No You Didn't

Six: The Beginning

There were two types of monsters that came out in Ida Creek at night.

The first was the kind that lurked in the woods–unseen eyes peeking through the trees, voices unattached to an owner, animal-like creatures with crooked horns and bent necks.

The second was the kind that kept even more hidden. More elusive. Unseen by anyone. These monsters lived inside Ida's Creek's residents.

We all have one monster or another living inside of us. Some are just more docile than others. A lion born and raised in a zoo is bound to be friendlier than a lion taken from the wild and trapped behind bars. One is content with what it has always known and the other rages against its captors because it longs for what it had. But a lion is a lion. And once a dangerous animal is provoked enough, it has no choice but to bite. Mere conditioning does little to protect against sharp teeth.

I wasn't sure about my monster just yet. Who she was, what she wanted, what she didn't want. I just knew that she came out at night, just like the other creatures of Ida Creek.

I sat inside The Rusty Handle with Tipper, as usual, except tonight I had far more to tell him than he had to tell me.

I always wondered if he really listened when I talked, not really caring either way, but tonight his ears were strained with rapt interest.

"Ain't Eddie the guy you told me to clock if he ever set foot in here?" Tipper asked, scratching his greasy beard.

I nodded sagely. "Yeah. And the rule still stands, by the way. If Eddie ever caught me in here, I wouldn't hear the end of it."

"What's wrong with a few drinks?" As if prompted by the mention of liquor, Tipper waved at the bartender. "Johnny, gimme a cognac with Worcestershire and tomato juice."

I made a face. "That sounds disgusting."

"It is." Tipper rapped his knuckles on the counter. "Make it two!"

"I ain't trying that," I said, but when the drinks came, I downed mine without hesitation and immediately regretted it.

Tipper and I had a good laugh about it and for a blissful second, I was able to forget about Eddie.

That is, until Tipper, suddenly serious, asked, "Why do you think Clay's innocent?"

The question took me by such surprise that I laughed, thinking he'd made some sort of joke I hadn't quite caught.

Then my inebriated mind caught up to what he had to say. My smile dwindled to nothing and I stared into my empty glass that stank of Worcestershire.

The real reason I believed Clay was innocent was simply because I did. I knew, without a single fragment of a doubt, that my brother would never even lay a finger on his children. I'd grown up with him. I'd know.

But saying, "He didn't do it because he just didn't!" would hardly stand up in a court of law.

So, I said, "Because there was absolutely no motive. He and Jenny were happy, he had a job, a house, everything. Their children's deaths were so...random, almost. And then when they arrested Clay, they were going to send him straight to prison without a trial or even a hearing. After Dad put up a fight, they let him have some scraggly lawyer from Alabama who didn't have the brains God gave a goose. No witnesses. It was hardly a trial at all."

I lowered my voice, leaning closer to Tipper. "Judge Chambers was more than happy to slam that gavel down to declare my brother a murderer. And that ain't justice. What I saw on his face that day was something else entirely."