Late morning
Beth was still quite shaken by the frightening encounter with Ricks the previous evening. So rattled, in fact, that she forgot her phone at home. She’d kept it near her bed expecting Shane to call. But he didn’t. Did that mean he hadn’t yet reached Verdeville? Had there been a problem? Was he involved in a wreck? Or did he roll into town too late to call? Where did he stay? Is he okay?
Worrying about Shane again was painful. It reminded her of those tense times when he’d be out with a few biker buddies. They never went looking for trouble—as far as she knew—but sometimes trouble was attracted to their loud, gleaming choppers. Anxiety would seize her chest and throat until Shane returned home. In this case, however, he was not coming home. He’d left home to—.
They’d never discussed where Shane would stay while in Verdeville, nor how long he intended to visit. Since learning he was en route, Beth had fretted about his intentions, his expectations, his... whatever. Would he even want an invitation to stay over? If he did, would he understand his spot was the couch? Is that what Beth wanted? To Shane, this was probably just a hard cross country ride to locate and neutralize Ricks. Beth wondered if Shane had even given thought to the consequences of them being together again. Well, not together, but proximate. Hmm. Presumably, he’d landed somewhere in town last night and likely knew he was not welcome in her bed.
Or maybe he hadn’t even arrived yet.
But perhaps Shane was here and had already called this morning. Maybe he’d already found her little cottage on Netterville Street and had been sprawled out on her cramped concrete stoop for hours.
Well, surely Shane would realize she had to go to work. Of course, Beth had never told him where she worked—only that it was a small, local CPA office. She decided to call him.
It was nearly noon at work and Steve Packard had just left the restroom. Part of that ritual was also to pause and stare without any conversation of consequence. He obviously noticed the large bandage on Beth’s neck because he was looking right at it. But he didn’t ask and she didn’t volunteer any information. In a few minutes, Steve was back in his own office and seemed intent on his computer screen.
With the company phone, Beth called Shane’s number. It went to voicemail. She explained her cell phone was at home and hoped he was safe. She’d be home around 5:30.
But what would Shane expect at 5:30?
What did she expect?
Beth went to the unisex restroom and stared into the mirror. Sleeping poorly over the past nine nights had taken a toll on her face. Her light tan had vanished and there were lines around her eyes. Lines at age twenty-eight? Well, they weren’t lines—more like dark circles. No, not circles per se, just dark blotches under her eyes. Pale face and dark blotches. I could be an extra in a vampire movie. What a lovely visage for Shane to see after three long years and two thousand miles on the road.
She returned to her desk, checked to see that Steve was apparently occupied, and then dialed Jeff’s library desk. She couldn’t cradle the company phone between her shoulder and neck because her knife wound still stung. And the stiff, over-size bandage irritated her flesh when she moved her head.
Could she focus on the overnighter’s secrets while this rattled? While looking like a vampire? She’d try.
Jeff answered but placed her on hold.
Shortly, he was back. “What’s up, Beth? Did your ex arrive yesterday?”
“Not sure. Didn’t call last night. Might have been real late. He’s probably here in town, but I forgot my phone today. He doesn’t have my contact info for work.”
“You sound a little stressed. Even more than what I’ve noticed recently. You just nervous about your ex? Or is anything else wrong?”
That librarian could read her like a book. Ha. Even over the phone. Why couldn’t Shane be that intuitive? “No. Nothing.” She started to lie, but tears betrayed her ruse and she told Jeff the whole gas station assault story as she sniffled noisily. Beth heard Steve come to his doorway, presumably to listen, but he didn’t actually approach. She faced toward the wall and continued her conversation with Jeff.
“This was the same man from the mall the other night? The one you used to know in California?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Both.”
“Beth, I’m concerned about your safety. I think the police need to be aware of this.”
“Oh, they are. It was their medic who stuck this industrial sized bandage on my neck.” She started to choke up again. “But either they can’t do anything... or won’t.” She steeled herself enough to speak clearly. “Jeff, tell me you learned something important from the diary or that old hanging story.”
“Wouldn’t you rather talk about this later?”
“No.” She struggled to level her voice. “No, Jeff. The more I know about the little suitcase, the better I’ll feel. Somebody wants something from that overnighter... and they want it pretty bad.”
Jeff seemed dubious. “How could anything in musty baggage be important enough for somebody to assault you in public?”
“I don’t know, but it brought Ricks all the way from California...”
“Well, I can’t see it.”
“Just humor me. Could you make any sense of that handwritten story?”
Jeff must have shuffled some papers, or something that sounded like it. “Not much. Extremely hard to read. I typed it up so I could study the content. The format and condition of those original pages worried me too much.”
“I’d like to read it again in clean copy, too.”
“Check your e-mail. I attached it as a document to a message I sent you this morning.”
Beth peered toward her boss’s office. “Steve’s on his computer... and mine’s in the middle of a defrag.”
There was a muffled buzz. “Beth, I gotta put you on hold.” The line went neutral before she could reply. He was gone about two minutes. “Okay, I’m back.”
“Jeff, I can print out the story here at work later, but won’t have time to read it ‘til tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Better yet, come over to my place. No, wait. Tanya and her mother are scrap-booking there. I’ll come to you.”
“Uh, okay.” She started to remind him that Shane would likely be there, but decided to just let happen what would. If Shane had any expectations, whatever they might be, those would be out the window if Beth had a friend over.
“By the way, Beth, there were fourteen misspelled words. Want me to read them out?”
“Don’t bother. I’ll spot them.”
“I just wanted you to know that I’ve reproduced the original’s spelling, capitalization, and most punctuation to the best of my ability... because I thought it was possible they’re significant. But I figured the indentation faults could not possibly be significant, so I had to standardize them. It bothered me.”
Beth chuckled. “Compulsive.”
“Plus, I added quotation marks to the characters’ words... and separated the speeches. They were all jammed together in the original.” He took an audible breath. “Just log on and read it, Beth. Then call me back.”
About ninety minutes later, Steve left for lunch. He said he was going home to eat, but he’d never done that before, as far as Beth was aware. Weird. While he was gone, Beth opened her e-mail on Steve’s PC and printed the Jones manuscript. She hadn’t intended to read it yet, but couldn’t help herself.
The hanging of Jones
It was in the wee small hours of the morning—The old steamer “Cherokee” was slowly ploughing her way up the Mississipi river. The passengers had long since retired for the night, with the exception of a few of us who were seated in the salon enjoying our selves as best we knew how—Each one taking his turn at story telling - we were all strangers from southren ports. One old gentleman whose snowy locks and bent form proclamed that father time had not dealt very kindly with him seemed to be silently enjoying the conversation, for not one word had he spoken. A big jolly beer drummer from St. Louis, had just finished a very amusing narative when the “Old Cherokee’s” whistle sounded for a landing, and the stewart came through the cabin announcing the next stop as Hickman Ky. I had at one time resided in Hickman, and naturally felt a desire to see the old home of my child hood, the mere mention of which, had recalled many pleasant recollections of my boyhood days. We all arose and sauntered to the deck as the boat slowly sway to the landing.
All was in utter darkness except the faint gleam from a solitary lamp upon the old wharf. The gang plank was shoved out, and several sleepy porters—bearing lanterns came on board to escort a passenger or two, on shore. Not a glympse of the old town could be seen—all was wrapped in darkness and the silence of the tomb.
We remained on deck until the gang plank had been withdrawn, then returned to our seats in the deserted cabin. “Well, let us have one more smoke and then retire,” said the big drummer, as he passed around a well filled case of choice Havanna’s.
There were but four of us now—The beer drummer—the silent old man—A middle aged Southerner, and myself.
Passing the old town had brought back to me all the circumstances connected with the hanging of a man named Jones in years gone by, and I said—“Gentlemen, that little town of Hickman used to be the best and liveliest town on the river. Passing there to night has recalled a most mysterious tragedy which occured during my stay there.”
“Well, let us have it—give us all the facts,” said the beer drummer.
“It was in the year 1889,” I began. The old gentleman gave a start then settled back quietly in his chair. “There had been a big trial in the court house, a murder trial, a most brutal murder had been committed—the little town was wild with excitement and horror. A merchant by the name of Blank had been waylaid, robbed, and murdered.”
“He was on his way home from his store, and when last seen was in company with a man named, Jones, so a half dozen witnesses had sworn. Naturally Jones was arrested, tried, and convicted.”
“The circumstancial evidence was so strong against him, not withstanding his assertions of innocence, that he was sentenced to be hung early in the morning of Nov. 9th.”
“All executions at Hickman, were conducted on the outskirts of the town. Inside a large stockade was placed the scaffold. My boyish curiosity made me most anxious to witness this hanging, but I overslept. Though I ran at break neck speed towards the stockade, I was too late —.”
“Sheriff, Matthew Vernon, had just sprung the trap and Jones dropped into place, when a terrific explosion occured. The crowd at the stockade was panic stricken and rushed away in the direction of the sounds, forgetting the man left hanging. Arriving at the spot they found a large hole in the ground and an injured person lying near.”
“The wildest excitement ensued, - men ran in all directions, and fully five minutes elapsed before any thought was given to Jones. Then in all haste the Sheriff returned to the stockade, Where to his horror, and surprise, he found the body gone and in its place hung a pumpkin cut like a grinning face and this note pinned to the rope.”
‘Not this time—Jones’
“It was widely concluded the explosion had been set expressly to save the condemned man. A vigorous search was at once instituted, but no trace of Jones was ever found.”
My listeners seemed deeply interested as I finished the above story.
The silent man, for the first time spoke. He cleared his throat, and shifted his position, and said in a hurried nervous way, as if he could not get the words out quick enough—“I have heard of this strange affair before, and it appears I know more than you do concerning the matter. Your story is quite correct as far as it goes, but I have positive proof that Jones was cut down and rescued during the excitement following the explosion. When cut down he was quickly placed in a small boat, waiting at the river bank, scarcely one hundred feet from the stockade. Then occured the strangest part of the entire transaction, he was taken down the river, the black cap was removed, his arms and legs unpinioned, and in an unconscious state was set adrift, without even knowing who his rescuers were.”
“When consciousness returned to him, he was drifting down the river, and in his pocket was five thousand dollars, also a note, telling him to fly the country, and to always take Century Magazine—no matter where he might go, and if this advertisement should ever appear.
‘Learn hypnotism by the cut-off route’ You R. Savior
to at once send his address to the advertiser—and he would learn of something to his advantage.”
“He was also advised to take passage as a pedlar, on down the river. He did so, and finally embarked for South America. That was in 1889, and all these years he had remained there.”
“About two months ago, he was surprised to find the above mentioned advertisement in that magazine. He at once sent his address, and in a short time, received a reply from a lawyer in St. Louis, stating that Mr. Brown of Hickman Ky. had recently died and left his entire estate to said Jones, together with a sealed confession, which, said Lawyer was to read, in the presence of said Jones, as soon as he should arrive in St. Louis. Now why this was done has been a matter of speculation with me. It is my belief, however, that Jones was innocent of the crime—and Brown knowing this had assisted him to escape. No other motive can I assign for I feel convinced that it was Brown himself who murdered Mr. Blank.”
There was perfect silence for a moment when the old man finished speaking. Then the fourth man spoke.
“You have told this story correctly and have made a few points clear in my mind. Yes Brown did actually murder the merchant, Mr. Blank, for I heard him confess it on his death bed.”
“You!” ejaculated the drummer -
Beth’s heart raced as she flipped the page hoping for the rest of the story. She checked the wall clock and figured a few minutes remained before her boss returned from lunch, so she called Jeff again at the library.
“You couldn’t resist, could you?” There was a smile in his voice.
“Ha ha. You were right about all the spelling errors and grammar problems. Did you type the whole story?”
“Of course. That’s what I wanted to tell you before.” Jeff lowered his voice slightly—he was on duty. “As best I can determine from the flow of this manuscript, at least one page is missing... maybe two.”
“I guess I’d never read all those pages before. Couldn’t hardly read them the other night either.”
“Well, that exclamation from the beer drummer is the final line of the final page... uh, page seven as it’s handwritten. But that’s obviously not the end of the story.”
“What’s in the missing part?”
“No way to know... unless there’s more pages in that overnighter. But I have some hunches.” Jeff paused. “Doesn’t matter all that much, though.”
“Why not?”
“It’s obviously just a tall tale.”
“So, you don’t think it actually happened? The hanging, I mean.”
“Pure fiction, Beth. Campfire tale. Though it has the feel of a modern day urban legend... you know, with the selective embellishments. If so, there could be some little thread of truth buried somewhere in that legend.” He muffled the phone. “Gotta go. Patrons waiting. Bye.”
Beth re-read the typescript, slowly this time. Her observations about the story differed. “I think it’s true... at least mostly.”
“What’s true?” Steve had entered the back door without making any noise.
Beth jumped. “You startled me!”
He shrugged. “So what’s true?” Steve pointed to the pages in her hands.
“Nothing. I mean, it might be related to the break-in I told you about. Just a story.” She flipped the pages over.
“Have you had any more, uh, trouble?” He seemed to stare at her neck, but he might simply have been trying to peer down her blouse.
“Somebody followed me. Once or twice. And a guy grabbed me last night at the gas station. He had a knife.”
“Oh.”
Some bosses might have a word of comfort or additional questions. But with Steve, it seemed he didn’t want to know. Well, not that he didn’t want to know... rather that if he did know it might require some human response from him. That particular crayon was not in Steve’s box.
She watched as her boss moved quietly toward his office and sat in front of the computer. She could tell by the way he positioned his hands that Steve realized something was different. Maybe she’d left his mouse in a different spot or something. Good grief. Should she tell the boss that she checked her e-mail on his machine? No... let him stew. Make him ask. Force him to interact.