by Glen Krisch
2.
Cooper had yet to set up bedding in any of the upstairs bedrooms. Instead, as the sun dipped below the trees, he built a nest of blankets in the entryway. He felt more comfortable here, resting in clear view of both the front door and the pipe organ in the back room. He might have bought the house, but he still felt like a stranger within its walls. Watching the shifting moonlight toying with the shadows on the ceiling, he continued to parse Greta's words from earlier today:
There's an unpleasant undercurrent in this town. It will pull at you unexpectedly, dragging you under its surface.
A mysterious and corrupt member of his new community was holding a boy against his will. For some reason, this thought didn't startle him. He knew he should react differently. With anxiety maybe, with alarm, definitely.
But he didn't.
Those other matters didn't reach him within the security of his new home. Those petty squabbles, those lost little boys of no consequence to his own life--nothing could reach him here. He closed his eyes, his mind reeling with fatigue.
He heard his own voice from far away, as if he held a paper cone pressed to his ear:
I think you should be ashamed for what you're doing to those kids… how can you look at yourself in the mirror?
Then Greta's soft, whimsical voice, as if in reply:
We all have tales we want left untold and forgotten.
Cooper opened his eyes with a start. Someone was knocking on the front door. He blinked, his mind thickly slowed from sleep. When his mind cleared, he saw a maroon entryway carpet beneath his blankets. A small table he had never noticed before was in the corner by the door. At its center, a vase held a mass of long-stemmed wildflowers slumping along its rim. He could smell the sweet pollen from the yellow petals, the tang of fresh-cut stems.
Again, the knock repeated, this time with a desperate air. Two knocks, pause, one knock.
He moved to his knees, craning forward, waiting for any other sounds coming from outside. He heard none. Maybe he had dreamt the noises, the sound leaking over to his waking mind. Perhaps the wind raked a tree branch against the house.
He wasn't aware of the sound coming from the pipe organ until its mournful dirge sighed to silence. He looked to the back room, and was startled to see an old woman. As she walked toward him, she flexed her fingers as if they pained her. She seemed oblivious of his presence as she neared.
"Um, hello?" Cooper said, his voice scratchy in his throat.
She rushed by, the maroon carpet softening her steps, unfazed. She opened the front door a crack before swinging it wide. A Negro man hesitated, but stepped inside. His shoulders were broad and sweat dripped down his forehead and around the curve of his chin. His taut limbs relaxed slightly when the door closed behind him, his relief evident.
Eunice Blankenship moved swiftly, the man apprehensively a step behind. It really was her, Cooper realized; the fragile frame of her face was identical to her younger self captured in the daguerreotype he'd found. They went through a side room, down a flight of stairs, to a back hallway. Cooper found himself standing in the basement hallway next to the late night visitor. Even though he was close enough to touch his shoulder, he didn't seem aware of Cooper's presence.
Eunice had disappeared around a corner. But Benjamin--yes, His name is Benjamin, Cooper realized, Benjamin remained behind. He was staring at a mirror on the wall, unmoving. It was hung at an angle to allow people to not only view their reflection, but also to see the stairwell without being seen. Cooper was off to the side a foot away. While he could still move, not even Benjamin's eyes twitched.
"It's time to go, Benjamin," he said aloud, his voice dry with apprehension. Then in a quieter voice to himself, "I remember now. It's like every other night. Every night since I came to Coal Hollow."
He waved his hand in front of Benjamin's eyes, but he still didn't move. "You need to follow Eunice. She's in the back room. Your family is behind a secret panel in the wall. Seeing them again is the happiest moment in your life. Seeing your wife. Your father-in-law."
Cooper could hear his own voice, could feel his muscles humming with anxiety. That was it. Benjamin could have been a statue.
"Benjamin?" He reached out to touch the Negro on the shoulder.
Before he could, the man moved. As he turned toward Cooper, he was certain Benjamin's eyes would meet his. But they panned by, unseeing, checking the direction Eunice had gone, before returning to the mirror, this time turning slightly to see up the stairwell.
This was not supposed to happen. This wasn't how it happened every night in his dreams. Benjamin always moved down the hallway, catching up to Eunice. Never hesitating, never doubting. But this once he kept his eyes trained above, his nervousness resurfacing.
A crash came from upstairs. Something slammed into the front door, and the splintering wood sounded like a crying animal. Someone was axing their way in. Benjamin thought about it--Cooper could see it in his eyes--he was going to confront whoever was so maliciously breaking into the Blankenship's home. Confront them and save his family from discovery.
A jumble of voices came from upstairs:
"You sure this is the place?"
"Of course we are. We're professionals, Mr. Parkins."
"We've got our sources."
"Your sources are niggers, Cartwright."
"Old Willy'd give up his own daughter to stay free. In fact, he had a cousin hiding not far from his house in Lewiston, awaiting instructions for the trip to Toronto, he gave him up."
"He sure did. Stupid nigger. We took his cousin, and a few more darkies, besides."
"That's enough, Leo. Let's just get this done."
"I just want what's mine," Parkins said.
"Enough. Both of you. This is the place. Now, Parkins, you'll get your niggers, we'll get paid, we'll be on our way. Simple enough.
"Now, everybody spread out. The reverend and his wife gotta be around, with it pissing rain out, they're bound to be inside."
The floor above creaked with thundering strides as they began their search. Someone ransacked the kitchen. Glasses shattered, bowls crashed into walls, cast iron pans hammered the floor.
"Kitchen's clear," someone said, chuckling.
After listening to the intruders, Benjamin hesitated. Cooper could tell the Negro was weighing his odds. He stepped toward the stairway, paused, then retreated down the hall Eunice had taken.
Cooper trailed behind him, feeling like an eavesdropper on these strangers running through his house.
But it's their house. Isn't it?
More voices came from upstairs; Cooper could no longer tell what they were saying, but the menacing tone didn't bode well for the Blankenships' fate.
When Cooper caught up, Eunice was standing next to the open panel in the wall. She was speaking with Benjamin, with the people already in the hidden room. "You need to hurry down that tunnel. It leads to another house not far from here. They'll help. It's dark, sure, but you'll have a chance."
"I don't know what to say." He loomed over her; Eunice's forehead nearly reached his armpit. "I don't even know your name."
"Call me friend." Eunice touched Benjamin's shoulder, squeezing it. She guided him down to the hidden room.
As footsteps crashed down the basement stairs, Benjamin clambered into the opening. The brief voices from inside the low opening were joyous, yet ultimately sad. Dark-skinned hands pulled at him, futilely helping him inside.
Eunice replaced the panel, and instantly the wall looked whole and unremarkable.
She then looked at Cooper.
Instead of her eyes trailing away, they lingered for a second. She blinked; in that moment he saw her life, her anguish, her understanding that, while she devoted her life to preserving life, there were people who didn't give a damn about her mission; that and so much more was evident in a single gleaming blink.
He only turned away because he heard the frantic rip of metal slicing through the air. All he saw was the machete blade
coming down from its full arc.
The image froze in his mind's eye, would remain there always; rage, hatred merging with madness. The wielder's eyes pulled wide, full whites glinting like silver dollars cast carelessly to a rain puddle.
Cooper threw his hands up as if to ward off a fatal blow, but the blade rushed by his forehead, pressing cold air to his brow, before tearing with a meaty thud into Eunice's skull.
"Christ, we might've needed to speak to her," another man said, pushing into the room.
She moaned submissively, but otherwise, seemed unaware of the mortal wound. Her brow furrowed in consternation, then disappointment.
She fell to the floor, dead before her body could settle. Cooper reached out for her, but his hand seemed to float away from him like dense fog. Then he was drifting on a breeze, rising above the violence. Eunice's killer didn't notice him.
He can't see me.
Cooper tried yelling, but was voiceless, tried waving his arms, clapping his hands, but was helpless. A person's been murdered in my house, and I can't do a thing to stop it. He screamed in frustration.
The machete wielder's hatred was no longer present. He laughed softly as if embarrassed at hearing a dirty joke in mixed company. His eyes were twitchy, too small for his head; rain blending with sweat dripped from the brim of his hat and face. A plug of chaw strained his cheek. He did not look like a killer. Under different circumstances he would've appeared apologetic as he leaned over to wedge his knee against Eunice's cheekbone for leverage. As he worked to free the machete, her cleaved skull protested like a still-green log fighting a wood axe. Blood flowed freely, seeping into the dirt floor.
"Hey, Vic, we found the reverend," said a man hefting a fire axe as he ran into the room, almost stepping on the body. "Ho'boy, looks like you found the wife."
The momentary quiet left the basement, chaos sweeping in like a violent tide. Two more men poured through the narrow doorway. Their rain-drenched leather riding coats flapped at their knees. One man carried a long-barrel shotgun. Another had a pistol in each clenched fist and iron shackles tethered to his cowhide belt. They were identical. Brothers of Eunice's killer. They were triplets.
"She resisted," Vic Borland said, unable to hold back a wicked grin. "I swear she did."
"Conspirator, was she?"
"You know it, Leo. Just another nigger-lover. I think she was a mite unstable, too."
"Tried to gouge your eyes?" the third brother chimed in.
It's like a damn game to them! Cooper raged, his ethereal body trembling.
"Yeah, even tried kicking my balls. Had to put her down like a sick dog."
"Well, good for you," the axe-wielder said, then spit a glob of chaw into Eunice's blood-speckled face. He pulled back and kicked her hard in the ribs. "Whore."
Another two men entered the already cramped room: a hulking fair-haired man forcing the Reverend Horace Blankenship inside by a painful armlock.
Black-eyed and nose-bloodied, Blankenship cried out when he saw his wife.
A toe-head boy stood in the doorway, face blanched and rain soaked. He silently took in the bloody sight. A pink-faced man appeared behind the boy, his fingers flittering at his breast.
The employer of these monsters, Cooper thought. Parkins.
Removing a handkerchief from an interior pocket, Parkins mopped his brow. He refolded the elegant fabric and held it to his lips as if nauseated.
The reverend didn't look at his wife, instead keeping his eyes raised heavenward, seeking solace or rescue from his God. Eunice's blood continued to spread as her body jerked through a final spasm. Her bowels released a pocket of gas and the triplets laughed.
"Cartwright, did it have to come to this? What happened?"
Still holding his armlock on the reverend, Cartwright glared over his shoulder. "You wanted this, Parkins. We're almost done. We'll get the information from the good reverend, then we'll get your property back."
"I never agreed to murdering innocent people."
"None of us involved is innocent. Nobody."
"But--"
Cartwright cut him off. "You know our reputation, know we're the best doing what we do. You knew the consequences of setting us on a trail. You hired us. You did this."
At hearing the exchange, the boy ran from the doorway to a corner and wretched, trying his best to stifle the embarrassing sound. The other bounty hunters shook their heads, slapped each other on the shoulder and laughed at the boy's weakness.
Cartwright released the reverend, shoving him against a wall. The old man slumped to the floor, rubbing his shoulder, staring at his wife's body. Blankenship crossed himself, clasped his hands together and began to pray quietly, yet intently.
Cartwright took a single step toward the brothers, and though they each had twenty pounds on him, they became quiet and sullen, looking at the floor, unable to meet his eye.
He went to the boy, placed a hand on his shoulder. "This is how things are done, Jasper. You wanted to come along. If you're going to be a part of this, I need you to be strong."
The reverend's gaze leveled at Cartwright. "You… you bastard! He's your son? You willingly led your son into Hell's embrace?" A vein throbbed at his temple, his limbs trembled. He squeezed his hands together even tighter, his voice rising, "Dear heavenly Father, I beg of You Your forgiveness, for my own sins and the sins of these vile men!"
Cartwright took two strides and kicked the reverend in the temple, sending him groaning to the ground.
"Damn it, look what you made me do." Cartwright sounded tired, but resolute. "You don't understand, that's all. Jasper's going to be in the family business."
With blood leaking from his ear, Blankenship closed his eyes again and continued praying, his lips moving without a sound.
"Ethan, time's ticking. We better get what we came for," the axe-wielder said. He seemed less frightened of Cartwright than the bounty hunting brothers. More on his level.
"Old Lewiston Willy mentioned a hidden room somewhere."
"You trust that nigger?" Parkins asked, keeping his eyes from taking in the mess on the floor.
Cooper still hovered above the melee like cigar smoke, swirling through the room in languid circles, unable to shut his eyes of sight, unable to shut his ears of sound.
Uncomfortably, Parkins squatted next to Blankenship, moving as if his riding gear had chaffed his delicate skin. "Where they at, nigger lover? Where's this hidden room? Let us know and we'll be peaceable. Just tell us where my property's at." His voice was southern-sweet. Cooper could picture him sipping lemonade while sitting on a porch swing, not a care in the world.
"You have no right!" Horace Blankenship cried, his eyes still held skyward. Cooper didn't know if he was admonishing his attackers' brutality or his savior's lack of empathy. "Cartwright, you and your heathens are going to hell, God as my witness, you will burn for eternity in Satan's fire!"
The room was quiet for several seconds, all except for an occasional splatter of spit tobacco juice and quiet whimpers from the boy in the corner.
Cooper, still circling, a fly caught in the tow of an autumn breeze, shifted about the room. He saw Parkins's bald spot, Cartwright's tight-lipped grin, the machete, the fire axe, the guns, Eunice's blood swirling on the floor as he moved, everyone ready for an escalation of violence if given cause. Cartwright placed a hand on Parkins's shoulder. The southerner backed away to stand with the others. Cartwright leaned over to whisper something into the reverend's ear.
The old man shook his head emphatically. "No. No, I can't do that."
Cartwright looked at his men, shook his head. He waved for the axe-wielder. "Scully, get what we need from him. Make it quick. Trail's going cold."
Blankenship didn't flinch, nor did he look to confront his interrogator. His lips trembled in prayer, spittle gathering on his lip.
The axe swayed low to the ground as he sized up the reverend, choosing a choice spot for his strike. The swaying increased, building momentum. Choosing Bla
nkenship's left foot, he stomped on his ankle, holding the limb steady.
The air stilled with anticipation. Cooper's swirling stopped. He couldn't catch his breath; it built in his chest as a molten pain. Before the axe could sever the reverend's foot, a slight sound broke the loaded silence: a glass jar's hollow ping as it toppled over.
Cartwright's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Hold on, Scully. I think we've found our quarry!"
A forced quiet filled the room. The throb of blood rushed through temples. Adrenaline quivered muscles. Then they heard it. They all heard it. A scurrying sound, like animals of the night cowering through shadows and afterthoughts. Even Blankenship stopped his babbled prayer and looked at the wall with the hidden panel. He started crying afresh.
Leo Borland raised his weapon, finger twitching to pull the trigger. "They're in the wall!"
"Hold on." Cartwright grinned wide enough that the parting of his sun-weathered lips revealed straight, white teeth. "Scully, why don't you have the honors."
The axe-wielder sprang forward, the others clearing a path. He threw the axe back in a half swing and sent it crashing against the hidden panel. The wooden plank disintegrated. He went to his knees, shoved aside the debris.
"It's a damn tunnel," Parkins said, astonished. "You get after 'em before you lose them darkies again."
"They're your niggers, so that means you're coming with, Parkins," Cartwright said.
They passed a lit lantern to Leo Borland, and he and his long-barrel shotgun leapt for the hole in the wall. He almost immediately pulled out. "That was a piss jar they got back here. Aw, the fuckin' thing tipped over, now I got nigger piss all over my britches."
The riders laughed. "Leo, get your ass back in there," Cartwright said. The triplet spat, scrunched up his face, then disappeared. Without another word from Cartwright, another Borland brother fell to his knees to take up the pursuit.
"What about this piece of shit?" Scully asked, grabbing Blankenship's sleeve.
"Chop him like kindling," Cartwright said, then turned to his son. "Jasper? Son, you coming?"
Scully's axe left the toe-head boy transfixed but wary, as if the iron head was a living and temperamental thing. Cooper wanted to call out to him, or to at least shield him from this horror, but was helpless to do anything but hover.
