and waited. The footsteps in the hallway resounded just as he remembered. Automatically, silently, he counted them.
One… two…
He turned around and opened his eyes. The darkness didn’t hide the outline of the bed, or the thin patchwork quilt draping it. The last time he’d slept here he’d been fourteen years old. He’d been a kid—a stupid, hopeless boy—slipping through the window, climbing down the tree outside, escaping. Much like the stupid, hopeless boy he’d sent down the tree earlier. The one he’d sent to hide. When he could, he’d put that boy on the train bound for Washington. That boy wouldn’t cry tonight. That boy would never cry again.
…five… six…
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, folded his hands and bowed his head like he was praying, but he wasn’t praying.
…seven… eight…
The latch on the bedroom door clicked, the rusty hinges creaked, and the smell of whiskey drifted in, like smoke from a fire. Nothing had changed.
Think of other things, he reminded himself. Think of what you have to do tomorrow. Think of good things, like poetry and soft kitten fur. Think of Toby’s warmth curled on your chest, the purr vibrating along with your heartbeat. Think of skipping rocks in the creek, of basking in a swimming hole on a hot summer day.
Remember it will be over soon.
Think of the colonel.
The shadow loomed and the boy looked up. The figure was the same—big, imposing, a black silhouette sucking away the moonlight. The boy recoiled, shriveling, making himself even smaller, meeker, afraid. As he’d always done.
It will be over soon, he told himself one last time.
Then, raising his voice so he would sound young, like a child, he whispered, “Daddy…”
FOURTEEN
“Fithher’th Tavern,” Etienne mimicked, as he brought Igore to a halt half a block away from the old saloon. It was late, most of the surrounding buildings—some homes, some businesses—were dark. Fisher’s, however, was still awake. Its windows were bright and the torch on the porch beside the front entrance prickled from the pelting rain. The crooked wood shingle with its faded painted fish twittered back and forth in the wind, like a child’s swing.
The last time Etienne had been here, nine years ago, the place had been in poor repair, and it appeared little, if anything, had been done to improve it. But he didn’t care about the condition. What he cared about was the proximity to the street, the narrow pathways between adjacent structures, the rear alley and the accessibility of windows and doors.
To better familiarize himself with the area, he rode around the block, and through the alley twice. It was there, on his third pass, that he decided to dismount and secure Igore. Several other horses were hitched to the post, though not as many as in front, evidence that a few of Fisher’s patrons entered from the rear.
There was a short walkway that, due to the rain was more mud than dirt, a small porch and a door with hinges so rusty, they looked about to fall off. Etienne didn’t attempt to open it. His first stop was around the side in the narrow aisle, at the first of four windows. There were times in life when his height was an advantage. This was one of them. As he peered through the glass into the lighted interior, it briefly crossed his mind that had Julien been here with him, he wouldn’t have had so grand a view. Julien was two inches shorter.
Through the first window, Etienne saw crates and other stacked bundles. Shelving on the side wall held a mess of bottles, glasses and dishes, and everything looked gray, as if covered by a thick layer of dust. It could have been a trick of the lighting, but Etienne didn’t think it was. He stood there long enough to watch a man, dressed in an apron, wheel an empty keg in from a hallway. Another man followed him, sipping from a bottle. Neither of them were of particular interest.
From having been inside, Etienne remembered the building contained a
One… two…
He turned around and opened his eyes. The darkness didn’t hide the outline of the bed, or the thin patchwork quilt draping it. The last time he’d slept here he’d been fourteen years old. He’d been a kid—a stupid, hopeless boy—slipping through the window, climbing down the tree outside, escaping. Much like the stupid, hopeless boy he’d sent down the tree earlier. The one he’d sent to hide. When he could, he’d put that boy on the train bound for Washington. That boy wouldn’t cry tonight. That boy would never cry again.
…five… six…
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, folded his hands and bowed his head like he was praying, but he wasn’t praying.
…seven… eight…
The latch on the bedroom door clicked, the rusty hinges creaked, and the smell of whiskey drifted in, like smoke from a fire. Nothing had changed.
Think of other things, he reminded himself. Think of what you have to do tomorrow. Think of good things, like poetry and soft kitten fur. Think of Toby’s warmth curled on your chest, the purr vibrating along with your heartbeat. Think of skipping rocks in the creek, of basking in a swimming hole on a hot summer day.
Remember it will be over soon.
Think of the colonel.
The shadow loomed and the boy looked up. The figure was the same—big, imposing, a black silhouette sucking away the moonlight. The boy recoiled, shriveling, making himself even smaller, meeker, afraid. As he’d always done.
It will be over soon, he told himself one last time.
Then, raising his voice so he would sound young, like a child, he whispered, “Daddy…”
FOURTEEN
“Fithher’th Tavern,” Etienne mimicked, as he brought Igore to a halt half a block away from the old saloon. It was late, most of the surrounding buildings—some homes, some businesses—were dark. Fisher’s, however, was still awake. Its windows were bright and the torch on the porch beside the front entrance prickled from the pelting rain. The crooked wood shingle with its faded painted fish twittered back and forth in the wind, like a child’s swing.
The last time Etienne had been here, nine years ago, the place had been in poor repair, and it appeared little, if anything, had been done to improve it. But he didn’t care about the condition. What he cared about was the proximity to the street, the narrow pathways between adjacent structures, the rear alley and the accessibility of windows and doors.
To better familiarize himself with the area, he rode around the block, and through the alley twice. It was there, on his third pass, that he decided to dismount and secure Igore. Several other horses were hitched to the post, though not as many as in front, evidence that a few of Fisher’s patrons entered from the rear.
There was a short walkway that, due to the rain was more mud than dirt, a small porch and a door with hinges so rusty, they looked about to fall off. Etienne didn’t attempt to open it. His first stop was around the side in the narrow aisle, at the first of four windows. There were times in life when his height was an advantage. This was one of them. As he peered through the glass into the lighted interior, it briefly crossed his mind that had Julien been here with him, he wouldn’t have had so grand a view. Julien was two inches shorter.
Through the first window, Etienne saw crates and other stacked bundles. Shelving on the side wall held a mess of bottles, glasses and dishes, and everything looked gray, as if covered by a thick layer of dust. It could have been a trick of the lighting, but Etienne didn’t think it was. He stood there long enough to watch a man, dressed in an apron, wheel an empty keg in from a hallway. Another man followed him, sipping from a bottle. Neither of them were of particular interest.
From having been inside, Etienne remembered the building contained a
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