Killing Mr. Sunday

by Bill Brooks

  He said, “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

  She set to eating, her jaw and lips sore from every

  bite, but her stomach practically begging her to fill it.

  He watched her careful as he might a dreaming rab-

  bit. She wondered what he thought was so interesting.

  “You want to tell me about it now, you can,” he

  said when he finished the last of his food.

  “Why do you think I would want to talk about?

  Don’t you think it was bad enough having to go

  through it?”

  “You don’t have to, but if you want to, I’ll listen.”

  “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Longer you don’t tell me who it was, the more

  likely the ones who done this will get away.”

  She gave a little incredulous laugh.

  “Hell, they already got away.”

  “Okay,” he said and stood and got the coffee pot

  and refilled each of their cups and sat back down

  again.

  “How come you never found yourself nobody

  else?” she said. “All these years living alone when you

  could have had you another woman?”

  “You was woman enough for me,” he said. “How

  come you didn’t?”

  “One go-round was plenty enough for me, too,”

  she said. “I wouldn’t marry another man, even one

  with money.”

  “You think we ruined each other for anyone else?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t reckon we did. I guess

  once drinking at that well is enough for anybody.

  Nothing special about us.”

  He looked toward the window, then back at her

  again.

  “Was it all that bad—I mean between us, so’s you

  didn’t want another woman?” she said. “Was I that

  bad a wife to you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then what was it?”

  “Just the opposite, is what it was.”

  He saw the tears brimming in her eyes and looked

  away because he didn’t want to see her cry anymore,

  didn’t want to see her hurt in any way that would

  cause her to cry. She was tough as most men he knew;

  not the crying type, and he felt embarrassed for her.

  “Thing with us,” she said, “is, however bad it was,

  it could be equally good.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me if that’s what

  you’re looking for.”

  “I ain’t.”

  “Me either.”

  Sun struck the window then cut like a knife blade

  into the room and across the table. A blade of light

  cutting right down between them and it was the first

  sun either of them had seen in three days.

  Zane Stone found himself sleeping in an alley. How

  he got there he didn’t know. His head hurt with

  whiskey vapors still in it. Hurt like somebody had

  pounded him with a rock. Wind whistled through the

  narrow opening and he shivered because of it. Where

  had his brothers gone, Zeb and Zack?

  Hell, he thought. He stood up shakily and steadied

  himself against a wall before moving down to the

  mouth of the alley and onto a street. He gauged from

  the low lie of the sun it was early yet. And when he

  looked up and down the street nobody was out and

  about. His thin coat wasn’t any protection against the

  wind, and even though the sun was shining, the air

  was damn chill. He knuckled slobber from the corner

  of his mouth, then saw something that drew him to it:

  a small white church. Hell, he hadn’t been inside a

  church since he was a kid. He remembered the

  singing they did in church, and that he liked it. He re-

  membered the smell of Bibles and dry wood and the

  way the light caught the colors of the stained glass

  and how it felt like a safe place to be. Nothing much

  in his life since had felt as safe to him.

  Once inside, he saw a row of benches like they

  were just waiting for him. And up on the altar hang-

  ing from wires strung to the rafters was a large wood

  cross. It was quiet and peaceful and he sat down on

  one of the pews and just stared at the cross remember-

  ing the stories his mam had told him about the blood

  of the lamb, and how Christ died for his and everyone

  else’s sins and what happened to sinners: how they

  burned up in lakes of fire. He remembered the passing

  of collection plates, the money folks put in them, and

  how it looked like all the money in the world and

  wondered what Jesus did with all that money and why

  he even needed it since he was God. There was a lot

  about religion that he didn’t understand then or now.

  But somehow, just being there made him feel bet-

  ter. He didn’t know quite how to pray or even if he

  should, but he felt like he wanted to pray, to tell God

  how damn sorry he was for what happened with the

  woman and how he didn’t want any part of it to be-

  gin with. So that’s what he said, under his breath,

  hoping God would hear what he was whispering and

  wouldn’t strike him dead with a lightning bolt or

  have a tree fall on him or something like that. And

  the more he let it out, the more that came out until it

  seemed like everything he’d ever done wrong was

  spilling out of him.

  “Damn it to hell, I can’t stop talking,” he muttered

  to himself after a while. But it felt good, like a boil

  being lanced and the pressure relieved.

  Then someone said, “May I help you?” and he

  quick turned reaching for his pistol as he did and the

  man behind him said, “Easy, son, nobody’s going to

  bring harm to you.” He saw this wild-haired man

  looked like Moses—at least the rendering he’d seen of

  Moses in a book his mother had. This stranger was a

  tall lanky cuss who looked like he’d seen all the trou-

  bles a man could suffer and yet survive them.

  “I wasn’t doing nothing,” he said. “I was just sit-

  ting here.”

  “Nobody was accusing you of doing anything.

  You’re welcome here in God’s house,” Elias Poke said.

  That sounded odd: God’s house.

  “I just come in to git out of the cold some. Till

  things open and I can buy me a better coat.”

  “That’s all right. This is a sanctuary, a port in the

  storms of life. You’re welcome to stay as long as you

  like.”

  Guddamn, but it was all confusing what this

  Moses fellow was telling him.

  “Have you been hurt somehow?” the preacher said

  after Zane didn’t move or say anything more.

  “No sir, none that I know of.”

  “You hungry, on the skids?”

  “Skids?”

  “I mean are you down and out, brother?”

  “No sir. I ain’t down and out, I’m just a little lost.”

  “Welcome to the fold. We’re all lost if we do not

  heed His way.”

  “You a preacher? I mean you run this place?”

  “I’m this town’s only preacher,” Elias said. “But it

  is the almighty who runs things around here.”

  “Th
e almighty, huh?”

  Elias nodded.

  “My old woman told me once the almighty would

  forgive a man anything, any sort of sin, no matter what

  or how bad a sin it was. You reckon that’s true?”

  “I believe it is if the sinner is contrite.”

  “Contrite? Mister, you’re going to have to speak a

  lot plainer if you want I should understand you.”

  Elias explained it to him.

  “If you mean am I sorry I did certain things, yes

  I am.”

  “Then He will forgive you if you ask Him to.”

  “How I do that, the asking part?”

  “Simply speak your heart, say how sorry you are

  for what you did and ask His forgiveness and it will

  be granted.”

  “That’s it? That’s all?”

  “Pretty much, except you ought to not go out and

  do the same sin again. Even the Lord has His limits.”

  “Believe me, I ain’t planning on it never.”

  “You want to come to the house and eat? Are you

  hungry?”

  “No, I best get on.”

  “Go with God, then.”

  Once outside, Zane Stone felt somehow like a

  changed man. But he wasn’t sure how he was changed.

  He still had to contend with his brothers and how the

  three of them were supposed to find this fellow, this

  William Sunday, and put him under and collect the re-

  ward money. He didn’t see no way of getting out of it,

  and it was probably a for sure sin to be killing a man

  for money as it was to be doing what they did to that

  poor woman. But if what that preacher said was true,

  then it’d probably be all right that he kept his part of

  the bargain with his brothers until the killing got

  done. Afterward he’d confess it and quit and take off

  on his own and maybe find a nice job clerking in a

  grocery store or shoeing horses or the like, and do no

  more sinning, because it was hard carrying that sort of

  thing around inside his head.

  The town was starting to wake up. There were a

  few folks on the street now—mostly merchants

  sweeping the walk out front of their businesses. He

  tried to think where his brothers could be. Then re-

  membered where he’d last seen them.

  Whoring was a sure enough sin. He wondered if

  just being in a house where the whoring got done was

  also a sin. He didn’t know how else he was going to

  rejoin them if he didn’t go to where they was. He

  made a mental note to remind himself that it would

  be one more thing he’d need to confess once he’d

  done it.

  “Where you been, hon?” Birdy said. She’d just awak-

  ened and had gotten fearful when she saw that Elias

  wasn’t there in the bed with her. She still worried the

  preacher would leave her because of her whoring

  days. It was still hard for her to believe she’d married

  a preacher man, had to pinch herself to know it

  wasn’t a dream sometimes.

  “I was providing succor to a lost soul,” Elias said,

  feeling good he was a preacher man again.

  “Succor?” Birdy said.

  “Succor.”

  “Succor,” she said again, as though tasting the

  word.

  She looked at Elias, suddenly hungry for his very

  being and tossed back the covers and said, “Why

  don’t you take off your boots and climb in here with

  me, hon. I’m about lonely for you.”

  He knew that no matter what else he did in life he

  would never be able to resist his wife or her needs, nor

  did he ever want to. He was so shocked and happily

  surprised by her at times, he never wanted to spend a

  single minute without her.

  He got in the bed with her and took her into his

  arms and said softly, “I’d like us to start working on

  some youngsters.”

  The joy of his suggestion caused her to weep and

  her tears fell on his face until he began to weep as well.

  “I never been so happy,” she said.

  “Neither have I,” he said.

  Unbeknown to either of them, a mocking bird

  landed on the roof and chirped at the rising sun.

  Jake was up first light, dressed and ready to go find

  whoever it was took a shot at him the night before.

  He dressed in silence and set the brace of pistols into

  his waistband then put on the hat with the bullet hole

  in it and gauged that two inches lower, it would have

  been his brains out on the street instead of the other

  man’s blood.

  Clara came into the room wearing a cotton shift,

  still looking sleepy.

  “I can fix you something to eat before you go,” she

  said.

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks for offering.”

  “How will you find him?”

  “Can’t be that many men in town with fresh bullet

  wounds.”

  “He probably fled and isn’t anywhere around here

  any longer.”

  “Maybe so, though I will check just to make sure.”

  “I’m sorry I brought you into this,” she said.

  “You didn’t bring me into anything,” he said. But

  he wondered if he had a fatal weakness for women

  who seemed they were in need of help.

  He turned to go, then turned back.

  “Keep your door locked,” he said. “Just in case.

  And maybe it would be best if you didn’t hold school

  today.”

  She smiled.

  “It’s Saturday,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “Be careful, Jake.”

  She watched him go. Went to the window and

  watched him head up the street until she couldn’t see

  him any longer. She told herself not to let him get to

  her, not to let herself be drawn to him. She wasn’t

  sure she was able to listen.

  Jake picked up the blood trail from the preceding eve-

  ning and followed it—the blood spots dried now,

  dark brown. They led down a couple of alleys before

  they petered out where one alley opened up onto the

  main drag. Son of a bitch could be anywhere.

  He walked out to Toussaint’s lodge thinking he

  could use an extra pair of eyes on this. Only the lodge

  was empty. He went down to the livery where Sam

  Toe was standing with one foot on the bottom rail of

  the corral staring at the horses in it.

  “You seen Toussaint? He bring back that mule last

  night?”

  Sam Toe shook his head without turning his atten-

  tion from the horses.

  Jake thought it possible that maybe Toussaint had

  won her back after all. He felt good about it if he had.

  Jake turned away.

  Sam Toe said, “I seen some damn things in my

  time but nothing like this.”

  Jake said, “Like what?”

  “Like I seen horses stole all over this country but I

  ain’t never seen nobody just give ’em away.”

  Jake didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Sam Toe said, “I come out this morning and had

  them two extra horses just showed up like they fell

  out of the sky. I knowed we had us some h
ard rains

  recent, but I never knowed it to rain horses. Frogs and

  fish, yes, but never horses.”

  Jake took a look at the horses, then he knew whose

  they were.

  “Saddle me that one I rode the other day, and put a

  rope around those two you think got rained from the

  sky.”

  “Why would I let you ride off with two free

  horses?”

  “Because I know whose they are.”

  Sam Toe looked suddenly glum knowing his rain

  gift was about to evaporate.

  The wind gathered itself along the vast flat country,

  growing quicker and quicker as it came on, like a stam-

  pede, and by the time it reached them it sounded like a

  train coming down the tracks. It rattled the windows

  and buffeted the walls. They could hear it moaning as

  though something miserable outside sought shelter.

  She thought of the boy. The one with the big sad

  eyes. The one who had one time flung clumps of dirt at

  her horse and nearly unseated her. The one whose folks

  were all dead and in spite of what had come before,

  had no one to care for him now. She didn’t know why

  she thought of him, what brought it on sudden like

  that.

  Toussaint sat there at the table, his dark broad

  face pensive. He never got to know what it was to be

  a father.

  He caught her staring at him.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “That boy,” she said.

  “What boy?”

  “That orphan boy, the Swede . . .”

  “What about him?”

  Wind rattled the windows again.

  They listened.

  “I want you to go get him,” she said.

  He thought about the silver ring in his pocket,

  whether this was a proper time he should give it to

  her or not.

  “Stephen,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That’s his name, the Swede boy’s.”

  He closed his eyes and wished they were all some-

  place else.

  29

  Jake found Brewster, his sometime deputy, hav-

  ing his breakfast at the Fat Duck Café. Brewster

  wore a large napkin tucked into the throat of his shirt

  and ate with his hat pulled down to the tops of his

  ears. He ate in earnest.

  “I need you to keep on keeping an eye on things

  until I get back,” Jake said without bothering to pull

  up a chair. “I’m riding out to Karen Sunflower’s

  place, I should be back sometime this afternoon or be-

  fore. Another thing, too: there might be a stranger