by Rodney Jones
“Gooood morning,” I said, slipping the bridle over her head. I led her out into the alley. “Stay. I mean, whoa.”
I threw the pad and saddle up over her back, ran the cinches, pulled them snug, then patted her on the shoulder. “How can you be so relaxed?” I closed up the barn then climbed up into the saddle and started down the drive.
Mrs. Woodman stepped out onto her porch as we passed—steam rising from a cup in her hand. “She’s a beautiful horse. A Haflinger, is that right?”
“Thank you. Yes.”
“Lovely day for a ride,” she said.
I nodded and waved. The sun had just peeked over the mountaintop to the east, the direction I was headed, not a cloud anywhere. Letting her go at her own pace, I kept Victoria at the edge of the road as we headed for the end of Wallingford Pond Road. The trip took over an hour.
I directed Victoria up to the post marking the trailhead and dismounted to wait for Liz. I took the map from Ranger Dave and studied the trail for the umpteenth time.
Liz pulled up in my car. We transferred the silver, fifty-two bars to each bag.
“My God, this stuff is heavy,” she said. “Are you sure she can handle this much weight?”
“It’s not Mount Everest.” I stepped up to Victoria and patted her neck. “What do you think, Vicky? Yeah?” I glanced at Liz. “See? She says it’s nothing.”
“Sounded to me like she said you’re a freakin’ dweebazoid.”
“Yeah, well, she’ll not be getting any sympathy from me after a comment like that.”
Liz looked me up and down then smiled. “So we’re throwing first impressions to the wind, huh? That’s what you’re wearing?”
I looked down at my outfit: baggy tan-colored Carhartt jeans, a belt, a white button-down cotton shirt, and a pair of scuffed leather work boots. “If they don’t like it, they can kiss my keister.”
“They’re more likely to kick your keister. Didn’t women back then wear long dresses with butt extenders?”
“Yeah, what the heck, huh?”
“I’ll bet it drove the men wild.” Liz made an apish face and a juggling gesture with her hands. “Bumba badda boom.”
I grinned. “I do have a dress. Well… a long, ultra-dull, grandma-going-to-church dress.”
“Couldn’t find a ball gown?”
“Yeah, but they didn’t have glass slippers in my size.”
She shrugged. “Why would that matter? You already have your man nailed down.”
The smile on my face grew unnaturally heavy, and a dull ache rose from my chest to my throat. We both became quiet, as if words were inadequate and it took all our focus just to keep from falling apart. We rushed through the hugs and good-byes, then I went over and took Victoria’s reins.
“I love you,” Liz said.
“You, too,” I told her. “I’ll write.”
I started up the mountain path. Minutes later, I heard the car start. The sound struck me like that of a door slamming shut, the click of a lock, a bridge burning, an unspoken final good-bye. I hesitated, wanting to look back, but I was too afraid if I did that I might not go.
I continued walking. I worried about my mom, but that was nothing new. I’d signed the title of my car over to her and left it on top of my dresser, along with a note. Mostly, I wanted her to understand that I loved her and that my leaving was about me, about honor, and had nothing to do with her.
A half hour later, I arrived at the pond, which was bordered by knee-high bushes and a wide patch of ferns. I led Victoria to the water’s edge and checked the saddle and bags for slippage. While she drank from the pond, I stroked her flank, feeling strangely adrift.
I took a deep breath. “Okay, Vicky, let’s go.”
Another mile or so up, my phone rang. The sound startled me because I’d meant to leave it with Liz. I pulled it out of my pocket—Mom. It rang several times.
I couldn’t get drawn into her drama. I had to go. I stretched my arm back, ready to launch that final link to my old life into the woods. But a picture of my mom’s emotionally complex face fluttered like a moth across my mind. I hesitated then lowered my hand. The phone beeped, notifying me of a new message.
“Oh, crap.” I marched on, the phone still in my hand, that ignored message eating at me.
“Shit.” I stopped, pressed Play, and put the phone to my ear.
“I love you too, honey.” And that was it, all she said.
Two hours later, I arrived near the spot where Liz and I had found my daypack. The rock-filled stream softly babbled to my left, and the twin waist-high boulders stood on my right like two stone sentinels guarding the gateway to another world. I turned off the trail, stepping between the two boulders, and led Victoria into the woods. About forty or fifty feet in, I came to the young maple with the surveyor’s tape.
I stood there for a moment, staring at that short strip of orange, then turned and looked into Victoria’s big brown innocent eyes. “So now what?”
I recalled John saying that the first time he’d passed through the time warp, he had no idea what had happened, other than that the trees appeared to have shrunk. I studied the ground, looking for the patch of trampled weeds. The plants had grown back to their vertical positions, but I found the spot. I stood there, staring at what I could only imagine was a portal to John’s time. I was tempted to call Liz one last time, thinking that once I passed that mark, I might never hear her voice again, but I decided against it.
I dropped my phone. It landed with a soft thud on the carpet of dead leaves and pine needles. It looked wrong lying there, odd and foreign. I raised my eyes and studied that imaginary doorway. There was no mark, nothing out of the ordinary, no evidence of a black hole, time warp, antimatter, or whatever.
“Go,” I told myself.
Fear gripped me, as tangible as razorblades, very much what I imagined a suicide jumper would feel standing at the edge of the only life they knew, ready to take the plunge into the unknown, hoping that what followed would be okay or perhaps nothing.
I wrapped Victoria’s reins twice around my trembling hand then tugged her forward.
chapter twenty-six
John
I saw Mrs. McNeil coming down the corridor. “What happened to your eye, ma’am?”
The sheriff stepped into view. “What happened to my old lady’s eye is no one’s business, boy.” It was the first I’d seen of his squinty bloodshot eyes and greasy handlebar mustache in over a week. “If I was you, I’d save my frettin’ for my own neck. Seems to me your days are runnin’ shy, now that the judge has his picky-ass paperwork in hand.” He took the two bowls from the tray his wife was carrying, dropped them to the floor, then scooted them under the cell door with the toe of his boot as if he were feeding a couple of dogs. He looked at my uncle. “Never known a man as lazy as you.”
Uncle Ed lowered his head and closed his eyes.
“And ungrateful too,” the sheriff added.
A sigh came from behind him.
The sheriff twisted around. “You say something, sugar?”
Mrs. McNeil shook her head then turned away as though ashamed. Or perhaps she was just uncomfortable with the attention.
Her husband moved on toward the end of the block. “Joseph, you worthless no-account, you ain’t a-gittin’ squat today.”
“Huh?”
“Come on. Git outta there. Your time’s up. And if I hear of you stealin’ so much as a rusty tin can from someone’s trash heap, I’ll put a hole in your scrawny seat. You savvy?”
“You gonna send me out there without no breakfast?”
“Listen to you, breaking my heart.”
I heard the jingle of keys, the click of a lock, then the squawk of a rusty hinge. Joe Ferguson shuffled down the hall ahead of the sheriff. He and I had talked on several occasions, but that was the first time I�
�d actually seen him. An unkempt fellow with his shirt and trousers in need of stitching, Joe wasn’t nearly as old as I’d imagined. All I’d ever had to go on was a raspy voice and cranky disposition.
“Don’t go an’ worry yourself about me,” Joe growled. “I’ll manage fine.” He turned to me and stopped. “So you’re the lad they’re all itchin’ to hang.” He produced a nearly toothless grin then twisted around toward the sheriff. “Oh, ya best watch out for him, Henry. I see it in his eyes. Savage as a meat axe.” He laughed.
McNeil gave Joe a little shove. “I’m about a pinch from puttin’ a boot up your butt, Joe.”
“And me, a gentleman. But you know that.” Joe tipped his hat to Mrs. McNeil. “Morning, Mary Anne—”
“Outta here!” the sheriff barked. “No one wants to socialize with a smelly, flea-bitten rodent like yourself if it can be helped.”
Joe took a few more steps toward the door. “If you ever should want my recipe for castor bean soup, Mary Anne, you just give me a holler.” He winked at her.
She dropped her eyes to the tray in her hands. Once he was gone, she went about collecting the privy pails. Then, shuffling along with her eyes lowered, she followed her husband out. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was considering Joe’s offer. A small handful of castor beans, mixed in with the usual northern variety, would put an end to her woes. Some of the older women in these parts called it divorce soup.
I stepped over to where my uncle lay and placed my palm on his forehead. “If you had a few days in a proper bed…”
“I… What the…” He twisted his head to the side. “Where’d it come from?”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Along there by the bucket leg.”
“Bucket leg?” I looked behind me. There wasn’t anything there that shouldn’t have been there.
He closed his eyes and whispered, “Just a minute or two more. Wait… wait…” Uncle Ed nodded as though his head was about to roll off. His brow was damp with sweat, his eyes unfocused. The nearly two weeks of beard growth did little to hide his emaciation.
I wrote a letter to Aunt Lil, assuring her that I was healthy and eager to be done with all this business. I didn’t let on about my fears of it not ending well. I did, however, express concerns over Uncle Ed’s health, and urged her to come “as soon as possible.” Perhaps she was on her way at that very moment—I could only hope.
I spent some time with Mr. Morse, who assured me he’d been working hard on my case and that I had little to worry about. Later that morning, I was escorted to the courthouse. I sat behind a long table with Mr. Hoffman while Mr. Morse met with the prosecutor in the judge’s chamber.
The deputy and I didn’t have much to say to each other. While I daydreamed, Mr. Hoffman rolled a cigarette then struck a match to it.
About fifteen minutes later, Mr. Morse returned, seeming less sure of everything. He stopped before the table and addressed the deputy. “Might I have a minute or two with Mr. Bartley?”
Hoffman shrugged. “I reckon.” He rose from his chair and stepped over to a window on the far side of the room.
Mr. Morse scooted a chair around to the other side of the table and sat directly across from me. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Mr. Buckhurst tells me he has two witnesses, other than the sheriff, who’ll testify that they caught you in the act of burying that gal.”
“Well, yes, I buried her. I’ve never denied that, but I didn’t kill her. There’s a difference, isn’t there?”
He sighed. “Mr. Bartley, the same two witnesses, a preacher’s son and the son of a war hero, will testify that—”
“Son of a war hero?” I gaped at him. “Randall Shaw? His pa came home, is all. That makes him the son of a hero? My pa died. What’s that make me? An orphan?”
Charles leaned across the table. “Your pa was killed in the war?”
“Shepherdstown.”
“Sorry to hear that. The thing is, these two well-respected citizens witnessed you attempting to hide the sheriff’s gun. The way I see it, that just about tightens the noose for you.”
“Sir, I’d tucked the gun up under the fender because it was raining, and I reckoned I had no better place to put it. But then, after being gone for a time, I forgot what I’d done with it.”
He frowned. “Gone? Where?”
“It doesn’t matter where. The thing is, I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I simply forgot I had the damned thing.”
“Mr. Bartley, without a sensible account of things, you stand no better chance here than a cat in hell without claws.” He went on to explain how we’d have to persuade twelve men, none of whom I’d ever met, that I did not sneak up on the sheriff, attempt to kill him, then go off and murder my reluctant lover.
“No,” I said. “It was nothing like that. She wasn’t my lover, and she was dead when I found her.” There were simply too many details I had to omit, which left my reasons short on truth.
“And why should anyone believe you?”
“But why would I do such a thing?”
He glanced at the deputy. “To bury the fact that the two of you were engaged in illicit and immoral behavior.”
“But no… I never—”
“This is indeed what Mr. Buckhurst will insist happened. He’ll lay it out in such a way that it’ll sound more than likely.” He rubbed his chin while gazing off toward the back of the courtroom. “All right then. I’ll come by the jail in a couple days so we can go over your story again. Think it over real good, Mr. Bartley. It needs to be convincing. That’s what a jury trial is all about.”
Next, we were called to the judge’s chamber, where I was asked to declare my guilt. The judge explained that if I confessed, I’d be saving myself and him and so many others a lot of time and trouble. They’d simply hang me and be done with it, nice and quick.
Mr. Morse had nothing to say to that. Perhaps there was nothing more that needed saying, other than what I said: “I’m not guilty of anything.” The trial was set to begin on the morning of the twentieth, just a few days away.
Later, as I sat on my bunk—my uncle’s pained breath weaving in and out of my awareness—I reconstructed the events of that night. Other than me, the only person who saw the sheriff and his posse near the mill that night was Tess, and the only people who knew the full extent of Henry McNeil’s animosity toward Tess were my aunt and uncle. There were no witnesses to the crushing sorrow I suffered upon finding her abandoned in the forest as if her life had warranted not even a scrap of respect.
My mind drifted back to the night before the fire, the night of my eighteenth birthday, which I’d forgotten about, but she hadn’t. Tess and I had strolled down the quiet streets of Rutland. I could still picture the glow of moonlight on her face and the feel of her hand in mine. It was among the few peaceful moments we’d shared while in my time. I held tightly to the memory of her whispered goodnight, the warmth of her breath, her moist lips briefly touching mine.
With the last of the day’s light striking the window above our cell, I took out my pen and paper. I began with “Dear Tess.”
chapter twenty-seven
Tess
Victoria reared and squealed. A hoof grazed my arm. I grabbed the reins with both hands and pulled. She dropped her forefeet, stomped, and staggered to the left.
“Whoa!” I jerked on the reins. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I tugged her snout toward me—her nostrils flared. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I grabbed the bridle, pulled her head down, and stared into her panicked eyes. “It’s okay, girl. You’re okay.”
She pulled away, taking a sidestep right and then back, again knocking me off balance. The reins slipped from my hands, burning across my fingers as I fell backward. Victoria charged into the forest.
Scrambling to my feet, I tore after her. “Whoa! Stop!”
She again turned back toward the trail.
“Victoria. Whoa, whoa!” I ran after her as she plunged through a stand of pine saplings.
She stopped and then, for no apparent reason, took two steps backward, as though she’d hit the edge of the world. I leapt over a fallen tree and grabbed her reins, my heart pounding wildly.
When I caught my breath, I realized we were next to a road. It looked like a logging road but marked with narrow ruts too narrow to have been made by truck tires. I turned and looked behind me. The trees were taller than before, their trunks much thicker.
“My God,” I whispered. “I did it. I made it.” I swung back around. “My God.”
On the other side of the road was the creek. The shallow, meandering stream didn’t look much different, and I knew that direction was north. I turned east. No, something was wrong. I looked west. The road disappeared over the top of a rise, about a hundred feet away, but the sun was behind me—in the east. I had arrived on the mountaintop in the late afternoon. The sun should have been on its way down.
I sucked in lungfuls of air, trying to calm down and make sense of it. It appeared I had gone back one hundred thirty-four years, plus a few unanticipated hours.
“It’s okay, okay, shhh, okay,” I whispered, trying to calm my horse.
Holding tightly to Victoria’s reins, I stepped out onto the road. John had said it ran from Wallingford to Weston and passed through Greendale along the way. I recalled the forest ranger in Rutland saying that the Greendale trail followed the same path as an old coach road.
I gave Victoria’s reins a tug. At first she resisted, but I kept pulling and reassuring her until she took a hesitant step forward and then another. I put a hand to her quivering shoulder, which was warm and damp with sweat.
I lightly patted the side of her neck. “See? There’s nothing to be afraid of.” I could feel her pulse racing.
I came up with a plan of sorts, a list of tasks. But first, I needed to get the weight off of Victoria’s back. I led her into the woods south of the road, searching for a safe place to stash the silver. I spotted a massive tree, the biggest oak I’d ever seen, near a good-sized boulder—a perfect landmark.