Lock & Key

by Gordon Bonnet

  “Does anyone ever get to punch Brother Zebulon?”

  “Oh, yeah, sometimes. Got to give him that, he plays fair enough. But only the ones who have become Holy Members get to do that, and I’ll bet they don’t hit him too hard. You know, make a show of it for the rest. But let someone get called up the others don’t like, and they beat the tar out of him.”

  “Sounds kind of crazy.”

  “That’s what I say,” Josiah said. “I belong to the Methodist church, and that’s always been good enough for me. I don’t get down to town for Sunday services as often as I should, but I do enjoy me a good hymn-sing now and again. Reverend Avery, he says to me, ‘Josiah McCaskill, the Lord’d love to see your face in his house more often,’ and I said, ‘Reverend, I figure the Lord can look at this face any time he wants to, wherever I might be, although I got to wonder why he’s so fond of it, because it’s kind of an ugly thing to look at, to tell the truth. I’d look at handsomer faces than this one, if I was the Lord.’ Of course, what he’d said was no more than the plain fact, and I shouldn’ta made light of it. But Reverend Avery knowed I wasn’t serious or meaning to blaspheme or what-have-you.”

  Hearing the name McCaskill brought his mind back to the task at hand, which once again seemed to be taking a rather unexpected turn.

  “So, Josiah, you really are the only McCaskill in the area?”

  “That’s a fact,” the miller said. “My grandfather came over from Scotland shortly before the War of Independence broke out. Lived all his life in North Carolina. He had four children. Three girls and a boy. My father married the daughter of an Irishman, Patrick Ryan, who worked caring for the horses of a rich-as-Croesus tobacco planter.” Josiah’s craggy face broke into a fond smile. “That was my mother, of course, Noreen Ryan. Sweetest woman in the world. They had only the two children, me and my sister Anna. Anna stayed in North Carolina. She married Dan Quinlan and they have seven children, and probably two dozen grandchildren by now. Me? I came out to Kentucky when I was a young man, and bought this land and built this mill. Always intended to marry and raise a family here, and when my sons were grown, leave the mill to them and move to the town and live the easy life in my last years. But it never happened.”

  “You never met anyone?”

  Josiah shook his head. “Oh, well, there were plenty of women around, you know? But none that ever took a shine to me. I remember thinking that I wanted what my parents had. My mother, Lord rest her soul, thought my father was the king of the world in spite of money being scarce and times being hard. She never looked at another man so long as she lived. I wanted that. Not the most beautiful woman God ever made, nor the smartest, nor the richest. I just wanted someone to look at me that way. And it never happened.”

  “That’s sad,” he said.

  Josiah shrugged. “It’s the way it went. No changing it, and no sense complaining. I work the mill, bring flour and grits and corn meal into town once a week, and make enough to buy food and keep myself clothed and fitted out here. It’s not a bad life.”

  “So, you never have felt like you should have been married and had children?”

  “Should have? What does that mean?”

  “Like things weren’t going the way they were supposed to.”

  “Son, there is no supposed to. Things go the way they go, and that’s that. All you got to do is to take care of what you got, and be content with it, because soon it’ll be gone whatever you do. I won’t pine away for what I don’t have, because then I won’t be thankful for what I do.”

  “That’s good sense.”

  “A hell of a lot better sense than them folks down at their revival meeting, beating the tar out of each other, and thinking that’s what God wants ‘em to do,” Josiah said. “I got enough pains and aches already without letting some fellow who calls himself a holy man add to them.”

  • • •

  The next morning, Darren had a remarkably good breakfast of grits, rashers of bacon fried on a blackened skillet, and mugs of a dark, steaming beverage that looked and smelled like coffee. He tasted it. It was pleasantly bitter, although sweetened with some chunks of brown sugar Josiah had in a tin box in his larder.

  “What is this?” Darren asked.

  “Roasted chicory,” Josiah said. “It’s a weed that grows hereabouts. The root looks like a carrot, but if you roast it, it smells wonderful sweet, and brewed it makes a nice way to wake up on a cold morning.”

  He agreed, although having grown up in Seattle, he had to admit it would probably never replace real coffee with the Starbucks crowd.

  As he helped wash up the breakfast dishes, the magnitude of his task suddenly came crashing down upon him once more. He wondered if he’d ever see Seattle again. What was he supposed to do, even if he could find this Jane Bell? He wasn’t convinced that what he’d accomplished so far had done a damn thing to fix either of the other two divergences. Why did anyone think he was going to do any better here? It was all very well for Fischer to call it a ‘reconnaissance mission,’ but all the information gathering in the world wasn’t going to do them much good if they couldn’t use it to repair the damage Lee McCaskill had done. And what could the connection possibly be between Lee and Josiah? There had to be one, but he didn’t see it. He’d just have to stick that in the mental flash drive, along with everything else, and let Fischer figure it out when he got back.

  Josiah gave him some general directions. There was a path that ran parallel to the creek, but on the opposite side from where he had been walking. It would take him all the way down into Concord. But the field where Brother Zebulon and his band were camping was off to the north, along the riverbank.

  “When you get to the town, you’ll see a road that runs up along the river. Go north on the road for maybe a mile. You’ll see ‘em soon enough. They’re camping there in tents, at least they was when I was there last week. I know some of the folks in the town’d like to see ‘em go, Reverend Avery among ‘em. Sooner or later I expect they’ll get run out. I guess it’s happened before, plenty of times. They go to a place, preach the gospel, beat the Spirit of the Lord into each other, and if they’re lucky pick up one or two new converts. Then when the townsfolk get sick of ‘em, they run ‘em off, and they up stakes and move on to the next town. Leastways, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  He thanked the miller for his hospitality and his advice.

  “Don’t mention it,” Josiah said. “Like I told you, I’m glad enough for the company. Come on back by when you’ve had your fill of getting your face slapped.”

  He assured Josiah he would, and headed off uphill, and soon the mill and the chuckling creek were lost to view.

  As predicted, the path was broad and obvious. It was evidently well traveled, to judge by the marks of cart wheels and horses’ hooves. He briefly wondered where the path went, and who could be traveling on it often enough to keep it as beaten down as it was. Mostly, though, he was glad of a walk that didn’t involve forcing his way through vine thickets, and he ambled along for some time, daydreaming a little.

  So far, Kentucky had been pretty pleasant. Josiah McCaskill was a nice fellow, and he had lucked out by running into him. Maybe he did have some connection to Lee, and it was vital that he met the miller. So far, so good. Maybe he didn’t have to do much more than to get some information about Zebulon Bell and his band of traveling nutjobs. Maybe he didn’t really have to infiltrate their ranks, or, heaven forbid, pretend he’d converted to their religion, and then get his lights punched out. Maybe he could hang around the town and ask a few questions. Maybe there was an inn he could stay at, in exchange for doing some chores, or something. This seemed like a nice enough place. He wondered why he’d been so worried.

  The fact that he was happily occupied with these pleasant thoughts was probably why he didn’t hear the sound of running feet, and didn’t even have time to react when he was tackled from the left, knocking him off the path and tumbling down a bank, all the while being pummeled and grabb
ed by at least two pairs of hands. When he and his assailants finally came to rest, he found himself flat on his back, staring at the point of a knife, and heard a now-familiar phrase.

  “Move, and I’ll slice your guts open.”

  And he said, more exasperated than angry, “Fuck, again? I am so sick of this happening every time I go anywhere.” He reached up and adjusted his glasses, and saw two grinning faces, one of them scraggly-bearded, the other clean-shaven but missing both front teeth.

  “You got any money, traveler?” Gap-Tooth said.

  “Do I look like I have money?”

  Gap-Tooth frowned, as if this was a question that he’d once known the answer to, but couldn’t quite remember.

  He finally said, “Naw. I guess not.”

  “He could be carrying gold in his pockets,” Scraggly-Beard said.

  “Right,” he said. “I carry gold bars in every pocket when I go out for a walk. And two in each shoe.”

  Gap-Tooth looked at Scraggly-Beard, wonder in his eye, and Darren suddenly felt hands roughly turning his pockets out, and pulling off his shoes.

  Moments later, Gap-Tooth said, “You was lying! You ain’t got no gold bars!”

  “Let’s slice his guts open,” Scraggly-Beard said, as if this was a new idea that had just occurred to him.

  “If you do, I’ll disappear. Because that’s what happens whenever anyone tries to kill me.” He gestured at them with one hand. “But I invite you to try, if you really feel like it.”

  Gap-Tooth considered this for a moment, his mouth hanging open a little. “I bet he’s lying again,” he finally said, triumph in his voice.

  “Could be,” Scraggly-Beard said. “But maybe we should let Murrell decide. He’ll know what to do with him. Maybe he’s worth something to his family, and they’ll pay us to give him back alive.”

  “Or maybe he won’t be worth nothing, and we can slice his guts open then,” Gap-Tooth said, sounding cheered by this prospect.

  “Yeah,” Scraggly-Beard said. “Let’s let Murrell decide.”

  Gap-Tooth waved the knife in his face. “I’ll stick this in you if you try to escape. So you just walk along and be nice, and I won’t have to get blood all over my nice clean knife.”

  That’ll teach me to think things are going along well, he thought, but then decided that whatever happened, he was no longer very worried about getting killed, which seemed to be a step in the right direction. Of course, they could torture me. Fischer said the computer wouldn’t save me if that happened. And that brought all sorts of other worries into his mind. But before he could ponder it too much, he was pulled roughly to his feet. The knife point prodded him in the back, and the two men pushed him off into the woods on the north side of the path.

  The terrain was uneven, and much clogged by close thickets of undergrowth, so the going was slow. Once a branch snagged his jacket, and he was caught for a minute as he struggled to get unhooked from clinging thorns that were curved like cat’s claws.

  “Hurry on up,” Gap-Tooth said, brandishing his knife.

  “Well, maybe if you’d use that damn knife for something else besides threatening me, we’d hurry up a whole hell of a lot faster!” He swore loudly as one of the thorns drew blood on his hand.

  “Listen at him,” Scraggly-Beard said, awe in his voice. “However he looks like a schoolmaster, he swears like a soldier.”

  “You better watch your tongue around Murrell,” Gap-Tooth said, still not moving to help Darren extricate himself. “He’s a preacher man, you know.”

  He stopped fumbling with the branches, and looked up at them, his eyes narrowing. “Does he belong to the Church of Our Lord Jesus Christ Risen and Triumphant Through Suffering?”

  Gap-Tooth and Scraggly-Beard looked at each other for a moment, then burst into guffaws.

  “Them guys?” Gap-Tooth said. “Naw, Murrell ain’t one of them guys. He’s a right certified Methodist minister, like his daddy before him.”

  “A very holy man,” Scraggly-Beard said, putting his hand over his heart.

  “Course, his mama was an innkeeper. If you take my meaning.” Gap-Tooth gave a chortle, and poked Scraggly-Beard in the ribs.

  “Yeah, but you oughtn’ta mention that bit to Murrell when you meet him. Nobody says bad stuff about Murrell’s mama. Poor old soul, she died while Murrell was in prison, and he was that upset when he found out. But Murrell’s the real deal, not one of them face-slapping traveling clowns.”

  “Murrell knows the Bible backwards and forwards.”

  “Murrell can preach the gospel so good, it’ll make you feel right holy when you’re done listening.”

  “Crowds of people come to hear him preach. You can’t take your eyes off him, or think about anything else when he’s talking.” Gap-Tooth grinned. “And that gives us time to go behind the crowds and loot all the saddlebags.”

  “Can you two stop singing the praises of Reverend Murrell for a minute and help me get loose?” he snapped. “Unless you want to leave me here.”

  Gap-Tooth stared at him for a moment, then said, “Oh,” and using his knife, cut free the last of the thorny vines that were hooked into the fur collar of his jacket.

  “There,” Gap-Tooth said, then scowled, and pointed the knife in his direction. “Now hurry on up.”

  He gritted his teeth. On the whole, I think I preferred the Vikings, he thought, and once more commenced fighting his way through the underbrush.

  Another twenty minutes brought them into a clearing occupied by several lean-tos, each with a piece of filthy canvas hanging over the opening tied with pieces of twine. A half-hearted campfire burned smokily in the middle of the clearing, with a blackened kettle hanging from a branch suspended over it. The noise of their arrival precipitated the opening of two of the canvas curtains, and several men ducked out of the lean-tos and came into the clearing, looking at him with interest.

  “What’d you catch, Mosher?” one of them said to Gap-Tooth. “Looks like an accountant.”

  “I thought he looked like a schoolmaster,” Mosher said. “But he ain’t. You should hear him swear.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The man looked at Darren, his brow furrowing. “Let’s hear you swear, then.”

  “Fuck you.”

  This was followed by murmurs of appreciation from the new arrivals.

  “You’re right, Mosher, he ain’t a schoolmaster,” said a man with unruly black hair, a scar up the side of his face, and a low, rather sinister voice. “Schoolmasters don’t say fuck. The schoolmaster at my school once beat me good for saying fuck. Couldn’t sit down for a week.”

  “When did you ever go to school, Crenshaw?” another man said. “You ain’t never went to school.”

  Crenshaw gave him a nasty smile. “I made it all the way to third grade, so shut your mouth, Norris, before I shut it for you.” Then he turned back to Darren. “Well, if you ain’t a schoolmaster, what are you?”

  “I’m a bookstore owner.”

  “Oh. I ain’t never heard one of them swear either.”

  “You ain’t never been in a bookstore in your life, Crenshaw,” Norris said.

  “That’s true,” Crenshaw admitted. “So, Mosher, did he have money on him?”

  “Naw,” Mosher said. “He said he had gold bars in his shoes, but turns out he was lying. Johnson here wanted to slice his guts open right there on the spot, but I thought it’d be better to bring him back here for the Reverend to see.”

  “You wanted to slice his guts open, too,” Johnson said sullenly.

  “Yeah, but it was me as thought of bringing him back for the Reverend to see,” Mosher said.

  “Was not,” Johnson said. “I thought of it first. I remember saying, ‘Let’s let the Reverend decide.’”

  “Was too,” Mosher said. “You ain’t got the brains God gave a pigeon, and you only remember your own name because I shout it at you all day long. So if I remember saying we should bring the schoolmaster back here to meet the Reverend, that’s how i
t happened.”

  “I told you, I’m not a schoolmaster,” he said quietly.

  “Shut up,” Mosher and Johnson said together.

  “Any case,” Crenshaw said, “probably best you brought him back for the Reverend to meet. We’re too close to the town to be leaving dead bodies around for people to find.”

  “Where is the Reverend, anyway?” Mosher said.

  “I’m right here,” said a soft voice, and he and the others turned.

  Standing in front of him was a man who had evidently come up to them as silently as a cat. He was about Darren’s height, and although he was probably no heavier, he gave the impression of physical power. His face was lean, with a long, straight nose, dark curly hair, a short beard, and intelligent eyes that burned with a fierce, keen intensity. His face was flushed, as if with fever. The phrase consumed to ashes by an inner fire came to Darren’s mind. He couldn’t recall where he’d come across that line, but it seemed apt. A young woman with unkempt brown hair and a rather plain face set off by intense, intelligent hazel eyes, hung on his arm, and looked at him with a curious expression, like someone examining a strange species of insect.

  “Reverend,” Mosher said, a little breathlessly. “Look what we caught.”

  “I see that,” Murrell said, in the same quiet voice, and then to Darren said, “They haven’t hurt you, I hope?”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “Good,” Murrell said. “I’m sorry if they inconvenienced you in your travels. Allow me to offer you what hospitality we can, although I’m afraid that the standards of our establishment have fallen off of late.”

  Crenshaw snorted laughter, but covered it up quickly.

  “What are you planning on doing with me?” Darren asked, and hoped it didn’t sound as cowardly in their ears as it did in his own.

  “Do with you?” Murrell said. “We’re planning on giving you food and a place to sleep. Other than that, nothing.” He smiled a little. “But I would like to have a conversation with you, just as between two friends, while we eat and drink. Crenshaw, get our guest here a bowl of stew and whatever we have to drink, and some for myself as well.” While speaking to Crenshaw he never took his eyes from Darren’s face.