Sentinels (13 page)

Is it one thing or a mass of men?
Or both?
Brendan couldn't tell, for at one moment they appeared as individual men with little arms and legs flailing through the torrential rain, and then the six seemed to work as a cohesive unit, one perfectly trailing the other to form a weaponized centipede skittering across the lawn. The telescope would've answered what the hell charged his way.

He scrambled to secure the satchel and canteen and went to descend the tree, forgetting he was still tied to it.

“Shit!” His scream spooked birds from the branches, and he fumbled with thread. Loosening it proved easy, but it killed precious seconds. He knew the six lunatics could see him.

The rope fell and Brendan tried retracing his route down the tree. Branches slipped through his sweaty hands and he plummeted. He hit the ground feet first with enough force to snap his right leg sideways. He howled while crumpling into a heap.

Brendan ignored the pain and literally crawled—fingers raking through dirt to drag himself forward—to save his skin. Adrenaline fueled his slithering over tree roots and rocks. He stopped when the tips of two sunlit black boots appeared before him.

Too late.

Quick death was not in the offing, not with the tools they carried. Brendan drew his gun while glancing to see what he hoped to shoot before it could cut him.

“Hi, Brendan, what are you doing down there?” Franklin hovered over him and tilted his head from side to side, trying to understand why his friend was crawling like a baby. “It's past five o'clock. I was getting worried about you.”

“Franklin!” Brendan rejoiced at the miracle and holstered his gun. “My leg's broke! Get me out of here!”

“Now you just hold your horses. I gotta go take a piss and—”

“No! You don't! Men are coming this way to kill me and
you
! Pick me up! Go!”

Franklin, sensing the urgency, plucked his friend off the ground. Brendan screamed as his right leg dangled in ways God never intended. Franklin scampered out of the woods, carrying Brendan like a bride.

Franklin heaved him into the wagon bed, ignoring Brendan's pained cries, and then bounded back toward the forest.

“Franklin! Where the hell you going?!”

“What about the ladder?”

“For Chrissakes leave it!” Brendan screamed, almost pleadingly. “Just
move!
”

Franklin gave a “well, okay” shrug and climbed into the driver's seat. He somehow had the presence of mind to park the rig in Henderson's direction. He released the brake and slapped the reins.

“Hya! Hya!”

The horses broke into stride and built momentum. Brendan pushed himself up to peek over the bouncing rear door.

The shadow men stood sentinel side by side across the road.

Sunlight penetrated the dissipating black mass and hit them from behind, making six silhouettes appear as a chain of black paper dolls.

One hurled a tool at the wagon. Brendan ducked.

A hand sickle punctured the bed's wooden door. The tip jutted through and slit the nub of Brendan's nose. His eyes crossed to focus on the stinging wound. He knew it couldn't be a coincidence. They held many weapons and could've thrown all of them at the wagon. Surely one would've pinned him. Brendan was certain he'd seen that same blade split Toby Jenkins's water bucket on the night of the failed assassination.

Go ahead, keep me
, the weapon practically spoke.
There are more where I came from.

“Don't look back, Franklin! Whatever you do, don't look back!”

Franklin heeded Brendan and pushed the horses to their limits. Soon the black shapes disappeared into a sunlit meridian amidst swirls of dirt and dust.

Chapter Eighteen

Noah's four o'clock-to-midnight shift wouldn't begin for a couple of hours so he opted to make constructive use of his time.

His parents insisted he and Natalie sleep uninterrupted for a full night, allowing the grandparents to attend to Jake when he awoke wailing during the dark hours. Natalie protested, wanting Jake to stay in the basinet, but they demanded she reenergize for the days—“and decades,” her mother-in-law joked—ahead.

The current quandary was Natalie's inability to produce breast milk.

“They're plenty ripe—almost ready,” said her father-in-law, Alexander Chandler. While this observation unnerved Natalie to no end, Alexander correctly concluded the baby would need bottle-feeding until she could bear milk.

“No hireling breast will nurse my grandchild.” Susanna Chandler ended the discussion of whether to hire a wet nurse.

Secretly, Natalie embraced deep sleep and felt like a selfish mother for craving it. Jake slept in a wooden cradle at the base of the elder Chandlers' bed, and but for one outburst that was quelled by a bottled mix of water, cow milk and sugar, the child managed a quiet night on the plantation.

Noah, clean and refreshed, sat with Natalie in bed as she tried nursing Jake. Noah managed earlier to wrestle his son away from granny's surprisingly strong arms and held him for long stretches of time. When Natalie and Jake napped at two o'clock, he rode Wilbur to the far side of the plantation and carried a burlap bag whose interior clanked the entire way. He tied Wilbur to a small tree and walked the remaining three-hundred feet to his destination.

He reached into the sack and placed the five empty metal cans on the wooden fence posts outlining the Chandler property. A solitary, centuries-old oak tree stood behind the centermost can and had taken many a bullet from Noah and his deceased brother when they were learning how to shoot. Behind it stood flat grassland leading to miles of bogs, providing an uninhabitable backdrop for humans. God willing, nobody would mistakenly be on the receiving end of a bullet—hopefully just the cans.

He backed up sixty feet and figured it sensible to aim first for the center can, and then pivot to shoot the two on either of its sides, working his way out. He brought with him a lever-action Winchester rifle that wasn't due to go on sale until the next year. (His father knew people.) It bolstered his confidence when he picked off the five cans one after the other in six seconds. He shot them near the base so they whirled in a circle before landing.

The bitch of it was loping back and forth to reset cans, which he did, in preparation for the quick-draw.

They're just cans. They held coffee and ain't gonna shoot back. Don't be nervous.

He couldn't help it. His right hand lingered to the side of his Colt, his sweaty fingers brushing the handle and trigger.

One fluid motion: Cock the hammer with the thumb and grip, draw, point, shoot,
he thought.
Do it. Don't think.

Noah cocked, gripped and shot
while
drawing and nearly blew off his foot. A chunk of dirt exploded from the ground next to him. The gunshot echo amplified his embarrassment, and he slowly circled around to see if, somehow, someone had seen his failure. Other than Wilbur, who milled around the tree, nobody had.

Take out the bullets, genius,
he thought.
Practice.

Noah did and became comfortable enough dry firing the piece to reload it.

He opted not to rush his first time back with live ammo. He drew in what looked like slow motion and fired: Nothing on the horizon moved.

Missed. That's okay—you can still walk. You're making progress.

Noah had no clue if he came close to nicking the can. He drew and fired five more times. The unmoving center can mocked him.

Maybe I hit the tree. Maybe?

“Who am I shitting?” Noah mumbled. “In a real fight I'd be maggot meat by now.”

Noah took a drink of water from a canteen he'd brought with him. He looked behind him to see Wilbur now resting on the grass.

Can't take your rifle everywhere. Keep at it,
he thought.

Confident he progressed enough so he wouldn't shoot himself, Noah squared and focused on the shiny middle can.

He cocked, gripped, drew, pointed, aimed and fired, and picked off a squirrel he didn't even know had shielded itself (or so it thought) within the high oak branches behind the fence. The dead critter hit the ground with a final thump and a squeak.

Aim lower.

Then he looked on the bright side:
At least I hit something.

Noah kept at it: Gunshot and silence, gunshot and silence. Over and over.

I've got to go to work soon.

Gunshot and silence. Gunshot and silence.

Never a clink of a can.

Chapter Nineteen

“Well, I guess you're going to be the next one lying on my table, big fellow.” Doctor Richardson smiled at Franklin, and then looked down at Brendan languishing on the examination table. It was late in the day when Franklin and Lyle came to check on Brendan, who slept the night in Richardson's office after having his leg set and remained unconscious most of the morning.

“But I'm not in pain, Doc,” Franklin said. “I do get this itchy rash that pops up—”

“No, son, I was merely commenting that your two friends have already—”

“Don't bother, Doc.” Lyle stopped the nonsense with a raised voice. “It's a lost cause.”

“I see.” Richardson's fading smile conveyed pity for the thickheaded man. “As for Brendan here, how are you feeling?”

“More morphine.” Brendan tilted his head up to look at his bum limb. The doc had cut off his right pant leg to tend to the bone.

“That's not an answer to my question.”

“More morphine means I'm feeling pain, Doc. More morphine. Please.”

“He gonna be able to walk again, Doc?” Lyle eyed the wooden splint secured to Brendan's leg with leather straps.

“Your friend should count himself lucky that the bone didn't cut through the skin. That would mean possible infection, meaning possibly becoming gangrenous, meaning I might have to go into this drawer.” Richardson slid open a drawer near the base of a medicine cabinet and pulled out a bone saw. “But I don't think that will be necessary here. I was able to pull and push the tibia in place—or what I
believe
to be in place—rather cleanly.”

“I don't remember that part,” Brendan said to the ceiling.

“That's because of the chloroform, and be thankful for it.”

“I am, and I'll be thankful for some more morphine. Shoot me up.”

Richardson, exasperated, went to a medicine cabinet and prepared an injection of morphine while apprising the others of Brendan's condition. “I think I can cast your leg—which I believe I'll rather enjoy. I've not had a chance to use plaster of Paris yet on a human. Brendan qualifies.”

Richardson looked at the full syringe and demurred. “I'm not certain you need this, Brendan. You've had quite enough. I simply think you like the way this makes you feel. You're not the first or last man to get addicted to morphine, and I'm not going to help facilitate that process. Much as I know you'll object, I'll hold off on this unless and until I'm convinced you're in pain.”

Richardson stuck the needle into a small piece of cork and laid it on a mobile medical tray well out Brendan's reach on the far side of the room.

“I just need to buy some linen from the mercantile to cut into strips before the place closes,” Richardson said. “But I will not do that until one of the sheriff's men arrives to keep an eye on Brendan while I'm out.”

“Wait a sec, Doc.” Lyle's eyes zigzagged around the room, revealing to Richardson that was the last thing Lyle wanted. “Brendan sure as hell ain't under arrest like that guy that got hung, so what gives?”

“You want the unvarnished truth? I don't trust you and your friend there to mind my rapidly depleting reserves of morphine any more than I trust Brendan.”

“Like I said, Doc, I ain't in any pain,” Franklin said.

Richardson looked at him in astonishment while speaking to Lyle.

“Surely you would agree that a man in my position, having addressed injuries you and Brendan sustained during what any reasonably intelligent person would presume to be the commission of multiple crimes, would be wise
not
to leave you in the unguarded presence of medicines whose names you likely cannot even pronounce, much less understand what they would do to you if improperly ingested.”

Lyle rolled his eyes—
whatever
.

“And to answer your question,” Richardson continued. “Brendan might have a limp by the time I cut him out of his cast, but that's much preferable to a stump. Yes, he will walk again, but not for a little while. He'll be on crutches, which I imagine will limit his extracurricular activities.” Richardson retrieved a pair of crutches from a walk-in supply closet and tilted them again the wall next to Brendan, and said, “You can use these when I'm done with you, but only temporarily. You'll have to buy—rather, I suspect
Mister Diggs
will have to buy you a pair of your own once you get used to them.”

Lyle crafted a retort the moment he realized the doctor considered him less than a reprobate, but a knock on the examination room door interrupted his thought.

“Come.”

Deputy Noah Chandler entered and assessed the room, immediately disliking all but one of its inhabitants.

“Hi, Doc. Sheriff Clement said you needed someone to watch over who I suppose is lying on that table there.”

Richardson explained why he needed to leave.

Lyle ambled past the doctor and deputy and stood over Brendan, whispering, “I don't know what the hell happened out there but don't say a thing.”

“It'd make more sense coming from me now, drugged as I am.” Brendan's eyes widened and his teeth chattered. “You wouldn't believe—”

“
Save it
.” Lyle, as clandestinely as he could, nodded toward Noah.

“Just make sure they keep their hands to themselves,” Richardson reminded Noah as he left.

Noah leaned against the closed door and folded his arms. He looked at Lyle, then to Franklin, and finally Brendan.

“It's been a little while since we last spoke, boys. So, what have we been up to?”

“Doc, you sound different,” Brendan said. “You get my morphine yet?”

“Either he's playing dumb or he's not lucid enough to explain to me how he broke his leg,” Noah said. “So which is it?” He directed his query to Brendan, who didn't answer.

“Very well.” Noah extended his arms as if to welcome what he knew would be an inane explanation. “How about it, fellas? How'd your friend wind up back in the doctor's good graces?”

“He was bird-watching,” Franklin blurted.

“Goddammit, Franklin,” Lyle hissed.

“No! He's right.” Brendan tried sitting up but winced and reclined when he felt pain. “I
was
bird-watching and slipped outta the tree I was in—stupid me. I ain't lying.”

“That so? Which tree? Where did you go to watch our fine feathered friends?”

“I'm sorry, I forgot who you are, Deputy”—Brendan drew out the last syllable get the name.

“It's Deputy Chandler,” Lyle answered. “Deputy Noah Chandler. We've met him before, Brendan.”

Noah paid the taunt no mind. “Of course we have. Doc Richardson plucked a bullet from your butt.”

“A bullet?
Right
, a bullet,” Lyle said teasingly. “That's when we met.”

Noah disregarded him and focused on Brendan. “Now, this tree you were perched in. Where was it?”

“Ain't none of your damned business where it was,
Noah
,” Lyle said. “Watching birds ain't illegal last I checked.”

“If anything they should be admired for their beauty—”

“Shut up, Franklin!” Lyle barked and glared at Noah. “Brendan doesn't have to tell you a goddamn thing. Right, Brendan?”

“I sure don't.” Brendan stared out the newly installed window and its frame—a rush job completed by the town's carpenter—realizing there'd be no further purpose in conversing with the deputy.

“Since when did you become your friend's mouthpiece?” Noah said to Lyle.

“Since you began poking your snout into our business. I believe the doc asked you to make sure we didn't steal anything. Well, we ain't. Our friend here had an accident and we're checking on him like good friends do. That's why we're here. Or was there another murder last night that we're somehow suspected of committing?”

“Who ever said I suspected you of murdering anyone?”

“I ain't fuckin' stupid,” Lyle said. “All the shit going on 'round here the last week or so? The way you questioned us the other day? But I don't blame you. Gotta be diligent. Now, were any other freedmen or Klansmen or soldiers butchered last night?”

“No, all was quiet.”

“Happy to hear it. We're done talking to you.”

Several tense minutes of silence passed before Richardson knocked on the door, allowing Noah time to move out of the way. He entered carrying a box with, among other items, linen bed sheets destined for the scissors.

“These boys behave themselves?”

“Yeah, Doc. A little childish, but what would you expect?” It was the best Noah could muster.

“That's exactly what I've come to expect, deputy.” He placed the box of goods on a cabinet top near the examination table. “I appreciate you stopping by, I'll be fine now. And you can take these two other characters with you. I'd prefer to cast Brendan here by myself and not be distracted.”

“We were just leaving, weren't we Franklin? Don't answer and follow me.”

Lyle brushed by Noah, using his shoulder to nudge the deputy out of the way, and winked at him. “Till next time.”

Franklin lumbered behind Lyle. The big guy could've easily used his girth to bump Noah aside, but he didn't.

“Excuse me.” He spoke softly, and Noah stepped aside. Franklin replied with a quick head nod and exited the room.

Noah waited until he was sure the men had left the building.

“Doc, you got a second before you get to work?” Noah glanced in the direction of the waiting room. Richardson checked Brendan, who'd fallen asleep.

“I don't see why not.”

Once they were out of earshot, Noah made a single request.

“Anything he blurts out, like, say you inject him with morphine and confuse him, and you ask him about his fall—”

“Are you suggesting that I
deliberately
get a patient under my care high on a drug in order to question him about whatever skullduggery he was up to when he fell?”

“Yes.”

“Are you serious?”

Noah waited a beat. “Yes.”

“Look, I help the law however I can, but I do it without jeopardizing my ethics and my conscience. So, no, I can't help you like that. You studied law, you
know
that.”

“I mean, if you have knowledge someone's committed a crime or about to, and it puts people in harm's way, aren't you obligated to tell the law?”

“Now you're making some sense. Doctor-patient privilege isn't easily broken. I'm not certain how South Carolina law handles the topic, but—” Richardson stopped upon hearing the clinks of broken glass in the examination room.

The doctor, followed by Noah, burst into the room to find Brendan smiling while he injected morphine into his arm with the syringe Richardson had prepared. He'd used one of the crutches the doctor leaned on the wall to hook around one of the mobile table's legs and wheel it toward him. A couple of empty specimen jars had rolled off the table as it moved. Richardson's eyes followed the trail of broken glass to the burgeoning addict who reclined on the examination table.

“Thanks for the morphine, Doc.” The syringe rolled out of his hand and broke on the floor.

Richardson grabbed Noah by the shirtsleeve and led him back to the lobby.

“I guess that saves you the trouble of having to inject him,” Noah said. They stopped by the clinic's front door. The doctor grabbed the knob.

“Here's what I can do, I'll keep an ear out for anything this man says that comes out unprompted,” Richardson said. “I'm not going to ask him questions and do your job for you. But I'll pay attention, and I won't hesitate to report something to you, especially if it has zero to do with my treatment of him. I suspect his criminality extends beyond stealing morphine. And I don't doubt for a moment he's done worse.”

“Deal. I'm working late. I'll check back with you later when I watch Brendan while you sleep.”

The doctor opened the door halfway and paused. “What?”

“Well, it
could
be me. I might also be at the jail watching over Culliver. We're not taking a chance leaving Brendan alone in there, and not because I'm worried about him swiping more of your drugs. He said he broke his leg falling out of a tree while watching birds.”

“Nonsense.”

“Precisely. Given all that Henderson's been through, I have every reason to believe Brendan, like Culliver, could be in danger from, from whatever's out there. I hope I'm wrong.”

“So do I. I pray for the sake of the Army and the Sheriff's Department that you'll be in greater numbers tonight?”

“We're gonna blanket your property. Nothing's gonna slip by us. Not again.”