The
Prisoner
J. David Bethel
Copyright © 2012 by J. David Bethel
Smashwords
Edition
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The boy sat at the base of the south wall, his knees pulled up in front of him. He remained very still, a small figure in a sliver of shade created by the roof overhang on the square, two-story, red brick town hall.
Beads of sweat slid between the boy’s shoulder blades and soaked his shirt where his back met the wall. He leaned forward, repositioned the gun from the belt line at the small of his back to a more comfortable spot at his side, then rested his chin on his knees and stared down the shimmering ribbon of highway that ran through Owen.
Rachel Beasley and Wanda Richardson were seated on a wooden bench under a large elm tree shading a small patch of green in the dried, yellow lawn bordering the town hall. The lawn, which had been fried by 30 consecutive days of temperatures that hovered near 100 degrees, was split by a sidewalk leading from the curb to the front steps of the building. The women fanned themselves languidly with their broad-brimmed straw hats.
Daniel Watts, Warren Nader and Buddy Williams huddled together in the shadows of an iron monument dedicated to four soldiers from Owen who were killed during World War II. Watts, Nader and Williams moved only to dab their glistening foreheads with white handkerchiefs.