The Grave Digger

by Rebecca Bischoff

  Reverend Cole, Jardine, and Delphia stood at the doors to thank those who had attended. Cap received a warm handshake from the Reverend, a tiny smile from Jardine, whose eyes were red and swollen, and a swift hug from Delphia.

  I’m sorry. He couldn’t say the words out loud.

  When they finally reached the street, Lum was waiting for them. “Let’s go,” he hissed to Noah.

  “I won’t do it,” Cap said with clenched teeth.

  “Shut yer gob, boy!” he roared.

  “Hold your tongue, Lum,” Father said in a sharp voice. “You’re speaking to my son.”

  “Your son is a lily-livered, no-good sack of horse manure!” Lum growled. “If’n you want him to be a partner, that boy’s gotta learn to be a man. Right now, he’s useless and spineless. I have half a mind to sell him to the doctors myself.”

  Father said nothing. Though he clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes, breathing hard, he did not speak.

  Seconds passed. For Cap, the brief passage of time was a small eternity as he waited for Father to defend him against Lum’s cruel words. But Father was silent. Cap felt as if the icy wind suddenly filled his body, freezing skin, flesh, and bone. He was cold as the bodies they plucked from their graves.

  Then, Father glanced at him. “Leave us, Cap.”

  “That’s right, boy,” Lum said with a sneer, cuffing Cap hard on the ear.

  “Leave him be,” Father hissed. He held out his arm to block another blow Lum aimed in Cap’s direction.

  “Or you’ll what?” Lum said, baring his teeth like a dog.

  Father landed a blow to Lum’s jaw that sent the older man staggering. He righted himself and plowed into Father, and the two fought, swearing and grunting. A small parcel dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Cap knew what it was. Lum had already done his job.

  The boy stared for the space of a heartbeat, while rage spread like acid through his veins. Then, he moved. He darted closer, dodging Lum’s flailing fists, seized the tiny cloth-wrapped bundle, and fled as though all the demons in hell were in pursuit.

  TWENTY-SIX

  CAP DIDN’T STOP until he reached home, certain his pursuer would never believe he’d go there. Lum would surely think he was heading to Jardine’s home.

  When he ducked beneath the willow tree, tips of the trailing branches brushed through his hair as though trying to comfort him. Gasping for air, he listened for signs of any pursuit. Once certain there were none, he let himself into his workshop.

  He lit his lantern and unwrapped the bundle. The baby reminded him of a child’s toy. He could have easily held him in one hand. Its tiny face was peaceful.

  “Please, God, let it work now! I don’t rightly know why I revived those first three people but not that boy, but now, please, please, let this work,” he whispered.

  Cap hurriedly made the sign of the cross and muttered a quick prayer to Saint Anthony; patron saint of those who were lost. At least, that’s what Mrs. Hardy had once said.

  Whatever you do, please help me! Perhaps you’re the one who can, he prayed.

  Removing his gloves, he placed a hand on the baby’s head, squeezed his eyes shut, and counted the seconds. An owl hooted from somewhere outside. Opening one eye, Cap stole a quick glance at the infant’s face. No change. He closed his eyes and waited.

  Seconds stretched out. Cap’s feet were sore from running. His hands grew cold. And Jardine’s baby boy was still dead.

  This time, Cap let the tears fall. His shoulders shook as he fought against the emotions that tore at his insides, and lost. He’d failed. His mysterious power had left him, if he’d ever had it in the first place. Father, the man he’d long looked up to and admired, had allowed Lum to treat Cap with cruelty. Just as bad, he’d stood silent while Lum stole the tiny body of a friend’s child. And Cap knew that he himself was hardly any better. He’d joined the grave robbers and kept silent, even after he realized how much pain he was inflicting on others. All for money.

  For Mamma, Cap told himself, angrily wiping his dripping nose on his coat sleeve. But I didn’t understand until now that it wasn’t worth it.

  At that moment, footsteps pounded in the hall outside the room. The door that connected Cap’s tiny workshop with the main house flew open and banged against the wall with a loud clatter. Hands seized him by the arm.

  “Gimme that,” Lum hissed, snatching the bundle from the table. His twisted face was more sinister than ever in the lantern light. “You worthless half-wit! Too bad Noah didn’t throw you off the boat when you were born! Coulda saved us all a heap of trouble.” With that, he shoved Cap so hard the boy fell to his knees.

  Struggling to his feet, Cap noticed Father there, with his hands in his pockets and his head down. “Father?” he said, but his voice died away. What was there to say to this man, this sudden stranger?

  “Go to bed, Cap,” Father said in a soft voice. He turned and followed Lum out of the room. Their footsteps died away. The front door thudded.

  Go to bed? Cap laughed once, a short, mirthless sound that echoed in the tiny room. Then he reached out and extinguished the quivering flame of his lantern. Pocketing some matches and a candle stub, he exited his workshop through the narrow outer door and crouched for a moment beneath his willow tree.

  “I’ll go to bed, all right,” he whispered. “After I take care of one more job.” Gritting his teeth, he followed the men, though he knew exactly where they were going. Once they arrived at the Round House, Cap hung in the shadows and watched until they handed over their quarry and slunk off. Then, he snuck around the building.

  Someone had finally thought to close the basement window that led to the dissection room, but no one had thought to latch it. Cap climbed inside, lit his candle, and began his search.

  One room was full of broken crates. Another contained a row of empty pickle barrels. The chamber reeked of whiskey. A locked door, marked “supplies,” wouldn’t budge despite Cap’s rough shaking and a final kick at the unyielding wood. The baby had to be here, somewhere.

  Out of ideas, Cap left the basement. When he reached the main floor, he nearly dropped his candle at the sound of voices that drew closer. Recovering his wits barely in time, he cupped his hand over the fluttering flame and backed down a few steps. There was the soft, wordless murmur of a man’s deep tones. Then, in response, another voice whined: “It is not my fault!”

  Those words echoed through the circular front hall of the building. It was unmistakable: Dr. Rusch was here! But who was the other man? Could it be Lum? The footsteps passed the stairwell, then moved upward. Holding his hand over the flame, Cap crept after them while a thick hatred welled up inside.

  The voices moved to the second floor and disappeared. Creeping inch by inch, Cap finally reached the top of the stairs. A weak light shone from under one of the doors. Putting his ear to the keyhole, he could make out a few words here and there. Dr. Rusch continued to wail in a shrill voice:

  “No one suspects anything! And why should I not take a few souvenirs, here and there?”

  A soft, muffled response.

  “Columbus Jones? That buffoon? He’s happy as long as he gets his payment. Never asks any questions.”

  More muffled sounds.

  “That was an accident, man! I could have sworn he was dead! Same as the other man, and the girl! I cannot explain it!”

  A jolt passed through Cap.

  “I’ve always followed your orders!” Dr. Rusch growled.

  The words burned themselves itself into Cap’s brain. He gasped aloud. If Dr. Rusch followed orders, he was not the man in charge of this resurrection business. So, who was?

  “Wait!”

  The voice was now loud in the boy’s ear. The doorknob rattled. Cap extinguished his candle, leapt away, and hid himself on the other side of a massive cabinet.

  The door slammed and rapid footsteps pounded away. Cap sank down to the floor, willing himself to breathe silently. Mo
ments later, the door opened again and a second set of footsteps stumbled at an uneven pace across the landing and began to descend the stairs.

  “No, wait! I wanted that specimen!” Dr. Rusch said.

  Cap was torn. Blast it all, he wanted to follow and discover who that mysterious man was. But Jardine’s baby was still missing, and what Dr. Rusch had just said made Cap certain the tiny body was nearby. When the silence was complete, he moved back to the door where he’d heard the voices. It was unlocked.

  Cap crept inside the room and eased the door closed behind him. God, for once, bless me with a little luck, he prayed. I sure could use it about now.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ONCE INSIDE, HE turned on the gas lamps and spied a metal plaque on the wall: Dr. Abraham Rusch. Books and papers were scattered everywhere. The air was stale and smelled of tobacco, spirits, and unwashed bodies. But what caught Cap’s attention the most were the shelves on the opposite wall. They were filled with boxes of all sizes. The room looked more like a dry goods store than the examining room of a medical doctor.

  A tall mirror stood in the corner, and on a dress form beside it was a man’s formal coat with tails. On a side table, gold watches, earrings, cuff links, and necklaces gleamed on a blue velvet cloth, like a display in a jeweler’s shop. Cap’s heart sprang into action—maybe Jessamyn’s ruby ring was here.

  He sorted through the pile of jewelry. There were many rings, including several with diamonds in them, but no red stones. Cap’s shoulders slumped. He stood back and blew out his breath in a long stream.

  A cuckoo clock wheezed and chimed from its perch on the wall. Cap nearly jumped out of his own skin as the tiny wooden bird hooted the time.

  “Blast,” he muttered. It was after midnight. Mamma must be frantic.

  She’s been abed all evening. She likely doesn’t even know I’m gone, he reassured himself. But what about Father? Could he be worried?

  Cap closed his eyes at the painful reminder of the man who had allowed Columbus Jones to treat him so harshly. Father repeatedly allowed Lum to heap ugly words and abuse upon his own son.

  Father doesn’t care. He likely hopes I won’t come back.

  Trying to ignore the aching inside his chest, the boy threw another glance at the cuckoo clock and stopped short with a furrowed brow. As the chimes concluded and the tiny bird ducked back inside its little door, painted figures began to dance, and a waterwheel turned.

  “What in the blazes?” he blurted. Cap gaped at the wall. That was Mr. Garrett’s clock! He’d never seen another like it anywhere.

  A sick feeling settled into Cap’s protesting stomach. Old Dr. Rusch was stealing from the dead. Nothing else explained all the things he’d piled away in this room. It was practically like a pirate’s cave full of treasure!

  So, what did that mean about Mr. Garrett?

  “Nothing,” Cap told himself. “Mr. Garrett’s fine.” Squaring his shoulders, he picked up his candle again. He couldn’t worry now about his old friend. First things first: he still needed to find Jardine’s baby, and if it wasn’t in this room, it surely would be in another one.

  He made a face at the lingering smell in Dr. Rusch’s office while he extinguished the gas lamps. In a flash, words Lum had once spoken to him came back:

  “I’ll pack you in whiskey and send you off to a place no one’ll ever find you.”

  Whiskey? It could be no coincidence that a room downstairs reeked of the stuff. A quick search of the doctor’s desk revealed a set of keys, which Cap pocketed. Holding his breath, he pushed the door open with a shaky hand, but the round building was silent. The boy hurried back to the basement.

  After trying a few keys, the door marked “supplies” opened with a screech. He stepped inside and held his candle aloft. Many barrels were crowded into the room. The smell of whiskey made his eyes water and burn.

  Coughing, he searched through a cupboard until he found what he was looking for; a metal file that looked solid enough to pry up a sealed lid. He placed his candle stub upon a windowsill and began. The first lid came off easily. As the smell of whiskey filled the air, Cap gaped in horror at the sight below him. Just below the surface of the liquid was a head of curly hair.

  Replacing the lid, Cap gagged and fought to keep his supper from making a return appearance. He could hardly believe his eyes. If all these barrels were full, the number of bodies inside them was much greater than the number of poor stiffs he had helped dig up.

  Swiping his arm over his face to wipe away the stinging tears caused by the fumes in the room, Cap moved to the next barrel, and the next.

  Bodies of assorted sizes were jammed inside, all soaked in the alcoholic mixture. All adults. Six, seven, eight. Cap worked feverishly, the whiskey stench making his head swim. No baby. Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Still no luck.

  Cap’s shoulders drooped. The baby had to be here! One barrel stood against the wall, uncovered. The boy hardly spared it a glance. Then, he shrugged and hurried over to check it for good measure. He held his candle stub aloft to peer inside.

  Dr. Rusch stared back. His sightless, bloodshot eyes were wide in his upturned head.

  “Holy Mary!” Cap shrieked. He dropped his candle. The room plunged into darkness.

  While his heart tried to beat itself out of his chest, Cap scrabbled around on the floor until he found his candle. With shaking hand, he had to strike a match several times before he managed to relight the wick.

  Despite the bile that rose to the back of his throat, Cap couldn’t help inching closer to the barrel and its grisly contents. The dead man wore rings on every finger. There, winking in the flickering glow of the tiny candle, was a ring set with a red stone on the man’s little finger.

  Placing his candle onto the lid of a neighboring barrel, Cap whispered a quick prayer, just in case someone decided to listen in and help him for once.

  “Bless me with courage and nimble fingers,” he muttered. “And a way to escape this infernal place. Amen.”

  Rolling up his sleeves, Cap seized Dr. Rusch’s hand. The ring was stuck. The boy pulled as hard as he could, but it wouldn’t budge. His eyes stung from the fumes. The solution in the barrel sloshed as Cap struggled to wrest the ring from the doctor’s finger.

  “Move, blast you!” Cap hissed, sweating and swearing at all the saints. The ring finally moved, ever so slightly. He pulled harder. Suddenly it was clenched tight in his fist.

  Blessed be our Lady of Mercy, Cap prayed, though he was fairly certain God’s mother would sternly disapprove of his recent actions.

  “Lots of nice, sharp knives in the next room. Want me to fetch one for you?” a gravelly voice said from behind. “You can cut that finger clean off.” The man chuckled.

  Shrieking, Cap whirled and dropped his candle once more. This time, the room remained well-lit from the glow of a lantern held aloft by a grizzled man. It was Parsons, the “hero” who’d offered to guard the cemetery. The light gave the man’s wizened face a sinister yellow cast.

  “You can’t stay away, can you, boy?” Parsons said, shuffling into the room with a jagged smile on his face. “A little thief, are you? Know what we do to thieves?”

  “It’s you,” Cap blurted, while a dawning horror punched him in the gut. “You’re the one who killed him!”

  Parsons’s bushy white eyebrows met in the middle. “Killed who, boy? I ain’t done nothin’ to nobody!” He shuffled forward, and Cap backed up until he slammed into the cold stone wall.

  “Now you leave be this poor old croaker,” Parsons said, setting the lantern onto the floor nearby. He began to shove Dr. Rusch farther inside the barrel. “What’d he ever do to—” Then the man stopped and his toothless mouth gaped wide as he blinked down at the body. “Land o‘ Goshen!” he shouted. “It’s Dr. Rusch! What have you done to him?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  CAP BOLTED. HE hurtled through the dark doorway and up the stairs, clutching the ring in his fist.


  “Murderer!” Parsons screamed. “Murderer!”

  There’s only one person who can help me, Cap thought as he fled. Please, God, let him be here! Dr. Ivins’s new office was on the third floor, and Jardine said he usually slept there.

  A light shone under the doctor’s door. Cap’s shoulders slumped in relief. Not all the saints and angels have abandoned me, he thought. He knocked. There was only silence in response, so Cap pounded.

  As the door swung open, the boy blinked as the light from glowing gas lamps hit his eyes.

  “Cap Cooper?” Dr. Ivins said. The man’s crumpled jacket hung open, and his shirt was crinkled and dirty. Something about the doctor’s hair was strange, but Cap had other matters to think of and dismissed all else from his mind.

  “Please, sir, I didn’t kill him!” he blurted. “Parsons thinks I did, but it wasn’t me! Honest!”

  Dr. Ivins gaped at him.

  As Cap stared back, he suddenly realized what was strange about the man’s hair. It was skewed. Dr. Ivins looked as if he wore a brown coonskin cap, stuck sideways onto his bald head. Dr. Ivins noticed Cap’s gaze and quickly reached up to straighten his wig.

  “Come in,” Dr. Ivins said in a short voice. He grabbed Cap’s arm and pulled him inside, closing the door behind the boy. “What are you saying, son?”

  “I … I found him,” Cap said, gulping. “Dr. Rusch. He’s down in the basement in the room with all the barrels, but I didn’t kill him, I swear it!”

  Dr. Ivins’s eyebrows shot up to his wig. “What?”

  In a shaky voice, Cap did his best to describe what he’d seen and heard. He paused for breath, and silence fell. The boy’s arm began to throb where Dr. Ivins’s long fingers dug into his skin. The man’s face was incredulous. Cap’s heart turned to lead.

  He doesn’t believe me, he thought.