Lock & Key

by Gordon Bonnet

  Food and drink were provided—a stew made with some unidentifiable root vegetables and equally mysterious chunks of tough meat, and a tin cup with a drink that was unmistakably corn whiskey.

  “I have had to abandon the temperance of my religious upbringing,” Murrell said, sighing a little. “It is sinful, but a necessity that I trust God will overlook. Water doesn’t agree with my digestion.”

  The two men sat on logs by the fire, and Murrell’s woman sat next to him, still holding onto his arm.

  Murrell took a few small, careful bites of stew, and then said, “Where were you traveling from? And what is your name? I dislike simply calling you stranger. It’s impolite.”

  He briefly considered refusing to answer, and then decided it was probably unwise. Murrell had shown no signs of wanting to slice his guts open yet, and there was no sense in upsetting that status quo.

  “My name is Darren Ault. And I was visiting Josiah McCaskill, and on my way down to the town, when your men tackled me.” He took a sip of the corn whiskey, and coughed a little.

  “Ah, yes, the good miller,” Murrell said. “I have yet to make his acquaintance, although I have heard of him by reputation. I’m not from these parts, myself. My family comes from along the Harpeth River in Tennessee, and before that, from Virginia. Your family lives in Concord, then?”

  “No,” Darren said. “I don’t have any close relatives in this area.”

  Nor in this century.

  “So, what brings you here, then?”

  “I’m trying to find a man named Zebulon Bell.”

  Both Murrell and the woman looked at Darren with new interest.

  “Indeed?” Murrell said. “Why?”

  How could he answer that? He didn’t even know the answer himself.

  He finally said, “Because I want to join his religion.”

  “Do you?” Murrell said. “Have you spoken with Brother Zebulon yet?”

  “No. I just heard about him.”

  Murrell nodded. “The Lord has guided you in this way?”

  “Um… yes. Sure.”

  “Perhaps you have heard that I‘m a man of God, myself.”

  “Yes, one of your men told me.”

  “Just a humble servant of the Lord Most High. I have suffered through many travails. I have bared my back to the whip, languished in prison, and railed against God for letting me experience such agony. And He has brought me through, He and His Most Holy Word.” He looked thoughtful. “There are those who call me Reverend Devil. It is not so. I am no devil, only a simple man trying to spread the gospel message.”

  “That’s, um. That’s nice.”

  The corners of Murrell’s mouth turned upwards a little. “But about yourself. You have no family in Concord, then?”

  “No.”

  “I see. I wondered if there was anyone we might need to inform of your stay with us.”

  “No one knows where I am,” he said. Should he have told Murrell that? There was something hypnotic about the man that made him let down his guard.

  “A pity,” Murrell said, and still without taking his eyes off Darren, rubbed his hand along the inside of the woman’s thigh. “A loving family is the most wonderful of God’s gifts to man.”

  “So what are you going to do with me?” he said again.

  “For now, you may relax and enjoy our hospitality. There is no need to rush to a decision, given that you have no anxious wife waiting fretfully for your safe return.”

  “Oh,” he said. All of this conversation was toward no end he could see. He couldn’t stay here with this creepy guy and his idiot followers. He had a divergence to get to, and it wasn’t going to happen here, it was going to happen at one of Brother Zebulon’s revival meetings. But how could he escape? However friendly Murrell acted, he’d get serious quickly if he tried to run. Besides, where would he go if he ran? He couldn’t retrace the path they’d taken, and all he’d likely accomplish is getting lost and starving to death in the woods.

  Shit. I was right. I really would prefer the Vikings over these guys. Murrell gives me the heebie-jeebies.

  But he said, “Okay. I’ll chill here.”

  Murrell gave another faint smile. “An odd way of speaking, but believe I take your meaning.”

  • • •

  As it turned out, the worst thing Darren had to contend with was boredom. The clouds burned off by mid-afternoon, and the air was cool but not uncomfortable, especially near the campfire. The men milled about, some of them sitting with their backs against tree trunks and dozing, others throwing dice and drinking whiskey. A small group came back just before sunset carrying a dead deer, a development that was greeted with shouts of acclamation.

  “We’ll eat well tonight, boys,” Mosher shouted, when he saw them.

  The deer was quickly and messily butchered, a procedure he did his best not to watch. But when some makeshift shish kabobs were fashioned using sharpened sticks, and toasted over the fire, the resulting smell made his mouth water.

  Evidently, his odd conversation with Murrell had given him some measure of protection from harm. No one brought up any further mention of slicing his guts open, and the deer meat, tender and delicious, was doled out generously.

  He was told that he’d be sharing a lean-to with Mosher and Johnson, his original captors, for the night, and after a large bottle of corn whiskey was passed around one more time, the men went off to their sleeping quarters with full bellies, mostly drunk, and for the most part happy. Murrell spent the meal sitting apart from his men, the woman still sitting near him, and always with one hand on his arm. In the firelight Murrell’s face looked drawn and gaunt, and every once in a while he coughed and then spat off to the side.

  After retiring to their lean-to, Mosher and Johnson lay down on smelly buckskin covers, and were asleep within minutes, to judge by their snores. Sleep eluded him, both because of the noise, and also because of his uncertainty regarding what he should do next. Fischer had landed him two days, or at most three, before the divergence. It had already been over a day since his arrival, and here he was, captive, with no obvious way to escape.

  While it would be simple for him to get up quietly, and push aside the curtain covering the front of the lean-to, there was no clear course of action afterwards. He’d be lost, alone and weaponless in the dark woods, near men who knew the place and knew how to track him. He had no idea what direction the town was from the clearing. Plus, he had the notion that Murrell was not nearly foolish enough not to post guards who would sound the alert if Darren tried to make a run for it.

  But why did Murrell want him? It was certain from the conversation that if he’d had family in the area, Murrell would have sent a message to them demanding ransom. But since he didn’t, what was he planning on doing? Did the highwayman think he was lying? Was he going to try to contact Josiah McCaskill? That was the only name he’d mentioned other than Zebulon Bell, and he’d told Murrell he hadn’t even met the Reverend yet.

  He hoped no one would rough up Josiah. It was unfortunate that he’d mentioned the name, but somehow Murrell just pulled the information out. The man had a hypnotic presence. It was no wonder people came to hear him preach.

  But all of that didn’t give him any ideas of what to do next. He had to figure out what Zebulon Bell was up to, and why he and his daughter were connected to the divergence. Something important was going to happen in the next day or so, and he had to see if he could find out what it was. But how could he do that if he was stuck in the woods?

  A quiet sound suddenly stilled his thoughts. There was a movement, visible because the canvas curtain at the front of the lean-to had been moved slightly, letting in a ruddy glow of firelight. Someone stirred inside the small space, coming toward him slowly and cautiously. Mosher and Johnson’s snores didn’t even stutter. Was it someone sent by Murrell to kill him while he slept?

  No, there’d be no reason. If Murrell wanted him killed, he could have done it that afternoon. There were a dozen me
n right there who would have been happy to slit his throat.

  A voice whispered, right next to his ear.

  “Wake up.”

  His body tensed. If the next thing he heard was “Don’t make any sudden moves or I’ll cut you open,” he was going to scream. Enough was enough.

  “I’m awake,” he said.

  “Come with me. Quietly.” The sibilant whisper, breathed with barely any sound behind it, was impossible to identify. It could have been any of the people he had met that day, or someone entirely new.

  A hand pushed aside the curtain, and there was the same reddish glow. He caught the briefest glimpse of a profile—a straight nose, high forehead, well-shaped mouth, clean-shaven.

  “Well?” the voice said, a little louder. “Are you coming?”

  “I’m coming.” He crawled out from under the scratchy wool blanket he’d been given, retrieved his glasses from the pocket of his jacket, and put them on. Then he followed the shadowy figure out into the chill night air.

  The person motioned for him to follow around the back of the lean-to, and away from the fire.

  “Only a little way,” came the whispered voice. “And not for long. If you’re discovered missing, there’ll be an alarm raised.”

  They stopped in a little open spot, downhill and out of sight from the clearing where the fire was. His companion stood, listening and not speaking, for several minutes. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  The person answered with a laugh. “You don’t know? I’m Murrell’s lover. I thought you’d know immediately.”

  “You must be able to see like a cat in the dark. I can’t see a thing.”

  She laughed again. “I needed to talk to you privately, away from the ears of your two friends. I couldn’t leave you with them without warning you.”

  “Warning me? About what?”

  “We don’t have much time. Murrell is no fool. The men he surrounds himself with may be, but he is brilliant. He is also very likely insane. But there are three things you should know. The first is that he intends to kill you. He decided that as soon as you told him you had no money and no one knew where you were. He’s keeping you alive because it amuses him to see what you’ll do, but sooner or later he’ll tire of that game, and have one of his men slit your throat. He’s done it before. He kneels down to pray for the soul of the victim while it’s being done. Second, you should know that he’s very ill. Probably dying. He got consumption in prison, and was ill with it when he was released in April. He’s been declining all summer, they say. When I took up with him last month, he was already probably beyond any help a doctor could provide. That could work in your favor. He sleeps a lot, and when he’s not awake, his men get lazy and sloppy, and you might have a chance to escape.”

  “That sounds hopeful,” he said. “What’s the third thing?”

  “When you go, I’m coming with you.”

  “But how can I help you? I’m a stranger here.”

  “I’m not coming with you to be helped by you, although part of it is I want to get away from Murrell and his men. I’m coming with you to help you. I know these woods like the palm of my hand. I can get you to safety.”

  “So you’re from around here?”

  “No, but I know my way around.”

  “Who are you?”

  The laugh came again. “You haven’t guessed? You are slow. I’m Brother Zebulon’s daughter. I’m Jane Bell.”

  “You’re Jane Bell?”

  “Of course. Who did you think I was?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Some woman Murrell had lured in. Or maybe kidnapped. Why would I think you were Jane Bell?”

  “I heard you talking about my father, and I figured you must know him from somewhere. I assumed you knew.” She paused. “Why do you want to meet my father, anyway? He doesn’t get many converts.”

  “I can’t imagine he does.”

  I should be careful what I say. I don’t know if she agrees with her father’s beliefs, or if she considers him a wacko. Best to tread lightly.

  “How did you come to be with Murrell?”

  “I went to one of his prayer meetings. He draws quite a crowd. My father forbade me to go, which made me want to go even more. I’m not a child any longer, but my father thinks I am. So I went, and I listened to Murrell preaching, and then I noticed his men going behind the crowds and stealing from the people who were listening. And it made me laugh—here is this man talking about the Word of God, and how it is easier for a camel to pass through a needle’s eye than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God, and at the same time he’s taking people’s belongings.”

  “So you went with him?”

  She shrugged. “Murrell is everything my father isn’t. Murrell is what my father would like to be if he had the guts for it. He’s real, even when he lies and steals. He believes he’s doing right, that when he prays for a man’s eternal soul as his henchmen strangle him to death, he’s doing what is righteous in God’s eyes. My father tries to be tough, but it’s in a thin, pathetic way, like watered-down liquor. He thinks by singing the Lord’s praises while slapping each other around, he’s some kind of Witness to the Suffering of Jesus. But all he is is a fraud.” Her voice sounded sad. “You’ll understand when you meet him.”

  “But why do you stay with Murrell if you know he’s a liar, and probably crazy?”

  “He’s got something. There’s something vital about him, something more than the dead souls and dried-up husks I’ve grown up with. If he wasn’t dying, I might stay with him. But I know what will happen once he’s dead. One woman, in amongst two dozen ruffians? Do you even have to wonder what my life would be like, once Murrell’s protection is gone?”

  “No,” he said. “I understand.”

  And all the more reason to finish up with this conversation, and get on with figuring out how to get the hell away from Murrell and company. But Jane was still speaking, in a low, intense voice.

  “So I want to go, the first opportunity I have. You seem like a kind man, and no threat to me. When I saw you, I thought, I’ll save him and myself at the same time. I don’t know if I’ll rejoin my family. I’d have to eat crow for a time to patch it up, but my father would probably take me back if I begged him. I’m too useful as a nursemaid to my younger siblings to disown.”

  “Isn’t there anywhere else you could go?”

  “Not easily. I have no husband. A single woman on her own, with no man, is immediately thought to be a whore.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  She shrugged again. “What is fair? A word someone made up. People make up words all the time, and a lot of them are words made up to give a name to a thing that’s also made up. It might be that that’s what people are best at—lying to themselves and others, and pretending the entire world doesn’t know they’re lying.” She looked around her, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, although around him were just the ordinary night noises of the forest. “You should get back. If you think Murrell and his cronies aren’t watching you, you’re a fool. The two he put you with don’t have a scrap of sense between them, but watch out for Crenshaw. He plays the clown for the benefit of the other men, but he’s ruthless and smart. Murrell trusts him with any job that’s too hard for the rank-and-file. And he enjoys his job. He likes cutting throats.”

  He swallowed. Even though Fischer had complete confidence in the computer getting him back to the Library in time to save his life, there was the story of the unfortunate Janowsky coming back in two separate chunks. It would be better not to risk it.

  “I’ll go whenever you’re ready,” he said.

  “We’ll have to watch for an opportunity. And you don’t have all that long. My best guess, from watching when they’ve waylaid other travelers, is that Murrell intends to murder you tomorrow evening after supper. So some time tomorrow is going to be about our only chance. You’ll have to be ready to jump as soon as I give the signal.” />
  “I will be.”

  “Good. Now, let’s get you back to your quarters, before someone thinks to check.”

  He followed her back up the hill, and soon the fire came into view. They slunk around the side of the lean-to, and he was relieved to hear the noises of Mosher and Johnson, still snoring loudly. No one else in the camp seemed to be moving.

  “Until tomorrow,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  He pushed aside the curtain, and cautiously made his way to the spot, now cool, where his blanket was spread.

  What if she was lying? What if she was the one who liked to play with a man before he was killed? He had no guarantee that she wasn’t the one trying to lead him into a trap.

  But then he pictured Murrell’s lean, intense face and burning eyes. Whatever she was, he was better off with her than he would be with Reverend Devil. Murrell gave him the creeping horrors. And with that thought, he pulled up his blanket around him, and was asleep within minutes.

  • • •

  The next morning dawned clear and cold, and Darren woke to the dulcet tones of Mosher and Johnson stretching, yawning, and farting. The air, already unpleasant-smelling, got worse quickly, so he pulled his glasses out of his pocket, put them on his nose, and exited the lean-to.

  Murrell was already awake, and was in an intense discussion with Crenshaw by the fire. He looked worse than the previous day. His cheeks had a hectic flush, and he alternated taking drinks from a tin cup—probably whiskey, judging by his comments the previous evening—and coughing. When he saw Darren emerge, he gave a come-here motion of his hand.

  He approached the fire, but didn’t sit.

  “Sit down, my friend, sit down,” Murrell said. “God has blessed us with a beautiful sunny morning. It will be shirt sleeves weather by noon, praise His Holy Name.”

  He sat down rather tentatively on a log. He kept his eyes on Crenshaw, whom he half expected to pull out a knife and stab him on the spot.