Bill rummaged through the portmanteau, examining its contents, carelessly shoving aside the few possessions the man owned. Suddenly there was the clink of coins, a flash of silver and green, as Bill Whitley unknotted an old sock he had found among the other things and emptied its contents into the palm of one hand. He whistled appreciatively under his breath, counting out the money, saying almost below the level of hearing: “I wonder who the son-of-a-bitch stole this from.”
He counted the money again, then quickly shoved it into one pocket of his coat, bringing his eyes to Franklin. He did not speak, but the look in his eyes carried clear meaning—no word was ever to be spoken of this. Bill hurriedly shoved the work clothes back into the portmanteau and slammed it shut. Straightening up in the truckbed, he slung it as far away from the truck as he could.
The leather case came to rest at the edge of the dead corn field across the road, springing open to spill its contents out over the ground, but Bill seemed not to have noticed or to care. When Franklin looked back to him, he found the man staring down at Sanders again with that queer look in his eyes. Bill knelt and began to manhandle Sanders up and half-over the side of the truck box, leaving him hanging there for a moment before giving him a shove with one foot and sending him down onto the hard-packed clay surface of the roadbed—so, he’s still alive, Franklin thought, hearing a muffled groan from the unconscious man as his body impacted the hard ground. He looked up again as Bill Whitley jumped down to stand beside him.
“Bring him—” Bill said, then turned and strode away toward where the burned-out sharecropper shack had once stood.
After a moment, Franklin knelt and lifted Sanders into his arms, then stood with his burden to follow Bill Whitley. He realized suddenly that he was carrying the unconscious man with an unnecessary gentleness toward his injuries, but he did not stop. Somehow he knew this could very well be the last kindness the man would ever know in this life. Somehow, he knew.
Bill Whitley was throwing aside the plank coverings to an old well when Franklin reached him and laid Janson Sanders on the ground nearby. The wooden curb to the well was long gone now, or, more likely, burned in the fire that had destroyed the house. Bill uncovered the dank, gaping hole, then stood staring down it, as if relishing the moment before proceeding on to what Franklin already knew was inevitable.
“Dump him in,” Bill said at last, not looking up.
Franklin stood staring at him for a moment, not moving. He had no idea why Bill Whitley wanted this man dead, or why he was going against his father’s orders, and it really did not matter to him. He had killed before, not at the behest of the Whitleys, but for other, even harder men he had worked for in the past, as well as for his own reasons and purposes when he had found it necessary. Killing did not bother him—but somehow this went against the grain. Ending a man’s life was a simple process, and it could be easily and cleanly done—but to throw a living and badly injured man down a well to die of his injuries, or to drown him in the darkness of the water below, went beyond killing.
“Dump him in!” Bill’s voice rose, tinged with impatience, and Franklin’s eyes moved back to the man lying on the ground, to the blood caked and dried now on the battered face, and the torn and blood-stained clothes. Never once had he failed at a job, and he would not do so now—but he could show mercy. He would send Sanders down the well, but he would end the man’s life first, quickly and mercifully, before doing so, and Bill Whitley would never even have to know.
But he had hesitated too long. Bill’s patience had grown thin. He gave an annoyed sound and shoved at the unconscious man with his foot, and then again, finally sending Janson Sanders over the edge and down into the darkness below.
Franklin Bates stared at Bill Whitley for a long moment, seeing the look of satisfaction that came to the man’s face as he peered into the well. “That’s one son-of-a-bitch who’ll never cause trouble again,” Bill said, seeming to have forgotten his irritation at Franklin’s delay. Bill continued to stare down into the darkness for a long time, and then looked up at Franklin.
“We can’t go back too soon. Cover the well over and we’ll go into town for a drink, maybe even find a little female company for a while.” He started back toward the truck, leaving Franklin Bates standing alone there in the chill air.
Franklin looked down the open well for a moment—there was nothing anyone could do for Janson Sanders now. His fate had been sealed from the moment he had decided to run away with Elise Whitley, perhaps even from the first moment he had stepped foot on Whitley land, and perhaps it was right that he rested now on Whitley property, near Elise Whitley in death, as he had not been able to be in life.
Franklin bent and began to cover the well again with the planks Bill had thrown aside, then stood to stare back toward the truck and toward Bill Whitley who stood impatiently at its side—it was not safe to let a man like Bill live, a man who took such pleasure in killing, a man who killed with such cruelty and ease. Franklin knew he would kill Bill Whitley one day, with no more mercy than the man had shown today, if the chance ever came.
Franklin looked back to the covered well one last time, to the place that had become Janson Sanders’s grave—somehow he knew that chance would come. Somehow, he knew.
21
There was nothing but darkness and moisture, a deep, dank pit without sound, sight, or feeling. Confusion and disorientation floated around Janson, touching him briefly, only to move away into the darkness and back again.
Sensation came slowly, the feel of wetness, the scents of earth and moisture, the comforting darkness. There was no thought, only sensation, confusion, and wonder as he struggled to climb above the layers of fog that crowded his mind. He reached above to consciousness only to feel the crushing impact of pain take hold of him and plunge him back down into the fog again, a fog now laced with an inescapable pain.
He fought his way back above, struggling to breathe in spite of the burning that filled his side. The air was stagnant, filled with the scents of earth and moisture, of decay and disuse. His hands went out, contacting the damp clay walls around him, and fear joined the confused mass of emotions already within him.
He looked up, seeing far above him where rays of light slanted into the pit through gaps in a covering. His hands moved over the walls and down into the rising mire around him. Realization came of where he was and why he had been put here, and, with that realization, a fear stronger than any he had ever known before—he was going to die, and this would be his grave—but the fear was not for himself; it was for Elise instead. If they had done this to him, they could have done anything to her. William Whitley might be her father, but, to have done this, he had to be a madman, a madman capable of doing anything.
Janson tried to struggle to his knees, only to be plunged back into the fog again. For a moment the world was dark and he fought his way back to consciousness—Elise, the thought of her stayed in the forefront of the confused mass of thoughts, feelings, and pain within him. She needed him—Elise needed him—was the only clear meaning he could hold to.
He pushed himself to his knees in the rising muck, forcing himself to breathe through the pain that now filled his side. Almost unconsciously his hands sought the sides of this prison, searching for hold, for escape. His hand dug into a slippery foothold carved shallowly into the well side, his foot moving up, pushing, trying to compensate for an arm now almost useless at his side.
The world swam with pain around him, his hands slipping in the damp clay, and he started to lose hold, but caught, a burning sensation stabbing through his right side as it impacted the wall. He gasped as the pain shot through him, trying to force himself to breathe, his eyes moving to the light above—then darkness started to come, but from within him, and he started to slide, his hands losing hold again, his body slipping downwards—
There was one last clear thought of Elise, and then he knew nothing but darkness.
Elise lay curled on her side on the floor at the foot of her bed, somewhere lost in dreams that brought no peace. She had sought sleep as a release from what she knew she could never face in her mind—but sleep this day had brought little comfort. She had closed her eyes knowing Janson might be dead, and that knowledge had only followed her over the threshold of sleep to haunt her dreams.
At first, there had been nothing but the comforting void she had sought, a place where she did not have to think or feel, but soon images and pictures had invaded its sanctity. She was looking for Janson, seeing him at a distance, but never able to reach or to touch him. The baby was there, now born, but taken from her without her ever having been allowed to see or touch her own child—gone, both gone from her forever, and she was alone, so very alone.
The horror of a reality-to-be invaded her dreams, and she fought to escape it, to run to some place far away where she could mourn her loss alone, but everywhere she turned there were faces. Her father, Bill, Franklin Bates, the farmhand—they mocked her with their presence. “I told you . . . his blood’s on your hands.”
—his blood’s on your hands—on your hands—your hands—
She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the words, but still they came, this time from within her mind—his blood’s on your hands—your hands—your hands—
Then a voice, warm and gentle, touched her above the ringing torment in her ears: “Elise—” and she looked up into green eyes and a gentle smile—Janson, alive, holding her in his arms on the sagging rope bed in the old house, the warmth of his body against her; and the haunting, horrible knowledge of death and blame became a distant memory under the feel of his nearness and his love.
“We b’long t’ each other—” he was saying, his body close against hers, “an’ you’re my wife now, just the same as if we was married,” he said, touching her in the gentle ways he always touched her when they were together, “we’re one flesh, just like th’ Bible says . . . not ‘’til death do us part.’ Dyin’ won’t stop th’ way I feel about you; it couldn’t stop it—”
Dyin’ won’t stop—
Elise came awake slowly, fighting desperately to hold the remnants of the dream to herself—she could not leave him behind there in that hazy land inside her mind. She could not—
But there was no choice. Finding herself lying on the rose-colored rug at the foot of her bed, she cried—wanting Janson, needing Janson, as never before in her life. The memories of that day she had spent in his arms, having once invaded her dreams, would not leave her now—“We b’long t’ each other . . . we’re one flesh . . . Not ‘’til death do us part.’ Dyin’ won’t stop th’ way I feel about you; it couldn’t stop it . . .”
“ . . . we’re one flesh . . .”
The thought stuck in her mind, the meaning—if they were really one person, then how could she continue to live if he did not. How could she breathe, and think—how could she live day after day in a world where Janson was no more. He had said his own mother had died of grief after his father was gone—how could she live if Janson was no more. How could she—
But her father had taken that from her as well, had let her live, even as he had taken Janson from her—but what if Janson had still been alive when she had been dragged from the graveyard. He could be somewhere hurt, bleeding, dying even now—
She had to find him. She had to go to him and be with him. Perhaps her father had not been able to kill him. Perhaps—
Janson could still be alive. Janson could be—
She sat up, brushing the hair back from her wet face, certain in that moment that she would somehow know inside herself if he were really dead. He had been badly beaten; she had witnessed that herself, but she could find him and take care of him. She could—
Janson could be alive—
She got up from the floor and stood staring around herself, unsure as to what to do—Janson could be alive. She had to find him. She had to—
Martha Whitley stood on the dimly lit second floor landing of her home that night, carefully balancing a supper tray in her hands. She listened for a moment, almost holding her breath, making sure there was no sound of movement anywhere within the huge old house. Once satisfied, she moved down the hallway, stopping for a moment outside the door to the bedroom she shared with William, listening to the monotonous sounds of his snores—thank God he had retired early tonight, she thought, moving across the hallway to the door to her daughter’s room.
William had forbidden Elise a supper tray, after the one that had been taken her earlier in the day had been left untouched—Elise would learn a lesson, he had shouted, and she would learn it today. “This is the last one of her tantrums I’m going to put up with—just look at what she’s caused!” he had shouted, pacing back and forth in the lower hallway. “I warned her, didn’t I? I told her what would happen—but she wouldn’t listen to me; she never listens! Well, this is the last time! She’s going to learn she’s nothing unless I say she is—and she’s going to learn it now!”
Never before this day had Martha truly known what fear was—but she knew now. The man who had beaten that poor boy before Elise’s eyes, and then had caused her to be dragged away, hysterical with fear, thinking the boy would die for her choice to run away with him, was not the William she knew. He had said that he had never intended to do anything more than frighten the boy and teach Elise a lesson in respect—but Martha knew differently. She knew he had intended to kill Janson Sanders, but that he had somehow been unable to do so—and she could only thank God in heaven that he had not been able to commit that murder, for it showed her there was still at least something of the man she had married left within him.
Never in all her life had Martha dreamed to know a hell such as the one she had lived through today—the sound of Elise’s screams, the girl’s pounding at the locked door to her room, her voice pleading only for Janson Sanders’s life to be spared, and to be allowed to leave with him in peace—but first Bill, and then William, had physically restrained Martha from going to her daughter. Elise had to be taught a lesson, they had said; she had to learn, once and for all, and she would learn today.
The screams and pounding had been horrible, but the silence that had followed had been only worse, a deathly, eerie silence that seemed to fill the house until there was no room left for anything else. Elise had been sitting on the floor at the foot of her bed, staring, unresponsive, when William had allowed the dinner tray to be taken her, and had been in the same position hours later when the untouched tray had been removed—“She can sleep hungry for that!” he had shouted, and had kept a locked door between them for the remainder of the day, not allowing Elise a tray at supper time, or even allowing Martha in to check on her—but now William was asleep, and Martha would do what she had to do. There might be hell to pay tomorrow, but at least she would know that Elise was all right. At least, for now, she would know.
She fumbled with the huge ring of keys, balancing the tray in one hand as she tried to keep the numerous keys from making noise as she searched for the right one. She fumbled with the lock, trying first one key and then another—it was William’s key ring; he had left it in plain sight on the bedside table, just as he left it every night, never once believing she would go against him. But William would learn something about his wife this night, just as she had learned so much about him.
She counted through the keys again nervously, knowing she had tried some of them several times already, and others not at all, and not knowing anymore which was which. A part of her feared what she might find on the other side of that door once she opened it, what state her daughter might have reached in her pain and grief—Elise believed the boy would die for what they had done today, that his life would be forfeit for her choice to run away with him. William—damn his soul to hell—had let Elise believe through this entire day that Janson Sanders was dead, that she had been the cause of his death,
even as Martha had begged him to allow her to tell the girl the truth, to spare her at least that one ultimate horror.
But Elise would know the truth now. It was the one thing Martha could do for her daughter. And it might be the one thing that mattered the most.
She fumbled with a key again, inserting it in the lock, thinking that she had tried it several times before—but this time it turned, sliding the bolt back into the wood of the door. Martha glanced down the hallway again, then quietly pushed the door open, steeling herself for what she knew she might find on the other side of—
The door was yanked from her hand, the supper tray almost crashing to the floor as Elise tried to rush past her and into the hallway. Martha grabbed for her sleeve, trying to balance the tray in one hand as she also tried to stop the girl’s escape.
“Stop it!” The words were a shouted whisper, meant to still the girl before the struggle could wake William. “Stop it! It’s only me! Stop it!”
She shook Elise soundly with one hand, almost upsetting the tray again—if William should hear—
“Stop it, Elise! I mean it—stop it!”
The girl at last seemed to realize her mother was alone, halting her struggles with one last desperate look down the hallway toward the staircase that could led her to the first floor. Martha kept a secure hold on the sleeve of her daughter’s sweater, listening, making certain for the moment that William had not been disturbed.
“Help me with the tray,” she whispered after a moment. “We’ve got to get out of this hallway before—”
“You’ve got to help me get out of here. I’ve got to find—”
Martha silenced her with a quick motion. “For now we have to get out of this hallway, in case the noise woke—”
She did not need further words. Elise took the tray from her hands and reluctantly turned back into her own room, turning desperate eyes again toward the door as Martha closed it behind them. “Janson’s alive, isn’t he?” she asked, her voice no less desperate as she sat the tray down on the dresser top and came toward her mother. “He’s alive; Daddy couldn’t do it, could he? He’s alive—”
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