Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

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Nidawi shuffled to the limestone well outside her log home. She lifted the bucket from the deep bowels of the earth and spilled some of the precious water as she set the bucket on the lip of the well. She marveled at the pristine quality. The stone-cold water passed over her lips and fell on her tongue. She paused a second, giving thanks to the Woodland Spirits and dropped the bucket back down the well, pulled it up and then carried it into her house. 

She took jars of powders from her cupboard and placed them on the hearth. Her whispered chanting soon turned into a droning harmonic monotone. The snapping of her fire accompanied her song of prayer. As she rocked forward and back in her willow chair, she focused on opening the jaws of Hell. She just wasn't sure if she would be able to close them.

Chapter 16

Sheriff Stiles brushed more dirt aside from the shallow grave. The belt buckle on the corpse had a beaded white background with the prominent initials "SD" in black. Silence fell over the search party.

“I think maybe we've found the whereabouts of Stuart DuChamp," Stiles said. "Any of you got a blanket or canvas?"

"I got a canvas tent," one of the men said.

"Go get it."

Stiles was preoccupied with the logistics of getting the body back to town discretely. He wanted to avoid any more fodder being fed to the concerned population. As long as no one else sees the body, maybe I can pass it off as an accident. Nah. Shit, that ain't gonna work. "Let's get the poor son of a bitch out of the ground and covered up." What the hell am I gonna tell his wife? This ain't no goddamn bear attack. "One of you boys got a wagon you can bring out here?

Jake Duncan raised his hand. "I got a wagon, sheriff." 

"Go home and get it - and stay off Main Street. Try to do it without stirrin' up any suspicion – and make it quick."

Duncan spurred his horse and trotted off.

The men helped Stiles pull the body out of the shallow grave and wrap it in canvas. The overwhelming stench had Deputy Barada tying a bandana around his nose and mouth. They secured the body with rope and strapped the awkward bundle to the saddle of the sheriff's horse.

The late afternoon sun plummeted behind the bluff. A chill wind blew up, rustling the leaves around their feet. Stiles shuddered - the kind he got when he heard a lone wolf's restless howling. The brief blast of wind preceded an eerie calm. No crickets chirped. No birds sang. No leaf shivered on any tree. The air turned thick. The men turned to each other in concerned puzzlement. None of them spoke.

Stiles broke the silence. "Uh, let's get going, men. It'll be dark in a matter of minutes."

With the sheriff leading his corpse-draped horse down the hill, the other four followed. At the bottom of the hill, they found a thicket to conceal them from any curious eyes. They waited for Duncan's wagon in the lengthening shadows near the road. As the sun dipped below the horizon, they sat on their horses gazing to the east across the vast expanse of the river and watched the fat moon rise. A colossal ball of pale yellow, the harvest moon seemed to rise from the depths of the Missouri. The moonbeams played on the effervescent river current, causing the muddy water to sparkle under its light.

Stiles surveyed the quiet road. Where the hell is Duncan? The brief blast of wind and then the silence on the hill had him spooked. He sensed an edgy discomfort in the men. None in the party spoke.

Deputy Barada cocked his ear to the direction of town. "I hear a wagon, sheriff."

Jake Duncan's wagon bumped down the road, rattling as it hit potholes and rocks along the way. Barada walked out from the thicket into the road and flagged him down.

They lay the body gently into the back of the wagon and the shovel they'd found next to it.

Stiles turned to Duncan. "Anyone see you comin' out here?"

"Don't think so, Lucien. Most people are at home. It's Sunday night, after all."

"Let's hope they stay inside the rest of the night."

"Where we gonna take him, sheriff?" one of the men asked.

"Only one place we can take him - to Doc Foster's mortuary."

"Should we split up?" Barada asked. "Probably won't look too good if we all parade into town together."

"Good idea," Stiles said. "You all go ahead of us. Me and Jake will follow a few minutes behind you. Be as quiet as you can and don't make a fuss. We gotta keep this thing under our hats for tonight, anyway. Meet us behind Foster’s."

Barada and the others rode off. Stiles tied his horse to the back of the wagon and jumped up on the wood slat of a seat.

"Just take this slow, Jake, okay?"

Duncan turned and spit off to the side. "Whatever you say, sheriff." He snapped the leather reins, blew a short whistle and gave his horse a quick "git."

The moon had risen higher. The cozy moonlight cast a peaceful hue over the two men as their wagon clattered down the deserted rural thoroughfare. Shadows of river birch trees stretched across the road, their bare limbs like spidery fingers reaching out to the surrounding hills. The river, only a few yards to the side of the road, made its insistent flow to the Mississippi.

Chapter 17

The wagon that carried the freshly exhumed body bumped along the river road and they soon entered the city limits. Stiles turned to Jake Duncan. "Pull in the alley behind Doc Foster's. With the moon out, it's not gonna be dark enough back there, but it'll have to do. Just hope no one will see what we're doin'."

Duncan steered the horse and wagon into the alley behind Foster's office. The other men had been standing by their horses, engaged in hushed conversations as they waited. 

The moon's sapphire radiance prevented a discrete arrival and lent a sharp focus to the surroundings with a quicksilver clarity. Stiles balled up his fist and gave a threatening punch at the night sky. Goddamn moon. He prayed every eye in town felt the heaviness of sleep. 

Stiles hopped off the wagon and approached Foster's back door. He gave it a tenuous rap and the door squeaked a rusty open. Doc Foster peered through the crack. "What is it, Lucien?"

"Sorry to bother you, doc, but think you ought to take a look here."

"Do you not realize it's Sunday evening and you all should be --" 

"Goddamn it, Frank. Will ya just come the hell over here a minute?"

In his nightgown, Foster followed the sheriff into the alley and to the back of the wagon.

Stiles pulled the tarp back from the victim's mangled head. "We think it's Stuart DuChamp."

Foster's breath caught in mid-wind. "What the hell? Sweet Jesus, not another one."

"We ain't sure," Stiles said, rubbing the back of his neck, "but it looks like we got ourselves a killer out there in the hills somewhere."

"Killer? Pshaw! I can't believe a human could do this to his fellow man. It must be that killer bear, sheriff. This man has clearly been attacked. Where'd you find him?"

"Up on a hill above the Nemaha in a shallow grave. Don't seem likely to me that a bear would bury their victims and leave a shovel behind." 

"Hmm . . . I, uh, guess not." Foster gave a slap to the side of the wagon. "Bring him next door and we'll put him on ice. Not much we can do now."

Four of the search party lifted the corpse from the wagon and carried it to the backdoor of the mortuary. Foster unlocked the door and the men shuffled the body in and placed it in a deep tin bathtub.

Foster disappeared into a storage area and returned with a fifty-pound block of ice. He heaved it the torso and covered it with a cotton canvas. "That's all we can do for now, boys. Why don't you all go home?"

The men turned and made for the door. Foster grabbed Stiles' arm, leaned into him and whispered, "How did you come to the conclusion that this is DuChamp, Lucien?"

"Well, Doc, the beaded belt buckle around the man's waist has the initials "SD" on it. Everyone knows how proud he was of that buckle. Too big and gaudy for me, but I guess it suited him. It is no doubt Stuart DuChamp's buckle and all I can deduct is that, well, it's probably him."

Foster rubbed his chin. "And you're probably correct. I'll investigate tomorrow morning and see what we got here."

"Let me know soon, Frank. I got a concerned - well, more than concerned wife on my hands and I'm the one that's gonna have to--"

"I'll get back to you in the morning, Lucien. Goodnight."

The search party and Foster walked out. Stiles reminded the men to keep quiet, at least until he could sort things out.

Speculation filled his mind, pushing away his train of thought. What am I gonna tell Jessica? Shit. Guess I’ll tell her the truth. I’ll just say, ‘We found a body with an initialed belt buckle but we’re not sure of the identity.’ Hope I can put her off a few days.

Stiles got the unremarkable shovel from the back of Duncan's wagon. Duncan shook the reins and the wagon started down the alley. The other men headed for Dorland's for a nightcap. Stiles and Barada walked up the alley to the jail. They let themselves in the back door. 

Stiles set the shovel in the corner. He lit a lamp and carried it into the dark front office. He sniffed at the air. What’s that sickening scent? Lady’s perfume?

"Barada!" Stiles hollered. "You lock some whore up in here?"

A voice came from the dark." No, sheriff, he did not," it said.  

Stiles jumped. 

"Where is my husband?" the voice said.

"Oh, why Mrs. DuChamp, heh, heh," Stiles said as he lifted the lamp. "You startled us." 

"I've been waiting here since late this afternoon," she said as she folded her arms. "Did you find him?"

Stiles set the lamp on his desk and pulled up a chair facing Mrs. DuChamp. "Ma'am, we don't know if we found your husband, but we did, unfortunately, find a body."

She sat straight up in her chair. "What body? Who's body?"

"We're not sure yet, but, we found it in a shallow grave up in the hills above the Nemaha. I'm sorry to say that the, uh, body and face were mangled and unrecognizable, but he was wearing a belt buckle that had the initials 'SD' on it."

She stood up from her chair on wobbly legs. "Was it a . . . beaded . . . belt buckle?"

Stiles dropped his gaze to the floor and muttered, "Um, yes ma'am, it was."

Mrs. DuChamp swooned and fainted, knocking over her chair as she fell to the floor.

"Oh, Jesus!" Stiles jumped up from his chair and knelt down next to her. He turned to Barada. "Get them smellin' salts in my desk, Dale."

Barada rushed to the desk and found the jar of the salts and handed them to Stiles. Stiles unscrewed the lid and placed the jar under her nose. She immediately came-to. 

Confused and disoriented, she asked, "My husband . . . where . . . it can't be . . . are you certain it's my husband you've found, sheriff?"

"We're not one hundred percent sure, ma'am," Stiles said. "The body's at the morgue. Doc Foster will make his decision tomorrow." 

"Decision?" she said, puzzled by the sheriff's statement. "What are you talking about?"

"Uh, his decision, ma'am, as to the identity of the man we found this afternoon."

Stiles helped her up off the floor. "When will that be?" she asked.

"Tomorrow morning. I'll let you know just as soon as we find out."

Mrs. DuChamp's pleading eyes met the sheriff's. "Can I . . . see him?"

"I'm sorry," Stiles replied, "but that wouldn't be advisable, ma'am. The, uh, body is, as I said, not recognizable."

The concerned lawmen watched Jessica DuChamp's facial expression change from one of confusion to one of catatonic shock. Stiles recognized her painful effort to form words. She said, "Would you . . . see me, hu . . . home, sheriff?"

With a reassuring smile, Stiles said, "Of course, ma'am."

Stiles and Barada helped her rag-doll body step to the door. 

She looked at Barada. "I don't know what I'll do if it's my Stuart," she said. 

"We'll wait and see," Stiles said. "I certainly hope that is not the case."  It's DuChamp. Sure as shit rolls downhill. This dead man's gotta be DuChamp.

Stiles left Deputy Barada in charge of the jailhouse. With Mrs. DuChamp clinging to his arm and taking hesitant steps, he escorted her up the hill to her home. They stopped at her front door. "Is there anything else I can do, ma'am?" he asked.

"No, I'll just have a cup of tea and go to bed," she said as she opened the door. "Thank you, sheriff."

"Good night, then, ma'am."

Stiles stood on the porch of the DuChamp home and paused. He surveyed the surrounding hills and the river running its course below. Under the shroud of a sleepy moon, his quiet and familiar little world seemed to have been transformed into a detached foreign dreamscape of improbabilities. 

Big Cloud's quiet of a late Sunday night lulled the sheriff into a more peaceful mood. His weariness of the day took over. His muscles ached and his eyelids threatened to close. That bed sure is gonna feel good. He took a step down from the porch and stopped.  

Over the clear night air, he heard a high-pitched screech off to the south. What the hell? That's no owl and it sure as hell ain't no goddamn coyote. He heard the sound again, but this time it was lower in timbre and came from a closer distance. He hastened his walk down the hill on the dark and deserted Main Street. Somethin' stinks around here and it ain't just a dead body. I don't like it. Not one damned bit.

Chapter 18

Monday morning dawned with an unblemished sky. The leaves blew helter-skelter, wreaking havoc with the well-kept lawns and gardens of the privileged in Big Cloud.

Emily Meriwether put on the only black dress she owned for Ben Jordan's interment. She stood at the mirror and finding herself agreeable, adjusted her bonnet. She glanced at the clock. She left Mrs. Gallagher's and walked down Chestnut Street on her way to Poulet's. I can't believe how well Antoine and I get along. I hope he likes me - I think he does. I love his accent and he's so intelligent and sophisticated and his eyes.... ahhh.....

Her male acquaintances in Big Cloud seemed to be interested in only one thing and they all appeared to her as uneducated and crude. Antoine was different. His sparkling eyes lit up when they met hers. His impeccable manners were surpassed only by his stimulating conversation. She regarded him as a gem among the unsophisticated male citizens of the river town and found romance calling. 

She knocked on Poulet's door. He answered immediately, lifted her hand, kissed it and said, “So nice to see you again, Emily."

She glanced up and down the street. "I probably should not be visiting you here alone," she said as she continued checking for wandering eyes. "You know how neighbors can wag their tongues."

"Let them wag," he said with a grin. "Please, come in."

Emily followed Poulet into his parlor and took a seat in a tufted leather chair. "I do wish it a more pleasant occasion," she said as she pulled her gloves off. 

“As do I," he said. "We have an hour or so before we need to leave for the cemetery. Can I offer you coffee?”

“Ummm…that would be wonderful, Antoine."  

Poulet moved to the kitchen. He filled the grinder with coffee beans and turned the crank. The loud grinding gave way to silence as the beans turned to dust. He dumped the coffee into his chipped enamel coffeepot, filled it with water and set it on top of the stove.

When he turned back around, he found Emily studying his collection of crystal vials and the glass jars recently purchased at McKenna's Drugstore. With arms folded, she kept a respectful distance from the fragile containers.

Poulet leaned against the kitchen door as he waited for the pot to boil. His eyes followed Emily's every move. 

Emily turned to him. "What's in these jars, Antoine?" she asked. "Are they all herbs?"

"Herbs, plants, potions, powders and elixirs to mend the body and soothe the soul."

Emily pulled her eyes away from the jars. She gave him a skeptical frown. "I don't think you can soothe a soul with a powdered concoction, Antoine. As far as I'm concerned, only Jesus can soothe one's soul."

"Uh, that may be true, but I would venture a few may hold a different opinion concerning that since a few of my elixirs--"

"Well," Emily said, tossing out the words as a matter-of-fact, "their opinions are wrong. You may be able to mend the body as you say, but you should leave the soul soothing to Jesus.” 

"I hear the pot boiling," Poulet said as he turned back into the kitchen. He poured the coffee and set the cups on a Chinese lacquered tray. He set it on an end table. Emily had returned to her chair. They sat in silence for a moment as they waited on the cooling coffee.

 "Antoine," Emily asked, "I was wondering. How are you going to advertise your business?"

"I have an advertisement ready for Mr. Gaudin at the newspaper. Since I know only a few people here, I'll need to get my name out in the public."

"May I see the advertisement?"

"Oh, of course."

Poulet set his cup down, went to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out the handwritten advertisement. "Please, forgive my handwriting. It's up to Monsieur Gaudin to set the type and give it a professional appearance. Here it is."

Emily took the slip of paper and read Poulet's ad:

MEDICINES, ELIXIRS AND POTIONS FOR AILMENTS OF THE BODY AND SOUL

MONSIEUR ANTOINE POULET OF NEW ORLEANS

PRACTITIONER OF THE HEALING ARTS

415 MAIN STREET

BIG CLOUD, KANSAS

"And your impression?" he asked.

"I think it will do nicely, Antoine. I do, though, wonder about the ‘soul’ part of this.”

"It will read as it stands, my dear. I need to get this to the newspaper this morning. Care to accompany me? We can stop there before we leave for the cemetery."

Poulet took out his suit jacket from the closet. He slipped it on and then grabbed his hat on the coat rack. Emily took his arm and they walked down the hill to The Big Cloud Daily Journal office. After speaking with Mr. Gaudin and placing the ad, they strolled to the Olive Branch Cemetery.

*    *     *

The fat man adjusted his cravat. He'd put on a clean suit and polished his shoes. He wasn't fond of funerals, but was expected to attend Ben Jordan's interment and any other community social gathering, whether it be christenings or funerals.

He stared in the mirror, transfixed with his own image and heard an echo of the voice of his youth:  Yes, I am, mom. I'm a good boy. Good boys go to Heaven. Sister Theresa says bad boys go to Hell and the Devil will poke them with his pitchfork and toss them in the fiery pit. I'll polish my shoes and go to the funeral and say a lot of prayers. Prayers save souls. Yes, I'll pray and pray and pray and pray.

He adjusted his tie again and pondered the number of funerals he'd have to endure in order to achieve his goals. There'd better not be any more.

He adjusted his black bowler and left for the cemetery.

Chapter 19

Mourners flocked to the Olive Branch Cemetery. At the west end of town, the cemetery rested in a low valley surrounded by tree-topped hills. As the mourners arrived through the gate and approached the grave, the officiating minister, Reverend Tutwiler, shook their hands and exchanged small talk. At two minutes before eleven, Emily Meriwether arrived on the arm of Antoine Poulet.

Poulet didn't care much for funerals or burials. He'd determined years before that funerals were for the living, not the dead. If the deceased had led a good life, he might enjoy a peaceful slumber. If not, well, then he wasn't so sure. 

Ben Jordan's brother, James, had just arrived on the stage from Omaha. He sat at the foot of the grave on a black linen-draped chair, the only member of the immediate family at the seat of honor. 

Reverend Tutwiler snapped his pocket watch shut at precisely eleven o'clock. He cleared his throat and opened his tattered Bible. Speaking to the assembled, he intoned, "A reading of the gospel, 1 Corinthians 15:42-57. 'So will it be with the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown is perishable; it is raised imperishable; It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.'" 

The reverend finished the gospel reading with the words: "'Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.'"

The mourners joined the reverend in a recitation of the Twenty-Third Psalm and the Lord's Prayer.

Reverend Tutwiler closed his Bible. "Please join us for refreshments at Mt. Zion Christian Church immediately following the services," he added.

Poulet and Emily walked up the hill to the church.

Mrs. Tutwiler stood near the coffee urn and poured for the attendees, a diamond brooch glittering on her chest. Her husband approached her, took her arm and they politely excused themselves. He dragged her by the arm to the back of the church. "How many times must I tell you not to wear your jewelry at church functions? It reeks of arrogance and comforts of the flesh."

"Then stop buying it for me," she said. "It's your fault. You buy it for me and then expect me not to wear it?"

"I'm asking you to be more discrete. If you go to St. Joseph or Kansas City, then wear it by all means, just not here in town - and at a funeral, no less."

"Let go of me!" she said, jerking her arm away from him. "I have mourners to attend to." She stalked off to her station, the brooch still pinned to her chest.

When she rejoined the mourners, she greeted Poulet and Emily. "Ben Jordan was such a nice man, wasn't he, Miss Meriwether?"

"Yes, ma'am, he was that. He took his lunch most days at the cafe. He was always very generous with his tips and--"

"Isn't that just like one of God's favored?" Mrs. Tutwiler said. "I'm sure he's in Heaven now and floating on a cloud without a care." She turned to Poulet. "Don't you agree, Mr. Poulet?" 

Poulet pulled his eyes away from Emily. "Oh, uh, yes, yes, ma'am. On a cloud, most definitely on a cloud."

After more small talk, Poulet and Emily joined the mourners. They overheard the predominant chat of the gathering:

"I heard his heart was torn out," a lady whispered. 

"Well, I hear his head was a missing," another one added.

"Antoine, let's say our required greetings and excuse ourselves," Emily said. "I don't want to hear any more of this kind of talk."

"Nor do I, Emily."

As they prepared to leave, a man approached them. "Mr. Poulet," he said, "I am Jake Duncan." He gave a quick nod to Emily.

"I'm pleased to meet you, sir," Poulet said, as he shook Duncan's hand. "Did you know the deceased well?"

"Yes. Very well. We fished together occasionally and bent an elbow or two at Dorland's Saloon."

"It is such a shame he is no longer with us," Poulet said, "even though I never met the man. I was there when the sheriff brought him into town. A disheartening sight if ever I saw one."

"You should have seen Stuart DuChamp," Duncan added. He lowered his voice, drew closer and said, "We found him in a shallow grave yesterday afternoon. He was in the same condition as Ben. Not many people knew he'd gone missin’. The sheriff and a few of us found him - well, what we assume is him, yesterday up by the Nemaha in a shallow grave."

 "Oh, no." Emily said. “Another bear attack?"

"A bear? Don't think so, ma'am." Duncan swallowed the last of his coffee. "It was uh, murder and murder of an, um...different nature."

Poulet cocked his head. "Are you quite certain of that, Mr. Duncan?"

"How else could you explain it? There's no animal roamin' these hills that can do that much damage, or, uh . . . a man, for that matter, despite what Doc Foster says."

"So what are you saying, Mr. Duncan?" Poulet said. "You believe these are cases of what kind of murder?"

Duncan moved closer. "There's things that have gone on around these parts that are, uh, unexplainable. Jeb McKenna can tell you all about it. Ask him about his scar."

"I already have, but he remained tight-lipped and I have no intention of invading his privacy."

"I understand. But I tell you, you wouldn't believe it."

"That may be true, but why are you telling me all this, Mr. Duncan?"

"I heard you were a doctor of a different sort. I heard you were a bokor."

Emily turned to Poulet. "What is he talking about, Antoine?"

"It's just another name for an herbalist doctor." Poulet looked over his glasses at Duncan. "Isn't that correct, Mr. Duncan?"

"Oh, um, yes. Yes, uh, yes it is."

"If you'll excuse us," Poulet said. "Emily and I have plans for the rest of the day. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"And you also, sir. Good day." Duncan gave a nod to Emily. "And to you, ma'am."

Duncan went for another cup of coffee and Poulet and Emily strolled back down the street.