by Amity Green
“Such a shame,” a man said softly, in the doorway.
Jim spun, startled to his feet. “Who are you? What business do you have in my house, and with my wife?” His voice rose to a scream. “How did you get in? Get out!”
“You’ve every right to be angry,” the gentleman intoned, obviously not a very recent arrival from Britain, but not droll in tongue like an American. “Please, allow me to help.” The man straightened his finely tailored jacket.
Jim took a shaky breath, a little embarrassed at his outburst. “My apologies. Are you from the doctor’s office? What is your name, sir?”
“Titles are such trifling cordialities.” The man shook his head with pity. “She was beautiful, and was taken from you.” He waved a hand slowly, gesturing to Marybelle. “Wrath is nothing, if not appropriately placed,” he stated, with a nod. Not a black hair moved, impeccably parted, combed and oiled. His gaze moved to the discarded Bible.
“Wrath?” Jim balled a fist. “What do you know? Have you shared my position in this?” He paced close, eye level. Scowling, he swallowed hard. The man smelled as if he’d wallowed with the dead, despite a clean, pressed suit of clothes. “By all that’s Holy, you’ve come to the wrong house. Now, leave, or you shall know of my wrath first hand.”
“Is the fault mine, then?” the stranger replied, not shaken by the advance. “Who is it that has failed? Not I, who has only seen from a distance … and not merely you, who has given everything to provide care for her. You’ve done what you believed to be best.”
Jim sobbed through gritted teeth, not bothering to fight shame.
“You sacrificed her health when you should have kept her home.” He tilted his head, gaze scrutinizing. “I find faith fascinating. Entertaining. Is God worth this?” He glanced at the bloodied bed. “Marybelle was let down by a being who put no stock in her existence. One who would lose nothing if she passed. One who was merely inconvenienced by every breath she managed.”
“How dare you blaspheme the Holy Father?”
The man laughed. “Well let’s have an all-powerful cure then.” He leaned against the doorway. “Go on. Pray for God to save your good wife.”
Scowling, Jim wiped tears and snot away with a sleeve. He glanced to the Bible and back at the stranger.
“Please, go ahead.” Scorn softened to pity in the man’s voice.
After a moment, Jim responded, trembling. He examined the intruder. “The Angel of Death assumes to enlighten me, then?”
“Dear James Lee Witcher, I am not the Angel of Death.”
Jim glanced at Mary, her thin, pale features lax, no longer strained for shallow breath. “She was everything. I’ll follow my beloved as surely as the sun follows the moon. Certainly the Heavenly Father can make exception for his broken child.”
“He has His rules. Follow that path and your soul shall perish. There is still life to be lived. I will show you.”
“Leave me! There is no life here.”
“You would take your own life? The worst of sins against Him?”
Jim didn’t answer, just looked away.
“As you will.” The stranger pulled the door closed behind him.
“If you’re a thief, be my guest!” Jim screamed at the door. “I’ll see you in hell!”
Marybelle’s eyes remained fixed where he’d knelt beside the bed, blue gaze clouding by the moment, life stolen away. It was true. He’d done everything he could, but gave in, granting his wife what killed her.
* * *
Stepping from his Tin Lizzie and into the sights of Jim’s rifle, the doctor met his fate, Jim taking the place of judge, jury and executioner. Jim Witcher couldn’t put a bullet in the breast of God, but by God it felt damned fine to let the good doctor take the hit. The shallow click of the cartridge snapping into place resounded from low clouds. No other would lose a loved one because of negligence from the uncaring bastard.
Any unlikely passers-by would know of the dead man’s failing. Jim hung the doctor’s slim body neatly from the lofty, wrought-iron headgate leading onto the estate, perfectly centered beneath the name “Witcher.” There was no way to punish the Almighty for the death of Marybelle, but the good doctor had also let her down.
There was no reason to wait out spring. Jim looked to the sky. Indeed, the sun followed the moon.
The hanging corpse froze in the mountain chill, remaining a fixture for the best part of the month of November.
* * *
Pierce Allan preferred the assuring gait of a horse over that of an automobile, any day. He’d been the sheriff of Teller County for nineteen months and twenty-six days the day he rode out to investigate the claim of a dead man hanging above a residential gate on the outskirts of town. Surely the call was hokum, but it was a dandy excuse for a ride.
The fresh-shod horse beneath him eased into a smooth lope once the busier streets of town were behind him. Older, burned and abandoned buildings and homes mingled on the outer blocks of Victor, some families or business owners having the ability to rebuild after the Great Fire a couple decades back, and others victimized and cashed out by the combination of the loss of their homes and the falling price of gold. They’d left a boneyard of foundations in memory. Pierce didn’t dismay. He huffed and spit a long stream of tobacco colored saliva from the seasoned groove in his bottom lip. Hell, Victor had the sort of spirit that didn’t die out during the iciest of winters. The flames of hell wouldn’t keep her down forever.
He pulled back with slight, gentle pressure on the reins of the hackamore. The big mare snorted and tossed her head just a bit to testify her disapproval of his decision to slow down. She kept up a high-tailed prancing trot, proud ears pricked forward. Pierce removed a glove and leaned across the pommel, patting the damp fur of her neck. That sort of spirit couldn’t be found sitting on his ass driving a motor car.
“Ho, now. We gotta a ways to go today, Lady.” They’d head about seven miles down Phantom Canyon, and the horse would need her energy to carry his weight and also to keep warm throughout the day. He slid his fingers inside the glove, pulled his hat lower, and popped the collar on his lined, riding duster, settling in against the chill. The storm had crept up quick and uninvited. Maybe he should just let the mare do like she wanted and run herself stupid, just to get there, check out the claim, which was likely a big pile of horse shit. Then again, maybe he should have just rode bareback to share warmth with his horse. He’d talked himself out of that, preferring to ride with a scabbard mounted to his saddle, rather than hanging across his shoulder or back all day. It was a toss-up. He huffed and spit again. Either way, he wouldn’t let Lady hurt herself, even if it was only a couple hours walk each way.
True to form, the Colorado weather shifted from clear morning frost to sunshine, then to sleet halfway through the trip. Fog barreled at him from ahead, heavily laden with icy snow. By the time they made the headgate to the old Witcher Place, where sure as hell hung a corpse, a layer of powder dry snow covered the road.
“I’ll be damned.” The corpse’s blackened face was about eye level with his own.
“Poor son-of-a-bitch,” Pierce muttered as he swung down. Reins in one hand, he approached and grabbed one of the cadaver’s legs. “Correction. Poor, frozen son-of-a-bitch.”
Lady snorted and danced in place. Wind drove blasts of snow to form drifts next to a Model T on the roadside.
“He ain’t gonna bite ya, girl,” he said, and secured the mare a few feet away by wrapping the reins around the top rail of property fence. Pierce locked both arms around the corpse’s knees, lifted to free the dead man’s coat from the top of the “T” in “Witcher,” then lowered the small, rigid man to the snow. Soft tissue was either removed by animals or withdrawn, revealing empty, pecked out sockets and bared, but impeccable white teeth. Crow and magpie droppings hung thick across the man’s coat and the tips of his fancy shoes. His linen shirt was shredded from beak marks, flesh removed to show ribs gleaming from darkened skin and muscle. A slug was
embedded in the man’s sternum, but that wasn’t what killed him. He’d been shot far more than one time, and the wounds were stripped clean down to bone. He only found the one bullet and decided that was enough evidence to let the poor man rest.
Frisking the corpse to make short-work of the job and get back to town before the storm hit hard, Pierce pulled several things from the pockets of the jacket, including an envelope containing an invoice sheet from a Physician Robert McKinley for one “James Witcher” for the “Care of wife Marybelle (tuber).” A neatly rolled and bound stethoscope in a wooden case, a pouch containing dried apple slices, and a pen were all placed inside Peirce’s saddle bags to take back as evidence to identify the dead man. No mystery there. Shoulda brought a damned motor car to haul the stiff.
The sheriff sighed, turning toward the house where no smoke came from the chimney and snow continued to fall across an untraveled path. Now for the fun part. Although the murderer likely fled, he still had to investigate the house. And just because it looked empty didn’t mean it was. He led Lady to the porch, where he fastened her lead.
“Sheriff,” he called, banging on the door. He repeated himself. Lady bobbed her head, nickering.
“Well, if you say so.” Pierce tried the door handle, which opened easily into a mudroom with a main entry hanging wide open into a richly furnished home. “Hello? Sheriff Allan here,” he yelled, fingering the straps loose for his forty-five. He inhaled to call out again, filling his lungs with rancid air tainted by decaying flesh.
“Dammit.” The house was cold, and if not for the impressive number of glass windows it would have been dark, too. Grey light coated the interior. Pierce thanked all that was good he wasn’t the type to spook easy and trudged through the kitchen and den. Finding no source of the smell, he started upstairs to search the bedrooms.
A dead gal, a lady, was in a bed in the first room he came to. He covered his mouth with a gloved hand and bent to get a look at who had to have been “Marybelle”, according to the doctor’s note. Black streaks and splattered drops coated her lacy bedding.
Tuber. Pierce fought his gag reflex. He’d seen them before and all the poor folks ended up emaciated and bloody.
Knobby cheekbones seemed to make up the majority of what time had left of her face. Blonde hair twisted into feverish piles around her head like a frayed halo. A gold cross on a chain rested against a protruding sternum, barely disguised by a blouse of finely crafted lace and rich linen. Frail, boney fingers were adorned with gold. An overwhelming sadness gripped Pierce from the inside. She had been someone’s everything, this Marybelle Witcher. He raised up and removed his hat in respect. “God bless ya, sweet lady.”
A Bible lie on the floor, probably cast from a hand of whoever sat in a chair by the head of the bed. He couldn’t place blame. Watching the poor woman suffocate, feeling helpless … those were the kinds of thing that could make a God-fearing man lose faith. He reached for the Bible and placed it beneath the lady’s hand.
Outside the bedroom, he took a grounding breath and got to the business of searching the place for James Witcher. Insane from the death of his wife or not, the man had the law to reckon with. He’d go easy on him, but he had a job to do. The doctor wasn’t to blame for the condition of his wife. Pierce descended the steps quickly, putting his hat on.
“James Witcher?” he called.
Continuing the search, Pierce nearly gave up until he went back to the kitchen and looked out a window. The house was empty. Peering outside, he groaned. A huge barn and a couple of other small outbuildings would have to be searched, as well. Had he put any stock into the report of the corpse hanging outside, he would have brought along some help. Hell, maybe he should have sent out a couple deputies and kept himself and Lady inside, where it was warm and there were no poor, dead women layin’ around.
“Dammit.”
A door led to the backyard, so he stepped outside and walked toward the barn. The damned storm was socked in good, the snow growing heavier and wetter by the minute. A breeze kicked up, twisting the fall of the flakes before they found the ground. Wind hissed quietly through a grove of aspens behind the barn. Above the soft huff of the wind, a dull creaking sound beat, drum-steady.
Pierce turned his good ear to the noise, taking a tentative step toward it. “Sheriff, here. Hello?” The wind blew harder, upgrading from a breeze to a slight, gusting gale. The creaking grew louder and faster with the wind as he plodded against a growing barrage of pine needles and dried leaves. He looked up to the treetops that protruded above the top of the barn. Stark, white-skinned aspens rocked with the wind, their black eyes watching him from marks where deer and elk had knocked off small, lower limbs. Step by step, he got closer and the noise got louder. Snow gathered in his mustache, melting quickly, so he couldn’t tell if his nose was running from the cold or if he’d soon be a snowman.
The wind wasn’t pounding as hard, partially blocked by the barn wall. The howling was just as loud though, and it was darker behind the building, the ground sheltered from most of the snow where the trees blocked out the sky. The creaking came from overhead, just inside the barn. A gilt clasp held the barn closed with unexpected stability for something seeming to be mainly for decoration.
“Damned British,” Pierce grumbled. “Everything’s gotta be all fancy and made o’ pure gold.” The snow turned to pelting ice balls while he worked at getting the barn door open. Finally, cold hinges squealed when both doors flung open with a mean gust from the storm.
“Thank ya, Jesus.” He stumbled inside, squinting to see through dust clouds as thick as stew. The creaking grew to a scream. He tipped back, one hand on the top of his hat, peering into the rafters. He spun, searching, stepping in a ways, blinking snow out of his eyes. The back of his head, shoulders, and his hand smacked hard against an upright post. He pulled his arm down, shaking the sting out of it when wood snapped overhead, sounding a lot like a blast from a rifle. Pierce glanced up as a black figure plummeted from above.
A dead man crumbled to the ground like a gunny sack full of frozen cord wood. A heavy logging rope trailed down behind him, striking Pierce hard on one shoulder and then on top the head, knocking him to the ground. He rolled over to face what came down from the rafters. The force of the fall had snapped the man’s jaw loose from where it faced him, just inches from his nose. Blackened flesh was torn and pulled, half eaten in places. The corpse’s neck wasn’t broke, the noose pulled tight to a suffocating choker around his throat. Leathered skin coated a boney skull, sunken against a fractured eye socket. The torn up face was an inch over the line of too close for comfort.
“Sumbitch!”
Scrambling from beneath a spaghetti plate of fallen rope, Pierce found his frozen feet, then the path to the house and didn’t stop running until he freed his mare’s reins from the porch rail and launched into the saddle. Enough was enough. He’d send around deputies to clean up the mess.
Lady bobbed her head, fighting the reins as she trotted out of the Witchers’ front yard, and Sheriff Pierce Allan acquiesced, giving the mare her head to run all the way back to Victor, if she pleased.
“Damned, dumb son-of-a-bitch didn’t even know how to hang himself!”
* * *
The next day Pierce alerted the Federal Marshal’s office to take the case and research the Witchers’ next of kin. The task wasn’t simple, and ran on for weeks. Relatives across the Atlantic were hard to find, and those that did reply to correspondence weren’t interested in a tuberculosis-ridden estate in the mountains of rural America, gold or none. The property was signed over to a land trust and Pierce closed the case and stayed a good, safe distance from the Witcher Place for the rest of his days.
Except for a nice flat of fertile meadow beyond the south garden where Timothy hay and thin, high-country wheat grew to be baled each fall, the property was left standing vacant for over seventy years. Tales of frost-ridden corpses dangling in a fall breeze circulated the district, becoming legend and fodder
for kids’ stories around campfires. Some believed. Most didn’t put stock in such stories, yet kept well clear of the house of death.
* * *
Rebecca Caleman fought the confinement of her quilts, as she’d done for nearly two weeks at the ranch on the Shelf Road. Some nights Charlie would stand death-still, staring at her cat painting and then come to her with his eyes black as night while the others slept. When he left her she’d lie awake, waiting, wondering how his children would fare if she gutted him when he came for her next time. Sleep didn’t come amidst the flood of tears that lasted until dawn most nights.
She kicked free of her sheets, panting. The smell of bacon frying next to a strong brew of coffee drifted into her room. The façade of normalcy was too much to bear any longer. She choked back a scream, but for only a moment.
“Take it down!” She ran into the kitchen, hitting Charlie with her fists. He grabbed one flailing arm.
“Take him out of here,” she begged, pointing to the fireplace with her free hand. “Burn it!” she cried.
“What, Becca?” he asked.
“My picture, please,” she wailed. “The cat … he comes from there. It’s all my fault. Don’t you see?”
Charlie pulled the painting from above the hearth and set it aside while his wife tried to calm Rebecca.
“Burn it!” Rebecca screamed.
Charlie consoled her gently. “I’m not going to do that, Becca. You’ll hate it if I do. I’ll just put it away and when you feel better you’ll be wantin’ me to hang it again.”
“No, no,” she cried, watching him leave the room. Her sister-in-law pulled her back toward her bedroom. “I drew it. I brought it here. It’s my fault, please … burn it.”
***
Chapter 3
Independence, Colorado
March, 1988
Family life at the old ranch on the Shelf Road was a test for Jack and Caroline Caleman. Jack’s great aunt, Rebecca, who had twice attempted to burn the Caleman Ranch to the ground, required a babysitter that was strong enough to hold the old girl back from sharp objects and hunting rifles. Rebecca whispered to herself about deserving to die, and when suicide failed, she openly admitted she’d take them all with her when she “went”.
