Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  “Something like this?” The youngest guest, the man who was only there through Gowen’s charity, drew something on a scrap of paper. He had introduced himself only as Sammy. He wore tattered yet generally clean clothes, as well as a perpetual grin. The reverend was reminded of the ‘merry wanderers’ who would show up at the church’s Friday night bread line.

  Sammy held up his drawing and both Roebuck and Gowen gasped in recognition. The fourth man remained silent, though his eyes narrowed.

  Sammy wadded up the drawing. “I saw that about half a year ago. It was carved into a tree. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but there was a guy swinging from a limb.”

  The last man had not spoken, save for gruffly introducing himself as Herbert Knowles. His grey hair and lined face led Gowen to initially believe this was the oldest man in the room. Upon closer inspection, however, Gowen realized that Knowles was probably only in his mid-thirties.

  The three other men waited for Knowles to say something. He remained adamantly silent, cleaning his nails with a penknife, not making eye contact. Eventually, he spoke.

  “I saw the symbol, too. During the war.”

  “Where?” asked Roebuck.

  “Somewhere bad.”

  “But under what circumstance?” insisted Roebuck.

  Knowles looked up. “Somewhere bad.” No one pressed the issue. Gowen noticed that the former soldier had pared his nail down to the quick and his thumb was bleeding.

  Gowen stood, and Knowles, Roebuck, and Sammy looked at him expectantly. He was about to explain he was only taking the pressure off his broken ribs, but thought the better of it. There was no use postponing the inevitable.

  “Gentleman.” In spite of his injuries, the reverend’s pulpit-trained voice was commanding. “I think I wouldn’t be wrong in saying that the people who assaulted me, were the same ones who lynched a man in northern Missouri, violated a girl in Columbia, and…” he nodded to Knowles “were involved in the war.” No one replied. Gowen took a labored breath and continued.

  “I’m sure whoever is behind all this is based here in Columbia, and I’m also sure his name is Saberhagen. I feel it is my duty as a Christian to put a stop to him. I don’t know how, but I’ll try. As for you, I think your best course of action would be to return to your homes. This is dangerous business and I don’t think you should involve yourselves further.” Gowen returned to his seat.

  Sammy’s grin was even wider than usual. It occurred to Gowen that Sammy saw right through his lie, saw how much he needed these men.

  “Padre,” said the hobo. “I’m staying. I’d like to help.”

  “As would I,” said the professor.

  The soldier nodded, an almost imperceptible movement.

  The reverend hated to admit how relieved he felt. In the years to come, he took some small comfort in knowing his three partners had volunteered for what happened next. He couldn’t totally be blamed for their deaths.

  Charlie and I stopped reading as the waitress refilled my coffee. Outside, the rain hammered on the windows.

  “So that’s how they all got together,” said Charlie, once we were alone again.

  “You got to admit, Rev. Gowen had balls of solid brass. Getting an eyeball removed would be enough to kill most people’s curiosity.”

  “Almost getting hit by a train would stop a lot of people, too,” said Charlie. I couldn’t tell if she meant I was brave or stupid. We continued to read.

  October 22nd, 1935. My new companions and I have decided on a plan of action. I hate myself for involving them, but I’m scared. For once in my life, the armor of faith does not protect me.

  Professor Roebuck will return to the university and research what he can about the Northern Synod. With the resources of the university he may be able to piece together some evidence that has eluded me so far.

  Mr. Knowles plans to keep up appearances in Columbia, while keeping his ears open for news of Saberhagen or the Synod. Knowles confided that he’s never known anyone who could keep a secret in a bar. He’ll spend most of his evenings in the local taverns, a sacrifice he says he’s willing to make (a rare moment of humor for him).

  Sammy has taken on the most dangerous part of our research. He will attempt to join the Northern Synod and report back to us on any goings on. The three of us tried to dissuade him, but he was insistent. His arguments make sense: Sammy has no job, no family, no connections; he’s the least likely to be associated with any of us. And quite frankly, there’s something about Sammy that’s easy to trust.

  As for myself, I have to play the waiting game. I’m almost surely being watched, and too much contact with me could have dire consequences for the other three. But I still feel like a coward.

  October 24, 1935. I received a telephone call from Professor Roebuck today. While he has had no luck researching our modern problems, he has discovered that Paul Saberhagen is not the first Missouri Saberhagen of note. Someone with the same last name ran an organized crime syndicate out of Kansas City in the nineties. Roebuck says he’ll research that line if all else fails.

  I’ve not heard from Knowles or Sammy. I pray for them every night. I pray for all of us.

  October 25, 1935. I received word from Sammy today, via Roebuck. Apparently Sammy managed to slip a note into his jacket without being noticed. The man is cagey, I’ll give him that. Here is the message:

  At this point, a yellowed, unlined piece of paper was pasted to the diary page.

  Im in. They let me join the Sinod. I doant no what thier up to its all a big secrit. They say they work for the good of sosiety but i doant see them passing out soup with the salvashin army, thats for shur. They keep talking about problems in the world but I think what we wood call a problem and what THEY wood call a problem aint the same thing. I aint met Saberhagen yet but I saw him once. Something aint rite about him. Something about his eyes. Ill be in tuch.

  October 27, 1935. Knowles was fired from his job at the Columbia Brick Works yesterday. He’d been on the job for five years, and the foreman was vague as to why he was being let go. We both suspect Saberhagen was behind all this. I feel responsible, but Knowles doesn’t blame me. He says he will check in periodically. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. No word from Sammy yet.

  October 28, 1935. Today, while walking home, I was nearly struck by a carelessly driven automobile. Or was it careless?

  October 31, 1935. I somehow expected something to happen today. Despite Saberhagen’s many bad qualities, being overly theatrical is not one of them.

  November 1, 1935. Something odd occurred today, though I may be making more of it than is warranted. While on my way to my office, I ran into Deacon Henderschmitt, who asked to review some of the church’s financial records. When we entered my office, we were both stunned to see a young woman sitting in my chair. A very comely young woman, I might add. When I demanded what she was doing there, she mumbled something and quickly exited. Perhaps I should have stopped her, but maybe it’s for the best that I didn’t.

  Ten minutes later I was to meet with the new choir director in that very office. Though I may be being paranoid, what would have happened had I gone into my office alone? If I hadn’t run into the Deacon, what would the young woman have done?

  “You think she would have attacked him?” I asked Charlie.

  “No. She would have screamed ‘rape.’ And that would have been it for Rev. Gowen.”

  The next entry was for November 6th, and only mentioned a general lack of progress in the investigation. After that, Gowen’s diary entries wandered back towards the normal, dealing mostly with church business and local events. On November 15th there was an interesting entry, written in shaky handwriting:

  Sammy has returned. For the first time since I met him, he wasn’t smiling. I noticed him during evening services, sitting in the front row and looking terrified. I’m afraid my preaching suffered. As soon as I could wind things up I met with him in the conference room. He was almost incoherent for a momen
t. I feared that he had been found out.

  At that moment, the lights in the restaurant went out. It struck me as odd, as the storm was producing no lightning.

  There was the general hubbub and confusion that always accompanies a blackout: teenage girls shrieking, people cursing, some wag asking ‘Whose hand is that?’

  I felt Charlie lean closer to me. I was about to lay my arm on her shoulder and assure her that she was safe, when she violently elbowed me in my sore ribs.

  “Sherman, look!”

  “What?”

  “The parking lot lights!” I could see her outline, gesturing frantically. “They’re still on!”

  “But that means…”

  A waitress, carrying a laden tray, had paused by our table when the darkness fell. As she got her bearings, a figure rushed out of the restrooms. I could only make out the skinny, male silhouette. As he dashed towards the exit, he collided with the server, who collapsed with a scream.

  “Ow! Son of a bitch!” Her hospitable geniality was gone. “Someone stop him! He’s trying to leave without paying!” The customer had made his escape.

  I helped the waitress pile the remains of the meal back on her tray. When the lights came on three minutes later, I found Charlie staring miserably at the table.

  A bowl of tomato soup had landed right on the open Bible. The seventy-year-old writing was now illegible.

  I stood in the parking lot in the driving rain, screaming obscenities at the heavens. I couldn’t take it anymore. I just couldn’t take it. My attempts to clean up the book had only caused the pages to disintegrate under my clumsy swipes with the napkin.

  I kicked a USA Today machine so hard that it tumbled over. I continued kicking it until the side began caving in. I’d been so close to learning the truth! And some asshole knocks soup all over it so he can avoid a five-dollar tab. Unless it wasn’t an accident. That power failure was awfully convenient.

  Charlie, who had been inside settling the bill, appeared at my side. She carried a to-go box protectively under her arm. Maybe if she didn’t think about food so much, she wouldn’t have been so damn fat.

  In order to demonstrate how angry and frustrated I was, I struck the news box with a manly kick. Apparently I connected with something solid, as my big toenail would fall off the next day.

  “Sherman, knock it off. You’re going to get arrested.”

  “Shut up. Shut the hell up!” She was getting soaked to the skin, but I didn’t care. I didn’t ask her to come here with me.

  “Get in the car, Sherman.”

  In a macho display of independence, I walked slowly and angrily to the car, making sure to open the door wide enough to dent the car next to us. Charlie slid in silently, the box on her wet lap. She looked at me with compassion.

  “Sherman, I’m not going anywhere with you in this state. It’s raining, we’re both exhausted, and it’s late.”

  “Well, what the hell are we supposed to do? Walk a hundred miles?”

  Charlie gave me a weak smile. It was the first time since the infamous cemetery date that I’d seen her snarling grin and I felt ashamed.

  “I’m not going back tonight, Sherman. I’m getting a room at that motel up there. I think you should join me. Calm down, get some sleep, and things will look better in the morning. I promise.”

  The room was clean, cheap, and they didn’t have any problem with renting to a couple of teenagers. That was about all I could say for it. When we checked in no one remembered to ask for two beds, so I realized I’d end up on the floor.

  Charlie was taking a shower. I sat shirtless on the bed, waiting for my turn. Too dejected to even turn on the TV, my eyes wandered to the cardboard takeout box. Casually, I flipped it open.

  There was Gowen’s tomato-soaked diary. Even after everything, Charlie was careful to preserve it.

  The shower turned off. I stood up and knocked at the bathroom door. “Charlie? Charlie, I’m sorry I got so mad.”

  The door opened and Charlie stood there, wrapped in a thin motel towel. Instinctively, I stepped back.

  “My eyes are up here, Sherman.”

  “Sorry.” I actually had been staring at the scars on her shoulders. They were still raw. For the rest of her life, every time she wore a swimsuit she’d have to explain them.

  Charlie stood at the sink and brushed her wet, kinky hair. I knew I should go back into the room, but I didn’t want to. And she didn’t shut the door on me. Eventually, she pulled a roll of bandages from her purse and began to awkwardly wind them around her shoulders. She didn’t stop me when I took the roll from her and rebound her wounds myself.

  “I don’t blame you for getting angry, Sherm,” she said when I’d finished. “I’ve had a rough time, but it’s been worse for you. But you know what would help?”

  “What?”

  “You could cry. No, don’t deny it. You’ve been wanting to all week.” She stepped closer. “But you’re a boy and you won’t let yourself.”

  “I don’t want to cry.” At least, not in front of Charlie.

  “Yes you do.” She wrapped her arms around my waist.

  And suddenly I was blubbering. I pressed my face into the top on her head and sobbed. Just for a couple of minutes. I rubbed my face into her clean, wet, red hair. It was like a purgative. Every lousy thing that had happed to me recently seemed suddenly distant. All I wanted to do was breathe her in. To lose myself in that curly, fresh-smelling lock of hair.

  It took me a moment to notice that she had dropped her towel.

  Without looking back at me, she walked to the bedroom and lay on the bed. Her expression wasn’t so sensual as inquiring. I think she actually feared I’d reject her.

  I paused for a moment, taking in the spectacle: the dimpled, freckled flesh, the bandages, the undeniable evidence that she was a natural redhead. But only for a moment.

  – Chapter Twenty –

  Columbia, Missouri, November 15, 1935—The Northern Synod Headquarters was originally a dilapidated, two-story house on the wooded outskirts of Columbia. Earlier that year, the members had instigated a massive building campaign. Very little of the former structure remained. The headquarters now boasted a meeting hall, two kitchens, a gymnasium, a chapel, and several offices. Only the basement was untouched. Over the ornate front entrance of the building stood an elaborate insignia. It looked something like a cross with a sideways ‘E’ hovering above.

  Sammy had worked for the Synod for over two weeks. He swept the floors, cleaned the kitchen, hauled wood, and generally made himself useful. In turn, they fed him and he was allowed to sleep in the tool shed. Sammy had exaggerated a bit when he’d written that he’d actually joined the Synod. Membership was not open-invitation.

  As near as he could guess, there were about fifty members of the lodge, or association, or whatever they were. A motley bunch, they came and went at all hours. Men in suits, men in coveralls, men in uniforms Sammy couldn’t identify. They arrived by automobile, by bicycle, or on foot. Most of them ignored Sammy, or treated him with aloof indifference. Whenever a dozen or more members gathered, one of them would suggest that Sammy clean the gutters, or chop wood, or whitewash the shed, or some other job that would take him outside. As for Saberhagen, he had only seen him from a distance. Strange that he could remember those eyes so well…

  Sammy cut the last of the encroaching vines from the back of the hall and sat down on a stump. The chore hadn’t taken very long, but he knew better than to enter the building, not while all the muck-a-mucks were doing whatever they did. Probably buggering each other, he thought with a grin.

  Sammy was contemplating giving up the job here. So far he’d learned nothing of importance. He’d never stayed in one city this long before, and he was starting to get antsy. If it weren’t for that nice minister, he would have hit the road long ago.

  As Sammy rolled a cigarette, he was aware of an automobile engine approaching. Not the normal coughing and popping of a Ford, but the purr of a more expensive j
ob. He heard it park in the clearing out front. Curiosity overcame his natural sloth, and he strolled around to take a look.

  He’d guessed right; the car was new, sleek, and black. Already the driver, an unpleasant looking bruiser with a Kaiser mustache, was holding the door open for his passenger. Sammy nearly dived back behind the building when he recognized the occupant.

  Saberhagen was not an imposing man. He looked to be about 5’8”, around forty years old, with a body just starting to go to fat. Dark hair, olive skin, and an expensive suit. Sammy wondered why he’d felt so upset the last time they’d crossed paths.

  And then Saberhagen looked in his direction and Sammy found himself hyperventilating behind the headquarters. What was it about those eyes? He hadn’t glared at Sammy, hell, he had actually smiled and waved. What was so unsettling?

  Years ago, Sammy had worked in the Chicago slaughterhouses. Suddenly, Sammy had a pretty good idea of what it felt like to be on the other end of the sledgehammer.

  He stood, scratched his balls, and came to a decision. He was risking his neck being here and he hadn’t found out squat. It was time to take action. He’d eavesdrop on whatever they were doing inside.

  Actually entering the hall would have been too obvious, and the building wasn’t designed for listening from the outside. But the cellar…

  Sammy had never given the basement much mind, it was always chained shut, at any rate. But pipes carried sound; perhaps he could overhear something. His years on the road didn’t fail him; he had the padlock picked in under a minute.

  He wrestled the storm doors open and descended the stairs. It was too dark to close the doors behind him; besides, it was kind of scary. If someone caught him he’d just say someone had left the door open and he’d decided to clean up a little.

  The cellar was good-sized, almost as large as the original building. The afternoon sunlight slanted down the stairs, but didn’t do much to illuminate the dank basement. Sammy knew he shouldn’t waste time, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to progress further. He stood at the foot of the steps, waiting for his eyes to adjust.