by Bill Bright
Still no response.
The boy could be asleep.
Asa opened the door quietly. “Daniel?”
He poked his head in. “Daniel?”
The bed was rumpled but empty. The room chilled. Asa pushed the door open and stepped in. The lamp beside the bed lit the room with a cozy light.
The reason for both the lack of response and the chill became clear in an instant. The window was open. The wind rustled the curtains.
Asa knew instant rage. He could feel it fill his head and color his face. His chest heaving, he charged toward the window and looked out.
Everything was dark and still.
Not a sign of his nephew.
“Daniel Cooper!” he bellowed, frightening some birds pecking the frozen ground.
“Daniel!”
The night was still.
Slapping the sill with the flat of his hand, Asa pulled his head back inside. He slammed the window shut, locked it, extinguished the lamp beside the bed, and closed the door on the dark room.
Camilla was waiting for him when he returned to the bedroom. “What happened? I heard shouting.”
Asa kicked off his shoes and began readying himself for bed. “The boy didn’t want to talk.”
Outside his bedroom window, high in the tree, Daniel heard his uncle rap on the bedroom door and call his name. He heard his uncle’s cane strike the floor as he crossed the room and from on high saw his uncle stick his head out the window and bellow his name.
Daniel started to call down to him but thought better of it. The man was obviously in one of his moods.
The window slammed shut. Daniel heard it lock and saw the light in the room go out. The only way he could get back into the house now would be to break the window or go to the front of the house, knock on the door, and hope his uncle would give Aunt Camilla permission to let him in.
It looked like he was stuck outside for the night.
Just as well.
Afraid to close his eyes, he’d come outside to stay awake and think. Bracing himself in the crook of a tree limb, he scraped the last of Braxton’s blood from his recorder and fought the urge to gag. With a shiver of revulsion, he wiped the last of the blood from his fingernail.
The scene in the alley kept replaying in his head. He couldn’t help but think that had he acted differently, Braxton might still be alive.
Yet, like a coward, he’d hid. If he’d gone to Braxton the instant he’d seen him in the mouth of the alley, everything might have played out differently. He might have been able to help Braxton escape. If not that, at least the killer would have seen there were two of them. That alone might have frightened him away.
But Daniel would never know, would he? Because he had acted cowardly, Braxton was dead. And now Daniel was hiding out in a tree in the middle of winter.
Disgusted with himself, Daniel slipped the recorder under his coat, folded his arms against the cold, and settled himself for a long winter’s night.
Chapter 5
Sometime during the night Daniel dreamed he was an icicle. When he stirred, he found the shoulder of his coat frozen to the tree branch. Climbing out of the tree, he moved to the barn and buried himself in a pile of hay, where he slept until morning…
The cows woke him. His joints aching and stiff, he did his morning chores before going inside, for no other reason than to give his uncle one less thing to yell about. There would be enough yelling when Daniel told him he wasn’t going to work today.
How could he? For all he knew, Cyrus Gregg and the killer were waiting there for him. Maybe that was Gregg’s plan all along. Why chase after him if he was dumb enough to come to work the next day?
Of course, Uncle Asa would demand a reason. Daniel thought up a lie. He would say that after spending all night outside, he was ill. Once Aunt Camilla learned that he hadn’t run off after all, but had been in the tree outside his room when Uncle Asa locked him out, she would feel sorry for him and take his side. With every angle covered, he went inside.
His plan self-destructed almost immediately. As expected, the instant he mentioned not going to work, Uncle Asa flew into a rage. He launched into his, “If a man doesn’t work, he doesn’t eat,” speech.
Daniel’s undoing proved to be his own anger. The stiff-fingered lecture proved too much for him, and Daniel grew so angry he stormed out of the house without breakfast.
He went straight to work, hoping that Cyrus Gregg and the killer were indeed waiting for him and that they’d put him out of his misery. At least when the truth came out, Daniel would be vindicated, and Aunt Camilla would never forgive Uncle Asa for treating him so unjustly.
Then, as he fumed, a thought occurred to him. It would be just his luck that Cyrus Gregg and the killer weren’t lying in wait for him. After all, Daniel’s fears were based on a supposition. Maybe neither man saw the recorder in the alley. It was dark. The recorder is black. And if they hadn’t seen it, not showing up for work today would raise unwanted questions that, if answered, would place him in the alley. And even if they had seen the recorder in the alley, it didn’t prove Daniel had been there during the murder. He could have misplaced the instrument. Left it there by accident earlier in the day.
In fact, if they asked him, that’s what he could tell them. That he’d lost the recorder and came to work early this morning in hopes of finding it.
Suddenly Daniel’s dilemma didn’t seem so hopeless. But that didn’t mean he was safe, not by any means. He was still working for a killer.
Arming himself with the alert spirit of a pioneer entering unfriendly territory, Daniel made his way to work, determined to keep an escape route always in sight.
Gregg’s Caskets of Cumberland, the largest producer of caskets in the west, consisted of an office and a showroom. The caskets were made in a cavernous workshop behind the showroom. Daniel entered the workshop by way of an employees’ entrance on the side. Shop workers were rarely allowed in the showroom, the exception being when they were carrying display caskets in or out.
The workshop was deserted when he arrived. The large saws were silent. Hundreds of unfinished planks lined the far wall, filling the space with scents of poplar, mahogany, walnut, and cherry. Caskets in various stages of completion awaited the skilled workers to assemble them and line them with muslin. The more expensive caskets were stained and varnished and fitted with handles.
Cyrus Gregg employed about a dozen skilled woodworkers and three shop boys. The shop boys did whatever they were told to do, from lending an extra hand, to running errands, to being the subjects of all manner of crude jokes and pranks, to sweeping out the shop at night.
As Daniel walked onto the floor that he and Braxton had swept the night before, his footsteps echoed among the ceiling rafters. He moved cautiously, leaving the door open behind him. While it wasn’t common for him to be the first person to arrive, it wasn’t unusual. Not enough to make a person jumpy or suspicious. That is, unless he’d seen his boss murder one of the employees the night before.
With each step further into the shop, Daniel grew more anxious. Maybe it would be better to wait outside.
“Daniel! There you are!” Cyrus Gregg’s voice boomed through the shop.
Daniel nearly jumped out of his skin.
Gregg entered the shop through the showroom door. He headed straight toward Daniel with purposeful strides. “Come here. I want a word with you before the others arrive.”
Daniel’s heart raced, as though knowing it had only a limited number of beats left and it wanted to get as many of them in as possible.
Suddenly, behind Daniel, a larger black figure filled the side doorway, blocking his escape.
As Gregg closed in, Daniel’s feet began to fidget as though they didn’t understand the delay in receiving orders to get him out of there. Given Cyrus Gregg’s healthy waistline, Daniel’s chances of getting past him and through the showroom to the street were not the best.
The figure in the side doorway spoke. “What
are you so nervous about, boy? Have ghosty dreams last night, did you?”
To Daniel’s relief, he recognized the voice. Jake, the head sawyer, was arriving for work. He strode into the shop with the easy strides of a man in charge. Close on Jake’s heels were two more sawyers in conversation. They walked past Daniel as though he weren’t there.
By now Gregg had reached Daniel. Taking Daniel by the arm, he pulled him aside. The man’s expression was serious. His voice confidential. “Emil Braxton won’t be in today. It’ll just be you and Icky. I’m making you the head boy for today. Don’t let me down. And tell Icky when he comes in.”
He squeezed Daniel’s arm for emphasis, then turned his attention to the sawyers, wanting an explanation as to why they hadn’t shipped the Burlingham order yet.
Daniel’s knees were liquid. It was all he could do to keep them from buckling. He had thought for sure Gregg and the killer would be measuring him for one of the shop’s caskets.
Icky Kitterbell arrived soon afterward and was not at all happy to learn that Daniel had been appointed head shop boy. While he was a year younger than Daniel, he’d worked in the shop eight months longer and felt he deserved to be head shop boy in Braxton’s absence. Daniel told him to take it up with Gregg, which he did, only to return a short time later, looking as though he was about to cry. Icky spent most of the morning pouting and telling anyone who would listen that he should be head boy, not Daniel.
Daniel ignored Icky and his mood. His mind was on the fact that Gregg had said Braxton wouldn’t be in today. That was odd, considering Daniel had it on pretty good authority that Braxton wouldn’t be showing up for work any time in the foreseeable future.
The morning passed with an eerie familiarity, as though nothing had happened the night before. As though Braxton were attending to some personal business and would be back, his usual foulmouthed self, in the shop tomorrow. But then nobody had reason to believe otherwise. Daniel was the only person in the shop who knew Braxton was dead.
On his lunch break, Daniel ventured to the alley behind the shop where he normally ate his lunch and played his recorder, though he doubted he could ever do either there again. He went to see if he could find evidence of Braxton’s murder.
With no idea where the murderer took Braxton’s body, Daniel’s story would be reduced to his word against Cyrus Gregg’s and some shadowy figure Daniel had never seen before. Daniel knew who everyone would believe.
Cyrus Gregg’s family had been established community leaders in Cumberland for decades. Gregg himself was a business leader in the town. His connections with several members of the United States House of Representatives were a topic of civic pride.
Daniel was a troubled orphan who had lived in Cumberland a little less than a year and had been dismissed from school for disruptive behavior.
Evidence. If anybody was going to believe Daniel’s story, he needed evidence.
It had snowed the night before, so Daniel wasn’t surprised to see the alley looking whitewashed and fresh. What surprised him was the fresh pile of manure on the exact spot where Braxton had fallen. Where his life’s blood had been spilled onto the cobblestones.
Why would someone dump manure there? And why today? In all the time Daniel had been working for Gregg, no one had dumped manure in this alley. And why here, in the back, against a row of barrels? It was difficult to believe that it was coincidence that the pile would have been dumped in that very spot. Unless the purpose was to hide and possibly soak up bloodstains.
Daniel looked around for something he could use to move the pile. There were shovels in the workshop, but he didn’t want to risk being seen walking out with one when he had no good explanation for needing one just now.
There was nothing in the alley he could use as a shovel.
Standing over the pile, Daniel grimaced as the thought occurred to him to shove the manure aside using his foot. The pile was high enough that it would stain his pants halfway up to his knee. But what other choice did he have?
Just as he was placing his foot beside the pile and grousing to himself that he was going to smell like manure for the rest of the day, his eyes fell on the barrels.
Blood splatters.
His recorder had been splattered, so it stood to reason that some of the barrels would show blood splatters.
Stepping to one side, bracing himself with a hand on top of a barrel, he bent down over the pile of manure to get a closer look at the barrels most likely to be splattered with Braxton’s blood.
“What are you doing there?”
It wasn’t the voice that startled him, but whose voice it was. With hands on hips, Cyrus Gregg stood at the mouth of the alley, awaiting an answer.
Flustered, Daniel’s hand slipped as he tried to right himself, and he nearly fell headlong into the pile of manure. Somehow he managed to prevent the dive.
“I asked you a question,” Gregg demanded.
“Um…lunch,” Daniel said.
That sounded odd even to him—especially when he was standing next to a pile of manure.
Reaching into his coat, he pulled out his recorder. “I always come here to eat lunch and play my music.”
It was a plausible explanation. On more than one occasion Gregg had sent Braxton or come himself to get Daniel from the alley, accusing him of taking more than the allotted time for his break. Gregg was constantly accusing all his workers of robbing him of work time.
“Aya…well,” Gregg said, “your time’s up.”
“It is not!” Daniel cried. “I’ve only had ten minutes.”
“Head shop boys don’t always get lunch,” Gregg countered. “Hitch up a team. We have a delivery to make.”
The next thing Daniel knew, Gregg was gone.
And Daniel was left standing next to a pile of manure with his heart weary from all the heavy pounding it had done this morning.
Chapter 6
Deliveries prompted mixed emotions among the shop boys. On the one hand, it was a chance to get out of the shop and escape the seemingly endless bark of demands. There was a certain freedom riding in a wagon to and from the delivery, even though Daniel always had to put up with Braxton’s insufferable boasting the entire journey.
The unpleasant part about deliveries was that they usually involved handling dead bodies. Someone had to lift the body and place it in the casket. And someone usually meant Cyrus Gregg’s shop boys. Gregg made a big fuss of offering their help to the family as a service that he included in the price of the casket.
Since Braxton was the head shop boy, he always got to carry the feet. Carrying the other end was not only heavier, it entailed lifting the shoulders while cradling the head to keep it from falling backward. This meant placing your face uncomfortably close to the deceased person’s. Braxton insisted that one time he had grabbed the shoulders of a dead widow and forgot to support her head. It had snapped back so hard, it fell off and rolled around the floor.
Daniel didn’t believe Braxton’s tall tale for a minute, though he was familiar with the gasps of family members whenever a deceased loved one’s head or arms lolled about unexpectedly.
Once, when lifting a revered minister, the man’s arm had fallen to one side, slapping the head of his little granddaughter, who had been told repeatedly to stand back. The little girl was startled, but not hurt. Not until her mother and aunt flew into hysterics did she join them. For a month afterward Daniel was restricted from making deliveries.
Now, as he and Icky loaded the casket into the back of the wagon, Daniel took delight in the fact that he was head shop boy, which meant he got to carry the feet and Icky would have to worry about the head.
The deceased was no one of importance. Daniel knew that because they’d loaded a bottom-of-the-
line casket, little more than a box.
After pulling on coat and gloves, Daniel climbed into the driver’s seat of the wagon. The sky was clear, the air crisp.
Icky had run into the office to get directions. He see
med to take forever. And just as Daniel was about to climb down to see what was taking so long, Cyrus Gregg strutted out the side door carrying a sheaf of papers, his breath creating clouds in the cold air. He climbed into the wagon seat beside Daniel.
Using the papers as a pointer, Gregg ordered, “Head west along the Wills Creek road. We’re going just beyond Braddock Run.”
“Sir? Should I wait for Icky?”
“It’s just you and me this trip. Let’s go.”
“Yes, sir.” Daniel flicked the reigns, setting the wagon in motion. “Braddock Run. That’s a pretty good distance.”
Gregg wasn’t listening. He’d turned his attention to his papers, occasionally looking up to exchange greetings with someone passing by.
Daniel couldn’t help but be unnerved sitting this close to his employer. Especially when less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d witnessed the man approving of and financing a murder.
What unsettled Daniel even more—besides the fact that they were headed out of town with an empty casket in the back of the wagon—was that he’d never known Cyrus Gregg to deliver a casket personally. It was widely known that the owner of the casket company couldn’t stomach death. Besides, the man was dressed in blue silk breeches and coat and wearing a dress hat.
And while Daniel was ready to concede that there were exceptions to every rule, it would stand to reason that an unprecedented personal delivery would be to someone wealthy or influential, or possibly family. But if that were the case, wouldn’t the casket in the back of the wagon be the top of the line and not a mere wooden box?
The further they traveled into the hills, the colder it got and the scarcer the road traffic. Distances between houses became greater and greater. And every time the wealthy man fidgeted in his seat, Daniel expected to turn to see a gun pointed at him, with a wickedly grinning Cyrus Gregg informing him this would be a one-way trip.
Daniel scanned the road ahead for a good place to jump and run.
