The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.
Here’s why Randall Radford became my second target. In late August, on a Thursday morning, Karla had called me at 6:30 a.m. She always left for work around that time. A storm had come through during the night and had caused a dying tree to fall across our long driveway. I was still in my study working on a short story that was transforming into an epic novel. I quickly dressed and grabbed my chainsaw from the garage. When I got to Karla the saw wouldn’t start so I had to get the tractor and a chain and pull the tree back enough for her car to pass. That afternoon I took my chainsaw to Radford Hardware and learned it was dead with a cracked cylinder. I bought a new Husqvarna Model 359 and walked outside toward my truck.
Right when I was about to open my door I heard loud talking coming from the far side of my truck. “Tell him not to fuck with me, if he does he might feel a bullet in his head.” I knew the man’s voice. It was Randall Radford. I just stood there where they couldn’t see me. I couldn’t see them either. “Randall, you need to deal with him in the right way.” I wasn’t familiar with the woman’s voice. “I’ll call you tonight.” The door slammed and through my truck cab I saw Randall stand up beside the car and lean back down. Like he was bending his tall frame over to look inside the car window. I got in my truck, started it, and backed out while Randall walked in the opposite direction back towards the store’s main entrance. He never looked my way.
When I reached the edge of the parking lot I looked back over my shoulder and saw the woman backing out and heading out in the opposite direction. I decided to follow her. She drove to Albertville to a house on Pecan Avenue. I remembered what the New York Times reporter, Nate Baker, had told me, “Randall Radford goes either on Monday or Tuesday to a house on Pecan Avenue in Albertville to see Cissy Sprayberry.” The woman I was following had to be Cissy Sprayberry. I pulled into the driveway of the house directly across the street and killed my engine. I got out and walked over behind a tree without Cissy seeing me. She seemed to linger in her car before she started getting out. By the time she walked into the open door to the garage a man met her. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but no doubt he was unhappy. I stood there five minutes or more and their conversation became more and more heated. I guessed the man was Cissy’s husband and he had found out about her and Randall’s affair, and naturally was not too keen to it.
As I was driving home, I concluded Randall had to be my next target. I started conceptualizing a plan. Why not use this fiery seedbed as an opportunity to give Randall a full dose of justice? After I got home, I changed clothes and enjoyed cutting up the fallen tree.
All during the night I rolled and tumbled. All I could think about was Randall Radford and how he had always been a bully, at least for as long as I had known him. A silly lunchroom scene from High School kept jumping into my thoughts. Randall was at a table eating with, I think, James Adams. There were two or three others that I cannot recall at his table. Dessert that day was coconut cake. I remember Randall getting up when he saw Harlon Danford walking by with his food tray heading to a table across the aisle. As Harlon sat down Randall walked over and said, “Queer Harlon, I need your cake.” Everybody at Randall’s table shouted out laughter. Poor Harlon was powerless as Randall scooped the cake over onto his plate. Randall returned to his table with Harlon’s plate and started eating again. Randall then looked over at Harlon and said, “what are you waiting on? Here’s your lunch. Come and get it.” Harlon just sat there looking down as nearly everyone in the lunchroom laughed at him. This scene was so typical of Randall. He used his huge size to bully everyone around him. When he saw something he wanted, he took it. He certainly had an entitlement mentality. As the night passed and my rolling and tumbling continued I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to Harlon Danford. I also wished that I had had the guts back then to stand up for Harlon, to test Randall, even if I had to take a beating.
People don’t usually change. Here, in 2017, Randall is still the same bully. He wanted Cissy even though she was married. Before going to bed I had conducted some research. Cissy and Talmadge Calvert had married in 1991. He was a lineman with MUB Electric and had no criminal record. From all appearances, he was an honest, hard-working man. I assumed Cissy didn’t work since she seemed available to Randall on Mondays and Tuesdays. I didn’t know how Cissy and Randall had met. She was nearly 15 years younger. One thing I did know. She was just another piece of coconut cake to Randall. He saw her passing by and had to have her. I was determined that this time would end differently. I was going to stand up and defend Talmadge, unlike what I had done for Harlon.
For the next three weeks, I tracked Randall every chance I got. This included his weekly work with Upward Bound at the Family Life Center. John’s night had been every Monday. Randall’s was every Tuesday. Unlike John, Randall walked to the Center. He would leave the hardware store and arrive by 5:30, entering the same side door that John used. A few minutes before 9:00 he would exit by the same door and walk through Gethsemane Grove, across Sparks and south on Elm, all the way to Thomas Avenue. He continued until he reached the store’s north side parking lot where he always parked next to the back entrance of the appliance department.
I would do it tonight. It was September 11th, the week after Labor Day. The Center was closed over the holiday weekend or I would have executed my plan a week ago. Today, I realized it was the sixteenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks in New York City. I felt uneasy as though that was a bad omen.
I was hiding out in the Grove when Randall came outside and locked the Center’s side door. It was 8:59 p.m. I waited until he walked across Sparks before I eased from tree to tree until I was standing by the sidewalk on Elm. I could see him cross Elm and onto the sidewalk heading towards Thomas Avenue. I darted across Elm to my truck that I had parked behind the same house I had used before to hide my bicycle when abducting John. I was hurrying now. I didn’t have but a small window of opportunity. As I approached Randall, he turned and looked at my truck. He didn’t do anything, except turn back around to keep on walking forward. I pulled on 30 feet or so ahead of him and put the truck in park and got out rushing back towards Randall. I told him to get in the truck. He didn’t appear frightened even though I could have been the most dangerous serial killer in the world. He didn’t say anything but started towards me. Then, I think, he saw my gun. He spun around and started towards the dark shadows of an adjacent driveway. I shot once, hitting him in the shoulder. He fell to the ground. I walked over to him and again told him to get in the back of the truck. He said he wouldn’t. I then pointed my gun to his head and asked did he want to die right now. It took him several seconds to get to his feet as I backed away. He walked to my truck and I had him open the back window of my camper and lower the tailgate. He crawled inside. I walked over and closed the tailgate and shot Randall between the eyes. I closed the camper window.
I drove to Oak Hollow thinking of how satisfied I felt. Not about killing Randall, but about how well the silencer had worked. I was amazed at how quiet the two shots from my Glock 45 had been. When I arrived, I backed my truck down to the first open grave. The horses were all clustered up next to the barn. I walked to them and picked one at random. I stood the old gelding in between my truck and the open grave. I injected him with 50 mg of Diazepam as a sedative. In less than five minutes he was laying down on his side. I then injected him with 120 ccs sodium pentobarbital. Within a few more minutes the old gelding stopped breathing.
Over the next hour and a half, I followed the same routine as I had with John. Randall’s body first, then three to four feet of dirt on top, then the horse—again using the come-a-long. I then finishing filling the grave with dirt. The only difference this time was the bloody tarp from the back of my truck. I had pulled it out and thrown it into the grave on top of Randall’s body.
I pulled my truck to the barn and flipped on the lights. I inspected the back of my truck with my flashlight and didn’t see a drop of blood. The tarp had done its job. I flipped off the lights, drove to the other side of the gate, locked the chain, and continued home.
Just like the night John lost game one to justice, I tossed and turned in bed for an hour reliving the events of the past few hours. I was glad I had abandoned my idea of framing Talmadge Sprayberry. That would not have been right. He was an innocent victim, just like Harlon Danford. I could imagine both satisfied that I had given Randall a dose of giving instead of taking. I then slept soundly the rest of the night.
The Pencil Driven Life 