A week later, Shelley Carrel, a perky, excited, and eager young law student, arrived for the very first day at her new job at the courthouse. Shelley had been about an hour early, so she sat on a bench under the large oak tree in front of the stately building. There she tried to squelch down her excitement by sipping a large mocha latte and thinking about the day ahead. Shelley had been sitting only a few moments when she found her carefully chosen white silk blouse being splattered with thick crimson streams. At first, Shelley thought she had become the victim of droppings from a large bird who’d eaten too many red seeded fruits.
However, when she had looked up into the tree branches, she hadn’t been quite sure what she was seeing. So, Shelley had put down her latte and put on her sunglasses. Then she looked up again into the green canopy. What Shelley saw that day would change the trajectory of her life forever. After that morning, Shelley Carrel quit her internship and went back home to marry the boy next door, Tommy Jenkins. Poor Shelley would be haunted by what she saw on that bright and sunny May morning for the rest of her life. As a result of the trauma, she would suffer from debilitating headaches, and develop a serious and profound anxiety disorder. Because seeing a man freshly skinned alive and hanging from a tree is no small thing; that morning would have similar and lasting effects on several other people who had had the misfortune of passing by the old oak tree that morning.
Clayton Russell’s body hanging high had truly been a gruesome sight. What was left of his neck had been bent at a bizarre angle; his limbs had swayed in the breeze as if his bones were held together by rubber bands. His eyeballs had become bulging, bright white orbs; Clayton’s jaw had been locked wide open, and his mouth had been set in a silent scream. His wrists had been bound behind his back, and they had been tied tight with electrical wire. Clayton’s genitals had been severed with a jagged cut and stuffed into his anus. Enticed by the cloying smell of fresh carcass meat, insects had buzzed and landed, while their tiny feet became stuck in the gore and sealed their fate. Ravens, crows, and other large carrion birds had hovered around the strung up flesh. The bolder ones had pecked and cawed as they began their jubilant feast.
A handwritten sign had been nailed to Russell’s skull. It simply read: Justice Served.
The place had become a circus in no time at all; fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, reporters, and helicopters all jockeyed for a place at the scene. In the meantime, Billy Bob (Beast) McKenna (with Prosper Worthington by his side) had put in a call to Special Agent Kennedy and turned himself into the bureau. Once in custody, Beast had waived all rights to counsel. When questioned, he heartily declared that his only regret in killing Clayton Russell was that he could not slaughter the bastard again.
It had been many years since the killing of Clayton Russell. Prosper Worthington had passed away and Beast’s time was up. Now on behalf of his grandfather, his club and himself, P.J. McCabe was here to say goodbye.
With every step he took, P.J. had the feeling of being wrapped tighter and tighter in heavy, wet strips of cloth bandages. His body stiffened as his chest constricted and his breath became labored. The rational part of P.J. knew that it was just bad air circulation, but the feeling of being suffocated was strong. He reached up to the collar of his shirt and pulled at it.
“All these years and I’ve never gotten used to the compressed air down here. Just relax, the feeling will go away after a few minutes,” Warden Cartwright said. The warden was a short, stout man with round glasses and a widow’s peak hair line. He had a bum leg, wore a black suit, a white shirt and walked with a bit of a waddle. He had a reputation of being a fair and just man…even if he did look like a penguin.
The warden and P.J. passed by a series of empty, dark, dank cells before they arrived at the one holding Beast. When P.J. first saw Beast, he was sitting on the edge of a rigid, steel bed frame with his head in his hands. Lost in thought, Beast didn’t look up right away. He had always been a brute of a man. Strong, tall, with a large barrel chest, and iron thighs. And although he was well into his seventies now, there was nothing about Beast that was frail. Years in prison hadn’t changed all that fierce strength. All that time with nothing to do but pump iron in a human kennel cage had kept him strong and fit. Over the years, Beast had managed to add some impressive jailhouse tats to his body, and now he was covered in India ink pretty much from top to bottom. P.J. noted with surprise that Beast’s long, gray mane of hair had been chopped off and shaved right down to the bone.
Before P.J. could fully comprehend what that meant, Beast turned to him. Beast’s deep, brown eyes flashed with a quick. unspoken sorrow, before they lit with recognition. P.J. stepped into the cell and pulled him into a hard man hug. “Good to see you, brother.”
“Appreciate you making the trip.” Beast embraced P.J. When he released him, a long look filled with heart felt memories passed between the two men. Beast was first to break the silence.
“Hey, how’d you like the new do?” Beast rubbed his hand over his shaved head.
“Gonna be a big hit with the ladies.” P.J. joked.
Beast guffawed. “Yep,
