by M. G. Meaney
He dodged past a woman emerging from a grocer's, stumbled over cracked sidewalk boards, but kept going. The carriage shrank into the distance. Sam turned back toward the jail. He would pursue another way.
In the creaking, rumbling carriage, Abigail crouched against the red-velvet-lined door as far from Acker/Janesch Tischinski as she could on the front black leather bench. But she could still smell his cedarwood scent mixed with cigar tobacco and perspiration. And she could see the pistol sitting on his other side. The pistol that he had shot Will with.
"Arrr, get, get, get!" Acker growled at Bolter. The fugitive snapped the brown leather reins insistently as the carriage careened along White Plains' Main Street. Abigail flew left against the door, then shot forward and bounced up and back against the seat. Wind whistled cool against her face. The carriage wheels thrummed, squealed then slammed as Acker swerved past carts and buggies and thudded over ruts and crevices in the dirt road.
Abigail glanced at the road, then at Acker and back. She felt around for the door handle. But the carriage was hurtling too fast to try an escape that way.
And now, Acker turned toward her. He seemed to read her mind.
"Don't try anything, Abby. You got us into this, and you'll stay," he growled and pointed the cream-grip black pistol toward her.
"Of course, Thad. Lovely day for a ride," she said lightly, turning a tight smile toward him.
A walker screamed and dove from the path of the speeding carriage. That forced Acker's attention back to the road. He set down the gun, on the side away from Abigail.
Smells of horse and manure assaulted Abigail as the carriage bounded along in a jagged rattle through White Plains' downtown. It passed Mary Green's dress shop. Abigail wondered if she would ever again critique the hats displayed in its window, with their red and green silken ribbons, dashing feathers and jaunty attitudes. Or would she ever step through its creaking door to talk of fashions and business with Mary while judging which wares were more or less fashionable than Abigail's.
I am dressed for my funeral, Abigail realized. She looked at the black widow's weeds she had put on to lure Acker. Would she be buried in this dress?
What did I suppose would happen? Abigail asked herself. Our trap would be sprung. And then? She had given scant thought to what would happen next. Thad would confess, she supposed. But then? In her mind, she had skipped to the reunion with Will, and the village celebrating them as heroes – brilliant detectives. She had not considered that Thad would be hanged, because of her.
Now, she understood. She understood the consequences of her lark. Will shot, maybe dying. The Leatherman murdered. And Thad unmasked, ruined, explosively angry, galloping them desperately toward … a black dress funeral.
All because I had to have an adventure, had to show how smart I was, had to troll for everyone's secrets, had to get the scoop like some lady reporter. Then she realized: had to fall in love with Will.
The carriage's wheels spun on, like a clock winding down.
They passed Andy Higgins' greengrocery and Helmut Schmid's butcher shop to their left. The morning sun glinted golden off the windows. But the shops on the right were shrouded in shadows. Where will she and Thad end today, Abigail wondered, in the light or the darkness?
Acker spoke again. "Why, why, why did you have to stick your nose in, Abby?" he demanded in outrage and desperation. "Why did you have to rake up the past? What good will it serve now?" He reached toward the gun, still poised beside him.
"Where will you go, Thad?" Abigail asked instead.
Slowly, his hand edged away from the gun. He regripped the reins.
"The city. It is easy to become someone else in the city," he said after a few moments as the wind whipped his black coat about him. "I have done it here. I can do it there."
"But more of your people are coming, more of them every day. Will someone else not recognize you?" Abigail pointed out despite herself. Must she always win the point in conversation? Even if it … She glanced at more shops in shadow to their right, clenched her hands into fists and pounded them into the lap of her black dress.
Acker shook his head angrily and picked up the gun. "Pszczoły i trzmiele. Do you want to die, woman?"
Eyes wide with alarm, Abigail sputtered, "Another city, Thad. Maybe another city would be best to start again. Boston or, better, Chicago, away from the ships. And Chicago has great industry, I hear. You could use your ideas. It's a train ride away to a new life."
Scanning the road and lurching around more slow carts and riders, he pondered, gun still in hand. Abigail held her breath and braced herself in the bounding carriage.
Finally, he lay the gun down again.
"I always envied you," he said.
"Envied me? Why?"
"You were free."
"Free? In what way was I free, Thad?"
"Free to carry on as yourself. You spoke your mind, teased even the mayor, humiliated men who courted you, mocked the customs of the village. And they still loved you, or at least put up with you. You did not have to mask who you were, control your every impulse, look around every corner."
He was referring to her in past tense, Abigail noted with alarm.
"Thad, my husband was killed in the war when I was young. My true self died with Daniel. I was hiding."
"Joking, jibing, teasing. What were you hiding?"
"This," she said, putting her hands in the pockets and spreading her black dress.
"That. That costume of deception? What are you talking about?" Acker growled as he glanced over.
"Grief. My grief. It is always with me, a part of me. For like you I never got, have never yet gotten to live a full life. Daniel's death closed off a part of me and I cordoned it off. I disguised myself with those jokes, jibes and teases. I have forbidden myself love so I would not be hurt again."
"Until," Acker exploded, "that prying priest."
"That man who made a tragic, fatal mistake and tried to amend it," Abigail said, buffeted now by the shock of Will shot and collapsing onto the gallows.
"A fatal mistake now for him and you because of his amending," Acker said bitterly. He moved again for the pistol.
"Did you not love, Thad?"
He turned to her, brown eyes wide. His hand withdrew from the gun. Nonplussed, he stared at her. "How could I love someone and remain … discreet? How could I allow another woman about my house poking into every corner, pelting me with questions day and night, picking away at me, all in love, until she found out everything, as you did for sport?"
A shout from the street turned his attention back to the road. The carriage's wheels bumped along in their implacable turning as time grew shorter.
Abigail scanned the road and shops for an escape. Then, she glanced furtively behind. There, in the distance a glimmer: someone on horseback, galloping in their direction.
"Another woman, Thad? You said you couldn't allow another woman. So, you did love someone once. In Poland?"
Acker ignored her and drove on.
"She wasn't like me, I take it? A gentle adoring girl, maybe? Or was she a rough and tumble, ready for anything, laugh a minute …"
"Uciszać! Uciszać! Silence! Do not talk about Kasia that way."
"Kasia. Kasia her name was. You tell me then. How did you and Kasia meet?"
They neared the turnoff to the Paulding road. Abigail glanced back. The rider was getting closer but was still a ways off. Would he lose them once they turned off? Was he not really pursuing them at all, just a desperate illusion of hers?"
Acker spoke, his expression softening: "We were 18. She worked in the bakery where I bought bread for the family - my parents and three younger brothers. I was not used to being around young girls because we were all brothers always competing and rough playing. She had thick black hair, and her round face and blue eyes – she always had a gentle look, not mocking."
Like mine, Abigail thought.
Acker turned
the carriage from Main Street onto the Paulding Road.
"Kasia's brother was friend of my brother Jozef (it sounded like Yoh-seff to Abigail). We spoke of our brothers at first. Then I told her of my tinkering. Most girls had little interest in devices and mechanical things, but Kasia herself, she was mechanically minded. She devised way to thread needle easier and to cut loaf of bread all at once, and more such. I showed her my works, and we walked through the town and talked."
Abigail glanced back and, relieved, spotted the horseman. Was it Sam Merritt on Burnside? He was still too far back to be sure.
Acker continued recounting, his Polish accent growing more evident, his American life fading as he returned in mind to his Polish youth. "We grow in love, I suppose you would say. But I dare not ask Kasia to marry because I am not yet able to support her. Then, my tinkering succeeds. My bolt maker will make a revolution and make me rich. So, Kasia and I can marry and make life razem – together. She teases me about my always happy face, without a beard, and smiling eyes, without spectacles. I tell her we will both invent things and be famous and wealthy."
Acker's face relaxed as he savored this sweet memory of what could have been. But the carriage rolled on relentlessly. Acker's expression tightened.
"Then, Robert Marks ruins everything. He steals my plans and my life, and now so have you."
"After the fire," Abigail asked hastily, "what happened with Kasia?"
"I said I knew nothing about the fire. She believed me. At first, it seemed we could go on with our lives and plans. But others, they raise questions, get suspicious about me. The village, it is turning against me. I decide I must leave."
The horseman is Merritt, and he's getting close. Abigail confirms this with a furtive glance. She puts her left hand in her pocket and thinks. Acker is still speaking, his eyes on the road as they barrel along.
"I go at night. I could not tell her before I leave. What could I say? She believed in me."
"Would she not have gone with you, Janesch?" Abigail asked gently.
"How could she? Me, and the fire, although it was Robert Marks' fault." He paused. Seemingly for the first time, it occurred to him that maybe she would have come away with him. Maybe she would not have blamed him for the fire. Maybe she would have understood, and still loved him. "Oh," he murmured, shaking his head slowly. "Kasia."
A moment later, though, he sat erect again. "It could not have happened," he asserted. "I left her a note as I passed her house that night. 'My dear Kasia, I must leave. I have failed you and no longer deserve you. Do not search for me. Forget. But I will always love you. Do widzenia. Good bye. Janesch.' I never found out what happened to her."
Then, he turned to Abigail. "You. You were nothing like Kasia. You with your mocking, and gossip, and questions. When I came to United States, I hid my face and my eyes. I gave up love. I concentrated on my work, my ideas, my inventions. They were enough," he said, though he didn't sound convinced. "But you ruined everything, you and the priest."
"Why did you let Theodore Hopfner die, Janesch?" Abigail asked, desperately trying once more to redirect his thoughts.
"It could not be helped. How could I have stopped it? He did ransack the body, an evil act. He was not a great loss, and the village was satisfied. I could continue with my work, work that employs four hundred fifty three."
So, he has not accepted that his run is over, Abigail decided. He still has hope of escaping, again, even somehow running the factory again. Or a factory somewhere. And he has not accepted that he was responsible for Hopfner's death.
"Thad Acker, stop. You cannot get away."
Acker, startled, turned to see Sam Merritt on Burnside now behind the carriage. Acker whipped the reins and urged Bolter on, but Merritt easily kept up.
"Bolter will not outrace Burnside, Thad. You know that yourself."
"Turn back, Sam. I have a gun and Abby here." Acker hoisted the pistol and pointed it toward the sky. "Turn back if you want Abby to live."
Abigail scanned the road. Might some obstacle force Acker to slow his pace enough for her to leap from the carriage? But outside busy White Plains' downtown now, the road was lightly trafficked.
If anything, Bolter was galloping faster, and she bounded about inside the carriage.
"Thad, Sam's right. Where do you expect to go now?"
Acker peered angrily at her. He shouted deeply, menacingly: "Leave off, Sam, or I will kill Abby. And it will be on your head. Is that what you want? Abby dead?"
Sam shouted back, "If I leave off, others are following. You're a sensible man, Thad. Be sensible now. Sure, you know your run is over. Cause no more harm."
Acker ignored him. He concentrated on the road, the open road, ahead. Sam continued to gallop behind.
Abigail peered at the gun, now in Acker's lap. Sam did not appear to have a gun on him. What would it feel like to be shot? Sam knew and Will knew from the war … and Will from today. What would she feel if Thad picked up that pistol now and fired it at her. Would she even hear the blast amid the searing pain as the shot punched into her? Would he shoot her in the face? No, please God. How quickly would she die? How much pain before that?
The carriage darted on, past the White Plains Methodist Church. Is Will alive? Abby wondered. What a tragic mess we've made of this. We were just seeking justice in a small village. How did it go so brutally wrong?
She glanced back at Sam. They were approaching a bend where the road turned to the right. Sam motioned that he would advance to Acker's side of the carriage then try to stop him. Abigail nodded tersely that she understood. She put her left hand in her pocket. What might Acker do? How to prevent him from shooting Sam, or her?
Sam made one last plea. "Thad, it's time to stop now. You cannot get away."
"You're not facing the noose, Sam," Acker growled.
Abigail said gently, "What would Kasia have you do, Janesch?"
Acker glared at Abigail. "How dare you call upon her name, you who are nothing like her. Kasia is kind and concerned and believes in me. You caused nothing but trouble with your smirking and questions and dramatics, you and your priest." He reached toward the gun.
But Sam was now beside the carriage.
He reached out and yanked Acker by the collar. Sam struggled to put him in a headlock as he continued to ride alongside. Acker stopped reaching for the gun. He tangled with Sam instead. The horses snorted and galloped disjointedly. A beam of warm sun spotlighted the struggling men and the wind tousled their hair. Acker punched at the arm enfolding his neck. Then, he squirmed to pry Sam's left arm away as the carriage and Burnside bounded side by side along the rutted road.
Abigail dove across Acker toward the gun. "No!" he roared. He tossed her aside with his left arm. Then, he bit Sam's arm and loosened his hold as Sam screamed in pain and shock. Acker pulled left on the reins, and Bolter swerved left. Sam's grip released, and the carriage veered away from the horseman.
Sam galloped back toward the carriage to try again. Acker's black coat was left torn open, brown suit and green vest rumpled, hair disheveled, glasses askew. He glanced wildly from road to Sam to Abby. They approached another bend where Sam could catch up. The bend crossed over the Sheldrake, a river down a steep embankment that formed the border between White Plains and Paulding. Abby, too, surveyed the situation. Acker was now free to shoot her or Sam or both in these next moments. The carriage still rolled too fast for her to jump out.
Sam shouted: "Thad, you cannot get away. Stop before you or anyone else gets hurt."
"Go away or I'll kill Abby right now."
They sped on. Sam was silent as the red wheels rattled, the black carriage creaked, the wind chided their faces, and Bolter and Burnside huffed and galloped.
"Well?" Thad demanded. "Shall I kill Abby?"
More moments passed.
Abigail shrunk into the corner of her seat. She crossed her arms protectively. Would they stop a bullet? Her heart pounded in fear. Pan
ic slurred her thoughts.
"Well?" Thad demanded more menacingly. "Shall I kill her?"
Abigail fought off the sludge of shock slowing her mind. Focus, she ordered herself.
The carriage and horses raced on.
"Last chance," Thad growled. "Last chance. Shall I kill Abby?"
More tense moments passed.
"No need," Sam said, his tone now conciliatory. "All right. Let her go and we'll let you go on your way. Just let Abby go."
Acker tersely shook his head. "And why would you let me go then? Instead, you stop, I'll keep her as insurance, and I still get to go on my way."
Sam won't succeed, Abigail sensed. A plan, a desperate, bloody plan, had been brewing. Now it broke through Abigail's fogbound thoughts. No. She couldn't do that. Could she?
Sam was saying: "I can't let you go and take Abby, Thad. You know so." Sam inched Burnside closer to the carriage.
"Her death is on your head, then. Is that what you want, Sam?"
Abigail reached into her dress pocket.
"Wait, now, Thad. None of us want that. Enough harm has been done. There's no need for more."
"And the harm came from her and that priest. Everything was fine until their 'crusade.' And look where's that's gotten us."
And Acker grasped the gun and pointed it toward Sam.
"No!" Abigail roared. She pulled her clenched left hand out of her pocket. She threw herself across the carriage, yanked off Acker's glasses and smeared a cluster of straight pins into his eyes and face.
"Ahrrrr!" Acker screamed and fired a shot. He dropped the reins and the gun and reached for his eyes, where pins had pierced his pupils, eye lids, nose and forehead. "Oh, God, I'm blind."
At the gunfire, Bolter screeched. The panicked horse veered sharply left, away from the sound. The carriage rocked onto two wheels. Acker, wailing, was thrown about inside the carriage. Head down, he swiped gingerly at the needles. Blood spotted his fingers.
Bolter desperately galloped on, wheezing and snorting.