by Rodney Jones
I began unloading the silver, laying the bars in a shallow depression behind the base of the tree, keeping twenty in each bag for the bank in Rutland. After covering the cache with a thick layer of dead leaves and blending it into the surrounding forest floor, I placed a few rocks on top then dragged a large branch over the site.
I led Victoria to the stream to rest and cool off. She was still tense. Her ears twitched as she hesitantly lowered her head for a drink. I took a seat on a boulder and got to work on my disguise.
I tugged a six-inch elastic bandage snug around my chest then carefully glued the fake mustache above my lip. I piled my hair on top of my head and pressed my hat over it, down to my ears. Checking my reflection in the mirror of my compact, I realized I looked like a freakin’ girl with a mustache. I groaned and wondered if Liz had just been trying to be nice when she’d assured me that I made a convincing guy. But that wouldn’t be like her. If I’d had a booger dangling from my nose, she would have no qualm in throwing discretion to the wind.
I squinted into the mirror and twisted my features into a serious, more masculine expression. That helped a little, but I was still not satisfied. I stuck my fingers into the cool mud at the edge of the creek and rubbed some on my cheeks. Definitely better.
I fastened the buckles on the bags then gave Victoria a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Ready to go, girl?”
She produced a soft snort. I stepped back to her side, put a foot in the stirrup, hopped up, and threw my leg over the saddle. As I steered Victoria across the stream, I noticed a pile of rocks behind a log. On top was a large heart-shaped one. The ferns all around the area had been trampled, and the shovel I had loaned John was lying next to what I could only assume was my grave.
A chill slithered down my spine, and goose bumps rose on my arms. I had been so freaked out about actually being in 1875, I’d completely forgotten about what John had returned there to do.
My body couldn’t possibly be beneath those rocks. I couldn’t exist in two places at the same time. But there I was, and there it was, the pile of rocks with the heart-shaped rock on top, just as the newspaper clipping had described it.
I was about to climb down and settle the matter, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat there gazing toward the grave, dull-eyed, as if I were sitting in a kiddie car, doing slow-motion donuts inside my head—around and around. I sat there, motionless, my body buzzing with fear. I couldn’t leave this place not knowing—the answers, right there below me.
“Shit.” Shifting my butt a little to the left and then the right, working up momentum, I finally slid down off the saddle.
I stepped around to the other side of the rocks, trying not to think of it as a grave, and stood there, petrified, my heart thumping wildly inside my chest.
“Come on. Just do it.” I took a deep breath and squatted. “Do it.” I lifted one of the rocks and dropped it on the ground behind me. “Do it.” The image of a decaying corpse popped into my head—fat, slimy white maggots and black millipedes squirming in and out of its eye sockets.
“Do it.” I pulled rocks away, each one heavier than a bowling ball. I lifted one after another, without stopping, until I caught a glimpse of a dirty sky-blue material through a gap between two rocks.
“Oh, God.” I dropped to my butt. Minutes passed in which I tried to convince myself to leave it and go. But then I blinked, took several deep breaths, and pushed myself forward.
I closed my eyes and groaned. “Oh… just freakin’ do it.” Huffing and puffing, I lifted away rocks. Holding tight to that last thin thread of courage, I reached down and nudged the dress with my knuckles.
“What?” I whispered. I’d never touched a corpse before and had only a vague idea of what one might feel like. I understood from books and movies that they became stiff with time because of rigor mortis. What I had just touched however was firm—hard, in fact, like concrete. I removed several more rocks before realizing there was no body there at all, only an empty dress.
“He buried a dress?” I let go of a massive sigh. I mean, it was just a dress, after all, a dirty, blue dress.
I wondered why he’d bothered burying a dress and laying it out as though someone was in it. Maybe the body—my body—had vanished because I had come to the past. I thought about the story John gave me, the court documents, and the coroner’s report.
“Wait a minute,” I whispered.
I removed enough rocks to free the dress. I pulled it out and shook the debris from it. The dress was comprised of folds of cotton fabric with a shield of dense embroidery across the abdomen and lace hanging down from inside the hems. It weighed almost ten pounds. A dark brown stain ran down the front, beginning at a small hole toward the center of the chest. I tried to imagine myself wearing it. I’d rarely worn dresses and never anything like that—a kind of Pirates of the Caribbean style. How creeped out would the sheriff be were I to show up at his front door one foggy evening wearing this? I pictured myself shuffling toward him, dragging one foot, my arms stretched out, and moaning, “Feed me… feed me.” He’d stumble back, gasping, his hands clasped over his failing heart. Well, or he might just shoot me… again, which would suck.
I started to lay the dress back down in the grave then realized it was evidence. So instead, I stuffed it into one of the saddle bags. Leaving the grave open, I climbed onto Victoria’s back and crossed back over the stream.
As I headed down the road toward Wallingford, I thought about the trial and something Mrs. Parker’s friend Lucia had said. “If she wasn’t dead, they couldn’t have had a murder trial.”
If I showed up at the trial, that would certainly spoil the hanging party. They’d have to release John. But we’d still have the sheriff to deal with. My sudden resurrection might piss him off all the more and make him want to try, try again. I needed the sheriff to remain convinced I was dead. I needed his guilt.
I was headed for Rutland, where Abigail Jacobson lived. From what John had told me, I thought I might be able to trust her. I had to have someone. John had never actually confided in her, but he knew she suspected something. I hoped she could help figure out the best way to help John, and perhaps she could even assist me in selling my silver. And though no one would ever take the place of Liz, I hoped Abigail and I would like each other. I needed a friend.
About thirty minutes later, I heard squeaking and rattling then the clomping of horses’ hooves, but I couldn’t see anything beyond the switchback ahead. I brought Victoria to a halt and searched for a place to hide. The roadside was dotted with an occasional tree and bush, but I didn’t see any place to conceal a horse.
The noise was getting close. I was going to have to face people sooner or later, so it was as good a time as any.
I gave Victoria’s reins a gentle snap. “Let’s go.”
A team of horses pulling a large black coach came into view. A bearded man wearing a dust-covered derby sat on the driver’s bench. I was filled with a mix of anxiety and a crazy excitement. I went back and forth between not believing, as if I were looking at a scene from a movie, to the awareness that the whole thing was real.
I steered Victoria into the weeds along the edge of the road to give the coach room to pass. The horses slowed as they neared.
The driver glanced down from his perch and shouted, “Fine day!” He tapped the rim of his hat.
I nodded and mimicked his greeting. As the coach rolled past, the smiling face of a young boy and then a girl wearing a white bonnet popped out from the back window. The boy waved. A hand grabbed the little girl’s shoulder from behind and pulled her back inside. Then they were gone, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.
A half hour later, I stopped at a stand of cottonwoods tucked between the road and a lily-covered pond. I directed Victoria to the water’s edge for a drink then dismounted and took a seat on a large boulder. I nibbled on a protein bar, regretting I had not included
a Kit Kat, an Almond Joy, and maybe a Snickers or two with my supplies.
I listened to the sheep bleating in the distance and a dog barking maybe a mile away. That was all. I heard no planes, cars, hip-hop, lawnmowers, or weedwackers. The reality of where I was sank in bit by bit.
I led Victoria back out onto the road. As I came up over a rise, the lower Champlain Valley stretched out before me with the blue peaks of the Adirondacks visible in the west. Cutting down through the center of the valley was a road, a river, and a set of railroad tracks. I’d often forget that the tracks were there. In my time, they were hidden behind a wall of trees and brush, hardly noticeable when driving on Route 7. On summer nights, with my bedroom windows open, I’d hear the trains coming and going, though I paid little attention to their dull rumble.
I’d never seen the tracks look so purposeful, as though everything followed them: the trains, the wagons, the river, the road, and even the stone fences that connected one farm to the next.
I passed a few small farmhouses. A little farther down, I came to a village of clapboard, brick, and stone houses. The street was lined with maples. I heard the repetitive thud of an axe, a mother yelling at her kids, and the murmur of voices from a nearby porch. I smelled wood smoke and food: fried potatoes, onions, and meat. My stomach growled. Glancing up, I guessed it was between two and three o’clock.
A barefoot boy of maybe six or seven, wearing suspenders and short pants, came charging out from the side of a house waving a stick and chasing a dog. He skidded to a stop and stared at me as though he’d never seen a mustached dude on horseback before.
Remembering that people rarely smiled in the nineteenth century, I frowned at him. “Hey.”
“Sir.”
Yes, he said “sir.” I suppressed a smile and kept my voice pitched low. “Is this Wallingford?”
“Course it is,” he said, scrunching up his brow.
“What day is it?”
The kid brought up his hand and counted his fingers, mouthing the days of the week. “Saturday… I think. No, Friday.”
“I mean the date, the number.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know.”
I’d left 2009 on August 22, but the trees I’d seen were already showing signs of autumn with hints of red and gold at their tops. I shivered, remembering that John’s trial would begin on the twentieth of September. “You know what year it is?”
He nodded. “Uh huh.”
My stomach turned. “Well? What year?”
“1875?”
I would’ve tossed the kid a penny if I’d had one.
On the road between Wallingford and Rutland, I passed several people—some on horseback, others in wagons and buggies—a superhighway compared to the last road.
People in the nineteenth century were surprisingly friendly. I’d pass a wagon, and someone would say, “How ya doin’?” Even those coming from the opposite direction would say, “Fine day,” or “Good afternoon.” Or they’d simply salute and nod, but without fail, they would acknowledge my presence in some way. Most were headed in the opposite direction, but a few crept along ahead of me, not much faster than a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru.
I tensed with each new encounter. At some point, I’d have to introduce myself, and I hadn’t yet thought of an alias. I needed something simple, so I wouldn’t trip up and forget.
“Hey, partner. The name’s Susan—” I burped—my protein bar. Wait, duh. I’m a friggin’ guy, not a girl. I peeked back behind me to make certain no one was within hearing range then tried a new name. “Howdy, the name’s White.” I smiled. “Jack White.” Liz’s favorite rock star.
I came up alongside a one-horse buggy being driven by a heavily bearded man with a lumpy nose and only one arm. A girl with leathery old-woman’s skin, her nose and cheeks covered in dark freckles, sat to the right of him. After the usual exchange of greetings, I casually asked for the date.
“Monday, I reckon.” Kinky stray hairs grew from high up on his brick-red cheeks and between his dark sunken eyes.
“The twenty-second?”
“Pardon me?”
“The date. Is it August twenty-second?”
He shook his head. “Not sure, but I know it ain’t no August.” He turned to the lady next to him. “You know, Julia?”
“Thirteen. Ellen’s birthday was a week ago today. Six plus seven makes it September thirteen, if I ain’t wrong.”
It took a moment for me to wrap my mind around that. I gasped.
The man squinted at me. “Y’all right, bud?”
“Um… yeah.” I nodded. There were only seven days before the trial. “I’m okay.” I thanked them then rode on ahead.
Six days to get ready? I had thought I would have a lot more time than that. Six short friggin’ days. I needed to get the silver banked, the antibiotics to John’s uncle, and the blue dress into the hands of John’s defender, Mr. Morse. But I didn’t know how to go about any of it. That was why I needed a friend. I’d planned on taking it slow, the same way John did with me, but I didn’t have that kind of time.
The traffic increased the farther north I went: horses, wagons, buggies, people on foot. I was becoming more and more conscious of my breasts, my mustache, my boots—the whole disguise.
When no one was within earshot, I practiced my masculine voice. “Hi, my name is Jack.”
Ahead on the right was a large building with a porch stretching the length of it. In front, a buggy was parked. A sign hung from a post: Railroad House Inn – Clean Beds & Good Cooking. A little farther away was a large wooded area with rooftops and church steeples poking up here and there—Rutland.
A long, low whistle came from behind me. About a mile back, a cloud of smoke and steam billowed up from the railroad tracks. Moments later, I heard two short whistles and the rapid chugging of the train’s engine. I’d seen steam locomotives in old movies but never in real life.
I crossed to the other side of the road for a closer look and stared in wonder as that ancient machine stormed past, pulling three passenger cars, four box cars, and a caboose. As the caboose disappeared beyond the trees and buildings, it came to me that trains were still relatively new in 1875.
I rode into town and found the train depot—right where Walmart would eventually be. Across from that, on the corner of Grove and Washington, was the store John had described. The place was a big white wooden building; its windows were plastered with advertisements. Centered above the entrance, stretching almost the width of the storefront, was a sign—Jacobsons’ General Goods and Hardware.
I tied Victoria to a hitching post near the depot then stood there, looking at the town and comparing it to the Rutland I knew. I found only a vague resemblance. The sirens, car alarms, traffic, and construction equipment were replaced with the quiet clip-clops of horses’ hooves and the occasional clatter and grind of wagon wheels rolling over the cobble stones of Merchants’ Row, the only street I’d seen with any kind of pavement.
I half expected it would be like that, but what I had not anticipated was the smell. The persistent and pervasive odor of sewage mixed with the putrid, sour stench of garbage and the muskiness of wood smoke and horse dung almost made me gag.
I was aware of every movement around me as I crossed the cobblestone street. A small open buggy pulled by a single horse carried a girl in a smoky-pink dress and a mustached guy in a tan-colored shirt and red suspenders. A wagon full of barrels rattled along up the street to my left. Two boys, followed by a knee-high gray mutt, approached from my right. I couldn’t make out what they were saying or laughing about, but I had the feeling that every eye in town was on me. I stepped up to the front of the store and pretended to be interested in the odd assortment of products displayed in the windows.
A few people were moving about inside. A woman stood before a display of hats, inspecting a bonnet, turning it one way then the oth
er. She returned it to the rack then picked up another. To the far left was a long counter with massive jars of candies and stacks of small boxes arranged along its polished wooden top. Behind the counter, extending all the way to a twelve-foot-high ceiling, were shelves stuffed with cans, jars, square tins, glass bottles, and stacks of ornately labeled boxes. A woman in a light-gray dress with puffy long sleeves stood behind the counter.
I was pumping up my courage to go inside when I saw a guy come through a doorway at the rear of the store. He had blond hair parted down the middle and soft, boyish features. He stepped up to the saleslady and said something. She shook her head and shrugged. He then turned and came toward the front of the store.
I couldn’t remember the names of every person John had mentioned, but I knew that Abigail came from a large family and had two or three brothers, one of them close to John’s age. I wondered if the guy was one of them. He spotted me through the window, and I quickly turned and walked away.
Standing next to Victoria, I explored my options. Perhaps no one would recognize me, with or without the disguise. But I couldn’t take that chance. Not one little slip. John’s life might well depend on it.
chapter twenty-eight
John
Tuesday, September fourteenth, an hour after sunrise, Deputy Hoffman arrived at our cell with Mrs. McNeil. After unlocking the door, he dropped to the stool in the hall and propped his chin in his hands. Mrs. McNeil stood by, holding the breakfast tray.
As my uncle struggled to an upright position, I jumped to help. Once he was settled, I took one of the bowls and set it in his lap. I then grabbed the second bowl, perched on my cot, and started eating.
Mrs. McNeil cleared her throat. “I spoke with Pastor Davis yesterday.” She picked at the sleeve of her green dress. “We’re mostly Baptists around here, you know.”