Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (32) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
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all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

Wednesday,
August 30, 1922,
continued

The western sides of these islands were much less overgrown by the forests of mangroves. The tidal flow, back and forth every six hours or so, scoured channels of deeper water around their shorelines.
    The wakes of the hundreds of boats that plied the river continually slapped the western shores into submission, undermining any larger trees, so short sandy beaches gnarled with dead roots and hairy with sea oats dominated.
    Due to the main river channel being in the center and having the most water flow, the western channels were deeper. The tide ran faster in these small channels and it urged the boats forward in their grim mission.
    As they passed the middle island, Red saw lanterns lit in a dim, rambling house on this side. It was just a shadow under the twisted sea oaks but he could tell it was big. Someone was shouting. That would be Cooter Summerlin’s house, he figured.
    The distinctive blare of a conch horn echoed through the creaking, splashing darkness ahead of them. The men with the oars had been pulling with a will, but now gave over to others to get a break. Red offered Senegal to take a turn.
    The huge black man loomed in the night at the stern of the boat, like a dark planet eclipsing the moon. His eyes glared like white lamps in the shadows of his round face. “If we need’ja, Brother Dedge, we’ll call on ya, don’tcha worry none.”

Red was now “Brother Dedge”

    Red noticed that he was now “Brother Dedge” to Senegal Johnson, just like he had been reborn, much to his surprise, as such in the eyes of Reverend Ezra Ezekiel Stone.
    The third island crouched in the darkness to their left, like a barn cat set on catching a rat. As on the first island, the dock here was just around the south point, on the eastern shore. There, those endless waves of boat wakes from the steamers and paddle wheelers plying the main channel were blocked by the island itself. The boat traffic had diminished with the advent of Henry Flagler’s railroad, but was still a major shipping route.
    The Deacon led the way, and as they hauled into a small crescent cove to their left, Red saw a light flame to life in what had to be Frank Frankenfield’s house. It was a modest clapboard cracker house with a high-pitched, badly corroded tin roof.
    Two small craft were tied at the dock, one a motorized skiff, and another, a tiny sailboat with a mast, a yardarm with furled sail, and shipped oars. They were quickly shoved off to drift away with the tide. The fellow who dealt with the sailboat lifted the daggerboard out of the slot dead in the center, assuring the minuscule craft would float even in mere inches of water.
    The tide would carry them south for at least another three hours and then leave them adrift at slack tide. It might even carry them out one of the small natural inlets, just watery tunnels through the twenty-foot mangroves that meshed together overhead, connecting the river with the sea. They gushed floods of ocean water into the river with the incoming tide and fresh water back out with the outgoing.
    Red was sorry to see the little sailer go; he’d harbored an urge to get out on the waters of his new home since he’d first got “sand in his shoes,” as they called it when you fell in love with Florida and never left. Somehow, despite his lack of experience, he knew almost instinctively how to sail it, and was certain that he could master such a craft in a few days.

Frank had not yet got his pants on

    It was clear Frank had not yet got his pants on in response to the fire and was still in the house. This was the best possible situation according to the Deacon; taking out Frank first would be a severe blow to the Frankenfield clan’s confidence.
    The Deacon slammed his boat up onto the sandy bank. He’d told them all to do just that, to avoid the delay of having to tie up their craft. With the tide receding, they wouldn’t drift out, but be dropped more solidly onto the sand, and with all the extra hands, freeing them would pose no problem.
    Ten armed men splashed out in water warm as blood in the summer heat, the swarms of mosquitos instantly taking their own measure of blood for the morning’s grisly work.
    Red Dedge charged right past the elder Frankenfield’s house, sprinting north with the heavy Parker shotgun clutched to his chest. He knew now who had shot Guy, or nearly. It couldn’t have been that pathetic idiot Bobby. It had been either Kenny Frankenfield or Clarence Middleton. Middleton was John Ashley’s number one enforcer, who oversaw the Frankenfields’ operations. Red didn’t care which of them had actually fired the shot. He would see both of them dead, or he and Guy would be the ones in boxes.
    Until now the whole attack had been carried out in silence, even the boat fire had made little noise. Now a thudding boom echoed from the north island, and a column of flame shot into the air. One of the motorboats’ internal gas tanks must have gone up.
    The conch horn sounded again, and he pegged it as coming from Kenny Frankenfield’s house, the only other one on this island but for Frank’s.
    He saw a lantern swinging on a hook over the door as he came around the corner of the front porch. The porch faced north, and a man of about thirty, dressed in a dingy short union suit and hightop clammer boots, stared at the fire growing on the northern island.

He looked like a damn fool

    The first thing Red thought was, he looked like a damn fool. He blew the conch horn once more and shouted toward the south end of the middle island. “Bobby! God damn it, they’s burnin’ the ’shine! Git yore ass up there! An’ bring yore gun, dumbass! I’ll be right behind you!”
    No, you won’t, Red thought grimly. He’d never killed a man, but he only had to think about Guy’s poor leg, and his still, burned and stolen, their whole God damn farm, the life they’d built, all destroyed by these very bastards. But it was the image of Guy’s awful, mangled leg he couldn’t get out of his mind, his leg.
    He swung the Parker up and drew a bead on Kenny Frankenfield’s left side. He’d decided he’d give them just what they’d dealt to Guy, a hunting load. First barrel a slug, then Number One Buck, in case your quarry survived the first shot and ran.
    He did hesitate, for the blink of an eye, but then said, “Son of a bitch,” to himself through gritted teeth and made to pull the trigger. The heavy boom of a shotgun sounded from behind him, at Frank’s house. It sounded like the Reverend’s Browning twelve-gage.
    A woman screamed, probably Frank’s wife. Kenny’s mother. All this flashed through Amion William Dedge’s mind in the half-second as Frankenfield dropped the conch shell, snatched up a revolver and swung toward him. Kenny didn’t know Red was there; he was turning because he’d heard his mother scream.
    The Parker barked and the man spun to his right, blood blooming on his right shoulder. He stayed up, though, and Red was shocked. God damn twelve-gauge slug, and he don’t go down?
    Kenny staggered, tried to lift the pistol, but his arm wasn’t working, blood pouring down his chest. He’d spotted Red’s muzzle flare, heard the shot. His face screwed up in rage. He flipped the revolver to his left hand and raised it to aim at him.
    Red had seen what Number One buckshot did to a pig or a deer, but when he pulled that second trigger it seemed like Kenny Frankenfield just disappeared, leaving a pink mist barely visible in the lamplight.

His face was completely gone

    His body was slammed to the floor of the porch against the far railing, and when Red ran around to the steps, he saw what looked like a carcass made of chopped hog from the belt up. His face was completely gone, a few back teeth clinging to half a jaw, stark bone and meat, an eyeball in the wrong place, a hole into the throat. Blood poured down the steps, was splashed on the wall and windows.
    He stared, the boy in him horrified, but he gritted his teeth and thought of Guy’s leg, looking about like that.
    A woman in a white nightgown appeared at the screen door holding a rifle, took one look and began screaming.
    Red rushed her, punched through the screen and snatched the rifle away. He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her and the screen door towards him and reached around to drag her out onto the porch.
    She fought him, screaming, and they both stumbled over the bloody carcass of her husband. Still screaming, she stared, horrified at the remains of Kenny Frankenfield, the father of her children.
    He understood, but he needed her to talk. He dropped the shotgun from his right hand, holding her upper arm in his left, and slapped her, hard. His face scarlet, lips curled, he shouted into her face. “Middleton! Where is he?” He shook her, hard. “Where the fuck is Middleton?”
    She only glared and he slapped her again. She looked down at her husband’s body again and her face crumpled. Through tears she told him Middleton wasn’t there. He only came once every week or so, to collect cash from their moonshine operation. He’d begun bringing them their supplies, for a fee of course, so they didn’t have to leave the islands as often.

“We…we loved it here”

    “We…we love it here. Loved it…” The woman’s obvious grief tugged at his heart, but he hardened himself against it.
    “Anyone else inside?” She shook her head no. “Kids’re at my ma’s…”
    He snarled at her. “Then go on, git.” He shoved her down the bloody steps and out into the dawning light.
    Red took the lantern down from the hook and slammed it to the floor, watching for a moment while the rug caught fire, and he was sure the house would go up like kindling. He pulled the door to and turned.
    Celia Frankenfield wailed out in the sandy yard. He stepped over the body of Kenny Frankenfield and didn’t look back. His boots left scarlet prints that looked black by the dawn’s early light.

Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens