Lord of The South

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PRELUDE

Sheldon, Georgia 1955

The rusty old Ford raised a cloud of dust when it left the blacktop, pulling into the lumberyard. The engine retired to a sputtering wheeze giving way to the soft rumble of thunder in the distance. A hot August breeze scattered dried pine needles along the surface of the hood as a tiny whirlwind danced across its flatbed. An elderly gentleman in faded overalls eased his way out of the truck and moved slowly towards the sawmill.
     Birds erupted into flight at the alarming sound of a woman’s shrill scream. He hurried to the hill overlooking the valley where he saw a woman, her face and robe splattered with blood, being abducted from her house by four men in dark suits. They were too far away to accurately identify who they were, but his eyes were wide with drama as he watched them force her into a black town car and drive away.

Greenville, Georgia
350 miles south of Sheldon
five hours later

The black stretch limousine exited the garage, circling around to the front of the Hollingsworth mansion. Gusty winds preceding dark clouds scattered magnolia leaves across the redbrick drive and along the steps leading up to the mansion entrance.
     Jerome was sixty-two and had been the Hollingsworth family’s chauffeur for several years. His thinning gray hair glistened with sweat as he hurriedly exited the driver’s side door to prepare for his employers’ arrival. He glanced nervously at the top of the steps, brushed the dust off his chauffeur’s uniform, and donned his cap.
     Amos Hollingsworth appeared at the top of the steps in one of his finely tailored suits. His immediate appearance with his lean stature and dark, wavy hair, gave credence to his physically fit physique, all the more hiding that he was a man over fifty. With arrogant confidence he started down the steps, accompanied by his two bull-necked bodyguards.
      Jerome could feel the sweat roll down the side of his face as they approached the car. “Good morning, sir.” He said in his heavy British accent. “Where to?”
     “What’s your damned hurry?”
     “No hurry at all, sir.” Jerome was accustomed to Amos’s brash comments and had learned to keep his eyes straight ahead and respond with polite indifference. "Standing ready."
     The house guard exited the mansion wearing a loosely fitted dark suit, brushing thick fingers over his sweat-beaded forehead calling out, “You sent for me, sir?”
     Jerome was grateful for the distraction as Amos turned from him, glaring harshly at the house guard. “Where the hell is that damned doorman?”
     “The upstairs maid said his wife was sick. I guess he’s checking on her. You want me to go get him?”
     “I’m going into town. I want you to tell the ignorant darky he just lost a day’s pay. If he’s not back soon, put the stick to his back.”
     A horn sounded as a black town car pulled alongside the limousine, coming to a rocking stop. Jerome's eyes flew open wide when four large men dressed very similar to the other guards, exited the car with a middle-aged woman wearing a blood-stained white bathrobe. Strands of bleached blonde hair clung to her face, cemented in place by the blood that had seeped from her nose and mouth. In unison the guards let go of her arms, dropping her onto the redbrick drive.
     The captain of the guards came around the town car. “Here she is, boss.”
     Amos shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he leaned against the front of the limousine in a boastful posture and addressed his men. “The best way to get your point across to a man is by direct and clear communication.”
     The house guard came down the steps to steal a closer look. “What’d she do, boss?”
     “Not a thing,” he said, going around to the opened door of the limousine. “It’s what her husband did. She’s just the message.” He nodded back at the captain of the guards. “Deliver it.”

Author Pat Lunsford

Prelude