The Last Resurrectionist: Novella Series - Part One

by Jack Hartford

  “You’re still up?” He said, putting his arms around her. He looked into the room as well but saw only darkness. He could imagine the tiny body breathing softly under the covers.

  “Just mulling it all over,” she said. “None of your concern.” She locked the door and turned away from his embrace.

  “Oh grief,” he said, pulling back. “Mara, I can listen.”

  “No, really,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “I’m tired. It’s alright.”

  Lincoln took off his boots and followed her. He watched as the light of the kitchen enveloped her, revealing the details that made her up. Small ears peeked out of short, dark hair. She was taller than the average woman with a healthy frame and rounded shoulders. Lincoln gravitated to her because of her confidence, but he quickly found out that much of it was an act.

  “Sorry I’m so late. I was helping Marj with the last of the lights and she just kept talking.” he said. The lie slipped from his mouth like a sigh of relief - a comfort he could always rely on.

  “I assumed as much,” Mara said, still facing away, tense.

  “Just tell me,” Lincoln said.

  Mara turned to him, crossing her arms.

  “It’s the usual.” She sighed. “It feels trivial even talking about it - I can’t change it.”

  Lincoln sat on an uneven dinner chair.

  “I’ve got time for a story.” He pushed the other chair away from the table for her.

  She dropped her arms.

  “Don’t you ever get tired?” She asked. “You’ve been gone the whole day and half the night.”

  “I’m always tired. Please, sit and talk with me.”

  Mara didn’t sit.

  “Ruth was difficult today, like most days, that’s it,” she said. “You know how hard it is for me to do this. I’m trying my best.”

  “What can I do to help?” Lincoln leaned forward. He didn’t feel like helping, assuming he even could, but he couldn’t stop himself from offering. He chose her, after all.

  She looked away. “Nothing. It’s my responsibility.”

  The comment disarmed him, though it was innocent.

  It’s not your responsibility. I forced it on you….

  She looked back at him now, her eyes clear and true.

  “You know what I’m going to say. I don’t like living a lie.”

  “The time will arrive when it all comes together, I promise you.” Lincoln reached out a hand to pull her closer but she didn’t budge.

  “And when will the time come?” Mara held her stare. “When I’m the one that tells her she’s not my daughter? Or when you tell her that she’s only here because you made a mistake with someone else? Is that when I’ll feel connected to her?”

  Ruth is not a mistake.

  But Lincoln held his tongue.

  “I know,” Mara said, reading his mind. “She’s not a mistake. But until the truth is out…. You can’t push my thoughts aside. Either she’s out of place or I am.”

  Or maybe I’m the one that’s out of place.

  “Mara.”

  “It’s alright. I’m tired. I didn’t want to talk about this.” She sat down and laid her head across her arms on the table, closing her eyes. Lincoln sat across from her and put his hands over hers. He laid his head down as well.

  But he didn’t close his eyes. If he closed his eyes while he was awake it only felt like being buried alive. His nightly routine was to fight his drooping eyelids until he woke up.

  Lincoln often found himself sleeping at the table as he never liked waking Mara when he came home late. It was nice for a change to have his fiancée spending the night with him across the table. He watched the top of her head, his eyelids framing the image every time they started to close.

  Lincoln woke from pounding on Ruth’s bedroom door. A soft light cast down from the window. His throat was dry and scratchy. Mara was no longer at the table.

  “Mara?” Lincoln said, still finding his voice.

  “Sorry,” she called from the living room. “I’m getting ready to leave, can you get her?”

  The pounding continued. Lincoln got up from the table.

  “Coming, Ruthie. You can stop banging,” he said, looking around. “Let’s be quiet now.”

  The banging stopped.

  Then it resumed. It was quieter, at least.

  “Where is the key?” Lincoln checked the cupboards without knowing why. He was still half sleepwalking.

  “Hanging on the door handle.” Mara walked in and pinched his neck.

  Ouch.

  “Ouch.” Lincoln jumped.

  “Wake up,” she said, lifting the key and string from the door and handing it to Lincoln. “Teddy’s opening the shop late today, right? After noon?”

  “Yes?” Lincoln fumbled with the key and the pounding on the door only got louder.

  “Good, because I’m heading over to Margot’s. There’s a chapel meeting.”

  Lincoln finally found the slot and jammed the key in. He felt a breeze of cold air and realized Mara had already slipped out the door. Before turning the key he looked out the window to see Mara riding away on Coda.

  But she turned right instead of left.

  That’s not the way to Margot’s house.

  Lincoln cursed. Not because of Mara’s lie but because the only reason he could see her leaving was that the drapes weren’t pulled tight. He left the key unturned and rushed to the window.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  “I’m coming,” he said, pulling the drapes shut and making sure they covered the whole window. He leapt back to the door, feeling the daze of sleep no longer. He turned the key and opened the door to find a little girl, hardly three years old, looking up at him. She blinked her bright blue eyes, dragging a matching blue blanket behind her. She had nothing on except for her cloth diaper.

  “Ruth,” Lincoln said, scooping her up. “How did your clothes come off? It’s cold, honey.”

  Ruth smiled wide, one dimple on her right cheek.

  “I was banging,” she said.

  “Yes you were. Let’s get some clothes on you.”

  He sat on her bed while she stood and helped her get dressed. “Maybe next year you can put this on yourself. What do you think of that?”

  Ruth smiled. “Yesssss,” she said.

  Lincoln pulled her yellow blouse down over her face and put her arms through the sleeves. The dress was faded and frayed at the edges. I wish I could give you new clothes, Ruthie. You’ll get all the new clothes you want once we’re out of here. As soon as he finished, she ran out of the bedroom screaming, “Ba ba ba dada ba ba ba!”

  “Not so loud, Ruth,” he called after her. “I’m serious. Come back in the room.”

  He got up to grab her as she ran back in.

  “BA BA BA!” Ruth jumped on top of Lincoln and he made an exaggerated fall back onto the bed. “Ahhhh,” he said, “the monster has me. The monster has me. No more screaming.”

  It was always a balancing act to keep playing but not get her too excited.

  He pulled her onto the bed with him. Her smile faded.

  “Dirty,” she said. “Papa dirty.”

  Lincoln saw the pieces of rock and dirt that fell out of his coat and scattered on the bed.

  “Ah, you’re right,” he said. “Papa is still a bit dirty. Sorry flower, I should wash up.”

  Lincoln got up and dusted the dirt off the blanket. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  He left the room, closing the door behind him and locking it. He went to the water pump outside and filled a bucket with water. They had running water in the kitchen but Lincoln always had this nagging feeling in the back of his head. I need to be seen outside more often.

  As the water poured, he scanned the area around the property. He’d rarely seen anyone close enough to see or hear what went on in his home. Still, Lincoln scanned the trees. He looked down the path into town. He added another glance over his shoulders before going back inside. His lapse
with the drapes had him more on edge than normal.

  I’m getting too comfortable.

  The nighttime body snatcher and daytime father turned the water off and went back inside. He put the pail of water down in front of a chair and unlocked Ruth’s door. He pushed the door open a crack.

  “Ruthie,” he said, sitting down and putting his hands in the cold water. “I have a question for you.”

  Ruth was sitting by her bedroom door playing with a piece of wood engraved with a face. She was humming a lullaby.

  “Ruthie, can you look at Papa?” Lincoln splashed the water on his face. She put her wooden toy down and looked at him, still humming.

  “Do you like mama?” he asked.

  She flicked her eyes up and to the left, curling her lips in and trying to hide her big smile.

  “Mmm….” she said. “Yesssss.”

  “What do you like about mama?”

  “Mmm…. Mama food and mama play.”

  Lincoln chuckled. “Mama cooks your food and mama plays with you. That’s good, Ruth.”

  Ruth made her eyes big and pouted her lips, glancing from Lincoln to her toy. “You play with me?” she asked.

  “Sure, I can play with you. Just let me finish cleaning first.”

  Lincoln dried his hands and face and stood up. He batted the dirt off his coat outside the door.

  When Mara returned, Lincoln did not question her visit with Margot. Whether it was a lack of time or energy, Lincoln excelled at letting things stew.

  Letting things stew or putting off my problems?

  The clockmaker’s shop was the antithesis of Dowerton. Elegant and ornate. Gold and silver timekeepers lined cabinets and shelves. They brightened the room with their reflections. Tall, glass cases displayed gleaming clock towers. Tapestries hung on the walls with illustrations of Time’s inner guts. Miniature gears and levers, precisely cut and positioned. A large, hand-carved clock sat above the entryway. It was the visual centerpiece of the whole shop.

  “Afternoon, Teddy,” Lincoln said as he entered.

  Clocks contained the most advanced machinery of anything at the time. In Dowerton it was one of the few luxuries. Only the most prominent townspeople could afford them. Government officials and law enforcement, trade supervisors, and a few families from wealthy bloodlines. There was a lot of overlap in those categories, by blood and by law.

  It was a large reason for Lincoln’s rush to move away. The money only moved around a small circle of people. The biggest reason for the need to move was, of course, the hiding of his illegitimate daughter. Until they were far away from Dowerton, Ruth would live a trapped and lonely childhood.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” Teddy said as he always did. He was short, stocky, and old. But thick golden, brown hair fizzled to his shoulders. He was stooped over an open pocket watch, looking through a large magnifying glass.

  “Wait,” Teddy said, looking up. “Notice anything different?”

  Lincoln observed the man, searching his face and then his clothes and then the space around him. He shrugged.

  “No?”

  Teddy gestured his head towards the desk.

  “The desk…” Lincoln stared, “Oh.. the pocket watch?”

  “Yes!”

  “... It’s nice?” Lincoln shrugged again.

  Teddy sighed. “I don’t normally work on watches, I thought you’d be more intrigued.”

  “Ha,” Lincoln continued into the back room. “I’m starting to think you don’t really know me, Teddy.”

  “I suppose it was a long shot,” the clockmaker said, returning to his work. “Still, I haven’t worked on a machine this small in a long time. Very tricky.”

  Lincoln pulled out a box of parts from under the workbench. The small backroom dual-purposed as a storage closet and workshop. Today’s duties continued from yesterday and included sorting out the new parts into the appropriate bins. Lincoln much preferred this task to actually working on the clocks. His hands were too big and he lacked finesse. In fact, he knew that he was the wrong man for the job, but it had two big benefits.

  The clockmaker’s shop was far removed from Lincoln’s class in society and Teddy was the only other worker there. Lincoln didn’t have real social connections to keep track of or hide from. He could adjust his schedule without any watchful eyes. The shop also kept him close to the higher class citizens that came in. That gave him the chance to eavesdrop.

  Both of these things helped him manage his night job.

  “Speaking of long shots,” Teddy said from the front. “Ford is supposed to bring a new shipment of firearms to examine. If you don’t mind, I’ll let you handle them. I’m always afraid of blowing these precious fingers off.”

  Lincoln couldn’t help but flinch at the mention of Ford. Though he didn’t have friends from work, Lincoln had one friend that had lingered from his school days.

  Friend, in this instance was a more one-sided application.

  I hope Ford’s the one that blows his fingers off.

  “Ah, look at that,” Teddy said from the front again.

  The door opened and Lincoln heard boots walking in.

  “Speak of the devil,” Teddy said.

  Ford.

  Lincoln stopped sorting so he could hear.

  Okay, don’t mention me, Teddy. Don’t mention me.

  “We were just talking about you,” Teddy said.

  No no no.

  The boots came to a stop and Ford’s gruff voice barreled through.

  “Oh yeah?” he said. “Who’s we?” Something heavy dropped onto the floor.

  “Lincoln’s in the back,” Teddy said. Dammit. Forced to reveal himself, Lincoln put on as friendly a face as he could muster and walked through the open doorway into the shop’s front room. Ford stood with his hands on his lower back, a slightly vulnerable pose for the otherwise commanding presence of the sheriff. He gnawed his stubbled jaws, most likely grinding away at a piece of raw chicle from the factory.

  Ford’s cold, blue eyes snapped to Lincoln and his face brightened. Lincoln tried to smile, consciously creasing his eyes for extra perceived warmth.

  He judged from the incoming reaction that he didn’t look how he intended.

  “What’s up your ass?” Ford asked, breaking into a grin. “You look like Teddy’s working you to the bone. Your face…” Ford came closer. “.. What a mess.”

  Lincoln dropped the act. “Trying to be friendly,” he said.

  “Well, that never was your strong suit,” Ford’s smarmy grin persisted. “Haven’t seen you in a while, bud.”

  Lincoln pointed at Ford’s mouth. “I see you still can’t rest your jaw.”

  “Ah, it helps pass the time,” Ford smacked his gum louder now, “and keeps my breath sharp for the ladies.”

  A whiff of alcohol swept into Lincoln’s face. He was often - almost all the time - disgusted by his bud, Ford. But with him being the sheriff and Lincoln’s inability to face his past, the fake friendship continued.

  “Speaking of,” Ford kept on,” I heard about the engagement.”

  He gave Lincoln a rough pat on the shoulder and said, “When you’ve already got one foot in the grave, might as well get cozy right?”

  Lincoln didn’t respond. Now it was Ford’s turn to be awkward. Others might have missed it but Lincoln knew Ford long enough to notice the imperceptible shaking in his arms and his scattered blinking.

  “She’s a fine thing, just wasn’t my type, you know. No hard feelings. Eh…” Lincoln clenched a fist but kept quiet. Ford looked briefly at Teddy. Lincoln could almost feel him sweating. Then the sheriff looked at the box of guns. “But you got a job to do so I’ll leave you to it.”

  Lincoln recalled a school phrase they used to share and gave a lazy salute.

  “Like the crow, Ford.”

  Ford returned the two-finger gesture and the necessary retort, “Black as night.” He smacked the wooden box as he passed it, then opened the door and whirled back around.

>   “And Teddy,” he said, flicking his gaze to Lincoln for a moment. “Any of these guns go missing and it’s either you or him we come for.” He tweaked his head. “Probably both.”

  “Of course,” Teddy mustered.

  The door slammed shut.

  Lincoln brought the box to the backroom.

  Teddy called from the front, “You know what to do with those?”

  “Clean ‘em. Make sure they work right.” Lincoln called back. “I got it.”

  “Thank goodness you’re around or I would send those things right back to them.”

  Lincoln opened the box. It was an intimidating sight - twenty revolvers pointed straight up at him. He took one out and laid it on the workbench before adjusting the strength of the gas lamp. The flame grew and the area became brighter, reaching into the gaps and recesses of the gun. It was large for a handgun, easily over a foot in length.

  Lincoln let out a breath.

  These were a large step up from the police force’s current single-shot pistols. Of course, other, more prosperous cities likely went through this upgrade years ago. Dowerton always lagged behind but it still made Lincoln shiver to see the town’s power grow at this rate. Money for guns but not much else.

  Lincoln looked at the firearm as if it were a living being. Under the right circumstances, it could decide his fate. If Lincoln were caught over a grave the gun would bury him, whether it was in Ford’s hand or another officer’s.

  I could change that… right now. Tweak them so they jam up…

  He shook his head. It was unlikely any of these guns would still be virgins by the time they encountered him in the wild. Ford would quickly know of any malfunctions and Lincoln was the one in charge of quality. No - better to do it right and triple-check everything. He needed this opportunity. It was a chance to gain their trust.