The Devil's Cold Dish (27 page)

Rees kept silent although he thought both mother and son too extreme in their views.

“Anyway,” Caldwell said, “I daresay you'll be sleeping upstairs in the bed, now that you've bathed.”

Rees heard the sourness in Caldwell's voice and hesitated only an instant before replying, “No, I'll join you in the washhouse.” How could he fail to demonstrate his loyalty to a man who had not only lost his job but was now risking his freedom to protect Rees's? Caldwell grinned. Rees dressed in the clean clothing he'd put in his pack and in the last golden rays of the setting sun, they climbed the slope to the house for supper.

Mrs. Caldwell offered them the last of the ham and greens from the garden; Rees saw that she was not much into cooking. She handed out threadbare quilts and Rees and Caldwell left the house once again. While Caldwell went outside to relieve himself, Rees spread his blanket on the dirt floor of the washhouse and lay down. It was dark inside the shack but pink still streaked the sky. Rees closed his eyes. Worn out by the emotional and physical toll of this very long day, he fell instantly asleep.

He was jerked out of slumber by a gunshot and sat bolt upright. A quick glance to his left told him Caldwell was gone. Although the sky outside was dark the moon hadn't risen yet. Orange light cast strange patterns from the front of Mrs. Caldwell's house to the side and a rumble of diffuse shouting echoed over the river. Rees tiptoed barefoot out of the washhouse and climbed the slope. From the safety of the shadows, he peered around the house. Zedediah Farley and a group of men, some of them holding torches, stood on the beaten dirt at the front. Mrs. Caldwell defied them from the front step. She had wrapped a shawl around her chemise and petticoats and her gray hair straggled over one shoulder in an untidy braid.

“I told you,” she said in a loud voice, “no one is here but my son.”

“We know he's here,” Farley shouted back. “You ain't doing yourself any favors by protecting him. He's a murderer.”

And how, Rees wondered, did Farley know he was here?

“He's not here,” Caldwell said, coming through the house to stand by his mother.

“We know he is.” Farley spat to one side. “You helped him escape. And what's wrong with you? You're a former constable.”

Any thoughts Rees had of rushing forward to the defense of the Caldwells died. Doing so would not only make liars out of them but also put them in more danger than they were in now. And how had Farley found out? Only David knew the plan and Rees would swear on the Bible that his son would never betray him. A momentary suspicion that David had done exactly that overwhelmed Rees with paralyzing grief. But then he shook his head. No, David would never do that, of course he wouldn't. Rees returned his attention to the drama playing out before him and realized he'd missed a few seconds. In that time Farley's men had grasped Caldwell in their hands and were shaking him like a terrier with a rat.

“I came to visit my mother,” Caldwell protested.

“Search the house,” Farley told two of his fellows.

In the ensuing struggle, Mrs. Caldwell was knocked from the step to the ground and Caldwell was beaten into quiescence. Then he was tied up and dragged away with his nose streaming blood.

Rees hesitated, quivering with the desire to run out and protect those who'd protected him. Then, sick with guilt, he withdrew, moving as quickly and silently as he could back to the washhouse. He grabbed his pack and went around to the back of the small shack. There he lowered himself into the bone-chilling water and began walking north through the water, against the current, staying as close to the granite boulders of the shore as he could. The water was chest high and the bottom rocky and hard to navigate with bare feet. He was no more than twenty feet away when the mob found the washhouse. Rees heard a great shout go up, but of course he was not there. Men carrying torches came out on the rocks and held the flames high, trying to see into the black water beyond. Rees kept moving, as silently as he could, as the men, disappointed to lose their quarry, set fire to the washhouse. The flames leaped up, casting a ruddy glow upon the river.

Rees realized that he might soon be visible. He had to make a choice: crouch down and hope no one saw him or strike out for the opposite shore. The river was shallow here so if he was going to swim across this was his best opportunity. He lay down in the water and with as little splashing as possible, began moving away from the bank. Fortunately for him, the shouts of the men and the loud crying of Mrs. Caldwell meant that any sound Rees did make could not be heard. He paused in the middle of the river and looked back over his shoulder. Someday he would have to make the destruction of the washhouse right with Mrs. Caldwell.

Then he turned and swam into blackness, his destination—the bank on the other side—invisible in the dark.

 

Chapter Twenty-five

Rees could swim but he was not proficient at it and he soon began to tire. The movements of his arms and legs became jerky, and water foamed up around him. Because he couldn't see the opposite shore, he had no way of orienting himself, or even any sense of the distance he still had left to travel. He inhaled a gulp of water and went under. Oh Lord, he was going to drown! But his toes touched bottom and although the inky water still reached his chin he knew he was approaching land. He fought his way through the last of the water with a mixture of swimming and walking and finally was able to put his hand on one of the rocks lining the shore. He hung there for a moment, gasping and coughing. His legs were trembling. Then he began pulling himself along the rocks, looking for a place to climb up.

He flopped upon the rock, half out and half submerged for a long slow minute, too weary to drag himself from the water. Finally, with one great effort, he hauled his legs out of the river and onto the stone slab. He lay on his belly, panting and waiting for his heartbeat to slow. He had traveled much farther than he'd expected and he did not think he could be seen. The fire had largely consumed the washhouse and was dying down. A rush of guilt swept over Rees that an act of kindness should have such a terrible result. But he couldn't dwell upon that now. The men were beginning to search the riverbank, both north and south of the Caldwell home, their torches bouncing through the air like fireflies, and he needed to get moving. Rees scrambled to his feet and, crouching, began to hurry toward the forest. He immediately slowed to a careful walk. The sharp stones dug into his feet, bruising the tender skin. He had not gone barefoot for many years, not since childhood, and his skin was soft. He paused to put on his shoes and that's when he realized he had left them in the washhouse. Well, they were gone now. He stifled an oath and then looked over his shoulder, afraid someone might have heard him. But the shouting of the searchers covered any small sound he might make. They had not heard him and Rees made as much haste as he could into the darkness.

He felt the exact moment when the sharp rocks underfoot changed to smaller pebbles, then to softer dirt mixed with pine needles and twigs. He couldn't see where he was going so he had to move cautiously, foot by foot, until the orange glow of the fire faded to barely visible behind him. One unwary step and he stubbed his big toe hard on a rock protruding from the ground. He scraped his blisters open on the woody shrubs he blundered through. After he crashed into a tree trunk he began walking with his hands outstretched in front of him. He could feel a bloody scrape on his cheek where he'd connected with the bark. Despite the danger of pursuit, he had to stop. He couldn't see where he was going and had no idea even where he was. As he thought that, he crashed into something knee high and lost his balance, toppling to the ground. Stretched out full length upon soft mossy ground, he decided he might as well remain here for the night.

He pulled himself to a sitting position and took stock. Although shoeless, he still had his pack. Like his clothing, the canvas was damp from his swim in the river. When he opened it he found everything inside was wet. He would have to hang out the clothing to dry as soon as he found a place of safety. The sodden bread fell apart in his hands but the apples were unharmed and the cheese, although wet, still seemed edible. He took a few bites but was far too tired to eat. Although he was soaked and shivering, his eyes kept closing and it took every ounce of determination to open them again. Well, he would need something for breakfast tomorrow morning. And, for the moment, he was free and as safe as he could be. With a sigh, he lay down and abandoned himself to sleep.

He dropped instantly into a dream. He was back in the river, fighting to stay afloat. But this time Lydia and the children were with him. Joseph floated by—not the older Joseph who could walk—no, this was the baby as Rees had first seen him, with the tail of a very dirty diaper snaking out behind him in the dark water. “Da-da,” he called to Rees before disappearing downstream. Jerusha and Simon went by, clinging to a piece of driftwood. And then there was Lydia, flailing helplessly in the black water. “Will,” she cried, “help me. Help me.” Rees tried to reach her but the harder his arms stroked the water, the farther from her he went.

“Lydia,” he shouted as she went under for the last time. “Lydia!”

He sat up with a jerk, Lydia's name still on his lips. The gray predawn light sifted like mist through the trees surrounding him and with a start he remembered what had happened. His clothing was still damp and he was shivering with both cold and fear. It's just a dream, he told himself. But it was also a warning: he could lose everything he held most dear.

He looked around. Last night he had come to rest in an old graveyard and slept the night among the tombstones. In fact, he had tripped over a small marker: a child's, he thought. He knew exactly where he was; in the abandoned Beloin burying plot. The last of the family had moved away forty or fifty years ago. The cemetery was reputed to be haunted and Rees, a skeptic even as a child, had once stayed overnight on a dare from his friends. He thought now that Piggy had probably hoped even then that something would carry Rees away.

He struggled upright with the aid of a stone, although he felt somewhat guilty of disrespect, and began stamping his cold, numb feet and slapping his arms around his chest until the blood began to flow. He would not allow anything to happen to his family. As the terror left by the dream subsided, his anger began to build. Someone would be called to account for this, he would make sure of it. He began walking once again, heading north toward town and the eastern bridge. He needed to cross the river to Dugard. Besides speaking to George Potter about the farm, Rees needed to find another place to hide so he could carry on his investigation. Now he had at least a four-hour journey, maybe five—barefoot.

*   *   *

The sky went pink with sunrise and the faint mist wreathing through the trees burned away. Rees gloried in the warmth, spreading his arms wide so as to catch every golden drop of sunshine he could. His damp clothing began to dry. But as the sensation returned to his feet, he began to feel every scrape and cut left by yesterday's mad journey through the woods. His soles were rubbed raw and he sought out the paths carpeted with pine needles. The layers of brown leaves cushioned his tender feet.

He reached town about eight-thirty, as close as he could guess by the sun. By then he was limping. Although the bridge over the river was not yet crowded, some early farmers and day laborers were crossing. Rees did not stick out. Some of the laborers were barefoot as well, although, if one looked closely, it was easy to see Rees's feet were pale and soft, not brown and as hard as shoe leather. He was also pickier about where he stepped, dodging the piles of horse apples as well as the stones. Once across and into town, he avoided the main streets, instead sneaking his way through the narrow alleys separating the buildings. He was not planning to travel far, only to George Potter's. He crept through the tiny alley separating the blacksmith's from the gun shop, sprinted across the street, and climbed over the fence into the small backyard. The horses in the stables stamped restively and one whinnied. Rees froze but no one made an appearance. He hurried across the rocky courtyard as quickly as his painful, bleeding feet would allow. But once behind the house he couldn't decide whether to throw pebbles at the second-floor window of Potter's office or knock on the door.

Deciding to try throwing stones first, he grabbed a handful and hurled them at the glass. No one appeared. As Rees started climbing the stairs, Potter flung the door open and, grasping Rees's arm, jerked him inside. “What are you doing here?” the lawyer asked. “Get upstairs, quickly, before anyone sees you.”

“Who is it?” Mrs. Potter called from the kitchen.

“No one,” Potter shouted back as he glared at Rees. “One of those annoying crows.” Rees climbed the stairs very slowly and quietly. The office door was open and he entered, collapsing into the nearest chair with a gasp of relief. Potter had not followed and when he came up the stairs a few minutes later, heralded by a loud clatter of crockery, Rees knew why. “I told my wife I would take breakfast in my office,” he said, closing the office door behind him with a foot. “I guessed you wouldn't have eaten anything either.” He inspected Rees with a gaze that went from disapproving to concerned. “I expect you were sleeping rough. But what happened to your feet?”

“I forgot my shoes at—I forgot my shoes.” Rees didn't want to chance involving the Caldwells any more than they were already.

“Farley locked Caldwell in Wheeler's Livery,” Potter said, pushing over a plate of fried bacon and several hunks of bread slathered with butter.

Rees fell to. “Caldwell had nothing to do with anything,” Rees said, his mouth full.

“You know,” the lawyer said, “Magistrate Hanson has a shoot-on-sight charge on you.” He had brought up a teapot and although Rees didn't care for that beverage he was looking forward to it. But when Potter poured the liquid into the cup, it smelled enticingly like coffee. Rees's hand trembled as he reached for the cup.