After Eli
Page 20
“I can’t stay here no more,” Owen whispered. “I—I can’t do it.”
“Not stay?” Michael said, astonished. “Of course you can. You must. The time’s too close, now. Too close. What’s there to be afraid of, anyway?”
“The—the house,” Owen stammered.
“The house? It’s made of wood and nails and stone. It’s a place. Nothin’ more. There’s nothin’ here to fear, not flesh, not blood drops, not ghosts. Nothin’. What you’re fearin’ is yourself, Owen. Yourself. And you’re more man than that.”
Owen struggled to stand. He clutched the sack in his hands and walked to the side of the window and looked out.
“This mornin’ I could hear Lester talkin’, like he did the last time we was together,” he said in a whisper. “I was in the room, right after I’d come in, and I could hear him, and then I was in here and I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t.”
“And it’s good you didn’t,” Michael told him. “There’ll be people lookin’ for you even with the hunt goin’ on down south. When I told Rachel and Sarah and Dora about last night, they kept lookin’ out the windows, like they expected to see you come walkin’ up.”
“What’d they say?” Owen asked, turning to Michael.
“They thought it sad, Owen. They thought it sad what’d happened to you. But none of them said you’d done the killin’ of that young couple. Dora said she hoped you’d make it away, that they didn’t catch you.”
“Who’s out lookin’ for me?”
Michael stood and pulled the leg of his trousers over the knife. He said, “The sheriff got up some men. I didn’t know them. One’s named Tolly somethin’.”
“Tolly Wakefield?” Owen asked in surprise.
“That’s the name. Why?”
“I know him. He knows the woods better’n anybody. He was the one that did all the lookin’ when they found Lester and Mary.”
“He did?” Michael asked curiously. “And did he find any-thin’?”
Owen shook his head. “Don’t know,” he replied softly. “Nobody talked much about it. They never found nobody.” He glanced nervously out of the window. “They got Tolly Wakefield lookin’, he’ll know I didn’t go south,” he added.
“By that time, we’ll be gone,” Michael declared. “We’ll be out of sight. Tomorrow night we’ll leave. That’ll give me time to get up my things and—”
“Tonight,” Owen begged. “Let’s go tonight.”
“No,” Michael said, shaking his head. “Tonight’s too early. It’d get out I’m gone and there’d be people swingin’ up this way, lookin’, if I’m not around. They’d think somethin’. Tomorrow I’ll go into town and talk to the doctor and be seen and they’ll not be thinkin’ of me when I tell them I’ll be restin’ for a day or so.”
Owen dropped his head and looked at the sack of provisions that he still held in his hands. He turned the sack absently, touching it with his fingers.
“How we—how we leavin’?” he asked Michael.
“We’ll wait until late, after midnight. You’ll come by the Pettit house, to the barn. The ladies’ll be asleep and there’s no dog, and I’ll put my things together and you’ll help me take them out. We’ll strike out over the mountain behind the house—straight over it, the way I come in—and we’ll be in North Carolina. Then we’ll cut west, over to Nashville. We’ll do it slow, goin’ the woods. By the time we make Nashville, we’ll be full-bearded and nobody’ll be expectin’ us.”
Owen stared at Michael.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Michael added quickly. “It’d be faster by the road, and it would, but it’s not fast we’re after; it’s safe. The longer we take, travelin’ the woods, the less chance we’ll have of bein’ found out. There’s been many a man stroll out of trouble while his buddies were hangin’ by their necks for runnin’. Nobody suspects a walkin’ man, Owen. Nobody.”
“I don’t care,” Owen answered. “It don’t matter.” He walked to the door of the bedroom where Lester and Mary Caufield had been murdered and stared inside at the bed frame.
“Go look at it, Owen,” Michael said easily. “Go on. Walk on in. Take a look at it. There’s nothin’ there but a bed frame and some brown dots on the floor. Go look at it.” He crossed the room to Owen and stood beside him.
Owen’s eyes widened and he breathed in a quick, shallow panting. He did not move when Michael caught him by the arm.
“Come on, Owen, let’s look at it together,” Michael insisted. “The two of us. There’s nothin’ there and I’ll prove it. Nothin’.” He pushed Owen into the room and guided him to the bed frame.
“Look at it, Owen. Look at it,” Michael urged. “What’d you see? Faces. Brown eyes starin’ back at you? Are you hearin’ any voices now?” He released Owen and stepped back. “Wait a minute,” he whispered in shock. “Was that someone speakin’? Did you hear it, Owen?” He turned in a full, bold spin in the middle of the room. “Are you there?” he called. “Are you here, Lester Caufield? If you are, speak up. Say it out loud, like a man.” He laughed sharply, then turned back to Owen. “See, Owen, there’s nobody here. There’s nothin’ but a bed frame and it’s not said a word.” He stepped to the frame and pushed against it with his hands. “If you had a mattress, you could sleep on it, and it’d do nothin’ but hold you up.”
Owen looked at Michael in disbelief. He stumbled backward in the doorway, then turned and bolted from the room. Michael heard him in the kitchen, vomiting. He looked once around the bedroom, to the blood stains on the floor, then strolled leisurely into the kitchen. Owen leaned against the wall near the door, bent at the waist.
“Owen, lad, I didn’t mean to put fear in you,” Michael said softly. “I had to show you—there’s no ghosts here. In your whole life, you’ve not done a thing to anger man or spirit. And you can’t be fearin’ somethin’ you’ve not angered. You’ve a life ahead of you. You have to live it like a man.”
Owen turned from him, into the wall. His head was lowered and his eyes closed.
“I’m leavin’ now,” Michael said. “I’ll not worry about you. I know what it is that you’re feelin’. But I know what you are inside. You’re a man. Tomorrow night, you’ll be at the barn. There’s a window there, on the lot side. It’s the only window. You tap twice and I’ll answer. But make it late. Give the good ladies time to be sound asleep.”
Owen did not reply.
“‘Do you understand what I’ve said, Owen?” asked Michael.
Owen nodded.
“If there’s a change, I’ll be back here before sunset. But I don’t expect it.”
Owen nodded again.
“In a week, you’ll put it out of your mind,” Michael said evenly. “It’ll be like it never happened. None of it.” He stepped to the door of the kitchen and opened it. “It’s a lovely day,” he added lightly. “Ah, it is. A good time to be travelin’, Owen.” He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He stood for a moment on the stoop and stretched. The afternoon sun was wedged like an orange ball in a V along the shoulder of the mountains, and the shadows of the trees fell long and dark across the narrow slipper of the land bar behind the house. It was a good time to travel, he thought. His mind flashed to the men who had gathered with Curtis Hill to begin the search for Owen. He suddenly wished they were tracking him. It would be fine sport to match skills with such men. He jumped sprightly from the stoop and jogged easily into the cover of trees.
* * *
It was early night when Michael returned to the Pettit farm. He ate a full meal that Rachel had kept in the warmer oven of the kitchen stove, and explained his unannounced disappearance of the afternoon. To wander the hills, he said. Just as a precaution. Not that he believed Owen would be in the area, but he felt responsible and needed to do something.
“Just a way of walkin’ off worry,” he explained. “I’ve been that way as long as I remember. Maybe it’s why I’ve been a wanderer. Maybe I’ve been walkin’ off worry all my life.”
“Where’d you go?” Dora asked, pouring coffee for Michael.
“Go? Around,” Michael answered. “I was up near the Crider place. Thought to stop in and speak to Floyd about what’d happened, but I didn’t see any sign of people and it bein’ Sunday, it struck me they might be off visitin’.”
“They were,” Sarah said. “They came by here for a few minutes.”
Michael was surprised. “Indeed?” he replied. “By here? And whatever for?”
“They get out some since Mama Ada died,” Rachel told him. “They’d heard about Owen this mornin’ at church, and I suppose Floyd wanted to hear you tell it. He didn’t say much. They left after a few minutes.”
Michael’s face furrowed in thought.
“I should’ve gone by earlier,” he mumbled. “Floyd not knowin’ which way Owen went, he’ll be worried.”
“Floyd’d worry about his own shadow,” Dora insisted. “He was sayin’ the dogs woke him up in the middle of the night, last night. Said he reckoned it could’ve been somebody goin’ up the road, but he couldn’t see nothin’.”
“Must’ve been an animal,” Michael said.
“We told Floyd which way Owen went,” Rachel explained.
“What’d he say?”
“What he always says,” replied Dora. “Nothin’. He just kind of nodded and stood there. You could make more sense out of one of them fence posts you been puttin’ up.”
“He did say somethin’,” Sarah corrected quietly, looking at Michael. “He said he was glad you were here with us. Said it was right to have a man around.” She paused. “I’m glad, too,” she added.
“Well, I’m glad I’m here, too,” Michael declared, slapping his hand on the table. “So, ladies, that’s what I’m goin’ to be—around. Tomorrow I’ll go into town for a spell and tell the doctor they’ll have to find somebody else to be a jailer. I’ve got a responsibility here and I’ll not shirk it.”
“We can watch after ourselves,” Rachel said.
Michael pushed away from the table. He stretched and reclined in the chair, folding his hands across his stomach. He looked teasingly at Rachel.
“Can you now?” he said.
“If we have to,” she replied.
Michael tossed his head and laughed easily.
“And I’d believe it,” he exclaimed. “From what I’ve seen, the three of you could fight off the Devil himself. But I’d still feel more at ease bein’ around.”
“And I would, too,” Sarah said bluntly.
“Then it’s settled,” Michael remarked. He pulled himself from the chair. “And, now, ladies, I feel full and lazy and I want to walk about before puttin’ myself to bed. How about it, Rachel? A short walk down the road and back. It’s a pleasant night out. Just cool enough.”
The invitation surprised Rachel. She looked quickly to Dora and Sarah.
“Ah, I’ve said it wrong,” Michael added softly. “My mind’s muddled a bit. No offense.” He looked at Sarah.
“It’s up to Mama,” Sarah said coolly. “She can go if she wants to.”
“Go on,” Dora urged. “We’ll clean up in the kitchen. You like walkin’ and you’ve been inside for days.”
“No, it’s all right,” Michael insisted. “It’s not the thing for a man to say, under the circumstances. I forget where I am and I get carried away. Let’s all go.”
“No,” Dora said emphatically. “Me and Sarah’ll clean up the kitchen.” She pushed at Rachel with her hands. “Go on, Rachel. Don’t you know the man’s restless? He needs to be pacin’.”
“That I am, Miss Dora,” Michael agreed, smiling. “I’ve been walkin’ every blessed night into town and my feet seem to want to go it on their own. I’d like the company, Rachel, if it’s all right.”
“I’ll get a shawl,” Rachel replied reluctantly.
Sarah turned from the table and began work at the kitchen counter.
* * *
Outside, Michael packed his pipe and lit it, and the sweet smell of tobacco filled Rachel’s breathing as she walked beside him on the road leading from the house. She said nothing to him. She crossed her arms in a hug against her breasts and walked slowly, in his pace. She could hear his quiet drawing on the pipestem and the spewing of the burning tobacco.
They were well away from the house when he spoke.
“I think Sarah’s upset about us walkin’,” he said.
“She’s been moody lately,” Rachel answered.
“I’ve missed you,” he told her calmly. “Could you tell it?”
Rachel did not answer.
“You’ve been removin’ yourself,” he added. “Why’s that?”
“I did somethin’ wrong,” she said evenly. “I shouldn’t’ve.”
“I could feel you when I was dancin’ with you, and it was like the night in the barn.”
Rachel stopped walking. She looked back toward the house.
“We’d better go back,” she said.
Michael tapped the loose ashes from the bowl of his pipe and swept the night around him with his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to say somethin’ wrong,” he told her. “Fact is, I took a chance gettin’ you away from the others.” He looked into her face. “I’ve got to tell you somethin’,” he added, “and it’s somethin’ I don’t like doin’.”
His voice was like a touch. She could see the pinpoint of a brilliant light in the dark pit of his eyes.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It has to do with Owen.”
“Owen? Why?”
“Because of some of the things he’d been sayin’ to me,” answered Michael. “I told the doctor about it, but I need to tell you, too.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about Eli.”
“Eli?”
Michael began walking again and Rachel followed beside him.
“It’s about the money Eli stole and hid out,” he said at last.
She smiled slightly.
“There’s no money, Michael. That’s just a story,” she said. “It was Eli’s braggin’.”
“And I believe you,” he replied. “I’ve heard tell of it since goin’ into Yale that first night, and I’ve never thought twice of it. It’s a good tale, good for drinkin’ men. Nothin’ more.”
“Then why does it mean anythin’?” she asked.
“Because Owen believed it,” he answered. “He told me he’d find a way of gettin’ at the money. Said he’d make you tell.”
“How?”
Michael stopped walking and shrugged. He drew on the pipe and a string of smoke snapped like a whip from the bowl.
“How?” she repeated.
“Well, one way, he said he’d take a knife to Sarah’s throat until you told where Eli put it.”
Rachel’s eyes widened in surprise. She looked quickly toward the house, then back to Michael.
“Owen?” she asked. “Owen said that?”
Michael nodded affirmatively.
“I let it pass,” he confessed, “because I thought he wasn’t bein’ himself, that he’d been hurt in the beatin’ and his mind was wanderin’. And I still think it’s so. I still think it, but I can’t let it go without tellin’ you about it.”
“I can’t believe it,” Rachel whispered. “Owen?”
“I don’t think there’s any need to worry. I just wanted to make sure. If there was a chance—any chance at all—that the story of Eli’s money was true, then we’d need to take care.”
Rachel turned from him. She pulled the shawl tight around her shoulders and began to walk ahead of him, near the opening into the main road.
“It’s not true, is it, Rachel?” Michael asked quietly.
She shook her head.
“I mean, I’d understand if you didn’t want to say anythin’, since it’s been all these years and nobody’s ever heard you speak of the money.”
She stopped walking and looked again at Michael. She could see an eagerness twitching in his face.
He reached for her and caught her gently by the arms and stepped close to her. He could feel her stiffen and pull against his hands.
“Rachel, you could be hidin’ a gold mine, and it wouldn’t matter to me,” he whispered painfully. “I’m not a man after money. If I was, I’d have torn up the place long ago. It’s not that that keeps me here. It’s the feelin’ that I belong. I belong here, with you. I just don’t want anythin’ to happen to you, or Sarah or Dora.”
She tried to pull away from him, but he held on to her.
“Don’t be pushin’ me aside when I know you don’t want to,” he said. “What d’you think it’s been like for me? I’ve been achin’ just to touch you. Nights at the jail, when the boy was sleepin’, I’d think about you and the hurt was more’n I could bear. If I’d thought mentionin’ the money would drive you away, I’d never have done it.”
“It—it didn’t,” she stammered. “It’s—it’s just wrong.”
“It’s not wrong,” he argued quietly. “It’s right, because we both feel it.” He pulled her into the dark hull of the limbs of a chinaberry tree beside the road.
“Don’t,” she whined softly. She tried to move from him.
He slipped his hands over her crossed arms, rubbing his palms over the nipples of her breasts. She trembled, but she did not move.
“I want to hold you,” he murmured. “I want to pull you near me and press myself into you, and feel the fit of your body on me.”
“Please, don’t—”
“It’s dark. There’s nobody watchin’. Nobody.”
He lifted her face with his hand and cupped it and kissed her. He could feel her mouth part and the moist heat of her lips pressing against him, and his hand circled eagerly over her breasts and he could feel the thunder of her heartbeat.
17
IT WAS A SINGLE STEP that Tolly Wakefield heard. Not the step of an animal or the fluttering of a bird in dry leaves. It was the step of a man, a single, heavy step, and then silence. Tolly’s mind snapped like a trap. The sound was above him in the dense underbrush of mountain laurel that rolled off the side of Yale Mountain, and whoever was there could see him easily. He had not tried to hide as he searched for Owen; he wanted to be seen, to prove that he was not an enemy. He knew Owen would be careless in his escape. Owen would have followed the flat hem of the mountains, along the narrow paths of animal trails that were imperceptible to most woodsmen. Tolly read their invisible braille with his fingers, and his fingers understood what his eyes could not tell him. Owen would have followed these trails like a map, not because he saw them, but because his senses would have led him along them until he became tired and stopped to rest. Tolly knew if Owen had disappeared into the mountains south of Yale, as the sheriff had said, he would be found, and he did not want Owen to be afraid of him.