American Blackout (Book 2): Slaves Beneath The Stars Page 10

  He finally got the man to settle down and fell back a few feet nearing the camp. Watching the man’s wooden steps, Phil knew he had uncovered a real Nervous Nellie. The other men knew what was coming and fell back as well with their catch, distancing themselves from the two men. Big Phil let the mood overtake him. He put on his “blinders,” and the world darkened all around except for the man in front. He pulled a length of rope from his pocket and strangled the slaver with a ferocity reserved for cowards.

  24

  Prisoner

  Ed Cline’s house was dark. Light came from the barn, where inside kerosene lanterns illuminated Ed’s sons, who paced in front of a man gagged and tied to a chair in the middle of the dirt floor. The Cline men reminded Cricket of a solemn band of scarecrows, all tall and wiry.

  “What the hell is going on here, Mr. Cline?” Fritz walked up to the man and removed the gag. The bound man had been beaten and one eye was swollen shut, yet he still struggled against the ropes.

  “They’re nuts,” the captive spit out. “They want to hang me.”

  “Or shoot you,” Ed Cline said, and one of his sons agreed, adding that maybe they could do both. “Eggs are a primary food these days. Necessary for survival. Stealing them is a capital offense in my book!”

  The four Cline men took turns telling how they had discovered him outside the chicken coop with a sack full of eggs. They had searched him and found the minister’s wedding ring in the thief’s pocket.

  Ed Cline made fists, ready to pounce. “Randall always wore that ring. Even when he did chores. Loved his wife and two children.”

  “I never saw the damn ring.” The suspect shot his captors a wild-eyed look.

  One son, the tallest and oldest, lunged for the bound man, and Ed barked, “Daryl, no!” grabbing his boy’s shirt.

  “I brought Captain Holaday here to make some sense of what happened,” Claubauf said. “You and your sons agreed not to do anything foolish.”

  “Justice isn’t foolish.” Ed stood between his son and the bound man.

  “How do you know he killed your brother?” Cricket asked point-blank. “He could have found the ring.”

  “I did!” the man yelled, and Daryl shot past Fritz and his dad and cracked the man across the face. “I found it in my pocket.” He started to cry. “I don’t know how it got there. I’ve been scavenging, not killing.”

  “A thief and a killer.” Again, Daryl, the tallest and oldest of Ed’s boys, argued for vengeance. Cricket walked up to the beaten man and asked if he’d like some water.

  “Yes, please.”

  Ed nodded, and his youngest son, Robert, poured a glass of water from a pitcher.

  Cricket said, “Stop the drama, fellas. My husband’s here to cut through all the crap.”

  “I’d like to cut through the gut of this little creep.” The oldest son was the legs and fists of his dad, who had a mean streak, too, but lacked his son’s strength. Cricket knew that at some point Ed Cline would fully unleash his son.

  Cricket held the glass to the man’s bruised lips. He sipped greedily. She more than once backed off and told him to slow up, that he was spilling more than was getting in his mouth.

  Daryl said, “Maybe once Florence Nightingale is finished giving aid and comfort to the enemy, she can explain how my uncle’s ring magically showed up in his pocket.”

  “I’m not very patient with savage temperaments,” Cricket said. “I still believe that all men are created equal and not to be bound, gagged, and beaten like a red-headed mule. Whatever this man did, you go savage on him and I’ll shoot you in the face.”

  “You little bitch,” the man spat out, and Fritz was in his face yelling as Cricket and Ed’s sons were pulling the two men apart.

  Mr. Cline raised his hand in timeout fashion. “Miss Cricket, you got a reputation for shooting and not bothering to ask questions.”

  “I never killed someone tied to a chair for stealing eggs.”

  “No, just nailed a man to a sofa with an arrow.”

  “It was a La-Z-Boy. And the man and his followers terrorized an entire town.”

  Both the captured man and Doctor Claubauf stared at Cricket in amazement—Claubauf in admiration, the suspect in fear.

  Claubauf broke the silence. “Maybe someone planted the ring on him?”

  “That’s right,” the man in the chair yelled. “Listen! Listen to him!”

  The eldest son flew past Fritz and his dad and slugged the bound man, knocking him to the ground. Cricket held her gun out and cracked the aggressor across the back of his head. Fritz pulled her out of the way, as all the Clines had drawn their guns.

  Fritz and Claubauf were the only ones with their guns still holstered. The damaged son stumbled and fell to his knees, holding the back of his head, sputtering a line of curses.

  “You crazy bitch,” Ed yelled. “I should’ve shot you in the woods!”

  “Who’s crazy, Ed?” Fritz stood toe-to-toe with the father. “Your son attacked a man tied up. You wanted me here to okay your execution. Forget it. You execute this man and I’ll find the authorities to arrest you and your idiot son!”

  Cricket was still pointing her gun at Ed Cline.

  “Damn, Cricket, put the gun away.” Fritz walked over to the man on the ground, bleeding from the nose and mouth, and untied him. Cricket holstered the Glock. She could see the dazed man’s right wrist bent at an odd angle. When he came out of the fog, he’d be screaming in pain.

  “He’s a killer,” Ed said, lowering the heavy .357 like its weight had just doubled.

  “He’s not going to do much killing tonight with a snapped wrist.” Claubauf didn’t draw his gun but stood over Cricket and Fritz. Daryl continued to rub the back of his head.

  “We’re taking this man back to my grandfather’s,” Fritz said, staring down the Clines. “Sister Marie will treat him. We’ve got supplies.”

  “Take him back in your stupid golf cart—or walk back!” the eldest son said, adding a few four-letter words.

  “I don’t think so.” Cricket eyed the father: “Mr. Cline, you have a van. Your youngest boy can take us. He’s got the least hate in his eyes. And you,” she said to the attacker, “no more swearing.”

  Ed sputtered. “How dare you… tell us we’re going to drive this killer to Hank’s? And then tell my son that you pistol-whipped, and lost his favorite uncle, that he can’t swear?”

  “Cricket’s right—about everything!” Fritz yelled. “We don’t get this man safely back to the Holaday farm, I’ll make sure attempted-murder charges are filed against all of you.” Fritz zeroed in on Daryl. “You sound like a moron when you swear.”

  25

  Hard Landing

  It had been dark for a few hours and Phil’s catch had already been loaded onto a sternwheeler when he decided to go for a walk. Alone, he inhaled deeply, proud of his new boots and winter jacket. He thought of having a cigarette, but the glow and smell might make him a target. Anti-slavers were patrolling more frequently and attacking Ajax’s men.

  The wind had been mostly light, yet every so often a gust had torn through the branches. In the next gust he heard the flapping of wings. This startled Big Phil—an emotion he wasn’t very accustomed to feeling. Not much troubled him during his work, unless it was some slaver punishing a captive without restraint. But he kept quiet about that.

  He relieved himself and remembered how cold a night it truly was. He zipped up and soon felt warm and content again.

  His coziness disappeared when the branches above were shaken by an even stronger wind. A large branch overhead strained due to the weight of something that had made a hard landing. That’s no bird, he thought.

  Ajax came to mind and he shivered violently, no longer snug as a bug in a rug—one of his mother’s favorite expressions. The slavers had told each other stories about how Ajax was in cahoots with the devil. Most of the men, like Big Phil, had laughed at the idea. Yet he could attest to a strange feeling during every meeting
with his boss, as though Ajax were a mere shadow who had happened to dismember his partner Mike recently with a hatchet.

  He aimed for camp, roughly a mile distant, when a heavy branch snapped explosively and crashed to the ground only feet behind him. The wind gusts grew stronger, and the forest rattled and moaned with many midnight visitors crash-landing on the treetops.

  Was Ajax punishing him for picking another loser, the Nervous Nellie, who could have jeopardized the entire operation?

  Big Phil hadn’t run in years, and now he did.

  The wind never ceased, and neither did all the noise in the branches above. He cried aloud for Ajax’s forgiveness.

  26

  Short End of the Stick

  Inside the bunkhouse, well past midnight, Sister Marie hovered over the man who had received a shot of whiskey before and after his broken wrist was set and wrapped in an ACE bandage with a homemade splint. With his left hand he took a few bites of food and thanked her, saying he was satisfied. He looked at the women around him in wonder. Claubauf and the mechanics were out patrolling in the golf cart; Fritz and Lawrence were on foot.

  Cricket took his plate and glass and handed them to Betty, who left for the kitchen. The man complained about being cold, and Cricket brought the covers up to his shoulders.

  The conditions back at the Clines’ had given the suspect a universal mask of fear, wiping out individuality. Cricket now noticed that the man was in his late twenties. His looks were fair. But a short run with substance abuse, alcoholism, or crime would quickly erode his pleasant face.

  “How were you captured?” Cricket asked.

  “Pretty much like they said. I was hungry and stole their eggs. The big one came after me and then another, and they were punching me, slapping me around, calling me a thief. And then that doctor showed up and yelled at them to stop.”

  “Doctor Claubauf, who drove us back?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. A good man. They must have been scared of him or respected him a bunch. They got off me quick and we all went to the house. Met Mr. Cline. They started to go through my clothes and they found this ring. We were all surprised, but I got the short end of the stick. They beat me bad until that doctor again intervened.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “James Wooten. I went to agricultural school in Wheeling. Just graduated when the world went to hell.”

  Sister returned. “I’m going to give you eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen.”

  “Thanks, it’s really throbbing.”

  Both Sister and Cricket helped him to sit up, and he took a fast gulp of water, downing all four pills at once, making Sister cringe, worried that he’d choke.

  Cricket said, “You’re safe here, James. In a few days we’ll take you into town and you can tell the police your story. In the meantime you got two great guys for company—Oakley and Forrest.”

  “The police? I thought you folks were my friends?”

  “It’s the right thing to do, the safest thing for your sake,” Cricket answered. “They’ll ask the questions and get to the truth.”

  “The truth is I never saw that damn ring before.”

  Sister and Cricket looked at one another.

  Sister Marie took his good hand. “I believe you.” She then rung out a cool washcloth and placed it on his forehead. “I understand the sheriff to be a fair man, a man who follows the law. If you run, James, men who have forgotten the law will be coming after you.”

  James said nothing. He pulled off the blanket and tried to sit up using his good hand. Sister gently pushed him down and again covered him, saying, “The last thing you want to do is bolt.”

  Cricket remembered the hate-filled eyes of the eldest son and reasoned that the minister had been killed by someone with a lot of hatred brewing over the years. She wondered about the real history of the minister and his nephew.

  Cricket slept wrapped around her husband when a gunshot in her dream frightened her awake. With all her years of using firearms, and most recently taking lives, this single shot reverberated with terrible importance and finality in a way that only dreams can fully express.

  Fritz rose from sleep, and they both heard shouts coming from outside. They dressed and ran down the carpeted steps, worried that the children would have to experience some new depraved tragedy. But their doors remained closed, and all the adults scrambling about the house were doing their best to whisper. Before leaving, they stuck their head in Hank’s room and he was sadly shaking his head as if he knew that nothing good was afoot.

  Once outside, they ran for the bunkhouse and saw Doctor Claw with Cricket’s Remington that everyone liked to borrow for patrol. The mechanics were still out patrolling and had left the doctor in charge of the young man. The doctor stood just beyond the door of the bunkhouse, dimly outlined by a lantern on the kitchen table. A short distance away lay the body of James Wooten.

  Lawrence and Sister Marie went straight to the crumpled man on the ground. Cricket aimed for the doctor.

  “What did you do?”

  Claubauf was looking out over the pasture, like he had more important matters on his mind. He finally zeroed in on Cricket.

  “He was trying to escape. He found Oak’s revolver.”

  Wisely, the mechanics raced the golf cart to the house and stayed inside to look after the children.

  “Did you yell at him to stop?” Cricket felt Sister’s arm encircle her waist, and she pulled her friend close.

  “Several times.”

  “I didn’t hear you yell.”

  “Wooten said he was going to shoot me.”

  “He’s right-handed, and the Clines broke that wrist.”

  “If you were paying attention, you’d have noticed he’s ambidextrous. Probably from working on the farm, driving equipment that requires the weaker hand to assume a more dominant role.”

  “That’s a lame excuse for gunning down a young man.”

  “Get the cops here in the morning. Everyone will testify he had a gun. True, he never fired, but I wasn’t going to test his marksmanship. He was a murder suspect and the main house was in his line of fire.”

  “A lot of rationalizations for executing someone,” Cricket said, feeling a tender hand touch her arm. Betty stared at the man lying still.

  “I should have stayed with him,” Betty moaned. “He was sleeping so soundly when I left.” She never looked at Doctor Claubauf and returned to the house.

  Fritz said, “Doctor, I don’t know who’s worse, you or that hotheaded son of Ed Cline.”

  “That’s easy. Daryl. He was fingered by James. When the sheriff comes, I’ll testify to what James said about the son planting the ring on him.”

  “The man was terrified. He’d say anything.”

  “The killing in Marietta was personal. You see, the minister was a real lady’s man. A known fact for years. And that area of his life was in constant need of replenishment. It was also common knowledge that he wasn’t opposed to seducing the ladies within his own family. Daryl has a beautiful wife, ten years younger than him. Easy pickins for a handsome preacher—”

  Fritz interrupted the doctor’s defense. “Good story, Doc—beginning, middle, and end.”

  “I’m tired,” the doctor said. “It’s been an exhausting day. I’ll talk with the authorities in the morning. I’m not talking to you.”

  Cricket grew weak and Fritz pulled her close. She cried softly, believing the man had never killed anyone. Claubauf was right, too. With a gun, desperate, who knew what he’d have done half a second later? A wild shot might have hit a child fast asleep.

  The clouds thinned and the moon came out and silvered the meadow. The darkest part of the night lifted, and James Wooten was carried homeward.

  27

  A Sheriff for All Seasons

  Sister Marie read several passages from the Old and New Testament, and Cricket stood with all the adults listening. James was being buried near the woods alongside the two children. Doctor Claubauf stood
apart, showered and relaxed. The man was happy! Cricket got a chill seeing him inhale deeply, as if pleased that someone undesirable was no longer breathing his air.

  None of the Clines came, and no one knew anything about the young man except that he had gone to school in Wheeling. There were no cell phones to pick up and inform a family member, or computers and iPads to google for information. Early that morning the youngest Cline had driven into Marietta and informed the police.

  An hour later the sheriff arrived and reviewed the last twenty hours of James Wooten’s life. “I don’t believe he murdered Minister Cline,” Doctor Claubauf remarked, leaning back in his chair, aware that everyone was studying him, especially Cricket, who averted her eyes only to see the four children, accompanied by Oakley, leading the horses to a small corral for grazing and exercise. She had declined their offer to ride.

  The sheriff was short and heavy, with a crew cut and glasses. His worn black jeans and tennis shoes made Cricket sigh. He’s only a sheriff from the waist up.

  He had a notebook but had to ask Cricket for a pen.

  Not looking up from his writing, the sheriff said, “For someone young, naïve, a petty thief in rough times—it’s a shame he had to leave this life so early.”

  “Self-defense,” Doctor Claubauf stated. “When I saw the gun—”

  “But you shot him in the back.”

  “He had a gun in his hand and the house was in his line of fire. He was yelling he was going to shoot me. I couldn’t wait for him to spin around and take that shot.”

  The other adults accepted his actions as self-defense, protecting the farm, especially the children. However, Hank had nothing to say to his old friend and let it be known that he didn’t want to see him anytime soon.

  The sheriff kept writing.