by Rodney Jones
“What for? You going camping?”
“A hike, maybe. Can I borrow it?” I gazed off toward the woods, wondering what John was doing.
“It’s not really for navigating, you know. It’s just a tracking thingy. You have to have internet access to follow it.”
Was he just sitting there, thinking… about me? “Well, that’ll work.”
“You want to track someone? Is it that guy? John? Has it come to that, Tess? You’re keeping tabs on him?”
“Jesus. If you really must know, yes.”
“Uh… why?”
A chipmunk scampered along the far edge of the lawn then disappeared into the jewelweed. “He’s going for a hike in the mountains, and I just want to see where he’s going.”
“You’re spying on him?”
“No, no, not spying. I’m just worried he might get lost.”
“Jesus, I know you can do better than that.”
“There’s no chance I can have the thing without having to sit in your confessional?”
“Tess, when did we start keeping secrets from each other?”
I could have argued that I knew of a few she was keeping from me. But then, I guessed I wasn’t supposed to know. I sighed. “John is going somewhere that I feel might be dangerous, and he won’t tell me where. If anything happens to him… well, if I know where he is, I might be able to help.”
“Dangerous? Like how?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling.” I got up and began pacing the length of the deck.
“A feeling? Oh, man! It sounds to me like you’ve fallen for this guy, and I’m not so sure that’s cause for celebration.”
Sometimes I wished there was a Slap button on my phone. “Liz, just because you like someone or care about what happens to them doesn’t mean you’ve fallen for them.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay, okay. So he doesn’t want you to know where he’s going? You’re okay with that?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“One cannot love and be wise.”
“Stop it.” I so wanted that Slap button. “Can I have the tracker or not?”
“I would’ve loaned it to you anyway. Duh!”
chapter twelve
John
I awoke with a cold, shrinking feeling in my chest. I sat up and peered out the tent door into the gray of pre-dawn. I had a five-hour hike ahead of me. Tess would gladly have driven me up to the end of Wallingford Pond Road, but given what happened last time, I didn’t want her having any part in it.
I slipped a plastic water bottle into a sack, along with a tin of sardines and some crackers, then made my way to the edge of Tess’s backyard. I hid behind a bush, waiting for her all-clear signal. My task would take an hour, two at the most. But then a picture of my aunt and uncle came to mind, a mere mile or two down the road from where I’d be, the two of them collapsed on the ground, exhausted from hours of battling flames, stunned by their loss. Aunt Lil had worked herself nearly to death fighting to save our home, and I’d left her without so much as a good-bye. Perhaps once I was done with the burial, I’d go down and lend a hand. At the least, I could help them through those first few days, offer them what little comfort I could. After all, when I returned to the future, I would arrive on the same day here, regardless of the time I spent there.
The moment the lamp by the back door lit up, I got up and headed for the deck. Tess was at the stove, her red hair spilling down over the back of a turquoise shirt, which was tucked into a pair of snug-fitting black britches. Her feet were encased in a pair of fuzzy pink slippers.
“It’s unlocked,” she called.
I slid the door open and stepped in to the smell of bacon.
“Help yourself to the coffee,” she said. “There’re cups in the corner cabinet.”
I grabbed a cup and poured some coffee.
She turned over some eggs in a sizzling skillet. “You sleep okay?”
“Well enough, I reckon.”
“When your money arrives from Boston, you should get yourself a motel room with a king-size bed and live it up for a few days.”
“Live it up?”
“Yeah, long showers, HBO, pizza delivered to your door.” She grinned. “And then we can go dancing.”
I nodded and smiled. “Fine by me.”
Tess slid some fried eggs, potatoes, and strips of bacon onto a couple of plates, and we sat down to eat. My uncle used to say that silence at the table was a sign of good cookin’. That might be, but I suspected that the quiet between us was more about the fear lurking beneath the surface.
A short while later, I forked the last little chunk of fried potato into my mouth and chased it down with a sip of coffee.
She looked at me over the rim of her cup. “More coffee?”
“I probably should be on my way,” I said.
She pointed at the sack I’d set by the door. “What’s in the bag?”
“Supper.”
“You should use my daypack.” She hopped up and disappeared into the hallway. Moments later, she returned with her green knapsack. “I cleaned it out last night. It’ll be easier than lugging that bag up there.” She dropped to her knees and began transferring my food. “I stole Marsha Wilcott’s ring in second grade.”
The odd comment startled me. “Pardon?”
“I stole Marsha Wilcott’s ring.” She turned to look up at me. “It was silver and monogrammed with MW. I’ve never told anyone, not even Liz.”
It took a moment for me to sort out why she was telling me. “Oh.”
“It was recess.” She shoved the box of crackers down inside the knapsack. “I was the last to leave the classroom, and she’d left her ring lying on her desk. I used to fantasize about returning it. I always thought I would… anonymously, but I didn’t. I was too chicken.” As she zipped the sack shut, she emitted a soft moan. “In sixth grade, she was killed in a car accident.”
“Oh, Tess… that’s a burden.”
“Yeah.”
“You were just a child. Didn’t know any better.”
“I knew better. I knew the instant the idea entered my mind. I remember feeling ashamed even as I dropped the ring into my pocket.” She sighed. “So there’s our secret.”
A short while later, we were on the front porch, saying our good-byes as we had time and again, though never under such peculiar circumstances. Tess stood there, looking down toward her feet and rocking a bit. She sighed maybe three times in two minutes.
“I reckon it’s time I go.” I had a crushing desire to grab hold of her and pull her close.
“Promise me…” She produced yet another sigh. “Oh, you already did.”
“I promise I’ll not give up on you, Tess.”
She dropped her eyes and nodded.
“Bye, Tess.” I stepped off the porch and started for the woods.
I was almost to the road when she called, “John…”
I stopped and turned.
Tess’s eyes were on me. Her hands were balled up under her chin. “I…” Her chest rose and fell. “Bye. Be careful.”
I headed up the mountain toward Sugarhill Road with Tess’s shovel over my shoulder and her knapsack strapped to my back. I turned off onto Wallingford Pond Road and followed it to the end, where the foot path began—what used to be the coach road.
As I followed the path around the north side of the mountain peak, I heard the thunder of a flying machine approaching from behind me. I searched through the sparse gaps in the forest canopy, hoping to spot it, but I wasn’t able to see anything. Once the noise faded, I could hear other sounds, like the distant rumble and hum of cars and trucks on Rutland Road. And then, from far off to the north, came the faint whine of a train’s horn. Though it only vaguely resembled the w
histles I grew up hearing, it nonetheless stirred a yearning for home.
The babbling of a small stream trickled in from the left of the path—the headwaters of Greendale River. To my right was the boulder I’d often seen when I passed that way in my uncle’s wagon, and about a half mile farther was the ribbon place—a broad ridge near the top of the mountain, thinly scattered with trees. A pair of boulders immediately to the right of the path marked the turnoff point.
I stepped off to the edge of the stream, slipped Tess’s pack from my shoulders, and splashed cold water on the back of my neck. I wasn’t all that hungry, but I figured it might be a while before I had a chance to eat again, so I dug down into the knapsack for the sardines and crackers. I took my time, pretending there was no hurry, though I was aware I was procrastinating. But once the tin was empty, I could no longer justify dallying. I gathered my things and went off in search of that invisible passage.
I found signs on the ground, small plants that I’d stepped on, moss that I’d kicked loose—evidence of my being there the week before. I stood there for a moment, hesitating. As many times as I’d been through it, the idea still gave me the willies.
“Get it over with,” I told myself.
I took a step forward and stopped. I wouldn’t need the knapsack, so I slipped it off and left it lying on the ground for when I returned. Then, gripping the spade in my left hand, I held my breath and took another step forward, then another, and another—and tripped.
I stumbled and fell, landing on wet earth. The sky was darker than it had been a moment before, as though the sun had dashed behind a dense cloud. I craned my neck to see what I’d tripped over.
“Oh, my God.” I squeezed my eyes shut and took several deep breaths. My whole body quivered with the effort of holding on to my wits.
“Oh, Lord God, help me through this.” I got to my knees and crawled over to Tess. She looked precisely as I remembered. She wore the blue dress that Abigail Jacobson had given her, still damp with rain and blood.
“Oh, Tess, no, no, this isn’t real. You’re all right. It’s just a mistake.” I picked up her hand and held it. “It’ll be all right,” I assured her, and myself, patting the back of her cool, damp hand. “I’ll take good care of you. No one’s gonna hurt you ever again.”
A rustling noise came from somewhere to my right. I froze then heard a snap. I grabbed the spade, got to my feet, and crept back toward the path. A dull thud was followed by the soft snort of a horse. I crouched low, waited, and listened, my pulse pounding in my ears.
A few seconds later, I remembered. I got up and walked toward the path—or rather, the road. “I nearly forgot about you being here.”
The brown snorted. I stepped up to his side and patted his warm shoulder.
“Just waiting for me, were you?” I gave him another pat then realized he’d probably been there no more than a few minutes. To him, I’d only just stepped into the woods then turned around and come back. “Don’t ya go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
He dipped his head, as if agreeing to wait. I returned to Tess’s body. I scanned the area, looking for a place to dig a hole. I was dead certain no one would come looking for her. The sheriff was most likely thinking he was done with her, that she’d end up being a meal for a pack of coyotes, never to be heard of again. As far as I was concerned, he could think whatever he wanted as long as he left my family out of it. Once I finished the burying task, I would return the brown to Greendale, explain it all to my aunt and uncle, and then be free to spend the rest of my life with Tess in peace.
About thirty feet to the south was the old oak tree I used to rely on as a landmark. I walked over to it and poked at the ground with the shovel. Rocks.
I tried a different spot and hit more rocks, then another—tree roots and rocks. I moved farther away from the tree, but it was the same there, the same everywhere. There was hardly any soil up there, mostly rocks.
I peered around, wondering who would come poking around up there. Someone did. Well, they would… later. Maybe it had been, or would be, someone passing through who saw the brown and got curious, same as I would’ve been. Perhaps they thought his owner had suffered a mishap, and they stopped to help. Returning the horse to my uncle would solve that problem.
But I still had to figure out what to do with Tess’s body. I thought about the other side of the river. Folks were less likely to wander that way, having to get their feet wet to do so. I could put her over there, beyond sight of the road, then cover her with rocks.
I crossed the brook, not wanting to go too far back, as most of the rocks would likely be coming from the stream bed. About eight yards past the stream, I found an old rotting tree lying on the ground with a slight depression just behind it. Perfect.
I returned to Tess’s body. Her pale-blue lips and bloodless cheeks brought an ache to my heart. I gently worked my arms up under her, pulled her to my chest, and struggled to my feet. Under the weight of her corpse, I found it hard to keep hold of the fact that I’d only just had breakfast with her and even harder to imagine ever doing so again.
I took slow, deliberate steps through the woods, across the road, down to the creek, and inched my way in and around the mossy rocks, slipping and nearly dropping her twice. Once I’d gotten her up the opposite embankment, I lowered her into the depression. I covered her face first, gently laying fresh green leaves over her eyes, lips, then her entire head. I swallowed another lump of pain as I took up the spade and began covering her blue dress with a stingy layer of soil, mostly rotting leaves and pine needles. I piled rocks over her, wanting to apologize for each one. I hauled them from the creek, laying them down one by one, until there was nothing left to see of her.
Returning to the road, I checked over my work. I could see the tree but not the rocks behind it. A person would have to be looking for the grave to find it. A casual passerby would see nothing but woods.
I sat at the edge of the stream to wash up a little. I’d hitched my uncle’s horse to a branch so he wouldn’t run off while I buried Tess. He began nervously stepping about, then he neighed and snorted. I stood and looked off to the east, toward Greendale, the direction he was facing. Three men on horseback were headed my way.
I crouched and quickly slid the spade into the creek, covering the blade with a rock. There wasn’t time to do anything more. I stood again and strolled toward the brown, acting as though I’d simply stopped for water. Stepping out onto the road, I turned, ready to acknowledge them with a casual greeting.
“Stop right there,” Sherriff McNeil ordered.
Three guns were pointed my way: McNeil’s, Hugh Stewart’s, and Randall Shaw’s—the same posse that had come into Greendale looking for Tess the night of the fire. I glanced left and right, my mind racing. If I ran for the other side of the road, they’d have a clean shot at me. Whereas if I ran for the woods behind me, I could maybe lose them in the brush. That, however, could lead them to Tess’s grave.
“Drop the gun!” the sheriff shouted.
I held out my hands. “I don’t have a gun.” It then dawned on me that he was talking about the gun he’d used to murder Tess. I’d snatched it from him that night, but I could no longer remember what I’d done with it.
The sheriff turned to Hugh, “If he goes for the gun, shoot him.”
Hugh appeared smug under his gray derby, his beady eyes peering down the length of his crooked snout. He kept his pa’s breech loader pointed at me. Straddling the third horse was Zella Shaw’s next-to-oldest brother, Randall—a short fellow, handsome like his sister, who I likely would’ve been courting had Tess not come into my life. Randall held a little pepper-box pistol pointed a bit to the left of me. He didn’t strike me as being as cocksure as Hugh. Randall had seemed the keep-to-himself, well-meaning sort. I couldn’t guess why he’d be mixed up in this. Perhaps Hugh had somehow forced him into participating. Hugh’s motivation was more ob
vious, however. Jealousy. And perhaps resentment over Tess’s rejection of his lewd advances.
McNeil urged his horse closer. “Turn around.” His mustache drooped as though the recent rain had washed the bear wax from it.
I did as ordered, keeping my hands visible to them. I racked my brain, trying to recall where I’d put that gun.
“God damn it. I know it was you. Hand it over.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “You can see I don’t have it.”
“Where is it?”
“How would I know?”
“Randall, Hugh, if he moves, shoot him.” McNeil climbed down from his horse and stepped off toward the brown.
My memory finally kicked in. I’d wedged the pistol up under the brown’s saddle fender. I was so distraught that night, I didn’t quite know what I was doing. But I’d tucked the gun up high, between the fender and the skirt, because of the rain. I prayed McNeil wouldn’t notice the bulge.
“Whadda ya think, Randall?” Hugh said, smirking at me. “I’d say he just moved, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t think breathin’ or blinkin’ is what Mr. McNeil had in mind,” Randall said.
The sheriff stepped around to the horse’s right, the side where the gun was hidden. I closed my eyes, silently pleading and bargaining with God. A few moments later, he came back around—the pistol in his hand.
“The hangin’ judge keeps a special rope on hand for lyin’ murderers—a few inches shorter.” He spat then gave me a hard look. “Consider yourself arrested.”
“For what?”
“Well, how ’bout we start with theft.” He held up the pistol. “But let’s take a gander and see what else we might have here.” He turned and studied the area up and down the other side of the creek. “What’re you doing up here, anyhow? Your town’s a-burnin’, and you decide to take a mosey?”
I drew in a deep breath. “What were you doing up here?”
BAM! I jumped as a bullet kicked up mud and rocks three inches from the toe of my right boot. A cloud of smoke drifted from the barrel of the sheriff’s gun.
