Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

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Trudeau lay back on his brass bed at Robidoux's and tapped his booted-toe rhythmically against the bed frame. With his arms crossed behind his head, he stared at the ceiling, molars grinding on a cheroot. He took another nip from the silver hip flask and checked his watch. Let's see, it's five o'clock now. The late coach leaves for St. Joe at ten - enough time to take care of him, gather my things, checkout of Robidoux's and buy a ticket. I'll be in St. Joe by early morning, then, on to a paddle-wheeler and all the way to the end of the Mississippi. I'll be back home in a week. 

He got up from the bed and retrieved the black leather box that held his killing tool and opened it, making sure everything was in order. The smiling angels on the ivory handles seemed anxious, something he'd never paid attention to before. He concluded that their beatific smiles must be a reflection of Heaven's beckoning calling card. Some time had passed since he'd put the angels to work to carry another soul off to heaven. The precious garrote and gloves slipped easily inside his coat pocket. He felt for the knife he needed to sever Poulet’s finger, packed his valise and set it by the door.

 

The sun was only beginning to set. At least another hour would pass until full dark. He chose to head to Dorland's Saloon for a quick game and flask refill. Smiling to himself, he found there was always a sucker to be had in the bar. Like shooting fish in a barrel, he was certain of a winning streak every time he occasioned to walk in. He smoked a hefty bowel of opium, tossed his black cape over his shoulders and left Robidoux's.

Only one table in the back corner of Dorland's was engaged in poker. The three men at the table sat in quiet conversation, shuffling cards and tossing chips. Trudeau walked up to the bar, ordered absinthe and wandered over to the gaming table.

After a few games, he was ahead: less ahead than he wanted to be, but that was always the case. His Patek-Philippe pocket watch displayed six-thirty. A quick glance out the frosted front windows confirmed the gathering darkness. He opted to take a quick walk by the river and then to Poulet's. The bartender refilled his flask while he picked up his winnings. He slipped the flask in his hip pocket and left the saloon.

Trudeau the executioner walked down Main Street to the river, sat on a rock on the bank of the Missouri and watched the deep waters flow by in the dim light. The uninhabited dock was to his liking. He loathed people. People had a propensity for interrupting his peace. The only ones he put up with were ones that handed him money or slept with him. 

He sat and smoked and went over his plan again and again. For him, precise planning made for a successful outcome. His vocation demanded it if he was to stay clear of the law and remain free. He jumped up from the rock and tossed his cigar in the river. He rejoiced in the overcast evening sky. This night is perfect for a killing.

He walked up Main Street to the modest city park, sat on the bench and yawned. He crossed his stringy legs and pulled his cape around himself. An absentminded tapping came from his cane as it beat against his boot heel.

Across the street, a few people milled about on the sidewalk near Jeb McKenna's drug store, but no others. He glanced up to Poulet's home at the top of the street every few minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of him either coming or going. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and turned his head. Poulet was walking down the street in his direction, but then crossed the street to McCauley's. 

The overcast evening wrapped itself around him with a velvety soft hug. He made his casual and inconspicuous way up Main Street. After walking halfway up, he turned left in a southerly direction and took a well-used footpath leading down a hill to a culvert behind Poulet's house. 

 

He walked to the bottom of the hill. An inconsequential brook ran through the gully. With a subdued gurgle, its paltry stream trickled by the surrounding stand of trees. He stood near the brook and judged the gradient of the steep hill.

 Above him, thirty yards away, stood the Frenchman's home. His eyes, now adjusted to the dim light, spied a porch at the back of the house. Two sagging steps led down to the outhouse.

A stiff gust of wind blew up. He pulled his coat collar up. The wind stirred the rotting leaves around his feet and pushed them in a rapid circular motion, spawning a tiny twister. 

Along with the call of crickets, bullfrogs croaked and splashed as they hopped in the shallow water of the nearby tributary. The only other sound was that of a distant squeaking violin, its gut strings screeching under the see-sawing of an inept bow. He swatted at flies that buzzed his face.

He stood behind a tree and took furtive glances to the house. Faint candle light glowed in one of the windows. Otherwise, the house was dark.

He took the slight hill with short and studied steps, slipping now and then on wet leaves. The mud beneath the leaves slowed him and to balance himself, he grabbed overhanging tree limbs. He cursed the slick earth for clinging to his expensive boots. At the back of the outhouse, he pulled out the flask and took a long hard swallow.

His breathing slowed. A hacking tubercular cough of lung-rattling authority struck and strained at his chest muscles. 

Concerned that the sound of his coughing would signal his whereabouts, he buried the raspy cough in his coat sleeves.

He caught his breath and his lungs settled down. Taking a few side glances, he crept to the back porch door and stopped. He cupped his ear to the back door. He heard nothing.

The boot scraper near the back porch removed most of the mud from his Spanish riding boots. He leisurely opened the porch door and closed it silently behind him. Save for firewood and crates, there was nothing to see. He advanced to the kitchen door and found it ajar. Cautiously pushing it forward until it opened, he stepped into the kitchen. The wood floor made loose creaking noises as he took a step forward. He stopped and listened for any trace of sound.

 

Next to the parlor window, the candle he'd seen burned in a hurricane lamp on Poulet's desk.

 

He walked over to the desk and glanced down at a few dusty books stacked one on top of the other. As he turned around, he took in the sight of wall-to-wall books that he had followed, their tomes crammed into bookcases, floor to ceiling. Tightly packed, they appeared orderly. Trudeau questioned why the little man needed so many of them.

On tiptoes, he stepped through the parlor and peered into the bedrooms. In the dreary light, he made out Poulet's altar and crystal jars of herbs and potions. He wasn't aware that his victim was a practitioner of Voodoo. It didn't matter to him. As far as he was concerned, there were no differences between Voodoo and Christianity. To him, they both comprised a belief system fatally flawed and a crutch for the weak, uneducated and unsophisticated: people that lived in constant fear of dying and going to hell. Unconcerned with going to hell, or heaven, for that matter, his only concern was that of living well with a full belly, a full purse, and a crowded bed.

Trudeau lay back on Poulet's bed and waited. It was only a matter of time before the little Frenchman came back from supper. He tuned his ears to the front door as he listened for the return of his victim. 

He was ready.

Chapter 50

Trudeau's dreaming eyes shot open. He vaulted from Poulet's bed, alarmed at the jangle of fumbling keys jabbing at the front door lock. The lock clicked and the door swung open. He heard the sound of two muffled male voices exchanging farewells. "Goodnight, reverend," the more distinct voice said. The front door closed. He slipped behind Poulet's bedroom door.

Poulet walked into his home. A glance at the floor gave him pause. Something out of the ordinary met his eyes. He lit another candle, held it up and moved from the front door to the kitchen, the wood floor groaning under his shifting footfalls. The dim light exposed faint tracks of mud on his clean floor; something he would never allow to accumulate. What in God's name...? Concerned, but intrigued, he picked up the lamp and cautiously wandered into the kitchen.

He found the back door ajar. He quietly nudged it open and found nothing askew on his back porch. The back porch door was closed but unlocked. He opened it and peered out into the dark of his backyard. His wide-open pupils caught the dim outline of the boot scraper buried under a pile of mud. I've never used this scraper. What is...? He jerked his head around. Nothing. 

"Hello," Poulet whispered into his kitchen. He moved to the parlor. "Hello," he said louder. No reply. He picked up the candle and made note of the tracks leading in the direction of the hallway. As he drew closer to the hallway, the tracks disappeared. 

A shaking Trudeau fumbled for his gloves. With his back hugging the wall, he'd heard the steps from the parlor's floor shift to the kitchen. He sucked in a deep breath, pulled the goat skins from his pants pocket and yanked them on. He dug into his coat pocket, found the ivory angels and wrapped his gloved hands around their wings in an ever-tightening grip. He slowed his wheezing respiration; mucous-filled lungs threatening a cough. Rivulets of sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his darting eyes. His heart pounded, drubbing against his ribs with a frenzied urgency. Footsteps moved in the bedroom's direction as he heard Poulet utter a tentative 'hello.' He shifted his stance and steeled himself. He craned his neck to the side and peered through the crack between door and door jamb. Poulet's dark figure brushed past and cast a shadow on the floor.

Poulet hesitated at the threshold and sniffed. A foreign odor hung in the air. He'd smelled the distinctive fragrance only once before in a brothel and hadn't forgotten the sickly sweet scent of lingering opium smoke. He took a hesitant step forward and scanned the room. He stopped to listen. Not a sound. 

 

A mighty crash exploded from the door. The door flew back and slammed shut with a deafening clap. Trudeau jumped behind Poulet and threw his gangly arms skyward. His arms swooshed back down and the slick wire collared Poulet's neck in one swift move. Trudeau jerked the wire back and crossed the handles. He grunted as he strained to twist the handles tighter. He pulled Poulet closer to his chest and arched his back, lifting Poulet up and off the floor.

Poulet struggled, his dangling and flailing feet kicking benignly at thin air. His hands clawed at his neck, searching for a release from the choking hold. The executioner was too strong. 

Trudeau tightened the hold as a loud banging came at the front door. He twisted harder and ignored the sound from the other room. A few more seconds was needed to finish the job. 

 

Despite his panic, Poulet managed to throw his weight and shift around. He grabbed a hold of Trudeau's wrists, lifted his leg and kicked over the nightstand, shattering a lamp. He heard the front door fly open and bang against the wall.

 The sound of breaking window glass reached his ears. Leaden boots thundered across the floor toward him. The bedroom door kicked open and Reverend Tutwiler stormed in. The reverend reached into his front vest pocket and pulled out his Derringer. He raised his arm, took quick aim and pulled the trigger.

Trudeau's eyes opened wide as the split-second flash of fire explode from the barrel of the gun. The bullet entered his skull just above his left eye. His hands loosened on the ivory angels and the garrote fell to his feet. His lax body slumped and then fell to the floor with a heavy thud. A pool of blood gathered around his head. Trudeau's still open, but lifeless, eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. A single thin trickle of blood ran down the tiny entrance wound on his forehead.

Poulet, on his knees hacking, coughing and gasping for breath, turned to the reverend. Reverend Tutwiler was kicking the executioner's side, testing for any last reflex.

 

"He's dead, Antoine," the reverend said.

Poulet looked up at the reverend and tried to speak, but couldn't. His breath hadn't returned.

Reverend Tutwiler slipped the Derringer back in his pocket and helped Poulet to his feet. "Who is, or should I say, who was that?" the reverend asked Poulet.

Still gasping, Poulet said in a hoarse voice, "I have no idea . . . who that is, but I believe . . . he was trying to . . . kill me."

"That seems to be a fair assessment, Antoine."

"I . . . I don't know how to . . . thank you," a panting Poulet said.

"You're lucky I came back. I wanted to borrow one of your books and when I heard a scuffle, I figured something was amiss. It obviously was. Thank the Lord I came back. Praise be His holy name.”

"Yes," Poulet said. "Praise the Lord, indeed."

*     *    *

Lying to Frank Foster carried with it consequences. Nidawi appreciated the fact that she'd need to move the body of Jake Duncan and dispose of it so that no one, especially the doctor, would ever find it. Burning it would be the only way.

She reached into a jar, stirred the special bitter powder in a cup of hot water and drank it. She began her chants. 

An hour later, she was hovering just above Blacksnake Creek, closely inspecting its twists and turns for a buckskin-fringed body. She found nothing and no evidence of one. She found no remnants of clothing. It was if the body had disappeared. She was convinced Itopa’hi had nothing to do with it since her water bowl showed her the man was already dead. She trembled at the idea of the doctor with her granddaughter and dismayed with her failures as a shaman.

 

A wind came in from the south, she closed her eyes and envisioned her granddaughter's cabin. The rooftops of Big Cloud soon came into her view. She flew farther north to the reservation.

 

Nidawi was still not welcomed on the reservation. To avoid detection, she descended among the brambles of the thick woods and hiked close to the trees to avoid detection. She made it to the log house of her granddaughter, Takchawee.

 

Since Nidawi's daughter had died of the pox a few years before, her granddaughter was the only kin she had left. Even though her granddaughter was only fourteen, she'd been raised in the ways of the tribe and had become self-sufficient despite the odds.

Nidawi entered the house and found Takchawee sewing pelts. "You must leave now," she urged her granddaughter.

Takchawee took her eyes off her sewing. "Why, grandmother?"

"The doctor. The doctor. Pack your clothes."

Nidawi helped her pack a few things and handed her a purse containing five silver dollars. The young woman rode her horse north and would soon be deep in Nebraska territory and safe in a matter of hours.

Chapter 51

Poulet dropped his gaze to the dead Trudeau and asked Sheriff Stiles, "Do you know who he is, sheriff?"

Stiles studied the dead man lying in a pond of blood. "He's about the only flimsy suspect I had as far as the trapper murders go. I spoke to you about him recently. Name's Trudeau. I've seen him around. I know he's been stayin' at Robidoux's for a while. I heard he's, or should I say, was, a gambler. He wasn't very popular at Dorland's Saloon."

The sheriff went through Trudeau's pockets and found a telegram. He unfolded the paper and read it aloud to Poulet and the reverend. “It says, 'Proceed with agreement. Wire when terminated. Finger ring.' The wire is from New Orleans. I wonder what that means," the sheriff mused. "It's not signed."

Poulet held his lion ring up to the candle light. The sheriff and reverend laid their eyes on the gold ring with the ruby eyes. Even in candle light, the lion's deep red eyes burned with a menacing resolve. "I suppose this is the finger ring. I wonder why he wanted it. It is, I believe, worth a pretty penny, but to kill me for it?"

"I'm afraid it looks like this man was hired to kill you, it's as simple as that, Mr. Poulet," the sheriff said. "Who in New Orleans would want to kill you?"

"I'm not entirely sure, sheriff, but I have an idea."

 

"You're lucky the reverend came back."

"Yes," Poulet replied, "I am forever grateful to him for saving my life." Poulet nodded to the reverend with a smile.

The sheriff studied the dead man's face. "Well, guess we need to move him to the morgue. We'll be waking Doc Foster up, but in this case, he's just gonna have to get out of bed and tend to his business."

Poulet stepped into his closet and produced a tattered blanket. They rolled and wrapped the expired executioner and dragged the body across the floor to the front door. The blanket left a bloody and slippery trail on Poulet's floor. They picked up and carried the bundle out of the house and laid him on the ground.

 

"Help me load him up, would ya, men?" Stiles asked. "I'll tell you, I'm gettin' damn tired of - oh, uh, s'cuse me reverend, darned tired of strappin' dead men over my saddle. I hate to be crude, but my mare and saddle still smell of DuChamp."

They lifted and then heaved Trudeau's remains unceremoniously up over the saddle. 

The men walked down a deserted Main Street, Stiles leading the horse in the moonless night to Doc Foster's office.

  

They found Foster awake and packing for his trip to Kansas City. As before, with the other two dead men, they carried the body into the morgue and the doctor put the deceased Trudeau on ice.

"I have to leave tomorrow, Lucien," Foster said. "Guess you'll have to tend to the body while I'm gone. I don't have time to embalm him. Just keep him on ice until you discover his identity or you bury him, whichever comes first. I'll be back in a few days."

The sheriff turned to Poulet and the reverend. "That's all we can do for now. Let's go home."

Foster returned to his office and resumed packing. The others let themselves out of the morgue's back door and into the alley. 

"I'll speak to you both in the morning," Stiles said. "Need to do paperwork on what happened tonight." The sheriff walked off to the backdoor of the jail and disappeared inside.

Poulet and Reverend Tutwiler walked back up Main Street. They arrived at Poulet's door. The reverend said goodnight for the second time. 

The shattered glass and blood remained on Poulet's floor. Acutely exhausted, he threw some rags on the blood to soak it up and decided to clean the rest in the morning. 

He stripped to his union suit and uncharacteristically let his clothes drop to the floor. This was Leonora's work, but why didn't she do it herself? He lit the candle on his dresser and slid into bed. He propped his head up with a pillow and stared at the ceiling, his tired eyes straining to track the dancing shadows. Maybe she'll find a new beau and forget about me. The weighty burden of his evening sank in and his hands began to tremble. For the first time in his life, Poulet felt utterly terrified. 

Chapter 52

Poulet woke to the loud hissing and caterwauling of a raucous cat fight outside his window. He sat bolt upright in bed.

 The candle on his dresser had gone out. The only light he found was from the stars in the early morning sky peeping through his curtains. He stood, balled up his fist and pounded the window frame. The brawling cats disengaged.

He shuffled into the kitchen, lit a lamp and walked into the parlor. Knowing he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, he set the lamp on his desk and began the chore of cleaning up. The blood and glass shards disappeared after a few hours and he took a seat in his favorite chair. He picked up the timeworn book Marie Laveau had given him. It had been sitting on his desk since the night of his encounter in the woods. He picked it up and blew the dust from the dragon on the front cover. Opening it delicately, he found the dog-eared page of vellum concerning a spell and requirements for ridding one of a damnable spirit.

At the top of the page was a meticulous rendering of the Egyptian hieroglyph of Horus, or wadjet. The eye of Horus was protection from the evil eye. Hieroglyphs bordered the page, but Poulet couldn't discern the symbols. The spell included a chant to be done in the presence of the spirit one was attempting to destroy. He read the listing of plant and animal parts to be ground into a powder that was to be thrown on the demon itself. He found he had all the ingredients. The spell gave clear instructions on protection. Barley seed was needed to form a protective barrier and was to be sprinkled around the person using the incantation.

  

He studied the chant. In Latin, with an English translation, it read:

Be gone with the winds south, north, west and east

Tremble before He who doth slay the beast

Be gone to Hades and eternal fire

Ye servant no longer of the Great Liar

Angel Rezial, Captain of the Lord

May this spirit be slain by your righteous sword

The printing, elaborate and vivid, lent the text an easy readability despite its wear from human hands. It seemed the monks had spent more time on the page. Instructions required Poulet to fast for three days before using the spell and confronting the demon with the chant. The page had no instructions for bringing the spirit forward, but Poulet was aware that there was probably an easy way to do that. 

His eyes rested on a crude drawing etched at the bottom of the page. The face of a lion stared back at him. Painted in flaking yellow, a shaggy mane framed its open mouth. The crimson eyes burned into his own. He glanced at his ring finger. The resemblance was uncanny.

He set the book down gently on his desk, removed his glasses and wiped them with a clean handkerchief. The view through his east parlor window revealed a lemon drop sun springing up from a chocolate-brown river. A stern-wheeler had just docked at the wharf and the faint tooting of its horn reminded Poulet that the world continued to turn, even without his help.