Men Who Walk Alone

by T. J. Martinell

  18568 Beaver Pond Road.

  ***

  Sean took the piece of paper and crumpled it in his hands, shoving it in his pocket as he finally reached the address on an unpaved, muddy road. The single-story house, surrounded by a small, thick grove, seemed quaint and tranquil. The two gables and white paint gave it a peaceful ambiance.

  Sean approached the house and peered through the front windows. No talking. No sign of activity. No automobiles were parked near it. He took out a spare lock pick that he had obtained from Seth Moore. It opened the door easily.

  He explored the entryway. The walls had several scenic paintings on them, the floors were all hard wood, and the living room to the left of the kitchen seemed empty.

  The living room had a brown sofa, a heavy desk, and a four-level bookshelf situated against the wall on the right. A dozen picture frames covered the left wall, all of them of a family.

  There were four members of it, and they were in the same stances and appearance in every picture regardless of the background location. The father, a sturdy man with a heavy moustache, held himself very tenaciously. The mother appeared much younger than her husband, her youthful face expressing immaculateness and a very proper and decent personality.

  Their two teenage sons stood in front of them in every picture, both of equal size and height. They weren’t twins. Their features were too varied. One of them was skinny and scraggly, with mussed and unruly hair. He had a big smile on his face that went from ear to ear, which seemed to radiate his joyful persona.

  The other brother gave the impression of being antithetical to his brother in almost every way. His hair was clean, combed, and cut short above his ears. He held his hands in front of him, as if he was a priest or pastor about to pray at a funeral service or Mass. He was smiling as well, but there was a hint of suppressed emotions and feelings behind it.

  Sean looked out the window every minute or so as he examined the room, finding nothing.

  He went over to the kitchen closet and opened the door. The inside was horribly dark. He could feel the musk and dust floating up, clogging his nose. He searched blindly for a light switch, eventually finding it. He flicked it on. The closet lit up, revealing a hanger full of old clothes. Below it was a small oriental rug covering the floor and a straw broom lying on top of it. Sean tossed aside the broom and pulled the rug off the floor.

  Underneath it was a small trap door with a latch ring. He yanked it up, placing it down to the side. He then peered down into the small entrance hole, seeing that it was a black abyss, even with the light bulb in the ceiling on. There was only one way for him to discover what lay below.

  He took out a flashlight. The ground was only about six feet below. Holding onto the side of the trapdoor frame, he leaped down. When he landed, he stood still, peering around.

  The underground room was roughly four hundred square feet. At the very end in the left side corner were a small congregation of furniture and an assortment of indiscernible items.

  There was a crude light switch on the left side of the wall, with the electrical wire running up into the house. He turned it on.

  Six light bulbs installed into the ceiling flickered on simultaneously, shining down on the area as if it were a junction between Heaven and Earth.

  The pieces of furniture took the form of tables and metal framed shelves, situated in a semi-boxed arrangement. A diminutive squared table was in the center, a pair of unlit candles sticks at each end of it.

  As he shined the light closer, Sean saw the imposter’s outfit. The mask, coat, and Webley-Fosbery revolver were neatly arranged together on the table.

  Next to it was a newspaper article. Certain paragraphs of the clipping were circled with red ink.

  On top of the other tables was a collection of visual art of the Vigilante that various cartoonists had drawn for the Beverly newspapers. There were also photographs of the Vigilante encased in dark wooden frames taken during the riots. Framed newspaper clippings hung on the back wall. The topics all shared a specific commonality.

  Sean looked at it like a medieval watchman would look at a massive, hostile army approaching his castle.

  A large piece of metal whacked Sean in the back of the head, stunning him. He fell down, unable to think or react to the surprise blow. He tried to bring his head up, but the pain racing through his head was too strong. His face dropped into the ground.

  Just before he became unconscious, he could hear a low voice echo in the room.

  “Whoever you are, you’re in a world of trouble.”

  ***

  When he awoke, Sean found himself bound to a four-legged chair with his hands and legs tied firmly to it.

  He looked around the room, saw he was in the main bedroom. His hands fought at the knots around his wrists. He struggled quietly, reaching for his right pant pocket.

  Feet shuffled outside of the door. He ceased squirming. The door opened.

  A young man entered, his hand gripping the door knob as he stared at Sean. The Irishman peered back, and for nearly a minute the two of them gazed at one another as though they were looking at themselves and were quite unsatisfied with what they perceived.

  The young man was Sean’s height. His build was slightly larger. His arms and legs seemed powerful and developed. His face was recognizable as one of the sons from the family photos. He was one of the brothers. His child-like features contrasted with his disillusioned expression.

  He seemed very curious, but had a bitter edge in the way he had his brows fixed and his forehead creased. He shut the door behind him with a disciplinary shove, and walked over to Sean.

  “You probably know what I am going to ask,” he said plainly in regular English, “so just answer the question.”

  Sean raised a brow in confusion.

  “What?” he asked honestly.

  “Who are you?!” he replied, this time in an angry and impatient tone. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “The question is better suited for ye. Ye the one impersonating the Vigilante. Why are ye doing it? Are ye mad?”

  The young man glared at Sean.

  “I never impersonated him. I am simply doing the work he started but failed to complete. The Vigilante isn’t an individual or a man. He’s a symbol.”

  “But ye are a man. And ye have a name, Ross Noble. That’d make ye an individual.”

  Ross’ ocean blue eyes grew larger with trepidation. His curiosity became aggression. He answered with the threat of violence behind his voice.

  “You’re a very brave person to have come into my house and then help yourself to whatever you find. Or very stupid.”

  “So, what are ye gonna to do to me?”

  “Are you a criminal?” Noble inquired.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever committed a crime?”

  “No.”

  “Do you plan on informing the police of your discovery?”

  Sean paused before answering.

  “No, but the killings must stop,” he said firmly. “Ye go on ye way, and I’ll do the same. I’ll pretend I never saw what I did, and ye take it and throw it into an incinerator and we’ll forgot the whole matter.”

  Noble laughed. Sean observed him clasp his hands behind his back, not in front of him. It said something.

  “Where is the rest of your family?” Sean asked.

  “They’re gone,” Noble said, more depressed than hostile.

  “And by that ye mean—”

  “They are no longer a part of my life.”

  “Why?”

  “That would not be your business,” Noble snapped. “And if you are going to tell the police about me, I have no choice but to kill you.”

  “Ye admire the Vigilante, right?” Sean asked inquiringly. “At least what he stands for?”

  Noble shrugged his shoulders.

  “What he stood for, you mean. He’s lost his way, the clarity of his original vision. He must have been affected by the riots. I can’t say.”<
br />
  “He wouldna kill someone if they discovered his identify.”

  “No? Then what would he do?”

  “He’d befriend them.”

  Noble seemed dubious.

  “You think you’re so informed about him? Trust me. I know everything there is to know about this man. I know him like I know myself.”

  “I can personally guarantee that he wouldna agree.”

  “And how would you be able to do this?”

  “I know this man personally,”

  “Right. Sell that for fertilizer.”

  “I do. Me whole neighborhood is connected to him. Ye read the papers. He saved our communities from Leonard Costa.”

  “I know what he did. He’s my hero, too.”

  “Your hero?” Sean asked suspiciously. “Ye really think what ye do and he did are the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “I donna understand your methods. How do they compare to his?”

  “We take different paths up the mountain,” he proclaimed. “But, in the end, we’re striving for the same summit.”

  “And death is the summit?” Sean asked solemnly.

  “No, it is the path that must be taken. The Vigilante would agree with me on that.”

  Sean smiled subtly.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Noble didn’t seem to believe him. He crossed his arms challengingly.

  “Fine. Prove your connections to him. You have him meet me by the docks at midnight tonight. We’ll talk there, preferably without strife.”

  Noble then proceeded to cut Sean loose from his chair with a jagged knife, ruthlessly pointing towards the door.

  “And what if I lie?” Sean asked.

  “I’ll find you. Don’t think I won’t.”

  He threw his hand at the door again.

  “Now get out,” he growled, “before I change my mind.”

  Sean didn’t protest. He left and strolled briskly down the sidewalk, hastening once he got a glimpse of a nearby trolley.

  Inside of the house, Noble went into the kitchen and approached the sink. Turning the faucet on, he poured himself a glass of water. He then walked into the living room, mumbling random and incoherent statements.

  He then paused abruptly and looked up at the wall full of picture frames. With moistened eyes, he stared at them for a while, drinking his water in sips. He concentrated his gaze on the faces individually, then tore his eyes away. Wincing, inhaling sharply, he saw the oval mirror next to one of the framed pictures. He glared at himself on the clear, clean reflection.

  Then, destroying the silence, he screamed wildly, throwing his glass at the wall. The impact shattered the mirror into a thousand tiny pieces, revealing the rotting wooden frame that had been holding it up.

  He stared at it for a long time, breaking away from it only to answer the ancient telephone in the kitchen. He answered it as if he knew exactly who it was.

  “Don’t even begin to put the blame on me for this one! I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I had no idea he would show up and spoil everything…. don’t you dare! That wasn’t a part of the agreement! I did my part. Your men should have finished him off when he was trapped inside the house. I got him in one place for you. That’s all I was required to do…. well, you won’t have to worry about him, anymore, because I’m meeting him tonight…yes, that’s right. No! I want to talk to him first. I want to try and give him a chance…we’ve tried it your way. Now we’re going to try it my way.”

  Even as an infuriated voice continued to bellow through the phone, Noble hung up the ear piece, a self-satisfied look apparent as he descended into the basement.

  ***

  Sean knelt below a picture of his docile-looking Grandfather, which sat on a wooden chest. He held his hands tightly, speaking softly.

  “I have to do this, Granda. I can’t let this continue. If I don’t do something, he will keep going on with this madness. This is what I have been telling you for so long. I know, I know, I should have listened to you about some of the things I have done. Yes, I did inspire this man. Yes, he is responsible for his actions as an individual, but we are also responsible for what we do ourselves that encourage people to engage in immoral campaigns. I will try to calm him down, reason him out of this, but you know where it will end. I can see it in him now. He is angry. Something happened to him. He is like the thousands of other people I have seen thirsty for revenge. His, however, has not been quenched, and I doubt it will be. He is driven by an anger that is far greater than something personal. He has made the personal indifferent.”

  He set his revolver next to the picture on the chest, its thump loud and defined.

  “Granda, I love you, but there is no choice. I tried to stay away from this life. You know I did. I was done, finished. They brought it back. It was they and not I that took everything away from me and challenged me to defile them for it. I will defile them and anyone who attempts to inflict harm upon those who are my neighbor. I must persist as long as I feel compelled to do what it necessary to keep my conscience clear of guilt.”

  An oak red rosary hung from a wooden peg on the wall next to the chest. He took it, held it dearly, and then placed it inside of the chest. The way he spoke made it seem as though he wasn’t asking a question, but suggesting an answer to one he had failed to ask.

  “What have I to live for, but the hope that I may prevent more wasted lives?”

  ***

  The clock at the Beverly Depot announced midnight with a loud, resounding gong that carried across the ocean waves as they splashed up against the pier. The clock itself, rusted and in disrepair as much as the century old depot, rumbled as it struggled to remain onto its position.

  A short distance away, over by the waterline, Noble stood fearlessly outside an abandoned, dilapidated warehouse, situated between it and a half-destroyed jetty. It was disheveled, but stable, still standing in the water despite its heavy usage in another time. It rocked slowly back and forth from the tide that shook it from side to side. The only light that shone was from a rusted light post next to the building.

  He heard the gentle sound of the breeze in the distance. He smiled. It was not a breeze.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said out loud, not looking anywhere in particular.

  He waited for a reply. It came with the wind, as if it were a part of it.

  “You’re welcome,” he heard from a low, gruff voice above him.

  Noble titled his head up. The Vigilante hung on the edge of the roof. He was looking down straight at him

  “You heard me?” the Vigilante asked.

  “You are my hero. Of course, I know your every move.”

  The Vigilante dropped down silently. He then stood up, bringing himself to his full height, his hands at his sides.

  “You came to discuss something with me?” he asked.

  “Yes, I trust your friend informed you of our conversation.”

  “Yes, he did, to put it mildly.”

  Noble laughed. “Ah, I’m sure he wasn’t too fond of me batting him in the head with a metal pipe, or tying him up in a chair.”

  “Who does? What do you want?”

  Noble titled his head. He opened his arms out in friendship.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot the other night,” he said. “Really, we are the same person with a few minor differences. If we can just come to an accord, we could work together and achieve twice the greatness than either of us could alone.”

  The Vigilante shook his head slightly. “I do not kill innocent people in their homes.”

  “No, you simply kill them in the streets,” Noble returned, his courtesy quickly removing itself.

  “They were trying to kill people. What else could I do?”

  “So were the men I killed.”

  “No. You kill men after the fact.”

  Noble laughed sardonically. “You think you are any different from me? If I was killing criminals in the street, would I be in the clear? Woul
d there be any wrong on my account?”

  He took the long pause as an implied answer.

  “No, you would still try to stop me,” he continued. “You seem to have a problem with someone else being you. You think you’re a hero for killing evil men, but anyone else who does the same thing is a murderer, that’s what you think, right? You’re threatened by someone else stealing the prestige and attention of the spotlight that the press always gave you.”

  “No” the Vigilante replied vehemently. “And you are doing this for revenge, aren’t you? It isn’t just against people who committed crimes. This is personal, isn’t it?”

  He watched as Noble shifted his weight around, searching for an answer self-consciously.

  “That is why you killed those people,” he proceeded to add. “You knew them.”

  There was another long period of silence.

  “What happened to your family?” the Vigilante prodded.

  Noble’s voice weakened.

  “My family has nothing to do with this,” he snapped.

  “What about all of those former convicts you killed? Luke Craft accidentally shot someone when he was trying to rob a bank. The person he shot wasn’t identified in the papers, but it was someone from your family, wasn’t it?”

  “Then you understand now, don’t you?” Noble said timidly, seeking pity in the way he held himself. “You understand how I feel now?”

  “Who was it?”

  “My brother. He was killed just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “But what about the other man you tried to kill?”

  “He plenty of other people. I saw them. I saw what happened. I saw what happened when they didn’t report it. And why should they? Who would have acted against him? Everyone is apathetic! Someone else had to do something, but he was finally imprisoned before I could repay him for his acts.”

  Noble pointed an accusatory finger at him.

  “It was only after I used your revolver that you stepped in. When I killed the others, you didn’t say a word.”

  “There were others?” the Vigilante inquired. “Who? What did they do?”