The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  May held the horse as Showers poked at the lock on the mine entrance gate. It was rusted over, but not decrepit, and held fast when he yanked on it. He picked up a large rock and bashed at it twice, with no effect but to make a lot of noise. He could hear the metallic echo coming back from the opposite slope.

  “I’ll have to shoot it off,” he said. “There’s no other way.”

  The shot would ring through the little valley, but the echoes might confuse them. He had to hope.

  He fired once. The lock disintegrated in a shower of sparks. He pulled its remnant free from the latch, then swung open the gate. May led the animal into the shaft, then stopped, waiting for him to close the gate. She had a butane lighter in her jeans, and after he had pulled the gate shut again, she clicked it on. The tiny, wavering flame flickered a pale light on the grimy walls. The rails of the cart track were littered with piles of ancient coal dust. It was cool in this place. She coughed.

  “Have you ever been in here before?” he asked.

  “Years ago. But I don’t remember much.” The lighter went out. “Hot,” she said.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “We’ll use it sparingly.”

  “You have to be careful. There are side shafts cut through farther in. One of them is for the old elevator. It goes straight down.”

  “Give me your hand.”

  They moved on, a chain of man and woman and horse. He’d flick on the lighter for a glimpse of the way ahead, then grope forward a few feet in darkness, repeating the ritual until at last they came to the first side tunnel.

  It opened on both the left and right.

  “Do you know which might be the elevator shaft?”

  “I think the one on the right. But I’m not sure. It may even be farther along.”

  Showers paused, thinking, then picked up a piece of old coal. He tossed it into the opening to the right. It struck a wall and fell with a thump. He started to move into it, his foot striking a mound of debris and sending some of it scattering forward. Something about the sound of its fall stayed him. He flicked on the lighter again—the flame now very, very weak. There seemed to be some wooden buttressing, and a wooden bar sagging across his path. Beyond it, the tunnel floor ahead was inky darkness. Taking up another piece of coal, he lofted it into the black patch. There was a long silence, and then a tiny splash, far below.

  “It’s the elevator shaft,” he said. “We have to back up.”

  The horse protested, trying to turn around in the narrow space, but May, pushing, finally got him rear first into the main shaft. They crossed it, taking the side tunnel on the left.

  “We’ll follow this as far as it goes,” he said. “At least until the next turning. I wouldn’t expect them to try to search the entire mine.”

  “I don’t think they’ll even come up here,” she said. “Tyrone will be back soon. They can’t have a lot of time.”

  They moved ahead, feeling their way along the moist wall. The shaft seemed to be curving slightly, but it was difficult to tell for certain.

  May began coughing again. “David, isn’t this far enough?”

  “Okay.” He clicked on the lighter one more time, to look at her face. It was smudged with coal dust. He brushed it off a little, then leaned to kiss her. The lighter went out. Carefully, they sat down, leaning back against the wall. He could make out the phosphorescent dial of his watch. It was nearly dawn.

  The bay moved edgily. May had let go of the rope. She took it back up again.

  “You said you loved me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mean it? I’ve had a million men tell me they loved me.”

  He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “It’s a lovely thought, isn’t it? Telling our grandchildren someday about the night we spent in a coal mine with a horse while gunmen ran through the hills trying to kill us.”

  “It sounds like a movie.”

  “I love you.”

  “Say it again.”

  “I love you.”

  “It’s so dark. I think I’m getting claustrophobia.”

  “Think of it as castle walls, protecting us, warm and snug.”

  “Not warm.”

  He held her more tightly. His hand was touching her breast.

  “Kiss me, David.”

  He did so, wrapping her in his arms. Afterward, she leaned her head against his shoulder, holding on to his hand with both of hers.

  “I love you, David. I was never able to figure out what love was before. But it’s got to be like this. There can’t be anything like this.”

  “I think we’d better stop talking now.”

  Time seemed to stop. He glanced at his watch, depressed by how little of it went by. It was as though they’d been pulled out of their lives, their beings suspended in a place without dimension, without reality. Death could be like this. Certainly, eternity must.

  May seemed to sleep. Showers felt himself begin to nod off. He caught himself. He had reason to.

  There were voices, distant, but uncannily clear. He could make out three distinctly, none he’d ever heard before. Whoever they were, they were angry, out of breath, and in a hurry. He could hear them knocking wood about.

  Gently extricating himself from May, easing her back against the wall, he took his pistol from his belt and crept forward, moving past the horse. The shaft did curve. As he came up to the main tunnel—regrettably not very far away at all—the glancing arcs of flashlights became visible on the ceiling and the opposite wall.

  Inching his way, he came to the corner, moving his head beyond it very slowly.

  Their pursuers were silhouettes at the mouth of the tunnel, a faint gray light of dawn sky behind them. Showers feared the flashlights would catch his face, but crouched there, frozen, riveted, the pistol now warm in his hand.

  “They gotta be in there,” said one of the men. “That lock was shot off. And look at that. Hoofprints!”

  “They blew Frank’s guts away.”

  “You want to go first?”

  Silence.

  “We’ll all go in. Let’s get this over with.”

  The horse had heard the voices. He was coming toward Showers, a clopping walk. He’d gotten away from May. Looking back into pitch darkness, Showers tried to discern the animal’s shape, guess where the head and halter rope might be. As the bay came closer, Showers rose up and lunged, but caught only air. He fell on his shoulder. One of the horse’s hooves thumped down just inches from his head. He reached again, but the action only frightened the animal. It whinnied, plunging on.

  Showers stood up. He had to stop the horse, but it was seconds too late. He’d be caught in the open now. They’d kill him, kill the horse, come back here and kill May, gun her down in the dark and dust.

  As the horse clattered on, Showers flattened himself against the wall, peering around the corner. The men at the entrance were shouting. The flashlights danced. The bay bolted forward, coming up the shaft at a trot.

  The gunfire came in a sudden stuttering echoing roar. All three of them were firing, flashes going off like fireworks. The horse smashed against the wall, screaming, rising, pawing wildly, head back. Then it went over on its side with a great crash, still screaming. The bullets kept coming. Its huge body twitched and jerked, then went still.

  All was suddenly quiet. The clammy air smelled of gunpowder. The three men stood motionless.

  Showers felt a hand on his back, and almost jumped. May. He got his arm around her, putting his hand over her mouth. Holding her tightly against him, he slowly relaxed his fingers, feeling her breath. She was trembling all over.

  He looked back up the shaft. The men were just standing there.

  “It’s not moving,” one said.

  “Maybe they just stashed him in here and kept on going.”

  “You want to go down there and make sure?”

  “What I want to make sure of is we got the right horse. We don’t want to go through all this shit for nothin’. Get Bonning up he
re.”

  With Billy, there’d be four of them. Showers couldn’t remember how many rounds he had in this clip. It should be full, minus the one he’d fired at the lock, but he couldn’t be certain.

  He’d wait for them to come down to him, and then kill as many as he could. There was nothing else to do.

  Minutes passed. While the one went back for Bonning, the other two came forward to the corpse of the horse, leaning close, playing their flashlights over it.

  “Sure is dead.”

  “Looks like the right one. Gotta be. Black horse. White blaze.”

  “Anything’d look black in here.”

  Bonning appeared at the entrance, taller than the others. He walked with his usual swagger, but stumbled, barely catching himself. The three others stood with him by the horse, keeping their lights on it.

  “Is that it?”

  Billy knelt down. “Did you have to kill it?”

  “That’s the job, asshole. Get rid of the horse. Is it the right one?”

  Showers watched Bonning lean over the head. He guessed he was peeling back the lip to examine the number tattoo.

  “It’s him,” he said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s the horse.”

  The man who’d been talking the most moved his pistol and fired a quick shot into the back of Billy’s head. As his body sprawled onto the horse’s, the man fired two more times.

  “Now we got that done, too.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not so fast. The man said ‘not a trace.’”

  “We don’t have time to cut it up.”

  “You want to burn ’em?”

  “Are you crazy? This shaft’s full of coal dust.”

  “I’ve got a couple of charges in the car. We can blow the entrance.”

  “Hey, dumb nuts. These people are miners. They’d just dig right in.”

  “We can douse the bodies with gasoline and set the charges underneath. That’ll take care of everything.”

  “What if the broad is down there, and that guy she’s shacked up with?”

  “If they’re in here, they’ll stay in here. Go get the stuff. Hurry up.”

  Showers’ indecision and frustration was tearing at him. How good a shot could he be? Did he have any chance of hitting even one of them?

  “May,” he whispered. “Is there any other way out of here?”

  “God, David, I don’t know.”

  She was crying, too loudly. He peered around the corner again. For a moment, there’d be just two of the men. He could creep along the shaft, getting as close as he could, and drop, firing. Maybe he could get both. Maybe he’d die trying. There was nothing else to do. Nothing. May might be able to get away, somehow survive. That small chance was all he could give her.

  Showers stepped around the corner, keeping low, his foot crunching in the loose coal. He saw one of the men turning toward him. He backed up, making noise, then pressed himself back against the wall. The man kept coming, passing by, then stopped. He groped forward, and hesitated again. Showers picked up a small piece of coal, and tossed it into the opposite side shaft. The man plunged after it. There was a crunch of old wood, and then a scream.

  His two companions started coming after him, but froze at the sound of a gunshot, outside. Then several more. Showers heard shouting. One of the men ran back to the entrance, greeted by gunfire that threw him around in a dance. As he fell, the last remaining man looked back in Showers’ direction, then moved toward the entrance, sticking close to the tunnel wall.

  “Come out of there, you sons of bitches!” The distant voice was Tyrone’s.

  “Fuck you, asshole!” The man at the entrance got off two quick shots, then hunkered down, reloading his pistol.

  He must know he was through. He was going to wait—kill more in the act of dying. Or maybe just kill more before surrendering. Who knew what went through such a mind?

  Tyrone seemed to have several people with him. They returned the lone gunman’s fire with a long fusillade.

  It gave Showers the time he needed. All rage now, he strode up to the man, firing. He kept pulling the trigger until the automatic was empty.

  They rode down from the mine in Tyrone’s truck—Tyrone driving, May and Showers in the cab beside him, exhausted, several men with rifles riding up on the truck bed, the stacked bodies in their midst. The sun was coming up and everything was tinged with red, faces, house fronts, the leaves on the trees.

  There were several cars pulled up at odd angles in the road in front of May’s mother’s house, men in suits standing around them. At the approach of the truck, they dropped into crouches, aiming handguns. Showers saw that one had a small submachine gun.

  Red lights were twirling in the back windows of two of the cars.

  “Federal agents!” shouted a man from behind one of the cars. “Throw down your weapons!”

  Tyrone lurched the truck to a stop, pulling the hand brake fast. Slowly, he opened the door and stepped down.

  “My name is Tyrone McPhee,” he said, slowly but loudly. “I’m the constable of this town. These people are deputized. What’s your business here?”

  One of the men in suits came forward, gun in his hand, but lowered.

  “You’re who?”

  “Constable McPhee.” With care, he took an old badge from his pocket, holding it up for the other man to clearly see. “And who might you be?”

  “I’m Special Agent Anderson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’re looking for a Miss May Moody and a David Spencer Showers.”

  “Well, there they be,” Tyrone said, gesturing at the cab. “But not by much. You boys sure got a case of the slows.”

  Moody sat in his car, watching across H Street as limousines and taxis pulled up into the short circular drive of the Hay-Adams Hotel. He’d seen Bernie and another man get out of Bloch’s Rolls-Royce and hurry inside, but waited until the taxi arrived carrying Reidy. When the senator had entered the lobby, Moody waited a few minutes more, and then stepped out on the sidewalk.

  The suite number Bernie had given him was on the top floor, in a corner with a view that included the White House and the Washington Monument beyond. Moody had been in the suite several times before, sometimes for meetings. Once with a woman.

  He rang the buzzer, standing alone, in clear view of the peephole. Bloch opened the door.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “Had to stop by the White House,” Moody said. “We’ve got a little war on our hands.”

  “So I heard. This shouldn’t take long. Right?”

  He ushered Moody into the sitting room of the suite. Reidy was in an armchair, looking a little agitated, his customary affability discarded. On the couch opposite him, Lynwood Fairbrother sat very stiffly, as though painfully uncomfortable. On the table was a coffee service. No one else was in the room.

  “You’re sure this is a good place to do this?” Moody said. He sat down in an empty chair, ignoring the coffee.

  “Like I said,” Bloch said. “A little prayer breakfast. They have meetings here all the time.”

  “Is this for real, Bobby?” Reidy asked. His dark eyes were filled with meanness.

  “If you have any doubts, Mr. Bloch here can be my character reference.”

  “We go back,” Bernie said, “as you know.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Moody said, nodding toward Fairbrother. The horseman looked as though he’d just been slapped in the face.

  “You wanted to see a Republican,” Bloch said. “You can’t get any more Republican than this.”

  Moody turned in his chair. “Do you know what this is about, Mr. Fairbrother?”

  “A discussion of the proposed environmental treaty,” Fairbrother said. “That’s what I was told.” His voice almost squeaked.

  “An informal discussion,” Bloch said.

  “I was told you wanted to know my position,” Fairbrother said. “I have very grave reservations. I thi
nk it could do very serious harm, to the economy, to the country.”

  “You’re part of Mr. Bloch’s lobbying effort against the treaty?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just trying to determine how deep your feelings run, Mr. Fairbrother. How widespread this opposition is. Whether the treaty is really in this much trouble. I don’t want to be bluffed into doing something I’d really rather not do. If it’s just a handful of you guys, I’m not going to let myself be railroaded. Not if there’s a chance the treaty still might pass.”

  Reidy was staring at him. Moody avoided his eyes, keeping his own on Fairbrother.

  “I can assure you the opposition is widespread indeed. The entire business community.”

  “Lots of you Republican fat cats?”

  “We think the president is making a very serious mistake. We’ve tried to communicate this to him from the beginning. If the proposal could be discreetly withdrawn, or forgotten, it would be best.”

  “And you’ve put some money where your mouth is? People on the Hill know where all you guys stand?”

  “I have made some campaign contributions. It’s customary.”

  Reidy was shifting in his seat.

  “All right,” said Moody, sitting back. “I get the idea. If a pillar of the community like you is putting himself out like this, I guess feelings run pretty deep, indeed.”

  “I’ve merely been expressing my opinion, sir. But there are many, many who feel as I do. Your president is going to have to come to an understanding about this, one way or another.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Bloch. “He gets the picture. Thanks for coming by, Mr. Fairbrother. It’s appreciated.”

  Fairbrother stood. “That’s all?”

  “I just wanted to give you a chance to speak your piece, off the record, as it were. Mr. Moody understands. Thanks for coming by. We’ll see you out at the racecourse.”

  Fairbrother frowned. “Very well.” He walked out with great dignity, like someone who had mistakenly entered the wrong club, and was trying to keep his error from being noticed. The door clicked closed.

  Reidy leaned forward. “All right, Bobby. What’s the deal?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Bernie says you—that you’ve become privy to our, uh, legislative strategy.”