Red River Bridge
On a warm summer night in late August, with the start of a new school year just days away, a silver Toyota Camry containing two teenage boys and two girls was parked beside the steep bank of the Pohannock River. Since there were no houses, businesses or streetlights in the immediate vicinity, the area—although picturesque during the day—was eerily dark at night. It was the river bank's remoteness coupled with a lack of illumination that made the place a popular locale with young people who used it as a lover's lane.
When the couple in the rear of the car began to kiss, Clarisse Mulroney, the girl in the Toyota's front passenger seat, got out of the vehicle and walked down to the edge of the river. She had only recently moved to the town and met her date, Artie Combs, and she was not the type of girl to make out with a boy she hardly knew. Even if she was, she did not find her overly timid date particularly attractive.
"It's so hot out tonight; why don't we go for a swim?" she asked Artie when he joined her by the side of the river.
"Here?" the young man asked nervously, turning his head toward the concrete bridge that spanned the river. "I don't think so. Not here."
"Why? What's wrong with this place?"
"It's that bridge," he answered, nodding toward the imposing structure. "People around here claim the Red River Bridge is cursed."
"The Red River Bridge? I thought this was the Pohannock Bridge?"
"Yeah, it is. Red River Bridge is just a nickname," the teenager explained. "See that concrete support in the center of the bridge? It's difficult to see at night, but it's stained red. Although it's been like that for decades, no one has ever been able to explain why. Most people think it has something to do with the deaths that occurred on or near the bridge over the years."
Clarisse sat on the grass and pulled Artie down next to her.
"Come sit and tell me all about it. I love to hear scary stuff like this!"
Artie realized this might be his golden opportunity to impress the pretty new girl at school. He must not blow it!
"The first accident happened when I was just a baby. A local man named Clyde McKeever went fishing in the river one afternoon and never came home. His rowboat was found about fifteen miles upriver, but the body must have been swept away in the current. Searchers found it resting against the bridge support.
"A few years later Elroy Faber ...."
"Faber as in the Faber Mills, Faber Park and Faber Field?"
Artie nodded.
"The Faber family has been in this town since the early 1700s. They've got tons of money because they once owned nearly everything around here. Anyway, Elroy Faber was driving his car one night and had an accident on the bridge. He was found dead the following morning, still behind the wheel."
"Was anyone else involved?"
"No. He was alone in his brand-new Corvette, and there were no other vehicles at the scene. Apparently, he was speeding, lost control of his car, drove off the road and crashed into the side of the bridge. As for the latest death, just last year, Hollis Beatty, whose family lives in the huge house over on Salem Street, hanged himself from the railing of the bridge."
"Three deaths and a bridge that turned red," Clarisse said with an impressionable teenager's sense of awe. "That's weird! Sounds like something out of an old horror movie."
* * *
Three months after that blind date with Artie Combs, Clarisse Mulroney sat at a table in the town library, surrounded by stacks of textbooks, busily writing in her well-worn loose-leaf binder. With no television or stereo to interrupt her, she had managed to finish her trigonometry homework and complete the first draft of her history paper on President John F. Kennedy. The only major assignment left before the end of the marking period in November was a creative writing project for her language arts class. Normally, she had no difficulty writing. This time was different, however. It was not a question of knowing the mechanics, as she had a better-than-average knowledge of grammar, style and composition. Her problem was that she could not come up with an interesting subject to write about.
What's wrong with me today? With billions and billions of topics to choose from, she thought, resorting to hyperbole, I can't think of a single one that interests me!
Clarisse slouched down in her seat, blew her bangs out of her eyes and bit the end of her number two pencil. Her gaze wandered about the room and settled on the brass and Lucite plaques hanging on the wall, which were displayed in gratitude for substantial monetary gifts to the library's book fund. Among those thanking the Friends of the Library, the Women's Reading Circle and the high school Parent-Teacher Association were plaques honoring individual donations. One particular name caught her eye: In loving memory of our son, Clyde. George and Mary Lou McKeever.
The name sounded vaguely familiar to her, but why? Clarisse went over to the computerized library catalog and typed in the name Clyde McKeever. A listing appeared of dozens of newspaper articles written about him over a period of several years. She jotted the dates those articles were published on a piece of notebook paper. Then she went to the room where the back issues of the Fair Haven Tribune were kept.
When she saw the article detailing the tragic passing of the son of the newspaper's owner, George McKeever, Clarisse remembered what Artie Combs had told her about the several deaths associated with the Pohannock Bridge, more commonly referred to as the Red River Bridge. She then went back a few years before the man's demise and found an article about teenaged Clyde in the local sports section. Apparently, the young man had been a town football hero in high school.
It figures! Clarisse thought cynically. The son of a rich man becomes a popular jock at school. I'll bet he dated a cheerleader, too.
She was about to put the old newspaper clipping back into its folder when another name caught her attention. Elroy Faber had been a teammate of McKeever's. Having two rich kids on the football squad was hardly strange; but what about their deaths? Was it a mere coincidence that they both died on or near that bridge?
Clarisse read through several more of the articles on her list. In doing so, she came across two more familiar names on the Fair Haven High School football team: Norton Larabie, the current mayor of Fair Haven, and Hollis Beatty, the man who had hanged himself on the so-called Red River Bridge. What were the odds that all three men, whose deaths were connected to the bridge, would be high school football teammates?
Heading toward the library's photocopy machine, Clarisse smiled. She had found an idea for her creative writing assignment.
Her muse awakened at last, she spent the next few hours reading through back issues of the Fair Haven Tribune for more information on the lives and deaths of Clyde McKeever, Elroy Faber and Hollis Beatty. After leaving the library, she visited Artie Combs's parents, who had both lived in Fair Haven all their lives. When questioned, they told her what she already suspected, that the three boys, along with Mayor Norton Larabie, had been high school sports heroes and good friends. Furthermore, the four football players had been products of the cream of Fair Haven society, small though it was.
After completing her initial research on the three deceased men, Clarisse decided to examine the history of the bridge itself. She learned that it had been built thirteen years earlier, which, just so happened to be the same year the three boys graduated from Fair Haven High School. Even more surprising was the fact that the Pohannock Bridge was built by the Larabie Construction Company, whose owner was none other than Winston Larabie, the father of Mayor Norton Larabie.
That's odd! she thought. Talk about coincidence! The bodies of Mayor Larabie's three high school football buddies were discovered on the bridge his own father built.
Clarisse sat down at her laptop computer, opened up Microsoft Word and began typing. She titled her story, "The Curse of the Bloody Bridge." Although she changed the names of the people involved, all pertinent facts basically remained the same. As she outlined the deaths in chronological order, she realized for the first time that there was another improbable coincidence. Clyde McKeever drowned in May, five years after the boys' senior year in high school—a time that coincided with the start of construction on the bridge. Elroy Faber also died in May but five years later, and Hollis Beatty committed suicide, again in May, five years after that.
* * *
After taking a week to write and edit it, Clarisse handed in her paper to her English teacher. Not only did she receive an "A" on the assignment, but the short story was also printed in the school newspaper. She became somewhat of a celebrity following its publication, but her Warholian fifteen minutes of fame was short-lived.
The writer and her fellow students soon forgot about the story, the bridge and the three dead men and turned their thoughts to other matters. The excitement of the holiday season was foremost on their minds. It would be followed by an abundance of schoolwork during the winter months and finally the senior prom and class trip in the spring.
Three days before Clarisse's graduation ceremony, an under-classmate named Maynard Cheswick went to her house to see her.
"I just read the short story you wrote back in November," he said, pulling an old issue of the school newspaper out of the loose-leaf binder he was carrying.
"Did you like it?" she asked.
"Yes. I'd like to talk to you about it."
"Why? Do you want to buy the movie rights?" she joked.
"You've written it like a horror story, but this isn't fiction."
It was a statement, not a question.
"The facts are all here," he continued, "even though you changed the names."
"Yeah. So?"
"I've known about the 'curse,' as you call it, for some time now. In fact, I've been fascinated by the Red River Bridge since I was a kid. You see, my father is a cop, like his father before him, like I hope to be someday."
"Really?"
"Yeah. My dad personally knew the men you wrote about in your story. He went to school with all of them. He wasn't good friends with them, though. His family didn't socialize with the McKeevers, the Fabers or the Beattys."
"And he wasn't on the football team, right?" Clarisse asked with a smile.
"Right. But my dad was the one who found Elroy Faber's car on the bridge. He was also the one who had to cut Hollis Beatty down after he hanged himself."
"Ew!"
"I think I know who cursed the bridge."
"You do?"
Upon hearing that, Clarisse finally invited the boy inside.
"Who was it?" she asked excitedly after the two of them sat on the living room sofa. "And why?"
"There was a girl by the name of Lottie Weller who went to school with my dad—and the others. She was a ... a ...."
Maynard stopped speaking and blushed.
"Well, she had a reputation for ...."
"I get the idea," Clarisse said, trying to spare Maynard any further embarrassment.
"She disappeared during her last year of high school, in May, right after the senior prom."
"May?" Clarisse echoed. "That's odd. The three men all died in May."
"My grandfather was one of the police officers who investigated Lottie's disappearance."
"What did he learn?"
"Not much, I'm afraid. She went to the prom and never came home. There was a lot of the usual talk about her and different boys at the school, but several credible witnesses claimed to have seen her with Norton Larabie that night."
"The mayor? No kidding!"
"He denied it, of course. He claimed that he wouldn't have had anything to do with trash like her, and his buddies backed him up."
"Let me guess. His buddies were Hollis Beatty, Clyde McKeever and Elroy Faber?"
"Right. My grandfather wanted to bring them all down to the police station and make them take lie detector tests, but the families promptly whisked their sons away and lawyered up. My grandfather had to deal with a pack of high-priced attorneys and a complete lack of evidence. Rumors soon began to circulate around town that Lottie had been pregnant and that she'd run away to either have an abortion or to go to one of those homes for unwed mothers."
"Do you think that's what she did?"
"No. She was never seen or heard from again. I think she died the night of the prom, and I think the mayor and his three friends knew something about her death."
"I'll tell you what, Maynard. If you ever find out the answer when you become a cop, be sure to let me know."
* * *
Mayor Norton Larabie checked out of his suite at New York's Plaza Hotel and took a limo to the Essex County Airport in Fairfield, New Jersey, where his private plane was waiting. Norton, like many wealthy men, spent much of his life in vain attempts to ward off boredom. He had tried several sports, alcohol, cocaine, gambling, politics and even women. Norton's latest distraction was flying. No doubt, he would soon tire of it as well, but for the time being, at least, he enjoyed sitting in the pilot's seat of his private plane and soaring through the air like a bird.
As was usual during the evening rush hour, there was a good deal of traffic on the roads leading to the airport, so Mayor Larabie reached into his briefcase and took out his newspaper. Both the world news and the financial sections contained nothing but bad news, so he turned to the sports. The Yankees were on a winning streak, and the Red Sox were in a slump.
"Big deal," Norton said, folding up his paper and tossing it on the seat.
He never cared much for baseball. To him, it was a sport for sissies. He preferred the physical contact of football.
It had been twenty years since Norton had held a pigskin in his hands, intercepted a pass or scored a touchdown. Yet, the years quickly faded and the memories returned. He, Clyde, Hollis and Elroy had really thought they were something special back then: four rich, good-looking, cocky kids. They were going to go far.
"Yeah, we went far, all right," Norton grumbled bitterly.
They all had dreams of their own but wound up following in their fathers' footsteps. Clyde had wanted to go to Notre Dame, play for the Fighting Irish and hopefully become a professional football player; instead, he went to college and studied journalism like his old man. Elroy aspired to be a writer but turned out a banker. Hollis, a classic underachiever, wanted nothing more than to be a beach bum, but he dutifully took over the reins of the family business when his father retired. Norton, himself, had no intention of going into contracting and politics, but his father had insisted.
Fair Haven's mayor opened the limo's portable bar and filled a shot glass with whiskey. He knew he should not drink before flying, but one shot wouldn't do any harm. Besides, he needed it to steady his nerves. Thoughts of his old buddies could not be restricted to the good old days at Fair Haven High. They always led to darker memories: Clyde's drowning, Elroy's car crash and Hollis's suicide. Invariably, such recollections led to Lottie.
Norton poured another drink.
Lottie Weller had been a stunningly beautiful girl, not the all-American, wholesome beautiful like the freshly scrubbed blond cheerleaders the boys usually dated. Lottie was exotic-looking with black hair, high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Rumors had it that she had Negro, Native American, Polynesian or Oriental blood somewhere in her family tree, but she denied these stories. Had Lottie been born a McKeever, a Beatty, a Faber or a Larabie, she would have gone far in life, given her beauty and her brains, but Lottie was a Weller and, as such, was on the lowest level of Fair Haven society. Her mother was an alcoholic, and no one, not even Cora Weller herself, knew who the girl's father was.
Lottie had been an ambitious young woman, though, determined to rise above her lowly birth. She studied diligently and stood a good chance of getting a scholarship. With an education, she could leave Fair Haven and go to Boston, New York or even Los Angeles—the farther the better, as far as she was concerned. She was not about to let anything or anyone prevent her from achieving her goals, not even the high school heartthrobs. Lottie repeatedly turned down propositions from Clyde, Elroy, Hollis and Norton, boys who were not used to rejection. Like many young men, they boasted of their conquests and did not hesitate to lie, when necessary. Thus, Lottie got a bad yet totally undeserved reputation as a teenage tramp.
Norton took yet another drink as he remembered the night of his senior prom. He had taken Debra Johnson, whose father was owner and CEO of Saturn Engineering. Debra was a pretty girl with blond hair and blue eyes, the kind of girl his parents wanted him to date, the kind of girl he eventually wound up marrying: one who grew to be a vain, self-centered woman who thought about little except for her appearance and the latest fashions. Meanwhile, Lottie had gone with Charles Kellerman, a straight-A student and social outcast.
"How does a loser like Chuckie Kellerman wind up with a babe like Lottie?" Hollis asked.
"Who cares?" Norton replied. "They're both freaks."
The future mayor was quite bitter because he had asked Lottie to the prom himself, and she turned him down.
Elroy and Clyde, who had just returned from the men's room where they had shared a joint, overheard Norton's comment.
"Who's a freak?" Elroy asked.
"Kellerman," Hollis replied.
"Little Chuckie, Fair Haven's own Whiz Kid," Clyde laughed.
"He brought Lottie Weller to the prom," Hollis told them.
"The little nerd probably had to pay her to come with him tonight," Norton cruelly jested. "I heard she does anything for money. Just like that old lush of a mother of hers."
"She's nothing but trailer trash," Elroy added.
"But she's hot!" Hollis argued. "You have to admit that."
"To hell with the both of them!" Clyde exclaimed. "They deserve each other. Here come the girls; let's go have a good time."
Three of the boys soon forgot all about Charles Kellerman and Lottie Wells. They were more interested in drinking, smoking and trying to entice their dates into the back seat of a car. Norton Larabie, however, kept sneaking surreptitious glances in Lottie's direction. His jealousy and anger grew steadily as the night wore on.
When the evening came to an end, the four boys took their dates home. Then they met at Clyde's house afterward.
"My parents are out of town," young McKeever announced. "Let's celebrate the occasion with an open bar."
"I have a better idea. Why don't we pool our spending money and go visit Lottie?" Norton suggested.
"You don't really believe all those stories about her doing it for money, do you?" Hollis asked.
"We won't know unless we ask her," Norton laughed.
They drove to the ramshackle trailer near the Pohannock River in which Cora Weller and her daughter lived. Lottie was home alone; her mother was probably out drinking somewhere. Norton did not bother knocking; he simply opened the door and let himself inside.
* * *
The sky was blue, and there was not a cloud in sight, a picture-perfect spring evening. Mayor Larabie wished he could open a window in the cockpit and feel the wind blowing on his face.
Now that would be flying!
As he soared above the eastern seaboard, heading back toward Fair Haven, he forgot all about Lottie Weller, at least until he approached his hometown town and saw the Pohannock River beneath him. He knew he would soon be flying over that damned bridge. Just the sight of it, with its red concrete support, reminded him again of his prom night and of the terrible scene with Lottie Weller later than same evening.
Despite rumors to the contrary, she did not want his money. In fact, she did not want anything at all to do with either Norton or his friends. How dare the little guttersnipe, the illegitimate daughter of the town drunk, refuse a Larabie! Norton was furious, and his friends were equally indignant. The boys were determined to teach the little tease a thing or two about the class structure of Fair Haven society.
Mayor Larabie closed his eyes and tried to eradicate the memory of Lottie's battered body.
* * *
"What do we do now?" Hollis had cried after the deed was done, desperately trying to wipe the dead girl's blood from his hands.
"We'll have to hide the body," Clyde replied.
"Where?" Elroy asked.
"We can weigh it down and throw it in the river," Clyde suggested.
"No," Hollis said, "it'll wash up eventually, and then even a Keystone Cop like Cheswick will have little difficulty pinning her death on us."
"Our families will help us," Elroy said. "Won't they?"
Norton, who had been silently staring out across the river, smiled.
"Yes, they will," he answered confidently. "Don't they always? Let's drive to your house, Clyde. It's the closest. I'll telephone my father from there."
The following morning Lottie's mother came home to an empty trailer. On her way to town to report her daughter's disappearance, she passed the Larabie construction crew that was busy pouring the concrete that would support the new bridge over the Pohannock River.
* * *
As Norton Larabie neared the bridge, his body tensed.
I hate that thing, he thought. I really ought to have it torn down and put a new one up in its place.
Since the airport was located just beyond the bridge, the mayor began his final descent in preparation for landing. With the Red River Bridge directly beneath him, he looked out of the cockpit window. Three men were standing on the bridge waving up at him.
"That looks like ... No! It can't be!"
Norton Larabie, former high school football star, current Mayor of Fair Haven, Massachusetts, and murderer of young Lottie Wells, closed his eyes to avoid seeing the hideous remains of his three former friends. Thus, he had been spared the knowledge of his impending fate as his plane slammed into the red-stained center support of the cursed bridge.
* * *
Clarisse Mulroney was in her final year at UCLA, when she received a letter postmarked in Fair Haven, Massachusetts. When she tore open the envelope, she found two newspaper articles and a handwritten note on Fair Haven Police Department letterhead. The first article, dated May 19, gave the sketchy details of the death of Mayor Norton Larabie, the wreckage of whose plane was found in the Pohannock River. The second article told of the discovery of a woman's body that had been buried inside the Pohannock River Bridge. According to the article, the remains were unearthed when the mayor's plane crashed into the bridge and demolished the center support. It was believed that the body was that of Lottie Weller who had disappeared twenty years earlier.
"The curse of the Red River Bridge," Officer Maynard Cheswick wrote in his note, "appears to have claimed its final victim."
This photo has nothing at all to do with the story, but as usual Salem insisted on getting in the act.
