Chapter 11—The Man I Called Alarbus

The letter bag was nearly as heavy when filled with letters and swayed a bit as I walked through the streets. I passed multistory apartments above stores, and office buildings appeared as dark sleeping giants. The only light came from the lamps on the corners of the streets. I’d arrived at the crossing of Fifth and Main and stood in the yellow light. I checked my trail. Behind me was a trickle of blood, like a fine line of crimson syrup ran over shaved ice.

“You remember the fox, don’t let them catch you.”

“Oh, no.”

“Throw them off.”

“Yes, of course.”

I couldn’t take Main north, the direct route home. I had to turn around or head in a different direction. I could head south, away from my home, toward the river. I could go there. I could dump the bag and the body into the river. It was an idea, but there were a few problems. The sun would rise around seven thirty, and I had to be at work by eight. I was two miles, maybe more, from home. If I went south, I wouldn’t be able to get to the river and turn back before the sun was on me. I’d be caught in dawn’s light, walking about with blood on my coat, on my shoes, on my hands, on my cheeks, it was all there. I could feel it. How it dried and pulled my skin tight. The other problem was the bag. If found by the river by chance, it would be easy for the authorities to track it to the postal office, leading to me eventually.

I had cut through several alleys, zigzagging my way back to leave a trail that could not be tracked. The extra mileage would ensure the blood ran out, or froze, leaving nothing behind, and if someone were to try to follow what trail was left, it wouldn’t lead directly home.

I stopped near a can of garbage, carefully lifted its lid, and found an old newspaper on top. I used it to wipe the bottom of the bag, then tossed the paper in the bag with the unnamed man’s remains.

The cold bit the skin. My hands felt frozen and stiff. My knuckles locked in position, one hand secured to the ax handle and the other on the strap over my shoulder. I hurried along, making sure I wasn’t seen, wasn’t followed.

I was finally at the end of my street before the road turned into a dirt path heading north, where the forest grew. I was trotting, picking up my pace, for the light of day was nearly on me.

I was getting closer to my house, and I’d placed one foot into my yard when I saw my neighbor Mr. Decker facing me, standing out on his front lawn, just ten feet or so from his porch. I lowered my head, hoping not to attract his attention, hoping he would look the other way, but he wasn’t. He was looking at me. I had to think quickly about what to do.

I was close to my porch when I heard his voice, but I didn’t stop. I ran up the steps, grabbed the doorknob, twisted and pushed, but the door wouldn’t open. It was locked.

Devil’s thumbs! My ears strained to hear if he was coming but struggled to hear anything besides my frantic heartbeat.  I fumbled around my pockets, searching for my key. It’s not in my front pocket, it’s not in my jacket pocket, there it is in my inside pocket.

I froze. Was that the crunch of footsteps?

“Doesn’t matter, keep going.”

I changed hands, holding the key in my left, and in my right, I reached down into my bag, searching. I could feel the dead man’s cold flesh as my hand passed by, digging, and then I felt it. I wrapped my hands around the handle and brought the knife out. I waited for him to come.

Taking the key and inserting it into the keyhole, in one turn, I unlocked the door and rushed inside feeling that I certainly escaped the hand of Decker and the consequences for me having to face him. I shut the door hard, dropped both the key and knife and hurried to lock the door. The latch fell into place, and I stood there leaning against the door, one hand on the latch, the other pressed against the upper center, bracing my weight and the weight of my bag. I was breathing hard, my heart pounding against my chest, my blood pumping in my ear.

Knowing I was out of immediate danger, I pushed off the door, reached for the strap, and lifted it off my shoulder, bringing it around my head and lowering the bag to the floor. The gray light of dawn filtered into the room. I quickly walked to the sitting room, checking outside to see if Decker was lingering.

He wasn’t.

 I pulled the curtains tight. I moved to the kitchen and ensured Decker wasn’t outside the small kitchen window and closed its curtain. Ambient light pierced around the edges of the window. Everything was fine. I had made it. Except I was running behind on time. I needed to get cleaned up, but first I needed to do something with my bag.

The cellar.

I could take it to the river after work.

The cellar.

 That would be a good place for now.

I snatched the letter bag’s strap, crossed the foyer, passed the kitchen and eating area, and moved to the cellar door. I ran down the stairs, nearly losing my step, then dropped the bag at the bottom of the stairs. The cellar was coal black, as though all the world had been thrown into darkness. It was eerily silent. Something didn’t feel right—none of it felt right—but something else seemed wrong.

There’s nothing wrong. The voice in my head told me.

“I have a man’s remains in this bag.” I let out my breath. “There’s something wrong with that.”

Is that what you’re worried about? Don’t be.

I ran upstairs, picked up the lantern, and used a match to light it. I hurried back, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and looking at the hole in the wall.

Sitting on the bottom step, I gazed on the bag that held the unnamed man’s remains.

“You wanted me to follow you, didn’t you?”

A slight draft floated by, caressing my cheek.

I sat there in anticipation. Waiting.

For what?

I shivered as a small voice inside my head spoke, an answer?

 “I’m waiting.”

Moments passed like a clock making its round to the next number.

 I shook my head. “Of course not. You aren’t going to answer me. Even when I asked for your name, you wouldn’t answer.” I placed my finger on the bottom of my chin. “Since you didn’t give me your name and now you can’t I suppose, I should give you one. It’s not right to leave what remains of you here, walled up without a name.”

My eyelids felt heavy, my muscles ached, and my head pounded. I pushed it aside and focused on the ceremonial task.

“All men should have a name.” I bent forward, thinking while taking the strap in hand, and picked up the bag. But I didn’t have to think. Not really. I knew what name I would give him. I’ve known it since my second gruesome trip to the alley.

“Alarbus,” I said aloud.

I stepped through the rubble, raising my hand to allow the light to lead the way. Over the broken wall and onto the dirt path I proceeded with Alarbus.

I walked down the passage with the same feeling as if I just walked into a church in the middle of prayer, a mixture of reverence, shame, and regret. I hated that feeling.

 “It’s a good name, isn’t it?” I said to the pieces, “Fitting too. At least I think it is. Shame though.”

I stopped and shined the light on the brick to my left and then on the natural stone formation to my right.

The path was smooth, shaved and worn over many years of use. I continued, my pace slowed, coming to the chamber on my left. I peered around the corner. Thick lumber shored up the space, reminding me of the silver mines in Bisbee.

Time was running out for me, and work would soon begin.

“What am I to do with you?” I said to Alarbus.

Alarbus was silent.

“I don’t have time to bury you.” I knew there was risk in keeping his body here, in this tunnel, especially with my neighbor who’d already been snooping around in my house. There was no time to wall up the cellar, nor did I have the supplies. If I stayed and buried him, then I would be late for work, and you don’t want to miss work on the day you killed somebody.

 I’d be sure to lock the door to the house. I’d lock the cellar too, but I wasn’t sure where the key was.

I brought the bag to the far corner of the room and rested it on the ground like a Ming vase. I turned about and went out of the chamber and into the tunnel, cool air passing over me. It was the draft. I stopped, wet my finger, then held it above my shoulder. Why is it going the opposite direction? How’s that possible?

The tunnel didn’t end here at the chamber, and when I held the light up, I couldn’t get a sense of far it went. There’s no time to explore now. I had to get back to work. I turned back toward the cellar, the light out front, swaying shadows on the walls.

The broken wall came into focus, and it looked as if I’d stumbled across lost ruins.

I stepped over the wall.

I got to go to work. I have to be normal. How can I be normal? I felt my body tremble as if something were wrong. How’d I get here? What was I doing? My brow crinkled, my chest rose and fell rapidly. I felt weak in the legs, and I slowly slid to my knees.

 “What have I done?”

I rocked.

“What have I done?”

Rocked.

“What…have I done?”

Rocked.

“…have I done?”

Chapter 10 – Sure as Shylock

Not a single person would know who I was this night or what had happened. If they did, they would have a very different story to tell, one that would grip the entire city of fear when the word finally got out. I was as sure as Shylock.

“Frightened mothers.”

“Yes.”

“Worried about their babies.”

“I can see it.”

“Fathers up all night wielding a club, a knife, a gun or bat. Sitting in their homes just long enough for their tired eyes to become heavier than the fear they felt.”

“That’s true.”

“And what about Miss Newberry?”

“What about her?”

“How would she feel?”

“You mean when I deliver her mail tomorrow or the next day?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“What about anyone else?”

“Like Mrs. Collins?”

“Yes. She’d ask if you’ve read about the horrible thing that happened near Fifth and Vine.”

“What should I do?”

“Stand there and say nothing.”

“How would I be able to stand there, looking into her eyes, knowing what she spoke of?”

‘That you’re a murderer, a killer on the loose, here in New Cross.”

“And she’d know.”

“Miss Newberry would know.”

“What should I do?”

I shook my head because I knew there was nothing else I could do. “Going back isn’t an option.”

I stooped next to the bag and brought the candle next to it, pinching the waxy stem between my forefinger and thumb. I ground the base of the candle against the stone until I was certain the candle would not fall over. Next was the ax I brought out and laid on the cold surface. Then I removed the bourbon, uncorked it, and took a swig.

I sat the bottle on the ground, then shuffled closer and searched his pockets. I found a few coins, slid them into the outer pocket of my coat. I would do well to give these to a charity.

I checked his wrists, his fingers, and his neck. Two rings—one gold, one silver. I pocketed his effects. Waste not, want not.

I stood over him. The body was too close to the rear wall. There wasn’t enough room to work. I stepped around, careful not to trip on his legs, and stopped at his feet. Reaching down, I grabbed his ankles around the patent leather boots he wore. Then I dragged him through his pool of blood, out into the center of the alley.

I was reminded of a scene from Titus Andronicus, a favorite play of my mine and my father’s. One part of the play sticks in my mind where General Titus comes home from conquering the Goths and brings their queen and her three sons back to Rome as spoils of war. In Roman tradition, one son’s life was to be forfeited to the gods, and Titus orders the best of them to be sacrificed. The Goth queen begs for her son’s life but is denied, and Titus’s son Lucius drags the son, Alarbus, off to be slaughtered.

The weight of the body was heavy and difficult to move. I leaned back, gaining leverage, and looked up into the sky, speaking a few lines while I pulled him. “To this, your son is mark’d, and die he must. To appease their groaning shadows that are gone.”

Alarbus in the play was still alive when his body was dragged off. This body, however, was like that of a hickory stump, but I managed to drag his corpse four feet, into the center of the alley. I stood, looking down at the man before me. His head tilted unnaturally to one side, his arms above his shoulders having been pried from their earlier position as I moved his body. A thick blood trail, like the marrow of boiled bones, lay in his wake from where he died to where he rested.

Titus still rang in my head, like when you get a song that won’t leave until you’ve played it through. I saw Tamora, the queen who cries out to Titus, begging him for her son’s life. “Is your mother alive or dead? Would she be like Tamora, asking God for your forgiveness, to wash your sins and to give you everlasting life?” I lowered my gaze upon the man’s corpse, knowing if he’d only left when I said then none of this would have happened.

I reached down and grabbed his head by the hair, pulling it up so I could see his face more clearly.

“Does your mother weep or beg for mercy?” Spit flung from my mouth. “Did she cry out in the night, asking the gods to spare your life?” I looked at his vacant stare.

Those cobalt eyes that once were full of life but now are as vacant as a closed shop’s window. I opened my grip, his hair slipping from my fingers, and his head smacked against the ground. “Why? Why did you do this to me?” I clenched my fists, the nails biting into my palms.

“Get on with it.”

“I am.”

I walked with heavy steps to the bourbon. I grabbed the bottle, pulled the cork with my teeth, and spat it out into my hand. I took a drink, wiped my mouth with my sleeve, and gave a sigh of relief. “Ahhh.” I held the bottle in view. “You help me, and I’ll make sure you are always stocked in my house.” I kissed the bottle, corked it, and placed it on the ground.

The more I moved around, the more confining my coat became. I could feel how stiff I moved, and how the fabric seemed to smother me. “Can’t do this all bound up.” I started to take off my coat, looking down to undo my buttons, and I saw a spot about the size of a silver dollar on my front. In the flickering candlelight, I could see my coat was stained with blood. “Damn. That’s no good.” I was trying to avoid any stains that might be noticeable, anything that would show on the coat.

“Should have taken it off before even touching his body.”

 “That makes sense,” I said then paused for a moment. “Wait, am I talking to myself?”

“You’re not talking to yourself. Only crazy people do that.”

“Good.”

I couldn’t let the stains worry me now. The stain would likely go unnoticed by others if I kept to the shadows. I let out my breath and finished taking off my coat. I set it near the wall, away from everything.

I took a few steps toward my mailbag, from which I produced the knife. I twirled the blade by its handle, the tip against my finger while I stared at the body. It was a habit I’d formed when I was young, just after a hunt.

I walked toward the body and stooped next to it, the knife in one hand, then gripped the man’s coat near the collar with my other hand. I tightened my grip on his coat. I felt the soft fabric, yet firm, sturdy.

“Shame,” I said. “This is a very fine coat, and if I were a different man and it was less bloody, I might keep it.”

I thrust the blade into the coat, near the top, and sliced off a button.

Pop

 Roll

“You had only a few coins, no bills.”

I sliced another button.

“Miss Newberry was paying for your drinks earlier.”

 Pop

 Roll

“It tells me a few things—you aren’t a wealthy man though you are wearing finer clothing than most. Which I find a bit confusing.”

Pop

Roll

“Your coat is similar in style to my own, an English walker, but not the sort you find for $12.50. Yours is the sort of fabric and stitching of a fine coat worth over $100.” I lingered a bit more, thinking it over, hung up on the idea of who he was. “Maybe you were of wealth or pretended to be.”

Pop

Roll

The buttons were off and the coat open.

I reached over to his waist and pulled his shirt away from his body, then inserted the blade at the top and sliced the fabric all the way to the bottom. I opened the shirt, and underneath he wore a white linen undershirt.

“Miss Newberry isn’t wealthy.” I grabbed the undershirt twisting it with my hand, making the fabric taut.

“I know because she works at one of the law offices downtown.”  

I stopped a moment to rest. “I thought she received gifts from her admirers?” I gripped the fabric tighter.

“She does, but that doesn’t mean she’s wealthy.”

Taking the blade, I drove it into the fabric, slicing it open, pulling the blade down to his crotch. “She’s not far from the postal office. Wilkins and Sons. The People’s Lawyer.”

I pulled the shirt away exposing his chest. There were several scars. One ran across his chest at a diagonal, another near his belly—it looked to be a single gunshot wound—and another.

The last scar was just under his belly button. I stopped to study it because it was a brand, not a wound scar. The sort of mark you might find on cattle. It was raised, had two semicircles with a circle between and a line through all three, or was it a sword. It was hard to make it out.

The scars created a new problem. They would make it easy to identify the man, which would lead back to Miss Newberry and back to me.

“I’m sorry my deceased friend – I can’t leave these on you,” I said to the dead man.

I moved to his waist where I undid his belt, then inserted the blade into his thigh, slicing the inner left pant leg. My sharp knife cut it easily, like opening a letter. I repeated the same on the right leg. His two legs were now exposed, the dark fabric slit open, lying to the sides.

My thoughts were still on Miss Newberry, and what she was doing with this man.

“Since I know she worked and she needed an income, maybe you pretended to come from wealth, and perhaps you lied to her. You might have fooled her into believing you came into a fortune, but instead you intended to beat and rob her.” That sounded right but felt wrong. There had to be a better reason, I just couldn’t find it.

I took off his boots, his hosiery. Layer by layer, a slice here, a tear there, until I had exposed his arms, his legs, his chest and torso, leaving the rest of the fabric intact under his legs, buttocks, back, and shoulders. I piled the torn clothes a foot away. He appeared odd, his beautiful garments in shreds, leaving the underside of his body covered and his front side unprotected.

“He does look strange.”

“He does.”

“A bit of a fool.”

“Yes, he is.”

I got near to his face, knelt on one knee, and looked into those vacant eyes. “What a fool,” I breathed. “You had lured your prey out into the midst of night but never suspected my coming along.”

“He was cunning.”

“But a fool.”

I pulled away from him, viewing his body, which was strong and lean, though I still did not know who the man was. I crossed one arm over my waist, holding the other and using it to prop my chin up, the blade still in my hand, the edge near my cheek.

“No, you are something else—a stylish nomad sporting fine linen, attracting unsuspecting women and then taking them to places where you could do as you willed.” I thought a moment. “A killer.”

I shifted my weight to my right rear foot. The air stung my nose as I breathed. My pulse was even, my heart beat one after the other, neither quick nor slow.

“What makes us different?” I poked his shoulder with the tip of the knife. “Do you think we are the same?”

I pushed off the ground and stood over him.

“In some ways we are, but not in all ways.”

I circled him like a mortician might a corpse, investigating, gathering knowledge of how to proceed.  I came to a stop at his feet, knelt again, and adjusted his right leg by grabbing hold of his big toe, then I did the same to his left leg, making his stance wider. I was slow to get up, and I moved around to his right side, taking his right arm and moving it outward in an angle, then I walked around to his left side and did the same to his left arm. When I finished, I circled him once more, then came to a halt at his feet.

“He looks like the Vitruvian man.” I had seen the picture at a doctor’s office and asked about. It always stuck with me.

“He also reminds me of what happened in Titus. How they must have positioned Alarbus’s body before they began.”

“What words do you recall that was said?”

I looked directly toward his face, watching it, tilting my head to one side.

“O cruel, irreligious piety!” I breathed out. “Those are the words Tamora cried when the Romans took her son away to be butchered.”

“Seemed appropriate.” I drew a breath, and let it out.

I walked to his right side, lowered myself to the ground. I took his right arm into my hand and lifted it.

“And now we began with the words uttered of Demetrius from Titus Andronicus.” I arched my back and spoke as if speaking to an audience. “Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive. To tremble under Titus’ threatening looks.”

“After Alarbus was gone.?”

“Yes.”

“And now we must continue.”

I nodded, and moved closer to his shoulder, and sliced into his flesh, cutting upward into the joint. Blood, thickened by the cool weather, seeped out. The blade went as far as it could, his arm still attached by ligaments and flesh.

I lifted myself and stood next to him, then walked to his left side. I got lower and did the same on that side, cutting from under the armpit into the joint, letting it hang.

I went to his left leg, lifting it, but the leg was heavy and too much to deal with. I slid my hand down his front leg to his knee where I put the blade’s edge against the soft, supple flesh behind the joint. I cut into him, finding the bone, then working the blade into the joint as much as I could. The blade stuck. I worked it back out, knowing it wouldn’t finish this job.

Next, I walked to my bag and put the blade inside, pushing it into the sand, then gripped the handle of the ax and removed it. I brought it to waist height, holding it in both my hands before letting it slump. The axe head smacked against the stone alley.

I dragged the ax’s head across the stone where I stopped next to his left shoulder. I’d never done this before, but I needed to save time. Usually, when I butchered deer, I used the knife to cut through the joints. It worked, but not as quickly, and I needed to hurry. His body was cold and the joint thick—I’d need to swing hard. I stood over him, placed the blade against the shoulder joint.

I heaved the ax high and swung swiftly.

The blade sank into his shoulder, wedging into the joint. I pulled the axe out and hit the shoulder again, and it popped. I wrapped my fingers around his wrist, pulling his arm back and over the shoulder until the joint cracked. It was disgusting, holding that man’s arm in my hand, his cold flesh against my fingers. It wasn’t anything like butchering a deer, not even close. I felt sick, and I wanted to stop, but I knew I couldn’t. I’d come too far, and this had to be completed. Even if I wanted to leave now, there’s too much here for the police to track, to find out it was me. That was bad news, and there was no stopping now. I tossed his arm to the side like a piece of wood.  I could see the audience in front of me, watching me play out my character’s story for them to see.

 “As you cling to life, so you cling to death.”

“Is that from the play?”

“No. It’s what I see unfolding before me.”

I wasn’t sure if I was talking to the dead man or if I was talking to myself. I stopped, trying to think, recalling my actions, what was said.

“You already know the answer.”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s pointless to look back.”

It seemed that way, there was nothing to gain from the past, but then didn’t the past dictate the future? Or was the future created from what we hadn’t done yet?

“We need to finish what was started.”

I went to work on his other arm, this time making sure I cut deeper by using a full swing like digging into dirt with a pickaxe. The force caused a pop, then suction. It was free. I tossed his arm next to the other arm.

“This is taking too long. We need to save time.”

I thought about what I could do next, how I could finish the job quicker. It came to me.

“I’ll leave his legs, from the knee up.”

“Good. Now get to work.”

I chopped off both his lower legs at the knee. I heard a crack, then a crunch as the edge cut intact tendons and joints.

I threw the two bottom portions of his legs next to his arms.

His sightless eyes stared at me as I placed the ax blade against his neck. I felt that the lack of focus in his eyes was his way of calling me an ass for cutting him into pieces.

“You’re the ass,” I smirked then stretched out my muscles. Arching my back, I brought the ax above my head. I heard voices, coming from the street. I moved in front of the candle to block its light. I turned my ear toward the alley, listening. A light winter breeze passed through, and then it died. “It’s nothing,” I said under my breath. “Only the wind.”

It felt colder, and I wondered if I should put my coat on. Instead, I turned around, looking down the alley toward the street, then back toward the end of the alley at the rear of the hardware store.

“I know I heard something.”

I extinguished the candle, stooping low, snuffing out the flame. I moved into the shadows far from the body, then watched the opening for anyone who might be coming this way.

My hands shook, and my breath quickened. “It’s not the wind I hear.”

“No, it’s not the wind.”

A voice, deep, like a man’s voice. It was distant, but it didn’t sound like it came from anywhere, it was just there. “I’m paranoid.”

“A little.”

There was the voice again.

I searched the immediate area trying to see if anyone were hiding in the shadows, someone who had been watching, listening and is listening now. As I scanned the dark patches of the alley, I thought maybe it came from the street. It had to have come from the street, near the opening, my only exit. I had to be sure no one was coming. I gripped the axe handle, never letting my eyes off the exit. A gust burst into the corridor and brushed over us.

Run.

 I wanted to flee, that was my thought. I had to get out while I could before whoever was spying on me came around that corner.

“But they’ll be waiting,” I whispered.

I thought I might hear a response, but I didn’t. It made me wonder if what I’d heard was even real or just my imagination.

“That’s it. It’s all my head.” I kept my voice low.

I walked quietly toward the opening, keeping my body close to the building, in the shadows, ready to run if I had to, ready to fight if it came to that as well.

I was close to the opening, just steps away from the corner.

Whispers… like scratching, rasping words permeated my ears…

The whispers died away as sudden as they had arrived. I covered one ear to listen, to be sure what I heard had been real or if my mind was playing a terrible trick.

Again, sudden, and without any warning, the whispers flooded my ear. I halted my progress and tried to make out the words. I couldn’t discern any individual vowel or consonants, and the intonation was monotone – a droning of continuous hisses. It sounded like a small room crowded with dozens of people speaking at the same time or possibly speaking the same thing but not in sync.

I jerked my head around.

There it was again, but this time it continued.

I threw the axe, vaguely noticing the lack of metallic clank as the voices got louder. I slid to my knees and cupped my ears for the whispers grew, multiplying and intensifying. It was coming in, a swarming cone of a thousand buzzing hornets. It crushed the thoughts in my mind, replacing them with tiny fragments of sound, each different than the next—the wind, an ocean wave, a thundering storm, a raging fire. All distorted, altogether, all as one.

I didn’t know where it was coming from?

I searched the street, nothing was there. I searched the alley, nothing there. I arched back, my head toward the sky, looking into the dark, and nothing was there. I raked my hand across my face, over my arm, pulling at my sleeve, touching my hand, tugging at my fingers. I sank lower and then lay like a baby in a cradle. I curled into a ball, feeling disoriented, the building appearing to spin around me, a constant image of dancing stone, spinning and spinning until it blurred into a mixture of swirling sand.

I cupped my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. The sound remained. My heart pounded against my chest, my lungs expanded and shut as quickly as a bellows stoking a fire. Something was happening to me.

“See, lord and father, how we have perform’d,” I said it without thinking like I was a character in the play, but no one told me.

The sounds left as a trickle of a spring sprung from the hillside.

I drew myself to my feet, crouching, surveying the street. It was hard to breathe. Little grey spots were forming in front of me like I was about to faint. That’s not right, only frail women faint. I gathered my bearings, and took in short breaths, and let them out slowly. I did it again, and again watching as the spots gradually disappeared.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

“We must continue.”

“I know.”

“There’s still a problem.”

“I’m taking care of it.”

“Not that one. The other one.”

“Which one?”

“Let me remind you.”

I took in a deep breath, held it, let it out like a puff of smoke, waiting, and then it came.

I had a thought. I had a terrible thought.

I forced stumbled back toward the body and resumed my route to the bottle of bourbon. I snatched it by its top, pulled its cork, and poured it into my mouth, sucking down as much as I could between gulps of air. Half spilled out onto my clothes, yet half made it into my gullet. The bottle was two-thirds empty when I stopped myself, knowing I had to finish and I couldn’t do it in a drunken stupor.

I shook my head to shake off what had happened.

 “No, no, no,” I said to the bottle. “I can’t….” And then I looked at my bottle. “You are my friend.” I kissed the bottle and …promptly threw up.

After I ejected what I had in my gullet, I checked to see if I managed to keep it off my shirt. I did.  And then I also checked to see if I managed to not drop the bottle. I did. The bourbon I placed on the ground, next to my bag, after I’d taken careful steps around the steaming mess I’d made.

My body strained with effort, moving toward the dead man, an ever-present gnawing in the back of mind telling me I needed to finish what I started and that I needed to finish it before the sun appeared over the top of New Cross and exposing me to the world.

“Luc, come on,” I said more calmly. I guess it was instinct or reaction to a defiant child who would rather take a beating from his pa than do what he was told. I was to do the unthinkable, the unimaginable, to finish the terrible thought I had just conjured.

I straddled over his torso, hunching. I took the knife out of my pocket, and slid the blade into the soft tissue of his neck and slit him from chest to groin. I took a second pass, going into the chest, cutting away the ribs to create an opening. His innards smelled almost sweet yet spoiled at the same time—like someone had placed fresh mint on top of a chamber pot.

I reached under his ribs and up into his chest, my knife shoved inside. Normally I’d cut the windpipe, if it were a deer, and work my way down, but instead, I cut through his lungs and just above the heart. Blood leaked out into his cavity. I put the knife to the side, reached into his chest with both hands, and raked out his insides. His entrails resembled a bag pipe’s bladder, filled with air and stained red from the copious amounts of blood. They were smooth, slick feeling on my hands as I put them on the ground before returning to the body.

My skin prickled while I reached down and picked up his heart. Holding the muscle, I found some cloth, a piece of his torn shirt, and wrapped his heart, then carefully placed it on the ground between the man’s limbs and the pile of clothing.

After retrieving the axe, I stood perpendicular to his body. This was the final act, one I felt like I was avoiding, but now, “we are one.” I placed the axe’s edge against his neck. I raised the axe, brought it down, and chopped off his head. It made a schlump sound.

I rubbed my nose with my finger, more from nerves than an actual itch. There was a coarseness to my finger, sand from the bag. I paced around like a wild animal. “Try not to panic, try to remember what you’re doing, why you’re doing it.” I looked to my hands, to the ground, all around me and everywhere I’d walked, where I had stood, where I was pacing. It was as if I were in a lion’s lair who’d torn its prey into pieces, leaving tremendous amounts of blood everywhere.

“No, no, no.”

The realization came as snow began to fall from the sky. The bag might leak, and the blood would leave a trail on the snow.

I searched the ground, looking at the bag, sweeping to the body, to the pile of limbs, to the torn clothes. I stopped, staring at the clothes. I could leave his body here—who would know it was me? They would think it was a deranged man.
 Was I deranged?

“You’re talking to yourself.”

“I know.”

“We are one.”

“I know.”

“You’re not deranged.”

“I know.”

“We must remove what we can and leave the authorities guessing.”

Axe in tow, along with the knife, I walked to the bag.

“I know.”

Near the bag, I placed the tools beside each other.

I grabbed the bottle of bourbon and poured the brown liquid onto my hand, then rubbed my hands together. The air made my skin bitter cold. The scent of liquor lingered. The slickness of the blood drained through my fingers, and the coarseness of the sand scratched at my skin.

I returned to the pile of torn clothing, found a clean part of his shirt. I wiped my hands as much as I could with it, though there was still a sticky feeling on the back and sides. I went back to the bag, grabbed it by the strap, and brought it closer to the body. In the weak light, I scanned the ground for blood before carefully setting it down.

Rummaging through the pile of discarded clothes, I found what I believed to be part of his undershirt. I that piece of fabric, picked up his head and carefully wrapped it like a head of cabbage in cabbage leaves. I placed the gruesome parcel into the bag, pushing it into the sand like I’d done with those potatoes in the barrel of my cellar.

Shuffling to search the man’s shredded attire, I located the sleeves of his coat I’d cut off at the seam, and placed his arms inside each. Next, I used the bottom portion of his trousers to cover his legs, and I placed those along with his arms into the bag. The ground held a few more items, his liver, his guts, his heart. Did I want to bring those?

“We have enough.”

“I know.”

His torso, waist, and upper legs were still there on the ground in the candle’s flame. His chest was open to the sky as if to invite his Roman sacrifice. I recalled the play, the scene where they’d prepared Alarbus.

I gave a slight bow at the waist, as though I were addressing an audience, picked up the kerosene, and held it high above what was left of the man with no name.

“Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d and entrails feed the sacrificing fire.”

Dousing him in kerosene, pouring it into the cavity of his chest, it flowed down to his hips. I pulled a few rags from the scrap pile of clothing and stuffed them into the empty corpse. Then I repeated, soaking the rags in kerosene. When I finished, I placed the kerosene can into the bag.

Taking my bag over to where I’d left the ax and knife, I cleaned the tools with bourbon and then placed them into the bag. I retrieved my coat and pulled it over my body, quickly buttoning the front.

I pulled the bag’s strap over my shoulder, shifting my weight for balance, and walked past his body, thinking to myself this was it.

“I had come to do what I needed to do. Now it’s time for this to end.”

The snow had grown thick and started to cling to the cobblestones. The gust died down and left air that reeked of sulfur, liquor, kerosene, and the dead.

 I walked out into the center of the alley, facing the road, my only exit out.  I did an about-face, watching the white flakes drift to the ground, putting a thin layer on parts of the body the kerosene had not touched. It was almost magical in a way, how he looked. It reminded me of van Gogh for some strange reason. I couldn’t pinpoint why. Van Gogh died last year from shooting himself.

I reached into my inner coat pocket, I brought out my matchbox, never taking my eyes off the body. I opened the box and pinched the wood end of a match between my forefinger and thumb. It came out easily, and I closed the matchbox with a snap. I ran the match over the rough strip on the bottom of the box. A flame erupted and burned at its end.

I watched the flame giving myself time to change my mind, but I knew it was far too late for that.

I tossed the match onto the open cadaver, and it burst into flames. The fire flowed, running down his left side, then across his chest, coming back on the other side. Bright oranges and yellows uncovered the hidden brick walls to all sides of me. The flames grew hot, and the flesh sizzled and popped. The smell of charred meat filled my nose. The wind howled as it blew across my shoulders. Shadows danced around the alley as though to cheer on my deceitful deed.

Black rolls of smoke drifted in swirls against the white flakes falling. A line from Titus once again came to me. Like an animatronic setup to repeat what it’s told I spoke the words.

“Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.”

And I left.

Chapter 9—A Dark Alley

I ran through the tunnel, up the stairs, and retrieved my letter bag. It was large and hefty, perfect. I hurried back into the cellar where I placed the lantern on a nearby shelf and raised the bag, then tried to secure it to a barrel with its strap, but it was too short. I placed the bag on the ground, ran my hands around the inner lining and created an opening. I then dug into the barrel, my fingers driving into the sand and pulling out potatoes and tossing them onto the ground. When each spud dropped, it made a light thud against the earth. When the barrel was clear of the roots, I scooped out sand with my hands and dropped it into the bag. The sand sifted through my fingers with each palmful of granules as I continued to fill the bottom of the bag with nearly an inch of sand.

“That should do it.”

My hands shook as I carried the weighted bag upstairs and dropped it next to the front door. I rushed into my sitting room, the lantern parting the dark as I made my way to the bourbon table. I grabbed a new bottle of bourbon, pulled its top, and took a swig. Holding the bottle in view, stretching my arm out like Hamlet had with Yorick’s skull. “Death is but the taste of your nectar on the tip of my tongue.” I put the bottle to my lips and kissed it.

I corked the bourbon and took it with me into the kitchen. The lantern’s light dimmed the oil low. Shadows crept closer around me. I knelt next to the bag and placed the bourbon inside, then I gathered a small container of kerosene. It was rusted metal wrapped around a glass jar, with a rusted lid and spout on top. I found a matchbox and a stubbed candle and put those into my pocket. The other items went into the letter bag as I carefully placed them in the sand. I opened my cabinet, drew out a sharp knife, and put it into my coat pocket. I thought to put it in the bag, but under the circumstances it might be better to have it on my person, somewhere accessible. I double checked my effects inside the bag.

“Forgetting something?”

“I am.”

Taking the lantern and bag, I went out the front door, the only door to the house. The original builder hadn’t thought a separate door was needed. I’m not sure I agreed. A backdoor would have been a nice addition, and it would make it easier to bring in wood for the fireplace, or coal for the stove.

I hurried to the rear of the house. Next to the woodpile was my ax.

“There you are.” I approached slowly and picked it up carefully as if it were a skittish animal, then I checked my surroundings, glancing left and right before gently putting it inside the bag.

“Hurry.”

“Yes, of course. Before dawn comes to New Cross.”

I kept a steady double-time, looking back at my home until it blended into the shadows. The cold nipped at my cheeks. It was piercing on the lungs with each breath I took. My mind was sharp, focused on a singular task I needed to carry out. Though even as my brain was on point, my heart raced like a steed let out of its gate.

I looked into the sky, no stars—which meant there was cloud cover. Snow would be bad. Tracks are is so much easier to follow with snow.

When I was twelve, I’d followed a blood trail in the snow. I first stumbled upon the blood my heart picked up, seeing how large it was, nearly fist-sized. It trickled off to the right of me going into the woods, away from the house. I crept along, looking down at the trail, my steps light, as I made my way slowly to the edge of the woods. I thought it was a small animal, maybe a rabbit or a bird that had been taken by a fox. My feet resisted my decision to follow the trail, to see where it went, but I forced them to go. As I was walking I heard a shot, and my body ran cold, my heart nearly stopped. I was both excited and scared, wondering if the trail of blood would take me to the sound. I ran, following the trail, taking leaps, bounding over stumps, and pushing past low hanging branches that scrapped against my coat. When I came back around, in a semi-circle, I broke out of the wood line to see my father standing with his shotgun smoldering at the end. I stopped, looking to him, and seeing him nod his head toward something on the ground to his left. Next to him was a blood feathered mess, a half-eaten hen, and next to it a fox, shot in the gut, its tongue hanging from its mouth, and its eyes wide open. It was dead.

My thoughts turned from my past to the present. Shuffling along I spotted someone. I slowed to a walk.

I squinted to make out the person. They were on the sidewalk, standing near a lamppost. I kept to the shadows between the hues of light emitted by the gas lamps and watched. The man had stopped at the corner and looked around as if he was trying to decide what direction to go. Go that way. I was hoping he’d turn left or right and walk away from me, but instead, his head slowly came forward, and he began to stumble weaving back and forth, a drunk man coming toward me.

Back, and forth, side to side he walked. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to duck away even for a brief moment. He was looking up, wavering along on unsteady legs, his shoulders swaying side to side. There was nothing I could do. I tried to think of an explanation.

“I’m delivering an emergency package,” I muttered and shook my head. “No, that’s not right.” It might sound better if I said I had an important delivery which couldn’t wait.

He was getting closer.

My thoughts were becoming jumbled, my jaw twitched, and my eyes grew wider. “Calm down,” I told myself. I tried to listen to my own advice, yet my hands were shaking. I gripped the strap of my bag, giving my hand something else to do. Seemingly I’d given my hand too much to do, and I’d pulled the bag high, exposing the ax inside.  I could feel it poking higher into my rib.

I imagined how our interaction might go. He would see the ax and my hand on it. I would remove my hand to show him I meant no harm. He then would pull his gun and shoot. I would be dead. He would have a story.

I promptly adjusted the bag, leveling it and removing my hand from the ax.

He was nearly on me, was looking directly at me.

I lowered my head as if I were trying to protect myself from the chill in the air. I heard him humming a tune as we got closer. We were within a few feet when he stumbled, recovered, and I was just about to pass him when he awkwardly bumped into me. Then he lost his footing and started to fall where I caught him.

“I am not drunk, officer.”

 His breath reeked of garlic. Lots and lots of garlic. He was obviously drunk, but the garlic smelled like he’d eaten a patch of it straight from the garden.

I pushed him off, his legs crossed each other, got tangled, and he fell. He lay there in a stupor, sleeping actually.

The man had fallen asleep that quickly? I snapped my fingers to get his attention. “He’s asleep.” I rested my hands at my sides.

He was older than I, maybe in his late fifties. His hat was pulled tight over his head, a bit too far for the sort of hat he wore—his was a derby like many, but he’d anchored it low to where it touched his earlobes. The poor man stirred, and his eyes opened, then widened.

My words rushed out before I could stop them. “You didn’t see me.” It was the wrong thing to say in this sort of situation. I stepped away, head down, eyes forward, never looking back.

“What was that?” I chastised myself. “You didn’t see me?” I was talking with my hands as if I were an orchestrator guiding his musicians. “What an idiotic thing to say. Maybe it was the bourbon,” I said under my breath.

I continued my walk, but not too quickly nor too slowly. I didn’t want to alarm anyone who might be watching out their window. They should see just a man taking a stroll, and no other question should enter their minds.

The surrounding structures felt as if they had eyes and were watching my every step. A mix of apartments and stores—millinery supplies, clothing shops, and dry goods. Building owners living in the top levels, business owners living in the second level, apartments with residents of the city. The buildings butted up against each other, making a wall of brick and mortar and smooth sandstone. I could see the light in some windows, others were dark, and it was those I worried about most—who might be standing in the shadows? I looked across the street to the buildings lining the road and to the buildings next to me. Like two great walls, a divide. If only I were a Hun trying to scale the Great Wall of China, it might be a better place than where I was at this very moment.

I’d quicken my pace, and time passed. Before I knew it, I was near the alley.

Only a block to go. I could see a sign for Old Kentucky Whiskey and cigars. I was getting close to Fifth and Vine where the Harken resided. Where I’d been just hours earlier. The place I’d gone to get away from my troubles, but I found more.

The alley emerged like the ninth circle of hell off to my right. I quickly rounded the corner of the building, ducking out of the open and entering the alley. I kept to one side, slowed my pace, searching for him. There he was. I could make out his shape lying on the cold stone, near the end of the alley.

I breathed deep, letting my chest expand before releasing the air from my lungs, then took a few steps, keeping to the side gradually picking up my pace. I stepped firmly, quickly, moving along the edge of the building. My eyes strained as I made my approach. I reached into my pocket, found the candle and matchbox and brought those out.

A few more steps and I stopped. I pulled the strap off my shoulder and around my head, placing the bag on the ground.

I opened the matchbox, searching with my fingers until I found one. The match was between my fingers, and I felt for the side with the coated tip. Once I found it, I struck the match against the rough brick exterior of the building. There were a few sparks, but it didn’t light. A second strike—sparks flew, and a flame appeared. I transferred the fire to the candle and flicked the match onto the ground. It landed near him – illuminating his lifeless eyes momentarily before flickering out.

I held the candle high, getting a better view of the body across from me.

He lay there in a pool of blood, facing toward the sky. My God. My hands shook, and I found myself looking over my shoulder, down the alley toward the end. It was a feeling I didn’t like, looking over my shoulder like I was on the run, an outlaw. He wasn’t the first man I killed. I was in the Army dealing with several conflicts, and as a miner, I was forced to defend my own life. But I never felt like a criminal.

I took slow steps toward the man’s body. The flame of the candle wavered and nearly went out, so I cupped my free hand around the yellow fire, and it steadied itself. I felt the heat from it and noticed just how much colder it was out here.

When I was just outside the pool of blood, I lowered my bag to the ground. I was a foot away from him, and the light from the candle shone against his cheeks.

I heard a sound like footsteps.

No, it was nothing, just my mind playing tricks. I reminded myself that this had to be done, but as I tried to encourage my thoughts to stay on task, my mind raced on about what might happen if someone came along. It wasn’t too late, I could turn back. I could go to the police and handle whatever came after.

They won’t believe you. They won’t believe it was self-defense. You’re not even sure if it was self-defense.

I could see the police arresting me. My short trial with Miss Newberry pointing with angry tears, guilty, and the hangman placing the noose around my neck.

No, this was what had to be done; this was what I had to do. There was no turning back—not now, not ever.

Chapter 8—The Invited

He slowly lowered himself on his knees, his coattails fanned around him, covering the stone underneath. His eyes were shut, his mouth open as he muttered unintelligible words. He appeared as a man who was at the altar, asking God for forgiveness.

What was he doing?

I gripped the knife’s handle, holding it waist high.

Be ready.

Stacey lay on the ground, unconscious but breathing, her body rising and falling with each shallow breath.

“What are you doing?” He was either playing a game, or he was biding his time.

I gripped the handle of the blade tighter. I could end this. I could slice in an arc and cut his throat.

His eyes opened, and they were soft, almost kind. “Invite me.”

There was nothing for me to say to him. He was mad. I could see it.

I moved closer to Stacey, giving him space to run if he wanted. I wouldn’t stop him. When I got beside her, I felt a tingling in my feet, rising into my legs and then my chest.

The unnamed man stood, brushed off his coat and the front of his pants. He directed his gaze upon Stacey and me.

“Leave.” I held the knife out in front of me. “Go.”

Invite me. There it is was again – that voice.

I kept my body between him and Stacey.

He moved closer.

“Stop right there.”

He took another step, paused, and then said, “If you help me, I’ll leave.”

“You’ll leave.”

“Yes, I’ll leave.”

I couldn’t trust him, but if all I had to do was help him, why not? A madman is a madman.

“All right. Make me believe you.”

“Is it so hard to entertain such a request?” He smiled.

I held the knife closer to my waist, lowering it as my arm grew tired from holding it higher. “No, it’s not hard. Just crazy. Why don’t you just go? That way you have a head start.”

“Headstart?”

“Yes, a head start. Once I get Miss Newberry to safety, I will alert the police.” I didn’t want him hanging around. He probably knew where Stacey lived, and if he were on the loose, she’d still be in danger.

“Ah, I see. You think that will stop me?”

“I can stop you now.” I raised the knife to my midsection. I was getting the sense he wasn’t going to leave.

“You can try.” He took another step forward.

“Don’t come any closer.” I thrust the knife out in front. “Leave if you value your life.”

“I’m waiting.”

Invite me. Was the voice coming from him?

I gritted my teeth. All right, you crazed fool. I invite you. Satisfied? I shifted my feet into a boxer’s stance.

I felt woozy as if I’d drank myself into a stupor and was recovering the next morning.

I heard Stacey groan and glanced at her.

I heard movement, but not from her, from him.

Thank you. I heard the voice once more.

I turned back. He was lunging at me.

I was quick to bring the knife high in front of me.

I sliced outward.

His eyes went wide like blue tides set against a full moon.

The thin edge slid across his throat. I heard a pop and air escaping from his lungs.

But something was wrong, sort of like there was a piece of my memory missing, because I had expected him to fall to the ground, or maybe he’d run into me as he grasped for his life, but that’s not what happened.

He was kneeling as before as if he’d never moved. I was slicing his throat. I recoiled, dropped the knife. I watched as he fell over onto the ground, blood spilling from his neck and pooling under him.

“What did you do?” I heard Miss Newberry’s voice. It was hoarse, raspy, yet somehow accusatory, and her throat was probably throbbing from the way the man had nearly crushed her windpipe.

I stared at the man on the ground and looked at the blood on my hand. I glanced over to Stacey. She was standing. Her hair had come undone from when he grabbed her by it.

“I killed him.” It felt strange to say that aloud, for another to hear, and it somehow made it more real. I gripped the knife’s handle, and the muscles in my arms grew taut. I turned to her. “You should know better,” I said it without thought, care, or empathy.

She was clutching at her throat, trying to speak. Tears spilled from her eyes. “Who are you”—she struggled with her words, swallowing, then regaining her composure—“who are you to judge?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at the bloody knife in my hand.

I lowered my head, but only for a moment. I shot back at her, “This is your fault. If you’d lived a proper life, this would have never happened. Did you think of that?” I heard the words, but they didn’t feel like mine.

She turned away from me and sobbed behind her hair, which had fallen onto her shoulders. I wanted to reach out, to say I was sorry, but a voice inside me said,
She’s nothing but a harlot. I don’t know why I thought it or where it came from, it was just there.

She turned toward me revealing her brown eyes. I realized she was terrified, not of the man who’d almost killed her, not at how she let herself get in this situation. She was terrified of me.

“Get away from me,” she uttered, still clutching her neck, her voice still raspy.

I fumbled in my mind and found nothing I could say. My head felt odd, my legs wobbly, and inside there was a hollow feeling climbing up from my stomach, and into my chest. The hole I felt inside sucked all my ability to think. I couldn’t stop it. My thoughts were spinning like a hard wind snatching up leaves into a funnel. I looked at Miss Newberry, my mouth clamped shut for I couldn’t speak, and if I could, it would fall out onto the ground like shattered glass.

I turned away from her and ran. When I got to the street, and around the corner, I kept running.

A series of photos played in my mind, but not black and white. Color. The images shooting at me—the man choking Miss Newberry, the knife that came out of his sleeve, the blade coming dangerously close, then the man’s slit throat with blood bubbling out of it like a spring from out a hill after a morning rain.

I didn’t even know the man I’d killed. I’d never gotten his name.

I caught myself holding my breath and let it out. The cold air shot back into my lungs. I felt a nervous tension spread over my body. I slowed myself to s stop, sucking in gulps of air. I bent forward, hands braced against my knees.

“What did you do?”

I was wondering about Miss Newberry. The way she looked at me and how she’d addressed me with her questioning tone.” What did you do? “How she recoiled at the sight of me.” What did you do? “She thought I’d taken it too far. It was in her eyes, how they were wide with fright as if I were about to use that knife on her.” What was she thinking? “Surely she didn’t believe I’d murdered a man.” Is that what she thought? “He was the one who provoked the confrontation.” It wasn’t my fault. “If I hadn’t shown, she’d be dead.”

I walked along Fifth, staying my course until Broadway, then heading north. It would take a while to get home, forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, maybe more. It depended on how I traveled. Getting into a carriage was too risky after what had happened. I was sure I had blood on my coat. It was on my hands—I could feel it drying, stiffening. If someone were to come upon me, I’d need to shove my hands into my pockets and stay in the shadows until they were gone, or I’d have to go in a different direction.

I could see the frosted air shooting from my mouth as I moved from one dark space to another under the yellow-hued lamps. I searched the street far ahead to see if anyone was coming. I would stop and listen, checking for a carriage on the road. With each step, I was worried about who might be just ahead or where I might need to duck to get out of sight. I didn’t like this, this feeling, how it invaded me. The anxious feeling of being found out.

And what about when I got home? The police might show up. If they came for me, I’d explain what happened, but what if they thought I was hiding something? That might go against me. They might ask why I never came to them, never reported the incident.

I stopped next to a lamppost and addressed it. “Should I notify the police?” I waited, not for it to answer but for my own conscience to speak. Nothing came. “You’re not helpful.” I dropped my shoulders, letting the tension out. “No, I don’t like that idea. I think involving the authorities would be a mistake I’d regret.” I stepped away from the post and continued down the walkway. Past closed doors, past windows with drawn curtains, leaning into a blast of cold air.

“What about Miss Newberry? She might go to the authorities and tell them what happened.” The streets were empty. “The problem is I don’t know what she would say. Maybe she’ll tell them she witnessed two men fighting and one of them killed the other.” I walk with a snap, my pace quicker than normal and I was getting farther away from the downtown district and into the residential areas. I walked past apartments, separated by a few feet of earth with small iron fences around the front lawns. “No, her story wouldn’t hold. There were too many people who’d seen her with that gentleman at the Harken. They probably saw me too. She won’t tell anyone anything. Though when they find him, they will check who was with him last.”

The time had slipped by, quick as a thief out the back door. The hour was late, but I had finally arrived home.

I closed the door behind me and ran the lock several times, unlocking, and locking just to be sure. I felt around for the lantern and matchbox, then lit the lantern. I held out my left hand, examining it under the light. My skin had a red tint to it. I examined my other hand. It too had a red tint to it and long reddish-brown streaks. I turned about and brought the lantern close to the knob, but there wasn’t any blood on it.

I turned back around, put my back against the door, and slid to the floor. I had to get my bearings. I breathed deep and let it out. I gazed upon the wood floor, not thinking of anything, just letting my mind drift.

“This is not good.” I shook my head. “What now, Luc? What now?” I pushed off the ground and got back to my feet. “I need to get cleaned up, that’s what.”

I strode through the foyer and into the kitchen. I put the lantern on the counter, it burned low. I breathed out slowly and directed my voice toward the lantern. “You worthless piece of garbage, guzzling all the fuel you can find, making me broke. If I didn’t need you, I’d throw you into the river and let you rust out, never to be of use to anyone again.” I snapped my fingers, then lowered my head. “Costing me a fortune, faulty, worthless junk.”

I groped in the dark, felt the glass, found the base, but I avoided singeing my fingers on the hot metal. “Stupid, it’s not even been on.”

Along the counter I slowly ran my fingers, feeling the smooth surface, then finding a few rough patches. I found the kerosene oil and thought to myself. “Throw you into the river?” I shook my head at my crass nature that had seemed to overcome me. It was the incident no doubt, what had transpired that night, and all of it seemed an instant. An instant in life, but a lifetime in the mind.

“Shut up Luc.” I smiled to myself. “It’s not all terrible is it?”

The tips of my fingers touched the cool outer skin of the kerosene can. The stout fumes entered the air after I opened it. I poured oil into the lamp. “Guzzling, guzzling, burn, burn, burn.” The container gulped the liquid, burping air. I capped the reservoir, sat the lamp on the counter, took out a match from my pocket, and struck it against the back of the matchbox. I lit the wick, then placed the glass globe over the flame.

“Burn, burn, burn.”

I leaned forward and threw up into the sink. The bile in my gutshot up into my throat, washing over my tongue, leaving a burning sensation. I coughed a few times, welling up snot and mucus, and spitting it out. The bitter after taste of bourbon sat in my mouth. I thrusted forward, reaching frantically for the handpump, groping, banging my knuckles against the hard metal. I took hold the handle, and pumped several times, spitting the entire time. The water spilled out, splashing, and draining. I moved quickly getting my head lower and closer, opening my mouth and letting the water flow into it. I gulped, and spat, gulped more, and spat again. I coughed, the water passing down the wrong pipe as I desperately worked to get rid of the taste in my mouth. After several more uncontrollable coughs, gulps, and full mouth flushes I felt better, the bitter taste gone.

I lifted myself and held my hands under the cool water, watching as the blood eroded and exposed my skin. Red-tinged swirls ran into the drain.

“There’s no going back. I’d walked away, left that man’s corpse to freeze overnight, left it for some poor soul to discover it when the day breaks.” The water ran to a trickle.

“It wasn’t my doing.” I gave the handle a few more pumps. The water poured over my hands.

“Are you sure?”

“He was the one who asked for it.”

“Did he deserve what you did?”

“He deserved what he got.”

I splashed water onto my face.

“He tried to kill Miss Newberry, then he came at me.”

I rubbed my hands together, getting the blood off.

“Or did he?”

Even as my thoughts tried to capture the moment, they were never complete, like still pictures misarranged. Like the moment I saw the two them together, and then how she paid the bartender, also how he was playful, provoking, and then the alley. The images were there, but they didn’t play in my head the way they should. They came in different stills—when I first saw them they weren’t together, she was alone, then he came into the picture. I had to force myself to recall the moments. Also, when he lunged at me—he was kneeling, then he wasn’t, then he was. I tried to find the misplaced image, the one that had fallen out of the whole arrangement. But it wasn’t there.

“Was he kneeling before he lunged? You can lunge from your knees, right?”

“Could have.”

“I don’t remember.” I let out a gasp, and ran my fingers over the front of my face, pulling them across it.

“You worry too much.”

“Shut up?” I could feel my face crinkle.

“Worry too much? No. I’m thinking it over.”

“He planned it,” I said to the pump. “Didn’t he?” I didn’t expect it to answer.

“He expected me to follow them. He wanted to see how I would react to his torment of Miss Newberry.” I looked around for a towel, found it, and dried my hands. “How was he able to lure Miss Newberry out of the Harken and into the cold? Into the dark of night? Or into an alley?” I placed the towel on the counter. “Was it his smooth words, his cobalt eyes, his charming smile?”

“He made it look easy. Her laughing, putting her hand on his arm and letting it glide down to his fingers.”

“I’m losing my mind.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Shut up, will you. It didn’t happen that way.”

“It was before you came.”

 “No, what happened was she allowed him to massage her shoulders, out in public of all places, as though it were nothing.” I banged my hand against the countertop. “She would have gone with him anywhere.”

I turned and leaned against the counter, crossing my arms. I looked directly at the stove. “What a careless woman. She didn’t see it coming. He pitched her, got her ready, willing to give herself over to him, and all he wanted was to snuff her out.”

“What a pity.”

“A shame really.”

I stalked toward the stove, putting my hands on the top and turning about. “That she would allow herself to be so heedless.”

“Yes.”

I threw my hands out wide and brought them inward. “Now she’s safe.”

“Safe to fleece another man.”

I walked away from the stove to my small eating table, pulled out a chair, and sat. “Oh, an ole chap that she’s going to lie with.” I slapped the table. “And why do I care?”

I stood, pushed the chair into place.

“Some more bourbon might help.”

“It would.”

“Finally, we’re in agreement.”

With a sense of purpose my feet propelled me to the counter, then grabbing the lantern, I went into the sitting area, poured myself a glass, and sat in my chair.

 “Would she say anything?” My words directed toward the bourbon. “She knew me. Now, what should I do?” I drank.

“Maybe write her a letter?”

I set the glass on the table, got up, retrieved a pen and paper kept in a drawer of the bourbon table. Once back in my chair, pen in hand putting the ink to paper my thoughts struggled. “This is bothersome. How should I put this?”

Dear Miss Stacey,

I apologize for my behavior, for not ensuring your safe passage home, for leaving you when you needed me most…

I dropped the pen, staring at my words, knowing full well that what I had thought and what I had written were completely different. I blinked several times. Even rubbed my eyes before I read the words aloud.

“Dear Miss Stacey.” I paused, took a short breath, and continued. “You were out of line. Never have I seen a lady such as yourself be fooled into debauchery, out in the middle of the night in the cold and in a dark alley. If you would have just opened your eyes instead of your…” I stopped myself there.

 “I’ve had too much to drink.”

“But bourbon tastes so good.”

I reached over to the table. “I’m doing it again.” I pushed the bourbon as far away as I could never taking my eyes off of the letter.

I was trying to comprehend why I’d written what I had. I didn’t know where it was coming from, but it was there.  My fingers dug into the paper, crumpling it, then I started with a fresh page.

“It’s not the bourbon.”

I reached over, grabbed the bourbon, and took another sip.

This is so strange.

Pen in hand, I put it against a fresh sheet of paper.

Dear Miss Newberry,

I am sorry for what happened. Please, if you will spare some of your time, I’d like to speak with you. We can have a cup of coffee.

“That’s better. What was I thinking?” I read the words again to be certain I’d written down what I was thinking. I had.

Holding the glass out in front of me, I examined the dark liquid. “See, not the bourbon.”

My mind lingered, as an eagle on a breeze, having strange thoughts and misplaced moments. Drifting off into nowhere, but then my focus returned, and I was thinking about why this all happened? What caused it all? And then a thought popped into my head like a voice put it there.

“The cellar,” I said to myself.

“The cellar.” I stood. “The cellar? What does the cellar have to do with this? I must be tired or drunk.”

“Or both.”

I stopped myself. “I’m doing it again.” Holding the bourbon to my nose, I sniffed. “The bourbon is fine.”

“Take a drink to be sure.”

I did.

There was a nagging feeling inside that said something was wrong—whether about the cellar or the bourbon I didn’t know. It was that gnawing feeling I’d get when I knew Mom told me to do something and I ignored it. And if I ignored it for too long, she’d be as mad as an oiled cat.

“Balderdash.” I grabbed hold the lantern, crossed the sitting room, strolled down the hall, made a right, and went to the cellar door.

“Go on.”

“All right.”

I opened the door with caution, holding the lantern high to reveal the stairwell. I stepped down the stairs. The air was dry, earthy.

When I got to the bottom, I could see the brick wall, how old it appeared. I scanned the wall from the right, looking at the dark spots that formed in some places, where the mortar had darkened. I stepped down onto the soil and kept moving toward the wall, getting closer to the center. Sweeping unhurriedly to my left, I came upon the center and stopped. It was here – I remembered.

“Good.”

“What’s behind this wall?”

“Let’s find out.”

My pickax was leaning against the wall. I put the lantern on the ground and wrapped my fingers around the handle of the pickax. I swung into the brick wall hard, and it stung my hands. “I know that draft is coming from somewhere.” I heaved the pickax back and swung again. It smashed into the wall, sending chips of brick and mortar to the floor. The force jarred my hands.

“Damn.” I let go the pickaxe, placing it against the wall and rubbing my stung hands together. After a few moments, I armed myself with the pickaxe once more.

Aiming this time for the mortar between the brick. The metal tooth knocked a chunk of gray stone out. “I’m getting closer.”

“You are.”

I swung again, increasing the gap of mortar with each swing. The next swing knocked two bricks back and out.

A draft passed over my shoulder.

Sweat rolled off my forehead, and I wiped it away with my sleeve. I went back to work, hitting the wall like a miner who’d found the tip of a gold vein.

The bricks fell much easier now, and each time I swung, the hole got bigger and bigger until it was wide enough for my shoulders to fit. I dropped the pickax and stood in front of the hole, then stepped over the wall and squeezed through the opening.

I was on the other side, in the dark. The air was colder – like I was standing in an icebox. I could see only a few feet to what looked to be another chamber.

Reaching through the hole back into the cellar I grabbed hold of the lantern and pickax and carefully brought them through the wall.

The light revealed a tunnel. The shaft reminded me of an old maintenance tunnel used for the sewers of the houses that were stacked side by side to each other. Someone built this.

I slowed my pace, my heart catching in my throat, anxious as to what might lay ahead.

I gripped the pickax and brought the lamp above my shoulder. Along the path, I made my way until I came to an opening on the left. I thrust the lantern out and peered into the chamber.

There was nothing there. I went inside, found a spot and sat on the ground, tired I guess, drunk probably, and put my back against the cool earth.

I sniffed the air. “The moisture isn’t as bad as I thought.” I was concerned earlier when I’d felt the draft. If water were getting into my cellar it would ruin any foods I stored there. I touched the ground. “The dirt is dry.” I glanced around the chamber. “What am I doing in here?”

“The better question is what are you hiding?”

I stopped myself again. It wasn’t unusual for me to speak to objects, but I rarely spoke to myself. I shook my head trying to clear my mind and think.

Searching the chamber, I tried to think of what to do. The room looked to be about twelve feet in length, another twelve in width, and the ceiling, if I reached high enough, I could touch it. “I could extend the cellar, but what for? This isn’t of any use to me; besides I wasn’t any good at keeping stored goods. I might as well wall that hole back up.” I tapped my finger. “Someone built this place.” I was purposely trying to keep my mind off what happened in the alley, but it wasn’t working. My thoughts were drawn away from this secret place back to the man’s dead body.

I peered at the chamber, looking it over, and an idea formed in my mind. “I can cover my tracks.” I looked around the room, measuring its age. “No one’s been in here for a very long time.”

“No one in a very long time.”

“This could be of use.”

“Yes, it could.”

“Cover my tracks.”

“This will work, a good hiding place.”

Chapter 7—As If in a Trance

The music changed, a man on the piano began playing a sweet melody. The audience’s voices lowered as well as the lights. A sense of calm came over the place. A man with a young lady walked onto a small dance floor in front of the stage. He used one hand to grasp her hand while using the other to take her waist. They stood straight for the briefest of moments, then glided across the floor, creating semicircles and circles. She wore a fine dress and he a dark suit—both were common enough in their appearance, though the style of dancing was not the sort you might find in the Harken. Most of the dancing was with the men, hooting and stomping their boots on the wood floor. It was quite a sight and the sound near deafening. Plumes of smoke would hover overhead while the men continued to be merry until the song ended. Ladies would at times join in the fun, passing through the crowd from one man to the next, as if she were moving through a maze. The crowd’s energy would rise, and rise with the successive beats until everyone finished a great hurrah at the end. It was interesting how the atmosphere would change – one moment it’s high, the next almost sedate, but at that moment it felt peaceful.

I glanced over at Miss Newberry and her friend. They were getting up. She reached into her reticule and paid the barkeep. I thought it odd, her unnamed companion taking advantage of her good graces. I lowered my gaze, looking into the mirror and watching as they crossed behind me. Her friend stopped. He directed his gaze into the mirror, looking straight at me. He held that little grin and then shook his head. In that moment of exchange, his narrowed stare was like that of a friendly person, yet that smile reminded me of a man out west. He had that same look before he proceeded to kick a dog where I knocked the man’s teeth inward to make him stop.

I watched Miss Newberry’s friend until he was out of view, his back to me, headed to the door. I gulped what was left of my drink and stood for a moment.

The barkeep came to me. He said something.

I didn’t hear him, not right off, for I was thinking about where they were going. I turned my head slowly remembering what he said. “Another drink? No.”

The barkeep moved on, taking a rag and wiping down the countertop. I watched him from the corner of my vision as he carried on, thinking to myself. There was something not right about that man with Miss Newberry. It wasn’t anything I could explain, rather a feeling, but not the kind when you’re about to get into a fist fight or fall off the walkway trying to avoid a gaggle of boys running in your direction. No, this was not a feeling but more an understanding, if I could call it that.

Intuition.

They were getting farther away. I eased out of my seat, careful not to draw attention to myself. I weaved through the tables and chairs, trying not to run into anyone for it was a little more crowded. I delayed my approach to the front door, then peered out through the glass window. I didn’t linger long. There was no one out front. I pushed the door open and stepped out onto the walkway.

I searched to my left, looking west down Fifth. A single person was walking away, silhouetted in the lamplight. I looked east over my shoulder, and in the distance, nearly a block away, I could see them. The man with his square shoulders and Miss Newberry wearing a bustled dress.

Why east? They were headed away from Miss Newberry’s home. I began to follow. They were moving quicker than I thought. I double-timed it, staying light on my feet, making sure they couldn’t hear me.

Their silhouettes grew darker between the lamps. There was talk about going electric in the city, to make the streets brighter but that would be a few years from now.

The couple turned the corner. I went from my double-stepping to a more leisurely stroll. I didn’t want to be met with any surprises. I was maybe thirty yards from the pair when they slipped into an alley.

I knew that alley; it led to nowhere. It was closed off on the other side to merge two buildings together. Mr. Owens had a hardware store on Sixth. The shop had seen fast growth. All three floors had been used. He purchased the building next to him, but there was an alley that separated the two, so Mr. Owen called in a favor to his brother-in-law, Mike Mooney, who worked at the Department of Transportation. His friend’s department needed to deem the alley unnecessary, and only one entry was required for any rear access to the buildings. He got the alley entrance to Sixth shut down, slid some money to Building and Code, and merged his two buildings.

I crept along between the looming buildings on both sides of me. Open store windows, lights turned out for the night, alone lamp at the top of some of the buildings where people lived. My feet padded quietly against the stone ground as I approached the alley. There I stood by the corner, my hands gripped the brick building as I peered around the edge. I could see them, near the end of the alley, by the back wall in the shadows.

I shimmed against the wall and got closer. It was difficult to make out what they were doing, but I didn’t want them to know I was there. I took my time, eased in closer, then when I was nearly a third of the way down the alley, I could see them.

He had her pressed against the wall. They were kissing. I felt like a pervert. Prying into Miss Newberry’s affairs, stalking her as if I were interested in a peep show. I pulled my coat around my neck, blocking a cold, sharp wind and my face, then made my way back to the opening of the alley. I didn’t need to be here.

I had gone only a few steps when I heard a muffled cry. I spun to my right and adhered to the wall, in the shadows. I eased away and moved down the side of the wall, walking like a large cat stalking its prey.

I was halfway in the alley when I stopped. I wasn’t sure what was happening or if I should intervene, but I didn’t want to leave, pervert or not. I wanted to ensure Miss Newberry was safe.

He had her pinned against the wall, but they were no longer kissing. He had his hand on her throat. She was squirming, kicking. “You will be my trophy, set out for the world to see. Your burnt body with its severed  limbs left in this alley.”

Disgusting I thought, his words, what he would do to her. It sounded familiar, but I was unable to think about it further.

I darted toward them, then slowed my pace. I was about fifty feet from them when he snapped his head toward me.

“Let her go,” I said closing the gap.

He released Miss Newberry. She gasped for air, and before she could get away, he had her pinned by the shoulders, her back against the brick wall.

Then in a sharp voice, she said, “Stop.”

I skidded across the stones, coming to a complete halt, my mind sorting through possible reasons for her telling me to stop.

That smirk of his as he watched me with those cold eyes. He reached over and took Stacey by the arm, brought her close to him. “Come here,” he said, his voice calm, cool.

“Don’t,” she pleaded.

Something was wrong. He must be armed. I stepped closer, watching his hands. “Let her go!”

Those playful eyes, that smile. He let out a laugh and grabbed hold of Stacey’s throat, shoved her against the wall.

My stomach pitched and rocked.

I closed my fists, getting myself ready. I moved toward him, never flinching, never taking my gaze off him. When I was about eight feet from him, he jerked his hand from her throat and let Miss Newberry go. She collapsed to the ground, kneeling at his feet, sucking in air.

“Don’t.” She gasped. “Don’t…”

I brought myself to a halt. Something struck me as odd. The way he was beckoning me to come join them, the way he taunted me as they left the Harken, the way he looked at me when he had Miss Newberry pinned to the wall. He’d been expecting me, he’d known I would follow, and now I felt as if I’d made a mistake. I’d done exactly what he wanted, and Stacey was warning me.

“Such a curious fellow, aren’t you?” he said with an inviting smile.

I looked on, feeling helpless, Stacey there on the ground, desperately trying to regain her strength. She attempted to rise to her feet, but then he snatched her by her hair. She let out a small yelp.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To watch?” He directed that question to me.

Stacey was limp like a wild rabbit caught in a wolf’s jaws.

While I wanted to scream for him to let her go, I knew I had to change my strategy. Get him off-balance. Be more direct, cocksure like him. “Is that what little boys do to get a lady’s attention?”

“Little boy?” His mouth turned upward at the corners. He reached down, taking hold of Miss Newberry’s arm, still holding her hair. He jerked her to her feet. She let out a cry, and I thought to go to her, but he was waiting for me.

His smile dimmed, and he grabbed her again by the throat.

I almost went for him, but I stopped myself. He was using his tactics again, changing things on me, making me react. I had to be calm.

I watched, thinking of how to engage. Meanwhile, her face turned red.

“Stop!” I shouted.

His grin returned, and the pit in my stomach grew.

I scanned his body to see where he’d hidden his weapon. He was turned at an angle, his right side to me. My best chance was to try to deflect a right-handed attack, then move to his left. I would get behind him. That maneuver would reduce my risk of getting shot or sliced open. Because if that happened, I’d be no good to Miss Newberry. I’d be no good to anyone.

Her face turned a shade of purple, and her eyelids fluttered as the sound of her remaining air escaped from her lungs.

My stomach twisted into a ball. I wanted to go to her. I wanted to stop him from hurting her.

His eyes grew wide, his grin wider.

He wasn’t going to let go. He was going to let me watch. He was going to kill her.

The best fighters are often counterpunchers. They wait, time the attack, then make their move on the overly aggressive opponent. He wanted me to attack him.

I had to wait and watch, bear the image of Miss Newberry under his control. Think, Luc, think. I screamed at myself, knowing I had to do something, knowing I couldn’t stand there and watch Stacey, it’s alright if I call her Stacey? I feel like when you go from delivering a person’s mail to attempting to save their life you can call someone by their first name, right? Anyway, I couldn’t stand there and watch Stacey die.

I scanned the alley for anything to use as a weapon. My gaze swept the road, left to right, the wall. Nothing. Wait, Luc, wait. The time will come.

I could see he was calculating my move. He was thinking of the situation, the possible outcomes. I was doing the same, waiting, watching.

I have it.

When she went limp, she’d fall, and his hold would break. He’d be forced to release her, and that was when I would attack, but not before.

Wait.

She stopped moving.

Patience.

His arm was weighted down by her body, pulling him with her.

Now!

I lunged at the man and parried a blade that shot out of his sleeve and into his right hand. I spun around to his left and grabbed his arm, the one connected to the hand that was still choking the life out of Miss Newberry. I broke his grasp.

“Now I have you,” I said, my voice cold.

He came about, turning into me, his blade coming toward my midsection.

I jumped out of his range, letting go of his left arm, which was a mistake. I should have kept hold, kept control, but now he was loose.

He slashed his blade toward my face. I dodged, but it nearly cut my cheek. The blade came at me again, and I blocked his arm, and then he caught me across my jaw with a left cross. The jolt weakened my knees, and I stumbled to the ground, kneeling at his feet.

He held the blade to my throat. His thin body was in front of me. I looked up at those fixed blue eyes. His eyes squinted then flashed to Miss Newberry who stirred, and I thought for a moment I might be able to get his knife. His gaze came back to me.

“She’s a filthy one, you know,” he said.

My thoughts ran wild like mustangs. A flood of images passed through my mind, old memories, my mother sitting at the dinner table, my brother plowing the field, my father’s bloodied face from robbers. Then there was heat as if my head were catching fire, and sweat rolled off my temples.

Help him. I heard a voice in my head. What was that? I shook off the thought, and said through clenched teeth, “If only you were a real man.”

I thought he might slice my throat, and why not? He had me, but he didn’t own me.

“A sharp tongue against a sharp blade,” the man said.

He was right. I was wasting my breath.

Help him. I heard a voice again in my head. I couldn’t ignore that a second time, maybe there was a reason I heard it?

“Let her go, and I’ll help you.” I’d repeated what the voice said. For whatever reason it said it, I don’t know, but maybe it would work.

 “That’s intriguing, not exactly what I wanted to hear.” He pressed the edge of the blade into my skin. I felt it sting. “A proper beginning for us.”

“No,” I said in surprise. He was going to slice me open.

 “It’s often what we don’t know about ourselves that gets us into trouble.” The man purred as he pressed the blade deeper into my neck.

I could feel the sharp bite of the blade break the skin.

Help him. I heard the voice but forced it out. Stop listening to voices and think Luc, think.

He had no intention of letting her go, nor me.

I found myself looking at his long coat, his boots, his face, over to Miss Newberry as the sting in my neck intensified.

The sound of hooves against stone echoed into the alley, coming our direction.

I could yell, but it would be my end. Though it might save Miss Newberry.

The clopping grew louder. Sweat rolled off my temple. Short bursts of breath misted from my mouth.

I forced myself to focus on him.

He was looking toward the street, then to me and back again.

I could fight, get control of the knife.

The carriage passed by the entry to the alley and clopped along. His gaze went toward the street. He was listening, measuring if the carriage had stopped or continued. The sounds of the hooves diminished until they were gone. I had my chance. I went for the blade.

He tried to cut my throat, but I adjusted by grabbing his hand with both of mine. I pressed his arm away.

He tried to move out of striking distance, but I had his arm wedged under mine. I turned him about, using both of my hands to work the knife free. He was strong, but I was able to control his hand.

I heard that voice again, and again, and again. It droned on, taking over my thoughts to a point it felt relentless.

I bent his arm straight to weaken his hold, and the blade fell from his hand. The metal dinged against the stone alley. Then the voices stopped, and it was as if every sound around me had faded to nothing—a lingering silence.

I stood there, forgetting what I was doing, bewildered. My legs went out, and my back hit the stone, knocking the wind out of me.

The man was on top of me. His hand sealed my mouth and nose.

My air grew thin.

I shifted to one side, then to the other, trying to shake him.

He brought the blade into my sight, and I snatched his arm, controlling it with my left hand, my fingers wrapped around his wrist. I struggled a moment, planted my right foot, then with a push of my pelvis I created enough space between us. He lost his balance, and with a heave, I managed to roll him over.

I was on top of him. I used both hands, taking a barrage of punches from his left while I again pried the blade from his grasp. I got the blade, tumbled off his chest to my right, and came to my feet, spinning away from him.

Chapter 6—Miss Newberry

I had only met Miss Newberry once. It was late spring. I’d brought her a package, a heavy package. The package had to be signed for, which meant the value was higher than fifty dollars. Usually, packages worth more than fifty dollars went to a general store or a shop, not to a resident’s home. But here I was delivering this package. It was probably from one of her admirers.

It was winter, and I came late in the evening, past seven o’clock, after the sun retired. I wanted to be certain she was home.

She answered the door, her dress casual in nature, plain, but not a working dress. More the kinda lady might wear for a dinner party with friends.

The package was too heavy for her to carry, and she asked me to bring it inside. Her place was not ordinary; actually, it was different than most homes I’d entered. Hers had decorated halls, the sitting room had several pieces of beautiful artwork, a painting of a Tuscan village, an autumn day in the hills, several sculptures the length of my arm, and then there was the sofa and couch. They were made of fine fabric, the inlaid wood polished to a high finish.

After I was done with the package, she offered me a drink. I wanted to share Miss Newberry’s company, and I knew I was not a man of means who could attract her, but I accepted anyway. After our drink, I promptly left.

Tonight though, here in the Harken at the bar, I felt more alive and prepared to say whatever I wanted to Miss Newberry. Encouraged, I suspected, by the bourbon I’d consumed earlier. After all, she did have a drink with me in her home, so why not have one with me now? I wouldn’t mind, and it would give me a chance to find out the name of her acquaintance.

I carefully edged out of my chair and strolled along the wooden pathway. People were having a grand time, drinking, smoking, enjoying the loud music. I went directly to Miss Newberry, ignoring her friend, and stood in front of them.

“Miss Newberry, it’s so wonderful to see you.?” I gave a slight bow.

She angled her head to one side and studied me a moment. The man sat upright, leaned his head back, his eyelids lowered, his chin stuck out. His finer clothes told me he didn’t work with his hands. Maybe he was a desk clerk or a manager of one of the hotels downtown. I would know more once I found his name.

 “Yes, Mr.…,” she said.

“Mr. Stockhelm.” I nodded knowing she remembered me from our drink.

“Ah, Mr. Stockhelm. Please refresh my memory,” she said.

“You don’t recall me?”

I could see her searching.

“I’m your mailman.”

I watched as the recognition finally dawned on her, and I lost hope she was play acting. She turned to her friend. “Darling, this is my mailman. Mr…”

As she conveniently forgot, I reluctantly offered my name again. “Mr. Stockhelm.”

I turned to him.

“How do you do, Mr….?”

The man straightened, sitting more upright, then said, do you know that several ancient cultures believe that your name is the most powerful thing you have?”

He caught me off guard, “I did not.”

“Yes, yes. In Scotland, you never tell a baby’s name until they are Christened to prevent anyone from putting any dark magic on them.”

“Is that true.”

“Oh, yes.”

“And you don’t want to tell me your name because….?”

“Well, sir, to be frank, I just don’t know you. You are probably a fine fellow being an official government courier, but a man just can’t be too careful.”

I stood there a moment deliberately keeping my mouth closed as I pondered what the gentleman was implying.

The man leaned forward and put one foot on the floor. “Why don’t you fairy on and be a good sport about it.”

I put my glass down and turned to Miss Newberry. I was slightly annoyed she didn’t remember me.

“You invited me to have a drink.”

She nodded and with an elegant motion scooped her drink in hand and sipped, then put it back on the counter. “Yes, that one time you made my life difficult. That’s good manners dear.” She rolled her head. “Do you mind?” she said to her friend, who brought his hands up and began to massage her shoulders. “You have such strong hands.”

The unnamed man gave me a cat’s grin.

“You do remember me.”

“I do remember, and since you did bring that heavy package inside for me,” she said through a smile, “I felt obligated to offer you a drink.”

Despite knowing she offered the drink out of politeness, I felt a sting when she mentioned the formality.

She took another sip of her drink and placed it on the counter. The music made it difficult to hear her, and so I moved in closer.

“You were supposed to deliver that package the day before, but it didn’t arrive in time.”

 “I brought it as soon as I could.”

“It came late,” she said and sipped her drink with graceful movements, “at a late hour.”

“I wanted to make sure you were home.”

“I had to put off two nights waiting on that package.”

I remained silent.

She looked toward her companion. “He doesn’t understand.”

“Government officials rarely do.” He leaned forward. “Poor fellow is lost. Maybe he should run off like a good little boy,” he said.

“He should.” Her gaze moved from me to her companion.

Her friend waved the bartender over. He nudged Miss Newberry, who took out a few coins and passed them to the man who then slid them over to the bartender. “Can you tell this gentleman that we’d like to drink in peace?”

I loosened my fingers to get the blood back into them and tried to relax. I wanted them to see I wasn’t going to cause any problems. Not because of a beating I might get from the bouncers, or the beating I’d give that stranger. I could get to him before the bartender had his goons pounce. It wasn’t that at all. None of that really mattered to me. It was a matter of the bartender being paid for their peace, and I became concerned about what Miss Newberry might do. I didn’t want her to report me to the postmaster.

She might not be able to report that I was late on a delivery, but she could report me for character and being out of line in public. That would likely end my career. It wasn’t worth the risk.

I held up my hands in surrender. The two seemed content, but before I left them alone, I pried once more. “What’s your name?” I said to the man, who merely glanced over to the bartender, who gave me a stern look.

Knowing I wasn’t going to get the man’s name, I moved away from Miss Newberry and her companion. The bartender watched me as I walked to the far end of the bar where there was an empty seat. I sat, shoulders high, my head cocked, and drank from my glass. I wanted to know the name of Miss Newberry’s acquaintance.

The barkeep was satisfied and went back to his chores. I, however, was not satisfied.

Chapter 5—A Beaconing Gaze

I opened the door of the Harken and went inside. My nose crinkled from old cooked chicken, roasted potatoes, and tobacco smoke. People sat at tables in pairs, in threes, and more at the shorter roundtables. The volume of the combined conversation sounded similar to that of a hornet’s nest. The place reminded me of the saloons out West, where the tables, the chairs, and the building appeared to be constructed from grayed, waterlogged wood. In both places, the bar was the only piece which gleamed—the waxed wood finish, the mirror behind it, and the bottles of gold, brown, and clear liquor.

I maneuvered between the tables, brushing against chair backs and finding my way to the bar. I found an empty seat and the bartender promptly showed up. I ordered a bourbon, pointed to the bottles on the top shelf, then laid two bits and a dime on the counter. He took a bottle from the upper shelf and poured me a glass. I measured four fingers to be sure he didn’t swindle me and gave him a nod. He flicked his fingers off the bottom of his chin and off he went to take care of other customers.

I sipped the drink, taking in the flavors, trying to forget, yet my mind continued to show me Thomas Fickle’s unjustified reprimands.

I spun around in my chair, looked out over the drifts of pipe and cigar smoke. A lady came onto the stage, but it seemed the piano player was wringing out his hands as if he’d been in a fight. I know—I do that after a boxing match. It helps to keep the swelling down. I wondered what poor fellow had taken the beating and if it was over that delicious thick-legged lady with her reddish tinted hair and tight red corset. I would fight for her company. I chuckled to myself.

I glanced around, seeing who might be of interest to strike up a conversation with. Something, anything to get my mind off my reprimand. I peered to my right, and there was a man sitting there—long hair, looked like he’d not washed in weeks. His gaze was in his bottle, and when he took a drink, he reared his head back and took a big swig, then promptly slapped the bottle on the counter. Perhaps not the best conversational partner, but still…

“How are you?” I said.

He slowly turned his head in my direction. He glanced me over, then went back to staring at his bottle.

“Don’t mind me. I was talking to the bottle.” I half expected the man to chuckle or even look at me, but he didn’t. “You two look quite happy together.” The corners of my mouth turned down slightly.

I shifted to the man on my left who was smoking a pipe and drinking what looked to be rotgut, the bottom-shelf stuff people who only drink to get drunk would buy. He knocked back his glass down in two gulps. His arm shook, and his head wobbled when he set the glass back on the counter and asked for another. He was inebriated, close to the point of unconsciousness if he kept going. I thought I’d have better luck striking up a conversation with my stool.

I watched as the bartender poured the fellow a new drink. The man took the glass, his hand, arm, and part of his body shaking. He brought the brown piss to his lips, and in two gulps it was gone. The bartender hadn’t even bothered to leave, waiting, anticipating his customer—he was ready to fill the glass as soon as the man’s shaky arm was able to place his glass back on the counter.

Finding company wasn’t turning out to be what I’d hoped, but then when the drunk threw is head back again I saw a lady at the corner of the bar.

She was alone, sitting, an empty seat next to her. She struck me as regal the way her chin tilted up, her focus directed toward the stage, her arm in a just-so position at her side. Her posture was erect and her body exquisitely lean and firm. Most men would not attempt an approach, but I was not most men.

I got up, headed toward the lady, passed the long-haired man who’d finished taking a swig of his drink, weaved between a group of mill workers in gray overalls and steel-blue caps. I was practicing my conversation starter – what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this? No, that one doesn’t work. Did you come from up north? No, that one was a bit lame. She might be from the south, or from out west, or maybe she’d come over on a boat.

As I got closer to the lady, another man came into view and sat down next to her.

 Idiot.

I stood there feeling foolish, having believed she was alone. She then turned her face from the stage to greet her companion, and I realized that I recognized her.

I went to retreat back to my stool, but it was taken. I was stuck, trying to find a place to hide. Thank God for a line of mill workers, on the other side of the long-haired fellow, stood to leave. Headed home to their wives, or to be alone.

I moved the seat closest to me. The woman was from my route. She and her companion were four seats away.

Him I didn’t know. He was clean-shaven, fair hair, and was leaning toward her, talking. His suit jacket was finely made and stitched. A sleek design. He looked he’d be more comfortable at the Holly.

Stacey Newberry was her name, and she was attractive. She had dark hair, a sort of giddy laugh each time the man spoke quietly in her ear.

While she continued to stifle her laugh, looking out into the crowd, her companion looked over at me. His eyes lingered, and I held his stare, then turned away and drank my bourbon, just a sip. It was how he looked at me as if to say sarcastically “why not come over and join us” or maybe it was more like “why don’t you piss off.” Either case, it didn’t make me feel welcomed.

I was nursing my bourbon, trying to keep to myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the gentleman was facing me. I kept my eyes forward wondering what he wanted.  I avoided the temptation to look over, taking a drink this time instead of sipping on the brown wildfire.

It was getting to me that urge building inside like an itch you need to scratch. Though as much as I tried to not look, I couldn’t help myself.

I tilted my head, slowly turned, trying to go unnoticed until my gaze fell on them directly. There he was, touching her arm, running his finger over the edge of her shoulder, down to her silken clothes. What’s she doing with him…?

Then his mouth stretched from ear to ear, and he held an indecipherable grin.

I was about to look away when he made a gesture—the kind men do when they’re with an attractive lady and trying to show her off to his friends when she’s not looking.

 I wasn’t his friend.

The strange man was holding his hand up and bringing it down like a salesman does when he’s trying to get you to buy a new suit.

Stacey’s gaze was focused on the stage as three women came out and music queued for the next performance.

I held my bourbon close and whispered. “What do you think? Is he an ass or something else?” I took a drink but didn’t find any answers.

“What was he doing?” I said under my breath.

I didn’t know, and I didn’t like it either. I thought he was a bit brash with his company, acting more like a youngster rather than a gentleman with a lady like her. I knew the sort of woman Miss Newberry was in her private life, but still, when in public with a lady, regardless of how she lives her life, one should maintain a gentleman’s attitude.

I continued to eye them, holding my focus on him, thinking maybe he was just playful. That I had overthought his intentions. That he had a boy’s sort of glee that came out when he was with a beautiful woman. It was that, or he’d had too much to drink. I couldn’t tell either way, even if I were close enough to smell his breath. I’d lost my sense to detect alcohol when I started to drink today. It was like that, how the nose disables its ability to detect a smell once it’s become used to it. Much like garlic after eating a large plate of pasta with sauce heavily laden with the pungent root.

I knew Miss Newberry, but we weren’t friends. But why was she here of all places? We were on the corner of Fifth and Vine, which was filled with taverns and saloons. The post office was off Fourth and Vine, one of the reasons why I came to this place. Easy to get to after work. Miss Newberry lived at least sixteen blocks from here if you went down fourth, then took Park over to Sixth, veered to the left, took a side street to Caviler, and headed north past Saint Joseph but before Clinton.

Sorry, the habit of a postman.

She was on the edge of my route, and of all places to choose off Vine, she chose to be in the Harken when there so many nicer places between here and there.

I took a drink.

My glass in hand, I spoke in a low voice. “I’m wary about going over. It would be rash, but then again it could be a bit of fun.” I glanced over at them.

Their attention was on the showgirls dancing on the stage, the music at a high pitch as the piano player doubled the tempo. There were a few people who were on the small dance floor.

I’d never seen Miss Newberry’s companion before; I had no idea who he was. If I knew where he lived, that might be helpful. I knew a lot of people, maybe not by their face, but I did know them by what they received. I knew their names, their addresses, their friends, their families, what they celebrated, what religion they associated with and what political party they aligned with. I knew which ones were in trouble with their bills, which were doing well for themselves while others struggled. I knew birthdays if someone sent money in a card by the weight of it and the slight bulge. I knew who drank too much from the number of liquor bottles in their trash can. I knew which ones owned dogs, cats, or birds. I even knew who was sleeping with whom. Yes, I knew. I’d seen men slipping out of the side windows—one window comes to mind. Mrs. Fielding’s house. I’d seen a red vase appear on the front porch when she was alone. When the husband came back in town, no more vase. So, if I knew where Miss Newberry’s friend lived, and he’s on my route, then I’d know what kind of person he was.

The man at the corner of the bar stood out like a rose in a bed of daisies. “Maybe if I could find out his name, I might know his address,” I said a bit too loudly.

The fellow next to me shifted in his chair and moved two seats over to a vacant stool.

I ignored the man and continued my friendly conversation with my glass. “I’d know all about who he is, what he does, and where he lives. I think the chances are good. I have a large route, and it’s possible he is on it. Maybe he lives near Miss Newberry. Maybe they go to the same church together.” I chuckled to myself, thinking of this as more of a game than anything. “What do you think?” I put the glass to my ear.

I nodded, put the glass down. “Yes, that’s right. All I needed was his name.”

Chapter 4—Bourbon Please

Decker sat there like a carved sculpture.

“Well?” I said, my voice calm like water on a windless day.

“Not entirely. As I stated before, I did come into your home, and I did leave my pipe.” He patted the outer fabric of his coat where the pipe was hidden away. “And that’s all there is to it, Mr. Stockhelm.”

“Luc.”

He stood. “I think you’ve spent too much time reading cheap novels rather than trying to understand why I’m here in your sitting room.”

I drank the rest of my bourbon, lowered my hand, my head tilted forward. “And why did you come?”

My gaze filtered upward toward Mr. Decker, his face stoic, his eyes fixed, and his jaw clenched nearly as tight as my own. “I guess I’ll rely on my knowledge of cheap novels?” I put my glass down.

He remained quiet, which was best. It was best because I might have thrown the old man out depending on what his words were.

He stood.

I watched as he walked across the front room, slowly rising out of my chair I followed him to the front door. He opened it, went out, and never said a word.

He went down the stairs, and towards his home.

I shut the door, then went to the kitchen and splashed cool water on my face.

I needed to get away for a few hours. Something to take my mind off my nosy neighbor, the inexplicable draft in my cellar, and this recent slight from Postmaster Thomas Fickle.

My final reprimand?

I’d only received three—my first was for being a day late delivering a package to Miss Lowery, a package she’d been waiting on for her daughter’s wedding. I had been on my feet for twelve hours, and the package was in my bag at the bottom. I was exhausted to the point I could hardly keep my eyes open.

I did make the delivery the next day after I had realized my mistake, but it was too late. I didn’t know what was inside the package, only that Mr. Lowery greeted me with his fists. I am terribly sorry to say he lost the fight, and I got my first official reprimand. Only a postmaster like Thomas Fickle would side with an upset lady over a package and her manic husband’s flying fists. Only an idiot would look past the fact that I had defended myself and nothing more. So what if Mr. Lowery had a blackened eye and a busted lip and a broken finger. The finger wasn’t my fault. He was throwing his jabs, and I smacked them away, then he came in again, and I moved out of his way. His left jab collided with the doorjamb, breaking his ring finger. I shouldn’t be held responsible for a man hitting a doorframe when it was clearly his own doing.

“Did it matter?” I said to no one while I went upstairs, changed, and came back downstairs.

My overcoat hung by the front door. I grabbed it and threw it on before heading out, shutting and locking the door. Old Man Winter was upon us. Gas lamps burned on each street corner. I walked like a man who’d missed his carriage ride to work, in a bit of a hurry to get to a local tavern called the Holly. All the while thinking about the letter, and what Thomas Fickle had said about my final reprimand. It either did or did not matter, but I felt the former rather than the latter.

“Yes, it does matter,” I said again to no one.

The second time I received a reprimand from Postmaster Thomas Fickle was about a letter with money. It’s a terrible idea to send money in the mail, and everyone knows it. I’d brought the letter to Mr. Hind’s house like any other day. The wife of Mr. Hind met me at the door when I arrived, waiting like a patient mother for her child from school. I’d given the envelope to her.

The next day when I delivered the mail, Mr. Hind ranted on about how I’d taken his letter and his money. I’d done no such thing. I explained to him I’d given the letter to his wife. He, in turn, said she never got a letter. Then he cursed me. I told him I wasn’t responsible if his wife takes things. He went on cursing me, but I wasn’t going to deal with his behavior. I left.

I received my second official reprimand.

The air was cold this night.

I moved in quick steps past patrons strolling the sidewalks, men in dark suits, knee-high boots, wearing short overcoats and derbies. Men moving in groups as if they were the heirs of the city, some on their own like outcast wolves. Women in pairs, moving the way a peacock might head up in bustled dress, wearing wide-brimmed hats adorned with white, black, or blue feathers. Some were headed the same direction as I, going into town, their gait livelier, while others went in the opposite direction, probably home, their body hunched forward, their demeanor that of a person headed to the morgue.

I’d gone a quarter mile when I arrived at my destination. The Holly was an upscale establishment where you could get a drink and have something to eat. The people were cordial, though stiff in mannerism.

Several men in dark suits with their lady friends approached from behind, the girls all prim and proper while the men walked stern and upright.

My gaze fell on the people who were now upon me, all dressed in fine clothes—newer, the color did not fade like my own, still dark and crisp. The men were slightly older than I by a few years was my guess, the ladies younger.

I grew conscience of my appearance and looked down—my pants were clean but worn, not shabby but obviously old. My coat was in similar condition.

I opened the door for them. The man in front thanked me while they poured inside one after the other.

One of the ladies moved away from me slightly, making sure not to touch me, while the remaining men filed into the place. The group angled around to the left, making their way to a table held by another man.

The lady who was sure not to touch me glanced over, then whispered into the ears of her friends who giggled. I felt the heat rush to my face.

The Holly was the wrong place tonight.

The Harken would do better, I could get more drinks for fewer coins. A carriage ride to get to the Harken would be less than a half hour, but I thought it a more appropriate place for a man who wanted to sulk a little.

I let the door shut, and turned to find a carriage nearby.

The Holly was closer to home, but I never quite fit in with the crowd. The people were well-to-do, and they came from well-to-do families. I didn’t mind them but trying to have a conversation proved to be difficult. Often the conversation would include a military experience. After a few moments, we’d realize there was no connection between the officer and enlisted. They were accustomed to a different way of life whereas I was not, and that was the veil that fell between us.

Frosty air emitted from my mouth, and I pulled my coat in tighter. I went to the curb and waited for a carriage, thinking about my final reprimand.

What sort of postmaster did Thomas Fickle think he was?

I’d been out sick, but I’d managed to get George Jackson, a new recruit to the postal office, to run my route. Sure, we had backups, call-ins, men who were part-time when we needed them. I figured why not give George a go first with my route, get a little more than just training, let him deliver. I talked to the supervisor, Charlie Welch, and he didn’t like it at first. Then I explained to him that was the way we learned it, and we turned out all right. No one was there to teach us. We were given a bag and told where to go, and off we went. If we messed up, we fixed it. Easy. After several minutes discussing, with Charlie nodding his head, smiling, then shaking his head, I told him if the new kid messed up, I’d fix it. Charlie agreed.

I took my time, told George where to go, when to go, and about how long it would take him to complete my route. He nodded each time as if he understood me, but he clearly hadn’t for he delivered those letters to the wrong streets, the wrong buildings, the wrong people. What an idiot.

Those letters, by the way, never made it back to the post office. Of course, a few were taken to the addressee by the recipient because not everyone’s an ass.

It wasn’t my fault those folks never got their letters, and as for George, nothing happened to him. He was related to the postmaster. So much for trying to get on the good side of Thomas Fickle.  He put George on a new route and never gave it a second thought.

What kind of postmaster allows someone to screw up so badly and still lets them deliver the mail? I think the real question is what does someone have to do to get fired from the post office? I might have gotten a “final reprimand,” but I didn’t believe Thomas Fickle had it in him to fire me.

I raised my arm, and a carriage angled to the curb, and I climbed up and sat next to the driver. “How are you doing?”

The driver was silent.

“Where are you from?”

The driver ignored my attempt at small talk and drove on without question.

“Just the sort of fellow I like—little talk, more action.”

The driver gave me a sidelong look.

The Harken was a place where the unsavory of the city ventured, and if you wanted to gamble, you could find a game. If you wanted a woman, you could find her there, all you had to do was ask. If you wanted a drink, there was plenty. A thimble of cocaine also could be found, even heroin if you were the sort to take it. I liked bourbon, and there was a river of it at the Harken.

The carriage pulled to the curb.

“Thanks for the lively conversation.” I paid the driver, and he drove off fast.

I walked with a slight bounce in my step like I heard music no one else could hear.

The streets seemed darker, but that’s not what made me nervous. One could not be too cautious of the brokers hovering about near the alleyways. They like to leech off the people going to or coming from the bars and saloons. These were the men who nibbled at the table but never were invited for a full course, taking the scraps. They lingered near the alleys—it made for a quick escape from the business owners, organized gangs, or the police.

I took notice of a man, his head low, his shoulders high. He approached, trying to be open but still guarded about our soon-to-be interaction. He held out his hand for me to shake, but I never shook a broker’s hand.

“You should get that looked after.” I was talking to his hand. There was nothing wrong with it, I just wanted it to go away. The hand kept coming toward me. “Tell him I am not interested,” I said again to the hand, hoping the man himself would hear me. And he did, but he kept coming at me.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop.

“Are you two together?” I glanced at his hand, then back at him. “You need to tell him to let me go.”

He regarded me.

My mind was telling me not to engage, not to physically pommel this man, but my gut was telling a different story. “It is never enough, is it? You want one thing, which you know is not good for you, but you still want it regardless.” I was still talking to his hand. I had a few choices here. I could get into a confrontation, or I could talk my way out of this without any issues. Sometimes we have too many choices.

“I got it.” He said pulling me in close. “I got what you need.” He went on. “Cocaine, women. What do you want?”

“Well, all of those sound intriguing.” I returned my gaze to his hand. “But I must decline. Now tell your friend to let me go.”

I could only imagine the fellow was wide-eyed, probably wondering what I was doing talking to his hand instead of him. I didn’t feel inclined to explain.

Moments passed, and he still had hold of my arm. I grew impatient and turned my focus to him. “Let go.”

His grip tightened.

My jaw tensed.

“I told your friend to tell you to let me go. Now, that’s not hard to understand is it?” I gritted my teeth.

He grinned, and his grip grew even tighter. Now I knew. “You’re in it together, aren’t you?”

I could see his brow lower, his eyes darting side to side as he tried to figure me out.

He did his best to conjure the much-needed mental capacity to understand what was happening. I shifted to one side, took hold of his arm, and bent it low and to my right. I could see in his beady eyes that he figured out what was happening and he didn’t like it. I twisted hard, and he went down, tumbled over, and then lay on the ground looking up at me.

“Why’d you do that?”

“You are in collusion with your hand.” I gripped his arm tight. “I should break you apart, so this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.”

“No, don’t. Please, sir.”

“Ah, it’s sir now, is it?”

I thought to punch him in that mouth of his, but instead, I released his arm and walked away like a lion who’d come out for a stroll over his vast kingdom. I never even looked back, not giving the man the satisfaction that I might be worried.

I was concerned though. He probably had a friend or two lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce, though likely hesitant, more so because how I was strutting about as if I owned the city. Besides, I didn’t want to have to fight my way to the Harken. It was only twenty yards away. It did have its appeal; don’t misunderstand me, I like a good fight.

I’d take those brokers on, one at a time, if I could get them lined up. If not, no worries. I’d move more, create space, and disable the first man, then the next, and the next. It sounded alluring actually, the thought of evacuating the hostility building within me. I could imagine each one of them being Thomas Fickle, and I was knocking his teeth in, busting his jaw, cracking his left rib with a right uppercut. It was a thought. I didn’t need more trouble, not that the law would be involved, just trouble getting out of the Harken. These types tended to come back in force, and wait you out. It’s smarter to give them a spanking instead of a beating. Besides I wasn’t looking for what was out here—I was interested in what was inside the Harken: company, a few drinks, laughs, and then I’d head home.