into the leather case and latched it.
‘Mister Hunter, I presume. Please, take a seat. My name is––’
‘Don’t tell me you name. I don’t need it and I don’t want to know it.’ Hunter pulled out the chair and sat down. ‘Hunter ain’t my name, neither. It’s my living and the name I’m known by.’ Hunter cracked his knuckles. ‘Who do you want hunted?’
The chair creaked beneath the Englishman as he crossed his legs.
‘There is man, a former sergeant from Parchman Farm Penitentiary. In his time there, he committed crimes against inmates under his guard – crimes against humanity. He murdered men without reason and without mercy, as well as designing the torture and killings of many more, carried out by criminals under his command. I was committed to bringing him to justice, but he fled before I could. He is a threat to society. A threat to mankind. I am still committed to bringing him to justice.’
‘Justice is what I do.’
Hunter pulled a leather pouch from his pocket. He removed a pinch of tobacco, stuffed it into the corner of his mouth, sucked it and chewed it.
‘I would rather that he is captured alive,’ the Englishman said, ‘to face the consequences of the horrors he inflicted. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a vengeful man, but I’ve learned that the system cannot be trusted. There are those in power who allowed this treatment. Accountability is not a priority for them.’
Hunter’s jaw rolled as he chewed. He leaned back in the chair. He turned his head a few degrees and spat a line of tobacco from the corner of his mouth. Threads of it floated in a puddle on the floor.
A shadow passed by on the other side of the window.
‘What harm did this sergeant do you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I sense this ain’t only about correcting the wrongs of the state. You say you ain’t vengeful, but you want revenge. Most people who come to me do. So, what did he do to you?’
‘There is evil in this world,’ the Englishman said. ‘There always has been, since the first days of creation, and there always will be. We all encounter it and can never eradicate it. But this man . . .’ The Englishman put his fist on the table. He lifted it and looked at it where it had touched the wood. ‘I rescued a friend from this sergeant. He was illegally incarcerated, and served his imprisonment under the care of this sergeant. His treatment was akin to torture. Part of the reason why he was treated so badly was because of his connection to me.’
Hunter folded his arms. ‘And the reason for revenge?’
The Englishman’s thin lips tightened. ‘He murdered my father.’
Hunter nodded, twice. ‘Sounds like reason enough for revenge to me. You said that you would rather he’s captured alive. What if he ends up dead?’
‘That would be justice,’ the Englishman said.
‘And what’s his name, this sergeant?’
‘Jacob Helland.’
‘Where can I find Jacob Helland.’
Through the dirty window, the weak sun was upon the Englishman. He put his hand on his leather case.
‘I don’t know.’

There was something about that name, Helland. Hunter had heard it somewhere but couldn’t recall from who or when. Before he left, the vengeful Englishman had given Hunter the few pieces of information he had.
Busted from his role as a small-town deputy for murdering the Englishman’s father, Helland was sent to Parchman Farm, way out on the Yazoo delta. Rather than seeing it as a demotion or punishment, Helland had embraced his new role, tormenting anyone under his watch: torturing for fun, and killing when the fun was done. Helland had loved his job. Hunter knew well enough how the taste of blood was apt to create an appetite. Most folks believed it took a certain type of man to act that way, but that wasn’t the truth. It just came more naturally to some.
The last time Helland had been seen, he was headed in the direction of Rolling Fork.
Driving through another outback Mississippi town with nothing there but a street of houses and a road running through it, where the cemetery is the most populated place to be found, Hunter decided to stop. He had to figure a plan of approach when he arrived in Rolling Fork. A man from out of town asking questions was certain to set tongues wagging. From what he knew of the man, Helland wasn’t likely to take kindly to questions being asked about him.
Hunter pulled his Plymouth to the verge of the dusty street. An old boy sitting on the forecourt of the one-pump gas station was watching him. He watched Hunter walk through the door of Blue Front Café.
Country blues was playing on the juke in the café. Every pair of eyes in there looked at Hunter as he entered. He walked to the counter, watched all the way.
The man behind the rickety table that served as a counter slung his dish cloth over his shoulder. Age and gravity had conspired against his cheeks. His eyes were red and yellow. ‘Help you?’
‘Beer,’ Hunter said, looking at the row of bottles above the man’s shoulder.
‘You gonna take an’ git?’
‘Give me a pair and I’ll slide.’
Hunter peeled a pair of dollars from the roll that the Englishman had given to him: his advance, a quarter of the fee.
The old man stared at the paper money. He looked up at Hunter’s face.
Hunter tossed the bills on the counter. The old man swiped them into the front pocket of his apron, shuffled to the shelf, reached up on his toes and took down two bottles of beer.
‘Go on now and git,’ he said, putting them onto the table.
‘Glad to make your acquaintance.’
Hunter picked the two bottles up in one hand. They chimed as he walked. He nodded at the faces that watched him leave.
Leaning against the wall outside, Hunter popped off the bottle cap on his belt buckle while the old boy watched from the forecourt across the street. Hunter watched him back. He dipped his hand into his pocket, slipped out the pouch, and put a pinch of tobacco in his mouth. He sipped the beer, the sun on his face.
The sound of the blues drifted through the open window of the café, and with it was voices:
‘Think he’s Klan?’
‘Nah,’ said another. ‘He had a weapon. He wouldn’t’ve paid.’
‘Ain’t calling themselfs Klan round here no more’ – Hunter recognised the voice of the old man who had sold him the beer – ‘Goin’ by The Knights of the White Camellia again, just like in daddy’s day. They’ve been seen through here of late, too. They come from over the Louis’ana border, rollin’ right through on their way to the Delta Forest, recruitin’ up locals. They’re gettin’ together to do some badness. That’s what I heard.’
Hunter looked back down the road he had driven in on. It led directly to the Delta Forest, where a bunch of men were heading, “gettin’ together to do some badness”.
He asked his gut what it thought about that.

On his way to find a boarding house, Hunter drove through the Delta National Forest on the route road. It was floodplain land: long stretches of flat green waste; pockets of lakes; the greenest trees in the country. There was nothing there. The sun was already setting when he changed his mind about where to spend the night. Turning in the middle of the road, stirring up the dust, he drove back the way he’d come.
A blue heron flapped out of the trees and over the plain. Hunter watched it all the way over the flat landscape. Up ahead was a track road that he’d passed earlier, running off the main road. Hunter turned onto it, heading into the forest. The car would be his bed for the night. He’d see if he could get acquainted with some of the local wildlife.

Hunter awoke to a tap on the window. He took his hat off his face. Three men were standing beside his car – one on each side and another in front. The one in front was the smallest of them, peering over the bonnet from beneath his peaked cap and along the barrel of his rifle. Through the passenger side, Hunter could only see the midriff of the man. His rifle was pointing downward. The one who tapped on the window was peering in at Hunter. Deeply lined around the eyes, he was bearded but with the moustache shaved, like an Amish.
‘Pelican?’ he said through the glass.
Hunter went to open his door, but the man nudged it closed with his knee, so he lowered the window.
‘What you doin’ out here, boy?’
‘Sleeping,’ Hunter said. ‘If that weren’t obvious enough.’
The one in front of the car shifted his aim as Hunter moved to put his hat on.
A hound jumped up at the passenger side. It clawed at the glass and slipped back to the ground. It jumped again and caught hold of the frame. It barked, but it looked like it was smiling. The faceless third figure yanked the dog away.
‘You been poachin’ in my woods, boy?’ said the man beside the driver’s door.
Hunter took a pinch of tobacco from his pocket and tucked it in his cheek. He moved in his seat, the rifle following him. He could feel the pistol beneath his backside, and how it was positioned. He measured the chance of reaching for it unseen.
Smoothing his moustache, he weighed the quiet of the forest.
‘Let me out.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘I did answer your question. I told you I was sleeping.’ Hunter moved his thigh, where the pistol was digging into his flesh. ‘You want to stop pointing that thing at me, son,’ he said, pointing to the little man in front of the bonnet.
‘Why is you sleepin’ in my woods?’
‘These here’s your woods?’ Hunter scratched his chin, a sound like scraping a stick through gravel. ‘I was of opinion this was free country. Free for all. No man’s land.’
‘Not this part ain’t.’
‘Well, I didn’t know that.’ Hunter adjusted his hide. He shifted in his seat and put his hand on the grip of the pistol. ‘How’d you get to own a piece of land like this. I always have aspired to live like good ol’ boys such as you.’
‘You bein’ smart with me?’
‘Being smart?’ Hunter adjusted one last time. As he did so, he pulled the pistol from beneath him. ‘No, boss. I ain’t being smart. And I ain’t poaching, neither. I was sleeping. You saw that for yourself. Now, how about you let me get out of my car and stretch my legs. I need to piss. Then we’ll shake hands and I’ll be on my way.’
The man looked at his companions, conferring wordlessly.
He stepped away from the door, opening it for Hunter.
The man at the front of the car seemed confused as to whether he should lower his rifle.
Pistol in hand, Hunter stepped out of the car and stretched his shoulders, pointing the gun to the sky. ‘I do not much recommend sleeping in a vehicle. Man!’
He rolled his waist, stretching his arms over each shoulder, with his pistol following each movement. He rolled his head and jumped, knees up, a few times. Smiling at each of the men, he slipped the pistol behind his belt.
‘What’s you boys doing out so early, anyhow?’ Hunter addressed the question to the man on the other side of the car with the dog, the biggest of the three. He had long hair and a beard to match, salt and streaky pepper.
‘You can lower that, Leo,’ the main man said to the one at the front. ‘What we’re doin’ out here is no business of yours, stranger. Which ain’t to say that your business means nothin’ to us. We can’t have strangers walkin’ around in our business. ‘Specially if they’re stealin’ from our huntin’ stock.’
‘That’s what you’re doing?’ Hunter said. ‘Hunting?’
The men shared a look.
‘Not that it’s got anythin’ to do with you, but that’s about the size of it. Speaking of which, that ain’t no huntin’ gun you’ve got there, stranger. So, what is your business?’
‘You could say that I’m hunting too.’
‘Bounty?’
The dog barked and the chain leash jangled.
Hunter tugged his coat. He smiled.
‘That’s my business.’

‘But if they was only good ol’ boys out for a hunt,’ Hunter argued with himself, back on the same route of the night before, ‘then what’s with the needle? There ain’t no way they own a part of that forest.’
Fugitives didn’t want to be found – that was a fact. Hot trails became faint scents became dead ends. On rare occasions, fate sometimes intervened: whatever way Hunter pointed, there they would be, as if they really did want to be found. There was one time when his target was fishing right outside the town where Hunter had been given the job – that catch took only half a day. And another time when an itch brought the fugitive back to the scene of the crimes where Hunter had only just begun searching for clues. For most cases, though, he felt like he was always just around the corner, where the shadow of the target slipped into shade. Fate could deliver a run of winning hands, but it was more inclined towards laughing at failure.
It was his gut feeling that kept Hunter on the move.
The comment about the Knights of the White Camellia that drifted through an open window was a gift from his old adversary, Hunter was sure of that. His gut half expected that one of the good ol’ boys might be Helland. But the Englishman had described him differently: a pockmarked face, his skin like leather, hatred and death in his eyes and aura. Hunter had a feeling that he’d know Helland when he found him. If he found him.
Either way, those good ol’ boys sure were jittery over something. Small town fellas like them might get on their high horse about their land being no right of way for strangers, and it’s easy for men to pick fights when they’re a part of a posse. The main man had given him a couple of opportunities to declare if he shared their interest, of that Hunter was sure. But once they were certain he wasn’t one of them, they were warning him away, of that Hunter was sure, too.
When he was leaving the forest, Hunter had driven around a beaten-up Chevy truck beside the track road, presumably belonging to those good ol’ boys’. He’d hopped out and taken a peek in the cargo bed. There was nothing but a few sheets and what looked like pickaxe handles. Nothing much of interest in the cab, either.
Either way, Hunter knew exactly how to find out why they were really in the forest.

He drove on to Holly Bluff, the nearest town out in the basin. A bar, a few stores and not much else to interest him. In the window of The Holly House there was a sign that said VACANCIES, and that did interest him.
Hunter drove his car round back. He slipped his pistol into his carryall, swung the bag over his shoulder, and made his way round to the front.
The folks ambling along the street were mostly aged, seeming to show no concern for a stranger. There were few vehicles, either parked or driving. Hunter stepped onto the porch and pushed open the door.
The windows were open, playing with the curtains, stirring up the damp smell. The reception counter was unattended. Hunter peered into the breakfast room: three tables covered with tablecloths, but no one there, either. He tapped the bell on the counter and tapped it twice more. A girl headed down the hallway towards him. Hunter was quite unprepared for her appearance. Her dark hair was made up with curls, sculpted and shaped. Her lips were thick with rouge; her youthful skin unlined. Her eyes were large, full of life and health. She was a better fit for a picture house, rather than a boarding house.
‘Can I help you, stranger?’
‘I’m looking for a room,’ Hunter said, dropping his carryall to the floor.
‘You got money to pay upfront? All rooms are paid upfront.’
‘How much?’ Hunter said, pulling the roll of bills from his pocket.
The girl placed her elbows on the counter and cupped her head in her hands.
‘Well, that depends how long you want to stay, don’t it,’ she said, drawing her lashes up from the money.
‘Let’s say two nights to start. But if you give good service . . .’
The girl chuckled.
‘It’s two dollars fifty a night,’ she said smiling, her teeth as white as her eyes. ‘That’s the usual rate.’
Hunter handed her ten-dollar bill. ‘Why don’t you hold onto this for me, in case I need the room longer.’
As she went to take the note from Hunter, he kept it in his grip. When she met his eyes, he loosened his hold. The girl slid the note into her brassiere and adjusted herself after.
‘I don’t do this,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
She laughed and flicked her hair. ‘I mean this ain’t my place. I’m lookin’ after it for my olds. They’re out.’ She curled a finger in her curls.
‘Is that right?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘So, my board you’ve got there’ – he nodded to where she had concealed the money – ‘You just keeping it warm, then?’
‘It’s the safest place in town.’
‘Is that right?’ Hunter said again. ‘Tell me, what’s your name? A pretty girl like you, I’m guessing it’s something sweet.’
She leaned her head back and laughed. ‘You couldn’t be further from right, mister. I’ll show you to your room. It’s this way . . .’
He followed her along the hallway and up the narrow stairs. Old fashioned pictures lined the wall, mostly pictures of the town, the river and the countryside: old wooden buildings and landscapes. When they reached the top of the stairs, she stood with her back to the wall and pointed to a door at the far end.
‘That’s you,’ she said.
‘Obliged.’ He tapped his hat as he passed her.

Hunter put his carryall on the bed and looked around the room. Wardrobe, dresser, a bed with a floral spread. A little table with a chair next to it. A picture of the Big Man on the wall, somber with the ills of the world.
After the night spent in the car, he could do with catching a few winks. Moving the chair away from the table, he pulled back the curtain and glanced up the road in each direction. He opened the window a fraction. The only sound was the wisping breath of the breeze and some faint music upon it. He stared at the bar directly opposite for a short while before kicking off his boots and settling onto the bed.
Hunter glanced at the door, swung his legs over the bed, headed over and locked it before going back to the bed.
He couldn’t have found a better place to set himself down.

Within seconds of waking from his doze, Hunter was looking out of the window. The truck that he had expected to be there wasn’t there. Past experience had taught Hunter that stray dogs don’t creep far from their lair. They’d be here roundabout. If this turned out not to be their town, he had a good idea where he’d be able to find them.
He poured the water from the jug on the dresser into the basin next to it and washed his face and torso, covering a clean flannel in a few days’ dirt. He took a clean shirt from the carryall. Black: his hunting uniform. On his way out of The Holly House, he didn’t see anyone. Too bad. Maybe he wouldn’t get to find out if the girl was interested in the money or only the game. He had a suspicion that that he wouldn’t be seeing the inside of The Holly House again any time soon.
Hunter slung his carryall in the trunk. The pistol was in his jacket – he didn’t want to be caught without it to hand again; especially if this turned out to be the viper’s nest he was looking for. Fate was up to something here, Hunter was sure of it in his guts. But daytime wasn’t the time to find out if he was right.
Standing outside the bar with a beer in his hand, Hunter watched the street. It was even quieter than before. Watching was a big part of his work, and that suited him fine. Hunter rarely felt the need to hurry. Like this Helland character, Hunter had worked for the Law. The pay was lousy, and bowing to authority didn’t match his ethics. At least he’d realized that while he was still young. They’d trained him by way of the cannon, which was all Hunter needed to find his path.
The view up the road was straight and clear – there was plenty of time to retreat back across the road if he saw the truck – but nothing more than a few motorcars carefully driven by old timers passed him before dusk started to settle in.
It was time to bring the car out front.

A little further up the road, Hunter sat in his car. Soon enough, a truck pulled out from a side street, heading towards the Delta Forest, followed by a smaller car. It wasn’t the good ol’ boys’ Chevy, but it crept by slow enough for Hunter to have a good look. It confirmed exactly what he’d hoped. Inside the truck were two old boys, bearded and rough, just like the good ol’ boys of that morning. A group of younger men were in the car behind. Their expressions were severe. These weren’t just boys heading out to raise sand. The nocturnal animals were coming out to play.
With his headlamps off, Hunter followed from a distance. He was pretty certain where the convoy was headed, anyway. So he was surprised when they carried on past the track road.
Waders were out in the swampy land on the other side of the car, catching their supper. With his windows open, the car was surrounded by the restless noise of forest critters before the relative quiet of the night. Ahead, the cars disappeared around a corner. Hunter had allowed the gap to grow – his Plymouth wasn’t the sort of vehicle that came bumping around out here at sundown – and when he rounded the corner they were nowhere to be seen.
Smiling to himself, Hunter continued past another track road, tighter and more inconspicuous than the one he’d woken up on. There was nowhere to leave the car there – to do so would be to announce himself. His intention was just to watch unseen, for now; to see what was exchanged, and overhear what was said. It could still be that they were only a bunch of wild geese, but somehow he didn’t think so. His guts were telling him different. Small town folks have their predictable ways. They tend to govern things the way that they want them, however they want them. But the lack of conventional law also appealed to Hunter, and his vocation.
Ahead was a building of some sort, a barn off the road. That would do fine as a place to leave the car; maybe even a place to spend the night. Hunter turned into the road that led to it, the chassis unappreciative of the deep potholes. Gripping onto the window frame, he bumped his head on the ceiling.
The closer he came to the barn, he saw how large it was. It was also in an extreme state of disrepair. The roof had multiple lengths missing; the sides clad as sparsely as an old boy’s row of teeth. The dusk had hidden the fact that there were lights on inside the barn, coming through the gaps. Heading down the track, with nothing on either side of him but impassable terrain, Hunter had nowhere to turn. Inside the shabby dereliction, someone was home.

The track leading to the barn was effectively a raised bank that dissected the floodplain terrain. If Hunter tried to leave it, all he’d get was stuck. He noticed that a truck was following behind him now, too. Better suited to the road than his car, it was steaming along.
‘Well, goddamn.’
There was only one way to go, so he continued forward.
The track led around the side of the barn. Through the gaps in the cladding, Hunter saw figures moving around inside, silhouettes in the sketchy light. There were other cars already parked round back, including the two vehicles he’d seen in Holly Bluff. The occupants of the truck and the car were climbing out. Hunter pulled up beside the car and killed his engine. They turned his way, but not one of them paid him a second glance. His guts said that was a good sign.
He still had his fingers on the key in the ignition. He could leave; reevaluate the situation.
The sun was already halfway gone beyond the faraway trees, firing the burnt–color wood of the barn to red. The truck pulled up alongside the Plymouth. Hunter had suspected he might see the three good ol’ boys from the forest, and here they were. There was only one way to deal with the situation he’d landed himself in. He plucked a finger of tobacco from his pouch and slipped it in the side of his mouth. He checked that his revolver was in his jacket, and he stepped out of the car.
‘Howdy, boys.’ 
The two taller men walked towards him; the smaller man – the one who had pointed the rifle at him; Leo, was it? – stayed back, watching. Hunter made a show of readjusting his pistol. The one with the long hair – without his dog that evening – looked at Hunter’s car.
‘Fuck you doin’ here?’ the main man said to Hunter.
Hunter spat out a line of tobacco and he smiled. ‘I heard that there’s a meet out here tonight. Been looking to join with The Knights a while. It seems I found y’all.’
The man glanced sideways at his companion, before facing back to Hunter.
‘What made you think that, city boy?’
‘Ask the right folks the right questions and you tend to get the right answers.’
The man’s eyes narrowed, as thin as the clouds on the horizon, underlit by the last of the sun. ‘Who’d you ask?’
‘I didn’t ask their name. It wasn’t their name I needed to know.’ Hunter sucked on the tobacco and spat it out. ‘Pelican,’ he said – the first word the man had said to him in the forest that morning.
Only silence and hard stares answered him.
‘Talking of names, I didn’t get yours. Except for Leo over there,’ Hunter said, winking at him.
Leo’s mouth opened and closed like a fish on a hot tin hull. He took an uncertain half-step forward. It seemed that Leo wasn’t so bold without his rifle.
‘You said this mornin’ that you was huntin’,’ the main man said, a trace of humor, or something like it, picking at the corner of his mouth. ‘So, what’s your prey then, hunter?’
‘I’m guessing the same thing as you,’ Hunter said, ‘seeing as we find ourselves gathered together out here.’
Sucking his lips, the main man slowly began to nod. ‘We don’t get many city boys joining us in the field.’
‘Don’t be fooled by my get up, boss. I’m a country boy at heart.’
‘Yellow star,’ the main man said after a beat, before heading toward the barn.
Hunter followed the group around the side of the barn and in through the doorless entrance. Those already inside were gathered in groups, leaning against or sitting on straw bales. They were all dressed much the same: denim pants and heavy jackets, Stetsons and cowboy boots. Even though looks arrowed at the new face among them, Hunter blended in like swamp weed to muddy water. Anyway, for all intents and purposes, he’d arrived as part of a group.
Hunter stayed on the fringes of the conversations, listening in. Eyes tripped on him, either including him or appraising him. When they asked where he came from, he gave the same answer each time: ‘The city.’ To them, that meant Jackson, and there were no further questions asked – which was good enough for Hunter. With the limited range he suspected these local boys had travelled, he guessed they wouldn’t have many common acquaintances.
‘What made you want to join in with The Knights?’
‘Well,’ Hunter said, thumbs tucked into the waistband of his pants, bootheels at ninety degrees, blending in, ‘my daddy was a confederate and his daddy before him, and back and beyond. I was brung up in the way that any good confederate boy should be. We’re Dixie all the way through. If ever I have a boy of my own, he’ll be just like his daddy, his granddaddy and his great granddaddy, ain’t no doubting it.’
The Knights were whoopers and hollerers, receptive to anything that even closely resembled their own views, especially the younger ones. They seemed not to have the wit to recognize that his expression of contempt for the things they said was anything more than the natural countenance of the rough-looking new fella. They were the simplest of wild dogs: the alpha among them begins the chase and the others follow.
There were a few bottles of moonshine being passed around. Hunter took a few slugs when he was offered. The State of Mississippi was something else. Hunter was used to the good stuff. The liquor they were passing around the barn tasted like it had been brewed in a trough with the swill.
Hunter studied their faces. They looked like they washed in buckets. Each man smelled the same as the next: of stale sweat, dirt and earth. All their clothes were probably bought from the same store in the same town.
What Hunter had stumbled upon was not what he’d imagined a meet to look like at all. If this was an organization preparing an uprising, they were pretty darn short on the organization part. It was all puffed out chests and gossiping groups. They might be worth keeping an eye on, but he’d seen enough.
Just as he was about to find the main man so that he could move his truck and Hunter could get on his way to somewhere useful, a man who Hunter hadn’t met moved into the center of the barn. His long, straight legs seemed not to bend as he stepped out of the shadows. Unlike the others, he was wearing a leather jacket and khaki pants. His hands were in his pockets, walking head down, the rim of his hat facing the dirt floor as if he was searching for a lost key. He kicked at the dirt with the pointed toe of his boot and he looked up.
He scoured the groups standing around, shooting the shit, his eyes like a raptor picking his prey. There was something behind those eyes; something wild, uncontrollable, like an alligator. He stripped the faces of the men with his glare. The few days of beard growth didn’t hide the deep pockmarks in his leathery face. His eyes locked on Hunter, staring back at him.
Pulling his thumbs out from behind his belt, Hunter instinctively moved to reach for his pistol, but he managed to stop his hand. The eyes of the former sergeant of Parchman Farm Penitentiary – the fugitive; his quarry – continued around the barn.
Helland raised his shotgun and fired it into the air, scattering roosting birds and showering one group of White Knights with rotten debris, raining dust and dirt.
‘Hey!’ one of the men in the one of the groups said, looking at the fallen parts of roof on the floor and the bits still drifting down. ‘What in the hell do you think you’re doin’?’
Helland strode stiffly towards him.
‘There ain’t no way–– Hey.’ The man lifted his hands, defensive, warding off. ‘Hey!’
Helland smashed the stock of the shotgun into the man’s face. The man fell onto his back, his feet flying out beneath him.
The other men in his group stepped away.
Helland pressed the barrel of the shotgun across the man’s throat. He eased his weight down on it. The man squirmed, his feet kicking at the dirt and straw. Choking, his hands grappled with the shotgun, trying to pry it away from his throat. He tried reaching for Helland’s face. Helland pressed down harder.
‘Man,’ one of the group said, looking at those around him, ‘don’t you think––’
Shotgun in hand, Helland sprung up. He pointed the shotgun into the man’s face. ‘Don’t you think: what?’
Stepping quickly back, the man raised his hands – just like the man on the floor had. ‘Nuh-nuthin’ nuthin’.’
The bloodied man on the floor was struggling, still writhing as if Helland was still upon him. Drawing weakly from the air, his hands were reluctant to touch his face or neck, desperate claws pawing the air.
Helland scanned the barrel of the shotgun around the room. ‘Anyone else got anything they want to say?’
The room remained silent.
Shotgun facing the floor, Helland moved to the center of the barn. His lips were slightly parted, his chest rising and falling – whether from exertion or from anger or both.
‘I’ve been watching y’all, standing there gossiping like a bunch of homegals.’ Helland’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried on electric lines that sparked through the silence, settling upon them like the dust from the roof. ‘Talking about families at home; yard duties you need to tend to; things that need fixing.’
The man standing beside Hunter coughed quietly, gaining the fury of Helland’s glare.
‘Some of y’all was saying what you’d do to a ______ if you caught one. I’ll tell y’all now, standing and talking is nothing. Since I came here, I ain’t seen no one do nothing. I heard about this group of real tough guys. The Knights of the White Camelia, revenging history and the wrongs of the past. Putting history back right, as it should be. Well’ – Helland began to pace in the center of the barn – ‘maybe there is a group of tough guys down here, doing that. But it sure as hell ain’t you. So, tell me this’ – Helland stopped in the center. The shotgun moved in an arc around the assembled groups – ‘Do any of y’all want to get blood on your hands?’
No one answered.
‘I won’t kill a man who says he don’t. But I might kill all y’all if not one of you does, and I’ve found myself down in this shithole for nothing.’ Helland pumped the barrel – it spat out a cartridge – and he loaded another. ‘ I’ll ask again: do any of y’all want to come with me and kill.’
The men hollered in response, building in fervor. Some punched their arms into the air; others raised their bottles.
‘Well, alright,’ Helland said, lowering the shotgun. ‘I’ll tell y’all how it needs to be done. But if you disappoint me again, you’ll find out the difference between a warning and a threat.’

Trucks and motorcars were ahead of Hunter and behind him. Driving back towards town, he had an unknown feeling in his gut. He thought he knew all that he needed about Helland, but having seen him in the flesh, he had stared into the face of evil and evil had stared right back at him. He remembered now why he recognized the name.
Hunter had underestimated a target once before: a domestic abuser who the brother of the victim had hired Hunter to deal with. That man was rabid – even when he was leaking blood heavily out of multiple wounds, he just didn’t know how to die. Hunter hadn’t been scared of that man, only exasperated by the unexpected effort it took to kill him. Within Helland’s eyes, he had seen a completely different extreme of rage, one that could stoke the furnaces of hell.
The Knights of the White Camellia were much as Hunter assumed they would be – albeit a different class: mostly old country boys with too time on their hands and little order about them. Maybe they could start a fire as a pack once they got going, and if they had enough matches. Small town sects could get nasty, but usually only after they’ve tasted blood, and those boys almost certainly hadn’t. These boys had little wisdom or experience to draw upon. If you handed out a sackful of baseball bats, you couldn’t claim to be the Cardinals.
Former men of the Law were tougher – after all, most of them were trained to kill – but they also knew how to work with a level of diplomacy. Helland was merciless, clearly driven by hatred and anger. Hunter had seen for himself the terror in the faces of the men who were perceived to be fearless, unused to being the victims.
Hunter had heard once of a deputy in a small town, a known acquaintance of bootleggers and villains. Word was that he preyed upon criminals, the poor and the desperate to do his bidding: be it extortion, incitement of violence, or coldblooded murder. Most Lawmen take a kickback – heck, Hunter had liaised with criminals in his time – but it was said that deputy cared not for gains. He got a kick out of seeing the world turn wild, driven by lawlessness. Hunter had often wondered if that deputy really existed, or whether he was a fabrication of men justifying their own criminality. He hadn’t heard the name spoken aloud for a long while, dismissing the tales as folly, until he met the Englishman and he heard it said again.
Hunter felt for his pistol. When he first recognized Helland back in the barn, he wished that he’d laid him out dead on the floor right then. He would never have heard what the voice of the devil sounded like, nor seen what he was capable of.
Hunter parked his car around back of The Holly House and walked in through the front door. A man of middle-age was sitting at the desk, peering over the top of his glasses at papers. He had a tumbler of bourbon beside him and a pen in his hand.
‘You got a phone?’
Carefully putting the pen down, the man looked up. His complexion was blemished with the dots of a drinker. His eyes had the half-closed look of a man who knows his way to the bottom of a bottle.
‘Who are you, to come in here and ask if I’ve got a phone?’
‘I’m staying here. I paid a girl. Your daughter?’
He’d asked her name, and she hadn’t given it. He’d guessed it was something sweet.
You couldn’t be further from right, mister
That was after she’d put his money down the front of her dress.
‘You name?’ the man asked, brushing the papers aside and peering down at a ledger.
‘I didn’t give it,’ said Hunter. ‘She didn’t ask for it.’
‘Well, permit me to: what is your name?’
‘Billy James,’ Hunter said. A different town. A different name.
‘Well, Billy James, your name isn’t written here.’
‘I told you already, she didn’t ask for it. But I did give her ten dollars.’
‘If you gave Mary ten dollars then your name would be written down in this book.’
Mary. It wasn’t unsweet.
Hunter pulled the roll of notes from his pocket. ‘I’ll give you five dollars more – two nights’ lodgings – if you’d let me use your phone. I don’t need the lodging no more, I just need the phone.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have a telephone here, Mister James,’ the man said, peering over the top of his spectacles. He lifted the glass, meandering until it found his suckling lips.
‘Where can I find one?’
‘In this town?’
Hunter nodded.
‘There’s only the one I know of for the use of a stranger. It’s in the post office.’
‘Where is the post office?’
‘Yonder,’ the man said, pointing up the road. ‘But it won’t do you no good. It’s closed now ‘til Monday noon.’
Two days away.
‘Is there a central operator’s station, or the like?’
‘In the post office, yes. You can stay here ‘til they open. It’ll be two dollars a night.’
‘I don’t need to stay. I need a phone. I don’t have time to wait, neither. You know anyone who’s got one I can use?’
‘I’m not certain that I could recommend you in the state of high blood you’re in. I’d suggest bedding down until the public phone is in use.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter stuffed the money back into his pocket. ‘And tell Mary thanks for everything, too.’ He winked at the man and walked out of the door.
The Knights wouldn’t have left yet – he’d heard their plans, now that they had a leader organizing them. The only thing that Hunter could do, for now, was to start heading in the same direction. He had to speak to the Englishman as soon as possible. He had to warn him that Helland was heading his way.

Hunter didn’t know where the Englishman was staying, only that it was near to a town called Honahee. He’d been settled there for an unfixed term while he worked on a case, something to do with the murder of an escaped convict. He hadn’t given the name of where he was staying but had given Hunter a number he could call.
With a year’s worth of earnings burning his pocket, Hunter would be able to trace FDR’s daughter if he wanted. But Mississippi was a world unto its own, where things moved at the pace of plow being dragged by an old mule. There was a natural skepticism, a wariness of the unknown – no one gave anything away easy.
Hunter wasn’t used to questioning the situation he found himself in. He usually responded incisively and decisively, rather than overthinking things. But most fugitives weren’t like Helland. He was beginning to wonder, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself yet, whether he was scared of the man.
If Hunter were to cut and run, he doubted that the Englishman would ever be able to trace him – he knew better than anyone how to stay hidden. The Englishman had instructed him to call once a week with updates. He could call just before heading over the state border, maybe head to the sun out west, find work searching for missing people instead. Either way, this was already feeling like it might be his last job in this line of work, whether he went through with it or not. He had maybe ten good years left, and he didn’t need much to keep himself. If the Englishman knew who he was truly dealing with, he might have decided to leave well alone. You don’t mess with the devil and come away with a few burn scars.
If only Hunter had shot the man when he had the chance, he could be giving proper thought to retirement.

As he headed north, the thought of fleeing wouldn’t leave his thoughts. Equally, he was also thinking about the man Booth. Assassinating Lincoln had changed the course of the world – especially down this way. Helland in that barn, rallying the crowd, was just like what was happening over in Europe. There was no doubt that if Helland was free to raise an army of hate, not a single person in the entire south would be safe. And after that? Wherever the devil walked upon the Earth, hell would follow.
Hunter pointed the nose of his car towards Clarksdale.
The town was coming to life as he pulled into a lot off Main Street. He stretched his legs and rubbed his eyes. He was tired; brain weary. After the call, he’d allow time for coffee before heading on again.
He found a manual dial phone in the back of the general store and dipped into his pocket for cents. He typed out the number written on a napkin. It was picked up at the other end.
‘Oxford Garden. You’re speaking with Marcia. How may I help you today?’
‘I need to speak to the Englishman,’ Hunter said, leaning on the booth, his voice low.
‘Do you have a name, sir?’
‘I don’t know his name,’ Hunter said. ‘He’s tall. English.’
The voice at the other end hesitated. ‘Do you have a name please, sir?’ the girl repeated.
‘I still don’t know it,’ Hunter said. ‘He’s waiting for my call. He said to ask for the Englishman.’ And then Hunter remembered: ‘He said to say it’s about his cousin.’
‘Very good, sir. I’ll put you through now.’
Hunter heard a loud click, and then a quieter one.
The sound of someone clearing their throat. A breath trickled into the line.
‘What have you found? Anything?’
‘I have. I’ve found your man.’
The Englishman hesitated. ‘Is he . . . gone?’
‘Not even close. He’s too busy fixing to kill to die.’
Hunter explained how he had chanced upon The Knights of the White Camelia. How he stumbled upon the meet in the barn.
‘Helland got them on his side quick enough. He said about how one sect of The Knights was chased away from a town with their tails between their legs. That they got bit once and cried their way home, rather than putting that dog down. They lost an opportunity to show the world what they was standing for, he said. So Helland told these boys to go back to that town and show the world that they’re still as alive as ever.’
‘Helland is in control of a group of men?’
‘Before he got a hold of them, they was probably only planning to drive to the next town along and tie some men in sacks and beat ‘em, these boys. But with Helland, he wants them to go back to lynching; public executions; an uprising. But that ain’t even the least of it. He said that he knows how to recruit the Law onto their side. He said that he ain’t going to stop until the land is rid of vermin. But the thing is, I get the impression that he ain’t ever going to stop; he’ll just go on killing anyone he wants.’
An expulsion of air through the phone.
‘What else did he say?’
Hunter thought back to Helland’s last words, when the good ol’ boys’ whooping reached its peak.
‘He talked about the unfinished business to be done in this place Honahee, and that––’
‘What did you say?’ the Englishman interrupted. ‘Honahee?’
‘Sure. He told them it would be their new base. A perfect place to spread out across the south.’
‘Did he say anything about any individuals in particular? Did he mention any names?’
‘No names, exactly. But he did say that while he was there, he had something personal he needed to deal with.’
‘Where are you now?’ the Englishman said.
‘Clarksdale. Just got here.’
‘How soon can you be here?’
‘Hour? I’m just going to get a coffee and I’ll be on––’
‘Get here now. Quicker than you can. I’ll have a coffee waiting for you’ – a thump in the background – ‘I know exactly where Helland is headed.’

As soon as he was within sight of the Oxford Garden Hotel, Hunter could see the Englishman. He was staring hard at each car that passed. Standing tall and pale, he stood out like the president. He had one hand in his pocket and was holding something in the other. With his windows lowered to let out the humid air, Hunter pulled up alongside the Englishman, staring in at him.
‘There’s your coffee,’ the Englishman said, handing him a cup through the window. ‘Follow me.’ He turned and walked to a black Buick, a few paces in front of the Plymouth.
Hunter was happy enough to keep pace with the Englishman’s driving, even if he wouldn’t usually choose to take corners at the speed the Englishman was. More than once the Buick skidded sideways, making use of the entire width of the road before powering onward. He saw the faces of the folks out for a drive as the bulking black monster roared past them, expressions like it was a spaceship that had sped past them.

An hour later, the car in front was breezing alongside a river, past ponds and flowering shrubs. A town sign dotted with Magnolia leaves welcomed them to Honahee. For a southern town, this was one of the prettiest that Hunter had seen. Honeysuckle and clematis growing up wooden buildings. Children hoop-trundling down the street and folks steeping out of their way, a smile and a pat on the head. Small groups were gathered outside a local store, some sitting on the steps of the stoop and others standing in the street. The sound of fife and drums filled the air. Whoever was playing was sure making a hullabaloo.
They headed on toward tall, brick buildings standing imperiously opposite each other. In its center, bright flora was growing beside the base of a tree with a dark, twisted trunk. Redemption Square, the plaque said. In a southern town, the undertone of such a centerpiece required little explanation.
Beyond the square, it was like travelling into an entirely different town. The wooden fronts of the buildings were largely in poor repair. There were men slouched in the street outside juke-joints; a couple of men arguing, pushing each other, and a girl grabbing one of them; mangy-looking dogs scavenging dropped morsels, their own litter dotting the road; shifty stares on scowling faces. The sound of music on this side of the town beat a different tone. Heads turned to watch the shiny Buick slip up a road beside the General Store.
Away from the main thoroughfare, the houses were small, packed in. The further they headed out, the streets were once more lined with trees, flowering gardens and painted picket fences. The Buick stopped outside one with a chinaberry tree in the yard. Most of its leaves had already dropped, littering the floor by the trunk.
The Englishman stepped out of his vehicle. ‘We’ll move the motorcars in a moment,’ he said, meeting Hunter in the street. ‘I wanted to show you first where we will be waiting. Waiting for Helland.’
With his hands on the base of his back, Hunter leaned backwards. Eyeing the drawn curtains and dust-covered windows, he stretched upwards.
‘Looks like there ain’t no one home.’
The Englishman looked both ways down the street. ‘There hasn’t been for some time. There was family here. Because of Jacob Helland, that family is no longer here. They’re lucky to be alive.’
The Englishman turned in all directions. His hands were restless in his pockets. He took a golden pocket watch from his waistcoat and glanced at it.
‘We need to move. We’ll leave the cars further up the road and then come back.’
‘You keep saying we.’
For the first time, the Englishman looked at Hunter. His lips tight. Lines beside his eyes snaked outwards.
‘You ain’t going to be in there with me?’
‘I didn’t leave the hotel for the entire time you’ve been tracking this man, hopeful that the phone would ring and you would give word of his demise. All I could think of is that he will somehow get away again, disappear. That he’ll manage to continue spreading his hatred and his violence. I don’t think I’ll ever rest easy without seeing for myself that he is dead.’
The Englishman looked again along the street. He looked at the house. More of the last leaves fell.
‘Perhaps it means that I too am evil, but all I have wished for is to see Jacob Helland die. Tonight, I finally will.’

As day continued its slow drift towards darkness, the Englishman told Hunter of the link between Helland and the house that they were in. Sergeant Helland – as he was then – had arranged for the release of a convicted murderer and rapist – a villain in his image – and petitioned him to travel to this house, where he committed a grave crime upon an innocent woman. It was only fortuity that saved the woman and her child: a fellow convict, released by pardon, arrived in time to disrupt the attack, murdering the sergeant’s stooge before he could do his bidding. And for that, he was now incarcerated on death row – the reason why the Englishman had remained in the country.
‘And that all happened here in this house?’ said Hunter, sitting across the breakfast table from the Englishman.
The Englishman nodded. ‘And that is why I’m certain that this is where Helland is headed. He is the most hateful of men. Revenge is his byword.’
‘That don’t sound much like revenge.’ Hunter spit his mouthful of tobacco into a flowerpot on the table with a dried-out plant. ‘I’ve seen revenge. Revenge is driven by hotblooded fury. That sounds coldblooded to me.’
‘Helland has a sick mind.’
‘I know it,’ said Hunter. ‘I’ve seen it for myself.’
‘Indeed, you have. In Helland’s diabolical judgement, he wanted to punish my friend in compensation of his own sins. He wanted to punish my friend for his association to my father.’
The kitchen was close to darkness, the waning light through the window too weak to create shadows. Hunter looked down at his pistol on the table next to the flowerpot. 
‘Why’d Helland kill your ol’ man, again? What was that revenge for?’
‘A disagreement. Over a project my father was working on. Loosely interpreted as politics, I suppose.’ In the semi-darkness, the Englishman smoothed a hand over his knuckles. ‘I fully admit that my father’s murder is a large part of my desire to rid the world of this man – hotblooded, coldblooded, whatever it might be. But on that night, Helland raised a mob to rally with him. And that was when he was still only learning his trade. Left alive, he will never stop.’
Hunter leaned back in his chair. ‘The more I hear of Helland, and from what I’ve seen of him, I couldn’t agree more. He needs . . . extinguishing.’ The feeling that stabbed Hunter in his guts when was leaving the barn troubled him again. He noticed that he was grinding his teeth together and he tried to stop. ‘Most of the time, this is just a job. A way to earn a living. It ain’t nothing personal – I get the details of the case before deciding whether to take it. And I’ve turned down work before, if the ends don’t justify the means – but other than that, I’m just being paid to do a job I’m good at. But this man Helland? I wished I killed him outright as soon as I first set eyes on him. I had a chance but missed it. That was before I saw what he was. If I had the chance again, I’d do it without blinking.’
‘You’ll have your chance,’ the Englishman said. ‘He’ll come.’
He stood and walked to the window. Parting the lace curtains with a finger, he peered into the street. It was quiet and still, livid in the dusk. Lights were on in the windows of opposite houses. A cat darted in front of the house, beneath the chinaberry tree, and down the far side of the house next door.
Further down the street, a vehicle was travelling at low speed. The Englishman stood back from the window. He signaled to Hunter to make no movement, watching through the slither of a gap. There were two figures in the car. The passenger was much smaller than the driver. From that distance, it was hard to glean anything of who was inside. The driver was half-hidden, but enough to discern he was wearing a hat.
The Englishman narrowed his eyes, trying to filter the dying light.
The car was nearing the house. Its slow pace was consistent.
On the street, nothing else moved.
‘You think it’s him?’
The Englishman dismissed Hunter with a wave of his finger.
The car passed the house next door. The beam of the headlamps breezed through the curtains. Speckled dots hopped over the wall. The noise of the engine rattled the windows. The Englishman slid back against the wall, biting his lip hard. He could see enough of the passenger to determine that they were also wearing a hat. The silhouette showed a bob of hair beneath it. A woman, little and old. Next to her, the driver was peering intently through the windshield, his chin nearly resting on the steering wheel, focused on the road ahead as they crawled up the street.
The Englishman stepped away from the window.
‘It’s no one.’ He poured water from a jug on the table into a glass. ‘We should get into position. Night is upon us.’

After turning the mattress to cover the black stains, the Englishman sat on the bed in the room at the back of the house. They agreed that a room should have light on, to show that someone was in, and that room should be the bedroom. When Helland approached through the front door, Hunter would be lying in wait. Of course, Helland might not choose that night to come, but he would come.
The bedroom door was ajar, allowing the light to leak into the hallway. The Englishman put the glass on the floor by his feet. He had never seen Helland in the flesh before, had only the pictures in his head of the man, painted by descriptions. That he would only ever see him in death was of little concern. Everyone who had spoken of him portrayed an unearthly spirit, a demon, a devil. Back home, they said the same of the Führer, the antichrist, but he, too, was just a man. And he, too, would be defeated.
The Englishman had been alone in the room for more than an hour. There were no books there, nothing to pass the time. In that room – other than the bed and the mattress – was a wardrobe, a dresser, and a small side table. With his hands on his thighs, the Englishman watched the door and listened to the steady rhythm of the ticking of his pocket watch.
A dull pop and the tinkling of falling glass, as if broken by a stone.
Standing, the Englishman adjusted his waistcoat. He opened his mouth to call to Hunter, but he held his words.
The sound of the front door creaking open.
Another pop, louder than the first.
Footsteps, heading towards the bedroom, muffled, and then louder again.
The Englishman lifted his chin, standing straight, with his hands by his sides.
A shadow filled the gap in the doorway. The door began to open inwards.
It was just as he had heard him to be described, the face of the man he had heard so much about, the man that he knew so much about; the man who had hardly left his thoughts since he first heard his name. The two men stared at each other. Beneath his leather hat, Helland tilted his head to the side. He rubbed his chin, a sound like rats scratching behind a wall. The light reflected in what could be seen of his eyes, petals floating on oil. The pockmarks in his cheeks corrugated with the smile beginning to rise.
Helland pointed his pistol at the Englishman, looking at him along the sight. ‘Bang,’ he said quietly, before lowering the gun. ‘I see you now. You’re the son.’ He looked to the side, thoughtful for a moment. He sucked his teeth. It made a clicking noise. ‘Wilmington.’ He smiled. ‘I knew it would come to me. I never forget a name. You never can tell when you might need it again.’
‘Neither have I ever forgotten you,’ George Wilmington said. ‘I knew that we would meet one day.’
‘Being truthful,’ Helland said, turning down his lips and nodding, ‘I did too. I knew you’d bring your revenge some day. It don’t matter who you are – whether you’re a swamp rat or the president – revenge is the absolute most beautiful thing there is. It’s so much stronger than forgiveness, and way more inspiring than hate.’
‘Don’t confuse revenge with justice. Revenge is just an excuse for you to spread hate.’
‘It’s interesting you say that.’ Helland use his gun to gesture as he spoke: ‘It was for justice that we went to see your daddy. He was so arrogant, wouldn’t listen to us; he didn’t hear what we had to say. So, after all the words was finished, in the end we were forced to give him a taste of our southern justice, like any carpetbagger deserves. But I did warn him first,’ Helland said, waving his gun at Wilmington. ‘I did do that.’
‘No. You used violence to get your own way,’ Wilmington said, a flush risen high on his cheeks. He glanced at the doorway. ‘You didn’t get your way, so you murdered a good man. A loyal man. A family man. That is the stigma of this country. It always has been. As if violence is the only answer.’
Helland shrugged. He tapped the pistol against his leg.
The two men were again staring at each other.
‘You’re just the same, though, ain’t it? You don’t belong here, neither. That man lying dead out there?’ – Helland gestured with a tilt of his head to the doorway – ‘I knew that someone would be heading my way before long. I knew that someone would be coming for me. Then when a new face suddenly turns up from out of town, after I joined in with a small-town crew; no one knows his name, just that he’s on a hunt? I mean, you’d have to be some kind of stupid not to sniff the air.’
Helland huffed a humorless laugh. He slipped his arms from the sleeves of his jacket and hung it on the doorhandle. The two men were facing each other. The light cast two shadows, laid on the floor opposite each other. 
‘I can’t tell you what a treat it is to find you here. I don’t know where you’ve hidden that big man away. But I’ll find him. I will find him. That can wait for another night.’
Helland looked at his pistol for a moment. ‘Nah. This here’s a bare-hand job,’ he said, and he placed his pistol on the floor.

Helland stepped out of the house. He pulled the door closed behind him and looked along the quiet street. The wind had picked up, taking the last leaves from the tree.
Using his hat as a shield against the wind, Helland lit a cigarette. There was blood on his knuckles. Some of it was his. At least the Englishman had given a bit of a fight. Murder was never as much fun when it felt like stepping on a bug. Helland walked to his car, parked behind the Buick and Plymouth.
As much as that sect of The Knights he’d joined with was unorganized, bordering on unruly, The Fury had pretty much been their idea. They just needed the fuel that Helland brought to the group to begin their uprising. Two fresh bodies could never appease hell’s gluttony, but it was a satisfying start for Helland – an amuse-bouche before they really started tucking in. The Knights said that they were ready to commence The Fury’s first wave. Slipping into his car, Helland made his way to them.
Driving down the road, he thought about the work ahead, of what was to come. This town would burn. While it smoldered, other factions of the Knights of the White Camellia would be enlivened. Once these small-town boys shaped up, others would only have to see their achievements to want to join them, and that was a fact. How dutifully small-town boys respond to threats.
Helland turned out on to the main road that ran through the town. He looked at the faces of the men and woman moving around freely. He could feel the weight of his pistol, its heat. Its potential was speaking to him. Temptation had such a loud voice. No one paid any particular attention to the vehicle passing through them, these walking dead. Not one of them would ever know that death had driven along beside them.

The town slipped away behind the car until it became a dot in the side mirror. Helland’s headlamps blazed onto the dark road ahead. Soon they lit upon a gathering of trucks at the side of the road, alongside a bridge. The boys from the delta town were standing around beside the trucks.
Helland slowed down and pulled in. ‘What’re the hell are you doing out here?’ he said, stepping out of his car. ‘We agreed that we’d meet further outside town. This ain’t a meeting place.’
‘Did you get your revenge, boss?’
‘I asked what you’re doing out here?’ Helland said, stepping up to the man.
They were of equal height. The man’s long hair and beard covered most of his face. Light from the headlamps created pits in the shadow of his eyes, hiding the rest of it.
‘We’ve got somethin’ that’ll please you, boss. Down under that there bridge. It’ll make you mighty pleased, in fact.’
‘What is it?’
‘Down there’s the body of a man not yet dead. We had us a little revengin’ of our own.’
‘Why didn’t you just kill him?’
‘The fear before The Fury, boss. Just like you said yourself. Creatin’ the biggest impact.’
After a brief stare off with the man, Helland walked towards the bank that led down to the river. Flashlights showed him the way. 
‘Just down under, boss,’ one of the men holding a flashlight said.
Helland turned to him, staring until the man looked away, and he continued down.
He faced into the darkness beneath the bridge. A man stepped alongside him, pointing his flashlight beneath the bridge.
‘Just over there, boss.’
Out of the darkness, a pickaxe handle jarred into Helland’s face, flattening his nose and knocking him down. Helland was up again in an instant, withdrawing his pistol. From behind him, another thick handle smashed into his hand, knocking the gun to the floor. Another handle hit him across the head – where the spine meets the skull – at the same time as one slammed into his legs, sending Helland to his knees.
Handles jarring into his collarbone pinned Helland down, piking into the flesh each time he moved. Two men stood on his writhing legs. He was trapped like rat on a pitchfork.
A man stepped out of the darkness. A tall, stooping shadow. He looked down at Helland. A flashlight showed the bandage over his nose.
‘You come into my clan, whatever hole you crawled out of, and think you can start takin’ over?’ 
With his chin jutting out, Helland glared into the man’s eyes. Still, he tried to move. And every time he did, the handles dug into his skin.
He spat blood in the dirt. ‘You think that you can kill me? Is that it?’ He spat at the feet of the man. ‘You think you’re match for me? I’ll raise another crew, and I’ll wipe y’all out. Fuck it, I’ll do it by my own.’
‘Your ways ain’t how we do down here,’ the man said, ignoring Helland’s threats. ‘There are plenty of boys out there doin’ it their way; we do how we do ours. And we do it on our own turf, too. We might seem like we’ve been hidden for a time, but that’s how we see it best done. That’s survival. We have our agenda, and we stick to it. A part of that plan ain’t comin’ way out here and razin’ a town,’ the man said, stabbing his pickaxe handle at the ground, ‘with honest folk among them, good folk.’
The other men in the group nodded, shaking their handles and hollering their agreement.
‘Say we’re pussies now, boy,’ the man said, stepping closer to Helland. ‘No? Well, then . . .’ He turned away. ‘Prove to the man that we can kill him. Just don’t do it too quick.’
The pack fell upon Helland.
Handles beat down on him. Helland fought to stand. He attempted to pluck a handle from an attacker. He yelled and he threatened. He spat. When he was knocked down, he got up. And the handles rained down.
Helland’s knees broke and he squirmed on the floor, still trying to fight back, still screaming threats. His arms broke, and he growled and spat, still trying to grab legs or handles. But there were too many of them, the onslaught too fierce.
A handle landed on his back, making his writhing body spasm. Another crumpled his jaw. And the handles rained down.
A handle broke as it broke his hip. And the handles rained down.
The commander of The Knights watched on. Only when it was time did he speak:
‘Throw him in before he’s dead, boys. Let’s see if he can float with all them broke bones.’
A glimmer of life returned to Helland as his head splashed above and beneath the water. Gurgled growls rippled over the water each time he broke the dark surface. Flashlights shone on him, watching the hopeless struggle. The desperate, failing lurches for life.
The struggle finally ceased. They stood on the bank, watching Helland floating face down in the water, drifting slowly downstream with the current.
‘We ride home now, boys,’ the commander said. ‘Ditch the sticks in the river.’
To the sound of the handles plunging into the water, he walked up the bank. At the top, he looked one last time at the outline of the figure floating with the pickaxe handles and the fallen leaves.

Published in 2025 by PipJay

First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Creating Tales

All rights reserved

© Phillip Drown 2017

The right of Phillip Drown to be identified as the author of this work, in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988, has been asserted

This is entirely a work of fiction. All of the characters and events depicted in this novel are products of the author’s imagination, or are fictitiously portrayed