Goodnight Irene

by James Scott Byrnside

  “Manory, let’s go back. We’re not going to make it out here.”

  “We continue.”

  They trudged to the back of the forest and came upon the embankment. The water had risen to a foot below capacity and crashed along the sides of the land in violent waves. Rowan took a large stick from the ground and chucked it into the current. The stick floated downstream, disappearing to the right, around the bend.

  Walter continued to shout. “Where does it lead?”

  Rowan pointed straight with his left hand. “The ridge continues to Fort Hill about twenty miles ahead.” He held up his right hand and curved it. “This water leads to a cliff off the back of the ridge. I do not know how far.” Rowan looked back toward the woods and noticed a desire path bearing toward the garden. “This is the easiest way to get to the creek from the back door. We will lie over there near the path and cover ourselves with branches. When he comes, we will see him dump the body.”

  “Who will we see dump the body?”

  “Whomever.”

  “What if whomever sees us?”

  “Whoever. Whoever will see us and we will see whomever. It is not a difficult concept to grasp, Williams.”

  “If you say so.”

  ”If you do not move then we will not be seen.”

  Walter said, “Are you sure about this? We don’t even know that Bernice is dead.”

  “I am sure of nothing, my friend. Not anymore.”

  Rowan’s blood stained smile was oddly comforting to Walter.

  The detectives moved into the woods and lay flat on the ground. Rowan kept his eyes in the direction of the house and sopped up blood with his glove. Walter did his best not to look at the ground. He could feel tingling sensations all over his abdomen and imagined an army of bugs crawling under him, seeking entrance to his skin.

  After two minutes, Walter moved inches from Rowan’s ear and whispered. “Manory?”

  “We must concentrate.”

  “I know, I know but… What could Tellum have been trying to say? It’s a… It’s a what? It had to be important. I suppose he could have been out of his mind at that point. Death probably has a way of clouding one’s judgment.”

  Rowan kept looking forward.

  “And Lasciva’s brain. It was working just fine before his head was severed. They say the brain continues functioning for about thirty seconds. But how would they know? What kind of test would reveal that?”

  In one reflexive movement, Rowan shifted his hand onto Walter’s mouth. Walter’s eyes, covered in rainwater, tilted forward.

  A red raincoat shimmered in the scarcely available light as it advanced along the path through the forest. The hood hung loosely over the face by drooping corners. The only suspect Rowan could rule out was Willie. He was far too tall to be under that raincoat. Under the left arm, the shape carried a gunny sack made of burlap.

  That bag is not big enough for a body.

  Rowan watched exactly what he had anticipated. The figure’s galoshes splashed in short strides and came to the edge of the embankment. With minimal strain, the sack was flung into the river.

  Walter considered jumping the figure and wrestling him to the ground.

  Rowan sensed his partner’s unease and delicately touched him on the shoulder with his finger.

  The raincoat-clad figure stood watching until the sack had been swallowed by the bend and then doubled back along the path. Rowan kept his finger on Walter’s shoulder for a good minute as the mysterious figure faded into the trees toward the manor.

  “What now?” asked Walter.

  Rowan sprang up with the aid of Walter’s shoulder and pulled him toward the embankment.

  “The bag. There are overhanging trees all along the river. The water is high enough that a branch or even a stone might catch it. We have to go downriver and see if we can find it.”

  “Who was in the raincoat?”

  “That was our man.”

  “Why didn’t we follow him up the path? We could have taken him down.”

  “We know he threw a bag in the river. That means we know nothing. If we can find out what is in the bag, then perhaps we will know what has happened. Also, we have a missing gun to consider. I shall not make the same mistake twice. Come on.”

  They followed the river’s path as it snaked to the back of the plateau. To their left, the forest continued, but the area behind the trees changed into mountainous terrain.

  Upon reaching the back end of the ridge, Rowan felt a wave of excitement. “There!”

  The sack dangled over the roaring water with its strap latched onto a low hovering branch at the edge of the cliff. The water flapped against the bottom of the sack before cascading down the precipice.

  Rowan reached over the edge and a sudden burst of wind frightened his legs. “It is fruitless.” He crouched next to the tree and held it tightly. “I will have to climb the tree and hang off the branch to get it. It is the only way.” He planted a foot on the base of the trunk but Walter instinctively grabbed him.

  “It’ll break. It won’t support you.” He patted Rowan’s stomach to demonstrate his lack of athleticism. “Is this bag vital to the case?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Then this is how I make my rubes.” Walter took off his gloves and found a footing in the gnarled bark. He hoisted himself up.

  Rowan watched breathlessly as his partner grabbed hold of the branch with both hands and dangled himself over the water. “Be careful, Williams.”

  Walter moved one hand across the other until he was three feet from the sack. His weight bent the branch down and half of the burlap submerged. The strap loosened and it began swaying erratically. Walter kept his right hand on the branch and, with his back facing death, extended his left. His index and middle fingers stretched out in a desperate scissoring motion, trying to grasp some part of the sack. The tips of his fingers brushed against it and the slight contact emboldened him to stretch farther.

  A panic overtook Rowan. He had a vision of himself alone on the ridge in the water logged gloom.

  Please, God. Do not take Williams, at least not yet.

  With a kick of the water, the sack popped up into Walter’s clasped fingertips.

  “Got it!”

  For a fleeting second the mystery was solved.

  Then Walter felt it slipping. He threw it into the air, attempting to catch it with a better grip. It fell against his dangling hand and he juggled it.

  Rowan watched with dejection as the sack bounced off Walter’s hand into the river and descended into Vicksburg.

  Walter swung back along the branch and threw himself onto the ground.

  “Are you all right, Williams?”

  Walter held up his left hand and a sinuous stream of black cloth dangled from his fingers. It was one of Bernice Lasciva’s arm-length gloves. Rowan grabbed the satin and twiddled it between his thumb and forefinger. Blood seeped from it and was quickly washed away by the rain.

  Walter was apoplectic. “Her clothes! He dumped her clothes!”

  Rowan stared into the abyss. “Maybe it was just her clothes, but I think something else may have been in there as well.”

  He was about to continue his thought when another gunny sack appeared, heading their way. It flowed unencumbered past them, avoided the branch, and disappeared over the edge.

  Walter lifted himself off the ground. Without further comment, they walked back along the river. Walter’s eyes alternated between the water and the forest while Rowan’s focused on the ground.

  “If you had to perform a discreet dismemberment in that house, where would you do it?” said Rowan.

  Walter’s face contorted.

  “It was not really a question. I am thinking out loud, Williams. It helps me. Also, remember, you are going to say something that will inspire me.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, Manory.”

  Rowan stopped and put his hand on Walter’s shoulder. “You were incredibly brave back there, Walter
. I do not know what I would do without you. This is especially true now. I am second-guessing every placement of the puzzle pieces. Failure has followed me from Chicago and I will not persevere alone.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Walter felt a lightness in his chest that was quickly replaced by the shiver of gooseflesh over his body. “If we solve this case will you go back to being the old Manory?”

  “I am positive.”

  “Fantastic. I’m good at making coffee, comforting widows, that kind of thing.”

  They returned to the path and knelt down among the trees. The water had risen past the edge of the grass and was now freely washing onto land like the tide of a beach.

  Walter said, “Let’s end this now. I’ll move toward the house and wait. If he comes back to dump another sack, I’ll follow him down the path. With this rain he won’t hear me. I jump him from behind, you charge him from the front. There won’t be any time for him to pull out a gun.”

  This haphazard plan was not Rowan’s style. In an instant, anything could go wrong. As the rain steadily beat on his hood, he had a vision of Walter being shot like Agatha Brent and her child. He would not allow that to happen.

  “All right, Williams, but I will be the one who waits near the manor. I want you to position yourself here. Do not move until I tackle him to the ground. Do you understand?”

  “Manory?”

  “What?”

  Out came the schoolboy grin. “How much fun is this?”

  Rowan shook his head with exasperation. “No movement until I take him down. Tell me you understand.”

  “I’m on the trolley, old man.”

  Rowan duck-walked up through the forest, snapping twigs and splashing in mud puddles until he found a satisfactory spot in the forest and positioned himself.

  Minutes passed.

  Spurred by the stress, his heartbeat sped to an unruly thudding and he grew faint.

  Not now. Please, not now.

  He closed his eyes and tried to remember Ling’s parlor trick. Black ink surrounded his heart, the fat, pulsating myocardium slopping in it. The aerated ink drained from the chamber. All of his anxiety oozed out leaving a healthy, fulgent pink. A spinning top appeared on his heart. With his fingers he stopped the top and began twisting it in the opposite direction. As the imaginary toy gained speed, his pulse abated.

  Rowan opened his eyes. The raincoat-clad man passed him down the path, carrying another sack, and the beating in his chest skipped all the speeds in between and settled back at racing. He was about to follow the mysterious figure toward Walter when…

  Oh, no.

  The rain dissipated and with the last bulbous drops, it ceased altogether. The surreal absence of rain amplified every sound. The thin howl of the wind, the rhythmic croaking of frogs, and the splat of drops from the trees seemed to reverberate.

  The mystery man in the raincoat paused, and one of the black gloves reached into a pocket and pulled out Tellum’s Colt Police Positive revolver. Rowan stared at the man’s back, frozen by fear. Any movement could give him away. The moment seemed endless with murderer and detective so close together. Rowan could hear his pulse ricochet off the walls of his cochlear duct. He wondered if the man in the red raincoat could hear it as well.

  The shape stood still for another moment and then finally walked out of sight.

  Please, Williams. Have the good sense not to do anything foolish.

  A thick drop landed on Rowan’s coat and the rain began anew, mirroring his heart. It came like pellets, more furious than before. The calm between the storms had passed.

  Rowan began to inch his way forward through the forest.

  Screw your courage to the sticking stone.

  A lightning bolt hit the ground in the distance. A gunshot quickly followed, and the detective jumped erect, losing his balance. He fell to the ground and cracked his nose on the exact same spot as before.

  “Goddamnit!” he screamed, pressing his gloves against his face. “Williams!” He blindly struggled to his feet and spun around, unsure of where he was. A succession of lightning flashes followed, causing Rowan’s blurred vision to go completely white. He bent down and closed his eyes tightly. He heard Walter’s scream convert to thunder.

  The detective slowly opened his eyes and saw the path in front of him. He slid along the mud until he came to Walter lying on his back. “Are you hit?”

  “It was Daniels.”

  “Are you hit, Williams?”

  Walter shook his head. “He missed. It was Daniels. I saw his face.”

  Rowan looked around the forest. “He must have run off. Williams, I told you to wait for me. Do not ever put yourself at risk again. Do you hear me?”

  Walter pointed toward the river and Rowan followed the direction of his finger. Near the embankment the opened burlap sack lay on a patch of muddy grass. The water tantalizingly danced around it, threatening to pull it into the river. Rowan dove and clutched the strap in his hand. He looked inside.

  “Well,” said Walter, “don’t keep me in suspense.”

  Rowan’s stomach churned. He turned the sack upside down and dumped the bloody contents in the mud.

  Walter gagged. He swallowed and forced the words from his mouth. “Tell me we’re close to the finish line.”

  “No, Williams. This is all wrong. It does not make sense.”

  “Why not?”

  Rowan plucked one of the frayed and bloody feet from the ground and held it up to the moonlight. “From the look of it, I would have to conclude that this foot belonged to a man.” He bent the toes. “Rigor has not set in either. I would say forty minutes at most.”

  “Is it Willie or Charles?”

  “William is much too large for these to belong to him.”

  “Then it’s Charles?”

  “It is possible, but…”

  “But what?”

  Rowan pointed to the top of the manor.

  The flickering of candlelight swayed in Charles and Margaret’s window.

  chapter 12

  robbery

  Walter and Rowan emerged from the woods and passed the zinnia corollas in the garden. The thin, papery petals had surrendered their color to the soggy muck. They floated about the remains of Lasciva’s once-beautiful garden like ashen lily pads.

  Rowan stopped in front of the back door and squeezed his nose.

  Broken. God, I could use a cigarette.

  Walter yelled in his ear. “It makes you look tougher.”

  Rowan’s brows snapped together.

  “I’ll call you Bruiser from now on, boss.”

  He cast a curious glance at Walter as the water dribbled off his hood and carried diluted blood into his mouth.

  Walter gawped. “Did I do it?”

  “Did you do what?”

  “Did I inadvertently solve the case? You know, like you said. I’m going to say something irrelevant that will bust the thing wide open. Did I do it just now?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you look at me like that?”

  “You have cheated death twice tonight. At the moment you are carrying a bag filled with gruesome dismemberment and yet your ebullience remains irrepressible and undimmed. The mystery of your childlike enthusiasm is unsolvable, even for me.”

  “I do my best.”

  Rowan turned to the door. “No talking when we are inside. We will head straight to the kitchen.”

  “What’s in the kitchen?”

  “Weapons.”

  The back door creaked open. On the oak surface, muddy footprints lay bathed by a muted rectangle of moonlight.

  Rowan had not expected to hear anything, but the effect of the manor’s silence was still jarring. Walter softly shut the door and eased the sack onto the floor. In the enveloping darkness, they shed their raincoats and galoshes, squeaked into the dining room, and went through the push doors to the kitchen.

  Walter felt his way to the pantry and pulled out a large jar. He un
screwed the lid and had a whiff. “Pickled cherries.”

  Rowan took a box of matches from the carving table and lit a candle.

  The light revealed Walter dangling a cherry over his mouth. “Don’t judge me. I know it isn’t professional but I’m absolutely famished.” He dropped it and offered the jar to Rowan.

  He refused with a raise of his hand. “What happened out there, Williams?”

  Walter spat a pit into the trash and shook the water from his hair. He spoke in the monotone of remembrance. “When the rain stopped, I panicked. It’s hard to explain. I had forgotten what the world sounded like without rain. Suddenly, I could hear everything. It was unnerving to say the least. Then, I saw the red raincoat coming down the path. I waited for you to appear behind it, but you didn’t come.”

  “For this, I offer you my sincerest apologies. I was just as flummoxed by the rain as you were.” He extended his index finger. “However, I distinctly remember my orders.”

  “I’ll stop you right there. Your orders were followed. I didn’t move.”

  “Noted. Continue.”

  “After he got close to the embankment, the rain began again, stronger this time. When the lightning struck, he must have seen me. He fired the gun and I hit the deck. It was chaos. Everything happened so quickly. I looked up and he was gone. Then the lightning flashed again and again, maybe four times in a row.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “That’s when I saw his face. He had moved out farther into the forest, but he turned around and I saw him.”

  “And you are certain it was Daniels?”

  “I couldn’t see very well, but I’m sure it was him.”

  Rowan bent his head. “It makes things more difficult if it was Daniels.”

  Walter struggled to describe the sight of Paul Daniels near the river. “His face had this look of shock and disorientation. It was as if he couldn’t believe he had been caught. He looked terrified, inhumanly so. Just thinking of it gives me chills. It was him.”

  Rowan was quiet for a few minutes. He replayed the night’s events in his mind and tried to find the connective threads. He ran his tongue across the small crack in the back of his molar.