The Cry of the Cuckoos -- Chapter 1 Excerpt

2009-03-21T14:38:00Z

Chapter One

Midfield, Alabama

He was in thick woods with grass taller than his four-foot-two body. He

wanted to race away as fast as his legs could carry him. The burning wood

crackled and lit up the cloudy night sky, illuminating the white-sheeted

figures that circled a cross and chanted. A plea for help from a black man

sliced through the ritual of the robed men. A long rope hung over a tall tree

limb. The noose meant death to the nigger.

“Noooo...Dad!”

He awakened from the dream in a cold sweat from the shrill ringing of

the telephone next to his bed.

“Donald, come quick,” his mother’s voice exploded through the telephone

line. “I think your father is dead.”

He rolled over on his pillow and glanced at the clock radio. It was 5:32

in the morning. He shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs from his

brain still somewhere in dreamland.

“Stay calm. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he told her. The old son-ofa-

bitch has finally croaked.

“What’s the matter?” his wife, Anne, asked as he threw back the bed

covers and hung up the telephone receiver.

“It’s Dad,” he said, nearly falling onto the floor when his right foot

tangled up with the bed sheet. He unsnapped his pajamas and grabbed his

blue jeans. “Mother thinks he is dead.”

“Really,” Anne said, sitting up in bed. “Do you want me to go with

you?

“No, honey,” he told her. “I’ll call if I need you.”

Donald reached into the closet, grabbed an old XX-large green plaid

shirt with button-down collar and his sports jacket. His keys and wallet

were in his jeans. He pulled on ankle top boots and raced out of breath into

the garage and climbed into the Jeep. He opened the garage door with the

remote device clipped to the sun visor. As soon as the engine kicked in, he

reversed out of the driveway.

He was normally a safe driver, but today he was not in the mood to

obey stop signs or red lights. He turned on his emergency flashers just in

case he ran into a cop in the five blocks to his parent’s home. It was six days

before Christmas and the houses in the small city he raced past were decorated

with colorful lights. The lawns lit up the dark morning with sparkling

scenes of the manger, plastic reindeer, Santa Clauses and snowmen. White

bulbs glowing, outlining Christian crosses.

Peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Goodwill toward men was

not his father’s best characteristic.

He gunned the accelerator to the floor as the Jeep climbed the long,

steep driveway. The black wrought iron gate was already open. No need to

stop and punch in the security password. He parked at the front entrance

of the mansion sitting atop the hill overlooking the city.

Rose Marie Drummond stood on the porch with the door half-open.

Still in her pajamas she waved him in. Donald turned the ignition and red

emergency flashers off, got out and raced to her.

“He’s gone, son,” she said. Her eyes were pink and heavy, her face buried

in her wrinkled cupped hands.

Donald gave her a quick hug and walked into the den where his father

usually stayed most of the day. He found his father lying on the couch,

dressed in a black suit, white shirt and a black tie. His black laced shoes

polished to a spit shine. Donald cast his eyes toward his father’s face. It was

drawn and haggard. His head, bald from radiation and chemotherapy. His

body, gaunt and frail.

The thin arms were folded across his chest. He knew before he took a

pulse his father was dead; dead at eighty-two years of age.

Donald sensed his mother standing behind him waiting for a verdict.

He turned to face his mother and took her in his arms without saying

a word. He nodded his head. Rose began to whimper softly, and Donald

hugged her tightly.

“I know, I know,” he said, trying to console her. He stroked her solid

gray hair as she laid her head on his chest.

He was unable to cry. His mind numbed, unattached to the body lying

on the couch. With a strange dispassionate calm, as though he were his

own guru, he tried to examine his final thoughts. He felt like he had been

swallowed inside a giant vacuum and sucked into a higher state of mind.

It was an emotion he never had experienced. Had the dream earlier that

morning meant anything? He barely remembered it. It was more nightmare

than dream. He wondered why death was in his dream and suddenly

he awoke to the reality of his father’s death. Prophetic? Coincidence?

Finally, Donald asked her: “Have you called 9-1-1?”

She shook her head, “no.”

He walked into the silence of the dining room, switched on the light

and found the telephone attached to the wall. His heart-beat raced. He

dialed the emergency number. He gave his name and address to the house

then dialed his home.

“Honey, it’s Dad,” he said softly, trying to stay calm. He was the oldest

of the three sons and felt it his duty to be strong for his mother’s sake. His

mother was the glue that kept the family together. Not this monster of a

man lying prone on the sofa with a stiff face.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Anne said. “How’s Rose holding up?”

“She’ll be fine.”

“I’ll call David and Daniel and tell them to come to the house.”

“He was lying like this when I woke up and came into the den,” his

mother said. “I guess it was just before 5:30. The television was on. His eyes

were closed and he was just like he is right now. I called his name, but he

didn’t respond.”

Sirens from first responder vehicles screamed into the early December

morning. The red and blue emergency flashers lit up the neighborhood. A

police car was the first on the scene, then paramedics. The yard swarmed

with activity. Neighbors stirred outside their homes.

Donald watched as the responders hurried into the house to examine

the body. Thirty minutes later a coroner arrived and behind him a government

agent he recognized from the FBI.

The den was covered with a stack of magazines spilled across the floor.

The drawers of a desk had been emptied, and a closet looked as if it had

been imploded, most of the hangars and clothing on the floor.

He watched as the medical examiner uncovered a sheet Donald placed

over the body.

“He’s been dead for several hours,” the examiner said.

Donald turned to look at Rose, whose eyes were now alert. The tears

were gone. She walked around the room, looking at the family pictures she

personally placed in the room to help remind her husband of his offspring.

Donald knew his mother was reminiscing. He had seen her like this before.

His father hadn’t placed a lot of value on his children. Not what was

expected from an old man near death. He hadn’t been the model father

or grandfather. He placed more value on friends... and enemies. Donald

remembered his father’s words, “Keep your friends close, but your enemies

even closer.”

“Mrs. Drummond, I am the county coroner. Do you want an autopsy

of your husband?”

“Why would we need an autopsy?” Donald blurted out before giving

second thought to the question.

“He might have died of natural causes but sometimes there are extenuating

circumstances,” the coroner responded.

Henry Drummond was a familiar figure in Birmingham, Alabama and

across the country for that fact. Even the coroner knew his name. His name

appeared in newspaper articles and in court records, something Donald

knew all too well. The Federal Bureau of Investigation listed Drummond

as a former member of the Ku Klux Klan. He controlled the underground

Southern mafia though the agency could never prove it. The Civil Rights

Legal Center in Montgomery, Alabama listed his organization, The Society

of Southron Patriots, a right wing supremacist hate group and a terrorist’s

threat due to its philosophy as a Southern Nationalist organization whose

ultimate goal was a free and independent Southern republic. He had been

accused and acquitted of all charges in court of being an accessory to the

Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombings which took the lives of four

young, innocent black girls in 1963.

Donald spotted his friend and high school classmate. Midfield Police

Chief, Jay Norris, was the first cop on the scene that morning.

“I’m so sorry, Donald,” Norris said, putting his arm around Donald’s

broad shoulders.

“Thanks Jay.”

Donald’s name was familiar in Birmingham for a different reason than

his father. His bylines often made the featured headline story for the newspaper.

Radio and television reporters often relied on him in order to get

their leads for stories breaking in the court systems. He was the city’s expert

on court news.

Drummond’s death meant the media would be at the house in a matter

of minutes.

“I don’t need this right now. It’s Christmas, and I am retiring on the

31st.”

Local television reporters appeared out of nowhere, setting up cameras

in his parent’s front yard. Donald hesitated but walked out to greet them.

“Mr. Drummond, can I get an interview with you?” a TV reporter

asked, sticking a microphone in Donald’s face. Other TV crews were on

the scene, and a reporter from his newspaper was there with pad, pen and

a tape recorder.

“My father is dead, that’s about all I’ve got to say,” Donald said.

“Was it a natural death, Mr. Drummond?”

“I suspect so, but I don’t know anything at this point. My Dad suffered

from prostate cancer, so I assume it was cancer which caused his death.”

“He’s been linked to the mafia, and the Society of Southron Patriots is

under attack by the Civil Rights Legal Center. Do you think it was a hit

job?”

Despite the sobering death experience of his father Donald couldn’t

help but see irony in the question and had to keep from laughing.

“Well, I didn’t see any signs of struggle. I don’t think we have a story

here about the mafia going to the mattresses.” Donald said, alluding to

a scene in “The Godfather,” movie. “That’s all I can say right now. You’ll

have to interview the coroner and Chief Norris to get the information you

need.”

He knew every one of the reporters and liked all of them. But this

wasn’t the Birmingham Media Club. He didn’t feel like being sociable.

Maybe another time and another place, he told them.

“This embarrasses me every time something happens with my father

involved,” he thought as he dialed his editor’s cell phone to let him know

the situation. He wouldn’t be in the office today.

“Don’t worry about it,” his editor told him. “Everyone knows the type

man you are, and you are not your father.”

Donald went back into the den. He eyed the coroner who was finishing

up his work. He noticed the coroner holding a pill bottle in a handkerchief.

“I found this,” the coroner said, holding out the bottle to let Donald

read the label. “I found it lying under the couch.”

Norris overheard the conversation and looked at the bottle the coroner

had in his hand.

“It’s empty,” he said. “I suspect these are sleeping pills, Norris,” the

coroner said. “You might want to question Mrs. Drummond about them

at the appropriate time.”

“It’s his sleeping pills,” Donald said, not surprised at the finding.

“Mr. Drummond, I also smelled alcohol on your father. Due to the

findings we must automatically perform an autopsy.”

“We don’t have a choice. Is that what you mean?” Donald asked, knowing

how the procedure worked.

Donald went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Norris followed

behind.

“Donald,” Norris said. “Your father might have taken an overdose of

sleeping pills mixed with alcohol. You know what that means?”

Donald stared blankly into Norris’ eyes.

“You think his death is more than a natural one?” Donald asked. “He

had health issues. It could have been a heart attack.”

“Alcohol and sleeping pills, Donald! Are you listening to me?” Norris

said again, making sure his friend understood what was going on around

him.

“That’s possible,” Donald said, managing to regain his senses. “He liked

to drink vodka, that’s for sure. Wait a minute. You think he took his own

life? He committed suicide?”

“It’s certainly possible, Donald,” the chief said.

Donald circled the kitchen looking for nothing in particular. He

opened the refrigerator door, closed it, then checked on the brewing coffee.

He went to the sink and stared absently out the window into the backyard

where he had grown up with his two younger brothers throwing baseballs

and footballs. His mind raced forward and backward with a hundred questions

seemingly crashing down all at once.

He was dressed like he was going somewhere.

“Suicide?” he asked out loud.

Chief Norris did not respond.

“You know what will happen if the lab finds the pills and alcohol as

contributing factors to his death, don’t you?” Donald stated alarmingly.

“Yes, Donald, I do. Most insurance companies do not pay off on premiums

involving suicide.”

“Exactly!”

“Donald, another question,” Norris asked.

“Yes.”

“Why was your father already dressed in a suit and tie? Was he going

some place in particular today?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Donald said tersely. “I guess he figured he was going

to hell!”

Donald watched as his mother returned to the den. He followed behind.

She got down on her knees. Donald thought she was about to pray

over her husband. Instead she was on all four’s, stretching one arm behind

the corner of the couch as if she had been through this process more than

once. She found what the coroner missed.

She pulled out an empty vodka bottle and a piece of paper. She held the

bottle in one hand and the piece of paper behind her back in the other.

“What’s behind your back?” Donald asked.

“Nothing. Just nothing,” she said.

Donald saw the coroner return to the den. He looked to be hurried.

“Mrs. Drummond, under law we must perform an autopsy and have

our forensic science lab examine his body for foreign substances.”

Rose bowed her head in silence and closed her eyes for a moment. She

nodded to the coroner she understood.

BLOG.THECRYOFTHECUCKOOS.COM

The Cry of the Cuckoos -- Chapter 1 Excerpt

Welcome