by Bill Bright
The distance between the building and the shed was no more than ten feet. Snow had accumulated between the buildings. Gregg negotiated it with high steps. Daniel followed.
Just before the shop door closed, from inside Noland hollered, “Gregg! How much are you going to pay me for these things?”
Cyrus Gregg looked back. Low enough so that Noland couldn’t hear him, he said to Daniel, “He always asks for twice the amount a project is worth, and he has a reputation for bullying his customers into paying what he asks. Not me. But it doesn’t stop him from trying. You go ahead. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
The door to the workshop closed, and Daniel was alone. He reached for the latch on the shed door. It was stuck. Frozen. He rattled it and tried again. Reluctantly, the latch clicked. Daniel eased the door closed, keeping it slightly ajar.
Crossing the threshold into the shed was like stepping into a muggy summer night. Four open furnaces with throbbing orange coals warmed the interior. Parallel workbenches supported two rows of vats of various size. The air was heavy and smelled of trees after a hard rain.
Of course,Daniel said to himself, sticking a finger in one of the vats.He has to keep them from freezing.
Behind him, the door slammed shut. Daniel’s head snapped around. The wind wailed. Ever since the alley he’d been jumpy.
He poked a piece of wood in one of the vats. It disappeared and then resurfaced, belly up, like a dead fish.
As Daniel’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he began to notice all manner of twisted shapes protruding from the rafters above and beneath the benches. It looked as though he’d wandered into a forest thick with corkscrew tree limbs and twisted roots protruding from the ground. With a little imagination he could see them reaching for him, trying to grab him.
Having walked to the far end of the shed, he turned and made his way back between the benches, careful lest one of Noland’s discards snag his pants leg.
He’d expected Cyrus Gregg would have rejoined him by now. He considered going back to the shop but decided to wait. Cyrus Gregg had been anxious to show him the shed, and he didn’t want to deprive him of the pleasure.
Squatting, Daniel took a good look under one of the benches. In a box of discards, he found a flat piece of wood about the size of an agitator blade, and twisted almost exactly in the shape he’d depicted on his drawing. In his mind, he could see it being attached to the inside of a cylinder.
He held on to it, eager to show Cyrus Gregg.
Several more minutes passed and no one came.
Daniel made a move toward the door, then stopped. If he went back into the shop, he could very well be barging into the middle of negotiations. He doubted either man would take kindly to that.
Several more minutes passed.
Daniel spent the time imagining the conversation at the dinner table tonight, the reaction of his aunt and uncle when he told them he’d had a change of heart and would work with Cyrus Gregg after all. Both would be pleased. Then his uncle would spoil it with a lecture about hard work and responsibility and warnings not to mess up such a fine opportunity.
Daniel found himself smiling, wondering if with his new position Cyrus Gregg would pay him enough money to allow him to move out of his uncle’s house. The more he thought about it, the larger his smile became.
The smile faded when he realized he was still alone in the shed. Now he began to wonder if he’d heard correctly. Cyrus Gregg did say he’d join Daniel in the shed, didn’t he? It would be embarrassing if the two men were waiting for him in the workshop. Wondering what had happened to him…
In his mind he could hear Noland quipping, “We thought you’d fallen into one of the vats, and we were going to have to fish you out.”
He’d waited long enough. He decided to go back into the workshop.
Gripping the latch, Daniel leaned into the door, expecting resistance from the wind. He bounced off. The door didn’t give an inch.
As before, he rattled the latch and tried again.
No good.
He rattled harder.
The door didn’t budge.
First, you knock over his project. Then you get stuck in his shed. Not very impressive, Daniel.
Working the latch again, Daniel put his shoulder into the door with force, enough to cause the entire shed to shudder. Strips of unnaturally shaped wood fell out of the rafters, one plopping into a vat with a splash.
The door held.
Thoughts of the shed collapsing or of ripping the door off its hinges stopped Daniel from any further attempts.
Daniel looked at the door helplessly. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t want to do it. He knew what it would sound like—a little boy who locked himself in a shed and got scared. But what other choice did he have?
“Mr. Noland?” he shouted. “Mr. Gregg? Hello? The door’s stuck and I can’t get out!”
He listened for a response and heard only the wind.
“Mr. Noland! Mr. Gregg!”
He tried the latch one more time until his fingers hurt. He stepped back. Looked at the door. And decided all he could do now was wait. Cyrus Gregg knew where he was. Eventually he and Noland would come looking for him. They’d find the latch frozen. It would be embarrassing, but they’d understand there was nothing he could do.
He only hoped that the outside of the latch was just as frozen as the inside. The last thing he needed was for a grinning Noland to work the latch with ease.
Folding his arms, Daniel settled against a workbench and waited.
Finally the door latch rattled.
“Daniel? Daniel, are you in there?”
Daniel grinned at Cyrus Gregg’s voice.
“The latch. It’s stuck,” Daniel called. “I couldn’t get out!”
“Stand back!” Noland shouted through the door. “Don’t do anything. We’ll get you out.”
Daniel took a step back, not knowing what to expect, but having visions of the big man knocking the door down.
At first there was nothing. Then aclick as someone worked on the latch. Odd. It almost sounded like it was being unlocked.
The door swung open.
A man stood in the doorway. Dark. Rimmed hat. Long overcoat. Long hair. With a knife big enough to kill a bear. Or Emil Braxton.
“Well well well,” Epps taunted. “What do we have here? Looks to me like we’ve cornered ourselves an alley rat.”
Chapter 11
Towering behind the knife-wielding Epps stood Noland. Behind him, peeking around both men, was Cyrus Gregg with a half-smile.
Did Cyrus Gregg find the expression on Daniel’s face comical? Or was Gregg simply pleased with himself by the way he’d lured Daniel into the trap?
“Let’s not make this messy, alley boy,” Epps said, stepping into the shed.
“No,” Daniel replied, “let’s—” Grabbing a vat, he threw it at the advancing killer.
Epps fended it off with a forearm but got drenched with oily water. Wood chips stuck to his beard and coat. He growled in anger.
Daniel was running out of room. Retreating a few more steps, he seized another vat and threw it. Then another—only that one proved to be too heavy and he managed only to tip it over, sending a wave of water over the killer’s shoes.
Noland had entered the shed behind Epps. The narrow space between the benches worked to Daniel’s advantage. Only one of them could get his hands on Daniel at a time. Still, it was two against one, with both of them larger than he.
Three against one if you count the hunting knife, Daniel thought, his eyes fixed on the threatening blade.
Daniel grabbed at anything. He found wood strips hanging from the rafters. Frantically he pulled, searching for something with which he could defend himself. Those that were too short or thin or blunt, he chucked at the advancing killer, who ducked and weaved. One stick found its mark, hitting Epps just below the eye, drawing blood. It didn’t stop him. It didn’t even slow him.
Just then Danie
l’s fingers wrapped themselves around a substantial piece of wood. He pulled it down. It was corkscrew-shaped, with a point at the end. Short, but the most promising weapon so far. He leveled it at Epps like a sword.
It worked. Epps stopped. He sized up Daniel’s weapon…and burst out laughing.
Behind him, Noland peered over his shoulder, saw Daniel’s corkscrew sword, and laughed too.
“Gregg! You gotta see this!” Noland bellowed over his shoulder.
Noland and Epps leaned to one side as Cyrus Gregg stepped into the shed so he could share the laugh.
Daniel saw his chance. He lunged at Epps with his corkscrew sword.
Deftly Epps sidestepped him, letting Daniel’s momentum carry him within reach. With a step as smooth as a dancing partner, Epps slipped behind Daniel, his left hand cupping Daniel’s chin, pulling back, while his right hand pressed the deadly edge of his knife against Daniel’s throat.
“No!” Noland and Cyrus Gregg both protested at the same time.
“Not in my shed!”
“Not here! In the woods!”
Daniel felt a trickle of blood drip down his neck as the pressure of the blade eased.
“It would make too much of a mess,” a shaky Cyrus Gregg reminded Epps.
Of course, it was an excuse. Cyrus Gregg didn’t care about making a mess in Noland’s shed. It was just that the sight of Daniel’s blood would make him sick.
Any relief Daniel felt for the reprieve was cut short by the pain of Epps grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back. The knife remained level across his throat.
“Walk,” Epps said, giving him a shove.
One by one they exited the shed. Cyrus Gregg first, followed by Noland, followed by Daniel and Epps walking in step. To keep Daniel from getting any ideas as they crossed the threshold, Epps gave his hair an extra yank.
They passed through the shop without conversation. As they exited the other side, Cyrus Gregg issued final instructions. “A shallow grave. The animals will see to it that his body is unidentifiable.”
How many times had Daniel heard Cyrus Gregg give orders to workers in the shop using that same businesslike tone?
“And a good distance away,” Noland added. “I don’t want his blood attracting vermin near the house.”
“I’m touched by all this sentiment, gentlemen,” Daniel managed. “You can save yourselves all this trouble by letting me go.”
The quip earned him another yank on his hair.
“How about if I just kill him here and drag his body into the woods?” Epps said.
Cyrus Gregg turned white. “The woods-the woods-the woods—,” he stammered.
“Deepinto the woods,” Noland added.
“Then you’re coming along,” Epps told Noland. “You know these woods.”
“Noland is coming with me,” Cyrus Gregg insisted. “We have unfinished business.”
Daniel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It seemed Cyrus Gregg’s late-afternoon agenda had consisted of two items of equal importance: kill Daniel, and order washing-machine agitators.
“No,” Epps said. “Too risky. I don’t take risks.”
“He’s nothing but a boy!” Noland sneered.
Epps shook his head. “I don’t take risks.”
It was a standoff. Daniel liked standoffs. Anything that prolonged his life was fine by him.
“Fine. Wait here.” Noland disappeared into the workshop and returned a minute later, carrying a casket over his head like a canoe, the same one Daniel had knocked over earlier. “He’s already damaged this one. He might as well use it.”
“No casket,” Cyrus Gregg said. “I want a shallow…”
“It’s not for burying,” Noland said. “It’s for carting.” He lowered the casket onto a flatbed handcart. “We put the boy in here. You cart him into the woods. Kill him. Bring the empty casket back.”
Daniel heard Epps grunt his approval.
With no objection from Cyrus Gregg, Epps shoved Daniel in the direction of the casket.
Daniel dug his heels into the ground, but they slipped in the snow and ice. He jerked to free himself. Epps shoved a knee into his back while pulling on Daniel’s hair, keeping him off balance while at the same time pushing him forward.
The casket loomed larger and larger. While he’d never given it a thought before today, Daniel realized that no man should be forced to walk toward his own casket.
There was no request for him to climb in. Epps and Noland lifted him with ease and lowered him into the box. How many times had Daniel lifted a body into a casket? The difference being, of course, that the people Daniel put in caskets were no longer breathing.
With a fist in his chest, Epps held him down while Noland went back into the shop to get the lid.
Cyrus Gregg peered into the casket.
Was it curiosity? Did he wonder if a live person in a coffin looked different than a corpse?
“It hurts me to have to do this, Daniel,” he said. “I hope you believe me. I really like you.”
“I hope you forgive me if I don’t get sentimental,” Daniel replied.
His smart remark earned him additional pressure on his chest so he couldn’t talk.
When Noland came into view carrying the lid, Daniel knew if he let them put the lid on the casket, he would be letting them slam the door on his life. He’d seen how quick Epps was with a knife. Braxton never had a chance. Neither would he.
Epps leaned hard on Daniel’s chest. So hard he couldn’t breathe. Daniel gauged Noland’s approach. Epps had to let up before the lid could be put in place. The instant he did, Daniel would make his move. Shove Epps back. Kick the lid. Jump over the side.
Noland held the lid in place.
The pressure against Daniel’s chest eased.
Then a fist came from nowhere, smashing into Daniel’s face, knocking him senseless.
The lid came down.
Everything went dark.
Daniel blinked back the pain. He had to be conscious, didn’t he? You didn’t feel pain when you were knocked out. And Daniel felt plenty of pain.
Gradually the edges around the lid let in a thread of light. Daniel’s ears rang as nails were pounded, securing the lid in place, extinguishing even the thread of light. All was dark once again.
He kicked at the lid. It held. He started to shout, then stopped. What good would it do? What could he say or promise that would convince them to let him out?
The pounding stopped.
Daniel couldn’t see, but he could hear.
“Follow the stream road until you get to a clearing,” Noland said. “Just past the clearing there is an outcropping of rocks. That’s as good a place as any.”
The casket jostled. It started to move.
Voices grew distant. Faint.
“Now when you hit me,” Cyrus Gregg was saying, “don’t hit me too hard.”
“It has to be convincing,” Noland said.
“Convincing, yes. But it doesn’t have to be hard.”
Chapter 12
The rhythmic trudging of his executioner’s steps and thecrunch of cart wheels marked the final minutes of Daniel’s life, unless he could devise a way to escape the blade that had cut Braxton’s throat.
Confined in the casket, he’d tried kicking and hitting the lid and had begun to make progress when the cart stopped and Epps yelled at him and pounded the lid back down.
Now, shivering in the dark, the rocking of the cart was a lullaby of death.
The rocking of the cart.
An idea came to him. It probably wouldn’t work, but desperate men about to die don’t have the luxury of being choosy.
For the next several moments, he lay as still as possible, doing his best to shrug off rising panic, no small task while reclined in one’s own casket. He concentrated on the movement of the cart, tried to get a feel for it, hoping to be able to anticipate its movement.
At first he discerned no pattern of occurrence, no back and forth ro
cking like a ship on the ocean. After a time, however, he did notice a relationship in the size of what he thought of as the ebb and flow of the cart’s motion. The higher a wheel raised, the harder it came down, and the greater the rocking motion when it did. Maybe, just maybe…shifting cargo in a ship’s hold came to mind. More than one ship had capsized because of shifting cargo. If he could push the casket off the cart, capsize it, possibly break it open…Admittedly it wasn’t much, but what other choice did he have?
Like a blind hunter waiting for a rabbit to jump out of a bush, Daniel waited for one side of the cart to rise. When it did, he anticipated its peak and threw himself against the opposite side of the casket the moment it came down.
His timing was off. His shoulder came up too high, hitting the lid, absorbing a good part of the effort. The casket didn’t move.
Learning from his first attempt, he tried again, this time keeping his shoulder down, sliding like a pendulum. He hit the side with greater force. He tried again. On the fourth attempt, he felt the casket slide. Probably not even an inch, but it slid!
He sensed he was running out of time. What had Noland told Epps? Follow the stream road to the clearing. Clearings were flat. Flat was deadly. Daniel needed ruts and rocks. Big ruts. Big rocks.
The casket shuddered. The cart stopped abruptly
The calm Daniel had managed to scrounge up now fled.
He waited.
Epps cursed.
The cart rocked, not side to side, but back and forth. It rose, teetered, fell, and once again began moving.
The movement did Daniel no good. This was forward movement, not side to side. But at least they hadn’t reached the outcrop of rocks Noland spoke of, which meant Daniel still had time. But how much?
The cart moved evenly. Had they reached the clearing? If so, Daniel was as good as dead.
When this went on for a while, he turned his thoughts to what he would do when Epps started prying the lid off the coffin. Images of shoving open the lid, knocking Epps off balance came to mind. But with them came the memory of a fist to the face. Epps would be expecting some kind of desperation move.
The cart began picking up speed.
