Flying Crows (16 page)

“You still do your act?” Will said, the childish expression dominating his face at the moment.

“I do indeed, on special occasions, for the entertainment of one and all,” Josh said.

“I never saw it but I hear he's great,” Birdie said.

“If it wasn't for you I wouldn't be doing it, and there's no telling what might have happened to me,” Josh said to Will Mitchell.

The doctor dropped his head. “That's true, I guess,” he said finally. “All right, let's give it a whirl. It doesn't make sense, but who am I to say?”

Walking three across with Birdie in the middle, they made their way out of the waiting room. Birdie kept his head way down inside his clothes. Josh gave a big wave and a wink to the Travelers Aid woman as they passed.

Everything's going to be just fine
was his message to her.

They went through the big doors, still walking three abreast.

Dr. Mitchell stopped them outside after only a couple of steps. “All right, Birdie, what did you see?”

“Well, like I was telling Josh, I went with the cops and the crook—that Jelly Nash guy—out to the curb. They were going toward some cars parked just over there, facing away from the station, toward the south.”

He didn't move. Neither did Dr. Mitchell or Josh. “I was watching them and I kept up with them, stepping off just in front of them—”

“I thought you were behind them,” Josh said.

“Right, that's what I meant. I was behind them.” Birdie laughed. It was a quick, unreal laugh, it seemed to Josh. There was nothing funny about any of this.

They moved together onto the road. Birdie's hands started shaking. Dr. Mitchell grabbed his right hand in his. “Go ahead, Birdie. Go ahead. What did you see?”

“They opened the doors of a car—”

Just as he had with Josh a short time ago, Birdie threw his shaking hands up to his eyes. Will Mitchell grabbed them and pulled them back down. “What happened next, Birdie?” he said. “Tell me what happened next.”

“No, no. I can't.”

“Who got in the car first? Just tell me that.”

“It was Jelly Nash, the crook. They put him in through the door on the right, on the passenger side up front. He scooted across behind the steering wheel.”

Will Mitchell was fighting to hold Birdie's hands down. “What were you thinking at the time, Birdie? What was going through your mind?”

“I thought, What's that all about? Why would they put the handcuffed guy in the driver's seat?”

“That was an understandable thought. Good.”

“Yeah, but in a second or two I saw why. They did it so some of the guys with the guns—the cops—could get in back. It was a two-door sedan. They had to push up the front right-hand seat back so they could get in.”

Josh gave Birdie a soft pat on the back. “You're doing great,” he said. Birdie glanced around to see that nobody was paying any attention to them and went on. “A couple of them climbed in the back, and then I saw two other men with guns coming at the car from the front. The guns were being carried with two hands. One of them looked like a submachine gun, you know, a tommy gun. The men were dressed like the others, in hats and coats and ties, but they were pointing the guns at the car and the cops. Another man came at them from the right and went almost right by me, paying me no mind—”

Birdie stopped suddenly.

Josh grabbed Birdie around the shoulders and pulled him into a hug as Birdie had done to Josh when they first got off The Flying Crow. “Keep talking, Birdie,” Josh said. “I know it's hard for you, but I want to hear the whole story now. So does Dr. Mitchell.”

Birdie shrugged and continued. “One of the gunmen yelled, ‘Put 'em up! Up! Up!' There was a bang from the car, and then another. It was an explosion—louder than anything I had ever heard. Then came another. Just like that, almost at the same time.”

Josh lowered his arm and let go of his grip on Birdie's shoulders.

“The car's windshield glass shattered. Jelly Nash's head blew to bits right there in front of me. His head was in pieces of skin, blood was spewing out of him, his hair went flying away. Later, I read it was a wig. I didn't know it then.”

Will Mitchell released his hold on Birdie's hands.

“There were pops and flashes coming from the cops and the other guys with guns. I felt the wind from a bullet that went by me toward the station. Two of the cops fell right by the car, one on top of the other. Blood came gushing out of them. Everyplace I looked there was blood.”

Birdie looked back toward the station. He took a deep breath and then let it out. Then he grinned—first at Josh, on his right, and then at Will Mitchell, on his left.

“Suddenly, like a switch had been pulled, it was over. There was shouting coming from behind me and the station. A cop came out of the station shooting a pistol and yelling. I looked around and saw redcaps and taxi drivers and passengers lying flat on the sidewalk.

“Then the gunmen ran back south, away from the blood and the cars and the cops and Jelly Nash. I couldn't tell where they went.

“The next thing I knew there were people everywhere, looking at the bodies and the car, yelling and screaming, and then there was the sound of sirens . . . and I was still standing there in the roadway, like a statue, like my feet were stuck to the pavement with cement.”

Birdie fell silent. He looked down at his hands, which were still steady. And he turned to face Josh. “I did it, Josh, I did it!” Birdie said. “I told the whole story, and I'm fine.”

“That's right,” Josh said. “Congratulations.”

Will Mitchell put an arm around each man, Josh and Birdie, the two lunatics.

An impatient taxi driver was honking his horn for them to get out of the way. He clearly had a passenger who had come to Union Station to catch a train.

“If he only knew what a glorious achievement had just been accomplished in the middle of this road,” said Dr. Mitchell, as the three of them moved onto the sidewalk, “he would be cheering and applauding.”

He laughed. So did Josh and Birdie as they walked, three abreast, back toward the station.

“But maybe not,” Birdie said, stopping.

“What do you mean?” Will Mitchell asked.

“Closing my eyes,” Birdie said. Then he asked quickly, “Do you have any money?” They had taken only a couple of steps back inside the station.

Will smiled and said, sure, he had a few dollars on him.

Birdie, talking fast, said, “Josh here is starving. He told me he wanted some bacon and eggs over easy with toast, jam, and butter, plus a glass of grapefruit juice and coffee with heavy cream. How about treating Josh and me to some breakfast over there at the Harvey House?”

Will Mitchell shrugged an OK.

“We need to go somewhere like that where nobody can see us,” Birdie added, scrunching up again.

Why would nobody see us in that restaurant called the Harvey House? thought Josh. The kid clearly still had some problems.

Josh lowered his head, folded his hands behind his back, and
began pacing in a circle around the stage. The idea was that he
was thinking, pondering, considering.

He made two, three, and finally four complete circles before returning to
center stage and stopping.

“I have to say now, as I prepare to repeat to you the last details of the
massacre, that my spirit, my very being weakens at the prospect of my having to, once agan, relive those horrible moments. But I feel I have no choice,
no alternative to completing this tale of terror and horror.”

Josh sighed, took a deep breath, and then released it.

Speaking in soft voice, he finished the story.

“Anderson faced the line of soldiers. He said federal soldiers had scalped
some of his men and left their bodies to rot on the ground.

“ ‘I am too honorable a man to permit any man to be scalped, but I will
show you that I can kill men with as much skill and rapidity as anybody.' ”
he said.

“Again, the naked soldiers of the U.S. Army screamed for their lives, some even claiming they couldn't have had anything to do with scalping Anderson's people because they were off fighting in another part of the war. One poor doomed soul yelled that he had just come from being with Sherman in Georgia.

“Anderson responded with the final death sentence. ‘I treat you all as
one. You are federals and federals scalped my men and carry their scalps at
their saddlebows.'

“I could not believe my no-longer-tender ears. Here was a man who had
scalps of Union soldiers tied to his own saddle, acting as if it were only the
other side who committed such atrocities. What a liar! What a barbarian!
What an evil presence in this world!

“He then cocked his two revolvers. So did the other bushwhackers. I saw
several of the soldiers turn their heads, their bodies, and close their eyes,
waiting for the hot lead to pierce them.

“The bushwhackers fired. The terrific crashing sound shook the ground
and my soul. I raised my hands to my ears to keep it away from me, but, alas,
it was hopeless. The bushwhackers yelled like crazed maniacs; the soldiers
cried. And within a few seconds, it was over. All but a few of the soldiers
were dead or soon would be, bright red blood pouring from rough holes torn
in their white skin. I saw one and then another still staggering around but
soon they were downed by more bullets.

“Only one remained standing for long. His giant, naked body streaming
blood, he rushed toward the bushwhacker executioners, knocked down several with his hands, then crawled under the train and disappeared beneath
the station platform on the other side.

“Several bushwhackers went after him, then waited for the fire that was
destroying the depot to do their dirty work. In only a few moments, the big
man ran from the rear of the station, swinging a big piece of wood. He
charged his attackers, knocking down two of them. But the others kept firing. He was hit time after time until he fell.

“ ‘My Lord!' he yelled from the ground.

“Then he was motionless. A bushwhacker put a bullet into the man's
brain to make absolutely sure he never moved again.

“They did that to several of the soldiers on the other side of tracks too, silencing what few moans and other signs of vanishing life were still coming
from their mouths.

“I watched with unspeakable horror as two of Anderson's barbarians
showed him to be a full liar in front of everyone by whacking off the scalps
of two dead soldiers. I turned my head from the scene at the very last few
seconds, so thanks be to the Lord in heaven, I am unable to recount the
exact sight of the two bushwhackers' knives removing the tops of the heads
and I kept my eyes from drifting toward the scalpless heads afterward.

“It was then, and only then, that I ran away from this unspeakable sight
as fast and as far as I could. Where was I when I stopped? Where was I? I
have no recollection and I refuse to tax my mind to the point that I ever will.
If I had had my wish, I would have been in a place so far away that I would
be unable ever to recall where I had been and what I had seen.

“But, as you have just borne witness, that was not possible. I recall it now,
and I will recall it forevermore.”

Josh bowed deeply to the audience.

And then, in keeping with established and expected practice, there was
chaos. Led by Lawrence of Sedalia, many of the patients started crying or
screaming, some hid under chairs, some banged their heads against chairs or
walls or one another, some stood on chairs with their hands and voices
pleading upward for mercy to someone or something up there and away
from here.