by Bill Bright
Scrambling around the slope, Daniel piled up twigs and branches and anything that looked like it would burn. Before long, he had himself a good-size fire next to the river.
He stripped off his wet clothes and pulled on drier—not dry, since the falling and crawling in the stream had seen to that—clothes. It seemed to take forever to get warm, but at last the circulation returned to his hands and feet and face and he stopped shivering. He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to leave this fire.
Laying down beside it, his eyes grew heavy. Before long, he was asleep.
Chapter 23
Rested and dry and warm, Daniel stood at a crossroads in front of a gnarled tree. It was one of those trees that looked like it had been around forever.
How many people had passed by this very tree in its lifetime? Settlers coming west for the first time. Soldiers in the war with the French and Indians. Soldiers in the War for Independence. It would be a safe bet that George Washington himself rode past this tree, the way everybody in Cumberland talked about him. And before him, Indians.
And now Daniel. Not anyone of any importance. One of hundreds of forgettable people who came to this crossroads and made decisions that altered their destinies.
East?
Or north?
Daniel’s future hung in the balance.
East was the logical choice. The safe choice. He knew East. New Haven. He’d worked at the docks before and could do so again. He could track down some old friends.
On the other hand, New Haven wasn’t all security and good times. It had its ghosts too.
North was a trek into the unknown. That was part of its allure. A fresh start. And it also had a grand canal. But what would he do there? Who would hire him? He knew how to play the recorder and sweep floors. How many jobs were there for recorder-playing shop boys?
In the East he could go back to where he’d worked before. It was hard work, but it paid better than sweeping.
East was the smart choice. Daniel turned eastward…but he saw nothing but ghosts in that choice.
Turning north, he started walking at a brisk pace.
All day during the climb out of the river valley Epps had sidestepped Asa’s inquiries about the specifics of his employment. He was quite chatty, though, when it came to his upbringing in Matildaville.
With the road to themselves, it being Christmas afternoon, Asa listened as Robely Epps described a small town with two main streets—Canal Street and Washington Street—with a market, a foundry, a grist-mill, an inn, a sawmill, an ice house, the canal company superintendent’s house, and workers’ barracks. Epps, his father, and seven brothers lived on the edge of town in a house that was little more than a shack.
Matildaville, named after the wife of its founder, Revolutionary War hero Light Horse Harry Lee, served as the headquarters of the Patowmack Canal Company. Life revolved around the waterway as boats locked through the Great Falls, hauling manufactured products and firearms upstream to Cumberland, and iron, whiskey, flour, and tobacco downstream to Washington, D.C., Boaters frequented the town while waiting their turn to go through the locks or to enjoy an evening before continuing their journey.
“My father worked in the ironworks foundry,” Epps said. “He measured a man by the strength of his arms. Every night when he came home, he made it a point to prove his superiority. With games of strength, if he was in a good mood. By beating us if he was drunk.”
“Among your brothers, you were…”
“The strongest.”
“I was thinking more in terms of age.”
“Age didn’t matter. Pa had to whip the strongest to prove he was top dog. But I was second oldest.”
“So you always got the worst of it.”
“Aya.” Epps pointed. “How about over there? That looks level.” He pointed to a small clearing off the road.
“And none too soon,” Asa replied. “My back is killing me.”
The sun had disappeared behind the mountain, and the air had turned cold. Asa was ready for a fire.
Having done this before, the two men worked with a minimum of words to set up camp. As he had the night before, Epps provided the meat for the meal. This time it was squirrel.
While Asa was grateful for the hot food, the manner in which Epps provided it was weird to the point of eerie. Asa would look up and notice the man was gone. It was never for long, and Asa would never hear a shot, or a rustle of leaves or branches. The next thing he knew, Epps was walking into camp with the kill.
“Good meal,” Asa said later, wiping the grease from his fingertips. “Always amazes me how much of an appetite I work up when all I’ve done is ride in a carriage all day.”
Epps tossed a bone picked clean into the fire. “Always had a taste for the little critters.”
Asa stood and stretched. He walked back and forth, trying to limber up his leg.
Epps stretched out too, but without getting up. “I suppose you’ll be heading back, come morning,” he said, reclining against a log.
Asa stared past the trees into the black night. “If only I had some indication that I was heading in the right direction…I was hoping to come across someone who had seen him on the road. But this being Christmas…”
“He may not be traveling by road.”
“The thought had crossed my mind. I don’t know…Do I give it another day, or am I wasting my time?”
“You already know what I think.”
“Aya. And I’m sure you’ll be proved right. But I have a wife to think about. She’s been sitting alone in a house for two days worrying about me. If I decide to stay away any longer, I need to get word to her.”
Epps picked up a small knife and began cleaning his fingernails while Asa paced.
“I’ve got to go back,” Asa said. “I feel like I’m chasing the wind out here.”
Having made the decision, he sat down.
Epps said nothing.
“Aya. Come morning, I’ll start back,” Asa said more to himself than to Epps. “Maybe when the boy settles down, he’ll have the decency to write to us and tell us where he is.”
Epps made no reply. He’d taken to flipping the knife at a piece of firewood. It would stick, he’d retrieve it, and throw it again.
The sound of someone approaching brought them both to their feet. At the sight of both of them, the rider stopped, keeping his distance. He eyed them with suspicion.
“Greetings!” Asa called out.
“Good evening,” said the man with a cautious tone.
Even wearing a greatcoat, it was evident the man was portly. His sideburns were red and his face pink, which was the only flesh showing. Two unblinking eyes, set close together and cowering in the shadow of his hat brim, glared at them.
“I’m Asa Rush, from Cumberland. This is Robely Epps. Care to join us? We can offer you a hot cup of coffee.”
“Thank you, no,” the man said. “I must be on my way.”
“It’s late. Not safe to travel, if you ask me,” Epps said.
The man looked Epps up and down and did not hide his distaste. “All I ask of you is that you keep your opinion to yourself.”
Asa allowed himself a satisfied grin as he noted Epps’s lack of response to the rude remark. Epps didn’t appear to take offense, nor did he back down. He looked at the traveler with a steady gaze, as though no exchange had taken place between them at all.
“We won’t detain you,” Asa said, “other than to ask you a question.”
The man on the horse moved a hand ever so slowly to his side. Closer, Asa assumed, to a weapon.
Epps toyed with the knife.
Asa moved between the two men, his hands up. “I’m an educator. From Cumberland, as I already mentioned. We’re chasing a runaway. All I want to know is if you’ve seen him. He’s sixteen years old. Average size and weight, with brown—”
“Haven’t seen him.” The quick answer wasn’t reassuring.
Asa tried again. “Are you sure? You see, we’ve been tra
veling for—”
“Haven’t seen anyone on the road except the two of you. It’s Christmas, you know. Now, if you’ll let me pass…”
Asa recognized a stone wall when he saw one. He took a step back from the road.
Just then a low, haunting melody wafted through the treetops, trilled, and rose in pitch.
Asa recognized the instrument. “Daniel!”
His eyes darted here and there but couldn’t seem to pinpoint its direction. The music surrounded them.
“What is this? What’s going on?” The man on the horse pulled a pistol from his coat. His fear made the horse skittish. It pawed the road.
“Easy…easy! It’s my nephew!” Asa cried. “This is the first we’ve heard of him all day!”
The man on the horse was spooked. His eyes darted this way and that.
“It’s the musical instrument he plays,” Asa explained. “A recorder.”
“I know what a recorder sounds like,” the man snapped.
“Then you know it’s not a weapon,” Epps said. “Put that gun away.”
The pistol remained at the ready in the man’s hand.
“Are you going anywhere near Cumberland?” Asa asked the man on the horse.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” came the answer.
“If you could deliver a message to my wife,” Asa said, digging into his pockets for a piece of paper he’d put there for this purpose, should it arise. “Or if that’s too much trouble, if you could see that it got to a Mr. Cyrus Gregg at Gregg’s Caskets of Cumberland, I would—”
“Cyrus Gregg? You know Mr. Gregg?” The man’s whole demeanor changed.
“Yes,” Asa said, amused at the turnabout. “I know Cyrus.”
The use of Cyrus Gregg’s first name impressed the man even more. He fumbled with his pistol, unable to put it back in his coat fast enough. Once it was away, the hand shot forward.
“Timothy Watkins, at your service, sir.”
Asa shook the offered hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Watkins.”
“It would be an honor to deliver your message to Mr. Gregg,” Watkins said with toadylike enthusiasm. “And if I may assist you gentlemen with any other business, it would be my pleasure.”
Epps scoffed with disdain.
Asa turned aside to gather his thoughts. He struggled to find the right words to say to Camilla. As he wrote, the music filled the forest while Watkins babbled from atop his horse, speaking to no one in particular, because Epps had stopped listening to him.
“I had the privilege of assisting Mr. Gregg some months back in a highly personal matter,” Watkins said with pride. “You see, I’m an accountant at the Bank of Green Ridge, and Mr. Harrison—the owner of the bank—entrusts all of his personal accounts to me. So, as you might expect, when Mr. Gregg frequented our establishment in need of an accountant for a local matter, Mr. Harrison pulled me aside confidentially…”
Asa finished writing. Folding the paper into an envelope, he addressed it to Camilla. He handed it to Watkins, who oozed with respectability as he received it.
“I assure you, sir, this message is as good as delivered,” he said. “You will not regret entrusting Timothy Watkins with your missive.”
Epps rolled his eyes.
“Thank you for doing this, Mr. Watkins,” Asa said. “May I pay you for your services?”
“Yes!” Watkins’ eyes lit up. “But not with currency, sir. I will consider myself reimbursed if, the next time you see Mr. Gregg, you will speak favorably of me. Remind him that I was the accountant at the Green Ridge bank who assisted him. I’m sure he’ll remember me, but it doesn’t hurt to remind a man of his stature, does it? Mr. Gregg must meet so many people. But, if I may boast, he said my work for him was exemplary. That’s the very word he used—exemplary!”
“Are you sure you won’t join us for a cup of coffee?” Asa asked.
Epps cringed at the offer. Asa pretended not to notice.
“Thank you, no,” Watkins said. “I must be about my business.” He placed Asa’s message in an inner pocket and patted it to indicate it was secure there.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Watkins,” Asa said.
Epps had turned his back and was sitting at the fire.
“Don’t forget,” Watkins added as he rode off. “Timothy Watkins from the Bank of Green Ridge.”
“I’ll remember,” Asa called after him.
“I can’t forget fast enough,” Epps muttered.
As Timothy Watkins, accountant, disappeared into the dark, Asa relaxed by the fire.
“Change of plans,” Epps said.
“Daniel’s nearby.” Asa flicked a finger at the unseen sound of a recorder. “Can you tell how much of a lead he has on us?”
Epps looked up to the treetops. “Hard to say…with the mountain…the trees…the clear night. Sound’s a funny thing. I once heard a bear roaring and thought it was coming from a cluster of rocks in front of me. Turned around and found myself staring the critter in the snout.”
“What did you do?”
Epps shrugged as though the answer was obvious. “Killed myself a bear.”
High in a tree, Daniel sat wedged among the branches, enjoying the voice of his recorder as it sang to him. Contented, he played with his eyes closed.
He felt comfortable there, having spent hours in the tree outside his bedroom window. The one his uncle had chopped down to spite him. Sitting here tonight, it was as if the tree had been resurrected.
He also felt safer up high than he did on the ground. Any number of predators could pounce on him as he slept. Up high, bundled up like a cocoon, he’d sleep better.
Earlier, beside the river, after drying off and restoring circulation to his hands and feet, which had been frozen in the cave, Daniel had felt human again. The absence of any sign of the killer Epps all afternoon cheered him even more.
He’d done it. He’d escaped. Come morning, with the rising of the sun, a new chapter would start in the life of…
“Daniel! Daniel Cooper!”
The recorder fell from Daniel’s lips and the music died.
He refused to believe what he’d heard.
“Daniel Cooper!”
His name echoed among the trees.
Daniel wanted to blame the recorder for giving him away, but he knew it wasn’t the instrument’s fault. He should have waited. A day. Two days. When he was certain Epps was nowhere near.
With a grunt, Daniel shoved the recorder inside his coat. Epps had killed his good mood.
Glum, Daniel folded his arms and listened with disgust as his name bounced among the trees. In some ways, it sounded like his uncle’s voice at home when he stood at the foot of the stairs and yelled up at him.
Chapter 24
Daniel, secure in his tree nest, wasn’t aware he’d dozed until he awoke with a start. Human coughing roused him.
About fifty feet from the base of the tree, Daniel saw a man hunched over a pile of kindling. Hands struck sparks. A horse stood nearby, tied to a bush.
Another cough interrupted the fire-starting, then a sniff and the appearance of a white handkerchief waved like a flag under the man’s nose. He exhibited all the signs of needing a fire.
But why did he have to choose this spot?
The man gave no indication he knew anyone was watching him. Men often do things when they’re alone they don’t do when they’re not alone, and Daniel watched as the man did three of those things in the course of lighting his fire. The man thought he was alone.
He was the nervous sort, bumbling about, unaccustomed to the outdoors. He jumped at every sound and spent much of his time peering into the dark with a hand in his right pocket, which Daniel imagined held some sort of weapon. But after a time he settled down and situated himself with his face to the road and his back to a tree. Snoring soon followed.
Feeling no need to relocate—the man was no threat—Daniel nestled in for the night. But he kept his senses on alert in case.
Cuddled against the collar of his coat, Daniel felt his eyes growing heavy. They’d gone down for the third time when he saw it.
A shadow moving among shadows. And this one was the worst kind of shadow. The kind with two legs.
Now Daniel couldn’t be more awake. The shadow skulked from tree to tree. It was coming straight toward him.
He tensed.
Did it know he was in the tree? Was it coming for him? If it wasn’t, and he moved, he would alert the shadow to his presence.
Frozen by indecision, Daniel tracked the shadow as it glided toward him. Then it was gone.
Daniel sat forward, straining to see where it went. It appeared to have melted into a tree.
For several breathless seconds, he searched for it and found nothing, as though the shadow was some apparition that had completed its wicked business and vanished.
But then the shadow took shape. It stepped from the tree and into the moonlight.
Daniel’s heart sank. The shadow’s evil business was not finished.
“Epps!” he mouthed.
There was no mistaking the broad-rimmed hat or the way his flowing coat rustled as he moved. Daniel would have preferred an apparition.
Epps’s course was dictated by the uneven terrain, but it was clear he was headed in Daniel’s direction.
Daniel took stock of his situation. Unless he could sprout wings, he had no options. He’d waited too late. Epps had him treed.
But did Epps know it?
Hope sparked in Daniel.
It was the rim of Epps’s hat that tipped him off. Not once had the killer looked up. Maybe he didn’t know Daniel was there!
Daniel held his breath again as Epps made his way to the base of his tree and rested his hand on the trunk.
From his vantage point, Daniel stared down at the top of the killer’s hat. Was Epps thinking about his next move? His hand was steady.
Then Epps began making his way toward the sleeping man.
Daniel wanted to shout. To wake the man. To warn him. But something stopped him.
Self-preservation? Yes, but not only that. There was something about the way Epps approached the campsite, as though he was taking a stroll in the park.
