Unbury Carol(78)

Silas hissed profanities. Sheriff Marge spoke of Abberstown. The crook sang a Trail song until the sheriff shut him up.

Moxie watched his gun closely, resting in the deputy’s hand.

“I heard James Moxie killed seven men in Kellytown while playing a hand of cards. Both his hands were occupied with the cards…never touched his gun…”

“…James Moxie used to live in the trees on the Trail…he hid bodies up there…”

“…heard maybe he kept them alive…kept them scared…never used a gun…people didn’t know if and when they’d get shot because he never touched his gun…”

“…children…women…families on the Trail…a ghost…a demon…”

Silas’s fingers stretched through the bars and touched Moxie’s arm.

“Turn back,” Hite whispered. “Let her rot like you did before. But this time let her rot in the earth. Let her rot, James. It’s all you know how to do. It’s all you’ve ever done—”

Sheriff Marge described yellowing wanted posters, paper that grew old for how long James Moxie rode free on the Trail.

“I tell you what,” the old killer said. “I met him once!”

“Did you?” Deputy Bill asked.

“In Baker, I met him once! He was tall…tall as the trees! And his hands were as big as my head! Hell’s heaven what I could do with hands like those…”

Deputy Bill turned toward the old man and the station exploded with smoke and sound and the old killer’s chest blew apart, splattering Sheriff Marge’s shirt with blood, skin, and bone.

Then, silence in the station.

Sheriff Marge and Deputy Bill stood very still. Their eyes as wide as those of the trout that swam in the O. The gun smoked, proving to both what had happened.

But not the how of it.

“Hog-shit, Bill,” Sheriff Marge suddenly said. “You shot the man.”

But her voice betrayed her doubts.

“I didn’t do it, Marge!”

“I saw you shoot him.”

But her voice betrayed her doubts.

“I didn’t touch the trigger, Marge! I didn’t touch it!”

The two locked eyes, then slowly turned to face Moxie alone in his cell.

“My name is James Moxie,” Moxie said. “And I need to be in Harrows. Now.”

Sheriff Marge stared long.

“Holy hell’s heaven,” she said. “It’s him. It’s pig-shitting him.”

She took the keys quick from her belt.

“Marge, you just gonna…let him…”

“Give him his gun, Bill.”

The gun was still hot. Marge unlocked the cell.

“Give him his gun, Bill.”

Moxie stepped slow out of the cell. The deputy held out the gun. Moxie took it.

“Now you just…just…” Sheriff Marge stammered, “…you just…get on…now…just…”

At the jail door, Moxie heard Silas Hite calling to him, mocking still.

“Let her rot, James…it’s already begun…let the pig-shit earth seep into her pores…into her nose…into her mouth that once asked you for help…that once cried out when you didn’t…”

Moxie felt the guilt.

The loss of time, too.

“My horse,” he said to the trembling officers, both still washed in the gore of the old man killer, “thanks you for the water.”

Then he left the jail and, by the wide northern bridge, all of Albert’s Port, too.





Dwight sat alone on a blanket on Harper’s Hill.

The coach and horses stood twenty paces from the idyllic scene: a man in a suit, the blue blanket from the driver’s box spread upon the tall grass, a glass of wine. Though a closer look would reveal there was no actual glass, and that the man spoke to someone who was not there.

He did not speak to Carol. Rather, he spoke to the wife he’d always wished he had.

A meek wife. A simple wife. A wife who needed him, a dependent soul who flattered Dwight with all she asked for and who exalted his status in Harrows with all she received.

“Martha, dear, a glass of wine. It’s good for you.”

Because Dwight would know what was good for her. His wife. A persuadable wife. A wife who cast no shadow.

“We’ve got a funeral tomorrow, Martha. Burying an old friend. But what I’d like to know is…what do you feel like doing after?”

Despite his performance, his voice trembled with having just met Opal on the Trail.

The wind lifted the opposite side of the blanket, and for a moment Dwight believed a woman named Martha had risen to take in the view.

“Here’s what I propose,” Dwight said, wiping imaginary wine from his lips. He’d gotten very good at rehearsing. Pretending. Playacting. “I’d like to take you to Griggsville for the afternoon. They’ve always got such good shows. What do you say, dear? Burial in the morning, theater at night?”

Many years ago, Dwight and Carol took in a magic show in Griggsville. John Bowie had been with them then, and the sexually exotic snot had gotten so drunk he passed out in the theater restroom. Dwight found him in there, lying on his back, and splashed cold toilet water on his face to revive him.