by Paul Watkins
“I hope not,” Barnegat said. “I hope he puts up a fight, so we can fuck him up and pay him back for Pfeiffer.” Barnegat had not liked Pfeiffer and had never spoken to him except with the condescension of an old hand talking to a newcomer. But none of that mattered now.
The two men began to turn their thoughts from money to vengeance. They unshouldered their guns and slid bullets into the breeches. They sensed the particular never-to-be-mentioned thrill of men who feel justified in bringing violence to a weaker enemy. The more they thought of Pfeiffer, the more angry they became. Barnegat had seen the way he died, and Frampton had seen other accidents, which he assembled in his head until they matched the level of atrocity that Barnegat described.
Frampton reached into his pocket and took out a half-crushed packet of Camels. He shook it until a cigarette slid from the end and put it in his mouth. He was just reaching for his lighter when Barnegat slapped the white stick from between his lips.
“I can tell you don’t know shit about hunting.”
“I been hunting all my life.” Frampton talked back with as much bluster as he could manage against a man he almost loved.
“And I seen how much you get each season, too. Alls you do is sit there in the bushes drinking peppermint schnapps and catching cold. That cigarette will show up like a flashlight in the dark.” Barnegat ground the fallen cigarette into the road as if it were burning and he needed to put out the fire.
“What do you know about it anyway?” said Frampton, angry to have been humiliated. “I know about killing. I shot a man once. It was the only man I killed in World War Two. I fired at a lot of people, but this one I know I got. It was a German who at first I thought was dead. He was lying in a ditch and he was wounded. All bloody in the legs from some machine-gun burst. He pulled a pistol as I was walking past along a muddy road. I don’t know if he meant to shoot me or not. But I saw the gun and I let him have it with my Thompson. Then saw it was no man at all. It was just a kid. Maybe seventeen years old. It was some Waffen SS recruit in dappled sniper camouflage. But I was crazy angry at the time. I ripped the zinc identification disk from around that boy’s neck. And I still got it.” Frampton reached into his shirt and pulled out the tag, which hung around his neck on an old leather cord. “I went home and put it on before I came out here. I can still read his name: Sebastian Westland.” Of all the hauntings he had brought home from the war, the sight of that young man haunted him the most. Now Frampton wore the disk as a talisman against the fear that had clouded his thoughts.
Barnegat snorted. He was fed up with Frampton. His usual eleven beers made him jovial, but having only four had sharpened his temper. He had been wondering if there was any way he could get out of sharing Mackenzie’s reward money once they had got hold of Hazard. That was why Barnegat stayed up front, so he could be the first to track him down. And he decided that, for Hazard, there would be no coming quietly. That had been dismissed without discussion. Both men planned to beat Wilbur Hazard close to death, and then drag him into town like a shot deer and make sure everyone saw what vengeance they had taken on the son of Mary the Clock.
They passed the yellow police tape around the place where Pfeiffer had been killed. It rustled in the breeze as the men moved quickly by. After an hour, they reached the railroad tracks. They sat down on the creosote-smelling slabs of the track spacers and rested their guns against the rails. The sweat began to cool on their backs.
Frampton had given up hope that they would find Hazard. One by one, he snuffed out the daydreams of all the things he would buy with his share of the money, far more than his share ever could. The truth was he cared less about the money than the adventure. Lately, he had felt himself drifting apart from Barnegat, and he saw it as only a matter of time before Barnegat’s jokes about everyone else in town would include him. He would be fuel for all Barnegat’s private chuckling and then there would be nothing for him but to leave. This walk in the night had saved him. Even if they came out empty-handed, Frampton knew they would be brothers again, the way it had been in the beginning. He needed Barnegat’s friendship more than he could ever admit without ruining it. Frampton had no other friends in town. Everyone else had grown tired of his drinking and the way it made him crazy. He wished he were drunk now, as he didn’t feel like taking a swing at Wilbur Hazard, least of all with precious Goldenboy.
It was as if Barnegat had read Frampton’s mind. He leaned across with a pewter drinking flask in his hand.
Frampton took Barnegat’s hand in both of his and slapped the back of Barnegat’s palm in thanks. Frampton carefully unscrewed the pewter cap and let it dangle on its tiny chain. Then he took a slug and felt the taste of peppermint schnapps run stinging across his tongue. It was like liquid candy cane, and he knew he would need to drink the whole flask and then more if he was to feel the hypnotized rage he needed to face Hazard. At least it might be enough to take the pain of walking from his joints. Frampton had not complained about the length of the walk and the weight of the rifle, but his hipbones were so sore that he doubted whether he’d be able to stand again when they decided to move on. Instead, he’d been worrying about Hazard. He didn’t trust Barnegat to be any good in a fight, and he didn’t know Hazard well enough to feel sure that two of them against one of him would put the odds in their favor. The son of a crazy lady, he was thinking. I never did like the look of him. Frampton quietly envisioned a massacre, with himself as one of the victims. He stared at his boots and prepared to die.
Barnegat walked to the other side of the tracks. A moment later came the rough sputter of him pissing on the pale stone track bedding. Then the noise stopped. “Hey!” he whispered.
“You get something caught in your fly?” Frampton didn’t look up from his boots. He reached across and took another drink of the schnapps.
“It’s a light!” Barnegat rasped. “Someone’s got a fire going.”
Frampton felt his heart jump in his chest. He closed his hands around the dew-smeared stock of his gun, and crawled to where Barnegat crouched.
The fire was a bubble of marmalade light deep in the woods. Trees between the fire and the men seemed to shift in the sway of the flames. Someone stirred the ashes. Sparks rose into the sky.
“We’ll make too much noise if both of us go in.” Frampton could no longer hide his fear. He rested his forehead on the cold iron of a rail and in his mind he cursed his cowardice.
“I’ll go.” Barnegat was not afraid. He suddenly felt more brave and ready for a fight than he ever had before. He had no idea where his courage had come from, but suddenly it was there like a transfusion running through him. He fanned his eyes across the cowering man and thought, When this is over, nobody’s getting any money except me. And there’ll be no more bowing down to you and hearing about how you could pop my eyes out if you wanted to. When we get back to town, things will be different, and they will stay that way. Then he crawled down the embankment, through the oily water in the ditch and into the woods, carrying his rifle in the crook of his elbow.
Wilbur Hazard sat as close to the fire as he could, arms around his knees, rocking slowly back and forth. The cold had sunk into his bones. Beside him was his backpack, in which he carried a hammer, nails, a saw and three glass mason jars. For the past few weeks, he had been sneaking into the Algonquin and cutting down trees to make himself a cabin. He didn’t know who the land belonged to. He only knew it wasn’t his, and so he had to keep his cabin a secret. That was half the thrill of building it. It would be his hideaway. He had studied a book about cabin building and learned how to notch the logs so they would fit together. Instead of windows, he was going to cut a window space but fill the gap with old mason jars, which he could bring into the woods a few at a time. He would caulk the jars and logs with moss and dirt and pine sap, the way prospectors had done in Alaska in the last century. He had gently lifted the moss from rocks on the crest of Seneca Mountain and set it right side up on the wood so it could continue to grow. For this he used a lo
ng-bladed Gerber knife, which he kept in a sheath at his waist. With the Gerber, he could reach into each crevice of the stone. The cabin was three-quarters built. The only thing it didn’t have was a door, and the windows still needed a few more jars.
But now that policeman had ruined everything. He had run from Officer Dodge with no sense of where he was going. Only to get away. He wished now that he had stayed, because in the past few minutes of sitting by the fire it had finally occurred to him that Dodge was looking for the tree spiker, not for him. Hazard had first assumed that someone had found the cabin and reported him. He didn’t know how he could get himself out of this mess, and he didn’t know if they would believe him, even if he told the truth. I’m the son of a lady everyone thinks is crazy, thought Hazard.
In his frustration, he picked up a stick and whacked the fire, sending shreds of ember up into the trees. He raised his head to watch them and saw pine branches shimmering like copper above him. If I could only get to Mr. Mackenzie, he thought, I could explain it to him and he would understand. Mr. Mackenzie is fair. He’s a straight dealer. People will do what he says. He had never met Mackenzie before, but knew he was the most influential man in town. This was Hazard’s only plan. As soon as it grew light, he would make his way to the mill and plead his case to the man who had everyone’s respect.
He didn’t hear Barnegat behind him. All he heard was the thump of the rifle butt striking the back of his head and the pain that closed around his face as if someone had put his hands in front of his eyes. He pitched forward into the fire and embers fell into his mouth.
Then a hand grabbed the material of his coat and yanked him from the blinding light and pain. Hazard smelled the bitter reek of his own torched hair. Burns laid raw his cheeks and lips and forehead. A man was standing over him. Hazard couldn’t see who it was, but he could see the raised gun, the brass butt plate aimed at his face. He tried to talk but couldn’t. His mouth was filled with blood.
“Time’s up,” the man said.
Hazard felt the slam of the rifle into his chin and blacked out. He couldn’t tell how long. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds. When he opened his eyes, he saw he was still by the fire. Scrabbling through Hazard’s pain came the knowledge that this man was trying to kill him. He rolled over and began to crawl away. A gurgling moan pushed itself out of his throat. Then his legs were yanked out from under him and his nose hit the dirt and he felt pine needles digging into the opened flesh of his burns.
“I got him!” Barnegat yelled. He dragged Hazard a few feet back toward the fire, then stopped and rolled the man over with his boot. He shoved the barrel of the gun in Hazard’s face. “I swear to God, the only thing stopping me from killing you right now is I don’t even know what. You even fucking talk to me and I’ll shoot you.” Then Barnegat undid the top of Hazard’s rucksack, which was still strapped to his back, and began to empty out the hammers and small nails and newspaper-wrapped mason jars that Hazard had stored inside. “Look at all this shit!” He smashed the mason jars one after the other on top of Hazard’s head, hearing the glass break inside the paper wrapping. “What the hell got into you, boy? Didn’t your loopy fucking mama teach you any better? What did Pfeiffer ever do to deserve what you did to him? And worse than that, you could have fucking killed me!” He kicked Hazard in the stomach, feeling the man curl up around the blow. Then Barnegat shouldered his rifle, knowing there would be no more trouble from Hazard. He took hold of Hazard’s legs and dragged him back toward the tracks.
Frampton stood with his gun ready, wishing now that he had volunteered to go in Barnegat’s place.
“Look at this fuck!” Barnegat dragged Hazard the last few feet up the embankment and then dumped him on the tracks. He wiped the sweat off his face. “Fucking short-order cook!” He felt unstoppable. Part of him wished that Frampton would fight him now, because he would kill the old man with his bare hands.
Hazard rose up to his hands and knees. His head lolled down and he spat. His lips moved and he began to whisper.
“He’s saying something.” Frampton bent down, hands on his knees. “What are you saying, Mister?” He had drunk the last of the schnapps and felt the first flickers of uncontrollable anger igniting in his chest. He wanted to do something he could brag about later.
“I can explain,” Hazard whispered. His stomach felt loose and heavy, as if something had ruptured inside him. “It wasn’t me. I swear.”
“Don’t listen to him.” Barnegat shoved Frampton out of the way.
“Don’t push me!” Frampton walked up close to Barnegat. He had an inkling that Barnegat meant to keep all the reward money, which was what he would have done himself if he could have come up with half an excuse. “Don’t you push me, Barnegat!”
Barnegat stared at Frampton. Just give me an excuse, Barnegat was thinking. Just say something and watch what happens, you roly-poly motherfucker.
Hazard rose unsteadily to his feet. He tottered, hands held in front of him because he could barely see from under his swollen eyelids.
Frampton stood before Barnegat a moment longer. His lower lip began to curl. Then he wheeled around and knocked Hazard over with a swipe from his heavy boot.
Hazard rolled down the embankment, the sharp gravel digging into his palms and knees, and splashed into the oily ditch water. For a moment, he just floated. It seemed suddenly clear to him that he would never reach town alive. He had seen the guns they carried. He had heard the anger in their voices. There would never be a chance to explain. He knew that if he didn’t run now, he would die. While the two men were still shouting at each other, he slipped as quietly as he could through the reeds. When he reached dry ground, he stood, holding his hand to his stomach, and began to run. The light of his fire still shimmered in the distance. He ran at an angle to the flames, so the two men wouldn’t see his silhouette. The looseness in his guts was agony.
It was only a few seconds before Frampton noticed that the water in the ditch seemed much too still. He didn’t wait. He lunged down the bank. His hips complained in sharp grinding jabs halfway up his back. The second he landed in the water, he knew that Hazard was gone. He swished his hands through the water and felt nothing but the pine needles that glued themselves to the tops of his hands and his wrists. He thrashed through the reeds and walked onto dry ground, then heard Hazard’s footsteps, irregular and plodding in the distance.
“What’s going on?” Barnegat called down from the tracks.
Without replying, Frampton ran after Hazard. He knew he could make up for not volunteering earlier and now with Hazard beaten up so badly, there wouldn’t be any more fight left in the man.
“What the hell’s going on?” Barnegat’s voice echoed through the trees.
Frampton sprinted after Hazard’s dark and hunchbacked shape. He could hear the pain in Hazard’s voice each time he took a breath.
Hazard knew he was being followed, but he couldn’t go any faster. There was too much pain.
“Stop,” Frampton wheezed at the bobbing shadow ahead of him. “Make it easy on yourself.” He was gaining on Hazard now.
The trees were getting thicker. Branches lashed at Hazard’s eyes. He heard the old man’s whispering close behind. His lungs blazed as if they had been filled with embers. He could not go on.
“Stop.” The whisper rushed past Hazard’s ears.
And suddenly he did stop. He wheeled around and drew back the heel of his palm and smashed it into Frampton’s nose before the old man had time to slow down.
Frampton fell wide-eyed onto his back. He had no idea what had happened. One second he seemed to have Hazard almost in his grasp and suddenly here he was looking up at the blurry sky and blood was leaking down the back of his throat. Over the rattle of his own half-choked breath, he heard Hazard running away.
“Billy?” It was Barnegat. “Billy, where are you?”
Slowly, Frampton raised one hand and touched it to his face. He felt the bulbous lump which had taken the
place of his sharp, birdlike nose. He spat blood off his lips and breathed in and howled, “He killed me!”
Barnegat came running. He found Frampton on his back and lifted him into a sitting position.
“He killed me!” Frampton wailed and gripped Barnegat’s shoulders, as if they held him at the edge of life itself. He heard the familiar clink-switch of a Zippo lighter being opened and struck and then by the oily fire’s light he saw Barnegat.
“It’s not so bad. I think it’s just your nose.”
Frampton could smell the metallic peppermint schnapps on Barnegat’s breath. “Not bad for you, maybe!”
Barnegat stood over him, staring into the dark. He knew they wouldn’t find Hazard now. He imagined hundred-dollar bills sifting through his fingers as if blown by a great wind and fluttering away, completely lost across the wilderness. He had never been so angry and so sick with disappointment. For the first time in his life, he had envisioned money whose earning he could not check off on a watch as hourly wages. Each minute of his normal life had a dollar value. The value climbed with such miserable slowness over the years that he could no longer bear to calculate how much sweat he put into the slow drag of every minute passing. It wasn’t even that the money would have changed his life. Ten thousand was a lot, but not enough to let him quit his job. What the money meant to him was the chance to see his life differently, even if only for a while. Now he looked down on half-drunk Frampton and had to stop himself from the short, precise movements of chambering bullets in his gun and blowing off the old man’s head.
The next morning, the two men sat in orange plastic chairs at the police station, while Dodge made out his report. Frampton’s face was obscured by white bandages. The corners of his eyes showed purple-yellow bruises and his lips were scabbed and split. He also had a hangover. Schnapps always did this to him. He felt as if his brain had been squeezed like a sponge. Barnegat showed no sign of change. His black watch cap was pulled down over his ears. He was gnawing on a toothpick which he had taken from a dispenser at the cash register of the Four Seasons. He switched it violently from one side of his mouth to the other.
