"Ah, the kitchen! What do you smell, Moonie?"
The dog yipped at an enamel-coated cupboard. She sniffed the air, then began scratching at the base of the counter.
"No, no, no. Don't scratch up the floors. What's in here that you want so badly? A mouse? Shall I open it for you?” Jerrod asked.
He put his hand on the brass handle of the cupboard and felt the chilling burn of dry ice. Painful and sharp. The room grew cold, and the air became suffocating, thick—like trapped smoke.
"I believe we've discovered the haunted potato bin. Why not believe in the ghostly possession of kitchen cabinets when I've been screwing a woman who is one hundred and forty-two years old non-stop since I arrived? I don't see a problem here, do you?"
His hand trembling a bit, Jerrod pulled the handle. The bin creaked and moaned as if it had not been opened in years. The dark recesses of the deep vertical cupboard seemed foreboding enough—but proved unworthy of Moonie's heightened senses. “It's empty, dog."
Jerrod forced the bin all the way open. Not even a cobweb. Nothing save a faded brown stain. “I wonder if that's the blood stain from the severed hand?” he said. “Too bad I don't have Luminol. I could get all CSI over this bin."
Moonie stopped sniffing and backed away.
"What is it, girl?” Jerrod asked.
The heavy chill of the kitchen seemed to close around his throat like strong hands. An image of his father's hands, his father's fists, came to mind. Jerrod felt a panic attack coming on. He hadn't had one since leaving the rehab center.
He couldn't breath.
He began to tremble.
And the blood stain in the potato bin became as clear as day.
He could smell it.
Taste its coppery salt.
He could hear the terrified cry of the hand's owner as the blade sliced through flesh and bone. With the scent of blood came the foul odor of burning flesh. They'd cauterized the wound with a torch.
Following the putrid burnt wound came a madness of fever and revenge. It was not unlike the fever and inner turmoil he'd experienced while comatose. Even as delirium swept him away now, he understood why the bin's specter had so acutely embraced him.
He'd been there before.
Even more memories pushed their way to the surface like a rolling boil. As if acting in a role he'd been born to play, the events leading up to the severing of the hand and its eventful burial in the potato bin carried him away to another time. Another Paladin. A Paladin by name. The father of his line.
He'd been wrecked by the Mooncussers. A dark man with broad shoulders, much resembling Jerrod's own father. Only this man had kinder eyes. And his fists were unclenched—though it was obvious his ship had been steered into the shallows by pirates. Land pirates. Here was a man who used wit instead of rage as his most ready weapon.
The year was eighteen hundred and sixty-three. The man was a legitimate merchant seaman, not a slaver. Captain of his own ship. Servant to no man, not King, Queen or banker.
He had steered his ship toward the light. Toward what he had hoped was a safe haven in turbulent seas.
When his ship crashed against the jagged shoals of the coastal waters he was forced to send his crew ashore. He smelled the stench of a thousand wrecks off the sea. He tasted the Devil in the wind.
He stayed aboard, making sure the last man got off safely, though the vessel was taking on water quite furiously. He could see the light of torches lining the beach and steam rising from a great fire now doused with sand and water. It had been a trap. And a good one.
There seemed, too, to be a purveyance of a sordid nature clinging heavily to the air. The air was perfumed with womanly odors. Cook-pots bubbling with stew and the sweet sweat found only between a woman's breasts permeated and co-mingled with the ocean breeze.
The captain came ashore seeing that the few of his men standing were no worse for the wear. His heart wept for the men face down in the sand. Three crewmen. Dead. Leaving three widows and God only knew how many children.
An obviously pregnant doxy approached him, holding out her shawl as if to embrace him in the warmth of her fleshy bosom. “Are you cold, Captain? Would you like to come sit by my fire?"
"What have you done with my crew?” he asked.
"Three of them fell against our swords, sir. A sorry mistake, that. But the rest, as you can plainly see, are well enough,” the woman replied.
The captain knew he was in trouble. “Aye, they're alive without their boots and buckles, but alive nevertheless. Take me to your clan's leader."
"Come away with me to the house, and I'll introduce you to the patriarch of our little family."
"Lead away, good wife.” He turned to his crew, now bound together, but very much alive. “Look lively, lads. I won't be long. I'll buy our freedom if I must."
Gagged, only the flashing eyes of his crew against the Mooncussers’ fire replied.
He was led across the beach and over a rise. In the dark he had not been able to discern the magnitude of the house—but once closer—he could see the mansion in all its sinister opulence. “You've done well by ransacking ships."
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “It keeps us in meat and barley."
The heavy front door opened inward with a creaking noise. It was crafted from strakes. The dark remains of tar remained at the seams. “Why have you brought him here?” a gruff voice asked.
"He asked to see you, Hez,” the woman replied.
The door opened further. An old man stepped out, holding an oil lamp between the captain and himself. “What's your name, sir?"
"I am Captain John D. Paladin."
Hez laughed. It was a hard, belly laugh. “Your surname is Paladin? You aren't joshing me none, now, are you?"
"I am most certainly not,” Captain Paladin replied.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, sir. I am Hezekiah Adaire, and this here lovely woman is my sister-in-law. A comely woman even after six birthings, ey? And all of them girls, and sure enough, this one will be a girl-child, too. And all fine and healthy little beauties. But you didn't come here to listen to an uncle ramble on about his love for his nieces. Let's say we discuss your rather unique name over a pint. What say you, sir?"
"I say you are a murdering hoard of land pirates, and I am going straightaway to the local magistrate,” Paladin replied.
"I don't think so. What I'd like to impart to you is something quite worth listening to. If you go to fetch the constable, you'll be dead before you leave our land—and the dead don't hear."
John Paladin nodded at Hez Adaire as the unmistakable sound of a forty-four caliber Starr revolver clicked behind him. “I'm listening.” He wasn't a fool. The woman kept a gun in her pocket. After all, she, too, was a pirate. What is the most fierce a beast in nature? Why one that is a mother, of course. A mother and a pirate. A formidable foe. “Where's my drink?"
"Ah, here you go, sir. Right this way. We'll take our grog in the parlor like civilized gents,” Hez replied.
The mansion's finery was in sharp contrast to the rough manners of its owners. Still, there was something intriguing about a band of land pirates living with such high standards while most of society was suffering from the effects of the two-year war between the states.
The parlor provided both privacy and comfort. “How can Mooncussers amass such a fortune on this shore?” Captain Paladin asked.
"We've been around these parts of two hundred years. Here's your drink,” Hez replied, handing Paladin a lovely crystal goblet filled with brandy.
"Brandy? My word. Thank you. Now, about my men..."
"Your ship is gone. Nothing we can do to save her. Your survivors will be looked after. We had a bout of the grippe here—took the lives of many of our work force. And a few months back some of our men were conscripted by the military. We need able bodies here, sir. I can offer profitable jobs to the lot of you if you and yours be honest men."
Paladin laughed. “Honest men? Coming from a pirate, that
does sound a bit odd."
Hez smiled slyly. “Captain, we have a shortage of protectors for the kin. But look at what washed ashore for us! Oddly enough, amongst ourselves we refer to our protectors as Paladins. And here you are bearing the very name we hold so dear."
"Fate,” Paladin replied.
Hez nodded. “Yes. It is. I like you, Captain. You and your men ... sign on with us, and we'll give you twenty percent of each haul to divide amongst you."
John Paladin took a sip of the very good brandy. “Twenty percent? That's a fair bargain, sir. Save that I'm no murdering thief."
Hez took a deep breath, holding his temper. “We're not murdering thieves, sir. We are the Mooncusser clan, and like all pirates, we only kill when we must. The three of your crew who kissed steel this day fought bravely. They were a credit to your no doubt stellar career as a merchant seaman. We'll see that they are given a proper Christian burial and that compensation is forwarded to their next of kin."
John Paladin took a sip of his brandy. “The three who died this night were not Christian men, and it would be an insult to them to treat their remains as such. Wrap them in sailcloth and have one of your men row them to point. Let the sea claim them."
Hez crossed himself. “As you wish."
Paladin helped himself to another brandy. “And what of my wife and son?"
"Are they aboard, sir?” Hez asked.
"In Spain. My wife is Castilian. I'd like them to join me."
"You can send for them straightaway, Captain. Straightaway. In a few months you'll be reunited with them and wealthier than ever you could be as a merchant."
"All because of my last name, how interesting,” Captain Paladin replied.
"Fate, sir. It is pure fate that led you to us."
"And I thought it was a lighthouse that led me here. My mistake. Sir, I saw a meat pie in your kitchen. Might I have a slice whilst I consider this offer?” Paladin asked.
"Yes, of course. Excuse my manners. Let's away to the larder and cut you a slab of cheese to go with it!"
Hez Adaire liked his food. He liked others who liked their food, too. John Paladin had figured as much by the gravy stains on the Mooncusser's vest and by the man's girth. There were weapons in the kitchen. If nothing else, he could kiss the Mooncusser's head with a heavy pot.
"Are you married, Mr. Adaire?” Paladin asked.
"Oh, yes. My wife is a fine woman.” Hez turned, making a motion with his hands over his chest to imply that his wife had large breasts. “She's a comely one, she is."
"Congratulations,” Paladin replied. “Ah, the pie is intact."
"Cut yourself a healthy slice of that pie and I'll get you the cheese,” Hez suggested.
Captain John Paladin shook his head. Here the man who had ordered his ship wrecked was leaving him with a rather solid looking knife and no defenses. John picked up the knife and cut into the pie. It was rancid. Its putrid smell made him gag. But the knife cut cleanly enough.
"Lookie here, friend! Let's have a cup of ale and celebrate our new partnership over supper!” Hez called, offering a slice of white cheese to Paladin.
In one swift motion, Paladin removed the knife from the pie and stabbed it into the gut of Hezekiah Adaire. “I am not your partner."
Hez's vengeful look told John that perhaps he'd better wield the blade a second time. Hez's eyes flashed with fire and his was not the face of a dying man. He took on the look of an injured beast. A dangerous, angry, wounded animal. It would seem stabbing him in the belly had only made him more dangerous a foe, as opposed to a dead one.
Hez spat blood. “Better to be the devil's partner than his foe."
The corpulent land pirate was stronger than Paladin had surmised. A fat gut and red nose, in this case, did not mean soft, weak or unmanly. “Oh, dear,” he said as Hez knocked the knife from his hand and onto the wooden table.
"I need you, Paladin. I need you, and I aim to keep you. But you must learn never to strike at a Mooncusser again."
"I didn't think people this far north kept slaves,” Paladin replied. Hez had uncanny strength. Though John Paladin had considered himself a strong man, this land pirate had bested him. He was now slumped over the table, his face much too close to the foul pie, one arm wrenched behind him, and the other held out fast against the table.
It was when the knife came down with a fast, sharp CHOP! that Captain John Paladin decided to become a partner in the Mooncusser venture.
Most men at seeing their own disembodied hand might be temped to scream or yell or curse God. Paladin looked at Hezekiah and said quite calmly, “Twenty percent, ey?” Before passing out.
Jerrod shook off the vision. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. The wooden table. “Christ ... is this the same table?” A butcher block caught his eye. “And is that the very knife that cut off the right hand of Captain John Paladin? My grandfather twice over?"
Jerrod stood, his shoulders squared. He retrieved the long blade from the butcher block and placed it atop the table. “I am a Paladin. My father and his father before him were Paladins. This is where I belong."
He looked at the old knife, wondering if it was time for it to taste more Paladin blood. Vesper had said something about a blood oath...
He looked at the dog, who was still squaring off against the smell emanating from the potato bin. “There's nothing for you to chew on in there, pup. You can't play with a memory.” He scooped Moonie into his arms. “Let's go find another skeleton in the closet. We can draw blood in the name of the kin later."
The puppy under his arm like a football, Jerrod left the haunted kitchen. Standing dead center of the foyer, he set Moonie down.
Left, kitchen.
Right, sitting room.
Upstairs right, master bedroom.
Upstairs left, servants’ hideaway.
He quickly sketched a rough map of the house.
I wonder what lies straight ahead.
The dog had settled down onto a braided rug. “Stay there. And don't pee. Bark if you have to go out.” I am going nuts. Screwing a crazy woman, hallucinating ghost stories, proclaiming myself an evil henchman—like that would work on a resume—and now trying to reason with a puppy. God, I love my life!
Jerrod walked forward and to the right, around the curve of the staircase and beyond. The hallway widened quite a bit, forming a corridor flanked by several doors and cubbies. He rattled the brass handle on the first door, and it creaked open.
Vesper had tacked a Post-It to the door. Guest room with piano, fireplace. Move walnut bed frame and matching vanity from attic.
In the half-light filtering in from the leaded-glass windows, he surveyed the room. This had to have been the music room at one point. He didn't enter, but the large, sheet-draped grand piano stood out like a sore thumb next to the window seat. A few music stands stood empty by the fireplace. Someone would love spending a weekend in the room with its antique piano and soft, filtered light. He knew he'd be the one moving the bed frame. Handyman extraordinaire. Author. Lover. Paladin.
He moved to the other side of the great hall, stopping to admire a marble bust perched in a wall nook. “Ah, greetings, sir,” he said. “I'm Jerrod, and I'm screwing your descendant. She has a lovely round bum."
He pushed open the door opposite the music room. “Miss Scarlet did it with the rope in the conservatory,” he whispered. “A proper Victorian sunroom. No doubt where the ladies took air baths and basked like cats in the warmth of the sun without burning their milky-white skin.” The muted lavender and pink tones on the settees and duvet, bedecked with frills all around, screamed “women only.” High skylights and floral-patterned stained-glass windows only added to the feminine motif.
Jerrod backed away slowly. He cupped a hand over his crotch. Still intact. The room hadn't sucked all vestiges of manhood from him.
He continued down the hall, marveling at the unique antiquities and rather haphazard floor layout. He reached the final and sixth room. The kn
ob turned in his hand, but the old frame had swallowed the door. It took a gentle nudge with his hip to get the door to creak open. Jerrod sneezed as dust breezed up from the hardwood floor. This hasn't been opened in years. That's really strange. Vesper has been keeping this place spruced up everywhere but here.
He entered the room, covering his nose with his hand. “What the Hell is in here?” The room was small, dark and dank. The perfect haunted house secret room. Only this room wasn't a secret—it was simply neglected. Heavy, decaying drapes covered the room's sole window. A single beam of light passed through the dusty air. Jerrod followed the beam and pulled open the curtains. The fabric disintegrated in his hands. The window wasn't a window at all. It was a small, leaded-glass door leading into an enclosed courtyard.
Topsy-turvy. This place was designed by a drunkard. He turned, surveying the room. He very suddenly and quite efficiently recalled and grew to respect the phrase “his blood ran cold” as he realized he'd entered what might have been the family's chapel.
The small room narrowed at one end into a vestibule. In that cubby a lectern sat askew on a bowed step. Behind the lectern was a void on the wall caused by a long-hanging object being removed. The wall that had been under the object was still crisp, the wall around it, dingy and grayed. The void was in the shape of a cross. Probably a crucifix.
A few dust-covered, rag-tag hymnals were strewn in a corner. Without moving, so as not to unleash any more dust into the air, Jerrod spied a broken rosary, and most terrifyingly, funereal urns. Lined along the wall on a high shelf were a dozen bisque urns. He squinted to read the brass name tags hung around the lid of each jar. He could make out only two words on each tag, as they were larger and bolder than the rest. FAITHFUL PALADIN.
Braving the dust bunnies of sinus death, Jerrod carefully moved across the floor, not taking his eyes off the first jar. Though it rested a good six inches above his head, he could clearly read the brass tag.
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