The Rivers Webb Read Free

tongue of John’s passenger. The remainder of their journey, though short, was a quiet one. In fact, other than brief—even terse—directions to the Rivers Estate, Wilhelmina said nothing.
    Turning down the dirt road into the house was a revelation to John. He knew the Rivers had money…old money, the only kind in Georgia that ever really mattered. What he didn’t realize was how obvious they made it. The mansion stood out glaringly against the simple, even ramshackle, homes that made up its neighbors. The oddly shaped and overly pristine garden that sloped along the drive signaled out to all who could see and smell: Here lies the result of privilege and breeding, bereft of hard work.
    â€œYou know that the funeral is tomorrow at nine, sharp. If you’d like, I can arrange for our driver to swing by and pick you up so you can ride with the rest of the family.”
    Almost out of habit, John started to politely decline. But then, something about the way she asked the question caught him. It was neither pleading, nor drenched in the airy dross of insincerity. In fact, it was so lacking in any guile or deceit that he almost didn’t recognize it for what it was: a genuine offer of kindness.
    â€œThat would be nice, actually. I’d appreciate it,” he finally replied.
    Wilhelmina smiled her most beneficent smile, and then scooped up her dress, shut the car door behind her, and marched to the massive front doors of the house. Still a little surprised, John turned the car around in the ample driveway, and headed into town.
    Wilhelmina wasn’t exaggerating about how close it was, either. Within five minutes he was parking in front of the sheriff’s office on Main Street of Sales City. The problem was, there was no one there. Walking up to the door, he peered through the glass to see the unlit interior. It was tidy, efficient, and adequate…the classic image of a small town sheriff’s office. It was also completely empty.
    As he wondered what his next move would be, John felt a strange tingling at the base of his neck. He recognized it. It was that feeling he always got when somebody was watching him.
    Actually, he realized that quite a few people were watching him. And no wonder, considering that some strange man was standing in the center of town eyeballing the sheriff’s office while he was away.
    Needless to say, he was drawing attention. The few passersby on the street openly stared at the newcomer, while darting eyes peeked through shuttered windows in the two other buildings on the street. It reminded John of a western, in a weird kind of way. Those pre-gunfight scenes, where the lone sheriff walked down the middle of Main Street to square off against the evil man in black, while townsfolk scurried to the imagined safety of a quarter-inch thick wood slatted window. He half expected a burly cowboy dressed all in white to come sauntering up the center of the street to square off against him. Only it wasn’t high noon, and he doubted he could quickdraw his .38 from his shoulder holster.
    â€œYou the Rivers boy?” a voice called from behind him.
    â€œJohn Webb, actually. But I’m…a relation” he replied, turning to see a rough looking man of about 40, dressed in old farmhand clothes, and smelling of hard work. He had an odd look to him that made you instantly like him, and instantly suspect him—even if there was nothing to suspect. Or, maybe John was just a teensy bit on edge.
    â€œRelation, huh? Well, I don’t how old Roy feels about it, but I’d be mighty sore if a son of mine—hell, my ONLY son—referred to me as ‘a relation.’ Though I don’t suppose you feel much connected, do ya’? After all, it’s been your mother raisin’ ya’, and she certainly held no love for the Rivers.”
    John was a bit taken back by all of that, and didn’t bother to try and hide it.
    â€œI beg your