The Dark Farewell (6 page)
eyeliners. She was a very pretty girl.” He smiled at Joan. “We carry the finest all natural and all quality beauty products.”
Joan blushed and reached for her coffee.
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Josh Lanyon
Casey grinned at Flynn who tried not to grin back. Casey had an irrepressible good humor that was
hard not to respond to. Looking away from him, Flynn happened to catch Julian’s eye and his smile faded.
Gramps might be a pacifist, but the expression in the back of Julian’s eyes was definitely violent. He looked from Flynn to Casey and his mouth tightened.
It seemed he wasn’t kidding about his instincts.
“Was she a nice girl?” Mr. Devereux asked with what appeared to be unwilling fascination.
“Not if she used cosmetics,” Mrs. Hoyt retorted.
Casey objected to this. “Sure, she was a nice girl. At least as far as I could tell. They were all nice girls from what I heard. Not the kind of girls to get themselves into trouble. That’s what no one can understand. How this fiend could get close to them. He must be very clever.”
“Or very evil,” Devereux added.
“Excuse me,” Julian said, rising. “I have to prepare for this evening.”
“There’s peach cobbler for dessert,” Amy told him.
He shook his head.
“I’ll save you a piece for later,” she promised, and he smiled at her. It was a genuine smile, warm and friendly and uncomplicated. It surprised Flynn.
Nearly as much as the realization that he was aware of every move Julian made.
When Julian left the room there was a pause and then Mr. Devereux said, “My grandson is very
sensitive to the vibrations of evil.”
Dr. Pearson snorted. “What that young man needs is fresh air and sunshine and exercise. A few early
nights wouldn’t come amiss either.”
“He has always been most delicate.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Casey inquired with interest, no doubt mentally running through the
catalog of Queen of Egypt remedies and elixirs.
Mr. Devereux shook his head. Casey said, “Sorry if I offended him. I guess he’s got one of those baby faces. Must have been hard on him not being able to serve his country.”
Mr. Devereux opened his mouth, seemed to consider the company, and said, “My grandson has been
called to a higher purpose.”
Mrs. Hoyt sniffed disapprovingly.
After the peach cobbler, Casey mentioned that he was going for a stroll and Flynn said he’d join him.
They grabbed their jackets and hats and stepped out into the warm twilight.
“I know a place we can get a real drink,” Casey said, lighting a pipe.
Flynn nodded.
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The Dark Farewell
They talked about the war and France. “Do you miss it sometimes?” Casey asked as they watched the
street lamps blinking on all down the long silent blocks.
“Miss it? No,” Flynn said.
“I do. I never felt as alive as I did in the war.” Casey gave him that wide, friendly grin. “I guess that sounds peculiar.”
“No, I think I know what you mean.” Flynn added, “You never feel as alive as in those first seconds
after you just miss getting your head blown off. I just wonder what the hell it was for. I lost a brother, an uncle, and two of my best friends in that war. I miss ’em every day.” And Paul. He’d lost Paul too, but he couldn’t talk about that. Not to anyone. Rarely did he even let himself remember.
A sniper’s bullet on a sunny day. One moment Paul had been warm and alive, the next he was dead.
Dead
. No warning, no reprieve, no deferment. Dead and done.
“Yeah. I know. I lost a lot of pals too. Every one of the guys I joined up with went during that damned war.”
“It changes you,” Flynn said quietly. “It changed the men here. Were you around last year?”
“You mean the so-called massacre?”
Flynn nodded.
“I saw a damn sight more than I wanted to,” Casey said grimly. “But you know, my granddad worked
in the mines back before the union. Things were different back then—harder, meaner. My granddad
worked for fourteen hours a day in a shaft that was only three feet high, sometimes up to his ankles in water. He spent all day bent over, loading coal onto mule carts. The mules used to go blind from so much time in the dark. Granddad died in the mines from bad air.”
“Everyone died back then,” Flynn agreed. “From the bad air, or collapses, or shaft fires.”
“That’s right. The lucky ones who survived the mines ended up dying of black lung. It’s not that long ago. People still remember those days.”
Flynn thought of the stories he’d heard: a man using his pocketknife to cut the throat of the wounded, a woman holding the hand of her child as she led him to see the dying, a man urinating on the corpses. As bad as anything he’d seen in the war. But then this
had
been war—or at least a battle in an ongoing war.
“You know,” Casey said, “a lot of those people on the road and at the cemetery where it all ended,
they weren’t miners. They weren’t even from Herrin. They were the no-account trash that gathers any time there’s trouble.”
Flynn nodded. It was something to take into account, true enough.
“Why do you care?” Casey asked. “You’re not from around here. You’re from…where? New York?”
Why
did
he care? Why was it so important to understand what had happened? Understanding it wouldn’t change it. Probably wouldn’t even prevent it happening again someplace else.
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Josh Lanyon
Flynn said, “They took dynamite and blew the draglines and the shovels and bulldozers of the Lester
strip mine. They blew that mine apart. It’ll never operate again.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.”
They had reached the Lafayette Hotel. It was one of Herrin’s nicest lodgings, designed to recall
European splendor before the war. It had done a brisk and lively business before Prohibition, but now, like a lot of businesses, it was struggling to stay afloat. Small iron balconies and window boxes decorated the outside. Inside, the walls were paneled in a red wood, ornate amber chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the carpet was an elegant pattern of fruit baskets and flowers on a field of black.
They went inside and ordered “soft drinks” which they sipped while they continued to talk, although
they steered clear of such serious subjects as the war or the massacre. Casey was easy to talk to and Flynn found himself opening up in a way he rarely did anymore. He bought the second round. Their conversation grew less focused.
By the third round, Flynn was impatient for what would surely follow—the reason they had both
walked out that evening. He was already trying to calculate the logistics of it. This was not New York where they would find a sympathetic club or speakeasy.
They would need to find a quiet alley or a deserted building or a corner of the park.
It had been awhile since he had to sneak around like that. He lived in a Greenwich Village
brownstone, and while he was cautious, he didn’t have to exercise the kind of care necessary in a small town like Herrin.
He wondered what it was like for a man like Casey. The war had probably simplified a lot of things
for him. No wonder he missed it.
“Another?” Casey asked, half-rising.
Flynn didn’t want another drink. He wanted Casey’s body which was enough like Paul’s body to fill
him with a fierce hunger. A hunger that had sparked, oddly enough, when Julian had pressed his slim, hard form to Flynn’s.
He hesitated, but Casey was giving him a meaningful look, so Flynn nodded. Maybe Casey had to get
drunk to do it. That was sad, but it wasn’t uncommon.
They had a fourth round of “soft drinks” and then, finally, Casey said, slurring a bit, “We oughta start back, ya think?”
They rose and went out, down the front steps and started walking back. At first Casey was whistling
softly, “Ain’t We Got Fun”, but then he fell silent, seeming increasingly morose.
Their footsteps echoed loudly down the quiet street. Flynn was all but positive he hadn’t misread him, but wondered if Casey had changed his mind.
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The Dark Farewell
But as they came to the set of stairs leading to the small corner park, Casey grabbed his arm and they ran up to the iron gate. It wasn’t locked and they slipped inside, easing the gate shut behind them. It closed with a ghostly clang.
The park was dark and shadowy. The street lamps didn’t reach beyond the tall maple trees lining the
spiked fence, and they made their way down the dirt path to the small, open-air gazebo. Flynn started to climb onto the gazebo, but Casey pulled him back.
“No. Not there. Over here.” Casey led him behind a great flowering barberry bush and unzipped his
trousers, freeing himself. Flynn unfastened his own trousers.
The fact that they’d had a good deal to drink, and that Flynn had been craving this release
since…anyway, it made it easier. Made it simple to push aside the faint dismay that their joining was so blunt, so businesslike. What was he looking for? This was not Paul, this was not romance, let alone love.
He didn’t look for that at home, why should he look for it here?
They stumbled together, and Flynn could feel the heat coming off Casey through his clothing. They
were both perspiring with excitement—and humidity. He could feel Casey’s heart thumping against his own as though he were scared to death. They clutched each other like drowning men. Casey’s hardness
jutted against his hip. His hands were going to leave bruises; his mouth was like a cave, dark and empty. It opened to Flynn’s and their tongues slid together, wet and hot and slick.
Strangely, in that moment, Flynn remembered that delicate, expert kiss Julian had pressed upon him
in his room. He remembered how Julian had felt in his arms: light and ardent as a raw flame.
The impression was gone in the next instant. The tang of Casey’s sweat and the sweet scent of his hair oil mingled with the sharp, acidic scent of the barberry bush. Casey’s fingers dug into Flynn’s buttocks, urging him closer. Flynn pushed against him, rubbed against him, hunting eagerly for the release he knew was coming.
Casey’s mouth opened wider, his tongue pushed deeper. Flynn drew back from that fever heat, from
the bite of the whisky and the unfamiliar taste. He didn’t want kisses, he just wanted the relief. He slicked his palm with spit, reached down, got both their stiff cocks in one hand and began to work them, rubbing them together.
Casey groaned into his mouth and then tore away, tipping his head back and gulping great lungfuls of night as Flynn rolled them forward, shoving them along. They humped and fumbled against each other, nearly overbalancing in their thrusting, grinding, frantic…like two stags rutting.
A roiling blaze of heat soared between them, and Casey made a sound like he was choking to death.
Hot wet come spattered between their bodies. Breathing hard, they hung onto each other—mostly to keep from falling over.
Then the hasty, limbs trembling, business of wiping off, doing up the zippers and buttons, moving
quickly, putting it behind them.
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Josh Lanyon
They looked each other over, not that there was much to see in the uncertain light, and they moved in accord down the dirt path back to the iron gate. They stepped through it, the gate shutting with a faint chime behind them. They walked down the steps to the pavement.
To his horror, Flynn realized there was a man a few feet in front of them. He must have just passed by the park as they were reaching the gate. Flynn felt a sudden, guilty alarm that they would be discovered—
what the hell explanation could they give for being in the park at that hour?
Casey realized their danger at the same instant. He stopped in his tracks. The man must have sensed
their presence, for he glanced over his shoulder and jumped visibly.
“Didn’t see you behind me,” he said. His hat brim hid his features, but he sounded nervous. “Were
you in the theater too?”
Casey appeared struck dumb. Flynn said, “Yes.”
“Wasn’t that the damnedest thing?”
“I—”
“Not that I believe in that superstitious mumbo-jumbo.” The man gave an edgy laugh. “But it was
strange, certainly.”
“Yes.”
They were now all three of them walking in a small herd, Casey bringing up the rear. Moonlight
shadowed the beautiful old houses and the churches as they stepped briskly along their way. Warmth still radiated from the bricks of the building and road.
“The rest of it, well, any good huckster could come up with that pabulum. Your Auntie May wants
you to wear a scarf in cold weather, your grandpapa still loves you.” The man snorted in amused disgust.
“But predicting Bill Doyle’s death? And that thing about the murders.”
Flynn felt a chill slither down his spine. Abruptly he knew that the man had been to the Opera House and that he was talking about Julian.
He said carefully, “But maybe we misunderstood him? Maybe that’s not what he was saying at all?”
“What else could he have meant?” the man said. “He said—she said—whoever that was supposed to
be said that she was lost on the far side of Crab Orchard Creek. That the other girls were with her. Four girls. And one of them doesn’t know she’s dead yet.”
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Chapter Five
When Flynn and Casey reached the boarding house they found everyone out on the breezeway
drinking lemonade and talking. It was clear that the news of Julian’s announcement had already, in the mysterious way of small towns, reached home.
The three ladies sat on the wide swing, their shadowy faces lit by the street lamps a few yards away.
