It had been one of those days. One of those days only found in Tennessee William’s stories and along the banks of the wide Mississippi. One of those days when the muddy water of the wandering old man ran flat like molasses, the lethargic turn of a bass, or something less interesting, the only sign that life did exist below its flat brown surface.

The August sun had been relentless, the oppressive heat stifling, and the humidity smothering.

And days like today always preceded nights like tonight in the Mississippi delta. A night not unlike the one that Robert Johnson, standing at an isolated crossroads in the Mississippi delta, handed more than just his guitar to the Devil.

Flipping his Zippo open, he ran his thumb across the flint wheel and lit his cigarette. Then he snapped it shut, placed it on the scratched Formica and gave it a spin.

He unfolded a napkin he pulled out of the matte black dispenser and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead.

Broad ceiling fans, small tufts of lint and dust clinging to the patina of grease that covered their wooden paddles, looped lethargically.

John O’Bannon glanced at the old Seth school clock above the front entrance and wondered if Miss Lee would be a no-show.

Snippets of chatter drifted up from the four old men sitting at the back of the Cat Bucket, a Vicksburg eatery frequented by the locals that specialized in fresh-caught catfish, and he watched idly while an apron-wrapped busboy cleared tables.

The Cat Bucket sat on a small knoll overlooking the Mississippi and had been around since the War. No need to ask which war; there was only one when it came to the South.

He’d taken Warrenton road, the main blacktop that followed the river south of Vicksburg, right on an old gravel road by the cider stand, west to the “old hangin’ tree,” where he’d parked his pickup in a dusty gravel lot that filled the expanse between the restaurant and the Mississippi’s muddy bank.

“Hell no, son,” the wrinkled old gas station attendant had explained, “That’s the tree where we hanged all them there Yanks in the War.” Deciding that might not explain it completely, he spit on the broken concrete apron for emphasis and added, “That there’s sacred ground.”

Left to himself in the ratty booth, his thoughts swimming in the heavy night air surrounding the aged clapboard building, he took a drag of his smoke and watched June bugs and other night critters bounce off the ratty screen door of the dilapidated old restaurant.

Two smokes later, just before eleven, Flora came around with a scorched Silex pot and said, “Last call, sweetie; we’re gonna close in a few more minutes.”

They called it ‘Mississippi Mud’ on the menu. An acquired taste, he thought. And after a month in Vicksburg hanging with the locals and watching the kudzu grow, the thick brew was starting to annoy the hell out of him. He still shoved his china mug toward the edge of the table and smiled as Flora tipped her pot.

“And here’s your check, hon,” she said, sliding a pink counter check with ‘Thank You’ on the back through the sugar that he’d spilled earlier.

A few gritty sips later, a last look around the mostly empty restaurant, and he started to push out of the booth when the rusty spring on the rickety screen door announced a new arrival. Settling back in his booth, he waited to see who it was.

He’d never met her so he really couldn’t say, but he watched, mesmerized, as a true Southern belle walked through the door.

Her honey-blonde hair was shoulder length with a broad white band holding it off her ears and brought the 60s to mind. The straight-cut bangs that hid her eyebrows, along with her small chest, gave her a girlish look. He guessed she was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.

“How ya’all doin’ there, Flora May?”

Flora May looked up from swatting a fly and said in a smartass sort of way, “We’re doin’ just fine, Jeri Lynn.”

Her dress was a sleeveless A-line in red linen with a turned down collar and a handful of quarter-size white buttons from just between her small breasts to six inches above her knee-length hem.

The gab club at the back of the restaurant stopped mid-gab and he wondered if they were staring as openly as he was.

You couldn’t call it showing up late. Jeri Lynn Lee, at least he guessed this beautiful creature was Miss Lee, completed her grand entrance by walking along the counter, white handbag clutched under one arm, her free hand running along the edge of the chipped Formica counter, and stopped just short of mid-way.

Spinning on a white three-inch heel, she leaned against the counter, cocked her hip, and struck a pose between two gaudy red-vinyl covered counter stools, looking directly at him just long enough to make him feel noticed.

He was surprised when she pushed off the counter and headed back toward the rusty screen door, a languid sway to her hips, saying in a Southern sing-song, “Well, I guess I better get on home now, Flora May.”

Picking up her Silex, Flora May dumped the last of her Mississippi Mud down the sink and replied, “You tell Mr. Lee we all said hey there, Jeri Lynn.”

He watched her red summer dress disappear as she exited with an annoying screech and wooden slap of the old screen door. He grabbed his check and his recently acquired seersucker jacket, required attire for the Southern gentleman, and stepped to the counter to throw a couple of bills down beside his check. He didn’t bother with the change as he headed out the door and thumped across the old tongue-in-groove porch trying to find the woman.

“Damn,” he muttered, and knocked a balled fist against one of the rough-cut porch posts.

He stepped into the dusty gravel parking lot and headed for his old pickup truck, a faded 1947 Studebaker one-ton with a cracked windshield he’d found in the equipment shed on the farm he now called home. He wondered what the hell had just happened.

Just as he stepped on the sideboard of his old truck and pulled down on the door handle, he saw the red glow of a cigarette coming from the passenger side of the cab. The door groaned in protest, the end dropping half an inch as he pulled it open, and there she was.

He couldn’t see her, but he could certainly smell her. Sweet smells; spring and jasmine. The musty old pickup cab never smelled better.

Offering a hand, he said, “Miss Lee, I presume.”

Her cigarette butt glowed red as she took a drag from it, and she said, “Just get in and get going before Flora throws the Vicksburg four out.”

Looking back at the white clapboard building, he saw the busboy sweeping the porch and noticed the red neon “Open” sign had been turned off.

The old truck threw gravel as he made his getaway.

* * * *

At the blacktop, she pointed right and he headed south. His second attempt at conversation had gone unanswered, so he worked the old truck through the gears and found a speed it seemed comfortable with, then waited.

Just past an ornate white-brick entrance on the right she said, “Take the next road to the right. It’s right up there.” She pointed, the glow of her burning cigarette a beacon that bobbed between her extended fingers.

He slowed down and found an old gravel lane with twin “No Trespassing” signs nailed haphazardly to two fence posts on each side, and turned off.

After half a mile of potholes, ruts, and branches scraping the faded green paint of his old truck, she pointed at a small pull off and said, “Park it there.”

She was out of the truck before he could shut the engine off and he watched as her red dress receded in the pale yellow glow of his headlights.

Finding the path she’d taken, he followed. On the phone, she’d only confirmed that he was, in fact, John O’Bannon, and asked if it was true he did investigative work for hire. When he confirmed, she said, “Meet me at the Cat Bucket tonight at ten-thirty,” and hung up.

And here he was. Instincts told him something wasn’t quite right. Reaching under the back of his rumpled seersucker jacket, he pulled out a small black .38 and held it loosely at his side as he made his way along the path in search of Miss Lee.

The air smelled earthy and damp, and the stifling heat retreated as he followed the path down a mossy stone ledge that went off to the left. Water running, or falling, somewhere off to his right, blanketed the other Mississippi night sounds.

When the path ended at a pebbled creek bed, he looked back and could barely make out a drop off of about fifty feet where the path had started down the stone ledge.

He could see a shimmer of white further up the creek and investigated. Set neatly on a large flat rock were a pair of white high heels and a matching white purse, a white hair band stuffed in one of the shoes. Looking further up the small creek bed, he saw a flash of color. He found Miss Lee’s red dress neatly folded on a second flat boulder and picked up something wispy, discovering a silk stocking. The smooth material was still warm as it slid between his fingers. He left it with the dress and made his way further up the rocky creek bed, calling out, “Miss Lee?”

“Over here, Mr. O’Bannon.”

In the moonlight, he could barely make out a dark line of water falling down a moss-covered wall of rock from about the same height as the start of the path he’d come down. Following the flow, he could see the rock receded, leaving the water in free-fall for about twenty feet before ending with a frothy white splash in a natural rock bowl about twenty-five-feet across at the base of the huge wall.

Miss Lee’s honey blonde hair floated above the dark black pool like a ghostly apparition. He stepped to the edge and said, “Well, Miss Lee, I think it’s time you explained what’s going on.”

She kicked around in the dark pool, ignoring him completely.

“I mean, you didn’t find me just for a midnight swim.”

A languid turn, and she floated by on her back and continued to ignore him.

Finally turning in disgust, he stumbled on a few rounded creek stones and headed back the way he’d come.

“You need to start a fire. There’s wood over there.” He heard her splash some more before adding, “It gets really cold when you get out of the water.”

Her Southern drawl flowed like honey.

Turning back around, he saw she’d moved to the far side of the pool and was climbing up on a heavy flat bolder at the edge of the waterfall.

Her skin was pale in the moonlight, her breasts small in contrast to her wide hips and long legs. Less hips and she’d look like a tomboy, he thought. As it was, she looked ravishing as she ducked her head under the waterfall, hands covering her eyes, and disappeared through the curtain of water.

“What the fuck,” he muttered.

He knew he was going to regret it, but who was he to deny a beautiful naked Southern belle?

He found the edge of the pool and walked around until he came to a black spot on the flat stone. Running the toe of his shoe through something white, he discovered a pile of ash from previous fires. He found a stack of broken branches and sand-smoothed driftwood as he glanced around the fire pit.

It took almost ten minutes, but the fire finally took hold and he looked across the pool for Miss Lee. Not finding her, he took advantage of the firelight to make his way to the edge of the curtain of water.

“No way in without getting your clothes wet, Mr. O’Bannon.”

Her voice sounded far away behind the falling water, but there was no mistaking her teasing tone. He didn’t like being baited, and given his northern heritage, especially by a Southern belle. He found a big round stone and sat to sulk, then lit a cigarette and smoked, waiting to see what would happen next.

The fire popped and fizzed, the flames grew, and the firelight reflected brightly in the small pool of water minutes later when her lithe body shot through the curtain of water, head first, arms up in a diver’s pose, landing in the middle of the pool.

Her naked form slid below the surface, her head came up and she giggled. She cleared her face with both hands and then chided, “Don’t tell me the big sophisticated city slicker is shy.”

That was it. He’d had enough. He pushed off his perch, then remembered setting his handgun down while making the fire and walked over to find it.

He recovered it and turned, the pistol waving casually, and said, “Look, lady, I don’t know what your game is, but I’ve had enough. I’m leaving. If you need a ride back to civilization, get your damn clothes on and I’ll take you.”

He slid his .38 into the holster in the small of his back and stood at the edge of the dark pool of water, feet spread and planted, hands on his hips, and waited.

It played out on her face like a short movie. She’d found his limit and was trying to decide how to pull him back. Kicking to the edge of the pool at his feet, she looked up, a comely pout on her lips.

“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Bannon,” she said, her sudden submissive nature a sharp contrast to the tease she’d been just seconds before.

He was still fed up and practically yelled, “What the hell do you want, lady?”

His eye was drawn to the splash of water that ran down her alabaster skin when Miss Lee pushed up and stood at the edge of the pool a few feet away.

He’d seen she was beautiful in the restaurant and from a distance in the dark, but now he could see just how beautiful. Her feet spread slightly, knees knocked together, one hand covering the apex of her thighs, her other arm draped loosely across her breasts, a small pink nipple exposed above her forearm, her head tilted down feigning a scolded child, she looked like Venus rising in search of her Mars.

False modesty, he thought, and waited to see what would happen next.

Her head came up slowly, her expression one of flirtatious lust mixed with something that might have been interpreted as fear, and she whispered, “Do you like to fuck, Mr. O’Bannon?”

That was it. He was so pissed he wanted to slug her. Instead, he yelled, “Are you nuts, Miss Lee? What the hell is going...?”

Her hands were on his shirt, sliding around his body beneath his seersucker jacket; her wet lips found his, her naked hips pressed firmly, her groin grinding.

His hands came up immediately and he tried to push her away. At first, it was an earnest effort. As the kiss, the struggle, and the seconds passed, and they danced on the edge of the small pool of water, John O’Bannon slowly relented, his soul served up to the devil in the form of Miss Lee’s naked body.

When she finally broke the kiss, leaned away pressing her groin harder into his, her pale blue eyes fixed in a questioning stare, all apprehension evaporated and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulled her close, and they kissed a second time. Her tongue teased, inviting his to play, as her hands spread on his back and held her supple body to him.

One of her feet came up, wrapped around his calf and trapped him. His hands slid across the damp skin of her shoulders, down her body, across the smooth skin of her ass, and she moaned into his mouth.

She smelled like flowers after a summer rain and his lips left her mouth to find the side of her neck. Her back arched, and she leaned away as he kissed down to a breast and sucked hard.

Then he felt the tug. As an ex-Chicago PD detective, his reaction was instinctive when he pulled his arms away, shoved her thigh hard with his knee, and both hands went behind his back where he captured her hands and pulled them between them, his .38 in her right hand pointed directly at his stomach.

In one swift practiced move, he grabbed the barrel, twisted it away from their bodies, felt her grip loosen, and he stepped away pointing the gun down at her as she fell to her knees in front of him.

“No! No! No!” she pleaded. With that, she held a hand up, palm flat, and lowered her head.

His mind raced as he looked across the gun sights at her submissive posture. Her skin glistened in the fire and he almost missed what she whispered.

“He hurts me,” and she inched closer on her knees.

Gun still pointed, he said, “What the hell are you talking about? Who hurts you?”

She inched forward again until her forehead bumped against the barrel of the gun and she slumped into it, forcing him to hold her up with the hard steel weapon.

“Him,” she whispered. “He does.”

Her upraised hand came in and her flattened palm came to rest on the crotch of his seersucker slacks.

He jerked at the intimate touch, the gun came up waving wildly, and he demanded, “What the fuck are you talking about, lady?”

Her fingers found the tab of his zipper and pulled down slowly, each parting tooth heralded with a small tug. Looking up, her eyes locked on his, questioning, while she slid her fingers inside the fly of his slacks and groped for his cock.

“My husband. Mr. Lee. He doesn’t...” she searched for words and finally said in a rush, “He beats me!”

His mind bounced from the hand fishing in his pants to her words, then back to the fingers that were wrapping around his stiffening cock. He wanted to push her away. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. Something told him to climb into his old pickup and rattle down the road to safety.

He did none of that. Instead, he watched as his hard cock appeared and her red lips fell on the bulbous head where she kissed, licked, then sucked, her expression one of fear, uncertainty and submission.

His mother had told him about the devil. His father had even tried to beat the devil out of him a few times. It didn’t matter. The lessons were forgotten as he rolled his hips into her movements, his hand, still holding his .38, came up and rested on her head, urging her on.

She moaned as she made love to his cock. Slurps and sucking sounds played second fiddle to the rhapsody of lust she created.

He struggled with his conscience and formed a mental string of questions that would never be asked. Instead, he wallowed in selfish lust and boyish wonder while this Southern beauty kneeled on the hard rock and pleasured him.

Just as quickly as she’d started, cold air fell on his saliva-covered cock and her head disappeared from beneath his hand. With half-lidded eyes, he watched as she sat, then rolled back on the edge of the hard rock basin, brought her knees up, and opened herself to him.

“Take me!” Her voice was husky, filled with lust.

Realizing he still had his gun in hand and it was offhandedly pointed at her, he jerked it up and away and gave it one last try.

He struggled to make it sound convincing as his hard cock bounced in the open fly of his seersucker slacks. “Listen, Miss Lee, I think we need to talk a little first. Hell, get to know each other. You might even like me after that.”

Her knees snapped shut with an audible slapping sound and she yelled in an angry voice, “You’re just like him!”

His hand dropped and the gun pointed dangerously when he jumped away from her kicking foot.

Resolve and lust overcame good judgment and he slipped his shoes off, unbuttoned his slacks and let them drop.

He cursed when he heard the thud of his holster hitting the ground, but stepped out of his slacks anyway and started shrugging off his jacket in a frantic rush.

Miss Lee watched and sucked her lower lip, trapped it between her white, even teeth, and let it pop back out, red and swollen.

Struggling with his jacket, he finally had to reach into the sleeve and retrieve his gun with his left hand. His seersucker jacket fell in a puddle of rumpled cloth between them.

“Fuck me, you bastard!” she nearly screamed and her knees opened again, wider. “Go ahead, take me! It’s what you want!”

It was what he wanted. Not what he’d intended while waiting for her at the Cat Bucket. But she seemed so aggressive, so angry. Something inside said this wasn’t right. The thought was lost when he saw her pleading blue eyes.

Giving up on the buttons of his shirt, he tore at the opening and they flew, bouncing on the stone and into the water.

His cock bounced as he fell to his knees between hers, the cold hard rock digging into his skin, the pain forgotten as his body fell over hers, his free hand guiding his cock to her wet swollen gash, his other hand still holding the gun above her head while he teetered on an elbow.

Her hips rocked into him and she grunted when he pushed.

His chest fell on her breasts, trapping them, and he thrust hard again. “Yes,” he grunted.

Her hands moved up his arms as he fucked her. He knew there was no other word for what this woman had driven him to. Fucking. They were rutting like animals, and he wanted to fuck her harder every time she whimpered and rolled her hips into him.

“Make it last,” came out between gritted teeth as the fingers of her left hand snaked up his arm and clenched his wrist, pulling, stretching his arm above their heads.

He was lost. His only thought was the soft wet feeling of her body under his as he pulled back and slammed in once again.

“Fuck me, you asshole! That’s it! Take me! That’s what all you men want!” Her voice was an angry yell again.

Her right hand wrapped around his left and she moaned when she found he was still clutching his gun.

So wet, he thought, so tight. A goddess.

Her legs stiffened and her body started to quake, and she yelled, “You fucking asshole!”

He didn’t know what it meant and didn’t care. He was lost in her body as she quaked in orgasm beneath him, her palms pushing on his chest, her head jerking from side to side.

He jumped and jerked as he pulled out and slammed in one last time before filling her with more than just his hard cock.

He could hear her panting, her body trembling beneath him, his cock pulsing each time she tightened around him.

He couldn’t believe what they’d just done. His body still tingled as her hard nipples pushed into his chest.

“That was nice, lover,” came the breathy whisper in his ear.

He couldn’t help but smile, not just from the sheer pleasure he felt, but from a little macho self-indulgence at having pleased such a hellcat.

Lifting his head to kiss her, he jerked away dumbfounded when she slapped him hard, leaving a burning sting on his left cheek, her other hand pushing hard on his chest, her nails leaving small red scratches above his right nipple.

All thoughts of a kiss gone, he rolled off her limp body, his wet cock cold in the night air, scrambled to his feet, gun still in hand, and stood over her.

He glared down at her and actually considered shooting when her lips pulled back in a snarl and she yelled, “You happy now, Mr. John O’Bannon? Did you get what you wanted?”

For a tense minute, they both held their ground. Miss Lee with her legs akimbo, a look of defiance on her face, her chest heaving, small hard nipples jumping with each soft sob that wracked her chest.

John towered over her, feet spread, his spent cock glistening in the firelight, gun in hand, loose at his side.

Finally, he turned on his heel and said, “You’re a fucking nut case, Miss Lee.”

His back to her, he found his slacks and picked up his holster. Dusting it off, he finally holstered his gun. Setting the holstered weapon on the ground, he shook his pants out and looked around for his boxers. In disgust, he decided to leave them. Pulling on his slacks, he stepped into his shoes.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered to his back.

He couldn’t believe it. Deciding this was just too weird, he picked up his torn shirt and poked the sleeves out with balled fists as he jerked it on.

“Really, Mr. O’Bannon, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

He heard another soft sob followed by a sniffle, and turned around.

“What the hell just happened, Miss Lee?” he demanded, his chest heaving as he looked down on her naked form, their eyes locked.

Finally, she broke the stare, lowering her eyes. Her story came out in sobs.

“He would hit me...” her hand came up to hide her mouth, a defensive pose John knew all too well.

“He’s old. Sometimes he couldn’t...you know, and he would just hit me.”

His stance started to soften as he watched her naked body quiver at his feet.

“Then he wanted...” she stopped and rolled to one side, her hand hiding her face completely. Somehow, she managed to continue, “He wanted other things.”

Her voice cracked and her sobs continued. He noticed small red scratches on her back and cringed realizing he’d been pounding her into a bare rock slab.

Stooping beside her, he reached for her face, his intention to comfort. Instead, her hand shoved him away and she blurted out, “He made me do it with other men while he watched, Mr. O’Bannon!”

John knew better than to interfere. He didn’t know how long she’d had this bottled up inside, but his training told him she’d feel better if she got it out.

Stepping away, he found a boulder, sat down, and waited.

Finally, her sobbing subsided and she continued from behind the shelter of her shaking fingers.

“That was two years after we got married. He was seventy-two then. When he was still a man.” She pulled her hand away and searched his face to see if he understood. Then she continued, “He was a good lover. A gentle lover...for a while.”

Her voice became harsh and she finished, “But then he couldn’t and he became mean!”

John listened while the fire died and she told her tale.

“Finally, other men weren’t enough,” she shifted and sat up, clutching her knees to her bare chest.

After a moment of silence, John finally asked, “What happened then?”

Her voice became dead, expressionless. “He brought women to the house. I didn’t want to, so he hit me some more. Finally I did what he wanted and he still hit me.”

Pulling his rumpled jacket from the ground, he draped it around her shoulders as he sat down beside her and she went on.

“He would get mad if I didn’t pretend to enjoy it. It was just another reason to beat me. And he’d make movies.”

John gently pulled her to him.

Finally, she whispered, “I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s been so long since I got to decide, I guess I wanted to say it all to him.” Her body shook and she finished, “I’m just afraid.”

He hugged her gently into the crook of his arm and felt her snuggle as they both stared at the dying embers of the fire.

Finally, she pushed away and he understood. Standing beside her, he offered a hand and helped her up.

While he pulled his clothing together the best he could, he scanned the ground one last time for his boxers while she stood beside him shivering. Her naked body was wrapped in his jacket, and she stood watching, a blank expression on her face.

He gave up, stuffed his holstered gun back into the small of his back, and they made their way down the creek bed to her clothes. After retrieving them, she rolled them up and stuffed them under her arm.

When they got to her purse and shoes, she just waited. He picked them up, carrying them in one hand while he helped her up the path along the rock wall.

Back at the truck, she threw her stockings in the floorboard along with a black garter belt he hadn’t noticed, handed him his jacket, and reached up in a languid stretch, a Cheshire cat smile painting her lips before slipping her dress over her shoulders. He set her shoes on the dirt and watched as she stepped into each while she worked to button her dress over her naked body.

When he slid in and started the engine, she scooted over and snuggled into him, her body still warm and yielding.

After navigating the lane back to the blacktop, he waited and she finally pointed to the left. They’d only gone a short distance when she signaled he should stop.

He pulled off the road and rolled to a stop, turned off the headlights, and shut off the engine.

She clutched his arm and raised her head.

The kiss was passionate and stirred more than just his heart.

“I do want you to do something for me,” she whispered to his chest, her voice soft and enticing.

Then it came rushing back. The unspoken purpose of their bizarre meeting. He waited for her to continue.

“I want you to kill him.”

His body stiffened and her reaction was immediate when she retreated to the passenger door where she tried to read his expression in the dark cab.

His hands clenched the old steering wheel and his chest tightened as a voice in his mind yelled, “Get the hell out of here!”

Finally he turned toward her and said, “Listen, Mrs. Lee, you and I can both go to jail for even having this discussion!”

As soon as it was out of his mouth, she grabbed her purse from the floorboard of the pick-up, opened the door and jumped out.

He reached for her, but was too late and he watched as she walked around the front of the pick-up, anger clouding her face. She started across the road.

His door moaned in protest as it swung open. Running to her side, he grabbed her upper arm and jerked her around. “You don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

When she pulled away and kept walking, he felt his fingernails dig into her arm as she snatched it away. Running to catch up again, he pleaded, “Look, we can do something else. I’m an investigator. I can find something. You can divorce him.”

Her jaw set, teeth ground, and she looked down at his hand where he’d grabbed her arm. Letting go, he watched as she continued across the road and realized where they were.

She was a sad, helpless sight in her rumpled dress as she disappeared through the ornate white brick arch, her hair wet and matted, her purse hanging from the strap. He was torn between running to her side and promising to do anything she wanted, and getting in his old truck and driving as far as it would carry him.

When she disappeared over a small knoll beyond the entrance, he got back in his pickup and slowly drove home. He was sure he had a full bottle of rye somewhere in the kitchen.