The Overnighter's Secrets

by J. L. Salter

  With the company phone, Beth called Shane’s number. It went to voicemail. She explained her cell phone was at home and hoped he was safe. She’d be home around 5:30.

  But what would Shane expect at 5:30?

  What did she expect?

  Beth went to the unisex restroom and stared into the mirror. Sleeping poorly over the past nine nights had taken a toll on her face. Her light tan had vanished and there were lines around her eyes. Lines at age twenty-eight? Well, they weren’t lines—more like dark circles. No, not circles per se, just dark blotches under her eyes. Pale face and dark blotches. I could be an extra in a vampire movie. What a lovely visage for Shane to see after three long years and two thousand miles on the road.

  She returned to her desk, checked to see that Steve was apparently occupied, and then dialed Jeff’s library desk. She couldn’t cradle the company phone between her shoulder and neck because her knife wound still stung. And the stiff, over-size bandage irritated her flesh when she moved her head.

  Could she focus on the overnighter’s secrets while this rattled? While looking like a vampire? She’d try.

  Jeff answered but placed her on hold.

  Shortly, he was back. “What’s up, Beth? Did your ex arrive yesterday?”

  “Not sure. Didn’t call last night. Might have been real late. He’s probably here in town, but I forgot my phone today. He doesn’t have my contact info for work.”

  “You sound a little stressed. Even more than what I’ve noticed recently. You just nervous about your ex? Or is anything else wrong?”

  That librarian could read her like a book. Ha. Even over the phone. Why couldn’t Shane be that intuitive? “No. Nothing.” She started to lie, but tears betrayed her ruse and she told Jeff the whole gas station assault story as she sniffled noisily. Beth heard Steve come to his doorway, presumably to listen, but he didn’t actually approach. She faced toward the wall and continued her conversation with Jeff.

  “This was the same man from the mall the other night? The one you used to know in California?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Both.”

  “Beth, I’m concerned about your safety. I think the police need to be aware of this.”

  “Oh, they are. It was their medic who stuck this industrial sized bandage on my neck.” She started to choke up again. “But either they can’t do anything... or won’t.” She steeled herself enough to speak clearly. “Jeff, tell me you learned something important from the diary or that old hanging story.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather talk about this later?”

  “No.” She struggled to level her voice. “No, Jeff. The more I know about the little suitcase, the better I’ll feel. Somebody wants something from that overnighter... and they want it pretty bad.”

  Jeff seemed dubious. “How could anything in musty baggage be important enough for somebody to assault you in public?”

  “I don’t know, but it brought Ricks all the way from California...”

  “Well, I can’t see it.”

  “Just humor me. Could you make any sense of that handwritten story?”

  Jeff must have shuffled some papers, or something that sounded like it. “Not much. Extremely hard to read. I typed it up so I could study the content. The format and condition of those original pages worried me too much.”

  “I’d like to read it again in clean copy, too.”

  “Check your e-mail. I attached it as a document to a message I sent you this morning.”

  Beth peered toward her boss’s office. “Steve’s on his computer... and mine’s in the middle of a defrag.”

  There was a muffled buzz. “Beth, I gotta put you on hold.” The line went neutral before she could reply. He was gone about two minutes. “Okay, I’m back.”

  “Jeff, I can print out the story here at work later, but won’t have time to read it ‘til tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Better yet, come over to my place. No, wait. Tanya and her mother are scrap-booking there. I’ll come to you.”

  “Uh, okay.” She started to remind him that Shane would likely be there, but decided to just let happen what would. If Shane had any expectations, whatever they might be, those would be out the window if Beth had a friend over.

  “By the way, Beth, there were fourteen misspelled words. Want me to read them out?”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll spot them.”

  “I just wanted you to know that I’ve reproduced the original’s spelling, capitalization, and most punctuation to the best of my ability... because I thought it was possible they’re significant. But I figured the indentation faults could not possibly be significant, so I had to standardize them. It bothered me.”

  Beth chuckled. “Compulsive.”

  “Plus, I added quotation marks to the characters’ words... and separated the speeches. They were all jammed together in the original.” He took an audible breath. “Just log on and read it, Beth. Then call me back.”

  About ninety minutes later, Steve left for lunch. He said he was going home to eat, but he’d never done that before, as far as Beth was aware. Weird. While he was gone, Beth opened her e-mail on Steve’s PC and printed the Jones manuscript. She hadn’t intended to read it yet, but couldn’t help herself.

  The hanging of Jones

  It was in the wee small hours of the morning—The old steamer “Cherokee” was slowly ploughing her way up the Mississipi river. The passengers had long since retired for the night, with the exception of a few of us who were seated in the salon enjoying our selves as best we knew how—Each one taking his turn at story telling - we were all strangers from southren ports. One old gentleman whose snowy locks and bent form proclamed that father time had not dealt very kindly with him seemed to be silently enjoying the conversation, for not one word had he spoken. A big jolly beer drummer from St. Louis, had just finished a very amusing narative when the “Old Cherokee’s” whistle sounded for a landing, and the stewart came through the cabin announcing the next stop as Hickman Ky. I had at one time resided in Hickman, and naturally felt a desire to see the old home of my child hood, the mere mention of which, had recalled many pleasant recollections of my boyhood days. We all arose and sauntered to the deck as the boat slowly sway to the landing.

  All was in utter darkness except the faint gleam from a solitary lamp upon the old wharf. The gang plank was shoved out, and several sleepy porters—bearing lanterns came on board to escort a passenger or two, on shore. Not a glympse of the old town could be seen—all was wrapped in darkness and the silence of the tomb.

  We remained on deck until the gang plank had been withdrawn, then returned to our seats in the deserted cabin. “Well, let us have one more smoke and then retire,” said the big drummer, as he passed around a well filled case of choice Havanna’s.

  There were but four of us now—The beer drummer—the silent old man—A middle aged Southerner, and myself.

  Passing the old town had brought back to me all the circumstances connected with the hanging of a man named Jones in years gone by, and I said—“Gentlemen, that little town of Hickman used to be the best and liveliest town on the river. Passing there to night has recalled a most mysterious tragedy which occured during my stay there.”

  “Well, let us have it—give us all the facts,” said the beer drummer.

  “It was in the year 1889,” I began. The old gentleman gave a start then settled back quietly in his chair. “There had been a big trial in the court house, a murder trial, a most brutal murder had been committed—the little town was wild with excitement and horror. A merchant by the name of Blank had been waylaid, robbed, and murdered.”

  “He was on his way home from his store, and when last seen was in company with a man named, Jones, so a half dozen witnesses had sworn. Naturally Jones was arrested, tried, and convicted.”

  “The circumstancial evidence was so strong against him, not withstanding his assertions of innocence, that he was sentenced to be hung early in the morning of Nov. 9th.”


  “All executions at Hickman, were conducted on the outskirts of the town. Inside a large stockade was placed the scaffold. My boyish curiosity made me most anxious to witness this hanging, but I overslept. Though I ran at break neck speed towards the stockade, I was too late —.”

  “Sheriff, Matthew Vernon, had just sprung the trap and Jones dropped into place, when a terrific explosion occured. The crowd at the stockade was panic stricken and rushed away in the direction of the sounds, forgetting the man left hanging. Arriving at the spot they found a large hole in the ground and an injured person lying near.”

  “The wildest excitement ensued, - men ran in all directions, and fully five minutes elapsed before any thought was given to Jones. Then in all haste the Sheriff returned to the stockade, Where to his horror, and surprise, he found the body gone and in its place hung a pumpkin cut like a grinning face and this note pinned to the rope.”

  ‘Not this time—Jones’

  “It was widely concluded the explosion had been set expressly to save the condemned man. A vigorous search was at once instituted, but no trace of Jones was ever found.”

  My listeners seemed deeply interested as I finished the above story.

  The silent man, for the first time spoke. He cleared his throat, and shifted his position, and said in a hurried nervous way, as if he could not get the words out quick enough—“I have heard of this strange affair before, and it appears I know more than you do concerning the matter. Your story is quite correct as far as it goes, but I have positive proof that Jones was cut down and rescued during the excitement following the explosion. When cut down he was quickly placed in a small boat, waiting at the river bank, scarcely one hundred feet from the stockade. Then occured the strangest part of the entire transaction, he was taken down the river, the black cap was removed, his arms and legs unpinioned, and in an unconscious state was set adrift, without even knowing who his rescuers were.”

  “When consciousness returned to him, he was drifting down the river, and in his pocket was five thousand dollars, also a note, telling him to fly the country, and to always take Century Magazine—no matter where he might go, and if this advertisement should ever appear.

  ‘Learn hypnotism by the cut-off route’ You R. Savior

  to at once send his address to the advertiser—and he would learn of something to his advantage.”

  “He was also advised to take passage as a pedlar, on down the river. He did so, and finally embarked for South America. That was in 1889, and all these years he had remained there.”

  “About two months ago, he was surprised to find the above mentioned advertisement in that magazine. He at once sent his address, and in a short time, received a reply from a lawyer in St. Louis, stating that Mr. Brown of Hickman Ky. had recently died and left his entire estate to said Jones, together with a sealed confession, which, said Lawyer was to read, in the presence of said Jones, as soon as he should arrive in St. Louis. Now why this was done has been a matter of speculation with me. It is my belief, however, that Jones was innocent of the crime—and Brown knowing this had assisted him to escape. No other motive can I assign for I feel convinced that it was Brown himself who murdered Mr. Blank.”

  There was perfect silence for a moment when the old man finished speaking. Then the fourth man spoke.

  “You have told this story correctly and have made a few points clear in my mind. Yes Brown did actually murder the merchant, Mr. Blank, for I heard him confess it on his death bed.”

  “You!” ejaculated the drummer -

  Beth’s heart raced as she flipped the page hoping for the rest of the story. She checked the wall clock and figured a few minutes remained before her boss returned from lunch, so she called Jeff again at the library.

  “You couldn’t resist, could you?” There was a smile in his voice.

  “Ha ha. You were right about all the spelling errors and grammar problems. Did you type the whole story?”

  “Of course. That’s what I wanted to tell you before.” Jeff lowered his voice slightly—he was on duty. “As best I can determine from the flow of this manuscript, at least one page is missing... maybe two.”

  “I guess I’d never read all those pages before. Couldn’t hardly read them the other night either.”

  “Well, that exclamation from the beer drummer is the final line of the final page... uh, page seven as it’s handwritten. But that’s obviously not the end of the story.”

  “What’s in the missing part?”

  “No way to know... unless there’s more pages in that overnighter. But I have some hunches.” Jeff paused. “Doesn’t matter all that much, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s obviously just a tall tale.”

  “So, you don’t think it actually happened? The hanging, I mean.”

  “Pure fiction, Beth. Campfire tale. Though it has the feel of a modern day urban legend... you know, with the selective embellishments. If so, there could be some little thread of truth buried somewhere in that legend.” He muffled the phone. “Gotta go. Patrons waiting. Bye.”

  Beth re-read the typescript, slowly this time. Her observations about the story differed. “I think it’s true... at least mostly.”

  “What’s true?” Steve had entered the back door without making any noise.

  Beth jumped. “You startled me!”

  He shrugged. “So what’s true?” Steve pointed to the pages in her hands.

  “Nothing. I mean, it might be related to the break-in I told you about. Just a story.” She flipped the pages over.

  “Have you had any more, uh, trouble?” He seemed to stare at her neck, but he might simply have been trying to peer down her blouse.

  “Somebody followed me. Once or twice. And a guy grabbed me last night at the gas station. He had a knife.”

  “Oh.”

  Some bosses might have a word of comfort or additional questions. But with Steve, it seemed he didn’t want to know. Well, not that he didn’t want to know... rather that if he did know it might require some human response from him. That particular crayon was not in Steve’s box.

  She watched as her boss moved quietly toward his office and sat in front of the computer. She could tell by the way he positioned his hands that Steve realized something was different. Maybe she’d left his mouse in a different spot or something. Good grief. Should she tell the boss that she checked her e-mail on his machine? No... let him stew. Make him ask. Force him to interact.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Early afternoon

  Ed Dillon was hustling Nancy Durocher through the lobby of the Nashvillage Hotel just before two o’clock, when they were intercepted by crews from three of the four network affiliates which covered local news. He detested media ambushes—always disasters without intensively prepping his candidate. At the same moment that he cursed their sudden appearance, he wondered why the fourth news station wasn’t present.

  Dillon tried waving them away and even attempted to steer Nancy in another direction, but they were trapped on one side by the fountain, centered in the main lobby area, and on the other by an entire team of beefy football players, in town to play one of the local colleges. In all that activity, Dillon missed the beginning of the shouted question.

  Man from Channel 5: “... and your lack of a real public record... on issues of substance. In fact, a high percentage say they only know about you through the society news.”

  When she was startled and decidedly ticked, Nancy’s face resembled that of a stone statue. “Is this patent lie from the Fitch camp?” Her voice was icy.

  Channel 5: “No Ma’am, from a major poll in this morning’s Nashville paper, actually.”

  Dillon started whispering into the candidate’s ear and she began talking before he’d finished. “We’ve already challenged those bogus poll results in a letter to the editor.” Her thin smile looked brittle. “Those supposed results are completely discredited since they only sampled voters known to be Fitch supporters.” />
  Woman from Channel 2: “Is your campaign braced for the type of mud-slinging which often accompanies rather close races... at the state level?”

  “I abhor those kind of tactics, even if my opponent enjoys falling back on them.” Another grimace, with teeth this time. “But I can say, frankly, we’re prepared to fight fire with fire.”

  Dillon squeezed Nancy’s elbow firmly, but either she didn’t notice or didn’t understand that he wanted her to shut up.

  Channel 2: “Actually, another part of today’s poll dealt with the relative peacefulness…apparently…of this particular race. So far at least.” The reporter exchanged glances with her nearby colleague. “Do you anticipate any particular fire, Mizz Durocher?”

  Dillon gripped his candidate’s arm even harder. Surely she understood that meant to cut and run.

  But Nancy was not one to be cornered meekly. “There’s always fire... but some people disguise it inside phony polls or other under-handed dealings.” She nodded with assurance. “Entrenched incumbents are especially effective at re-routing their own smoke to make it appear elsewhere.”

  Dillon whispered again, more urgently. “Don’t go there...”

  Channel 2: “Most of the voters we’ve canvassed are expecting a surprise at some point. Especially since your public record is so... unknown. What kind of surprises can we expect to be brought forward about your candidacy, Mizz Durocher?”

  Dillon waved one hand in front of Nancy’s face, as though that cancelled the question, and he interrupted loudly: “This race is about bringing life to an office that’s dead with satisfied incumbency. And our next senator already has a definite lead which grows every day with more grass-root voters.”

  The man from Channel 17 started a new loud question, but Dillon had already steered Nancy so her back was to the cameras. That’s actually her better side anyway... especially with her face all pinched-up. Dillon turned for a final word. “I’m sorry—no more questions. Our future senator is late for a meeting with her new constituents. Please excuse us.” He continued to wave behind his back as they sprinted away, while trying to look like it was their normal gait.