Prologue
“Hey! Let that guy come in here nurse.....I talked to the Doc about it! Come ahead on in son, she’s just tryin’ to do her job, get a chair for the guy, Emmy. Naw, put it over here closer..I don’t want to turn my head thataway to talk to him. Did ya come a long way, son? .From Naptown, huh? Play yer cards right and you’ll get a big promotion outta this story...my name’s Charlie, Charlie Oates, and I bleve in getting’ right down to bidness, don’t you? Only it ain’t a story..it’s real as rain. Don’t pay no mind to that nurse..she just wants another gallon of my blood..Didn’t catch yer name?
Naw,I don’t want no more jello, hon. I caint talk too long cause I’m sposed to be recoupiation Had about a bushel of glass dug outta my my head and face...see how they wrapped me up like a mummy? That’s why I got this ivy in my arm, they’s watchin’ my ticker too...it aint too good. Anyway, turn on that recorder, the wife’ll read this story to ya, wrote it all down herself..didn’t ya, hon? She can use all them twenty dollar words..Well son , here we go....this is sure how it happened..all of us is sure lucky to be here. You aint gonna bleve it but you better cause it’s real as rain, buddy. I know nurse, I’m talkin’ too much...no I don’t want nothin’ but that tea on the tray. hon, get this guy some too if ya can...then sit down and read yer story to that recorder. They won’t let me talk much. You got good battries in that thing, son?”
Chapter One
Don Branch stepped out of the sheriff’s office into the brilliant June sunshine. It was certain Old Sol had been good to Indiana this summer. Plenty of light showers in the evening for the farmers crops; plenty of sunny shirt-sleeve weather every day. The small town sheriff stopped on the sidewalk to take his regulation sunglasses out of his shirt pocket. He ran his hand through his dark blonde hair with the graying side burns, and put the shades on. He would soon live to regret blocking out a minute of that vibrant sun warming his back, for he and his little town were about to enter a black cloud corrupting Quincy’s century of innocence. It would change the course of its history.
Sheriff Branch was a lifelong part of that history, just like his father, and grandfather before him. The people of Quincy? They were as much a part of his existence as the sheriff’s office, the old hospital with the new wing, and his mortgage at BancQuincy. They were an investment he paid into day by day, year after year. Branch walked the block to Quincy’s only drugstore. It was good to stretch his legs in that glorious sun. Some of the older folks said his stride was identical to his Grandfather Branch, now long dead. And no wonder. They had been inseparable in life. He’d followed his six- foot gramps everywhere; townsfolk called him Shadow because of it. He still had the old nickname to many of them. Branch had good memories of following the old man into the ancient-style general store where old men sat around the pot- belly stove and the cracker barrel next to it; where they all chewed their Red Man tobacco and gossiped. Granddaddy Branch was to be a lasting influence, shaping Branch’s character.... influencing his opinions about the importance of family, neighbors, and country.
Granddaddy Branch was second generation American. His father had been one of two brothers who journeyed to America and squatted on Missouri land working long, and hard, for little progress. The brothers had a falling out over some unknown reason and Seth Branch came to settle on the rich Indiana soil. It not far from where Donald Seth Branch now stood smoking a Pall Mall from the pack he just got at the drugstore; forbidden cigarettes he was trying to quit. He had it down to none at night around his wife, Darlene; but he still sneaked a few during the day.
He crossed the street to the courthouse with its wrought iron bench on the corner. The bench was as old as he was, donated by his grandfather the day Don was born. He sat down and noticed the chipped paint on it. Must have had a dozen coats of paint in these years, seen some bad Indiana winters too. The sheriff realized it needed to be stripped and then painted with one of the modern paint products available. But it had endurance, just like this town. He made a mental note to redo the bench himself some Sunday soon.
He sat there killing time and flicking off chips of paint. They fell away like each generation of people who had sat on it. A glance at his grandfathers watch told him he could no longer put off today’s chore. He got up and headed to his jeep Cherokee in the office parking lot, thinking of his dad’s favorite phrase, ‘time waits for no man except at his own funeral’. He lit another Pall Mall. Time was wasting, and waiting, right now . He had a funeral to attend.
