Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  One thing about the country’s economic hardships: tramping had become the career of choice. Seemed everywhere people were on the bum. And the more hobos, the harder things got. Railroad bulls who used to wake you with a nudge to the ribs were more likely to use a club to the skull. Farmers who once shook their head in amusement when they found you in the barn would now turn out the dogs. And some of those small town sheriffs…an incident in Waterloo, Iowa, had been especially rough. Sammy could smile about it now, albeit with fewer teeth.

  Still, he couldn’t bear his fellow outcasts any ill will. You looked out for your fellow traveler. You fed him when he was hungry, he did the same for you. You shared whatever you had. Those who didn’t often wound up frozen in snow banks.

  Almost on cue, Sammy noticed a campfire up ahead. Not right on the tracks, but deeper in the woods. Too far from any town to belong to a farm or a business. No, it had to be the brotherhood of the wanderers.

  Sammy’s smile grew broader. He would eat tonight. The half bottle of whiskey in his sack would ensure him a portion of whatever his new friends were having. He began to jog toward the blaze.

  The tracks made a sudden sharp turn and Sammy found himself walking through dense forest. The cloudy night had obscured his sense of distance; the fire was a great deal farther than he had first thought. He trudged almost a quarter mile from the rails before he could make out details.

  Sammy’s broad grin shrank when he came close to the fire. Something didn’t feel right. This was no campfire. It was huge, and judging from the ash and charcoal, it must have been a bonfire. That was strange; why would a bunch of hobos want to set up such a blaze in this mild weather?

  He looked around for evidence of whoever had started the fire. He poked among the trees for signs of empty cans of beans, cigar stubs, or bottles of booze. Nothing.

  When you live on the road you develop a voice in your head that it’s always wise to listen to. Right now, Sammy’s voice was telling him to go back to the tracks. Something was wrong.

  As he began to hike away from the fire, a patch of white caught his eye. Someone had whittled the bark away from the trunk of a tree. In the bare patch, about a foot square, there was a strange symbol. Samuel squinted at it in the flickering light. While hobos had their own ciphers to warn and advise each other, he’d never seen anything like this. It looked like a sideways ‘E’ with an X under it.

  A branch brushed Sammy’s head and he pushed it away. It swung back slowly and solidly. Not like a branch. Too heavy, too awkward.

  He probably only saw the boots for half a second. Expensive, polished boots, swinging gently, level with his head. Above the boots were a pair of legs. He didn’t look up to see the rest of the spectacle.

  Sammy reached La Plata well before the sun came up. When he told the local police about the hanged man, he was arrested for public drunkenness and served two months on the county work farm.

  – Chapter Five –

  I walked back to Mark Twain Hall in a daze. The dominant, logical side of my personality kept repeating that I needed to stay calm and focused, and that though the picture was indeed interesting, I needed to do a lot more research before I had anything to celebrate.

  The rest of me wanted to scream and shout. This was going to be big, I knew it. Fires and cover-ups, dead bodies and church scandals. I felt like I was stumbling through a dark cave, and if I could just get my flashlight to turn on, I’d see the treasure.

  First things first. Tonight I’d spend hours on the net, tracking down any sort of lead I could find. Tomorrow I’d go back to the historical society to see if Charlie had uncovered anything.

  The memory of the chubby redhead made me smile. I ought to bring her a little something to thank her for her help. Maybe a cup of coffee and a candy bar. Or just the coffee.

  When I entered the dorm, I noticed Steph sitting next to John Doe on one of the couches. She was trying to read a well-thumbed copy of The Book of Mormon while her seatmate talked at her.

  “Let me get this straight. Ol’ John Smith—and there’s a fake name if I ever heard one, believe me—finds the magic tablets and decodes them? Did he find the magic decode-o in a box of Frosted Flakes? Ypsilanti, Michigan!”

  Idiot. Never insult a girl’s religion, especially if she’s cute.

  I thought about rushing to Steph’s defense, but I had other things on my mind than defending Mormonism. I passed her with a silent nod as I approached the stairs.

  Absently, I pulled out the photo I’d stolen from the church files, and glanced at the mysterious dates on the back. What the hell did they mean? And JB 1:15 (2). Was that significant?

  I fumbled for my room key. Maybe I’d never find out. In the meantime, I had to produce something for Mr. Hopkins. Maybe I could interview Rev. Morely, let him tell me about the food pantry or something, throw a couple of Bible verses in…

  Bible verses.

  I stared at the photo again. Gowen had been a minister. Could it be?

  I rushed back down the stairs. Steph was still sitting with John, only now she was the one talking.

  “So someone told you that the earth was billions of years old, and you just accepted that?”

  “Well, yes, scientists have proven—”

  “Which scientists?” she sharply interrupted.

  “Well, uh…the fossil record shows—”

  “Have you seen these fossils? Or did you just take someone’s word?”

  “Uh…”

  “Now who’s taking things on faith?”

  It was fun to see Stephanie show her teeth and I hated to interrupt.

  “Excuse me, you still got that Bible on you?”

  She smiled, producing the book from out of nowhere. “Thinking about your soul?”

  “Um…” I recalled the letters on the picture. “Are there any Bible books that have a J and a B in them?”

  “The book of Job,” she said without pause. She instantly flipped the book to the proper page, almost without looking.

  The small type was intimidating. I showed her the back of the photo. “Could this be a Bible verse? Don’t they only have two numbers?”

  “Not necessarily. If it’s a long verse, that two might mean ‘second clause.’”

  I ran my finger down the page until I found chapter one, verse fifteen, second clause.

  I never really expected this to work. I figured it would just be another ‘thou shalt not’ or something. But there it was. A message from another century. A cry for help from decades past. A secret message that I’d just unraveled.

  Stephanie turned the picture over. “Who are these guys, Sherman?”

  I didn’t answer her. Those dates on the back…were they death dates? Had three of the four guys died right after the photo was taken? Rev. Gowen, what are you trying to tell me?

  I gently took the photo back and wordlessly shambled away.

  “Hey!” Called John. “What did it say?”

  I didn’t turn and I’m not sure he heard my mumbled response.

  “And I alone escaped to tell you.”

  I barged into my room and didn’t say hi to L.J. This was huge! A message from the dead. A cipher from before my grandparents were born. I wasn’t sure what Rev. Gowen was trying to tell me, but soon I’d make sure the world knew.

  I flipped open my laptop, planning to spend the next few hours peppering every Missouri site I could find with the names of the four guys. Someone out there had to know something. I wished the caller from the other day had left his number. He obviously knew a thing or two.

  “Hey, Sherm,” called L.J., tuning his guitar. “We’re all going to shoot pool later.”

  “Have fun.”

  “No, I mean you’re coming too.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  Why, why, why me?

  I turned to my roommate. “L.J., stop it. I’m sorry, but I’m not interested. Do whatever it is you do, but leave me out of it, okay?”

&nb
sp; He stood and walked over to me. Instead of continuing to argue, he snatched the priceless photo from my desk.

  “Who’re these guys?”

  “Put that down.”

  “Who are they?”

  “No one important.”

  He replaced the picture. “I know where that was taken,” he said, nonchalantly.

  I jumped to my feet. “Where?”

  “I thought it wasn’t important,” he said with a smug grin.

  I smiled sweetly. “L.J…pretty please with sugar on it, will you tell me where that picture was taken?”

  “Will you go shoot pool with us?”

  “Fine.”

  He tapped the image. “Those are the steps behind the old Sociology building on the quad. Betcha anything.”

  I squinted at where he was pointing. “You sure?”

  “Oh, yeah. There’s a bunch of bushes there now so you don’t really see ’em.” He chuckled. “I nailed the bassist for the Gruesome Goddess there last year. She had a picture of Abe Lincoln’s face tattooed on her belly. Guess what his beard was?”

  That was an evocative mental image. I wondered if a girl would ever show me her Emancipator.

  I turned back to the computer. “So what time…”

  “Sevenish. And ditch the tie, unless you want to get your ass kicked.”

  Wednesday night at Rack Your Balls. The customers apparently hadn’t heard of Columbia’s no smoking ordinance. A thick yellow haze hung over everything. Lines of butt cracks smiled at me from the bar. Someone loudly complained about their drunk driving arrest. The jukebox belted out ‘Margaritaville’ for the third time since we’d arrived.

  Across the room, Aaron, decked out in a ‘I don’t dial 911’ shirt, hunched over a pool table, sinking shot after shot. L.J. stood nearby, talking to a pretty girl in a sorority sweater, his cue extending toward her like a three-foot erection. I sat at a corner table with John, pretending to listen to him ramble on about his physics program.

  Golly, this is fun.

  My mind drifted back to Gowen and the gang. I imagined a group of stern-faced 1930s church people ceremoniously removing his photo from the wall and burning it. Of course, it was also easy to picture some 1980s workman accidentally spilling paint on the portrait and throwing it away when no one was looking. I shouldn’t be hanging out in this bar. I should be back at the dorm, doing research.

  I stood, preparing to make an excuse to John.

  “Getting another drink? Grab me one too, would ya?” he asked, rattling the ice in his cup.

  “Sure.”

  The bartender was a hatchet-faced old woman with a scar that covered most of her cheek.

  “Couple of Cokes, please.”

  As she wordlessly took my money, I wondered how she’d ended up working here. I remembered Mr. Hopkins’s instructions that I interview some local business people. She might make an interesting human-interest story.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I began as she passed me the plastic cups. “I’m with the Missourian and I wonder if I could ask you—”

  Her claw-like hand shot out and grabbed me by the collar.

  “Listen to me, you little punk,” she hissed. “I’ll tell you what I tell all you people: it ain’t none of yer concern so stop sticking your noses in my business. Open that yap of yours again, and I’ll get the boys to throw you out in the street!”

  She released me. Fumbling, I grabbed the cups and skittered off, too flummoxed to collect my change. Mr. Hopkins was right. Everyone had their secrets and they distrusted reporters.

  Across the joint I could see Aaron smirking at me. He totally saw that.

  When I returned to the table, I was spared further embarrassment by L.J., who was escorting his little blonde friend.

  “Guys, this is Katelyn,” he said, his voice about two octaves lower than normal. “Kate, that’s Sherman the Tank. I know he don’t look like much, but I once saw him kick a guy’s ass so hard that his mother got a nosebleed. And secret agent man there, he can’t tell you his real name. We just call him John Doe.”

  “Hi,” we both said simultaneously. I wondered if John felt as emasculated as I did.

  Katelyn giggled. “It’s funny you mention keeping a low profile. My boyfriend has to do the same thing.”

  L.J.s face fell at the mention of the word ‘boyfriend.’

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She glanced around, then leaned over the table. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but…he’s wanted,” she said with an excited whisper. “In Texas. For bank robbery.”

  There was a pause. Then the three of us guys burst out laughing.

  “What? What’s so funny?” She was cute when she was angry.

  “Don’t tell me you bought that line,” said L.J., still chuckling.

  “It’s not a line! He had to leave Houston after he held up…” She trailed off.

  “Was that before or after he beat up Chuck Norris?”

  “But…knock it off! He took a big risk telling me!”

  I half expected her to stomp her foot.

  “So where’d you meet Mr. Dillinger?”

  “At a MU game.”

  We were laughing again. “Kind of high profile for public enemy number one, isn’t it?” I asked.

  Katelyn was staring, wide-eyed at nothing in particular. “But…he told me…”

  L.J. vultured in next to her. “Hey, I can’t blame a guy for wanting to sound cool to impress you. And look on the bright side, it’s not like he tried to get you to loan him a bunch of money or something.”

  There was an audible crack as her palm reverberated off L.J.’s cheek before she stormed off. He sat down, rubbing his face.

  “I sense I have offended.”

  I sighed. “Gentlemen, it’s been fun. I’m calling it a night. Where’s the restroom?”

  L.J. gestured to a grimy hall. “Back there. But, um, you don’t want to use it.”

  “Really dirty?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Out of order?”

  “No…listen, just do yourself a favor and use the alley.”

  Wondering at his cryptic remark, I left through the NOT AN EXIT exit and enjoyed a little relief behind the dumpster. I contemplated just returning to the dorm straight from there, but decided that would be too rude.

  The only light in the alley came from the street, about twenty feet away. That’s why I was immediately aware of the two long shadows that suddenly blocked the entrance. The two men walking toward me were backlit and I couldn’t make out their features. They moved unhurriedly, but with a purpose. They hadn’t arrived in this alley by chance.

  Maybe they were muggers. More likely drug dealers who didn’t want company. I wasn’t going to wait to find out. Lunging for the door handle, I was horrified to realize there wasn’t one. I could hear the thunk of the jukebox playing ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ from inside the pool hall. No one would hear me knocking. And the dumpster blocked the other end of the alley.

  The dim light above the exit cast the strangers’ features into view. They were both dressed entirely in black, but I doubted it was because the world didn’t understand their poetry.

  The guy on my left was a tank of a man. He had the physique of someone who worked as a bouncer simply because there was no longer any call for strikebreakers. His head was shaved, his Kaiser mustache long and matted. A pair of beady, unfriendly eyes appraised me in a most unsettling way.

  His partner was slender, with long, blonde, almost feminine hair. He had twinkling eyes and a grin that nearly cancelled out the other guy’s menacing glower. His good looks were marred by a broken nose that no doctor had ever set.

  I frantically scanned the ground for a weapon: a two-by-four, a length of pipe, anything. These guys were very deliberately cornering me against the dumpster. They could have any number of goals in mind, and all of them were bad.

  The strangers stopped two feet in front of me. I was trapped and there was nothing on the grou
nd but cigarette butts and fast food wrappers. Ten seconds too late, I decided I should have put down my head and plowed between them toward the street. Now I wouldn’t have the momentum.

  Blondie smiled at me, and for a moment I thought I might have been paranoid. Then he said something that terrified me.

  “Hello, Sherman.”

  I didn’t know this guy, but he knew me. And he waited until I was alone in an alley to introduce himself.

  “Do I know you?” I asked, needlessly. Are you a Young Scholars instructor, perhaps? Or might I have seen you at the gymnasium? Shit.

  He chuckled, then without warning drove his fist into my stomach. I didn’t see it, just felt it when his knuckles buried themselves in my pancreas. My teeth knocked when I staggered into the dumpster. By accident or not, he’d got me right in the diaphragm. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t call for help.

  The big guy lurched up beside me. He had me in a full nelson before I could resist. Not that I could have resisted. My lungs craved air that I couldn’t inhale. The sodas I’d drunk were trying to escape through any convenient orifice. For the first time in my life, I knew true terror.

  The skinny guy grinned charmingly. His next blow was to my side, just under my ribs. I knew if I hadn’t just peed, I would have wet myself.

  The larger man held me in his vise hard grip. I could smell his minty breath, feel the scrape of his unclipped nails. His friend could do whatever he wanted to me and I was powerless.

  A few feet away, the guys shot pool, oblivious to my beating.

  The skinny guy made a fist, paused, and looked over his shoulder. At the end of the alley I could see cars pass by on the street. Why didn’t anyone notice me? Of course, if someone did see me, would they get involved?

  My gut was starting to painfully recover itself. “Why?” I managed to stammer. This clearly wasn’t a mugging.

  My attacker leaned in until he was inches from my face. I could see the network of veins that ran across where the bridge of his nose once was.