Katherine

by S. A. Glenn

  “No, sir. She’s not here. Still haven’t seen her.”

  He froze for a second, processing her words—then he shot up the staircase to see for himself. Coming back down at a snail’s pace, he was in deep thought, trying to imagine where she was—then he sped out the door, riding west out of town.

  Pulling up to the mansion, he dashed up the stairs, slamming the knocker several times against the door. Moments later, the door abruptly opened. Louis Pierre stood there with fire in his eyes. “What in God’s name is going on?”

  “My wife! Is she here?”

  Louis Pierre calmed himself as the stared at Samuel’s gun in its holster. “No, Monsieur Simms.”

  “She better not be.” Samuel searched past the man into the mansion. “She wasn’t at home when I got back from the field last night.”

  “Calm down, Monsieur Simms. Let us think things through. I assume you checked the restaurant and saloon?”

  “She’s not at either place.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with her?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Did she seem alright?” he asked, probably wondering if she had given away their secret.

  “She was a bit distant in her thoughts. Why do you ask?”

  “Just trying to help,” he responded, acting like he had gotten away with something.

  “When’s the last time you spoke with her?”

  “I have not spoken to her nor have I seen her since the night at the saloon when you left her there. Perhaps she is upset with you and is staying with a friend.”

  “No! Things are fine between us!” Samuel declared. Then doubt was placed into his mind, asking within himself if maybe she was upset with him. Samuel turned and walked to his horse, too involved in his worries to say another word to the Frenchman.

  The millionaire stood silently at the door, showing a look of slyness.

  Samuel searched many places, finding not a hair of Katherine. He returned to the saloon and sat in the corner at his wife’s favorite table, staring at the piano, hearing the phantom sounds of the keys being played by her. Many questions ran through his mind: Where is she? Why is she there? Is she mad at me? Is she okay? Did someone hurt her? Then he jolted up, a look of horror shrouded his face. “What if I blacked out and did something unspeakable to her?” he quietly asked himself. “Oh, God! What did I do?! Should I go to the marshal? No! I can’t do that—I’ll get hanged! But maybe I deserve that! Am I to be blamed for Kat’s disappearance? Bartender! Bring me a shot of whiskey!” he demanded, sweat running down his nose, his hands shaking from rattled nerves. He stayed in the corner drinking shot after shot, waiting for Katherine to show up. She never came.

  The next morning Samuel woke up with a splitting headache, groggy. Not having shaved for days, Katherine’s vanishing had robbed him of his sanity. He grabbed a bottle of wine he had stashed away and headed out to the porch, the intense sunlight aggravating his hangover. Sitting on the shaded stoop, he guzzled the Syrah, feeling hangdog about his wife.

  Not being able to sit still, he forced the cork into the bottle and headed to town to search for Katherine. He hunted for her at the usual places, finding no sign of her. He visited the general store and bought tobacco. Rolling a few cigarettes, he lit one up and inhaled his first puff in years. Letting out the smoke, it calmed him with a blast of nicotine.

  He went door to door to the businesses and homes, inquiring about his wife, but nobody had seen her. With his hopeless desperation, he trekked down the wooden sidewalk and took a deep breath as he reached for the knob on the only door he hadn’t gone through. Opening the portal, his eyes greeted the other man’s stare.

  “Mr. Simms! What may I do for you?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Marshal.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s my wife.”

  “Is she okay?” he inquired, coming around from behind his desk.

  “I don’t reckon I know, sir. Haven’t seen her since Saturday morning. I asked everyone in town, even went to the Pierre mansion, but nobody’s seen her. I don’t what else to do.” Samuel plopped down onto a wooden bench, his head in his hands.

  “Was there anything going on out of the ordinary when you last saw her?”

  “We found out she’s with child. And she seemed to be worried about something when we last spoke, but she told me it was nothing then smiled and hurried me off to work.”

  The marshal took hold of his holster and wrapped it around his waist, securing it. “Let’s head out to your place. I need to look around.”

  He and Samuel walked the grounds of the Simms’s place, finding nothing out of the norm. Moving into the house, the marshal checked every room, as well as the cellar and discovered nothing peculiar. He shut the cellar door then headed back outside.

  Marshal Epp climbed onto his horse. “I’ll speak to the folks in town, Mr. Simms. If I hear anything I’ll let you know. And if you find Katherine let me know. In the meantime stay focused on your work. No need for you to let this fine place you’ve got here turn to ruins,” he explained.

  “Yes, sir. And thank you.”

  Samuel headed out to the field. He worked for a couple of hours, a glimmer of hope in his heart that Katherine would come back to him, that she was okay and was only mad at him for something. But the thing was he couldn’t figure out what that ‘something’ was. Maybe it was that it was that time of the month, as she would put it—whatever that meant—when she was kind of cranky and would yell. But why would she leave? Where would she go? And how could she do this to him? Well, whatever the reason or reasons were, it sure hurt him. It hurt like salt on a wound. But it was more like losin your best friend and having her tell you that she never loved you, that it was all a big joke, and that she hated you and never wanted to see you again—yeah, that’s what it felt like. If only he knew what he had done wrong, he could then fix it so she would return.

  He couldn’t get her out of his mind, though. His thoughts were all jumbled up with worry and misery. His emotions took away his faith. He needed help. “A bottle of whiskey, my old friend, that’s what I need,” he said to the desolate and still night. Then with a howl he begged aloud out into the twilight. “Kaaathhheeerinnne. Please, don’t leave me.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The days dragged along, and Samuel neglected everything in his life. Without Katherine his will to survive was gone. The house was dirty and was infested with rats. He had been shooting at them. Their decaying bodies spoiled the air—he was used to the smell of death.

  Jacob Reynolds stopped by to check up on Samuel, worried about his dearest friend. Jacob had been covering Samuel’s work load, aware of his mental conflict. “Come on, buddy. Snap out of it,” said Jacob, resting his hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “I need help at work, Sam. I can’t do it all alone.”

  Samuel took a slug of whiskey and stared out at the cold, lone land in a daze. “Doesn’t Kat care about me, J.R.? She knows how much I love her, that I need her. And what about our young one? Why’s she doing this to me? Or maybe it’s God doing this to me. He hates me. He doesn’t want me to be happy. Maybe I’ll just hate Him back—if He even exists!”

  “Come on, man, don’t talk like that. I don’t know what to say, Sam… except that… that I’m sorry.”

  Samuel was too lost in his anguish to hear his friend’s compassion. Lighting up a cigarette, he dwelled on the past, stuck in it, bringing himself more angst. “Kat said we’d go out swimming again, that she’d teach me how to swim. But she never did. She still has to teach me how to swim. And then there’s the donkey named Frank, and Clifford who sold me the ring. I was ashamed about where I got it and how much I paid for it. I don’t know if Kat really believed me. I told her about it when we were fighting. I wanted to tell her again where I got it when we were loving each other, but I kept puttin
g it off. Kat taught me how to speak proper English, also. I have to find her, tell her everything I’ve neglected telling her.” He stood and grabbed J.R. by the shoulders. “Oh, my God. I’m going crazy! I have to find Katherine, make things right between us!” He bounded off toward his horse, riding out under the darkening, chilled sky, not in his right mind.

  After a few hours of searching for Katherine—but not in the physical realm—in his loving memories, he ceased his inner quest, finding himself at the saloon. Nobody recognized his disheveled appearance with his beard and long, scraggly hair. He ordered two shots, took them to the corner table and sat there in the dark. He viewed Fréderic stroll in with his limp and checkered trousers, sitting at the table next to him. Lighting up a smoke, Samuel witnessed a shady looking man sit next to Fréderic.

  The shifty man in his double-breasted topcoat wrapped around him tight and his dirty, worn-out cowboy hat pulled close to his eyes, reached into his pocket, pulled out something and slid it over to Fréderic. “Got no buyer for this right yet,” he told Fréderic with a raspy voice. The man removed his hand from the item.

  Samuel got a glimpse of it before Fréderic grasped it and dropped it into his fur-lined overcoat pocket. Samuel’s eyes grew large as his hand reached for his gun at the heart-stopping sight. Keeping his composure as he waited for Fréderic to part with the gent, he poured back his last shot and finished his cigarette.

  Moments later Fréderic excused himself from his visitor and made his way out the door. Samuel followed him to the carriage and stood behind the butler. “Where’d you get that?!” demanded Samuel.

  “Pardon wa, monsieur,” he answered with his heavy French accent. Fréderic turned to the man behind him.

  “That… in your pocket!”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” Fréderic told the unknown man as he turned away and climbed up to the driver’s seat. “I really do not see that it is any of your business, monsieur!” he declared, reaching for a gun.

  “Huh uh uh! Put your hands up!” Samuel demanded with his gun at Fréderic’s back.

  Hearing the sound of a trigger cocked, Fréderic moved his hand slowly away from his piece and placed his hands over his head. “What is this about, my good man? I am sure we can settle this like gentlemen.” Fréderic was quite nervous, but didn’t show it, always keeping himself in control, forever dominating his business interactions. He turned to Samuel and looked him in the eye.

  “Yeah, we’re going to settle this alright,” Samuel told him, a bit of a slur in his words. He grabbed Fréderic’s gun and tucked it into his trousers. Reaching into Frederic’s overcoat pocket, his gun pointed at the man’s chest, he pulled out the precious symbol of his and Katherine’s eternal love. Taking a close look at the item to make sure it was what he thought it was, he became enraged, eyes fiery, teeth grinding. Bringing his gun up to Fréderic’s forehead, he pushed the tip of the barrel hard against his temple. Holding his open hand in Fréderic’s view, he declared, “I will ask you one last time: where did you get this?!”

  Fréderic recognized the gun pointed at his head. “Monsieur Simms?” he presumed, looking into his familiar blue eyes. Playing it cool, he smiled and said, “I got it from your wife.”

  “Why do you have it?!”

  “She did not need it any longer.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You know where she is! Where is she?”

  “I will take you to her.”

  Samuel and Fréderic took Fréderic’s coupe, Samuel’s gun’s point shoved into the butler’s ribs as the butler drove. Heading south out of town, the carriage turned onto the road that led to the Simms’s place. Samuel became confused, thinking it was some sort of a trick. “My wife’s not here. You think I’m a fool?”

  “But she is, Monsieur Simms.”

  Pulling up to the front of the house, Fréderic stopped the horse, set the break, and waited.

  Samuel jumped down off the seat, his gun pointed at Fréderic. “Come on down off there, and show me where she is.”

  Fréderic carefully climbed down, straightened out his overcoat and smiled as he spoke. “This way, Monsieur Simms.” Fréderic, with his slow limp, led Samuel around to the back of the house and stood at the door that was wide open.

  “Now where?” demanded Samuel.

  “Inside. Down the stairs, Monsieur Simms.”

  Samuel grabbed a lantern hanging off the handle of a shovel that was leaning against the outside wall. Wondering why the shovel was not in its place in the barn, he quickly dismissed the mindful inquiry as he struck a match and lit the wick, baffled that the marshal had checked down there but did not find Katherine. He thought to himself about how the cellar was the only place he himself never checked. Deciding Fréderic must have put her down there just lately, having her tied up and gagged, he said, “You better not have hurt her, you bastard!” He pushed the Frenchman forward.

  Ruff was at the bottom of the stairs, clawing at the crack under the cellar door.

  As Samuel and Fréderic reached the last stair, Samuel ordered, “Open the damn door!”

  “My pleasure, Monsieur Simms.” Fréderic took hold of the door latch. As he opened the hatch the hinges made a creepy, creaking sound. A putrid odor escaped, dead rats were lying around.

  Ruff scampered in and began digging into the dirt at the center of the cellar. Fréderic and Samuel entered the room, the lantern lit up the place, giving off eerie-shaped shadows living on the walls.

  Samuel looked around, finding no sign of his wife. “What kind of a game are you playing, man?” asked Samuel, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket, igniting it with the lamp then setting down the light source.

  “The kind I like to win, Monsieur Simms.”

  “You think you’re so damn smart? Better than I am? Where is my wife?” he demanded, hitting Fréderic on the head with the butt of his gun.

  Fréderic fell to his knees, still smiling, stoic with his physical pain. Making his way back to his feet, he said, “I am very good at what I do. I know how to take care of my affairs… unlike you. Your wife became a problem… just like the others.”

  “What are you talking about, you lunatic?”

  Frederic explained everything. “When I was young, about seven years of age, my mère used to love me in ways not normal. After I would get home from school, she would have me massage her tired muscles from her hard day’s work in the vineyards. Starting with her neck, she had me work my way down her body, ending at her feet. She would lie on the floor as I touched her, her hand on one of her breasts; the other, between her legs, moaning with pleasure. I once told her ‘no’ and she took a stick to me, breaking my kneecap. Since then, I always did as told.

  “At nightfall, she would crawl into bed with me, unclothed,” he went on. “At that point, I knew I would receive a scolding and a brutal attack if I did not immediately remove my wear. Next, I was to begin kissing her, starting at her lips, moving down her neck to her teats. There, I was to suckle both of them till she forced my head down to her wet self, making me satisfy her. She would always complement me on how good of a lover I was, all of this took place under the covers so the crucifix on my wall could not witness the defilement. This happened every day and night until I was fifteen, till I could go on with it no more. I hated that nefarious ill-tempered, abusive, woman—I cut her throat as she slept, watched the blood gush freely from her as I held her hand, telling her with a joyous grin how much I loved her as she gazed back at me, trying to speak, her words garbled by the blood oozing from her damn mouth!” he forced out with anger, a singular, evil smile erupting from his face.

  Samuel stood quietly, in disrespectful fear of what he had been told.

  “Then there was the next one,” Fréderic continued, calm and collected now, his French accent heavier, “Madame Emily Cromwell. Being another conniv
ing female, I knew it not to be long before she became snide and crippled my master’s emotions. She had to be dealt with.” His smile was captured by a detestable snarl, leaving only a glazed-over glare of his eyes. “I slashed open her rotten throat, her blood was warm and sticky. I took her jewelry. She did not deserve such glamour! I found Madame Cromwell’s diary, hid it: she would have exposed everything.”

  Samuel got a chill down his spine from the confession as he gazed down at Ruff raking through the earth. Looking back up at Frederic, he listened onward.

  “And, of course, Madame, Sara Jones. She brought the most pain of all to Monsieur Pierre. She made him hurt himself—he cut off his little finger in his despair with her—but I took care of her as well.” His face became emotionless, an ocean of insanity spewed out of his mouth as he continued his words. “I left the mansion with my six-shooter after Monsieur Pierre went to sleep, hunting for my prey. I pulled up next to her. She was so thrilled to see me, to give her a ride into town. I wanted to kill her right where she stood, but I did not. I decided to toy with her like she did with Monsieur Pierre in the heated discussion they had just before she rudely left his presence.

  “I climbed down off the cabriolet and opened the door for her. She smiled and told me how kind I was, that I was a lifesaver. And as soon as she turned her back to me, I pulled out my gun and hit her over the head with it, knocking her out cold. I tied her up, placed her inside the carriage and drove off to the lake. By the time I got there, she had come to, wiggling about. I dragged her outside and untied her. With my gun pointed at her, she begged me to tell her why I was doing this to her. ‘Please, Fréderic, please,’ she said to me, praying with her hands as she fell to her knees—I laughed at her,” Fréderic chuckled. “What a hussy she was,” he declared, spitting on the ground to show his contempt for her. “Then I told her to walk into the water, waist deep—she did as I said—God, that was so exhilarating. I commanded her to turn to me so I could see her tears, her fears—then I ordered her to bend over and place her head under the water. ‘You can either drown yourself or be shot. It is your choice, Madame Jones,’ I made it perfectly clear to her. She cried her pathetic, little eyes out, pleading with me, ‘please, please, Fréderic, I want to live!’ Then I told her, ‘you have till the count of three, then I will make the decision for you.’ Then I cocked my gun, pointed it at her chest. ‘Why’re you doing this to me?’ she asked me again. ‘Because you treated Monsieur Pierre like a helpless little boy. You took advantage of him, touching him all over—you played him for a fool!’ I made her understand. ‘No, no! It’s not like that. Just listen to me, Fréderic,’ she solicited me. Hee hee hee,” Fréderic laughed. “I then started counting: one, two, th—then her head went under. She must have endured the lack of oxygen for three minutes—then she came up and I put a bullet into her heart. ‘Oh, Madame Jones,’ I called out with concern, reaching for her, ‘let me help you…’ She put out her hand as she fell dead, face down into the lake. I had to cover up for Monsieur Pierre’s temper.”