The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  "But this is public time."

  Aaron looked around the store. Nobody else was near. Apparently Cathy's ideas on what constituted public were definitely different from his.

  "Even so," he said.

  She licked her lips nervously. "Thank you Aaron. I would like that."

  They closed a few minutes early. Fastening the money box in his apron, Aaron pulled Cathy behind him when he left the store.

  "Keep up with the bellows, boy." Jorrin's faint voice called out from the other side of the street.

  "Mister Bran keeps Doyle busy," Cathy observed. "Doyle complains about it, but he worships the man. I hardly get to see the boy anymore. Probably just as well, I suppose. He's getting too old to be hanging onto his big sister all the time." Regret filled her voice.

  "He's welcome to visit the store when Jorrin comes over for lessons."

  Smiling sadly, Cathy shook her head no. "That wouldn't be right. Doyle works hard so he needs his own time to do what he wants. I see him for half an hour every day. That's enough." Her eyes lightened, and she lifted her hand in a welcome wave. "Hi, Miss Townsend."

  "Hi yourself, Miss Bayne." Sarah came jogging up to them, smelling faintly of fresh sweat and wood smoke. "Heading for the bank?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll join you then. I have my pay to deposit--and how are you Aaron?"

  "A bit of a headache, but otherwise fine."

  "Aaron's going to let me make the store's deposits and withdrawals," Cathy said, her gaze direct.

  "Cathy, I think you should start calling me Sarah all the time." Sarah grinned.

  "Probably," Cathy agreed.

  Something was going on between them, and Aaron wished he knew what the hell it was. He had not figured out the particulars of when it was proper to use given names instead of surnames, but still and all, Sarah's offer did not seem to meet the few rules he had figured out.

  Five horses and a man stood in front of the bank. Watching the horses warily, Aaron stepped close to the building to be as far from them as possible. Once he was safely past the beasts, he walked inside the bank and headed for the counter. Several people stood stiffly in front of him, Sarah and Cathy. Impatient, Aaron groaned and shifted to the side.

  He stilled.

  A man held Mister Banks from behind, holding a very long and heavy knife to the clerk's throat. Face stricken, Mister Doland stood further back. "What is going on here?" Aaron demanded.

  "This is my business," Sarah snapped. She drew her sword. "So--what is going on here?"

  "Simply a withdrawal, Marshal," a man said, stepping into view from behind the counter. Tall, thin, dark haired, he wore a cheerful smile but his emotionless eyes were flat, and he held a long thin knife in his left hand that bore signs of old dried blood. "Hello, Storeman. Why don't you pass over what's in your apron? That bulge looks interesting."

  Aaron turned pale. Hands tied before her, Ann Flinders lay on the floor. She was crying. "You were at the inn," Aaron said nonsensically.

  "I was, little man. I enjoyed seeing you bleed, but it made my Melissa hungry. Marshal, that's one great big sword you have. Very impressive. I hope you are equally impressed by the knife my friend is holding at that man's throat. Hand the money over, little man."

  Aaron lifted the money box from his apron and set it on the floor. A kick from his foot sent it to a slim, tall man who stood beside the speaker.

  "Marshal?"

  Sarah growled beneath her breath. Obedient. She knelt and set her sword on the floor. A shove sent it sliding to rest against the wall.

  Cathy bolted. The man standing outside released a surprised shout.

  "I would have preferred for you to pass it to me," the spokesman told Sarah as he casually strode over towards Banks, nonchalantly flipping the knife from hand to hand. "No harm. An unarmed woman is no threat unless she's as strong as a horse like my Melissa."

  Aaron ground his teeth when recognition finally dawned. More than just the speaker had been at the table when Ann was accosted. They had all been there. As he recalled, the man in charge was called Eric.

  A dark-hued man reached down, dragged Ann to her feet, and set the edge of his knife against her throat.

  "You see how I lied, Storeman," Eric said, stopping before Banks. "I really do like them young, so we'll just be taking her with us."

  And then he ripped his knife deep into Bank's lower abdomen and up into his sternum.

  Blood and guts and the stench of spilled feces spilled forth. Banks gasped and sagged limply, his weight now fully supported by the man holding him.

  His hand still pressed against Bank's middle, Eric looked at the man holding the clerk and then took a step back. "You can let him drop now, Billy."

  Nodding, Billy released his hold, and Banks fell to the floor.

  Looking Aaron straight in his eyes, Eric raised his gore-covered hand and stuck his blood-covered fingers into his mouth, one at a time, sucking them clean. Finished, Eric lowered his hand and wiped it dry on his shirt, leaving faint pink trails behind

  "All done, Wanee," Eric said softly to the bronze-skinned, broad-faced man holding Ann. He pointed his bloody knife at Doland. "Open the safe. Mister Stevens has some bags he wants you to fill."

  Smiling indolently, the man who held Aaron's money box held up his other hand, displaying a handful of empty grain sacks. On the floor, Banks gurgled horribly and sighed out his last breath.

  "Y--y--yes." Big eyed, Doland stared down at Banks and then staggered to the safe to awkwardly spin its combination. The safe door swung open noiselessly. "Here. Here it is. Take what you want."

  Stevens set down the money box and ambled nonchalantly to the safe. Billy soon joined him.

  "Aw, thar's not all thet much hare," Stevens protested.

  Billy said nothing as he knelt and began filling a bag.

  "You won't get away," Sarah grated out. "The warning has gone out. The militia guards the street."

  "No problem," Wanee said. He rubbed the flat of his stained knife over Ann's throat. "We have a hostage. If we leave safe, she leaves safe. We'll let her go tomorrow after we finish using her. STAND STILL, STOREMAN!"

  Aaron trembled so badly his knees hurt. He was caught in a trap of fear and horror and hate. His heart raced. Heat poured through his limbs.

  "Done," Stevens said disgustedly. "Only half o' one sack. The boss war full o' shit. This hare place ain't loaded. Them knives 'e wants 'ad better be worth it."

  After wiping his blood wet hand across his dirty pant leg, Eric strolled over to Doland. Sweat streamed down Doland's face. He stank of fear.

  "Open your mouth," Eric ordered with exaggerated gentleness. "My knife needs cleaning."

  Doland let his jaw sag. Eric put the end of his bloody blade into Doland's mouth and wiped it across Doland's dry tongue with deliberate slowness. First one side of the blade and then the other left its bloody trail inside the banker's mouth. Doland's eyes clenched shut when the blade sliced his tongue. His breathed in short gasps.

  "Don't you love it?" Eric asked. "Nothing beats the taste of human blood."

  "Damn it Eric, let's go!" Wanee snapped. He shifted his grip on Ann, moving the knife away from her throat and shouted out the bank's open door. "If the horses are gone and our man captured I'll do some more killing!"

  "They'll be put back," Mistress Golard called back in.

  "I'll kill them all," Sarah's faint whisper barely reached Aaron's ears. "Those men were under my protection."

  "We have to go now," Billy said to Eric.

  Eric nodded agreement. "Of course." His arm straightened spastically, shoving his long knife deep into Dolan's mouth and out the back of his skull. Gasping, Dolan stiffened and fell off the blade.

  "Eric!" Wanee shouted. Ann jerked in his grip. Wanee cursed, and Aaron moved.

  Shoving his hand into his apron pocket, Aaron pulled out the small .38 snubnose he kept there, pointed, and fired. Wanee's knife hand turned red, jerked violently, and the knife flew acros
s the room. Pulling the trigger too hard, Aaron fired again. His gun jerked to the side when the hammer fell, making the second shot miss entirely as Wanee staggered back. Ann screamed and fell to the floor. Being more careful, Aaron shot at Eric when he dove for the open door. Eric stumbled but stayed upright. With a short yell, Aaron twisted his body to the side and shot at Wanee one more time. Blood streaked the floor under Wanee's right hand.

  Sarah yelled, and something shoved Aaron from behind. He gasped when pain lanced across his back, causing him to unintentionally fire his gun once again when the hammer caught in his clothing. Someone groaned as Eric and Billy raced out the door. Several thuds sounded, and Billy staggered back inside, four arrow shafts piercing his body. The canvas sack he held fell and broke, spilling gold and copper over the floor.

  Still yelling, Aaron ran to stand over Ann, and pointed the barrel of the .38 at Wanee as the man gasped and cursed and finally grasped his knife with his good hand. Wanee rolled over and jumped to a crouch.

  Aiming with deliberate care, Aaron shot him in the left knee. Cursing softly, Wanee fell. Turning swiftly, Aaron pulled out his lock-blade from the same apron pocket that had held his gun. He flicked it open as his empty gun hit the floor with a thud.

  Glaring at Aaron, Sarah rose from where Stevens lay curled around his own knife, bleeding from the belly. Sarah's shirt was liberally stained by blood splatters from when she stabbed him. "You'd be dead if I hadn't shoved you. Your back is bleeding. Go sit down."

  Suddenly feeling dizzy, Aaron sat on the floor right where he stood while Sarah walked over and picked up his revolver. Billy shuddered and stilled. Grim faced, Sarah pulled a knife from his hand.

  Jorrin stepped warily through the open doorway. "All clear?"

  "Clear," Sarah said. "Two alive but injured." She picked up her sword and sheathed it.

  "What was all that noise?" Jorrin looked at the carnage and shook his head.

  "Later," she snapped. "I need some help." Shaking her head, she rubbed her right ear. "Hurts."

  Jorrin let out a yell, the signal, apparently for several women to crowd into the bank. Wanee only whimpered when they lifted him, but Stevens screamed. Cathy cut off Aaron's shirt while someone took Ann away.

  "Should we…?" Mistress Turnbull rumbled to Sarah, making a quick motion towards her neck. Sarah nodded, and the wounded men disappeared out the door. Three dead men lay on the floor.

  Mumbling, Doc Gunther came in and put fifteen stitches in Aaron's back.

  "Ann," Aaron muttered while the needle went in and out. Everything was a blur. Head swimming, his face rested on the floor, near somebody's vomit.

  "Safe," Gunther said shortly. "Best worry about yourself. Least you didn't puke up blood." Muttering something about idiots, he stabbed Aaron with the needle again. "Is anybody going to pull these bodies out of here?"

  "On it," Mayor Golard responded. "Come on, you yokels. Get the wagon around here."

  Blood loss made Aaron's head light, which was probably a good thing since Gunther had a ham hand with a needle. He watched while Sarah gathered the money, put it back in the safe, and changed the combination.

  Aaron's head hurt almost as much as his back.

  Eventually, Jorrin helped Aaron stand and then guided him out the bank door. Faces purple, tongues protruding, Wanee and Stevens dangled from the same tall oak tree where the two Mover women had been hung. Hanging beside them was the man Aaron had seen standing by the horses. Ropes dug cruelly into their necks, and blood pooled beneath them. More than a hundred people stood nearby, wearing unforgiving expressions while they watched the swaying bodies. Several women were crying, Mister Doland's two wives, and Mistress Banks, the chandler who had sold her store to Aaron.

  Aaron saw no sign of Eric.

  "Mister Turner saved me," Ann Flinders sobbed into Flo's shoulder. "I thought I was going to die."

  "It's all right child," Flo murmured to Ann. Her eyes rose to meet Aaron's. A mixture of emotions ran across her face, compassion, sadness, hate, anger; all of them jumbled and confused.

  "This one here is a bloody savage," a woman shouted, pointing at Wanee.

  Somebody stood before Aaron. Flo? Mistress Turnbull? Aaron did not know.

  Fingers snapped in his face several times. A head lowered and a woman peered into his eyes. "You're in shock. Are you going to be okay?"

  Of course not, Aaron thought. I just shot people. I invaded their flesh with bullets from my gun. I killed people.

  Shaking her head, she stood erect and spoke to Jorrin. "This one needs watching."

  The woman left only to be replaced by Sarah.

  "You and I need to talk," Sarah said. "You have some explaining to do."

  "Later," Aaron managed.

  "Later, then. Don't think you're going to get out of it."

  Aaron looked at her grim face, seeing warrior hard and executioner mean. Her eyes held no humor. Looking into those eyes, Aaron saw justice and outrage and a desire to rip and tear apart those who had damaged the people in her charge.

  He knew exactly how she felt. Part of the darkness residing in her clutched at his heart and mind. Sarah was a killer just as he had discovered himself to be. She was just better at it because she had more practice.

  She was better than him at a lot of things. Looking into her eyes he saw that she remained alive inside. The essence of her was neither scared nor frightened while she dealt with the consequences of the killing. She exuded vibrant rage while he felt like the dead shadow of a hollow man. He felt like thin skin wrapped around a brittle and empty shell.

  Chapter 11

  Late on Sunday morning, Aaron left his store to find that Last Chance was a changed town. People headed for church, but they were quiet as they did so. Their usual cheerful gossip and chatter was missing. In fact, an unnatural hush hung over the entire street, except when small groups stopped outside the bank and talked. Watching them, Aaron saw many of these spit contemptuously on the bodies that still hung. Someone had cleaned the blood from the boardwalk, but a red stain remained, and the heavy smell of released feces was strong enough to ride the breeze to Aaron's store.

  Aaron walked carefully because stitches in his back pulled painfully. His eyes burned. He felt wooden, sleep deprived, and conscience driven. People looked at him strangely; only two ventured to say hello. Appearing wary, the rest took one look at his face and hurried by. He crossed the street, feeling like a mechanical puppet pulling on its own strings. Sedate, quiet, Bun peeked out of the kitchen when he opened the inn's door. She waved at him though her lips held a worried frown. Aaron tried to find the energy, the decency to respond, but he could find nothing inside himself except the need to mechanically follow through on his habitual routine.

  Plodding one slow step after another, he passed one table of regular diners and then another table of morning visitors who ceased talking as he passed. He walked until he reached his accustomed table. His chair was gone, but a stool had been set in its place, something Aaron only took note of in a faraway distant sort of way. Perhaps someone trying to be thoughtful of his wounded back? He supposed he should be grateful, but that emotion was far too active for him to draw forth. Quietly, he sat on the stool, careful not to stretch and pull at his stitches. Flo rushed over to him.

  "How do you feel?"

  "Numb," he answered, looking up at her. "I feel very, very numb. I sat up all night waiting for it to hit me, but there was nothing. I know I'm supposed to cry or throw up again or something, but I can't do any of it. I've no emotions at all, Mistress Halfax. When I saw those two men hanging out there just now I thought, Aaron Turner, one of those men is the one you killed."

  "You did not kill him, Mister Turner. My hand was on the rope that pulled both of them up so I know. They were alive when we started."

  "I killed him," Aaron insisted, "and maybe the others too. If I hadn't acted they would have left with Ann, and then Ann would have come back. I don't even know why I did it. I don't remember." He fel
t haunted.

  After quietly pulling out a chair, Flo sat down and held his hand. "We heard you when we were outside. I don't know what made that loud noise, but we heard you. You screamed, Mister Turner. You yelled something about no child being hurt while you watched. They would have killed Ann, sir. They would have raped her, and then they would have cut her throat, only they didn't because you were there. Besides, one of those men we killed, he was a murdering savage from over the pass who put on civilized clothes to come spy on us. Them people were more than just bank robbing murderers, Mister Turner. There's trouble coming soon with the natives. In my opinion, we probably saved a bunch of lives by killing one of their spies."

  Senseless. Her words entered his head, but he could not understand them. They were hollow, empty, meaningless. The only word that made sense was a name.

  "How is she? How is Ann?"

  "Quiet. She stayed home today," Flo gently said. "I looked her over, and she wasn't hurt beyond a few bruises and some scrapes."

  Aaron grunted. A distant part of him was grateful the girl was well. Another part of him saw Ann and Flo and every other person in the entire town as caricatures of real people. They were shadows and ghosts and figments that drifted around him but did not settle into his mind. Characters on a stage, they waited for their director, for General Field to come and tell them how to move. They were victims waiting for Aaron Turner to welcome the devil in to destroy their lives.

  Flo tightened her fingers, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I've seen it in you, Mister Turner. I've seen it, and I love you for it. Children and women, they feel safe near you. You protect them, care for them. Look at how you jumped to Ann's defense that one day. Like a lion you were, and then when the danger to her was over you backed down because you didn't care about your own pride. Everyone knows about you. Some of us have tried to look out for you."

  Her words held no meaning. He thanked her when she rose, and he thanked an uncharacteristically somber Missy when she brought his food. Moving mechanically, he built a wall of unassailable silence. After an interminable time he finished eating and sat staring at the wall, lost in thought and memory. A shifting foot rubbed against the wood floor. A voice coughed quietly.