After Eli

by Terry Kay

  But Tolly knew instinctively that it was not Owen who had taken the step above him. There had been no sign of Owen. Nothing. And Owen would have left signs. He would be weak and confused. Whoever was above him was not.

  The echo of the step was still in his mind when he turned quickly and began running up the hill toward the sound. He saw a movement, a flash of brown, and knew he had surprised whoever had taken the step. He could hear someone running and he stopped and dropped into a crouch and peered through the brush, but he could see nothing. There was only the sound of running, but it was not wild and thrashing; it was easy and sure, almost teasing. Tolly cursed bitterly. He was tired and knew it. For two days he had zigzagged the mountains, bent at the waist, moving in a walking trot as steady as a runner, his eyes darting like a bird’s eyes, reading the woods in words that he understood better than anyone. And now he was tired and there was someone in the woods with him, but not Owen. His mind, his senses, told him that it was not Owen, and he felt as though someone was taunting him.

  He stood and moved slowly through the tangle of the undergrowth, his eyes scanning the ground carefully. Beside a thin white oak, he saw it: a footprint, pushed deep into the leaves. He knelt and studied the print. It was large and had pushed the leaves aside as though the man had stood for a long time, waiting. In front of the print was a sharp hole, perhaps two inches deep. Tolly’s eyes tightened into a puzzled frown. He touched the hole with his fingers. Something bothered him, something remote and disturbing, but he did not know why.

  A bluejay chattered angrily in the top of a beech tree fifty yards away and Tolly lifted his head and stared at the tree. A squirrel sprang from a limb to the trunk of the tree and flattened itself in a camouflage. Tolly strained to listen, but he could hear only the bluejay. It was enough. The man who had taken the step and then run away was waiting for him at the beech tree.

  Tolly eased into a sitting position. It was past midafternoon and the shadows on the eastern side of Yale Mountain were deepening. He watched the bluejay and traced his own location in his mind. There were no pines, only hardwood, and it would be impossible to move through the fallen leaves of the hardwoods without being heard. He wondered if the man waiting at the beech knew that, had planned it that way. A half-hour earlier he had been in a forest of pines. A half-hour earlier he could have moved on the man without a sound. But he knew the woods. The mountain turned into a natural wall, like a collar, and the land below it spread open in a perfect oval, covered in thick grass. A stream tumbled out of the mountain, over a rock bed, and curled out of the palm of the oval valley and emptied into the Naheela River miles away. Tolly had hunted deer in the valley. If he could get above the beech tree, the man who was hidden there would be forced into the open plain. He wondered again who the man was. It was not Owen; he was sure of it.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. He pushed from the ground and began a sprint up the side of the hill, above the beech, thrashing loudly through the undergrowth. He heard the bluejay scream at the noise and dive screeching from its perch. Suddenly, he was out of the brush and into timber and he ran harder until the beech was directly below him. Then he stopped and waited and watched the tree. He was breathing in long, deep gulps, and he could feel the perspiration rolling from his face. He began to move cautiously down the hill, kicking leaves as he walked. He saw the movement, a brown blur, drop from behind the beech and roll and then he saw the man spring to his feet and run easily toward the grass field in the oval opening. “Dammit,” Tolly said again. He turned left and ran along the crown of the hill that formed the base ridge of the mountain, keeping the man below him. From the shadows and distance, he could not tell who the man was, but at least he knew it was not Owen. The man was taller and heavier and older, and he was not afraid: He did not look back as he ran.

  The man dashed suddenly out of the edge of the woods and into the field of grass, running away from Tolly, toward a small knoll that rose in a terrace that separated the field from the stream. Tolly could see the man clearly, but still he did not know him. The man carried something in his hand that looked like a long rifle, and for the first time Tolly felt the queasiness of danger. He watched as the man ran smoothly over the ridge of the knoll and disappeared from sight on the other side, just above the bank of the stream. Then it became clear to him: The man wanted him to think that he had taken to the stream and would follow downstream until he reached the protection of the pines. It was a game, he thought, a goddamn game, and he would not be led into it like a child. He scanned the knoll carefully, but he could see nothing. The man was there, watching for him; he knew that. He knew also that he had the cover of the trees and that he was too far away to be heard. “The sonofabitch,” he muttered. He turned back and moved up the hill to his left, squatting and slipping behind the wall of trees. He knew how the stream came from the mountain, slithering over its rock bed like a string of ice. High on the hill, at the top of a waterfall, the trees cupped open and a flat ledge jutted over the straight drop like a platform. The entire valley was visible from the ledge and it would be easy to see the open stream until it disappeared into the pit of trees at the southern end. He had watched deer feeding in the valley from the ledge and once had seen a bear and her cubs playing in the stream. The man who made the footstep, the man who was playing a game of hide-and-seek with him, would not go south as he wanted Tolly to believe; he would go upstream, into the mountain. And Tolly would be waiting for him.

  Tolly reached the ledge quickly and stood hidden beside an ash tree and looked down on the stream that split the valley in a straight line. The man was easy to find. He was a brown dot hidden in the grass that grew along the bank of the stream. He moved cautiously toward the mountain, toward Tolly, stopping every few feet to peer downstream. He was deliberate, Tolly thought. Patient and deliberate and practiced. He wondered if the man had a gun.

  It was fifteen minutes before the man worked his way to the foot of the mountain and scurried quickly from the grass into the trees and out of sight. Tolly’s senses tensed. He was now the hunter and the game was his to play. He slipped quietly from the ledge and began to move downhill, delicately, like an animal gliding through a pool of shadows. The stream poured past him in its swirling music and he could feel the air cooling, with a fine spray mist leaping off the rock bed. His eyes focused on the banks of the stream; he knew he would find his man near water.

  The man was no more than ten feet away when Tolly saw him. He was sitting on a bed of moss, with his back to Tolly, resting. Tolly looked at him closely: It was the Irishman. A great, shuddering anger coursed through Tolly. Goddamnit, he thought. He wanted the Irishman to turn on him, to challenge him.

  Tolly stepped from behind the oak that covered him. He was in a slight crouch.

  “Mister,” he said in a growl.

  Michael whirled at the sound. He scrambled to his feet and faced Tolly. His mouth was open in surprise.

  “Stay where you are,” Tolly warned.

  “My God, man, you’ve scared away half my life,” Michael replied weakly.

  Tolly stared at him. He saw the walking stick that Michael held loosely in his hands, with the carving of a face on the knob. He knew there was no gun to fear.

  “What’re you doin’ out here?” he asked evenly.

  Michael ignored the question.

  “I remember you,” he said. “You’d be Tolly Wakefield. The sheriff introduced us yesterday mornin’. I’m Michael O’Rear.”

  “What’re you doin’ here?” Tolly asked again.

  “Why, lookin’ for the boy,” Michael answered in astonishment. “The same as you.”

  “You been followin’ me,” Tolly said coldly.

  “Followin’ you? Why, man, I’ve been chased by some fellow who rushed me back in the woods and I made it to the fields and up to here, scared to death I’d wind up a corpse.”

  “You’re a liar,” Tolly replied calmly. “That was me in the woods and you know it.”

  Michael slump
ed to his knee on the moss, leaning against his walking stick. He wiped his face across the sleeve of his shirt and shook his head wearily. He looked back to Tolly.

  “If it was you,” he said earnestly, “then you’ve a right to think that. But I swear on the holy head of God that I didn’t see who it was, but there was all that crashin’ about and it put the fear in me and I ran, and that’s the truth of it.”

  Tolly said nothing. He stared hard into Michael’s face.

  “For God’s sake, man, that’s the way it happened,” Michael exclaimed in exasperation. “Maybe I shouldn’t be out here, and I promised the doctor I’d stay away, but I couldn’t help it. The boy was in my care. I let him get away.”

  “Go home,” Tolly said.

  Michael stood. He breathed deeply and stretched his back.

  “I will,” he replied. “Indeed, I will. I guess the good doctor was right. I’m doin’ nothin’ but interferin’.”

  “You see anybody else, don’t run,” Tolly advised bluntly. “Some of the others have got guns. You run, they’ll kill you.”

  “Don’t be worryin’ about that,” Michael said. “I’ll stand as still as Lot’s wife.” He turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at Tolly. “Tell me,” he said, “if that was you down in the woods, how’d you get up here?”

  “I been here before,” Tolly answered simply.

  Michael smiled and nodded and began to stride down the mountain. He felt good. Tolly Wakefield had surprised him, but that did not matter. He had followed Tolly for more than an hour before letting Tolly find him. That was victory enough. He was as good as the best of Curtis Hill’s men.

  * * *

  Tolly slowed his pace down the mountain. There was no reason to hurry. It was after sundown and he knew the sheriff and the other men had already met in the field where the sheriff’s car had been parked. They would not have waited for him because they knew his habits: If he wanted to follow the hunt for Owen into the night, he would. Tolly did as he wished, when he wished, and he did it alone. He preferred being alone. It was safe. With people, there was always a bargain, always compromise, always someone with tender feelings souring around a wound that had been pricked by an innocent word. The sheriff and the other men would have left him in the woods, without any effort to find him, because they understood him.

  The night air washed over Tolly and he stopped and lifted his face toward the sky like a listening deer. The air swept around his neck and cooled him. He stepped from the trees into the road leading to Yale and stood quietly on the gravel edge of the pavement. He was very close to Hollings Bridge, which crossed the Naheela River off the heel of Yale Mountain. He pulled his pocket watch from the bib of his overalls and popped a match on the thick nail of his thumb. He held the match over the face of the watch. It was ten minutes after nine. He was a mile from Yale, two miles from his house. On another night, he would not have hesitated; he would have gone home. But on this night, he had to see the sheriff. He flipped the match to the pavement and watched it darken. He pulled a hard biscuit from the pocket of his denim jacket and bit into it and chewed slowly. Then he turned in the road and began to walk in a long stride toward Yale.

  * * *

  At the outer rim of the town, Tolly stopped and studied the street. He could see a line of cars parked in front of Pullen’s Café and he realized that it was Monday night. For a moment, standing there, he had been distracted, deceived by time. How long had he searched for Owen? Two days. Two days without a sign, except for the Irishman. There had been no cars at Pullen’s on Sunday night, for on Sunday night John Pullen did not permit drinking.

  He knew why the men were there: The news of Owen’s escape had spread into the hills like a hissing flame, fanned by George English’s venomous anger. He had known early—on Sunday morning—that George would not be silent about Owen. George had needed a mob audience and he had ordered one with his careless talk. Tolly did not want to see George. George had blamed him for not finding the trail of the killer of Lester and Mary Caufield months earlier and the tension between them had grown. But Tolly knew the men of the Naheela Valley believed he would find Owen, and they were waiting for him at Pullen’s.

  He did not want to risk being seen and slipped behind the hedge of trees growing along the bank of the Naheela River and approached the jail from the back. He remembered the barred back door. It would mean going in the front, in the light, and there might be men watching from Pullen’s Café. He stood at the cell window, thinking. Inside, he heard the muted voices of the sheriff and the doctor and, he thought, George. The men in Pullen’s might see him, but that couldn’t be helped. He had come to speak to the sheriff and he would. He walked quickly around the corner of the building to the front door and opened it. He stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him. The sheriff was sitting in a chair at the rolltop desk. The doctor was in the rocker. George paced the floor angrily. They turned in unison to Tolly and stared at him.

  “Tolly,” Curtis said, rising from his chair. “I didn’t expect to be seein’ you. You find him?”

  Tolly shook his head. He removed his felt hat and turned it slowly in his hands. His eyes settled on George.

  “You see anything?” Garnett asked eagerly. “Any sign of him?”

  “Nothin’,” Tolly answered. He looked from George to Garnett. “He ain’t out there,” he added.

  “What the hell does that mean?” demanded George. “What kind of stupid goddamn thing to say is that?”

  Tolly’s head snapped back. His eyes narrowed on George and his lips trembled.

  “He ain’t out there,” he answered deliberately, slowly. “Like I said.”

  Curtis felt the anger building in Tolly. It was cold, and Curtis remembered what a man—a stranger—had once told him: There were two kinds of anger; one was hot, one was cold. The one to fear was the cold. He stepped between Tolly and George.

  “George,” he said, “you been ravin’ like a dog all day, and I’m tired of it. Now, you shut up or get out and I mean it. You been holdin’ a grudge against Tolly since that killin’ and it’s time you put it away.” He turned to Tolly. “Don’t pay him no attention,” he added. “He’s been up at Pullen’s.”

  George’s face flushed. He glared at Curtis but did not speak. He whirled unevenly on his heel and walked to the cell and leaned against the bars.

  “Now, what’d you mean, Tolly?” Curtis asked. “He ain’t out there?”

  “He didn’t go south,” replied Tolly. His voice was heavy and tense.

  “Then where?” Garnett said.

  “North, I reckon. Goin’ north’ll be easier. Not as many houses that way.”

  “How do you know he didn’t go south?” Garnett asked.

  “Because I do,” Tolly answered bluntly. “The boy ain’t old enough not to leave some sign.”

  Garnett leaned forward in the rocker. He shook his head thoughtfully and wiped across his mouth with his hand.

  “But the Irishman told us Owen went south,” he protested. “He came back into town this morning. We walked the direction the boy ran. He said he watched Owen until he was out of sight.”

  “He was out in the woods,” Tolly said.

  “Who?” Garnett asked. “The Irishman?”

  Tolly nodded.

  “He was followin’ me,” he said.

  “Well, dammit, I told him to go home,” Garnett said.

  “Why was he followin’ you, Tolly?” Curtis asked.

  “I don’t know. He was. He said he wadn’t, but he was. Said he was lookin’ for the boy.”

  “Now, goddamnit, Tolly, maybe he was,” Garnett said. “He’s been worried about the boy, feels responsible for what happened.”

  Tolly pulled the felt hat back on his head, tight over his brow.

  “Maybe the boy hid out and circled back to throw us off,” he remarked. “I don’t know.”

  “Then we’ll look north,” Curtis replied. “In the mornin’. You can bed down here if you want
to, Tolly.”

  Tolly shook away the offer. He said, “I’ll go on up the road a piece. There’s a couple of places I’ll look tonight. Maybe he ain’t far, if he was weak.” He reached for the door.

  “Hey, Tolly, he ain’t no bear, is he?” George barked defiantly. “He ain’t out there thrashin’ around, plain as day. That’s it, ain’t it? And you ain’t no goddamn bloodhound, like we should’ve had before when you couldn’t find nothin’. That’s it, ain’t it? You can’t find him and you’re sayin’ he ain’t out there.”

  “Shut up, George,” Curtis snapped. He stepped in front of Tolly.

  “Why, hell’s bells, Tolly’s right,” George crowed. He spit out an acid laugh. “Don’t know why none of us never thought about it. Owen did just that. Turned back, struttin’ right through the middle of town, leadin’ a band. You got it, Tolly. You got it right on the head, you asshole.”

  Curtis felt the rush before it began. He reached to grab Tolly, but Tolly’s left arm lashed out and shoved him stumbling across the room into the chifforobe. He saw George pushing himself from the cell bars as Tolly moved over to him in one stride, like a cloud. George’s right hand dropped instinctively for the pistol at his side, but never reached it. Tolly caught him by the wrist and twisted it viciously and Curtis heard a bone snap like a dry stick. George screamed and fell to his knees, tucking his head into his shoulder. Tolly held to the splintered wrist and raised his right hand, with the palm opened and cupped. The hand dropped across George’s face in a splattering slap of flesh on flesh and George fell forward like a slaughtered animal. He rolled on the floor, on his back. His body convulsed once in a violent heaving and his eyes wandered dully across the ceiling of the jail. A trickle of blood oozed from his nose and left ear.