by Ron Ripley
“I did, didn’t I,” Mr. Johnson said, smiling. He turned and gestured the three men forward.
They stalked past him and before Pierre could understand what they wanted, the three men attacked.
Mr. Johnson had seen a great many beatings in his time. He had delivered a fair share as well. The skill and ferocity which the three men poured into the violence was impressive. He watched as Pierre collapsed under their combined blows, blood exploding from cuts and bones shattering beneath fists and boots. Pierre was unable, unlike his many victims, to scream. His larynx was crushed almost immediately.
“Enough,” Mr. Johnson said.
One of the twins landed a last kick and all three stepped back, chests heaving from the effort.
Mr. Johnson walked forward, the air rank with the stench of blood and fear. He squatted down beside the pulped remnants of Pierre Gustav and saw there was still a flicker of life in the man’s eyes.
“Hello, Pierre,” Mr. Johnson said. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the knife the old man had given him. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the blade out and grinned.
Careful not to get any blood on his clothes Mr. Johnson reached out, picked up Pierre’s right hand and selected the pinky finger. The knife was as finely honed as Mr. Johnson suspected it to be. Beneath the sharpened steel the flesh separated and the finger came free.
Mr. Johnson wiped the blade off on a clean part of Pierre's corduroy pants. After he had put the knife away, he waggled the severed pinky in front of Pierre's eyes.
"Perhaps I’ll find a place for this here, Pierre," he whispered with a wink as he stood. Mr. Johnson looked over at the red-headed man. "What's your name, sir?"
“Eamon Carroll,” the man replied.
“A good name, Mr. Carroll,” Mr. Johnson said. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Aye, name it,” Eamon said.
“Kick his eyes out of his head,” Mr. Johnson said. “I don’t like how he’s looking at me.”
While Eamon went about his task, Mr. Johnson played with Pierre's finger and whistled a bit of Bach.
Jack Bonus Scene Chapter 8: Dunstable, 1785
His hands bled, and his lungs ached with the need for air.
Jack Whyte clung to the trunk of the tree, ten feet above the ground, face pressed against the harsh bark. His fingers throbbed and he ignored the pain as he dug them further into the small valleys of the tree’s rough skin. He kept his lips pressed together, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, an effort to keep from being heard.
Nearby, Jack heard dogs. A score, perhaps more of them.
Everyone in Dunstable was after him, and if his luck held true to form, Jack would slip away in the dim hours of dawn.
He only had to be a squirrel and to keep himself above his enemies.
Jack swallowed back a nervous chuckle. He listened, and soon he heard voices.
Unknown men urged on their dogs, the beasts barking and yowling as they pushed through the undergrowth.
Not for the first time that day, Jack wondered if killing the girl had been worth it.
His lips spread into a smile and he nodded to himself.
Of course, it was, he thought. It always is.
The memory of the murder, his hands around her throat, helped to calm his nerves and to remind him of how he had escaped worse situations than the present.
Jack had survived battles at sea, being press-ganged, and jumping ship. Hiding from a backward group of Colonials wouldn't be nearly as difficult as having slipped away from the British Army.
He shifted his weight and felt the hard press of metal into his breast, and once more, a smile broke across his face.
The metal was a button, and it was far more important than anything Jack owned. Which, when he considered his meager possessions, wasn't particularly much to begin with.
The button, gold and from the lapel of an officer’s coat, was from his finest kill. The murder of a man who had caused Jack no small amount of grief during Jack’s short career as a British soldier.
The snuffling of a dog brought Jack out of his reverie.
At the base of the tree, a giant hound had its nose pressed to the ground. Its fur was dark, its eyes glinting. From Jack's seat, he could smell the dog's fetid breath, a mixture of rotting meat and decaying teeth.
A heartbeat later, a young boy appeared out of the darkness. The dog’s owner.
The child squatted down beside the dog, scratched between the animal's ears and leaned close to whisper something Jack could not hear.
Whatever it was pleased the dog, its ears perking up and the tail whipping from left to right.
The boy chuckled, stood up and beckoned the dog. They looked odd as they walked away, the dog so tall that its head stood at the child’s shoulder.
Jack watched as they vanished into the darkness. With a small, tired sigh, Jack felt relief wash over him. His body relaxed, and he managed to adjust himself and find a more comfortable position. He closed his eyes and tried to bring his racing heart under control.
After a few minutes, his heart calmed down, its mad race returned to a more controllable pace.
Jack could still hear the dogs and the men who hunted him, but they had moved away. None of them having come as close as the boy and his hound.
An old sea chanty rolled through Jack’s mind, a memory of more pleasant days aboard The Advisor when he sailed with the ship out of Bristol. A longing arose within him, and Jack knew that if he had killed the damned girl in Bristol, he could have disappeared long before anyone had found her body.
Perhaps it’s time to go home, eh, Jack? he asked himself. Jack nodded. Aye, Jack, that it is. Home to Bonnie old England. Back to Bristol, where everything is ship shape and Bristol fashion.
Jack smiled, pleased with the decision to leave the new country of America behind. He had had more than enough of his share of colonials, Indians, and British officers.
“Hello there, Jack!”
Jack tightened his grip on the tree and looked down.
Lanterns were uncovered, and a group of men was revealed.
The boy and the hound stood with them.
All of the other dogs were gone. Except this one, which stared at Jack with dark eyes that seemed to shine with hatred.
The man who spoke was Israel Brees, the local watchman. He was pudgy and squat, his face pocked by the scars of smallpox. Israel tilted his hat back to look up at Jack, revealing thin, white hair.
“You’ve managed to trap yourself, Jack,” Israel said, his tone light and conversational. “Now how did you go and manage that?”
“Irrational little men, by God,” Jack called down. “They’ve accused me of a horror no sane man would commit.”
"True, true," Israel said, evidently the voice for the gathered citizens. "It is a crime only a madman would find pleasurable."
“And there’s not a shred of evidence, nay, not a strand of it,” Jack said, indignant, “that I were the one who committed the deed.”
“Rumor and speculation?” Israel asked politely.
“Aye, there it is,” Jack agreed. “Rumor and speculation, exactly. You’ve touched it directly, you have, Master Brees.”
“Unfortunate that,” Israel said.
“What is?” Jack asked.
“That it’s not rumor and speculation,” Israel said.
“Really?” Jack scoffed. “I know not who the girl was. Nor had I seen her before.”
“Lies, Jack,” Israel complained. “You speak in nothing but lies. You knew Mary, you saw her at the tavern when she arrived to purchase ale for her master’s house.”
“Perhaps I did see her in the tavern,” Jack admitted, “but not so much as to warrant an invitation to speak with her. No, not old Jack.”
"But speak to her you did," Israel said, his voice becoming harsh. "Oh, you did."
“Nay,” Jack lied. “I did not.”
"We have a one who saw you speak to her," Israel called up.
“Would you now?” Israel asked.
“Indeed, sir,” Jack proclaimed, “I would know my accuser.”
“Well,” Israel confided, “not only did he see you speak to her, but he saw your hands about her neck as well.”
Jack's grip slipped on the tree, but he caught himself with a desperate grab. Mustering up as much innocence as he could, Jack asked, "Is that how the poor girl died?"
“It is,” Israel answered.
Jack cleared his throat. “You’ve still not named my accuser, Master Brees. I would see him stand before me.”
“He does stand before you,” Israel replied.
“Who?” Jack asked, peering down at the gathered men. “Which of you accuses old Jack of such a heinous, foul crime, eh?”
The little boy stepped forward, the hound matching his step. Tilting his head back, the child said, “I accuse you, Jack Whyte, for I saw your hands about my sister’s neck.”
Jack’s heart skipped a beat. Even if he hadn’t killed the girl, the boy’s statement would hang an innocent man, let alone one of Jack’s character.
“Will you come down now, Jack?” Israel asked. “Will you come down and stand before your accuser?”
"I'll not," Jack spat. "It's a bold lie the boy tells, a story too horrible to relate. But move along, and I'll be down soon enough."
“Yes,” Israel said, nodding. “We thought you might say as much when we were told where you were hiding.”
Several men came forward, each with a broad-head ax in their hands.
"We'll take you out of the tree, Jack," Israel told him. "And by God, we'll bring the tree down to do it."
Jack Bonus Scene Chapter 9: Jack Stands Accused
The axmen had made short work of their task, and soon, Jack clung to the tree as it leaned ever more towards the earth.
As the sharp crack of breaking wood filled the air, Jack readied himself.
The tree started to fall, slow at first and then faster, and as the ground rushed towards him, Jack sprang from the tree. He crashed into a pair of men who tried to stop him, smashing them both with his fists and breaking free of the rough cordon they sought to throw up.
In a second, he was in the woods, running with a speed born of desperation.
Branches snapped at his face, struck his body and numbed his limbs.
Jack pressed on, for to slow down meant the jailhouse, and from there, the magistrate. Then, Jack knew, it was a short walk to the gibbet, the rough caress of the hangman’s noose, and short drop with a sudden stop.
Jack had no desire to be hung.
As these thoughts raced through his mind, he heard the men break into the forest after him. They were loud, calling out to one another, fanning out as they went.
Jack grinned. One or two men he could handle, and his odds for escaping became better with each step.
A surprised grunt was torn from him as a sharp pain blossomed in the right calf. It felt as though someone had put his leg in a vise and clamped down with it.
Before he could react, Jack pitched forward, thudding to the forest floor. A hard root struck his chest and knocked the wind out of him.
Jack let out a long howl as what felt like dozens of pieces of jagged glass dug into his calf. He tried to jerk his leg up, but something pulled it away from him. Then, over the sound of his own thundering heart, Jack heard a low, deep growl.
Frantic, he twisted around to look at his leg, and when he did, he saw the hound dog.
Fear froze him, and when he finally recovered his wits, it was too late.
The men were upon him.
They dragged him to his feet, his arms bound behind his back. Jack screamed and yelled, all the while the dog's jaws remained locked on his calf. Only when the boy arrived and spoke to the hound did the beast let go, and Jack whimpered. He could feel blood pulsing out of the wounds.
"Bind my leg for God's sake!" Jack demanded. "I'd not go before the magistrate with a limp and rot in the meat!"
"Magistrate?" Israel asked, stepping forward. There was a cold, hard look in the older man's eyes, a grim set to his jaw. "No, Jack, we'll not be bringing you to the magistrate."
Fear spiked through Jack.
"What mean you by that, Master Brees?" Jack asked, hating the smallness of his own voice.
"There's a tree, quite near," Israel explained, "which should suit us quite well."
"Suit you for what?" Jack's word's quivered as they left his mouth.
"For a gibbet," Israel said. "We'll hang you there, Jack Whyte, and leave your body to rot. You'll feed the crows, you will, and they, at least, will be better off for it."
Jack screamed in terror, the idea of hanging too much to bear. He struggled against the men, but they picked him up in grim silence, carrying his squirming form along as if he were nothing more than a troublesome newborn calf.
The tree was near, much nearer than Jack had hoped, for its proximity gave him little time to think. His mind raced, filled with panic as he sought a means of escape. Yet he could think of nothing else than his prized gold button.
And it was the last thought in his mind as the noose was dropped over his neck.
The hempen cord was as rough as he had feared it would be and his legs kicked out as they hauled his body up. There would be no quick snap of the neck for Jack Whyte, only a long, drawn out strangulation.
His heart burned with hatred as he died by inches.
Jack Bonus Scene Chapter 10: Israel Walks Along the Path, 1804
At eighty-nine years of age, Israel was still an active man. He made certain to walk twice a day, if for nothing more than to escape the smothering affection of his daughter and his grandchildren. The air reminded him of when he was younger when his joints did not ache before the coming of the rain, and when his bowels were far more regular than they were currently.
Israel chuckled at the idea of his ills, and he smiled ruefully at his memories of his less than understanding nature as a youth.
As he strolled up Concord Street, his cane thumping on the hard packed earth of the narrow road, he paused. A curious whistle had caught his ear. He turned, trying to place where he had heard it. When he looked at the side of the road, he saw a narrow path between a pair of blueberry bushes.
The whistling came from between them as if a strange and exotic bird was on the other side of the plants. His interest piqued, Israel stepped off the road and picked his way through the tall grass to the path. He used his cane to push the longer branches of the blueberry bush aside, and he saw that the narrow trail continued on. A memory about the area itched the back of his mind, but he had grown more forgetful lately and could not recall why he knew the path.
The delicate whistle sounded again, a little deeper in the woods, and Israel smiled to himself as he followed the sound. It didn't seem to originate from the trees or even any of the other bushes that cropped up on either side of the trail. Instead, the sound appeared to be at ear level, and always just ahead of him.
It never moved too far from Israel, and when he paused to catch his breath, the creature stopped as well. The whistling continued, and when it sensed Israel was ready, it moved away.
The simple act of following the unseen bird made Israel happy. He felt as though he were a child again, playing ‘catch me if you can’ with his brothers in the streets of Boston. Long before the war against King George’s taxes.
Those, Israel remembered, had been difficult times. Englishmen forced to rebel against the King, their rights as loyal servants to the crown repaid with neglect and abuse. Israel snorted at the recollection, his steps quickening. The itch of memory grew stronger, pulling at some part of him he could hardly remember.
Then the trail reached a small clearing and Israel found himself looking at a tall oak. It stretched to the sky, its lower limbs half hidden by those of other trees.
&
nbsp; Yet even with the limbs obscured, Israel suddenly remembered.
Jack Whyte, he thought, thinking of the murderer. It was the oak tree Israel looked upon that they had hung the man from. And it had taken Jack a long, long time to die.
Israel had never regretted the lynching of the man. If anyone had deserved such a fate, it was Jack Whyte. He had been a cruel and terrible man. The fact that poor Nathaniel had witnessed his sister's death was more than Israel cared to think of.
We should have taken the tree down after his body had rotted from it, Israel thought. But in retrospect, he knew it had been for the best that they let it stand. It's presence along the path reminded folk of the penalty for murder, and it was no fault of the tree that Jack had been hung from it.
A cold breeze picked up, and the hairs on the back of Israel's neck stood up. He shivered, wondering where the chill had come from. Then he tilted his head to the left, turning his right ear, his good ear, towards the wind.
It had sounded as if someone had called his name.
“Israel Brees.”
The voice was faint, but there it was.
Israel straightened his head and peered around. He couldn’t see anyone around him. There were few shadows, and none of them were deep enough in which a man or a woman might hide.
“Hello?” Israel called out. “Is someone there?”
A laugh rippled through the air, and in spite of the warmth of the day, Israel could see his own breath.
“Master Brees," the unseen speaker whispered. "Many and more days has it been since I saw your excellent form, aye, ‘tis true, is it not?"
Israel bristled at the fear which rose up in his stomach and caused his heart to twitch.
“Who are you?” Israel demanded. “Where are you? Would you hide from an old man?”
From behind him, the voice said, "Turn around, Master Brees, and see what you should have wished hidden.”
Israel turned around, his joints in agony as he did so.
When he saw the speaker, Israel’s breath was torn from his lungs.
The ghost of Jack Whyte stood before him, a leer on his face.
