Five Miles to Paradise

44

Heck quietly unloaded his sack. 

Anjohn was forever coming to Heck and complaining about neighboring dogs running through her yard and soiling her lawn. Heck couldn't shoot the strays, but he had devised other ways of scaring them off.

He grabbed several of the shotgun shells he'd filled with black powder, sealing wicks inside with cutler's resin. They made perfect homemade firecrackers to light and scare away the pesky critters that dared to trespass through Anjohn's yard.

He had waterproof matches in his bag, matches soaked in turpentine spirits and air-dried. He was glad he'd had the forethought to grab his old canvas hunting vest and bag before setting out for Clancy's shack. He had modified the vest years ago, adding extra pockets.

He put the matches, the gunpowder shells, and some extra ammunition into his vest. He had a couple of spools of small rope cord. He'd taken a piece of oil cloth  that Birdie used to cover himself when it rained from the boat, too.

Heck inched forward, mindful of how dangerous each step could be. With his knife, he cut pieces of twine, tying his homemade firecrackers in a long line. About 10 feet away from Clancy's front door, he lit one of the fuses with his waterproof matches and slung it on the side of the porch.

He crouched low, threw the oilcloth over his head, and began an awkward run up the steps, crashing into the front door with his shoulder. The firecrackers exploded the instant the door gave way.

As he stumbled into the tiny room, Heck fell and rolled to his left. Just as he'd imagined, a shotgun blast roared his way. But luckily, the firecracker had shocked Clancy. His aim was high. The oil cloth took most of the peppering, and Heck escaped with only minor scratches.

Most importantly, the instant the gun blasted, lighting up the room, Heck had been able to ascertain Clancy's position in the room.

I had toppled over sideways in my chair, and in all the commotion, was screaming bloody murder. I had never been so frightened in all my life.

Clancy's chair had toppled over, too, whether on purpose or by accident, and he had fallen upon his own knife blade.

All Heck's shots from his revolver missed, but it made no difference. Clancy was bleeding to death from his own weapon.

I heard someone crawling towards me.

Oh, God! Clancy's going to kill me, I thought hysterically.

"Leah! Are you alright?"

It was Heck.

"Yes," I whimpered.

A match lit the darkness. Heck's face was inches away from mine. His one blue eye glistened brilliantly in the dim light. His brown eye looked black.

I couldn't help but smile.

"I'll light the lamp. I think Clancy's bought the farm."

Heck was right. After he'd lit the lamp, untied me, and made sure Clancy was no longer a threat, he stood looking down at the corpse.

"I guess justice has finally had her day."

"Heck," I said, "You're bleeding."

"Don't worry. It's nothing serious. I'm okay. Nothing really deep. Flesh-wounds."

He looked deeply into my eyes.

"Did he hurt you, Leah?"

"No. He was too busy outside to have time to mess with me."

"Thank God."

"Yes," I whispered.

* * *

They burned down Clancy's shack in the swamp. Heck took Palmer to help him. Heck explained in great detail to me just how he planned to do it. When the Sheriff was finished, all that remained was Clancy's many traps and a few sheets of blackened tin from the burned-out roof.

Heck said Nature would take care of those.

I knew he was right.

Time and Nature would erase any trace of Clancy's presence in the swamp.

Anjohn came tottering over, saying, "Heck, I know you're awful busy, but . . ."

Heck sighed, rolled his eyes at me, and went out the door to see if he could fix Miss Anjohn's latest problem.

No one has heard anything from Zinnia.

Apparently, she took Heck's advice and left LafayettahCounty for good.

Sumter divides his time between the Capitol and Bell Aure.

As for Key and Lakin Crandell, they seemed lost without Clancy.

Heck says not to worry about them.

They will both get their just desserts someday.

* * *

Not quite two months after my horrifying ordeal, someone burned Clancy's house down to the ground.

Heck said there was little evidence remaining.

He says as long as whoever did it kept quiet, the law would be hard-pressed to uncover the arsonist.

"I'll tell ya, Leah, I think finding who did it would be about as hard as finding T-Bone's body," he said over his evening coffee.

I did not say a word.

But I think that the burning down of Clancy's house is a wonderful thing.

Almost as wonderful as waterproof matches.

THE END