BURYING ZIMMERMAN (The River Trilogy, book 2)

by Edward A. Stabler

  "Maybe he seen the girl inside Jessie."

  "What?" Zimmerman seems to be acknowledging Garrett's pathology and guilt.

  "Inside her. Growing in her womb."

  All my thoughts about Gig Garrett freeze and shatter, and for the first time in hours an image of Drew returns. I'm the eight-year-old brother he's just rescued from the mine, and I look up at him as we're walking down the hill toward Rock Run with Henry and Jessie. She glances back at Drew and laughs when he makes a joke about deep fishing holes.

  Now I swallow hard and my eyes well up. In the thirty years since her death it had never occurred to me, but just this moment I realize it must be true. Jessie was pregnant with Drew's child. When she met Gig Garrett on the path at Widewater to tell him there was nothing left between them, Garrett wrung her neck and threw her from the bridge. And my niece or nephew died along with her. That's what Drew was never able to recover from, even after he married Susan. That's why when Garrett reappeared in Cabin John after leaving Nome, Drew had to hold him accountable for Jessie's death.

  "He killed her!" I repeat. "And he killed the child she would have borne! You knew it, Henry! Maybe not when you left for the Yukon, but you must have known it by the time you saw him again in Nome. If you'd been able to tell me that tonight, maybe I could believe you were on Drew's side when you went to Garrett's cabin. That is, if you went to Garrett's cabin!"

  "I was there," Zimmerman hisses, placing his palms flat on the table and leaning forward. "It's hard to sneak up on a man that's been hunted all his life. You ever been hunted, Owen?"

  I feel a flush at my hairline and temples and realize I'm sweating again, so I spread my opened shirt buttons and glance sideways: the coals in the stove are still orange and the cabin suddenly seems smaller.

  "I've never been wanted for committing a crime."

  Zimmerman snorts in amusement. "I don't mean hunted by the RCMP. Or a couple of drifters from Skagway. Or Sam Nokes."

  "You're talking about the glowing girl. The phantasm Garrett thought was hunting him."

  "She's real, Owen. She killed his father. Made a carriage swerve on Chain Bridge, swept him into the river. Right in the middle of a painting crew and nobody seen how it happened. Gig was only three years old, but he knowed it from that day, knowed his turn was coming. Been coming all these years."

  As Zimmerman says this, a hollow feeling forms in my stomach and a low humming sound takes wing between my ears. Something feels horribly wrong. I try backpedaling onto steadier ground.

  "Gig may have been sure the glowing girl was trying to drown him, but she missed her chances. She'll never get him now." I pause to catch my breath. "He's been dead for twenty-two years. He and Drew shot each other and his cabin went up in flames. So his phantasm died along with him."

  "She's still out there, Owen. It ain't over."

  My breathing turns shallow and quick. For hours, my attitude toward Zimmerman has swung like a pendulum between belief and disbelief. But now that I'm convinced he accepted Gig's delusions long ago, the pendulum has stopped swinging. In 1902, Henry knew it was Gig who killed Jessie and Perlmutter. He knew Gig was driven by his fear of the glowing girl. And he knew Gig would never have allowed Drew to handcuff him without a lethal fight.

  But even if Henry conspired with Garrett, it's over now – everything except my chance to avenge Drew tonight. My anger rises because he won't let go.

  "Did you inherit Gig's curse, Henry? Is the glowing girl hunting you now?"

  "She ain't after Henry."

  The humming in my head rings louder. I focus on his hands resting on the table, weathered fingers extended toward me. Nine full and one severed, the one that drew my attention as an eight-year-old, after Henry helped rescue me from the mine.

  "She never was," Zimmerman says, "and it's too late anyhow."

  Like the fog that shrouded Wylie, the fog enveloping Zimmerman begins to burn away. Something he said a few minutes ago echoes in my head, and suddenly I feel sick. My right hand drifts from the table to my lap and my fingers curl around the grip of the Colt.

  "Your finger," I manage. "You said it earlier. You said, 'it was my own doing'."

  Zimmerman's mouth curls into a tight-lipped smile. My heart beats faster and my queasiness subsides.

  "But it was Garrett's doing," I tell him. "Both times."

  "Henry should of knowed better."

  "When? When he put his hand in the water to catch a frog and trusted you not to spear it? Or when he and Drew came to your cabin to ask you to give the sheriff your fingerprints?"

  He laughs. "Both times."

  Everything I believed is wrong. That September night in 1902 recast the arc of my life, and now the foundation for all my rationalizations and questions and fears has been ripped away. Drew didn't shoot Gig Garrett, and Garrett didn't burn to a crisp in his wood cellar. He's staring at me from across the table. It was Henry Zimmerman who died alongside Drew that night, and tonight's storyteller killed them both. And Perlmutter. And Jessie and her unborn child.

  I raise the Colt quickly from my lap but the muzzle catches on the table edge, and the instant I lower my eyes to sweep it clear is the instant Garrett grabs the knife. It doesn't matter, even when he flips it to his right hand and holds it ready. My pistol points directly at his chest.

  "You killed Drew first," I say. "Made him throw down his revolver, then shot him in the chest. That was the easy part."

  Garrett seems to be watching that night play out against the insides of his eyes.

  "Henry was the body in the cellar. That must have been tricky. You shot him with Drew's gun, maybe knocked him in the head to finish him off. You wanted everyone to think he was you, so you put your gold ring on his right hand. Then you dropped him into the cellar, poured oil on him, and burned him into a blackened shell."

  "Henry gave me no choice," Garrett says. "And burning don't hurt when you're dead."

  "But that wouldn't have been enough," I add, visualizing another twist in the labyrinth. "Because Henry had a severed finger and you didn't. So when the police found a corpse with nine-and-a-half fingers, they would have known it was Henry, not you."

  Now the remaining turns seem clear.

  "So you used the hatchet. You laid Henry on the floor near the trapdoor, stretched out his left hand, and chopped off three fingers at the knuckle, flush with the stub he had on the fourth. Then you dumped the corpse into the cellar. It had four half-fingers on its left hand. It could have been you. But you needed another bloody stub to leave on the floor."

  My eyes find Garrett's left hand, resting again on the table.

  "You needed half a ring finger," I say, focusing on his stump.

  "Like I said," Garrett agrees in a baleful voice, "it was my own doing."

  And as I lift my eyes something slams into the left side of my chest, just below my shoulder. My fingers flex and I pull the trigger as the force of Garrett's thrown knife tips me backward. He ducks as the bullet flies high and right. Splinters burst from the wall. The hollow sound of a gunshot fills the cabin. Garrett lunges low across the table toward me, but I'm already falling over. My left side feels useless, made of putty. I swing the pistol toward him and fire twice more before my back hits the floor and my gun hand flies backward.

  I hear him yowl and hiss and then he's diving down from the table before I can track him with the Colt. His eyes are locked in a feral squint and his hollowed face is stretched and sweating, lips pulled back to show clenched yellow teeth. A dark stain soaks his shirt below his left collarbone. My second bullet must have struck him where his knife struck me.

  Drops of his blood rain onto my neck and face as his knees come free from the table and his body falls onto me. His hands seek out my wrist, driving the pistol down toward the floor. When I try to raise my left arm against him, a searing pain stops me. The knife blade is buried in the hollow below my shoulder.

  One of his knees is on my chest and his hands are prying my fingers loose. In seconds
he'll have the gun. I pull the trigger once, twice, and one final time, and bullets ricochet off the floor and walls behind my head as he snatches the Colt from my grip. He pins my right wrist with his foot, aims the barrel at my chest, and pulls the trigger without saying a word. I take a last full breath and exhale, knowing the chamber is empty and gathering myself for a final effort. Garrett snarls something unintelligible, and the pistol butt flashes down toward my temple as I close my eyes.

  Chapter 48

  I lower my eyes from an ill-timed glance at the sun. Clara is telling me about a gas-house explosion in Santa Fe as we sit on a round-backed rock beside the Pecos River, on an upper reach where the valley is narrow and its walls are steep and green with ponderosa pines. It's early autumn and we can see blazes of yellow above us where the aspens have turned. The river rolls over skull-sized rocks that glow, when the cloud shadows lift, in colors ranging from rust to amber to bone.

  Winnie studies them as she wades carefully across and back, holding her bunched-up dress above the knee-deep water. Strands of her hair lift in the breeze. She looks tall and thoughtful and must be eight years old. When she's as far upstream as I could cast a fish-hook, she bends forward, lowering her face almost to the water. She stares for a full minute, then stands and pivots toward Clara and me.

  "Papa!" she calls out. "Come see!"

  I extend my palm toward Clara and raise my eyebrows, offering her the chance to share Winnie's discovery, but she shakes her head.

  "Oh no," she laughs. "You're the treasure hunter in this family. I'll settle for cataloging whatever you bring back."

  "Maybe it's a gold nugget," I counter. "Then you'll wish you'd seen it in place."

  I leave my shoes next to Clara, roll my trouser legs above my knees, and wade slowly upstream and across the river. Most of the rocks hold steady under my weight. Winnie has turned back toward her discovery and is staring at the shaded surface again.

  When I reach her she acknowledges me with a glance and points to the water just as the sun illuminates a deep pool before her. An underwater oval of river rocks defines its periphery, and at its center are two eroded stone lions lying side by side, just like the ones carved from tufa rock on the Pajarito plateau. It's hard to tell how big they are – the pool might be three or thirty feet deep. Winnie and I stare through the surface ripples at the lions below for a long time.

  "I'm cold," she says. I nod and take her hand, then lead her back to Clara on the sun-splashed rock.

  "I'll go get blankets," I say.

  Our cabin is a hundred feet up the bank through the trees. I leave my shoes on the rock and climb to the cabin barefoot. It's made of logs, with an entry from the front porch into the main room. Two doorways in the back wall lead to small bedrooms with windows facing up and down the valley. I enter the bedroom on the left and close the door to reach the shelves mounted on the wall behind it. But now the shelves are gone, and the log wall is smooth clay.

  I look around the dimly-lit room. The walls are adobe. I can touch all four with a single step from the center of the floor. No blankets anywhere, just a bed-sized table of thick pine branches against the wall opposite the door. I approach to look closer and realize it's neither bed nor table. It's a cremation pyre. I pivot back to the door and pull. It doesn't open, even when I yank hard with both hands.

  I turn toward the outer wall. It's three feet thick and has two square windows that look like port-holes. Peering through the nearest one, I extend my hands and head into the shaft. My shoulders won't fit through. I can't see the sky, but the trees through the window look dark and threatening. Then a flash illuminates the hillside, and my right hand feels like it's been stung by a bee. As thunder rolls down the valley, I pull it from the window shaft and open my fingers to examine my palm. A wolf tooth impales its center. The tooth is framed by two eyes, drawn simply in black. Drops of blood from the tooth-wound look like tears.

  ***

  My throat hurts and my head throbs as I open my eyes, flat on my back in the cabin of the scow. The oil lamp is out but dawn light seeps through the port and starboard windows. Is Garrett gone? I can't hear him. Instead there's a crackling sound, and an orange glow that comes and goes against the wall. My right arm is stretched out on the floor, with something hot and heavy pressing on my palm. I turn my head to look and see the fire a few feet beyond it. Instinctively I pull my hand back, but it won't move and a bolt of pain shoots through it. When I focus harder I see the knife. Garrett has stabbed my hand to the floor.

  I roll toward it, and my left arm flops away as if a violent kick has dislodged it at the shoulder. Grimacing, I flip my shoulder and the arm follows limply. I roll further, pulling in my knees and using my elbow to pry myself onto them, trying to keep my stabbed hand still.

  Now I'm facing the waist-high fire and absorbing the full heat from its rising flames. A circle of coals glows orange on the floor, with gray and white hunks layered on top. Garrett has broken the cask into pieces and formed a teepee above the coals. The whiskey-soaked staves are burning freely, and shards of glass sparkle in the fire beneath them. The lamp must have contributed its oil.

  I glance up. Smoke has pillowed across the ceiling and is pushing down toward the floor. Sweat drips from my face as I lower it toward my hand. The cabin seems small and the fire unbearably hot, close enough to engulf me. I try to close the fingers of my stabbed hand around the butt of the knife. I can't grip it.

  Bracing myself for pain, I swing my left arm toward the knife. From shoulder to elbow it feels like a torn rag, but somehow my fingers close firmly around the hot handle. Instantly they're drenched in sweat. I anchor both elbows on the floor and tighten my grip, determined to do this only once. Then I curl my left hand up with all my strength. My shoulder feels crushed, but the knife and both hands rise together, and then the blade slips free from the flesh.

  I back away from the fire on my knees and manage to stand without using my hands. Immediately the smoke hunches me over. I pocket the knife, take off my jacket, and wrap its sleeves around my shoulder wound. Then I stretch my shirt across my nose and mouth and shuffle to the door.

  Pull my bleeding hand into my shirt sleeve and use it to open the door a few inches. My knee does the rest.

  Stagger up three steps, into April air and birdsong. Stand near the transom and breathe.

  Follow the starboard rail, past the cabin window that shows orange smoke within. The dawn sky reveals drops of blood on the race plank. Garrett was here. Where is he now? The door to the stable in the bow swings ajar. Wasn’t it closed when I climbed onboard?

  A few more steps to the sycamore that stopped the scow.

  Resting my forearm against its trunk, I look down for the foothold cut. The cool air is a blessing, but my breaths are shallow. I feel drained and starved and sick.

  I sit on the rail, stretch my foot into the cut, and lunge forward, but nothing works. I spin off-balance as I fall. The dried mud hits my feet, knees, right side, and I roll face down.

  Kneel, stand, stumble, and crawl across the uneven dirt.

  I'm away from the scow, far enough from the fire, and that's all that matters. I collapse and close my eyes, no longer afraid.

  Chapter 49

  May 2, 1924

  Using my bandaged hand, I set my flask against the gravestone as a tribute. I haven't opened it since my night with Garrett on the scow. That was Tuesday. It's Friday now, just past sunset. I wanted to wait until the Methodist cemetery was quiet. I don't want anyone to ask me about this grave.

  The stone must be softer than most, because the name engraved on it is already losing definition. That seems fitting. It memorializes a lie.

  Gilbert Garrett

  1874 – 1902

  I don't know where he is, but I'm convinced he's alive.

  Bill Morris, who saw the smoke from Sandy Landing Road and followed it to the scow, found me in wretched condition on Wednesday morning. But neither he nor the others who appeared from nowhere to gawk at the
smoldering wreck found another body nearby. I didn't mention Garrett. Just told the police I had happened upon the scow and climbed aboard to explore it when I was attacked by someone I never saw. That was all I remembered of Tuesday night.

  But I remember everything about it. And after they disinfected my wounds, sewed me up, and sent me to my mother's house in Cabin John, I spent two days fitting the pieces together.

  When I mentioned on the scow that he and Jessie helped rescue me from the mine at Rock Run when I was a child, Zimmerman didn't seem to remember the event. He couldn't have, because Gig Garrett wasn't there.

  But Garrett's description of his time in the Yukon rings true to me. Chilkoot Pass, the lakes and rapids, tramping up Bonanza Creek with Sam Nokes before the Klondike strike, Circle City, Dawson, Rampart – every episode seemed more immediate than the ones in Henry's story. Garrett knew the terrain and characters Henry encountered, but he had to imagine a journey that took place three years after his own. That's why he initially failed to note that steamers were plying the upper reaches of the Yukon by 1899. Henry would have seen them.

  Wylie was an invention of necessity. Even while posing as Zimmerman, Garrett couldn't accept blame for his actions or admit his irrational fears. He assigned them to Wylie instead. But on the scow Zimmerman still had to convince me he'd turned against his adopted brother Gig Garrett and allied himself with Drew. That's why when I asked him early on whether he thought Gig had killed Jessie, he said 'there's a part of him that done it.' The part of him he later named Wylie.

  So I believe the real Henry Zimmerman lived up to his word. He tried to help Drew bring Garrett in for fingerprinting. During his time with Garrett in the Yukon, Henry saw what his adopted brother had become, and he couldn't avoid the truth anymore. He was ready to help implicate Garrett in Jessie's death, before his brother's delusions killed or crippled anyone else.

  Drew found Henry waiting on the towpath that night, and they went to Garrett's cabin together. Even if I'd gone with them and managed to find a path that didn't alert the dog, he would have been waiting for us. Gig Garrett was a hard man to sneak up on. He told me that Tuesday night, and I take him at his word. If Drew and Henry had waited for me, I'd have been shot and killed alongside them.