Chapter 16—To Be Crucified

The air was thick with an earthy smell. It infiltrated into our nose, into our lungs. We coughed it out. We’d never make it to our house.

His chant was too strong, his words backed by conviction, unrelenting in their pursuit to banish us.

“You, not me.”

“But we are one.”

“And we need to stop.”

“We need to get to the chamber.”

The knife is what you want.

To cut his tendons at the ankles and bring him down to us. Old man with his cross – should have killed him when we had the chance, but you wouldn’t allow us.

We dragged ourselves over the dirt, gripping the side of the opening to the chamber, pulling us into the dark room. We scratched and squirmed, pushing and pulling our body farther into the room. Once inside, near the far-left wall, our hands swept over the dirt floor as I pushed myself along.

Decker’s chanting echoed, calling out to strike us down—a string of words, each one sharpened to a fine edge, cutting into our existence, damning me for what I am.

We were getting closer, nearer to Alarbus’s remains. Decker hovered just outside the chamber.

The old man was no fool, though if we could break his hold, we would make him a fool. He wouldn’t die, no. We would do better than that—Decker would wear a cap, sewn to his scalp, his ears cut from his head, his tongue from his mouth. His hands I would stitch together, each of his fingers, making him invalid. His feet I would keep intact so he might dance for me as a fool does to amuse his master.

I felt my hand grope, and grope, pushing at the dirt, dragging it then groping again, searching for the bag. I finally felt the strap, pulled it to me, heaving the bag and what remained of Alarbus to my side. I ran my hand inside. My fingertips wrapped around a cold limb, and out it came, tossed to the side. I found another body part and tossed it to the side.

My hand brushed across something cold and biting, a sharp edge, cutting the skin just enough for me to feel the sting. We pulled back, nursing my cut for a brief moment, then thrusting my hand back inside. We took the blade out, gripped the knife by its hilt, and waited in the dark.

He needs to come closer.

Why?

He needs to come closer if he is to beat me.

And when he does?

I will cut at his heel, and bring him down.

The light from Decker’s lantern pierced the darkness, exposing me. I saw him at the door, holding the lamp, his talisman out in front. The light grew brighter, and brighter it seemed to the point I had to raise my hand to block its shine. It was then I saw her, a woman, in the doorway dressed in white. She was sleek, elegant, her chin sharp and thrust upward as if she were of nobility. She came to Decker’s side, but he took no notice.

The light got brighter, and brighter, expanding out from her, encompassing her body, saturating it before it overtook me.

There was a tug, at my belly, at the navel. It dragged me across the ground, swept me up, and sucked us into the light where we were propelled by great speed.

The light expanded. We were moving, caught up in the light, traveling to where I had no knowledge. I lashed out at the light, tried to close my eyes, push it from my mind, but it was of no use.

After what seemed several minutes of movement, of being completely enveloped by white light, it collapsed on itself leaving darkness in its wake and a sweet, pungent zing in my nose similar to the scent before rain begins.

I could feel my hands pressed together. My face felt as if on fire, my body heavy as though weighted down. My back was against a stone wall, the cold leaching the warmth from me.

I ran a hand over my arm in the dark and felt cold iron clasped around my wrist. I went to move my arm, and I heard the clink of chains. My arm could go no farther. I jerked the restraints several times, causing loud rattling of metal. After a few moments, I gave up, wondering what was happening to me. I touched the chain. It ran from my wrist to the wall. My shoulders sank low. I dropped my hands to my side, and the chains clinked once again.

I felt stings on my arm and ran my finger across it. There were cuts, nearly one every two to three inches apart. I could feel blood seeping from them. I threw up my hands, rattling the chains once more – and trying to recall what had happened. Searching for the reason of my current state I tried to figure out how long I’d been here, and how I got here.

A faint light appeared above, allowing me to see. I searched for its source, from where the light had come. Was it a candle? A lantern? Squinting to make out its shape, I thought it was the latter. Though I was glad to have it. I could see my cuts more easily, and the bruising of my arms, and legs. I still didn’t know how I got them. Nothing came to mind. Did Decker beat me? Did he take the knife we had, and cut me? I gave pause for the thought came to me – were they from Decker’s words?

Perhaps.

I heard the voice again. When one hears a voice, which is not their own it often gives rise to the pulse and quickens the blood. And when one senses something nearby, not just a voice, something physical, present. It throws you back to a time when you were young, and that whatever was there in the dark, was better left in the dark.

I heard a low snort. My heart leaped, skipping a few beats. I  slowly turned my head toward a large mass lying on the ground three feet from me.

What is that thing? A dog? I scooted away, as far as I could, a mere six inches before the chains gripped me still, keeping me from escaping the hideous thing that lay beside me. I noticed more chains on my ankles, but they did not go to the wall—they ran across the cold stone floor and connected to the creature, chaining us together as if we were convicts on a work farm.

I saw its chest rise and fall, its large back flexing with rippling muscle. That’s not a dog. It’s too large, and though it resembled a dog, its head was shaped differently, flatter, no snout, no large ears flopping on the sides or perked with alertness.

Then the mass of muscle moved, this time pulling slightly on the chains connected to my ankles—clink clink clank—causing me to inch closer, but I grabbed them and held the chains fast. After several minutes my arms began to shake, the weight pulling downward to a point I released the chains, letting them go slack against the ground—clink clink clank.

When the thing moved again, the chains were drawn toward it.

—clink clink clank—

I also was drawn toward it. I tried to scramble, making a racket with the chains

—clink clink clink clank—

causing the thing to suddenly sit up, turn its head to me, and look at me with those black onyx eyes.

“What are you?” My voice cracked, and I tried to move away from it but couldn’t. The chains rattled

—clink clink clink—

as they held me in place.

The creature drew closer, pointing its finger in my direction. I froze, wondering what to do.

I felt my brow grow tight, and my face drew down my mouth opening. “Help!” I screamed. “Help me! Anybody!”

I tried again to move, yet the chains sang out their song of restraint—clink clink clank.

The creature inched closer. It smelled sweet and musty. It ran its hand through my hair staring into my eyes as if trying to communicate, and then I heard a voice. It was low at first, but then it was as clear as any voice one might hear.

When the pain comes, it will only last a moment.  The voice was inviting, sincere, even welcoming.

I heard the words, but they weren’t mine, they were from it.

You must do what I tell you when it comes. The voice came through, this time it reminded me of how a father might speak to his son when discussing a very important topic, or event that is to come.

 When it comes? I wondered what it meant, feared what it meant. When it comes? What is coming? What’s not here already?

It smelled my hair, sniffing me as if it were an animal.

Do not move when it starts. Wait as long as you can bear, then wait longer. Do not speak. Pay no mind to the light. It will be very painful. When the pain grows to a level you feel you are being ripped apart, you come back. When you come back, I will be here to help you, and we shall continue. You must endure.

It turned its head toward the light that came from above. The creature stood. I recoiled at its massive, nearly seven feet tall stature. I shimmied against the wall as much as I could, keeping away from it. The creature put its hand around the lamp’s glass, lifted it, exposed the flame within, and blew it out.

Dark fell upon us.

You must exit out into the dark, not the light.

Chapter 15—A Red Glow

At first, I was amazed at how red the pipe turned, but I didn’t feel any heat. I was looking at it closer, trying to identify where the light was coming from.

“Decker?”

The burning continued, I heard thousands of voices descend into my mind, drowning out every thought, every emotion except one. I could hear the words, but I couldn’t make them out, but I understood what they were telling me.

Drop it.

I dropped the pipe and stared at it, watching the red glow dissipate. The voices were all gone. I was in a fog, my mind clouded, my thoughts jumbled as I struggled to understand what had just happened.

Decker stepped closer, like a military man who was in formation being called on by his commander for duty.

Of course, Decker had to be in the War between the States. I should have known that.

He used quick yet controlled movement of the lantern to bring it within inches of my hand. His hand traveled precisely in a practiced manner into his pocket where it rested. His eyes flashed wide.

“What have you done with Mr. Stockhelm?”

I narrowed my gaze, wondering what the old crazy fool was talking about. He already knew about Alarbus. Before I had time to wonder much more something else took control of me.

 He knows. The voice said.

I felt as though I was removed, placed far away as though I’d become the spectator instead of the actor.

“An obvious trick, old man. Using a pipe packed with sulfurs, shavings of iron and copper.” I heard my voice, but it was not my own. It was deeper and raspier. The words flowed from my mouth as if an actor on stage, though I was unaware of the script. I heard the words coming from my mouth, but they weren’t mine.

 “You should consider leaving.” The old man’s body was stiff, his hand deep in his pocket still, the other thrust the lantern the direction I should go.

My focus was directed to Decker, zeroing in on his eyes, making sure he knew we were not about to leave. “Or what?”

Decker stepped closer.

“You must fight Mr. Stockhelm.”

“I can’t,” I said, or I tried to. I could feel my mouth going up and down, but nothing came out. Like a nightmare scream.  

I could see my neighbor’s composure, strong, ready, yet reserved. He understood. Then he stopped peering into my eyes, and I knew he was about to address what had control of me.

Decker spoke aloud in what I thought was Latin.

I felt a sudden pressure in my chest, and I clutched the spot with my hand. My hand reached out and smacked the old man across the face.

Decker recoiled.

I was now pushing, driving him against the tunnel wall. My body held him in place.

Decker was strong, but not strong enough to stop my hands from wrapping around his neck. My hands squeezed while I labored to stop my fingers from crushing Decker’s windpipe.

Stop it. I heard its voice, dark, and thick. It carried a menacing tone within it and nearly shattered my will upon hearing. It sent me away, far away, but I was still able to see, able to hear, just not able to do anything. It felt I had been pushed to the back of the theatre, away from the exit.

I could feel my hands tighten once again. I rushed toward the view of Decker outside my body, where I met an invisible shield. It kept me at a shorter distance than before, but I was now able to see my hands working to collapse the old man’s windpipe. Decker began to croak, like a frog who’d lost its voice, his face reddened while his eyes widened. “That’s right. You’re dying. You’re dying, and you can’t stop me.”

It was in that moment I notice decker bringing his arms up high, the lantern’s light blinded me temporarily before I saw his arms come down hard onto my forearms. My hold broke, I felt a hard push where I stumbled backward, the wall caught me.

I was relieved.

“You idiot.” I heard that voice.

Latin words rolled from Decker’s tongue.

I fell, hitting the ground with my knees, rolled to my side and hit the ground with my shoulder. My breath grew short, and I wildly wondered what was happening to me.

Decker stood over me and continued to chant. He pulled something from his pocket. I couldn’t make it out, the image was a small dark blur dangled from a thin rope. I forced my hand to reach out to the object only for my other hand to swat it away. I focused more, and the thing in his hand came into view. It was a cross.

The pain quickened in my chest and I had the sudden urge to defecate. I reached toward him again.

Spit flew from his mouth as he chanted in a loud, boisterous voice.

“Stop or we’ll devour your soul.” The voice reverberated in the theater in my head.

My heart pounded against my chest. We crawled along, pulling with my arms for my legs had grown limp. I could feel him walking with me, calling out with his words, not letting me go. Inch after inch I clawed at the ground, making my way while he continued to rant on.

I felt his boot in the middle of my back, a hard push, and I went down onto my belly.

If only we had a knife.

No!

Yes!

My body came to an abrupt halt, it lifted my upper body, turned me at the shoulders. I slowly raised my head to look at Mr. Decker.

What was he doing to me?

There was great pressure, like my ribs were about to crack under the mass of a boulder.

Get the knife.

My body turned over onto my back facing Decker. Aches ran over my body, and my muscles grew tight and screamed for mercy as I crab-crawled away.

I could feel it grab hold of me harder. Like a swimmer trying to drown a fellow swimmer to stop themselves from drowning but instead of dragging my body down into the depths of water, it was dragging my soul.

I could see Decker through the slit of my eyes, standing over me, holding that wretched thing. We should have killed him when we had the chance. I crawled backward, dragging my legs. Down the tunnel I went, the dirt grinding into my pants and shirt, my skin cold and clammy. I kept hearing his blasted words, words that fell like daggers over and over, tearing into me. He should be dead. How stupid we were. How very stupid.

Chapter 14—What We Seek in Shadows

I watched Decker with an unearthly calm. I was even able to take note that the lantern gave off a yellow hue that made Mr. Decker’s normally brown eyes turn almost mustard in color.

I felt my nose burn – it was the acrid smell of kerosene. Must be on the bag. Then the smell faded as I approached him and was replaced by the smell of a roasted man. 

Poor Alarbus.

Poor Decker. The voice in my head said.

 I vaguely wondered if roasted Decker would smell the same. His body was worn, aged, fragile. A bit fatter. It might, it might not. I’d need more kerosene to know for certain.

When I got within a few feet of Mr. Decker, he thrust his lantern at me and said, “Don’t come any closer.”

I held a level stare at him. His face twitched.

Suddenly he pivoted on his back foot, came around, and shoved me into the wall while moving toward the doorway. I recovered and widened my stance. He backed away, still keeping the lamp out in front.

It was a good move, yet he didn’t run, which was better for me. I took a step toward him.

“Stop!” His brow rose and curved, stretching the skin around the bridge of his nose, causing horizontal wrinkles across his forehead. His yellowed eyes were wide, his chin jutting outward. His chest was elevated, puffed up like a cock with his shoulders expanded, making his body look wider.

I cocked my head. “Not to sound condescending, but if I wanted to harm you, I’d have done it, despite your strength for a man of years.”

His brows lowered, drew together. Creased lines appeared vertically across his brow, and his lower lip tightened to the point it turned whitish. “Watch it cabbage brain. I’ve fought and beat better men than you.”

His hand went inside his coat pocket.

I stopped, then backed away, giving him space, thinking about what he might have inside his pocket. A weapon was likely, but what sort of weapon was the question.

Be careful.

“I know,” I said through pursed lips.

“What’s that?” Decker shifted closer to the entryway.

“Nothing.”

He removed his hand from his pocket and lowered the lamp, illuminating the bag. “This is nothing?”

I kept my eyes directly on him. “It’s difficult to explain.”

You don’t need to explain.

I snapped my head in Decker’s direction.

Get him off guard.

I’m glaring, but then I relaxed my eyes and showed my hands, palms out. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.” The corners of my mouth turned downward.

I could end it.

Not yet.

“I was at the Harken. I went there after your quarterly search for that ugly pipe.” I wanted him to know I wasn’t a bad guy, to pay no attention to the body in the corner.

I tried a friendly smile.

Decker didn’t respond

“I ordered a bourbon, just the one.”

“Well, you had plenty before you left.”

“Just the one.”

Decker nodded.

“There was a woman on my route there. She was sitting at the end of the bar with some man I didn’t recognize. I got suspicious. When the two of them left, I followed.”

“Is this the poor fellow?” Mr. Decker looked down at the letter bag.

I looked away, my head tilted slightly toward the ground. “Yes, that’s him.”

I brought my gaze up and met Decker’s eyes. They were without any feeling, like that of a man who’d seen much in his life.

I could end this all.

In a minute.

Wait. He’s a tricky one. The voice in my head said.

“They went into an alley. I waited at the corner to see what they were doing. I thought they were just being lovers, so I started to leave, then I heard a commotion. It didn’t sound like lovemaking.”

I looked at Decker to see if he was an old prude who might blush at the idea that I knew what lovemaking sounded like. It was pointless. He had the lantern in front of him again and his face covered in bright spots and dark shadows. Masklike. So, I was unable to tell if he was a blushing man.

“I went down the alley, and this man is choking her. I confronted him, he let her go and then…” My memory disjointed, and I tried to recall what had happened. Was it self-defense or did I murder Alarbus? I decided the former was the better answer.

You let me in.

“I did.”

“What was that?” Decker asked.

I shook my head.

“There was a struggle, I was able to get his knife, and then I killed him.”

You’d think a weight would have been lifted from my conscience, but that wasn’t the case. If anything, I felt heavier, but not with guilt or shame. What I felt was something unusual, a kind of satisfaction at having been able to share what I’d done. I recoiled, not from Decker but from within, realizing that my feeling was not something I’d ever accept. But then I also knew that was at least a partial lie.

I looked to Decker to see if there was anything there, any empathy that might be in his gaze, maybe a downward glance with a short smile, followed by words to console me in my situation. If only to let me know that I’d had no choice in the matter, but instead what I witnessed was a man who showed no emotions at all. His stare was unflinching as if he were looking into me, reading my soul.

“You killed him?” Decker said.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I slit his throat.” It came out franker than I’d wanted.

Decker pointed to the bag. “Looks you did more than slit his throat.” His gaze locked onto me.

I looked away, shielding myself from his constant stare working to unearth what was deep inside, then brought my focus on him.

“Who is he?” he said while digging his fingers into his beard, giving it a good scratch.

“I don’t know. I call him Alarbus.” My brow crinkled and my mouth twisted. I stepped toward the wall and leaned against it.

“Why did you do this to him?” He was expressionless, his eyes directed at me.

I scratched my neck. Why lie?

“I was afraid. I left him intact in the alley and came home. The woman I rescued knows me. I was afraid she might report me to the authorities. I went back to cover up what had happened. I know it sounds strange.”

“You thought that your best defense for a woman claiming that you killed someone was to chop off his limbs and bring them back to your domicile?”

 “I burned the rest so he couldn’t be identified.”

“And him not being identified helps you when a woman goes to the police, reports a homicide perpetrated by you in an alley. When the authorities got to said alley, there’s a limbless burning corpse, and you are untouchable?’

“It sounds ridiculous when you say it in that way.”

“It sounds insane when you said it the way you said it. I will accept ridiculous.”

It didn’t matter because Miss Newberry should have never had left the Harken with Alarbus, and Mr. Decker should have never come into my home uninvited. It seemed that no matter what others did, I would be the one blamed.

And if there’s no one left, then there’s no one to blame.

Decker’s eyes were looking upward, his hand on his chin.

He’s trying to think of a lie you would believe so he could escape and report you.

I know.

He had entered your home uninvited.

I know.

There was no prearranged meeting, so no one else knew he was in here with us.

I know.

If we had invited him, say for dinner, then it was likely someone might know, but that wasn’t the case.

I know.

I doubted anyone saw us outside. Even if they saw Mr. Decker going into our place, they probably couldn’t tell who it was and probably didn’t even care.

I know.

I edged closer to him. He didn’t seem to notice. His gaze was on the ceiling, his focus not on anything external, but internal. He was lost in thought.

I watched him, thinking about this room, this chamber, this tunnel.

No one has been in here for a long time.

I hadn’t even known it was here.

If we were to wall up the hole, no one would know this place ever existed.

Maybe a long time from now, after I was dead, someone might find this tunnel, knock out the wall as I did.

But all they’ll have was bones and questions.

“I know.”

Decker was now looking at me, which caught me by surprise.

He moved closer with the lantern.

I moved to the side, then around him and stood in the doorway.

He held the lantern near my face, focusing on something.

I became acutely aware of sweat on my brow and felt perspiration run down the sides of my temples, down onto my neck. I wiped the streams away and dried my fingers on my jacket.

Mr. Decker came forward and gripped my shoulder. “I won’t say a word about this to anyone. But for God’s sake—next time just go straight to the authorities.”

I heard his words, I heard the sincerity in his voice, but some things can’t be unsaid.

“Mr. Decker, I made a mistake. I know that.” I reached for his hand. He hesitated but then took mine. I shook his hand vigorously as though I’d met President Harrison himself.

“Take my advice. You don’t want anyone else to know what you’ve done, do you? Banging around in here at night is going to attract attention.”

He stopped, waiting for a response. I nodded.

“I think the best thing,” he continued “is to bury this man’s remains, read him a prayer from the good book, and never think on this again.”

My eyes remained steady on Decker’s face.

“Are you going to allow me to leave?” he said.

I moved to the side then followed him out of the chamber, but instead of turning in the direction of my home, he turned the opposite direction.

“The exit’s this way.” I pointed back toward my cellar.

Decker stopped and faced me. Shadows formed on his face as he brought the lantern around. “I want to know something.”

“All right.” I fidgeted with my hands.

“I’m not concerned about the authorities, not yet, but I am concerned about the woman. What are you going to do about her?”

 I stopped looking at him. He turned around bringing the lantern with him, hurting my eyes as the pupils shrunk rapidly to adjust to the change in the lighting.

He realized I was feigning ignorance.

“You know exactly what I mean.” His brow furrowed.

I know.

“What’s down there?” I pointed down the tunnel.

“My home.”

“Did you know about this tunnel?”

“What about Miss Ne…?” He fumbled with her name.

“Miss Newberry?”

“Yes. Miss Newberry. What about her?” Decker was touching the side of his coat pocket, once again I wondered what kind of weapon he had.

“There’s nothing I can do. Why, do you have a suggestion?” I asked.

“Have you thought about killing her?” His brow was flat, his lips pursed together.

Burn her.

“No.”

He folded his arms. “Of course, you have. Even I know she could be a problem for you.”

I shifted my gaze to the flame inside the lamp. “I could talk with her. Her silence on this matter is all I ask. There’s a good chance she doesn’t want to go to the authorities. You know how people can be.”

Decker turned away, his back to me once again leaving me in the dark.

I was standing there, my eyes wide, waiting for him to turn back around, thinking maybe he was checking something farther down the tunnel.

He can’t leave. The voice in my head said.

“You feel that draft?” I said.

Decker spoke over his shoulder. ““Yes, I can feel it. That’s coming from my cellar.” He lowered his lantern.

“Why would the draft come from your cellar?” I quickened my steps to get closer to him.

“Because I left my cellar door open, and my windows are open.” Decker picked up the pace.

“Were they open earlier?”

Decker stopped suddenly, turned and looked at me.

I backed away a few steps.

“When?”

“Before you showed up with your pipe.”

“Yes, I was removing something from the tunnel.” Decker stepped away.

“That’s why I was banging around, trying to find out where that draft came from.” I followed him.

“Hmm.”

“What did you take from the tunnel?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned about.” He picked up his pace again.

I followed behind Decker about four paces closing the gap.

Decker hurried up his pace.

I quickened my steps.

I was nearly on top of him when I reached out.

Clunk

Something hit the floor. I stopped, and so did Decker.

He turned about, lowering his lantern toward the ground. It was his pipe. I crouched and picked it up.

“You keep misplacing this pipe.” It was the same one I’d found in my house earlier.

I held out the clay pipe to Decker from my crouched position.

Decker was expressionless, standing still, his body unmoving, his face set like stone.

I rose and stood to face him.

“Everything all right?” I said wondering if he might be having a stroke.

He was staring at me.

“Do you want it?”

Decker didn’t move.

Then I felt a burning sensation. The pipe in my hand began to glow red.

Chapter 13—Dead Men Do Not Speak

 “What are you thinking, old man?” I said through shorts bursts of breath.

I arrived at the door, flung it open, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Mr. Decker.”

No answer.

I quickly, without thought, turned right and scurried down the hall like a fox chasing a rabbit. I leaned over the sink, jerked the curtain back letting the rays of sunlight filter into the kitchen. With a heightened since I immediately scampered through the hall, stopping at the bottom of the staircase wondering if the old man had gone upstairs.

“Decker,” I called up the stairs, but no answer.

I hurried to the kitchen, glancing at the disturbed pile of clothes I’d left when cleaning up.

I swore one of my choice swears.

Trotting through the kitchen, I directly went to the cellar door. “Why’d you go down there?” I muttered under my breath. I stopped at the door, closed my eyes for the briefest moments, breathed slowly, then opened the door. At the bottom I caught a glimpse of light, it disappeared. I drew in the dry, cool air, then let it out.

I quietly descended the steps, silent and smooth—feeling as if I were a large cat.

There at the bottom of the stairs, I could see the light in the tunnel. I moved to the hole in the wall where I saw his silhouette created by the lantern he carried.

“Decker,” I called.  The light veered in my direction, just a little, but then it resumed before continuing its former motion. “I know you heard me,” I said, my voice low and guttural.

I stepped over the broken wall, ducking my head. Still, the light moved away, and then Mr. Decker vanished from sight. The tunnel felt hollow, void of life, a place none should enter. Yet here we were.

Here we are.

“Should I call out again?”

What for?

“To see what he’s doing.”

You know what he’s doing.

“Yes, I know.”

I hastened through the tunnel.

 “It’s not what it looks like.”

Oh, and he’ll believe you?

“He might.”

He won’t.

I stopped talking before I came around the corner and stood in the doorway.

Mr. Decker was holding a lantern over the remains of Alarbus.

You know what to do.

I watched Decker, thinking that maybe there was a way out of this, a way for me to explain.

Don’t explain. Just do.

“Do what?” I said aloud.

Decker turned around slowly, shining the lantern’s light on me.

“I can explain,” I said and moved toward him.

He drew himself into a defensive stance and held his lamp in front as if it were protection. “Best you stay put.” His eyes and body steadfast, unmoving, no sign of fear.

I held up my hands. “Mr. Decker. There’s a misunderstanding. I can explain what happened if you let me.”

“Explain it to the authorities,” he said.

I dropped my head down, rotating it side to side, then reared back and cracked my neck. I lowered my gaze upon the old man. My mouth twitched.

Of all the things Mr. Decker could have said, I was relieved that he had said that.

Chapter 12—No Going Back

I felt a crushing weight on my chest, no not on my chest, on my soul. I’d killed before in regular army. I shot a scout from fifty yards with my rifle, took him right off his horse, but this was different.  It was like I just reenacted the gruesome scene of Titus, but this was not a play.

I dropped my head to my knees, and my mouth opened slightly to allow for strangled breath. Small cries of pain slipped over my lips.

“Why?” I shouted.
I pounded the ground with my fists several times.

“Why?” I whispered. “Why me?”

There’s no going back.
            I took a slightly deeper breath.

There’s no going back. The voice in my head reminded me again.

I got to keep going.

My breathing eased, and I relaxed.

There was no going back, and that was true.

I could feel my insides drying up like curing concrete. I wiped my eyes dry, got up, taking the lantern into my hand and made my way upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, I shut the door, then walked to the eating and kitchen area. There was dry blood on my hands—Alarbus’s blood. Crossing to the sink, I put the lantern on the counter, ran the pump, and turned on the faucet. I placed my hands into the stream of water, splashing my face and running them over the back of my neck. I wanted the blood gone.

My coat removed, I undid my bottoms, throwing it off like a diseased blanket. I tore off my shirt, threw my cap at my feet, and then slipped off my boots and pants.

Taking my boots, I thrusted them under the water. I ran my hands over the rough leather. The blood ran down into the drain. Images flicked into my mind—

The bag of limbs.

The walk.

The alley.

The blood.
            The axe.

The body.

The knife.

Her struggling.

Him and her canoodling.

Miss Newberry.

I should speak to her. I should go today after I finished my route and wait at her doorstep. That might be suspicious. Maybe I should wait inside. Most people don’t lock their doors.

I reached over and turned the wick low until the flame fluttered and disappeared. The sunlight crept in around the curtain, illuminating the space. I watched it and tried to remember if I left the knife in the bag or did I put it somewhere else.

Taking my old shirt, I wiped off my arms, face, hands, and neck. The white shirt took on a rusty shade. I tossed the shirt, then ran upstairs to get into my uniform.

After I rushed to get dressed, I was back downstairs and pulling on my wet boots. I would need to get a new bag at work. Extras were sitting around, and if anyone asked where my letter bag was, I’d tell them the strap broke, and I threw it away. An easy excuse.

I did a quick check: boots on, uniform on, hat on, and headed out the door. I slung the door open and had stepped onto my porch when I heard my nosy neighbor’s voice from around the corner.

Damn nosy neighbor.

Decker was humming now, a light melody, he was in a good mood. I thought to go back inside, but I needed to be going. I didn’t have time for this. I went to step down and then Decker came around the corner of the house and into view.

I stepped back onto the porch.

He slowed his approach and raised his head, looking at me as if he’d caught a child doing something wrong. “Where are you off to this morning?”

I smiled with a sense of accomplishment. “Work.”

He walked all the way to the porch where he stopped at the bottom step, blocking my exit. His arms were outstretched, taking hold of the rails, using them to brace himself. He seemed relaxed yet curious. He glanced around, looking over his shoulder, then back to me. “Did you hear any strange noises last night?”

“No, I didn’t hear a thing.” I wasn’t lying. They weren’t any strange noises last night. I had made sure I was quiet when I’d come home.

“Not too long after I left your place.” The right corner of his mouth turned slightly up, just enough to notice.

My eyes narrowed. I tried to understand what Decker was talking about.

“Banging, like a hammer against something hard, possibly stone.” His fisted hand coming down onto his palm like a hammer. “It was faint, but I could feel the vibrations through my floor. Which I thought was odd.”

It took me a few seconds to remember what he was talking about, knocking that wall down, but that felt decades ago.

“I didn’t feel or hear a thing. It’s probably your age.”

“My age, eh? I don’t think so.” He waited for me to answer, but I wasn’t going to talk.

I stepped down, expecting him to move, but he remained. I was standing at the second to last step, looking at the old man. His eyes were bright, like orbs filled with life and energy.

We waited. I didn’t want to give the nosy old coot any more reasons to be suspicious, so I kept my calm.

“I wasn’t sure what I’d felt,” he continued, “so I took off my shoes and walked around barefoot. I walked around so much I let my old bones in my feet go cold. When I couldn’t determine where it was coming from, I came outside.”

“You came out barefooted?”

“Yes.” He locked his eyes on my face and smiled dryly. “Good to get the feet cold and dirty. Anyhow, I still could not figure it out, so I walked to the right, toward Mrs. Vanern’s, and it was less noticeable, but when I walked closer to your place, it felt stronger. I even walked out across the yard in the snow. My feet nearly froze before I got back into the house.”

“You shouldn’t be walking about in the snow barefoot. You might catch a cold, get ill, even die.” I smirked as the old man glared slightly. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear anything, and I assure you if I had, I’d been out here looking for it.” I pressed forward, and he let me by.

“Hmmm.”

I turned around and faced him. “What?”

“I heard sounds when I was by your door.”

“Well, there wasn’t any noise. Maybe it was your heartbeat. I hope you’re not sweet on me. Not my type.”

The old man stared at me as though he were looking through me.

“Are you having a stroke?” I squinted my eyes.

Mr. Decker glared. “Funny, are we?” His eye caught something on my face, and he reached toward me.

I backed away. Maybe he was sweet on me.

“You got something red on you. It’s on your nose. Looks like blood.”

I rubbed my nose. “Must have been the roast. I like it rare.”

“Humph, I prefer to kill the worms.”

“Afraid of what might kill you?”

“No, I just don’t like to crap all night.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’m going to be late for work.”

“Good day.” He tipped his hat.

I moved away as quickly as I could and avoided looking back so not to be drawn into a new conversation. Though in the back of my mind there was a nagging feeling. My neighbor was up to something. I slowed my pace. He watched me this morning when I came home. He saw me with the bag, yet he never asked me about it. Why? What was he doing?

I’d walked about twenty, maybe thirty yards slowing down when I suddenly stopped.

I had forgotten to lock the front door. I turned around, and I could see the back of Decker as he entered my home.

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.