South of Shiloh

by Chuck Logan

  Something was out here, pacing him.

  Mitch unsnapped the leather holster and jerked out the Colt Navy. His sweat-slick thumb poised on the hammer.

  So damn thick out here, hard to tell.

  When he turned to continue, it lunged out from behind a tree; fast and silent and massive. Mitch’s hands swung up defensively as he tried to pull the Colt on target. His left fist caught hard, painfully, on something sharp, scrape of dry bark, a spike of dead branch. Just before a stiff right-arm punch stunned his face, he caught a nightmare glimpse of his attacker: white of eye, swollen in anger, a bunched brow of purple-black pigment under wooly black hair. In that second of blindness, the pistol was stripped from his grasp.

  Powerful hands spun him, then a thick, muscular, dark-skinned arm snaked around his throat. Mitch scrambled, trying to plant his feet for leverage, but his attacker had now clamped Mitch’s neck in a vice formed by biceps and forearm squeezing together. Gasping, Mitch pawed, trying to break the inexorable pressure. Fucker was leaning into him, pushing his throat deeper into the crook of the elbow. Eyes bulging, he saw sweaty pores in dark skin overlaid with a pattern of fresh scars, like purple worms. Struggling more feebly now, losing air, losing light in some kind of strangle hold. Blacking out…just the sharp muscle odor smothering him, like burning compost, armpit-scented fear.

  Fuckin’ nigger……jumped him…

  Mitch’s knees buckled and he lost consciousness.

  A ripping sound brought him back. Duct tape tearing. The sticky adhesive cut off light, covering his eyes. Then another strip wrapped his mouth.

  Sheer panic. Struggle to breathe through his nose. Fight back. But the attacker was too strong, had twisted his arms behind him. More ripping sounds as the tape wrapped his wrists.

  Roughly, Mitch was pulled to a kneeling position.

  Blind, mute, bound, he strained to hear. And what he heard coming through the vast silence of the forest was this loopy electronic chiming of the cell phone in his pocket. Ring tone must have been activated during the fight.

  He felt the guy dig the cell from his trousers, heard him speak, a garbled “Wha?”

  Mitch could only hear a miniature buzz imprisoned inside the slender metal device, no words. Then the sound ended abruptly as the guy clamped the phone shut and spoke in his wheezing, disgusted voice.

  “Dumb,” he said.

  The powerful hands wrenched Mitch to his feet, seized his arm with a bruising grip.

  “Now what have you done, you dumb motherfucker?”

  Mitch heard the blubber of his own terror and frustration, blocked by the tape. The grip on his arm propelled him forward, stumbling on the leaves, snapping dead branches.

  “You were set for life, man. Now what have you done?” the guy repeated.

  Mitch tripped. The powerful guiding hand on his shoulder steadied him and shoved him onward.

  “Dumb,” the guy said again.

  17

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, AT 1:55 P.M., JOHN RANE paced his living space, which was tidy, sparsely furnished, and—he glanced at the wall clock—about to be entered by Jenny Hatton, married name, Edin.

  He had trained his mind not to entertain thoughts about Jenny. His visual memory was too acute. When she crossed his mind he visualized a blindfold…

  Blindfold. Firing squad. For desertion in the face of paternity.

  Shorthand for Jenny. You did her wrong. Moreover, on making her exit, she had explained at great length just exactly what a mistake he was making.

  Right in this room, sitting there on the couch. You’ll never find another woman like me.

  For eleven years, not unlike an addict searching to recreate the magic of his first high, he’d tried to prove her wrong with a parade of women.

  Well, shit.

  Rane sagged and did what he did best; let his thoughts drift off like bubbles and observed the physical world in front of his eyes. His living room was a functional studio; bookshelves floor to ceiling over a computer/writing desk. An old-style light table remained out of nostalgia for the pre-digital world of negatives and darkroom dodging; gone now in the mouse clicks of Photoshop. The same swayback couch. An upright piano.

  An enigmatic Modigliani nude hung on the wall over the couch, his sole personal touch since he’d removed the Henri Cartier-Bresson print of the classic 1932 shot behind the Gare Saint-Lazare: man leaping from a plank over a wide puddle, perfectly suspended above his reflection.

  The Decisive Moment.

  Letting her walk out that door.

  Item by item, he’d stripped the bungalow down to a bare-bones staging area for his work, and the no-frills theme carried through to his appearance. Six feet tall, slat-lean; his regular features were dominated by deep, watchful eyes. A pale man who preferred shadow to sunlight, who kept switchblade reflexes spring-loaded in unobtrusive stillness.

  Indifferent to clothing, he lived in jeans and T-shirts. In winter he added a layer of fleece and a pair of dog-eared Sorels. When an assignment required different coloration to infiltrate a story, he could turn himself out with the virtuosity of a character actor.

  Standing in the living room, he combed his long fingers through his dark, short-cropped hair and tracked his eyes across the room to the upright piano. He walked over, picked a plastic bottle of water off the bench, and took a swig. Then he glanced at the clock again. Two minutes. He sat down.

  Like Ansel Adams, he honored the artistic link between the keyboard and the camera; his taste in music and the composition of his shots reflected the moody minor keys. With a lazy flip of his wrists he let his fingers wander over the keys and, automatically, like a default setting, he began to pick at the sweet piece by Debussy. A selection from the Children’s Corner the composer had written as a present to his daughter…

  Punctual as a planned barrage, three sharp knocks rapped on the door. Rane exhaled, stared at his hands on the keyboard, then got up and walked to the door. He pulled it open and stared into Jennifer Edin’s steady, unforgettable blue eyes.

  She wore faded jeans, tennis shoes, a white cotton blouse, and a loose unzipped fleece the color of poppies. Rane automatically stored details, so he noted the same leather saddlebag purse slung over her shoulder; a little more worn…

  In that instant, the whole predictable momentum of his life swerved. He experienced a falling sensation in his chest. His heart raced, his mouth dried up, and, even though he knew it was coming, he couldn’t put sound to his surprise.

  Jenny was more composed or, at least, more ready. She had prepared for this moment, yielding to it by fractions.

  But she didn’t speak either. They stared at each other across three feet of space and eleven years. Images flooded in: he looked the same; the room had changed slightly, with the addition of the computer desk and more bookshelves. The famous picture by the French photographer was missing above the light table.

  Maybe, she thought, Rane had outgrown the Master.

  The same solitary Modigliani nude hung over the same brown couch like Rane’s Dorian Gray soul; distorted beauty complicated by hunger. Looking past him into the kitchen, she saw the plastic glitter of stacked twenty-four-packs of bottled water. Used to be gallon jugs. Rane had always surrounded himself with water. Hoarded it. Weird. It’s like Rane and the place where he lived had been frozen in time.

  Crazy moment, like she’d walked into her imagination.

  Long seconds passed in complicated silence. Where to start? Rane backed up, formally, courteously, to give her space to enter the house.

  She took a step closer, then another, and saw that he wasn’t an entirely preserved fantasy. The sunless skin of his face fit tighter. His eyes had matured and hardened. A starfish of scar split his right eyebrow.

  Rane held his breath and stared.

  The trill of the cell phone in her purse broke the awkward tension.

  They both laughed too loud, grateful for the trivial intervention. She reached for the phone and flipped it open. “Yes…�
��

  Rane studied her face, which looked a mite fuller—no, it was the shorter hair. She still had little use for makeup or lipstick. What you see is what you get. And what you got was still pretty good. A clean, tart scent spooled in her hair. Chlorine. Swimming…

  “Who?” Jenny’s voice broke.

  Rane tensed as the bottom dropped out of her tone and instinctively went up on the balls of his feet.

  “What do you mean, something happened?” she gasped, and Rane watched her eyes go slick and ugly.

  He started forward as she jockeyed for balance; nostrils wide, pupils dilated, then contracted. Saw shock suck the color from her cheeks.

  Jenny put one hand out to brace on the door jam. “What? No!” She hunched over the phone in the other hand, drawing it in tight as her voice rasped. Then the whites of her eyes swelled suddenly and Rane identified the exploding mortal pain he’d seen up close too many times, burned into the optics of a lens.

  The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered on the oak floor. Her knees buckled and her eyes fluttered and she pitched sideways against the side of the foyer doorway.

  Rane moved in fast and supported her with one hand as he snatched the phone in mid-spin off the floor with the other. It was still connected, so he raised it to his ear and demanded, “Who is this?” His other hand pressed the hollow of her throat and shoulder, propping her. Her skin was clammy, cold, and he could distinctly feel the big vein throb in his palm.

  “Mrs. Edin, ma’am…?” A male voice lashed down in a steel twang. Rane knew immediately. Cop’s voice. Not from around here.

  “She can’t talk,” Rane said quickly, as a straight-edge shiver razored down the back of his neck. Rane could just tell, it was gonna be bad, so he improvised. “Damn it, I’m her neighbor. Who is this?”

  “Sir? This is Deputy Kenny Beeman. I’m with the Alcorn County Sheriff, we’re in Corinth…”

  “Corinth?”

  “Yes sir. Corinth, Mississippi; we’re down here a little ways south of Shiloh.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Rane shouted as his own control slipped. Jesus, where’s Molly?

  “It’s real bad, sir. Been a wrongful death. Paul. Her husband. Ain’t no easy way to put it. See to her. Got me a similar situation with a friend of her husband’s who started this call. I was with the man…with Paul…right next to him when it happened. Hang tight. I’ll call you back in ten at this number,” the cop said.

  “What happened, what do I tell her?” Rane blurted.

  “Her husband just got killed in some crazy accident. At this Civil War reenactment we got down here. Could be somebody accidentally put a live round in a muzzleloader. If it was an accident…” the voice was labored, conflicted. Rane heard anger, remorse; the tone off for a cop, like he was taking it personally. “Ain’t real clear; I’m at the hospital right now. Sir, you better see to the woman. I’ll try’n get more information. Call you back in ten.” The Mississippi cop broke the connection.

  An utter failure in the small gestures of ordinary life, Rane excelled in crisis. Automatically, he lifted her and she fought his arms, her eyes struggling to focus. Jesus. In my arms. Smelling her, gathering the warm, loose weight of her. Then he crossed the room and lowered her to the couch. Swiftly, he unsnapped the button on her jeans, removed her tennis shoes, and went to the kitchen, where he uncapped a bottle of water, tilted it into a glass, reached for a clean towel, soaked it under the cool tap, and wrung it out.

  Back at the couch, he folded the damp towel on her forehead. Then he retrieved the cell phone, came back to the couch, and bent over her.

  “Jenny.”

  Her eyes were locked open now and she surged to get up. When he steadied her, she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close, so he felt the hot flush of tears on his throat. He firmly eased her back down.

  More alert now, she cringed and made a terrible sound in her throat, and her hands came up fists and flailed. “No,” she insisted. “No.”

  Rane captured her hands and pushed them to her sides. “Breathe,” he said gently. “Breathe through your nose.” His tone seemed to calm her, and her chest heaved as she took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m going to let your hands go,” Rane said. “I want you to drink some water. Okay?”

  She nodded with great deliberation as if a sudden move would break the fragile dam that contained her tears. As he handed her the glass, she scooted her back up the arm of the couch and drew up her knees. Elbows tight to her sides, she accepted the glass with both hands and took a sip. As she handed back the glass, she took in her unfastened jeans, her shoes on the floor, the cloth that had slipped from her face, the way he continued to hover as he set the glass aside.

  From first-aid classes, she understood he was monitoring her for shock.

  “Cripes,” she said with empty mirth, blinking as she saw a stocky gray cat strut into the living room from the kitchen. “Hajji. You’ve got the same cat.” Her eyes traveled the room and she muttered, “My husband went to Mississippi, see, to this Civil War…” her voice trailed off and she looked him level in the eyes and asked frankly, “That really happened? What the cop said?”

  “He’s going to call back in a few minutes,” Rane said softly.

  Jenny nodded. Numb. Vacant. Couldn’t talk. Something filled her chest, something big and inert that crowded her throat and made it hard to breathe. And then she could talk, from a practical, metal part of her mind: “Paul went out of town and I drove in from the valley to knock on your door and now they say he’s dead.” She grimaced, and it hit her.

  “Oh my God, Molly. Jesus, what do I do?”

  Rane waited a moment, then said in a flat, practical tone, “Triage. Take care of the living, starting with you.”

  The Mississippi cop called back promptly in ten minutes. Rane handed the phone to Jenny and retreated. He fetched a pad and pen when she made a scribbling motion with her hand. After five hard minutes talking through tears, she ended the call and stared at two pages of notes and numbers. Rane offered her a towel he’d grabbed from the kitchen, and she blotted the tears from her face. Then she shook her head and spoke in a deliberate, blood-drained voice: “Paul was wounded in the throat and bled to death almost instantly. It doesn’t make sense. The cop, Beeman, couldn’t give me a straight answer. He said accidents can happen with those rifles they use.”

  Rane reigned in his curiosity at the whole reenactor scenario and the way the cop’s voice had sounded. Stay on the present. “First things first. Where’s Molly?” he asked.

  “My mom’s with her. They were going to a movie. That’s why the cop called my cell. No one answered at home.”

  “How’d he get the numbers?”

  “Paul’s friend, Davey. He was going to call but I guess they had a rough time trying to get Paul some medical help and he needed some attention himself. The cop picked up the phone, like you did.” She narrowed her eyes, studying his expression; like he was waiting on her permission. “What? Go on, talk.”

  “Maybe you should call and have your mom send Molly over to a friend’s. Molly should hear this from you, not from her grandmother. I wouldn’t tell your mom on the phone.”

  Jenny bit her lip. “Don’t tell Mom?”

  “Better face-to-face. Then tell Molly.” He thought for a moment. “Is there a minister? I mean…”

  Jenny shook her head. “We don’t go to church. Just on Christmas.” She stared at the piano. “For the music.” She pushed off the couch and tested her balance. Important to stay in control here. “I gotta go home.”

  Rane moved in fast to steady her. “I don’t think you should drive right now.” After a pause, he said, “Put on your shoes.”

  Jenny blinked and lowered herself back to the couch, leaned forward, slowly pulled on the sneakers, and stared at her fingers busy with the laces. Paul was dead and she had to tie her shoes. Paul was dead and soon she’d be hungry and have to remember to eat. Paul was dead and eventually she’d have to g
o to the bathroom. Enough.

  Need to be strong. For Molly. Something Dad said once.

  My turn.

  Her eyes tilted up, still tear-bright but some strength returning. She flashed on the famous photograph in the paper last week: the guy killing himself while Rane took his picture. “You’re good at this. People dying.” Saying it, she felt stronger.

  Then she stood up and noticed the unfastened top button of her jeans and did it up. Rane handed her the cell phone and her purse. She plunged in her hand, fished out her keys, took a deep breath, looked around the room. “I shouldn’t be here. I gotta go home.”

  He blocked the door. “Not a good idea, you driving right now,” he said patiently.

  She pushed against him, he resisted. She pushed again. Just before it became a physical struggle, he raised his hands and stepped back. She exited the door and managed to reach the sidewalk before all the normal street sounds curdled in her stomach. She looked up once and was stunned by the immensity of the sky. Then, in a lurch of nausea, she walked stiffly to the car. Muscle memory. Open the door.

  Trembling, she felt bile ripple up in her throat and push more tears from her eyes. A whole shelf of grief collapsed her to her knees and she vomited on the pavement.

  Rane was standing there as she shuddered against the side of the car. When the spasm passed, Rane took her arms and helped her to her feet. He handed her a blue bandanna to wipe the vomitus from her face. Then he handed her one of his ubiquitous bottles of water to rinse her mouth.

  They were alone.

  In the shadow of Paul’s death.

  And they had a daughter.

  “I’m going to drive you home,” Rane said firmly.

  This time Jenny did not protest. She let him lead her to the passenger seat. Saw him for what he was: hard-edged and extremely competent. Right, for now.

  She sat trying to marshal her thoughts as he got in and strapped the seat belt. As he put the car in gear, she said, “I want a cigarette.”

  “I quit,” Rane said.

  “Me too. Everybody did. I want a cigarette.”