by Bill Bright
An impatient Epps bellowed from behind the cabin.
Daniel managed to take a couple of small steps. He took them alone. “You’re not coming?” he asked Gregg.
“I-I’ll wait for you here.”
Daniel nodded. He took a few more steps.
“Take the wagon,” Gregg said.
Daniel’s mind was so stiff from fright, he didn’t comprehend.
“The wagon,” Gregg said. “Unless you want to carry the body all the way out here.”
“Oh yeah…good idea.”
Daniel managed to climb into the wagon on weak knees. The horse responded too eagerly to his command and pulled the wagon too quickly toward the back of the cabin, toward Daniel’s uncertain fate.
He found Epps waiting for him.
The killer stood in front of a small storage shed. The moment he saw Daniel coming, he stepped inside.
Daniel reined the horse to a stop and climbed down. As he did, his recorder—tucked in his waistband like it always was—poked him in the side, as if in warning.
He walked to within a few feet of the storage shed but didn’t go in. “Um, Mr. Epps? Mr. Epps?”
The killer appeared. “What kind of coffin business do you people run?” Epps exclaimed in disbelief. “Is everybody there skittish about death?”
“It’s just that…we should get the casket out of the wagon first. Otherwise, we have to set the…um, your loved one…down and pick him up again, or try to lift him up, while—” Daniel made lifting motions with his hands at the same time simulating stepping up. “While…um, climbing into the wagon.”
“I see your point,” Epps said.
With his greatcoat flapping like a cape, Epps jumped into the back of the wagon with ease. Daniel climbed in at the end, and they unloaded the casket and removed the lid.
Moving with no wasted motions, Epps again disappeared into the shed. Daniel took a deep breath to steady himself and followed him.
When his eyes adjusted to the decreased light, Daniel saw Epps already holding the very dead Emil Braxton by the shoulders. The dead man’s blue-and-
gray-colored head lolled forward, making it look like he had fallen asleep in a chair.
Daniel stooped down and grabbed the dead man’s ankles. He couldn’t help but muse that this was Braxton’s end of choice when moving dead people. Daniel wondered if Braxton—wherever he was right now—was aware that it was Daniel who had him by the ankles.
The dead man’s shoes and pants were cold and soaking wet. In fact, the entire body was drenched.
“River accident,” Epps said. “Drowned. A real shame.”
Without thinking, Daniel looked at the dead man’s throat. The instant he did, he regretted it. The throat was wrapped with a scarf.
Realizing what he was doing, Daniel looked up. Epps was staring at him suspiciously.
“Yeah. A real shame,” Daniel said, looking aside and hefting the legs.
Daniel did his best to act as though this was just one of any number of dead bodies he had placed in a casket. He backed out of the storage shed and led Epps to the casket, where they lowered the body.
Without looking at Epps—he was afraid to—Daniel grabbed a hammer and nails from the back of the wagon and approached the casket.
“Any keepsakes?” he asked, his eyes averted.
“Any what?”
“Keepsakes. People sometimes put personal items into the casket with their loved one. Rings. Lockets. A poem or booklet. For men, sometimes their favorite weapon.”
He winced the moment he said it. Having recited this little speech dozens of times, it just spilled out of his mouth without thought. But the last thing he wanted this man Epps to think about was weapons, especially the knife attached to his belt.
“No,” Epps said. “Just close it.”
Eager to get this over with, Daniel knelt and positioned the first nail. As he bent over, his recorder jammed into his side. It always did when he nailed caskets closed. Normally he took it out and set the recorder aside.
That didn’t seem to be a wise thing to do today.
Reaching under his coat, he repositioned it and tried again. But the instant he bent forward, the recorder moved and poked him again, this time even harder.
“What do you got under there?” Epps asked.
Daniel grinned. “Nothing. I can finish closing the casket by myself, if you want to join Mr. Gregg. Possibly conclude your business with him…”
“I suppose you’re gonna lift that casket into the wagon all by yourself?”
“We’re putting it back in the wagon?”
This was not the usual procedure. Usually the casket was carried into the house for the wake. But then it didn’t seem likely Cyrus Gregg and his killer would be holding a wake for their murder victim, did it?
“We’re burying your loved one today?” Daniel asked.
“That’s the plan.”
Epps stood over him with folded arms.
Daniel readied another nail. He bent forward. This time the recorder poked him so hard, he winced.
“Let’s have it,” Epps insisted. “You’re hiding something under your coat. Give it to me so we can get on with it.”
“Thanks,” Daniel said, not looking up, “but that won’t be necessary.”
Epps stepped closer until he was hovering directly over Daniel. He held out his hand. “I ain’t got all day. Let’s have it.”
Daniel was curious as to what pressing business a killer might have on an ordinary day, but he dismissed the idea of asking as an unhealthy one. Instead he said, “Really, it’s no—”
“Give it to me!” Epps shouted.
Seeing no other recourse, Daniel reached beneath his coat and pulled out the recorder. In an instant he saw himself using it as a club to knock Epps down and giving him time to run. But the instrument in his hand was too light for such fantasies. So he handed it to the killer.
Epps gripped it like it was a hatchet handle. “What is it?” he asked, turning it this way and that, running a finger along its wavy shape, stopping only long enough to examine the holes.
With his heart in his throat, Daniel gripped the hammer tightly. It was more of a weapon than the recorder, no match for an enormous hunting knife, but it would make a pretty good dent in whatever it hit.
“It’s a recorder,” Daniel said of the instrument, all the while watching for the slightest flicker of recognition.
Epps shook his head. “A recorder?”
“A musical instrument. Like a flute or a pipe.”
The killer was losing interest. “Never seen one before.”
At that moment Daniel couldn’t have heard any words sweeter than those.
“Why’re you hidin’ it?” Epps asked. “Gregg not want you to have it?”
Daniel was breathing again. “Sometimes I play it when I’m supposed to be working.”
“Whaddya know…I thought you was hiding a bottle in your drawers,” Epps said. “Taking an occasional nip of whiskey or rum on the job. Was gonna have myself a little nip. The price of keeping silent.”
“Sorry.”
Daniel set to work and nailed the casket shut in quick order. When that was finished, Epps handed Daniel the recorder with a sad shake of his head, as though he couldn’t understand why a young man would hide a musical instrument in his pants.
After tossing the hammer into the back of the wagon, Daniel and Epps loaded the casket. Then Daniel drove the wagon around to the front of the house, where Cyrus Gregg was waiting for them.
The sight of the casket didn’t seem to bother Gregg as he climbed into the seat next to Daniel. Apparently Gregg didn’t have a problem with boxed-up corpses.
Epps hopped into the back of the wagon, and Daniel was directed to a road that ascended steeply to the top of a small hill. Cresting the ridge, he saw five grave markers already in place. Emil Braxton would be number six.
The hole had already been dug. From the looks of it, it had been dug days ago and h
ad been waiting since then for its anticipated resident to die.
Emil Braxton’s casket was hefted into the ground, and Epps tossed a shovel at Daniel. Grabbing a second shovel, the two of them filled the grave.
Daniel was not accustomed to graveyard work, but it wasn’t the neighborhood residents that disturbed him as he worked. It was Epps—or, more accurately, the tattoo on the back of Epps’s neck. With each shovel of dirt he tossed into the grave, his hair would swing wildly to one side, giving Daniel a clear view of the coiled snake on the back of the killer’s neck.
With each peek, the snake eyed him, as though it recognized him from the alley the night before.
Chapter 8
Daniel sat on his bed and watched the snow fall. He had an unobstructed view. The tree that had once served as his ladder to the second story was gone. Only a stump was left. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out who had it removed or why.
He stood and walked to the window. It had been a long time since he’d seen it this dark outside. It was late afternoon, and he’d just arrived at home when the snow began falling. At the rate it was falling, everyone would be digging out come morning.
On the return trip from burying Braxton, Daniel had one of the most entertaining conversations he’d had in ages. For a time he again forgot that Cyrus Gregg was his employerand a ruthless murderer. There was no age difference. There was no social difference. They were just two kindred souls who shared a passion for machines and visions of the future.
They reached the docks on the Potomac River just as the dark clouds were rolling in. Temperatures plunged. But Gregg couldn’t wait to show Daniel his revolving washing machine. He had it unpacked right there and danced to keep warm as Daniel inspected it. A giddy Gregg asked him to draw up his idea for placing ribs on the inside of the cylinder. He said he would hire a woodcarver to craft and install them.
It was quitting time when they reached the shop. Business called Gregg into the office as Daniel unhitched the wagon.
Icky was in a foul mood. Being the only boy in the shop that day, he’d been run ragged with everyone ordering him around. He was the only one still in the shop when Daniel walked in. He was sitting on the floor with the broom next to him and the shop less than half swept.
The instant he saw Daniel, Icky was on his feet and heading out the door. He informed Daniel that he didn’t care if Danielwas head boy. Daniel could finish sweeping the shop by himself. He was going home.
As it turned out, Icky’s timing was bad. He made his proclamation just as Cyrus Gregg came into the shop. The owner jumped all over Icky for his insubordination, ordered him to finish sweeping the shop by himself, and told Daniel he was free to go home.
“Oh, and Daniel,” Gregg added, “you made a long trip today thoroughly enjoyable. Get me that drawing. I want to talk more with you. You are far too talented a young man to be spending your time sweeping out the shop.”
Daniel wished he had a sketch of Icky’s face at that moment. It would be priceless.
Even now, standing in his bedroom, Daniel grinned at the remembrance. It was one of several sweet moments he’d experienced that day. And that fact alone made his dilemma that much more perplexing.
His life made no sense.
Did it make sense that he had just spent a thoroughly enjoyable day with a murderer? But he had, hadn’t he? When was the last time he’d felt so alive?
He flopped back onto his bed and picked up a piece of paper upon which he’d drawn the cross-section interior of a cylinder, showing the placement of curved ribs evenly spaced. The drawing had come easily for him. He couldn’t wait to give it to Cyrus Gregg. Couldn’t wait to see his idea take shape. Couldn’t wait to test the first load of laundry.
Just the thought of it awoke the little boy in him, the one that jumped up and down with excitement and without shame. For the first time in his life he caught a glimpse of his future, and he liked what he saw.
But one mention of what he saw last night in the alley, and his future would die a stillborn’s death.
Daniel fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.Think! he told himself.Think!
Did he really have to tell his uncle about Braxton’s murder? Just for the sake of argument, what would happen if he didn’t? Cyrus Gregg and Epps would have committed a murder and gotten away with it. A terrible thing, certainly. But why did their wrongdoing have to ruin his life?
What if—again, just for the sake of argument—what if he, Daniel, hadn’t been in the alley last night? What if he’d stayed in his room as he’d been told?
Answer: none of this would be bothering him now. He still would have had the conversation with Cyrus Gregg on the road during which they would have discovered their common passion for machines. Gregg still would have asked him for a drawing. Daniel still would have made the drawing, and he would, with unfettered conscience, take that drawing to Gregg in the morning and see where things went from there.
In his mind’s eye Daniel was back in the wagon traveling the Mills Creek road, talking to Cyrus Gregg. He clearly remembered Gregg saying that if his plans continued as he hoped they would, he wanted Daniel to work with him on the canal project, the one that would connect Cumberland with the Ohio River.
It was too fantastic even to imagine. Yet it was possible, wasn’t it? After all, this wasn’t some fantastical schoolboy daydreaming on a lazy summer afternoon. This was community leader Cyrus Gregg who had actual plans drawn up. Plans that even now his friends in Washington were poring over. Friends with money who could turn the dream into reality, just as had been done with the Erie Canal.
And one word from Daniel would ruin it. Ruin Cyrus Gregg’s dream. Ruin Daniel’s future.
Now that Daniel knew the location of Braxton’s body, it would be easy for authorities to verify his story. All they had to do was dig up the fresh grave and remove the scarf from around Braxton’s neck. They would find that the man who was reported to have drowned had in reality suffered a fate of a more violent nature.
Daniel squeezed his eyes shut. All this mental wrestling was giving him a headache.
One memory from the night before played repeatedly against the dark curtain of his mind. The moment Braxton’s head had hit the cobblestones inches from his own, the dead man’s lifeless eyes had fixed on his.
Grabbing his pillow, Daniel screamed into it.
He didn’t even like Braxton.
Downstairs the front door opened and closed.
Once inside the door, Asa Rush set his cane in the corner, removed his hat and scarf, brushed the snow from his shoulders, pulled off his gloves, removed his coat, stomped his feet, and made his way to the fireplace in hopes of thawing out his fingers. He whistled as he held his hands to flame.
Camilla emerged from the kitchen with a stirring spoon in her hand. She wore her baking apron, a sign that Christmas was just a few days away.
No one baked for Christmas like Camilla. Let the wealthy have their big parties and the Germans decorate their evergreen trees. Asa would willingly trade both for a slice of her apple-cinnamon bread.
“You sound happy,” she said, smiling.
Asa sniffed the air. “What is that heavenly smell? Raisin cookies?”
Camilla offered him a kiss, and he gave her his cheek. Her lips were warm and moist against his cold skin.
“Heavens! You’re nearly frozen!” she cried.
“Can’t remember the last time the temperature dropped this quickly,” he replied. “Plum pudding?”
With a playful sparkle in her eyes, she shook the wooden spoon at him. “It’s a surprise. Wash up for supper. It’s almost ready.”
Rubbing his hands, Asa asked, “Is the boy in his room?”
“He came home early about an hour ago and went straight upstairs. He seemed happy. Is it too much for me to hope that both of you will bring a good mood to dinner?”
Asa took his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead.
“Asa! Your fing
ers are icicles!”
“I guarantee you a strife-free supper, m’lady.”
Her innocent eyes dared to hope.
“I can make such a bold promise,” Asa said, returning to the fire, “in the belief that Daniel’s good mood and mine flow from a common spring.”
“Something good happened today, didn’t it? Tell me!”
Asa leaned close to his wife, putting his lips next to her ear, and whispered, “I’ll tell you the good news if you tell me what that wonderful aroma is coming from the kitchen.”
Camilla pulled away. She smiled sweetly. “So that’s how it is…”
“That’s the going rate for good news today.”
Lowering her head, she gazed at him flirtatiously. He loved it when she played coy. As he had done to her, she leaned close, her lips to his ear, and whispered, “Then I’ll just ask Daniel when he comes down.” Pulling away quickly, she rapped him on the chest with the wooden spoon and said sharply, “Now wash up for supper.”
“Daniel, tell us about your day,” Uncle Asa said.
His uncle stood at the head of the table slicing a freshly baked loaf of wheat bread, passing a slice to Camilla, who passed it to Daniel.
Daniel reached for the jam. Aunt Camilla was looking at him expectantly, as though she knew something he didn’t.
“It was all right, I guess,” he said.
After handing his wife a slice of bread, Uncle Asa carved a slice for himself, sat, dipped it in his stew, and ate. They chewed in silence for a minute.
“Anythingunusual happen today?” Uncle Asa persisted.
Daniel looked up at him suspiciously. Everything about today was unusual. His uncle was hinting at something. What did he know? To whom had he been talking?
Uncle Asa couldn’t know too much. His tone was casual, and he asked the question with his head lowered, as though he was talking to one of the carrots in his bowl.
“We made a delivery today,” Daniel said cautiously, to his stew, mimicking his uncle. “Took most of the day. Out Mills Creek road. Just past Braddock Run.”
“All the way out there?” Aunt Camilla said.
