Chapter Fourteen

“The man is absolutely mad,” Father Jackson said. “I’m sorry I brought you here.”

“Well, at least there are two people who don’t seem to think I’m crazy—Father Fogarty and Dr. Tully.”

“You’re not going to get any help from anyone who believes in the occult.” We were on our way back to the farm now. “And despite what Tully says about the police, I think you should tell them what you know about Mrs. Reddy.”

“I can’t do that without bringing Duff into it. And I don’t want the police connecting him in any way with the death of Stephanie.”

“But if he did do it—”

“If he did, he did! Goddamn it, he’s my son!” Then I had another thought. “Do you think Tully will go to the police with all of the things I told him about Duff?”

“I doubt it. It strikes me he’s more interested in recording the legends of General Caine than in ending them. Anyway, one thing you’ve got to do is get psychiatric help for Duff. Even if there are outside forces at work, Duff could be helped to resist them. A good psychiatrist could help to straighten out his thinking, strengthen his will to resist.”

“But where can I find someone?”

“Well, not around here certainly. However, I do know someone in Cleveland.”

“But if I can’t get Duff to go there—”

“You can try. And if you can’t, maybe the man could come here. Maybe he would come for at least an exploratory session. I think this man might be very interested in Duff’s case.”

“He’d charge a fortune.”

“Should that be a consideration now? However, I think I could persuade him to be realistic about his fee, and I could arrange for his lodging. Actually, the man I’m thinking of is my brother.”

“Your brother is a psychiatrist?”

“A graduate of Johns Hopkins and the Menninger Clinic. And I’m sure if he can fit it into his schedule, he’ll be eager to see Duff.”

“My son is a medical curiosity now?”

“Oh, come on.”

“Forget Duff for the moment. Do you believe that I have seen General Caine or not?”

After a while he said, “I believe now that you saw someone. I guess Tully convinced me of that much. I still think he’s a nut, though. He shouldn’t be teaching at Ashland College or anywhere else.”

“Why are you so afraid the devil may exist?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“It’s true.” We were shouting again, now not only to be heard above the noise of the car. “You’re afraid because you don’t want to have to go back to Father Fogarty’s kind of traditional beliefs.”

“Bullshit!”

“Such language from a priest.”

“You drove me to it!”

“Why don’t you say ‘the devil made me do it’?”

He turned toward me, enormously angry, then suddenly laughed. “I’ll go along with what Jim says. If Jim says it’s the devil, I’ll believe it.”

“Jim?”

“My brother. Shall I get in touch with him?”

With some misgivings I agreed. “If Duff confessed anything to him, he wouldn’t go to the police, would he?”

“Of course not.” And then after a pause, “Although he might suggest that Duff go himself.”

That was about the end of the conversation during the drive home. When he stopped the car in the yard, Father Jackson suggested that he would like to meet Duff.

“Not until after he sees your brother, if I can get him to go along with that. I don’t want him to think that anyone’s putting pressure on him.”

“One more thing. Don’t take that idiot’s advice seriously.”

“What advice?”

“You know, about looking for the General’s body.”

“Oh, that.” I got out of the car.

He leaned across the seat. “Don’t. You’re going to need a psychiatrist yourself if you start believing things like that.”

“My husband thinks I need one already.”

I stood watching while he went off down the road toward Cainesville. I was angry at him and terribly afraid of what was happening to me as well as to my son. I was also fearful of going back into the ugly monstrosity of a house—and even more fearful of doing what I did. After a few minutes I walked to the back of the house and out to the graveyard.

It was a pleasant autumn afternoon. The cicadas were singing in the oak trees, and bees were swarming around the vines growing wild against the graveyard fence.

There were shoots of green coming through the new earth now. I found a fairly straight tree branch and shoved it into the soil. It went in easily, which seemed to me to indicate that if anything had been buried below, it was now removed.

Then I went to the back of the graveyard and took a close look at the general’s headstone. What we had failed to notice earlier was that the stone wasn’t lodged in the ground, but merely resting against a pile of rocks and small stones, evidently placed there for the purpose. In fact some of the pile was made from shattered headstones—including, I assumed, the stone from the grave that someone wanted us to think was General Caine’s.

Well, if his remains weren’t in the graveyard, where were they? At the Weber house? Maybe it wasn’t necessary for Mrs. Reddy to have them in her immediate possession in order to make use of them. Maybe all that was necessary was to have them available to her. Therefore maybe the coffin and its contents, or what was left of them, was still on the Caine property.

But where? In the barn or the wagon shed? I walked back to the shed and squeezed in past the wagon and the buggy behind it. There was nothing in or under either one of them except curtains of cobwebs. I overcame my revulsion, brushed aside the cobwebs and lifted the cracked leather buggy seat. Nothing.

And there was nothing on the ground floor of the barn other than the rusting tools we had seen before. There was a ladder leading up to a hayloft, but it had several broken rungs and I was afraid to risk climbing it. In any event it didn’t look sturdy enough to support someone carrying or dragging a coffin. Of course another ladder could have been used and then taken away.

Then another thought occurred to me. Maybe the idea wasn’t to make the remains available to Mrs. Reddy. Maybe it was only necessary that they be available to Duff. Therefore maybe the coffin was somewhere in the house.

Where in the house? In the storeroom? It certainly could be concealed there easily enough among all the large articles of furniture. I went to the barn door and looked up at the back of the house. For the first time I noticed that the building was easily high enough for a third floor.

But there were no third-­floor windows. Could there be another storeroom up there? Maybe that was where the General had worshiped the devil in his day, although he very likely could have held the ceremonies in any part of the house large enough to hold his congregation. Considering his reputation, he prob­ably had never been bothered very much by intruders.

I had moved outside and was still looking up at the house when I heard a footstep on the path. I turned and there was Duff, not six feet away. He stared at me coldly, even menacingly.

“You might have called or said something,” I told him when I could speak.

“Why?”

“You frightened me, coming up on me that way.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“What were you doing in the barn?”

“Duff, don’t speak to me that way!”

He blinked and then his expression softened. “Mother?”

“Who did you think it was?”

“My eyes . . .” He rubbed them. “It’s the sunlight.”

“There isn’t that much sun. Where are your glasses?”

“I left them in the house. A lot of the time lately I’ve been able to see pretty well without them.”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“I got off early. My math teacher is sick.”

That I could check on. Then I thought, what difference will it make whether he’s lying or not? Seemingly I couldn’t do anything about it anyway.

“How did you get home?”

“Hitched. A man who lives up the road gave me a ride.”

“Duff, would you be willing to see a psychiatrist?”

“What for?”

“To talk about your problems. You’ll admit that you have had some, and you can talk about them—or about anything that might be bothering you.”

He considered it for a moment, then smiled and said, “Okay, Mama, if it will make you happy. I’ll see your shrink.”

“Good, I’ll have Father Jackson make the appointment.” Then I regretted that.

“Who’s Father Jackson?”

“The other priest at the church in Cainesville. The psychiatrist is his brother.”

“Did you have to bring a priest into it?”

“I just asked him to recommend someone—”

“Did you tell him anything about me?”

“No.”

“You did, you liar!” He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. Then he stepped back, horrified, and ran into the house.

I sat on the back steps until I had regained some control and then went in. As usual, Jack was in the front room, writing on his yellow pad.

“You and Duff going around and around again?” he asked without looking up. “I just heard him running upstairs.”

“It was nothing unusual.” I held my hands behind my back to conceal the trembling. “I got him to agree to see a psychiatrist, but then I think I blew it.”

He didn’t ask me how. I don’t think he even heard what I said. I sat down and picked up the Ashland newspaper. After a while I managed to read that the Sheriff had mounted an all-out effort to solve the murder of Stephanie Weber. Several members of a Cainesville motorcycle gang had been questioned and more members were being rounded up.

Shortly thereafter Father Jackson called. He had spoken with his brother, and Dr. Jackson would be willing to see Duff. Moreover, he was willing to come to Cainesville the next weekend. Could Father Jackson bring him to our house?

I didn’t think that was a good idea since Duff was so upset. I told him to take his brother to a Cainesville motel and I’d pay for the room. Then I’d do my best to get Duff there.

“There’s something else,” Father Jackson said. “I’m con­vinced now that you really did see a horse and rider on the road last night. I checked with the local grange and got the names of farmers who have riding horses. The fourth one I called owns a horse that fits the description of the one you saw. The man lives on Sycamore Road—that’s just east of your road—and listen to this. He says his horse was taken out of his barn last night and returned early this morning.”

“Could I see the horse?”

“I was going to suggest it. I’ll pick you up again in the morning and we’ll go over there.” He paused. “Your husband is going to think we’re having an affair.”

“Good,” I said. “I hope he does.”

“What’s that about a horse?” Jack yelled from the front room.

“I’m thinking of buying one.”

“Great. It’ll be good exercise for you. Who was on the phone?”

“My lover.”

“It was the priest, wasn’t it? That’s a fine thing to say about a priest.”

I went upstairs. Duff’s bedroom door was closed, so I went to the storeroom. He wasn’t there, but his notebook was on top of the pile of books where I had found it the last time.

He seemed to have written several more pages. Had he left it again for me to read? Then I heard the front door slam and Franny’s voice. There was no time to read the book, but I decided to take a quick look for the coffin and also a stairs to the third floor.

There was no coffin in the room, but I did find what I took to be a stairwell. I climbed over furniture and piles of books, moving things away from two walls, before I discovered an irregularity in the third and a locked door. It could’ve been a large closet, but I was betting it wasn’t.

Franny came in then and asked what I was doing.

“Getting dirty and ruining a Pucci pantsuit,” I said.

“It’s Sears Roebuck and I never liked it on you anyway. What’s behind that big cupboard?”

“Tons of dust. I was just checking to see if any of this junk is worth selling. I thought maybe we could have a garage sale—or barn sale, I suppose we’d have to call it here.”

“Sell these old books and newspapers too, before Duff gets some rare lung disease from them.” She followed me back to the bedroom. “I thought you hated it here, Mama.”

“I do.”

“It doesn’t seem as though you’re making any great efforts to get us home.”

“I am trying, dear, even though I haven’t been successful.” I had something else to ask her. “Franny, would you be willing to sleep downstairs for a while? I hate to leave Dad alone down there.”

“Since when did you become so concerned about Dad?”

I slapped her and she cried. I told her I knew she hadn’t meant the remark and that we were all living under a terrible strain. Of course I knew she was aware that I wasn’t madly in love with her father.

“It might be kind of scary sleeping in Steph’s room after what happened to her.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. After all, it didn’t happen in the room. Also, there’s a key and you can lock the door.”

“Can I play my radio and records down there?”

“As long as you don’t disturb your father.”

I had a couple of reasons for wanting her downstairs. The first was to have her farther removed from Duff. I didn’t really expect him to give her any more trouble, but I thought it best to lessen the opportunities. Also, if she wasn’t sleeping in the room with me, I would be freer to conduct my investigations.

Jack pretended to be disappointed that Franny was moving downstairs instead of me. “I was thinking maybe I could come in and join you one of these nights,” he said, squeezing my arm.

“Join me for what?”

“You know.” He tried to give me one of his slobbery kisses, but I pulled away.

“When you’re ready to climb the stairs, I’ll be in the first room on the left,” I said. It would be a long time before he could manage the stairs, I thought, and an even longer time before he really had the inclination.

After dinner, when Franny’s things were moved, I went upstairs and, for Duff’s benefit, pretended to be getting ready for bed. I was hoping that fairly soon he would close his door and allow me to pass unnoticed to the storeroom.

I spent an hour or so reading a paperback edition of The Hobbit that Franny had left behind. Then I looked into the hallway and saw that his door was closed. I waited another five minutes, then took the key from my door and the flashlight I always carry in my luggage and went quietly to the storeroom.

I was terrified, of course, of prowling that old house in the dark—a house in which a man who had worshiped the devil had once lived, a man who seemingly was still prowling the house himself. However, I had to get to the third floor and see if his coffin was there. I’d worry later about disposing of it and whatever was in it.

But my key wouldn’t open the door in the stairwell. A special lock must have been installed, I thought, and if there was a key for it in the house, my son very likely had it.

His notebook was where I had left it, so I took it back to my room. Then I locked the door, turned out the overhead light and went to the window. There was no one in the front yard.

I turned on the bed lamp, got into bed and began to read the notebook. The last entry I had seen was dated July 28. After that there were no dates and no separation of entries, except by the use of pencil and ball-­point pen, which I assumed indicated that the writing had been done at different times. Moreover, the handwriting no longer resembled Duff’s in the slightest.

For some reason, I wasn’t surprised that I was addressed in the first sentence.

This is for you, Margaret. You remember me and I remember you. If recollection sometimes falters, we must continue to remind ourselves who we are and whom we serve.

I am Duffin Caine, late Brigadier General in the Army of the United States. I bow to no man and I acknowledge only one Master. I have served that Master for many years and he has repaid my devotion a thousandfold.

Do you know when I first discovered my Master, Margaret? It was when I was fifteen years old. I was hunting deer and came upon a party of Delaware Indians. There were five of them, and four were bathing in a pool of the creek that bordered my father’s farm. Four were bucks and one was a female. The bucks were teasing the girl, trying to induce her to remove her clothing and join them in their nakedness in the pool. She was attempting halfheartedly to hide in the bushes, but she was not disinterested enough to leave the scene, nor was she too shy to peer out from between the fingers with which she was covering her eyes.

I was on a hillside above the creek, unseen by the Indians. I watched them for a while and then an inner voice told me to kill them. I will not say that I felt threatened by the Indians, nor did I think that they were a threat to my family or community. These local Delawares had been Christianized for several years and they were regarded as harmless. Also, I will not say—as it was later thought by some—that I wanted to avenge my brother, who had died at the hands of Delawares many years before. Avenging someone presumes a certain amount of feeling for that person, or at least the feeling that one’s own honor has been injured. I never even knew my brother Enoch, and I have never been much concerned with personal or family honor.

No, the voice within me simply said that it would be immensely pleasing to kill the Indians and that I could gain additional pleasure from the girl if I killed her last. And so I began to pick off the bucks. I was an excellent marksman and I could pour powder and ram lead in seconds, so that none of them had the slightest chance to escape. Furthermore I kept moving behind the trees and through the underbrush so that they couldn’t identify the source of their doom. Even the last buck to fall was not looking in my direction when the ball entered his heart.

Then I made my way down the hill and across the creek to where the girl crouched. I had my pleasure of her—teasing her the while with the hope that I might spare her life—then cut her throat and made my way home where I told my father that the Indians had attacked me. I had dragged all the bucks and the girl to the bank of the creek and had placed their knives and muskets near their hands, so that my story was not questioned when I returned later with my father and some of the other settlers to bury the bodies. What helped, of course, was the fact that my father and the other men hated Indians. I didn’t hate them. I just had no feelings of any kind for them.

And I had no feelings for the Indians or white men I killed later, although I was always careful to avoid difficulties with the authorities. The death of Indians seldom aroused much curiosity or concern, and the white men I dispatched were usually vagabonds, local drunkards or rootless peddlers traveling alone.

Then in my thirty-­sixth year the war began, offering me a unique opportunity to pursue my avocation. I had little formal education, but from books borrowed from neighbors I had mastered Latin and Greek and other subjects, and this combined with my equestrian skills and organizational abilities made me officer material. I was commissioned and rose to the rank of major before my first battle.

I made the best use of my opportunities, acquiring a great reputation for valor while at the same time experiencing some of the greatest pleasure I have ever known. Then a foolish mistake caused a charge of unbecoming conduct to be brought against me. I was usually very careful in selecting the officers and men who were to participate with me in the questioning and execution of prisoners, but in this case I picked one or two squeamish fellows who complained about me to divisional headquarters.

Fortunately, before matters proceeded further, I was captured by the Confederates. This was on the 26th of October, 1863, outside Chattanooga, my brigade then being attached to McCook’s division, R. B. Mitchell’s corps. I was leading a foraging party (unusual work for a general, you might say, but it was on such expeditions that I had some of my most interesting experiences) and the other six members of my party spurred their horses and escaped when we were intercepted by a large contingent of Wheeler’s cavalry. I engaged the leaders briefly, felling one rider but taking a deep saber slash in the leg, and then accepted capture. Philosophically, I assumed that confinement in a Confederate prison might be infinitely more preferable than the consequences of a court-­martial, and as it turned out, my life as a prisoner was not without its rewards.

After my wound was hastily attended to, I was sent east by railroad to Richmond, Virginia, and Libby Prison. The prison was an old tobacco and sugar warehouse, accommodating several hundred Union officers at the time of my residence. Many of them were badly treated, either by design or force of circumstances. For one thing, the rebels were very short of food at that time, and it could be assumed that their prisoners were faring as well as many of their soldiers in the field.

However, I must admit that I did not fare badly at all. As the only general officer in the prison at that time, I was given reasonably comfortable quarters on the third floor and a captured enlisted man to serve as striker for me. The food wasn’t good, but it was better than that served to the other prisoners and, as you know, Margaret, I was never as interested in the pleasures of the palate as I was in other gratifications.

And I soon discovered that my striker had other talents. He had been a longtime follower of the Master and he began to instruct me in the ways of serving him. I then found that there were others in the prison with similar inclinations, guards as well as prisoners, and it was not long before I had organized a group that met regularly in my quarters. We even managed to arrange for the attendance of some Richmond ladies, who participated (willingly, for the most part, although some not so willingly) in our ceremonies and pleasures. Our schedule of meetings was interrupted for a short time in March of 1864 when one of the ladies passed away during a ceremony as a result of some overzealous participation on the part of one of us. Shall I admit that it was I? Unfortunately so.

Nevertheless, with subsequent caution, we managed to resume our activities, and it was with extreme regret that I learned in May of 1864 that Libby Prison was to be closed and we prisoners moved farther south. It seems that Union cavalry raiders, under the command of General Hugh Kilpatrick, were pressing close to Richmond, and Libby Prison was no longer a safe place to hold us.

During the transfer of prisoners from the building to the railroad cars, I managed to escape. I had been supplied with civilian clothes and Confederate currency by one of our adherents, and I managed very well for several days in Richmond, residing for a time at the Spotswood Hotel, where I passed myself off as a cotton planter come to the capital to deal with military buyers.

Then I made my way to Washington, where I cannot say I was welcomed with open arms. I was questioned several times by Secretary of War Stanton and by several officers in his department. Finally it was decided that, in the interest of national harmony and support of the war effort, it would be best not to pursue and thereby publicize the charges against me. It was stated therefore that since I was now physically incapable of continuing my long and valiant service to my country, I would be honorably discharged and sent home to Cainesville.

My brothers and sisters having died or relinquished their claims on it, I was now the sole owner of the Caine farm. With the help of my Master I soon made it prosper, and engaged in other prosperous business ventures as well. Then in tribute to the one who now ruled my life, I had the old log farmhouse torn down and a new house built, choosing as my model the place where I had first sworn to serve my Master.

I spent many gratifying years in the house, and my Master succored me. He came to me many times there, as he still comes to me. He has insured that I shall never die, and he has made it possible for me to return to the place where you wait for me, Margaret. Even as you desire me, I will come.

The notebook entry ended with that chilling statement. I got out of bed, unlocked the door and went quietly to the storeroom and put the book back where I had found it.

Before returning to my room, I paused by Duff’s door and listened, but I could hear nothing, not even his breathing. I wanted to open the door and see if he was in the room, but I was afraid to do it—afraid maybe to find out that he wasn’t there.

I’m sure I locked my door again. My mind is in such a turmoil lately that I can’t really swear to it. However, I was so nervous at the time that I’m sure I would have been certain to lock the door. Anyway, I then went to the window.

General Caine was standing on the front lawn, closer to the house now than he had been the night before. There was a good bit of moonlight and I could see him even more clearly. His arms were folded and he was staring at me, but there was no malevolence in his expression. I stared back at him for a moment, then pulled the shade down and got into bed.

I tried to tell myself that there had to be a natural explanation, but my teeth were chattering and I was trembling so much the bed was shaking. Then I had a somewhat comforting thought. If I had to desire him before he could come to me, then I was sure he would never come. But then after a long while I went to sleep, and in my dream I did desire him and once again he came to me.