Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  Columbia Resident Dies in House Fire

  Herbert Knowles, 36, of Columbia died Thursday night in a fire in his home, according to investigators. Firemen responded to an emergency call at 3:30 yesterday morning. The blaze, which consumed almost the entire residence, had burned itself out by the time help arrived. The cause of the fire is unknown, though officials speculate Knowles may have been smoking in bed. The incident is still under investigation. Mr. Knowles had lived in Columbia since being discharged from the United States Army in 1919.

  So the date on the photo was a death date! But why was the article so short? A fatal house fire in a small town and it rates a lousy paragraph in a sidebar on page two of a twelve-page paper. I found it hard to believe the stupid front-page article about some WPA project was more important.

  Then again, the fire wasn’t reported until 3:30 am, and they’d probably gone to press far earlier. I switched over to the next day’s paper, hoping for more info. Nothing, not even a mention. The following issue ran Knowles’s official obituary. It was a little more detailed, but still didn’t tell me much.

  I stuck two dimes in the machine and printed both articles. Scrolling forward, I scanned every issue until the end of the year. Nada. Not one blurb. Maybe the police just figured Knowles really was smoking in bed and left it at that.

  I pulled up the 1937 spool to search for Roebuck’s date. I had only made it through a few months when Charlie sat down next to me.

  “Don’t mind me,” she said, showing her teeth. “Just seeing what you’re looking at.”

  It may have been rude, but I switched off the light behind the machine, turning the screen black.

  “No offense, but I can’t work with someone reading over my shoulder.”

  Charlie bit both her lips, nodded and returned to her post. In the reflection of the screen I could see her grab her pamphlet and pretend to be deeply engrossed in bomb shelter instructions.

  Maybe I had hurt her feelings, but what of it? I was not in a trusting mood. Besides, the less she knew about this, the better.

  Searching for Roebuck, I got lucky almost immediately. The professor had rated a front-page article on January 22, 1937.

  Columbia Resident Missing

  Dr. Louis Roebuck, 50, was reported missing by his wife last Thursday. According to Mrs. Vera Roebuck, her husband left for an evening staff meeting at the University, but never arrived.

  The rest of the article was a brief biography of Roebuck and a summary of the investigation. Subsequent issues of the paper mentioned the case occasionally, but Roebuck’s whereabouts were apparently to remain a mystery.

  Out of the four men in the picture, one had died and another had vanished. For the next two hours I searched for Gowen and Hollerback. No dice. I might have missed something, reading the white on black negatives of single spaced, eight-point type.

  Charlie appeared behind me. “It’s closing time, Mer-man. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

  I grunted. This search had been tantalizing, yet frustrating. So those really were death dates on the photo. Less than three years after it was taken, three of the four men had died. Maybe they all died. The reverend was the only one with no date. Maybe he had written the other dates and then was killed himself.

  But who was still so interested in these murders that they were willing to attack me? What was this all about? I didn’t dare continue my research; it had been dumb of me to come here in the first place.

  I gathered my printouts as Charlie turned off the lights behind the counter. “Hey Herman, you look pretty wiped out.”

  “I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

  “You need to relax,” she said, nervously jangling her bunch of keys. “Let me take you out tonight. Show you the crazy stuff that happens around here after dark.”

  I had my fill of that last night, thanks. “Sorry,” I mumbled, almost to the door. “That’s about the last thing I want to do.”

  Those guys were out there somewhere, and I couldn’t risk doing anything dumb.

  Like telling an overweight girl how much I didn’t want to go out with her.

  I turned to find Charlie frowning in the semi-darkness. “Goodbye, Sherman.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean…”

  “Goodbye.” She gave me a thin-lipped, hostile smile.

  I should just leave. She’d be so pissed, she’d forget all about what I was researching. I’d probably never see her again. It was better this way, for both of us.

  I quickly joined her at the desk. “Charlie, last night a couple of drunks cornered me behind a bar and…they weren’t gentle.” I gestured to my eye. “I’m feeling kind of paranoid. I guess that’s why I’ve been hanging around in here. I don’t want to be outside.” Her gaze started to soften. “I felt safe in here, with you,” I added. It was almost the truth.

  Charlie’s hostility fell away. “Oh, Sherman. I’m so sorry.” I thought she was reaching up to touch my arm, but instead she roughly shoved my shoulder. “But I’ve been hurt before too. And believe me, the last thing you should do is sit around scared. You’re a man…of sorts. I bet if one of those guys came after you now, he’d be in for a pretty nasty surprise.”

  I remembered the blade in my pocket. “You may be right. So…that offer still good? Want to do something later?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “I need yours.”

  “Good. Where are you staying?”

  “Mark Twain.”

  “Meet me out front at seven-thirty.”

  I smiled my first real smile since last night. She was right, this was exactly what I needed. A normal night out, doing normal things. Let the world know I was up for having a good time and sure as heck wasn’t thinking about any dead Columbians.

  “Sherman?”

  “Yes?”

  “We really are closed, you need to leave.”

  “So Dad tells the guy that it was a big ol’ wad of old condoms blocking the drain. Well, he looks all upset, and Dad’s like ‘Hey, don’t be embarrassed, they fill up with water sometimes. Just don’t flush them.’ Well, the guy gets all red and says ‘I don’t use condoms.’ Dad got the hell out of there before he ran inside to talk to his wife.”

  Charlie laughed. Her laugh was as original as her smile it came out in one big lump: HA!

  She took the final swallow of her glass of cold white chocolate, the house specialty.

  We sat cattycorner around a tiny table in the middle of the originally-named Coffee Zone. At least twenty other customers had forced themselves into the claustrophobic, Mid-Eastern themed restaurant. The smell of coffee beans mingled with that of curry, chai, and clove cigarettes. The counterman barked in Farsi at someone in the kitchen. At the table next to us, two old men faced off in a game of chess, complete with timers. Behind them, a man with one arm whispered something into the ear of a tiny rail of a girl, who giggled.

  Surprisingly, I was truly enjoying myself. Sitting here, talking with Charlie made the nasty incident last night seem like something that had happened the day before yesterday.

  We’d exchanged life stories. Like L.J., she was a local girl, the youngest of three sisters. She wanted to be a teacher, and work with children with behavior problems. Which meant she was either a psycho or a masochist.

  “Hey, Shermy,” she said, tracing a circle on the wobbly table with her finger. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “If you don’t call me that again.”

  “How come you keep telling me about stuff your dad did? How about you tell me something you’ve done?”

  If anyone else had asked that, I would have told them to go piss up a rope. But there was something about Charlie that made me feel like I could open up to her. Maybe it was the way she’d made an effort to be friendly, even when or I was so dismissive and rude. Or maybe it was just her tight-fitting, low-cut sweater. Those freckles did not end with her shoulders…

  “Charlie…how do I put th
is? I’m not what you’d call a ‘wild and crazy guy.’”

  She stared at me. “Wow. You really said that.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve just never been that exciting of a person.”

  She leaned forward. I forced my eyes to stay level. “Maybe it’s time to make a change. How old are you, twelve?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Well, now’s the time to grow a pair. You’re off to a good start, taking a gorgeous woman out for drinks. There’s hope for you yet, Shaman.”

  “Knock that off. Seriously, call me Sherman.”

  “Or what?”

  I remembered her name plate back at the office. “Or, as God as my witness, I’ll start calling you Chrissy. And keep doing it, long after it stops being funny.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “I need a refill…Sherman.” I started to get up. “No, my round.”

  I watched her go up to the counter, trying to ignore how she had to squeeze through an aisle that I’d navigated without difficulty. That was a lot of woman there. It would take two Stephs to fill up those pants.

  I leaned back and contemplated a poster that informed me my coffee beans hadn’t been picked by Peruvian slave laborers. Really, did her weight matter? Like L.J. said, there was something to be said for a girl with brains, and Charlie certainly had a lot of those. Besides, I was only going to be here for a month. No point in worrying about—

  Someone who was not Charlie sat down in her seat. Someone tall, with an easy smile and a broken nose. He leaned forward on the table with one elbow, and grinned at me like an old friend.

  “Hey Sherman,” said the man who’d threatened to remove my eyeball less than a day ago.

  Just before I jumped up and wiped the floor with him (at least that’s what I told myself later) I heard a metallic click, barely audible above the din of conversation. I let my eyes fall under the table. In my companion’s right hand, about a quarter inch from my gut, was a cheap switchblade.

  The newcomer clucked and shook his head in a disappointed manner. “I’m a little surprised at you, Sherm. We warned you the other day, and then off you go to the Historical Society, sticking your nose in our business again.”

  I barely heard him. The sweat in my armpits grew ice cold. My world now revolved around two inches of pointy steel. Could he really stab me here, in front of all these people?

  The blade inched forward. Just when I thought I couldn’t have been more frightened, the point touched my clothes. Not at my belly, at my crotch.

  “I could do it, you know,” he leered, his smile unchanging. “You’d be in too much shock to scream, and I’d be long gone before anyone realized what happened.”

  My breath came in choking gasps and I knew I was about to hyperventilate. I wanted to sob, to yell, to throw myself on the floor and beg him for a reprieve. I had never in my life been at someone’s mercy like this. I didn’t fear wetting myself, I feared vomiting.

  My tormentor withdrew the blade a bit. “I don’t think you take me seriously. I think you need to be taught a lesson.” Four feet away, the two old men moved chess pieces and slammed timers, oblivious.

  I puked in my mouth, just a little. Maybe I could flip over backwards, knock the table over, get away somehow. Maybe.

  “Um, hey.” Charlie had returned, a large glass of cold chocolate in each hand. She smiled uncertainly at the guy who had taken her seat. While she couldn’t see the knife from her point of view, she had to have been wondering what this stranger was doing with his hand so close to her date’s groin.

  Oh, how I wished for psychic powers right then. To be able to communicate my danger to her, to get her to run for help. Instead, and without removing the knife, the hostage taker grinned at Charlie. “Hi there,” he said. “Sherman, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  At that point I couldn’t have remembered my own name. It’s hard to be sociable when your imminent castration is at the forefront of your mind. I think I was actually drooling.

  Charlie didn’t seem to know what to do. Since no one had made a move to get her a chair, she swiped one from an empty table and sat across from us.

  “I’m Charlie.” She sat down a drink and extended her hand.

  He shook awkwardly with his left hand. “Dan Cooper.” I later decided that must have been an alias, as it was the name of a 1970s skyjacker.

  “Are you a friend of Sherman’s?” Charlie looked at me with concern.

  “We go way back. We shot pool together last night, ain’t that right, old buddy?” From his voice you’d have never guessed he was anything but sincere.

  Charlie bared her teeth. “Well, isn’t that nice,” she said, and hurled her drink into ‘Dan’s’ face.

  Dan lunged to his feet, his head covered with foamy whiteness. I noticed him sheath the knife and stuff it into his pocket. Under the crap on his face, his expression went from genial camaraderie to something I would very much not like to see again.

  I should have used the opportunity to deck him or run like hell. Instead, I threw both my hands over my nuts. It was all I could think to do.

  Charlie, along with everyone else in the joint except the chess players, stared at Dan. For a second I thought he was going to smack her. Then he smiled and picked up a handful of napkins and wiped his face.

  People giggled at the spectacle, wondering how it was going to play out. Dan tossed the dirty napkins at me. “I’ll be in touch. Soon.” He left, not even hurrying.

  Charlie took me by the hand and led me through the crowd of highly amused patrons. The bathrooms at the Coffee House were single occupancy and we were alone.

  As soon as she locked the door I turned on the sink full blast and stuck my head under the icy flow. My shirt was drenched with sweat, my mouth filled with bile. Oh, God, what if I’d been here alone? How did he know where to find me?

  Charlie said nothing. I spoke to her without turning around. “Charlie, why did you do that?”

  “Throw my drink at him? Because he was making fun of you. Because…

  Sherman, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you were scared. So I got rid of him.”

  “Thank you.” I rinsed out my mouth and turned to look at her. She smiled shyly, afraid she’d overstepped herself. Unable to find words, I grabbed her shoulder and squeezed. Silently, she handed me some paper towels.

  “Who was he?”

  “Charlie, you don’t want to know.”

  “Actually, yes I do.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Sherman, cut the crap.” Her voice was severe.

  “It’s not…”

  “You didn’t get mugged yesterday, that guy attacked you. Why?”

  I was fairly dry now. I tried to mold my face into a smile. “He’s just some guy. We got into a fight last night. Apparently that wasn’t enough.”

  Charlie straightened my collar. “Sherman, pricks like that are all talk. He’s full of it. Next time you see him, don’t wait for him to start. Break his jaw. He’s not that big.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “But nothing. You’re too old and too big to be worried about bullies. Kick his ass or I won’t ever kiss you again.”

  I should have seen it coming. “We’ve never…”

  Charlie put her hand on the back of my neck. Her lips were thick and soft. For a blessed few moments, I was on a date again.

  It was tempting just to stay there in the relative safety of the restroom, but someone was already rattling the door. Charlie smiled at me, not closing her eyes this time. She mussed my hair and I touched her round cheek. She’d done an amazing job of calming me down.

  My newfound confidence lasted until we left the coffee shop. Dan could have been anywhere, and I was not going to wait around until he decided to introduce himself again.

  “Charlie, you wanna call it an evening?”

  She seemed to understand. “Sure, Sherman. Wanna grab an ice cream first?”

  No, I want to get back to the dorms and hide under my bed until they
go into lockdown mode.

  “Maybe another night.”

  I didn’t relax until she parked in front of Mark Twain Hall. Mumbling a good night, I dashed from her car into the dorm. It wasn’t until I was in the lobby did I realize that she’d been leaning over for another kiss.

  It didn’t matter. Just hanging out with her today almost cost me my balls. I wasn’t being paranoid. I was being watched, followed. They wanted to hurt me and I had no idea why.

  What the hell was I supposed to do now?

  From the Columbia Daily Tribune, September 12, 1935—

  A sideways E over an X. A three-pronged symbol over a cross. Have you seen this before? Please write to David, at box #37, Columbia, Missouri. This is a matter of utmost importance. Your privacy is guaranteed.

  – Chapter Eight –

  In the light of dawn, the craziness of the previous night can seem like nothing more than an odd dream.

  Did I really streak through the quad?

  Did she actually break up with me?

  Did a strange guy threaten to geld me at a coffee shop?

  I hid under the covers until I was sure L.J. had left, then jumped up and bolted the door. I felt awful. The Band-Aid on my face had come off and my scab had stuck to the pillow during the night. It pulled off when I got up, starting my face bleeding again. My gut ached from my beating. I was still wearing the clothes from last night. An ache in my thigh reminded me I’d slept with the razor in my pocket. I could have easily accidentally fulfilled Dan’s threat in my sleep.

  I groped for my phone. I’d tried to play the big boy reporter, now it was time to call my dad. My only hope was that Dan and his buddy would take my leaving as a sign of surrender and not pursue me back to KC.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the offices of Quadruple A All Night Plumbing. I’m out of the office until Monday…”

  What the hell was that? Why wasn’t he taking calls?