Disquiet Heart

by Randall Silvis

  “It’s not all his,” Poe remarked, and pointed to the two recurring patterns in the trail, some of it dripped down the center of the floor (Buck’s blood, falling from his wound as he, bent forward, hurried along), some of it flung to one side or the other (Brunrichter’s blood, dripping from his shattered mouth as he hung draped over Buck’s shoulder).

  “Brunrichter won’t die from his injury,” I said as we walked as briskly as we dared, “but I’m not so sure about Buck.”

  “He took the pistol ball a few inches below his right shoulder. Too high for the lungs.”

  “He could bleed to death though.”

  “That he could.”

  We caught up with Buck not far from where I had turned back my first time in the tunnel. I held the lamp close to Brunrichter’s face. He was unconscious but breathing.

  Buck did not so much as turn his head to acknowledge our presence. Head lowered, bent slightly forward at the waist, the heavy ax still clutched by its hosel in his left hand, he moved like a bull in slow charge.

  I spoke to him in a hoarse whisper. “You don’t even know where this tunnel leads.”

  He answered without whispering, making no attempt to conceal his approach from whoever waited ahead. “I figure it’s where that other one went.”

  “And what do you expect to do if you find him?”

  “A lot worse than I done to this one.”

  I glanced back at Poe, my eyebrows raised in question. He shook his head. No, his eyes told me, we should not stop him. Not because he shouldn’t be stopped but because we were not up to the task. I did not believe that Buck would ever turn the ax on either Poe or me but I had no doubt that he would do whatever else necessary to keep from being hampered in his goal.

  And so we stayed with him. I held the light aloft so as to better show the way.

  We must have trudged nearly five hundred yards through that damp and musty darkness. By then I think we all knew or at least suspected where the tunnel would terminate, and so were not at all surprised to come finally to a wall of rock and dirt against which a ladder rested.

  At the top of the ladder, a rectangle of dim light, an opening not even four feet square, not much bigger than the eye of God through which I had squeezed. And in making that comparison I was reminded suddenly of what Buck had risked to save me from a hanging, of all he had done on my behalf, and I resolved to do as much or more for him.

  We stood looking up at the opening. “You’ll never make it through,” I told him, “it’s too small. We’ll have to go back.”

  He said only, “I’ll make it,” and raised a foot to the ladder.

  “Buck, wait. Let me go first. Maybe I can enlarge the opening somehow.”

  He turned to me, faced me dead-on. His gaze was softer than I expected. “You wouldn’t be planning to get in my way here, would you, son?”

  Any half-formed thoughts of subterfuge I might have harbored immediately crumbled. I answered with a smile. I put my hand on the ax handle, half atop his own hand. “Better let me have this,” I said.

  A moment’s pause, and then his hand came off the ax.

  Poe said, “Blow out the lamp.”

  I did so, set the lamp out of the way, and moved cautiously up the ladder.

  The mausoleum was empty, its granite door standing open. Noon light filled the doorway but came not much farther inside than the threshold, so that the gray walls and floor were only dully illuminated. I pushed the ax up ahead of me, laid it on the floor, slid it out of my way beneath a marble bench, and slithered out.

  To the side of the opening lay the slab of flooring that had been removed, a slab of faux marble constructed, in fact, of wood with but a thin layer of marble atop. Mounted on each side of this slab, allegedly as ornament but practicably as handles, was a white marble dove of peace.

  Breathlessly I listened for sounds from outside. A bird in the distance, a killdeer shrieking in whistling flight. Then a breeze, so sweetly fresh, washing in through the door, filling me, momentarily, with a debilitating nostalgia, so that for a few aching moments I wanted nothing more but than to lie there undisturbed, breathing in the sweetness of pine and grass and gazing outward at a blue unbroken sky.

  But soon Buck’s head emerged behind me. He looked around for a moment, then said, “I’ll hand him up to you.”

  “Send Poe up first.”

  In the meantime I climbed to my feet, grabbed the ax, held it at the ready across my chest, and crept to the door. Peeked out. And saw no one. Fields of grass, rounded hills. Far ahead and below, the gleaming twist of the Allegheny.

  By now Poe had joined me. I nodded to him, then spoke to Buck through the opening in the floor. “All’s clear outside. Hand him up.”

  A moment later, up came Brunrichter’s head, lolling forward. I bent to seize him under one arm, Poe the other, and together we dragged him clear of the opening. We laid him between two of the three marble sepulchers aligned vertically against the rear wall. Covering the wall above these sepulchers was an intaglio of an angel seated on a stone, releasing from her hands a dove.

  On each of the other walls was a thin rectangular window of thick stained glass. Even those on which the sunlight fell directly allowed little light to enter. Still I could make out the pain on Buck’s face as he squirmed and twisted in an attempt to work a shoulder through the opening.

  Poe said to Buck, “The floor is laid with marble slabs, each two inches thick. We will have to go back.”

  Buck said nothing. He continued to ram his shoulder against the floor.

  “There is no one here, sir. The scoundrel is gone.”

  “In that case help me out of here so that I can go find him.”

  “He is halfway to the waterfront by now. We need to alert the watchmen. And to fetch a carriage to take you and Dr. Brunrichter to a hospital.”

  But Buck was having none of that. He held out an arm to me. “Try pulling,” he said.

  I looked at Poe. “It’s probably quicker than going the whole way back.”

  He rubbed his chin, then sighed. Then together we knelt, one on either side of Buck, to pull at him wherever we could lay our hands. But it was no good. His chest alone filled most of the cavity. No matter how much skin he scraped off, he would not pass through.

  Then Poe sat suddenly upright, head cocked. “Shhh!” he said.

  I listened, heard nothing. And whispered, “What is it?”

  He waved me silent. We sat motionless.

  And soon I heard it too. A man’s voice, the words too distant to be understood.

  Poe hurried to the doorway, eased himself around the frame, peeked out. Three seconds later he scurried back to us. “Two men coming!” he whispered. He laid a hand atop Buck’s head. “Back down!”

  Buck would not budge. “How far?”

  “Forty, fifty yards, but coming this way. Back down!”

  And Buck’s head dipped down below the opening. But only for a moment. Buck Kemmer was not built for retreat. He sank only low enough that he could explode upward again, ramming his injured shoulder into the corner of the slab that blocked his ascent. The slab lifted up by an inch, then fell back into place the moment he drew away from it. Two seconds later he rammed the slab again, and this time when it sprang loose of the earth I seized it by the edge and held it up. Poe, too, slipped his fingers into the crook, and then Buck put both hands against it, and we pulled it up by six inches, and then slid it aside atop the adjoining slab.

  Now Buck dug into the earth with his hands, clawing and scrabbling to break it free, pulling it down atop him. “Move aside,” I told him, and went after it with the ax, chopping madly.

  Ten seconds later Buck said, “That’s enough!” and before I had caught a breath he was pushing through the opening, stained head to foot with sweat and dirt and blood.

  The moment he was clear we eased the second slab back into place. The voices outside sounded nearly upon us now. Buck went immediately to Brunrichter, seized him by an arm and wai
stband and all but flung him into the narrow space on the far side of the third sepulcher.

  As if by agreement, though not another word was spoken, Poe and I stationed ourselves with our backs against the forward wall, side by side to the right of the door. Buck did the same on the opposite side. The ax, unfortunately, remained where last I had laid it, atop the marble bench.

  The men outside were close enough now that we heard not only their voices but their footsteps. They approached at a hurried pace. Tevis was doing most of the talking, his words a tumbled rush of fear. But it was Brother Jarvis who came through the door first, his coarse cassock swishing against his legs. He strode a full yard inside, thumbing back the hammer of the revolver he held in both hands. It was then he saw the ax.

  He stopped. A moment passed. He made to turn to the right, meaning, I suppose, to face Tevis, who was stalled directly at his back, but the turn was never completed. For suddenly Jarvis was snapped in the opposite direction, whipped around violently as a man will whip a rattlesnake to break its spine. The revolver, and the monk’s hand atop it, were enclosed in the vise of Buck Kemmer’s hand.

  Tevis turned to flee but both Poe and I slid to the side and blocked the doorway.

  Buck tightened the vise now, fingers digging in between Jarvis’s knuckles. With his free hand, knees buckling, Jarvis swung at Buck’s face, and though first one and then a second blow landed, they had no effect. Buck wrenched the revolver free then, seized the monk by his cassock and with a quick half-spin flung him easily against the sepulchers.

  And then Buck turned to Tevis.

  “It was him!” Tevis cried, and jammed a finger toward the monk. Jarvis had landed hard against a marble edge and lay curled on the floor, writhing and moaning.

  “He’s the one killed your girl!” Tevis screamed. “I had nothing to do with it!”

  Buck brought the revolver up to the side of Tevis’s head.

  “Mr. Kemmer,” said Poe. His voice was tight and pitched higher than normal, but as hushed as a prayer.

  Tevis stood backed hard against me now, my hands pressed to his shoulders to prevent further retreat. I could feel the wild tremblings through my hands.

  “I swear it’s the truth,” Tevis said. “I never touched a one of them. Never even came close to your daughter.”

  Buck slid the revolver around until its barrel was centered on Tevis’s forehead.

  “Mr. Kemmer,” Poe said again.

  Buck never took his eyes off Tevis. His voice sounded dead to me. “You should go for the police now, Mr. Poe.”

  Poe answered, “You need to come as well. Leave Augie here with the weapon.”

  Buck shook his head. “I’d better stay.”

  From where Poe stood he could not see Buck’s eyes. But I could. And those eyes, once so deeply green, as clear and green as the river at its source, had now gone black.

  I said to Poe, “Go to the railroad depot. Straight across the field and toward the Allegheny. If you can’t find a watchman you can at least find a carriage and some men there.”

  Poe said, “I think it unwise to leave just now.”

  I told him, “There’s nothing else for you to do.”

  Some moments passed before he finally nodded, squeezed past Tevis and me, and set off on a run.

  Buck then put a hand on Tevis’s arm, not tightly, casually, a gentlemanly touch. “We have a quarter hour or so,” he told him. “You might as well rest.” With that he led Tevis to the marble bench and indicated with a wave of the revolver that he should sit. Tevis did so, nervously, his hand poised and trembling not far from the ax blade. More than once he looked down at the ax.

  Buck glanced my way then and held out the revolver. I thought he was handing it over to me, and after a moment’s hesitation I reached for it. But he pulled it back. “I never seen one like this before,” he said. “Have you?”

  I squinted for a closer look. The long black barrel and ebony grips. “It’s a Patterson,” I told him. “Made by Colt.”

  “How many shots?”

  “Five,” I said.

  Buck nodded, but he did not smile. He turned away from me then and went to stand over Brother Jarvis. The monk still lay on his side, hand pressed to his back, face contorted and white. “Did you do what he says?” Buck asked.

  Brother Jarvis only licked his lips, tongue flicking wildly. His lips made a clicking sound, glutinous and sticky. Brunrichter, behind the sepulcher, groaned. Jarvis jerked his head up at the sound.

  “He’s here too,” said Buck. “So you can stop thinking he’ll be along to save you.”

  Tevis said, vehement with terror, “I’m telling you it’s the truth!”

  “And you did what?” Buck asked.

  “I didn’t do nothing. I buried the bodies of those other ones, that’s all I did. After he was done with them.”

  “Which he?”

  Tevis jerked his chin at Jarvis.

  “Done how?” said Buck.

  “How do you think? Same thing he did to that girl of yours.”

  Buck squeezed shut his eyes. I watched his hand on the revolver. For a moment everything else in my range of vision went black. And I asked, “Is that why he killed her? So she wouldn’t tell?”

  “The doctor had him do it,” Tevis said. “To get at you.”

  Brunrichter began to whimper now. We could hear him sliding around, trying to upright himself behind the sepulchers. No doubt he wished to speak in his own defense, but could fit no words through his shattered jaw.

  When Buck opened his eyes again it was to look at me, a question. Was Tevis to be believed?

  I told him, “Jarvis was at the house the night Susan and I went there. I saw him at the top of the stairs. With Brunrichter.”

  Buck faced Tevis again. “The doctor paid you well, didn’t he?”

  “He didn’t do what this one did, if that’s what you’re asking. All he was interested in was the science.”

  “And he paid you well for your help.”

  “I took care of the bodies afterward. That’s all I ever did.”

  “That’s all,” said Buck. He lowered the revolver a bit, a gesture that looked harmless, like the easing of his tension, and shot Tevis through the chest. The man tumbled backward off the bench, his head striking the nearest sepulcher. I flinched at the gunshot, and again at the awful crack of bone. Tevis flopped awkwardly onto his side, and then lay motionless, one leg still draped, almost casually, across the marble bench.

  “My god!” cried Jarvis. “My god! Sweet Jesus!”

  Buck tossed the revolver down into the hole. I think I must have lurched for it, must have made a sudden move, because Buck thrust out a hand against my chest. When I looked up at him, he smiled. “Time to go now, Augie.”

  “Good,” I said, “that’s good. Let’s go.”

  He moved closer. I noticed that he was listing to one side now, that when he raised his arms to lay both hands upon my shoulder, his right arm came up slowly, lagging behind the other.

  I told him, “No, Buck. You can’t even think about that.”

  “Can’t think about what?”

  “What you’re up to now.”

  “You think you know?”

  “We think the same way, you and me.”

  He nodded. There were tears in his eyes. “She was so special, Augie. You know how rare she was.”

  “I know,” I said.

  He embraced me then, left arm squeezing hard, rough lips pressed to my cheek. He held me so long and hard that I was nearly breathless, nearly choked by the tears that would not come.

  And then, not yet pulling away, he moved his mouth to my ear. “You have to live for her now too.”

  He gave me no chance to answer, not a second for protest before he spun me away from him and with his one good arm seized me around the waist and lifted me up. He took two long steps and was at the door and flung me outward, out over the marble porch and past the marble columns, onto the border of delicate shells. I barel
y had time to raise my head off the ground before he stepped back inside and pulled shut the door.

  I pounded on the door. I raced from one window to another, hammered on the leaded glass until my knuckles were bloody. I pressed my face to the glass, tried to see inside, but the glass was too thick.

  I leaned against the door then, my ear to the seam. The hollow scrape of the ax blade as it scraped across the floor. The muted echo of one man’s desperate cries, high pitched and incredulous. Another man’s mumbled shrieks. And a third man’s voice, peaceful at last.

  “You reap what you sow.”

  Epilogue

  A PEWTER gray morning, heavy with rain. The rain would not fall for a while yet though, not until the weight in the clouds grew insupportable, too heavy to bear. And then it would come in a downpour, a sudden and violent emptying. This is the way with grief as well. Some individuals contain it longer than others can, shoulder the weight until it is double what others might carry. But in the end it crashes down upon us all. You cannot escape this life without being drenched and sometimes drowned by it.

  Buck Kemmer once told me that he did not weep when his young wife died. There was Susan to tend to, her living and therefore his own to provide for. But now that burden, blessing though it was, had been lifted from him. All responsibilities had been dispatched. And the last sound I heard from him was the sound of his weeping, the sudden and violent release of a strong man’s tears locked away in a house for the dead.

  As for Poe and myself, we passed our final moments together in Pittsburgh by gazing toward the rising sun, still but a dull wet glow in the dull metal sky. His bag was at his side. Mine sat between my feet. I had managed to recover it from the police but only through Poe’s intervention; the High Constable, despite the fact that we had identified for him the murderer of the seven girls and Susan’s murderer as well, was not pleased that I had managed to escape from his jail, and threatened to incarcerate me again as punishment for this indignity. Poe then announced that as my foster father he would be very grateful if this were not to happen, so grateful, in fact, that he might even refrain from employing his pen in a recounting of this whole sad episode, this tawdry tale of depravity in a city that hoped to grow and prosper, and of how the police had been outwitted at every turn, bested by a mere poet and dockworker, their magnificent new jail bested by a mere boy, who, by the way, was himself a fine journalist and more than capable of retelling the tale himself.