“You want to dig it up?” Isabel’s heart beat faster at the very thought.
“Ain’t no other way to see who it is,” Nancy said. She looked up. “Whoever this is, they cain’t hurt us in the shape they’re in, dear. Go on now, get them sticks.”
Isabel fetched two long branches from the woods. Working together, the two women loosed the dirt and swept it away from the corpse. Once they’d unearthed it, they stood over the head for a closer look.
Jubal Early’s face had been flattened. His nose was broken and his lips were thick and black.
Nancy gave a low whistle. “My lands! What happened to this feller?” She lifted one of her bare feet and scratched at the sole. “I wonder who he ran afoul of.”
Isabel stared at the body. A dark realization crept over her. “I think I know.”
Nancy cocked an eyebrow. “Who?”
Isabel took a step back. “Reverend Boggs.”
Nancy pursed her lips. “There ain’t a doubt in my mind that somethin’ ain’t right with that preacher, but I never reckoned he was killin’ folks in the woods between sermons. How do ye figure?”
Isabel took a deep breath. “Did Ephraim tell you that Reverend Boggs helped him get out of jail?”
“He did.”
“Jubal was guarding the jail that night, but he went missin’ along with Ephraim. Everybody in town thinks Jubal helped him escape.”
Nancy looked back at the body. “That so?”
“Ephraim told me that Boggs drugged Jubal, put him to sleep, so he could get Ephraim out of the jailhouse.”
“You’re sayin’ that the last folks to see this poor feller alive was Ephraim and the preacher?”
“Yes. Now, think about this. Who’d have a reason to kill Jubal? You could say Ephraim did, because he wanted to escape, but Boggs had drugged Jubal, so there was no need.”
Nancy nodded slowly. “But Ol’ Boggs wouldn’t want nobody tellin’ the town that he let Ephraim out.”
“Exactly. So he took Ephraim home, then went back to the jail, dragged Jubal out here, and killed him.”
Nancy rubbed her chin and looked toward Laurel Knob. “I ain’t one to go and swaller an idea without chewin’ on it some, but if this’s true, then I just had me an unsettlin’ notion.”
“What?”
“When I was tendin’ to Lucretia Cutler earlier, Boggs showed up. He told me to leave, started carryin’ on ’bout witchery and the like. I didn’t want the last thing poor Lucretia heard to be us fussin’ at each other, so I left. Truth be told, there wasn’t much I could do for her anyway.”
“You think he’s goin’ to kill her?”
Nancy shook her head. “She’s already dyin’, bless her heart. What I meant was, if Ephraim left when ye said he did, he’s probly with the preacher man right now.”
23
The Funeral
Ephraim sat at the table by the light of a candle, waiting for Boggs to return. After they’d arrived at the preacher’s home, Boggs had gone to tell Polly Ewing of Ma’s passing so funeral preparations could be made. He’d retrieved his old brogans from the cabin. His toes sought the familiar holes in the soles, tracing the outlines.
The cold pulse in Ephraim’s arm began to build again. The bandage had started to come loose. It ain’t doin’ much good anyway, Ephraim thought. Just like Nancy herself. She came all the way down here with me, and then what? He pictured the old woman walking through town. Maybe she’d tried to find the Hensons; maybe she wanted the reward. He remembered Clabe Fletcher’s words: Two hundred dollars is two hundred dollars. Still, he couldn’t believe Nancy would do such a thing. Was the old granny woman’s mind slipping? Had she forgotten?
He unwound the bandage, laid it on the table, and brought the candle close. The dark ring around each puncture had diffused outward, spreading through his skin like ink on a blotter. He ran his fingers over the blackened skin. It was cold to the touch, like the flesh of a corpse.
The door opened, and Boggs stepped in.
“Everything is taken care of—” The preacher caught sight of Ephraim’s arm. “What happened to you?”
“A hellhound bit me.”
Boggs walked over and peered down at the arm. “That looks like gangrene.”
Ephraim shrugged. “It don’t hurt right now.”
“Who told you it was a hellhound? Nancy?”
Ephraim nodded. “She tried a few remedies on it, but I think it’s gettin' worse.”
Boggs sighed. “I’m surprised you haven’t lost your faith in that woman. She failed you, and now she’s failed your mother. I hope you’ve learned to trust my opinion of her.”
Ephraim hung his head. “I should’ve listened to you from the beginnin’. I was just tryin’ to save Ma, but I reckon you were right ’bout that stranger being the Devil. It had to have been him that turned the hellhound loose on me.”
“The last thing I want to do is make you feel as if I’m passing judgment on you, son,” Boggs said. “I’m here to help. Do you want me to heal your arm?”
Ephraim met the preacher’s eyes. “You can do that?”
“I’m a man of God, Ephraim. That bite is the work of the Devil. Do you have faith?”
Ephraim swallowed and nodded.
Boggs unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “All right, then. Lay it here on the table in front of me.”
Ephraim did as he was told.
Reverend Boggs placed his fingertips over the wound. He sat quiet for a moment, then muttered something under his breath that sounded like a prayer.
Ephraim’s arm remained unchanged.
Boggs looked up and placed a hand over Ephraim’s eyes. “Do you believe your arm has been healed?”
“What? I don’t know, I—”
“Pick your words carefully, boy. This is a question of faith.”
Ephraim took a deep breath and summoned a picture of his arm, healed and whole. “Yes. Yes, I believe.”
“As you believe, be it unto you.”
Boggs removed his hand from Ephraim’s eyes.
Ephraim held up his arm in amazement. The wound was completely gone. He ran his other hand over it. The flesh still felt slightly cold to the touch, but its appearance was nothing short of a miracle. For a moment, he forgot everything that had happened that day.
“How did you do that?”
The reverend’s left eye glinted strangely in the candlelight. Boggs quickly reached up and rubbed it with a knuckle, then massaged his temples. “Belief is a powerful thing, Ephraim. But let me tell you, that was very tiring.” He looked out the window. “Look, Ephraim, this is a poor time to talk about this, your mother having just passed and all, but we need to get you away from Sixmile Creek—far away.”
He stood and moved to the stove. “I’ve found a man who will give you employment. In fact, he’s made me a recruiter of sorts, and he will trust my judgment on anyone I deem worthy to enter his service.” He picked up a potato and began slicing it into a skillet. “You’ll have to sign a contract before you meet him; I’ll prepare one, and we can take care of it tomorrow, after the funeral.”
“What kind of work does he need done?”
“Evangelizing. Much like the work of a minister.”
“So, I’d be a preacher, like you?”
Boggs turned around. “Yes, you can think of it that way.”
Ephraim’s brow furrowed. “But—I’m a murderer. That don’t seem right.”
“Don’t worry over that.” Boggs smiled. “This man knows the value of a second chance. His employees are among the most devoted you’ll ever see.”
Ephraim sat silent as the reverend fried the potatoes. Boggs cooked them until they were crispy and brown, served some for Ephraim and himself, then put coffee in a pot to brew as they ate. Ephraim ate hungrily and finished well before the preacher.
The reverend pushed back his chair, still chewing. “You’ll be needing sleep now. We have a lot to accomplish
tomorrow. Please, use my bed. I’ll be burning the midnight oil.” He nodded to the coffee pot. “Preparing a eulogy takes time.”
Ephraim didn’t protest. He crawled into the reverend’s bed. Through the window on the other side of the room, he saw the moon, nearly full, shining through the branches of the trees. Boggs cleaned up the dishes, then sat down at his desk and worked by the light of an oil lamp. Ephraim watched him. The reverend wasn’t consulting the Bible; instead he had the strange book covered in golden stars and a moon open on his desk. He seemed totally engrossed in his reading, poring over the pages with a furrowed brow. His fountain pen scratched softly against the paper as he took notes.
The sound of the reverend’s writing lulled Ephraim to sleep.
Snowflakes fell soft and gray against the sky. Ephraim huddled behind a tombstone, watching the scant crowd gathered around the freshly dug grave. Reverend Boggs’s voice was muted with the distance, and Ephraim couldn’t make out more than the occasional word. But he watched closely as Manson Owens and Leroy Coleman lowered the pine box into the ground and began to shovel dirt over it.
I’m the last Cutler.
The thought was accompanied by a terrible ache in Ephraim’s chest.
When a mound of clumpy soil and dirty snow covered the casket, Manson and Leroy set down their shovels and the crowd dispersed. Only Reverend Boggs remained by the graveside, clutching a black Bible in his cold, white hands. When the last of the mourners had disappeared from the graveyard, Boggs turned toward Ephraim’s hiding place and beckoned.
Ephraim stepped out from behind the gravestone and trudged over to his mother’s resting place.
The two of them stood in silence. Ephraim removed his hat. A single hot tear traveled down the numbness of his cheek and dripped onto the disturbed earth.
Boggs clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, but Ephraim could barely feel it. Though his arm was healed, the coldness in it almost seemed worse—or maybe that was just the weather. It might take time to fully heal.
“I wish to speak with you about the proposition I mentioned last night.”
Ephraim took a deep breath and tried to collect himself. “Do you have the contract?”
“I do.”
“How do I meet this man?”
“He will be visiting me soon, and if you’ve signed the contract, you’ll meet him then.”
“I’m ready to sign it.”
Boggs opened his Bible and pulled out a folded sheet of paper that was tucked inside. He fished a penknife out of his pocket. “Ephraim, you didn’t know me before I came to Sixmile Creek,” he said, handing over the contract, “but you and I have more in common than you might imagine. This arrangement might sound strange to you, me asking you to sign an agreement with someone you’ve never met. It’ll strike you as even stranger when I tell you that this contract must be signed in blood.” He flicked open the penknife and offered it to Ephraim, handle first. “But in spite of my employer’s eccentricities, I can’t recommend him highly enough. He has a gift for helping people reconceptualize life, and their place in it.”
Ephraim looked from Boggs to the knife. Then he grasped the knife handle and read the contract.
I, Ephraim Cutler, pledge my life—my might, mind, strength, and soul—to Scratch, Lord of Darkness. May he spare me from Death as I stay in his good graces. For the span of seven years I will. . .
Ephraim looked up, his brow furrowed. “Scratch? Reverend, this is a deal with the Devil!”
Boggs smiled. He held up the Bible and tapped it with a finger. “Thou shalt not kill, Ephraim. Do you think the Lord’s going to save your soul?”
24
Phidity
Isabel picked her way through the woods to the place Nancy had said to meet. She found the old woman squatting by the edge of the graveyard.
“Did I miss anything?” Isabel said, crouching next to Nancy. Her breath came out as a white vapor, mixing with the falling snow.
Nancy pulled a dry weed from her mouth and pointed with its stem. Snowflakes dusted her black and gray braids. “Boggs has got Ephraim over by the grave, talkin’ ’bout somethin’. Your folks tan your hide last night when you got home after dark?”
Isabel wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. “I missed dinner. Ma said I was acting like a child, staying out too late and turning up with dirty clothes. Pa was angry that I left the store unattended.”
“You tell ’em ’bout Jubal?”
“No. I didn’t want them asking where I’d been. I’m willing to bet his death would be pinned on Ephraim if anyone heard about it. What do you think we ought to do?”
Nancy watched Boggs and Ephraim through squinted eyes. “Well, we got to warn Ephraim. If Boggs killed Jubal, he ought to know.”
Isabel watched as Boggs pulled a paper out of his Bible and pushed it toward Ephraim, along with a penknife. She glanced at Nancy. “What’re they up to?”
The granny woman was getting to her feet. “I ain’t sure, but I don’t like the looks of it.”
Dry leaves rustled and a twig snapped in the woods behind them. Isabel spun around.
A filthy-looking man crouched behind them, clutching a pistol, his mouth pinched into a hard line, his nostrils flared. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and had a ragged piece of paper clutched in one hand.
It was the stranger Isabel had seen at the church.
“Nancy!” she hissed. “The Devil!”
The stranger cursed and bolted forward to grab Isabel.
“Get behind me, child!” Nancy stepped between them with surprising speed. “I dare ye!” the granny woman said. “I dare ye to come one step closer!” Her eyes flashed, and one hand strayed to her apron pocket.
The man stopped, his eyes flicking from Nancy, to Isabel, to Ephraim and Boggs.
“Go on, Isabel,” commanded Nancy. “Warn Ephraim.” The old woman’s hand emerged from her apron clutching a fistful of white powder. “I’ll give him a taste of phidity.”
Isabel’s skirts flapped as she ran. Small flecks of snow pelted her face, melting as they touched her skin.
“Let’s see what kind of devil ye are!” she heard Nancy say behind her.
The stranger let out a strangled yell.
25
Reckon with the Devil
“Ephraim! The Devil’s here!”
Ephraim looked up from the paper he had pinned against the Bible. Boggs’s head snapped in the direction of the voice too.
Isabel was running toward him through the snow. She plowed straight into him, grabbing his arm and nearly knocking him to the ground.
“Isabel, what’s goin’ on?” he asked.
“The Devil’s here!” she panted.
“Where?”
But before Isabel could answer, he saw.
Through the flakes of falling snow a figure appeared, wearing a broad-brimmed hat. The wind whipped his Confederate coat. Above his patchy beard, his eyes looked hard enough to have been knapped from flint. He gripped a tarnished pistol in one hand.
Ephraim’s heart began to race. He pushed Isabel behind him and looked at Boggs.
The reverend’s eyes were narrowed. He reached beneath his coat, and when his hand reappeared, it was clutching his tomahawk.
The stranger stopped. His eyes were fixed on Boggs.
“Get back, Satan! You can’t have Ephraim!” Isabel screamed.
The man stared past her, eyes locked on the reverend. He sneered, baring rotten, yellowed teeth. “I ain’t no devil, girl.” His voice was cold. “I’m here to reckon with the devil Bill Boggs.”
Ephraim and Isabel looked at the reverend. He said nothing, studying the stranger, his face expressionless.
“What’s the matter, Boggs?” the stranger said. “Don’t you recognize Reuben Pierce no more? That’s funny, because I haven’t forgotten your face since you took Amos!” He raised his gun and aimed it straight at the reverend.
Boggs’s face broke into a grin. “I remember
you, Reuben, but I doubt your son cares to anymore.”
Reuben gave a guttural roar and pulled the trigger on his revolver. Once. Twice. The gunshots echoed through the graveyard. Reuben kept squeezing the trigger until his revolver clicked empty.
Isabel clutched Ephraim’s arm in both hands. Boggs stumbled back into a tree, propelled by the force of the bullets. He dropped his tomahawk, clutched at his chest.
Reuben stood for a time, his gun still pointed at the preacher. He glanced at Ephraim and Isabel, then motioned with the pistol. “Go on. You two best get out of here.”
Boggs slid down the length of the trunk, scarlet ribbons leaking between the fingers of the hand covering his heart. He stopped in a sitting position, closing his eyes with a groan. He brought his left hand to his mouth and began to cough, each hack more violent than the last. He wiped his mouth with the back of his fist.
Then he looked up at Reuben and bared crimson teeth in a cruel smile. With surprising ease, he got to his feet, retrieved the fallen tomahawk with his right hand, and opened his left, dropping six misshapen lumps of bloody lead onto the ground.
“Now why’d you go and do a fool thing like that, Reuben?”
Reuben took a step backward.
Boggs undid his cravat with his free hand, grasped the collar of his shirt, and ripped it open. “You probably heard your son talk about this. Take a look for yourself.”
The reverend’s chest was whole. Blood stained the skin, but there were no signs of bullet wounds.
Isabel gripped Ephraim’s arm even tighter.
Reuben’s shoulders sagged. He looked over at Ephraim. “Boy, that contract you’re holdin’, don’t sign it. My son trusted Boggs, and now he’s lost forever.”
Isabel tugged on Ephraim’s arm. “He’s right, Ephraim. You can’t trust the reverend. I found Jubal’s body. Boggs killed him.”
Some Dark Holler Page 15