Storm's Thunder

by Brandon Boyce

  “Mister Carter, prepare the train for our guests. I’ll take my weapons now, Sergeant.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A sharp turn in the track shatters the veil of thin sleep that for the better part of an hour has had me in and out of the twilight between dream and misery. At one point in the delirium, I was certain that Xenia—Milton Garber’s negro housegirl—had emerged from the back of the caboose with a basin of water. She knelt beside me, her neck showing hints of dark bruising beneath a gauzy muffler of white bandage, and proceeded to dab the dust and dried blood from my face with a cool towel until Cross shooed her away. Such are the fever dreams that spring from the depths of exhaustion. I awaken on the floor, chained like a dog to the steel bracket where a seat once stood and has now been removed to accommodate Cross’s petty humiliation. I roll my wrist and try to work out the stiffness in my shoulder. With no other cars to balance it, and choked up directly behind the clattering tender car, the caboose bangs along in a deafening racket, a far cry from the weighty smoothness of the Santa Fe.

  Sunlight strobes through the windows, the shadows short as the day stretches into afternoon. A blue-gray haze thickens against the rich paneled wood of the ceiling. At the far end of the car, cigar smoke plumes over the seat backs, where a man—his voice heated with emotion—shouts to make his case atop the clanging din of the engine. I recognize the voice as Owens. The crown of a brown bowler and the brim of an sergeant’s cap place Cross and Daniels as the recipients of Owens’s admonition.

  The rest of the car sees little activity. The widow Whitehurst sleeps upright along a central bench, her neck tilted back, mouth slightly open. Both children—little Reggie and the Owens girl—lay sprawled on the bench, their heads resting peaceful in the old woman’s lap. A young corporal occupies the seat across from me, his eyes arranged in the military paradox of looking both alert and bored. He sees me wake up, sniffs to himself, and goes back to cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his bayonet.

  The seat back in front of me bulges under the weight of its resident. The entire chair creaks as the sitter stirs, his wide, ruddy face peeking around the side to meet my gaze.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” Spooner says, leaving only one member of our party unaccounted for.

  “I don’t see George,” I say.

  “Enlisted. On the spot.”

  “The army took him? He’s got a busted leg.”

  “Oh, they had the chief surgeon look at him. George of course downplaying the injury like it were hardly a flesh wound. I’d say even with George’s bum pin, the army came out ahead in that transaction.”

  “He’ll make a good soldier.”

  “That he will. Hard to say ‘no’ when a man of his physical attributes is itching to kill.” The corporal glances over, sniffs again. “I’m consulting with my client,” Spooner challenging.

  “What do I give a shit,” the corporal returning to his manicure.

  “What’s Owens railing on about?” I say.

  “He’s demanding to be let off at the Harvey House.”

  The Harvey House. I’d forgotten we’re going to pass right by it. By her. She won’t leave me alone. The scent of her neck groans against the wall of memory and I push away the pain before the wall buckles and comes crashing down.

  “Owens wants to stay close,” Spooner continuing, “in case the army finds his wife and boy. He tried to stay on with the cavalry, but Captain Oliver wasn’t interested, not with Owens seeing double and having a little girl counting on him.”

  “Owens ain’t George.”

  “No, sir.” Spooner looks me over, pity on his face, like he wishes he could do something, but I see the gears working behind his eyes. “Harlan, I want you to know, no matter what happens, you are still my client. The question of your ethnicity,” and here his confidence wavers, “diminishes your rights somewhat. I won’t be leaving Santa Fe until this whole thing is settled.” I want to tell Spooner that in the end, whatever legality he can muster would only stave off the inevitable for so long. Jacob Cross wants me dead. Every day that I live opens a fresh wound in his belly. Even if by some miracle I earn my freedom, he’d put a bullet in my head before letting me go. He’d say I tried to escape or that I came at him with a knife that he’ll drop at my feet. I can’t imagine a man hating himself so much that the only solace he can find comes from the suffering of others. And that he does it all under the adopted mantle of the White Man’s God speaks of a soul so blackened, vengeance is its only sustaining lifeblood.

  “I know you’re doing what you can. That was some first-class lawyerin’ you was slinging back at the trestle.”

  A gracious grin curls his lip. “You should hear me when I’ve had my coffee.”

  The door to the water closet opens behind me and Van Zant steps out, buttoning his fly.

  “Break it up,” he growls.

  “You’re aware of attorney-client privilege?” Spooner says.

  “You’re gonna be aware of my foot in your ass. Back to your seat.” Ballentine rises with contempt and strides back to the center of the car. Van Zant plops down where he’d been sitting. I close my eyes, hoping the jerky motion can find a rhythm to lull me back to sleep. Maybe there’s time for another memory. Maybe time is all I have.

  * * *

  A short train sneaks up on its port of call without warning or fanfare. A long whistle blast and then a minute later we are full-stopped at the Harvey House. Cross announces we’ll be underway in five minutes, just enough time to deposit Owens and let the widow and the children use the W.C.

  “I’ll grab you a sandwich,” Ballentine over his shoulder as he disembarks, leaving me alone in the dreary gray of late afternoon. I look up through the window at a gunmetal sky. The clouds have moved in.

  I hear Cross’s voice on the platform, just outside the window, as he joins two men in conversation. “What’s the problem, Mister Carter?” Cross says.

  “We’ve been ordered off the road, sir. Tracks need to stay clear for the repair crews. Company’s got them heading out to the trestle all through the night.”

  Paper crinkles as it passes hands from Carter to Cross. Silence as Cross reads the directive. He scoffs his breath, dismissively.

  “Send word that our train is to be allowed passage, by order of the federal government.”

  “They can’t, sir. The repair trains are already on the line.”

  “And how long are we supposed to stand down? I have a prisoner aboard.”

  “The last crew should pass through around five in the morning.” This third voice, pinched and officious, I take to be Duquesne, the manager of the Harvey House.

  “That’s twelve hours from now,” Cross incredulous.

  “Sir, it would be our pleasure to accommodate you and your guests here at the Harvey House tonight. We’ve got comfortable rooms, whatever you require.”

  “Unless you have a jail cell, I doubt that.”

  “Can’t the prisoner stay where he is?” Carter asks.

  Cross doesn’t answer, his pause long and simmering. “This is entirely unacceptable,” he says, finally. “Tell them to clear the track at once. ”

  “This is from company operations, sir. It’s not a suggestion.”

  “I don’t work for your company,” Cross’s voice rising.

  “I do,” Carter says. “I defy that order, and were something to happen to you or anyone else, I’m guilty of murder. And that is unacceptable. I’m sorry, sir. But I’m the captain of this rig and I say we’re docked.” Cross crunches the paper to a ball, furious, on the brink of cursing beneath his breath.

  “We might have a suitable place for your prisoner,” Duquesne brightening. “Our winter pantry. A heavy door, bolts from the outside. No windows. If it can keep animals out, I should think it could keep one man in for a night.”

  I hear Cross’s measured breathing, a man collecting himself. “Send a telegraph, Mister Carter. This train will depart precisely at one minute past five, tomorrow morni
ng. By order of the President of the United States.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “First sergeant, please stay with the prisoner,” Cross says, and then to the manager, “All right, Mister Duquesne, let’s see this pantry of yours.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Cross comes back onto the train with Van Zant and the two soldiers.

  “Stand up,” Van Zant says. I get to my feet and Van Zant places the musty hood back on my head.

  “You’re being moved,” Cross says. Van Zant unlocks the chain from the bracket and cuffs my hands behind my back.

  “If at any point you feel inclined to take off running, help yourself,” Van Zant soft in my ear. “I been looking to clean out both barrels.”

  He shoves me forward, guiding with a hand to my shoulder. We start along the aisle and down the steps to the platform. The cool air swirls up my back and underneath the hood, bringing the sweet smell of impending rain. We cross the platform up the walk toward the side entrance by the W.C. I see the spot in my mind, from above, as I remember it, and wonder if she is up there, watching from her secret vantage on the roof. What would Hannah think, seeing me escorted in like the condemned criminal these men make me to be?

  Voices and shuffling feet accompany our entrance into the building. We move down a long hallway, the sounds of the bustling kitchen slow to a crawl as our parade passes by. A door opens, Van Zant’s grip on my shoulder tightening as we reach the top of a staircase and begin a slow, measured descent into the damp coolness of the cellar.

  I am marched along a concrete floor until Van Zant stops me and removes the hood. A thick wooden door stands open before me, Ballentine beside it. He holds something wrapped in paper.

  “All right, in you go,” Van Zant nudging me into the small room.

  “Now hold on minute, I insist you unbind his hands.”

  “Fuck your mother,” Van Zant says.

  “See, here, a man has the right to relieve himself without fouling his hands. We are not animals. Mister Cross, I implore your compliance.”

  Cross strides up, inches from Ballentine’s face, his probing eyes dismantling the lawyer’s veneer.

  “Listen to me, fat man. I don’t know what you’re running from, but I’ll find out.”

  “You’ve no quarter to get personal, sir.”

  “Mm. My money says you either take it up the ass or you were poking little girls. Whichever it is, you didn’t run far enough.” Cross turns away, sneering, his eyes combing the makeshift cell. He nods to Van Zant in the affirmative.

  “What about the cans?” Van Zant thumbing to the back wall of the pantry, stacked floor to ceiling with canned goods—fruits and vegetables for the hard winter.

  Cross shakes his head. “I’ve looked at them. He wants to chew through metal to eat a few peaches, what do I care?”

  “Turn around,” Van Zant says.

  I face the side wall as he undoes the cuffs. A short plank bench, meant to serve as a bed, and a short stool comprise the only furnishings of the windowless cube. A thin, moth-eaten blanket roll sits on the edge of the bench. Van Zant sets a bucket inside the room before stepping out.

  “There’s your commode.” He moves to shut the door when Ballentine, still rattled, holds up the object wrapped in paper. “Wait, I have a sandwich for him.”

  “Check it,” Cross ordering.

  Van Zant snatches it from him and tears back the paper. He lifts up the bread, his dirty fingers pawing through the meat. It looks like that barbequed brisket I remember. Again I wonder if Hannah might be behind it. Van Zant licks the sauce from his thumb, “Tasty,” then smashes the messy glob of beef back onto the bread. He drops it into the bucket, glaring at me. “Bon appetite, asshole.”

  “Oh, well I never, sir,” Spooner beside himself. Cross steps between them and closes the door himself, enveloping my small world in a curtain of blackness. The bolt slides home, followed by the solid click of a heavy lock. Some last minute discussion accompanies their footsteps back to the stairs. It is agreed that the corporal shall have the first watch, with Van Zant posted as second sentry in the hallway atop the steps—a position he deems more strategic, and I would imagine, more agreeable, with a steady current of young women passing before him.

  The corporal returns minutes later, a lighted oil lamp shining his way. He scrapes a chair along the concrete, grumbling as he leans it against the door and flops into it. The pale wash of the lamp brightens the thin strip of dead space between the door and floor. That ribbon of light serves as my only relief from complete darkness. And yet after a while, my eyes adjust. I can make out the edges of the stool and bench, the wall of cans. My ears sharpen, along with the other senses. I eat the sandwich slow, absorbing the sounds and smells of the subterranean confinement.

  After about an hour, dinner service begins upstairs, girls’ voices eking through the floorboards as they clomp overhead in those awful block shoes. The memory of the first time I saw Hannah—the brush of her skin against mine, the furtive glance as we ducked behind the curtains—play again in my mind like a storybook. Dinner is quiet tonight. I hear the girls complaining about it, what with the train not running, only a few locals who arrive by buggy take advantage of cook’s delectable barbeque.

  The hours pass into night, the noise from above quieting as service stretches into cleanup and cleanup drifts into preparations for the next day. Hannah would be brushing her hair about now. The pain returns, the wall buckling to the point of breaking. I bury my head in my hands and try to drown out the curse of memory. Why did I have to be brought back here, why give me hope? The torment of that young woman’s face, only yards above, floating like an angel.

  I forgo the bench and lay on the cold ground. Such is my life—alone and dark, in its final days. Some twenty-one years I have lived on this Earth, loved by those who would then be taken away: Mamma, Sheriff and the missus Pardell, Maria, Storm, and now—a final torment—a spark so bright it burns with searing pain inside me. This woman I barely know, Hannah—her mouth unkissed by mine, our dearest secrets unshared—takes up residence in the forefront of both head and heart. Warm tears streak down my face.

  “You okay in there?” the corporal timid and embarrassed to hear my blubbering.

  I choke it down and roll onto my back and let my breath steady out.

  “I’ll be all right,” I say.

  And maybe that’s it. Maybe this woman’s gift to me is the memory of her, a gift I can take to my grave, as beautiful as I choose to make her. My present to Hannah, then—if I overstate the impression I made upon her, so be it—will be the image of a man in a well-made suit, enjoying a game of baseball in her company during the twilight of a fine spring day. I close my eyes, aware of my smile. Outside a gentle rain begins to fall, building in power, until the downpour drowns out all sounds from the other world.

  * * *

  I don’t know how long I sleep. When I awake, the glow of the lantern enters at a new angle, as though its position has shifted. Then the loud snoring from the other side of the door rattles the wood.

  The snoring of an older man.

  Van Zant.

  I put head to ground and peer under the door and see the butt of a shotgun resting by the chair. The rain has softened to a steady patter, allowing the force of the man’s snoring to cut through like a steam shovel. Beneath the layers of sound, I detect a soft rustling, like that of a mouse. I suspect Mister Duquesne’s attempt to secure his foodstuffs from the ambition of tiny varmints has fallen short. But I am glad to have the company.

  The mouse flitters behind the lowest row of cans, at the base of the wall, tapping at, and I suspect failing, to pierce the tin fortress encasing the desired sardines or split pears. He taps again, a trio of steady pecks.

  Odd.

  And then three more taps, equally steady.

  Not odd. Impossible.

  I slide, on my knees, to the wall of cans and tilt my head toward the bottom row, ears open. It comes again. Tap .
. . tap . . . tap.

  I bring a fingernail to the nearest can and return the pattern, three taps, but a hair faster. Tap, tap tap. I pause, blocking out the rain to focus my hearing down into the floor. Tap, tap, tap, comes the rapid reply. My heart leaps.

  Slow, with hands soft as butter, I begin dismantling the wall of cans, working down to the bottom, toward the source of the beckoning sound. Thunder rolls far in the distance. I freeze, ears tuned to the steady rhythm of Van Zant’s snoring, scanning for any disturbance, a snort of disruption. Quiet as I can, I stand and move the bench so it blocks the wall of tin. I drape the bedroll over the bench, obscuring what I can of my handiwork as a last-ditch precaution. Returning to the cans, I create an opening down the center of the wall, straight over the point where the sound originates. Removing the can at the very bottom, I paw along the ground, seeing with my fingertips, searching for any change or imperfection. Something sharp, like the end of a wire, pokes my thumb.

  On instinct I bring my thumb to my mouth, tasting the droplet of blood. Now with the back of my hand, I feel the floor again. Sure enough I find the offending wire, and determine I have uncovered a bit of metal screen—a deterrent against rodents—but covering what? I look down at the darkness, and to my shock see the faint flicker of candlelight.

  All at once, a mighty crash of thunder explodes overhead—as if the Harvey House itself has birthed its own thunderstorm. In the fleeting sliver of time before the crescendo of thunder has reached its peak, I am sure I hear the startled gasp of a female.

  The offender silences her gasp, which is quickly drowned by three seconds of the heavens’ deafening anger, a sound no one could sleep through.

  “What’s going on in there?” Van Zant growls. His chair scrapes. Keys jangle. I throw myself onto the bench, making my body as big as I can. The door opens, the lantern’s light invading the darkness. I howl, as if ripped from a horrific nightmare, recoiling at the lamplight like a scurrying cockroach.

  “I had a dream. Please don’t go!”