Sentinels (12 page)

“Oh-
kay
?”

“I've got chores to do at home, Noah. I need to check on Sarah and my boy. Am I under arrest?”

“No. Of course you're not. But they're paying me to be curious about things I find out of the ordinary. And I won't lie when I say I find it odd you lingering around here.”

“My homestead was attacked the other evening. Perhaps I came here to learn if what happened at Doctor Richardson's house has any bearing on my situation. I'm a victim too, Noah. I never laid a hand on any of those men. Not a one. I'll swear to that in front of a judge and before God.”

“All right then.” Noah stood, as did Toby. “Go do your chores. But please remember that my boss was literally destroyed last night. If you know anything at all—”

Toby held up his hand to hush the deputy.

“Noah, I don't know who killed Sheriff Cole. I wish to God I did.”

Chapter Sixteen

Noah bought supplies and painted the signs to ask for the public's help in solving what happened on Doctor Richardson's property.

“We'll hang 'em up after they're done drying, Noah. I don't want you worrying about doing that.” Sheriff Clement had returned to the office where Noah completed the work. “You done enough today. I appreciate you taking the initiative.”

Told you, Harrison,
Noah thought, and grinned at Harrison, who stood in the office's reception area waiting for Clement's orders. Harrison shrugged and smirked, as if to indicate,
Yup, you were right
.

“Go on home, be with that little boy of yours. Sleep. Come in late tomorrow. I promise I won't send Harrison back out to bug you unless it's an absolute emergency.”

Noah thanked the new sheriff, still not sure what to make of him.

At least he acted professionally today—unlike at the Elkton farm.

Noah left and craved a bed. He kept Wilbur at a fast pace, fearing an amble home would lull him asleep. Noah didn't want to die by falling off his horse. He hugged his mother, Susanna, upon returning to her home and learning she drew up a bath for him.

“How'd you know?”

“It's summer. It's the South. And you perspire when you shave—you're like your father that way. No wonder you wanted to move up North.” Susanna Chandler, a pixie of a woman whose Southern belle beauty and shoulder-length black hair hadn't faded into her fifties, stood on her tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek.

“Your baby's doing just fine,” she said quietly, not because she didn't want anyone hearing, but because pride overwhelmed her as she looked at her son. “And so's your wife. She's sleeping. So's Jake. They're both in the same room. Go check on them and wash yourself,
please
.” She exaggeratedly waved her hand in front of her nose. “Pee-yew!”

“Before I do, I gotta ask: How you like being a grandma?”

“Hasn't really sunk in. Just like you being a daddy hasn't sunk in yet, I would wager.”

Noah laughed to himself. “All this talk about fatherhood today.”

“It would seem an ideal day for the topic.” She poked him, indicating
silly boy
. “Who were you chatting with?”

“I can't get too into it, but Toby Jenkins.”

Noah explained what he could about Toby's upbringing and spared her the unease he felt over Toby's persistent denials of knowledge related to the recent murders.

Susanna kept a poker face. She knew of Toby and Sarah from her husband's years of dealing with Charlie Stanhope—but she didn't know them well. Noah couldn't read whether she approved of a black man acquiring as much land and prosperity as he had.

“That's nice” was all she said evenly, and accompanied it with what Noah took as a feigned smile, but he couldn't be certain. He knew she was thinking over Toby becoming a new daddy himself, and finally Noah saw sincerity when she slowly nodded her head and her grin continued upward.

“That really was sweet of him. I hope his little one's just as healthy and happy as Jake is.”

“Me too.” Noah kissed his mother and then checked on his sleeping wife and child. Jake, his eyes closed, slept swaddled in a basinet next to Natalie's bed. Noah towered over the little basket and listened to the high-pitched but calm breathing of an infant. He then watched his wife's peaceful sleep, something Noah needed. He crept out of the bedroom and found the cast-iron, claw-footed washbasin waiting for him in the bath-room. Refreshed, he slipped on a pair of undershorts and retired to the guest bedroom next to his wife's and collapsed on the soft bed without bothering to crawl under the sheets. He slept from that mid-afternoon until noon the next day.

Chapter Seventeen

Right around the time Noah and Toby concluded their conversation in the Tavern, Brendan was shimmying up a maple tree that stood on the outskirts of Toby's property. He heeded the “No Trespassing” signs along Toby's fencing, figuring he was well outside of the farm's property line.

He owns cornfields, not so much forests,
Brendan thought.

Franklin and Lyle earlier had followed Brendan in a two-horse rig whose bed carried a seven-foot-tall ladder, which the big guy placed against the designated maple while the two others waited on the road and minded the horses.

“I'm gonna get,” Lyle said and mounted Brendan's dapple gray horse. They wouldn't risk tying the stallion to a tree in the woods only to have it make noise and draw attention. He patted the horse on the side of its neck. “He'll be waiting for you at my place when you're done. Don't worry.”

“I ain't worried about you.” Brendan glanced into the woods, nudging his head for emphasis. “Can't
you
come back to pick me up?”

“Can't do it. My sister's coming by train from Memphis to visit.” Lyle didn't have a sister. He simply didn't feel like lugging a ladder. If Brendan asked where she was when he went to retrieve his horse, Lyle would say she canceled. Simple as that. In the meantime he had crisp bills from Diggs destined for the whore Becky Johnson's garter belt while she stripped for him.
She'll take it off and count it before the fucking,
Lyle thought.
I mean, that's only proper.

“All right, give her my best,” Brendan said.

“I'll be sure to tell her.” Lyle cracked a grin and rode back to town.

Brendan turned his attention to the potential catastrophe lumbering from the forest.

“Get back here around five o'clock. Don't make me wait. I'll have been up in that tree for five hours. My ass'll be hurting and my legs sore.” Brendan clapped Franklin on his meaty triceps as he climbed back into the rig. “And remember, if someone stops to ask what you're doing here when you come back to get me, just tell them you gotta take a piss in the woods.”

“But what if I don't have to go?”

“What?”

“I might not have to urinate.”

“Franklin, it doesn't
matter
if you don't have to go. That's your excuse for stopping to get the ladder
and
me.”

“Oh. Okay. I guess that makes sense.” Franklin replied as if it didn't and looked down the road for a few seconds before turning back to Brendan. “So how much water should I drink before coming back?”

“What?”

“I figure I won't forget the excuse to piss if I actually gotta take one. Therefore I should drink something, right? Hey, I could hang out at the Tavern and drink beers.”

“No!” Brendan blurted it loud enough so that his voice traveled. He shook his head as if to rid it of an unpleasant thought and then smacked the driver on his leg to get his attention.

“Jesus Christ, Franklin, you can't even put your pants on right when you're sober. I'll be damned if I'm gonna risk you forgetting to come get me when you're drunk. Look, if it makes you happy, drink all the damn water you want. Just remember to be here at five and don't say a goddamn thing to anyone.”

“Except I gotta go take a piss in the woods.”

“Right! That's what you tell them.”

“
No
, I mean I gotta take a piss
now
.”

“What?
Why
didn't you piss when you were in the woods five minutes—never mind, just
go
.”

Franklin watched the pretty birds while walking into the woods, leaving Brendan to fume for five minutes by the road, worrying about the myriad of things that could go wrong with Franklin even tangentially involved in any scheme. He regained his composure when Franklin finally left.

He used the ladder to climb the tree's base, using his upper body strength and young legs to pull and push himself up to the higher limbs. The gunshot wound to his shoulder ached but didn't hinder his progress. He dressed in brown, if only to crudely blend with the bark. He'd walked far enough into the woods so that road travelers could not spot the ladder against the tree. Brendan opened the satchel he'd slung around his shoulder to retrieve a length of rope. He whipped it around the tree and caught the cord when it returned. He sat like an L and fastened himself to the tree as a precaution because falling from this height could kill him.

The bright green leaves provided ample shade from the sun and nosy passersby who might spot him from the road. He appreciated most the expansive circle of leaves wreathing—not obstructing—his line of sight to Toby's farmhouse and barn. He relished the clear view of the barn's rear, and from his perspective, the left side of the farmhouse and the fields surrounding it. Cornstalk tassels sprouted above the thick green leaves and swayed with the warm breeze, creating a rippling hazel sea. The sight engendered in Brendan serenity he'd not felt for some time, and which would dissolve upon reminding himself that he and his friends would again be called upon to murder the man he stalked.

He uncapped the canteen he'd slung over his shoulder and satisfied himself with enough water without going overboard as he'd need to make it last. He kept his Colt holstered. The satchel that held his rope proved most important for it contained an eight-inch-long brass telescope he'd pilfered from a fallen colonel on the Fort Wagner battlefield. He caressed the sleek wooden barrel and looked through the eyepiece and Toby Jenkins's farmland came into grainy view—yes, the lens had some scratches, but it was better than nothing.

No movement on the farmstead. The long dirt path leading from the road split and opened into wide dusty circles both in front of the barn and house, as both areas saw constant traffic of wagon wheel, hoof and foot. Brendan stowed the scope in the satchel and pulled out a red apple.

Nice up here,
he thought.
A man could get sleepy.
He thought about it. The rope provided a safety net. But Diggs wasn't paying him to nap. So he whiled away an hour eating apples—he brought five—and shifting where he sat to ease the pain building at the base of his spine. He'd occasionally glance at the lifeless farm. It got to the point where he pulled his Colt and pretended to shoot the crows that flew by.

Playtime ceased when he heard the unmistakable clanks of a wagon rumbling down the trail from the road. Toby Jenkins came home. He pulled in front of the barn, hopped off his perch, and opened the wide doors. Toby returned and led inside the two horses pulling the wagon. He exited minutes later, walking the two horses to the expansive paddock where they could join the one that already roamed.

It'd be inhumane to leave those horses in the barn on a day like this,
Brendan thought. In line with Brendan's thinking, Toby lowered into the well the new bucket he bought a few days prior and made several trips back and forth to the pen to make sure the troughs overflowed with water. The horses drank as Toby poured.

What'd he buy? Why'd he go into town?
Brendan thought.
Shit. I should've paid better attention to what was in the wagon bed!

He retrieved the telescope after Toby closed the barn doors and walked into his house.

Hours went by. Brendan thought Toby might harvest some of the corn—the ears looked ripe—but figured the heat was too much for him. Even the horses dreaded it and walked to the far side of the pen where trees stood behind the fencing and took shelter in the shade.

What's he got going on in there? Maybe the bastard's napping
. Brendan suppressed his envy. He had no idea he'd get so tired sitting in a tree, and the more he stayed the more his back ached. The sun shifted its position as the day dragged.

At least I'll be able to head home soon, I think.
Brendan kicked himself for forgetting his pocket watch to better track time. He spaced out the day by judiciously drinking from his canteen and eating apples.

Toby appeared from the back of the house. The sight of him gave Brendan a rush.

Finally! Do something, boy.

The spyglass revealed Toby carrying a book. He made for the barn, reopened the door, and entered. Five minutes passed, then ten. Brendan strained to hear if Toby might be doing some kind of sawing or hammering in the barn, but heard only the gentle rustle of leaves around him.

Then Toby, still wearing his customary overalls without a shirt, emerged and stood before the opened barn, as if assessing what was inside. He read a few passages, periodically looking down at the text and then back into the barn. Then he pointed.

Someone's in there?
I hope not. He ain't reading to one of his horses—they're out running around. Maybe a farmhand? He keeps his help in a hot barn? Maybe there's a bed in the loft? He got company? But it'd be an inferno up that high this time of day.

Brendan brought down the telescope and stared beyond the farmstead in disbelief.

It's gotta be like one-hundred-and-twenty degrees in that barn, at least. I figured Toby for a savage, but that cinches it for me—leaving someone in there to cook all day.

Brendan brought the telescope back up to his eye and still Toby read from the book like a preacher.

That's one angry man,
Brendan thought.

Toby paced back and forth before the barn entrance the way a general might while barking at his troops. He pointed into the fields.

Brendan would've given anything to hear Toby. His voice didn't carry, not enough for Brendan to hear from this distance. But he wanted so badly for the target of Toby's wrath to walk from the barn so it could be seen beyond the rooftop.

Come on, show your face, dammit. Step into the sunlight.

Toby harangued before the fields to the point of looking silly.

If they're farmhands, why ain't they out there working? No white man would ever work for a black, so he's hired freedmen? Freedmen working for a freedman? Never thought I'd see the day.

Brendan ran the possibilities through his mind, but one thought persisted.

What the hell's in there?

Brendan kept watch through the scope, seeing that Toby had cooled down. He snapped shut the book and placed his hands on his hips.

Toby then imparted some final words to his cornfields.

Brendan placed the telescope on his lap and fidgeted in his satchel for the last apple. He rummaged over a blank diary and a pencil Diggs had given him in case he wanted to take notes.

If I can't remember it, then it wasn't important in the first place.
Brendan ignored the book as he grasped the last piece of fruit.

He brought it up, about to bite, and froze.

The trees' shadows on the manicured side of Toby's property dissolved, consumed by darkness that slithered from Brendan's point of view, crashing like a black tide over the barn and farmhouse, sweeping across the cornfields, ridding the world of daylight. Brendan looked up to see lightning streak from multiple black, billowing clouds expanding across the sky. Lightning bolts flew from all the dark masses, knotting themselves in the middle of the sky, and still Brendan saw sunlight poking through the tree leaves behind him.

“How can the sun still be out?” Brendan said as a translucent black square encased the farmland's perimeter. The thunderclap shook Brendan's tree, making him bounce in his seat.

Rain drenched Toby's fields and the wind picked up, blowing the droplets sideways with force enough to spray Brendan in the sunlight. The farmer stood with his arms outstretched like Christ, but slightly raised toward the heavens.

Then Toby Jenkins, an unmoving statue, notched his head toward Brendan's perch, boring holes through him.

How the hell did he see me? I ain't done nothing to reveal myself. Kept my movements hidden. Hell, I'm the color of a frickin' tree.

He again grabbed the spyglass.

Toby's hands now rested on his hips. His face lost all emotion, and his eyes rolled up and into his skull. Toby's lips moved slowly—like Franklin's when reading
Little Women
—as if conducting a conversation with himself.

Or chanting? Or praying?

Toby Jenkins stopped, his mouth agape, lashes fluttering above dead eyes.

Nervous shakes made Brendan drop the eyepiece. He helplessly watched the telescope somersault to the ground and land with a glass crack.

Now a speck, Toby disappeared into the barn.

What in God's name was he saying? Who's he talking to in that barn?

Brendan focused on untying the rope that protected him from falling, and in the process glanced toward the farm. He ceased fiddling with the cord.

Through the misty black shroud stood six farmhands, Brendan surmised, armed with tools, surrounding the vacant spot where Toby seemed to evangelize moments earlier. Brendan barely made out the scythes' curves and pitchforks' tines. Field hats and other headwear concealed their faces.

Freedmen? Did they just drop out of the sky too?
Brendan instinctively tore through the knotting, knowing nothing good lived on that farm.

Toby appeared and faced the barn, standing a few feet in front of his men. Brendan distinguished through the thunder strikes a low didgeridoo-like hum, whose sound built in strength and force. Brendan's stomach heaved after being enveloped by a hypnotic voice—Toby's emanating voice, for Brendan could see, even through the shadows and without the spyglass, Toby appearing to wildly holler
at
Brendan.

Toby jabbed his right pointer finger at Brendan, a move that simultaneously released Brendan's bladder and unleashed the dark spectres to pursue him. They burst past the barn and bounded across trimmed grassland leading to the forest.