Sentinels (26 page)

“Noah, we ain't hired nobody to do anything for us.”

“Then you paid them in food—look, Sarah, I'm not concerned about that right now.”

“Noah, stop.” Sarah, her voice slightly raised, stood. “Do not go back to that farm. Not tonight. It'll all be over by tomorrow.”

Sarah and Noah eyed each other. Natalie, speaking softly so as not to wake the two sleeping babies, reached out her hand and brushed Sarah's dress to alert her.

“What are you talking about?” Nat said. “How do you know?”

“Noah, you come with us to the doctor's,” Sarah said in a manner that drew Noah in, keeping his attention. “You can ride separately on your horse, if you like. Actually, that's probably safest. Keep your distance from us and away from the road so you can monitor us from afar. You'll be there to help us in a pinch. But I beg you—do not go back to the farm.”

“If this is a democracy, I'm voting for you to come with us,” Doreen said. “You said it's Sarah's job to protect her kin. Correct? Well, you got the same job and a bigger kin right now, and don't you forget it.”

Noah felt all eyes on him.

“Harrison, if we had to put this up for a vote, what say you?”

“Strength in numbers, Noah. Keep up the rear in the shadows. I don't know how many more men Diggs might have out there. You might've only seen a few of them. If something happens, I wouldn't want to take 'em all on by myself.”

Noah fought back a stubborn urge and agreed. “Let me get my rifle and bandolier. Harrison, strap on the headless guy's gun and ammo belt. Also, let's figure out a way to secure the babies as best we can.”

“I can handle a gun,” Doreen said. “In fact, where's the one I gave you?” she said to Natalie.

“In the headless guy's belt,” Natalie said to Harrison. “Go get it and whatever else might be useful off him.”

“I'll do the same to the feller over there,” Noah said of Sam and his weapon, and then looked at Sarah. “Can you handle a gun?”

“Let's go,” was her way of saying yes.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Why didn't you pop out of the outhouse and shoot that lunatic earlier?” Natalie Chandler could not be seen from the road. She shouted above the clatter created by Doreen Culliver's rig as it rode toward downtown Henderson. Natalie rested flat in the wagon bed with the crown of her head touching the wall behind Doreen's seat. The two made eye contact whenever Doreen leaned back and looked down into the bed.

“Gun jammed,” Doreen said nonchalantly. “I waited outside the window near where you shot that first feller. I was waiting for him to come running down those stairs—and he did. Only when I pulled the triggers nothing happened. I would've blown the bastard right into the fireplace then and there.”

Doreen, her hair in a bonnet, easily passed as a churchgoer as her wagon bobbed along the road at an easy pace. Should she see someone riding opposite, she'd reach behind her and knock on the wood above Natalie's head, alerting her to cover herself and the baby with blankets she'd brought from the house. Noah and Harrison went so far as to reload the bed with food to make the blanketed bundle in the middle look more inconspicuous. Jake put the side of his head to his momma's chest and let the gentle rocking of the wagon lull him to sleep. Just in case things got hairy, Doreen kept her satchel open and next to her, making it easy to pull her gun.

She followed Harrison, who retrieved Noah's rig, which carried Sarah and Isaac in a fashion similar to Natalie and Jake. Sarah kept Delbert Johnson's gun by her side, while Harrison could grab Noah's shotgun stowed in the driver's compartment. The ride seemed smooth. Still, they traveled the open countryside and remained exposed. All they desired was for Henderson's first few buildings to appear on the horizon. The first would be Doctor Richardson's office, and, hopefully, sanctuary. Somewhere, unseen in the brush and behind fir trees, Noah rode Wilbur and kept an eye on the nascent wagon train.

“So then why'd you let him shoot me and kick me for as long as he did? I mean, the gun
did
work,” Natalie said.

“I took up in the outhouse to figure out what was wrong with the damn thing. Believe me, I'd have busted out of there in a heartbeat if I was certain it would've fired. But I wasn't. I had a clear shot at him through a hole in the outhouse. I was worried he'd see the barrel sticking out at him. Good thing it blended in. No matter how hard I pulled the trigger? Nothing. The hammers wouldn't budge. It was torture in there watching him abuse you like that.”

“I see. I really do. And thank you for everything.”

“No need for that.”

“No, thank you not just for shooting him, but for what you did to yourself so you could plug him.”

“Oh, you mean me jumpin' in the shithouse? Hey, survival instincts kicked in. I saw him take a gander in my direction and couldn't risk it when I saw him point his gun at me. All I can say is this: What on earth do you people
eat
?”

Natalie and Doreen exploded into laughter.

“I don't know, maybe me plopping in there rattled something loose in the shotgun. I lowered and re-cocked the hammers right before he poked his head over the hole. You know the rest. And I'd do it again if it meant saving you.”

“That's sweet, seeing you barely even know me, Doreen.”

“I don't know you, but I can tell you and Noah are decent. That's enough for me. I just wish there were more of your type around this place.”

“That makes two of us.” Natalie waited for her to continue the chat but saw Doreen focusing straight ahead—at Harrison, she presumed—and saw a look of worry.

“He stopped.” Doreen, likewise, reined in her horse.

“Why?”

“Don't know. He's looking around. I think he saw something.”

“What's around here?” Natalie tried lifting herself up to see.

“Stay down.”

Natalie let her body go limp. She stroked Jake's head to keep him asleep. And she listened.

“He's standing on the seat, having a look around.”

“Do you see Noah?” Natalie followed Doreen's lead and spoke softly. “Do
you
see anything?”

Doreen rose to gauge the land.

“I don't.”

“He's
got
to be watching.” Natalie said.

“I would think so.”

“What's it like out there?”

“Just brush on both sides with forests bordering on the far ends,” Doreen said. “Noah must be in the woods. His head would be popping up through the grass. He'd give himself away for sure.”

“What if Harrison sees someone
in
the grass?”

Indeed Harrison stared at one particular patch of the field to his left, craning his head to discern something. Without looking, he bent to his knees and fished around to find the shotgun. He rose, gripping the gun, resting the barrel on his shoulder. Doreen reached into her satchel and held the revolver with both hands, letting the heavy gun dangle in front of her.

Noah aimed his Winchester as if he had something in its sight—but he didn't. He had tied Wilbur to a tree in the woods once he realized something bothered Harrison enough to stop the rig. Now he stood near the forest's edge, tucked behind thick trees for cover, to Harrison's right side. All was quiet in the woods.

He moved the rifle point from Harrison back to Doreen—his finger off the trigger—hoping their actions would direct him to, well, he couldn't tell. The grass stood about four feet tall, so he'd have a clean shot at whoever stood—if they weren't obscured by the wagons—but even then he balked.

What if it's just some kids out playing? Or someone hunting? Please, Harrison, move on.

But he didn't. He hopped down from the driver's seat, out of Noah's view. He switched back to Doreen, who raised her gun to where he expected Harrison to be looking.

Lord, let this be some kind of wild animal that's worrying Harrison.

Noah lowered his rifle and looked behind him. Nobody was sneaking up on him. He heard nothing around him, not the rustle of leaves, chirps of birds or scurrying of critters. And then the horses went berserk.

Doreen tried calming hers as it reared and whinnied. Harrison scrambled back into the seat to grab his horses' reins.

“Whoa, boys!”

Noah heard panic in Harrison. Both Sarah and Nat sat themselves up to witness the commotion, and as the women's heads popped into his view, two shadows rose from the fields fronting Noah and charged the wagons.

A third one leapt like a frog from the opposite field over Doreen's wagon, swiping her mid-air, and landing with her in the grassland closest to Noah.

He burst from the woods, awkwardly aiming his rifle at the two men running before him. A fourth one leapt from the grass into Harrison's wagon and stood next to the terrified deputy—terrified because Harrison's mouth went slack.

He's seeing what I saw behind Doreen's house
, Noah thought.

“No, don't!” Sarah screamed as it backhanded Harrison's face with force enough to knock him out of the wagon.

Noah, stopped, aimed, and fired at Harrison's attacker, who fell backward and into the field. Noah turned back to the two men who now tore through the field
toward
Noah, screeching like barn owls.

“Don't kill him!” he head Sarah screaming.

Noah got off two shots, hitting one in the chest. And as he fell, his partner slammed into Noah, wrapping sinewy arms around him, bringing him to the ground. Noah's head thudded, and before the pain registered, his pursuer slapped away Noah's Stetson, wrapped ten incredibly strong fingers around his skull, lifted and then rammed it into the rock-hard dirt. And then it left him.

“Leave us alone!” Sarah still pleaded. “Leave us all alone!”

Noah heard women shrieking and babies wailing in his last moments of lucidity before the darkness came.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“I'm telling you, he wasn't there.” Deputy Richard Ellison returned from the Chandler plantation to the Jenkins farm and spoke to Diggs, Clement and Lyle on the front porch. “I staked the place out as best I could. Nobody came to the front door. No horses left the stables. He didn't go there.”

“What if he's there right now?” Lyle pressed.

“Then what the hell took him so long to get there?” The sun waned as eight o'clock neared. “Chandler's resourceful. He'd have found a horse one way or another to get there. Or he'd have hitched a ride in a wagon. He didn't. He ain't there.”

“How long were you inside the house?” It was Diggs.

“Not long, only a few minutes. I asked the mother and father if Noah might be there—told them something work-related had come up. They said no, and did we try his house. I believed them, told them it was no big deal, and left. Hid out for hours where they couldn't see me. They stayed inside.”

Deputy Bruce Hughes rode his horse from the road to where the men gathered and didn't bother tying it to a post.

“He definitely went home.” Hughes, shaken in appearance, grabbed the porch railing and hunched over it to collect himself.

“You were supposed to wait at the Sheriff's Office!” Diggs said.

“I waited long enough. Preston's still there. He can handle things. If I hung around town too long, some of the other boys might get suspicious. Figured I'd stop at Chandler's house before coming back, just to see if maybe he was there.”

“Why are you so certain he was there?” Diggs said.

Hughes described the carnage to the group.

“And their guns are gone,” he said.

“What else did you see? Perhaps they wrote a note to someone saying where they'd be and left it on a table?”

“Nossir, Mister Diggs. No sign of that.”

“And they weren't dissected in any manner?”

“Both shot, close range like I told you.”

“Very well.” Diggs looked up at the road and then scanned the property. “They
will
come back.”

“Noah and the woman?” Hughes said.

“No. Toby's hired hands.” The other men had noticed it, too, but said nothing; Diggs was nervous.

“Be vigilant,” Diggs told the sheriff and two deputies. “Take up positions in the house's upper levels. Pick a window that's not occupied, remove a slat from the shutters, keep them closed, and watch for anything unusual. I'll have candles lit downstairs to make it appear as it was the night Lyle and his bunch bungled their task.”

Lyle said nothing, agreeing with Diggs's logic.

“If you see these men heading to the barn, don't shoot,” Diggs said. “Wait for them all to enter. I've got a railroad man hiding in the pasture keeping watch. The second they're all in there we lock the door and burn the building to the ground. If they avoid the barn and approach the house, Lyle will fire the first shot from the downstairs window, and then you can join in.”

The men entered the home. Brendan sat reading a book in the same sofa where Diggs and Lyle had earlier shot Toby Jenkins. Clement walked upstairs. Franklin prowled the room, looking at the titles kept in an enormous, seven-tiered, ornately carved bookshelf lining the wall.

“Nice to see you men are busy,” Diggs said.

“You see all this stuff, Mister Diggs?” Brendan looked up from a leather-bound tome. “You like that Shakespeare feller and whatnot, maybe there's something here that'll tickle you.”

“Unlikely,” Diggs sniffed. “I'm surprised those savages know how to read.”

Franklin ran his fingertip across the book bindings along the topmost shelf.

“Brendan's right,” he said. “Some of these books might be valuable. I'll be damned. Who'd a thought Toby and his old lady had done so well?”

“All right, boys, you've intrigued me enough.” Diggs feigned interest at first but soon became absorbed by the collection of worn, cracked bindings that encased weathered pages of yellowed parchment. Some of the loose spines caused pages to drop to the floor as Franklin cracked open the books.

“Marassa, Ibiji? What the heck is this stuff,” Franklin said. “It says somethin' bout a loa, a gate opener, and visible and invisible worlds.”

He unshelved another thick book stuffed with crinkly pages that unevenly jutted from between the flaps.

“I am the Priest of the Yeveh Vodoun and Mami Wata tradition,” Franklin said. “It's scrawled like that in the beginning, like a diary.”

“Big deal, this one's got Cajun cooking recipes.” Lyle, bored out of his mind, played along.

“It's mostly gibberish,” Diggs said while examining the titles. He, too, succumbed to curiosity and carefully opened one. “But I've never seen anything like them.”

Diggs unshelved what looked like a bible covered in dust. Its brittle pages would surely disintegrate if handled too roughly. “Amazing. This one's at least a hundred years old if it's a day.”

“More recipes?” It was Brendan.

“No. I think not. I keep reading about something called a baka, it appears to be some sort of spirit. I wish I knew more French.”

Diggs tucked the book under his arm, clearly intent on reading further.

“Boys, as much as I appreciate your fascination with Toby Jenkins's expansive literary collection, I'm certain of a few things: One, reading makes you tired, and I need you awake. Two, the fact that the Army hasn't overrun us yet tells me Chandler did not make it to town. He's had ample time to do so. For all we know he was injured by those railroad men at his home and is dead or dying.” Diggs turned to Lyle. “I want you to take someone with you tomorrow morning at dawn, first thing, back to Chandler's house, and then to town. I'm certain they'll try to get there.”

“You forgetting something?”

“No. I haven't. Toby's men.” Diggs walked to the closed front door, wanting to open it and gauge the landscape one final time before sunset, but didn't want to chance being seen by prying eyes. “They'll either surmise they were duped, or that the Klan got scared and called the whole thing off.”

“Do you think they'll feel duped?” Franklin said.

Diggs gave it serious thought and said quietly, “I don't. Anger is more likely.”

Lyle gave Franklin's meaty arm a nudge with his fist. “Come on, big guy. You got first watch. I'll rest, then spell you.”

“Spell.” Diggs said aloud, and looked at the book. “
Sortilège
.
”

“What?” It was Lyle.

“
Sortilège
,” Diggs replied with his back to him. “It means ‘spell' in French, I believe. It's written on every page I've seen in this.” Diggs held the book in both hands. It felt heavier somehow, as if the many ages of its existence had given it heft.

Diggs disappeared into the dark kitchen. They heard a thump, and after a few fumbles, Brendan, Lyle and Franklin saw soft candlelight.

“I'll be reading,” Diggs called to them.

“He's at the kitchen table,” Lyle said. “Franklin, take watch and tell the others upstairs where he's at in case they need him.”

He did. Brendan, still sitting on the couch, waved at Lyle.

“What you want me to do?”

“Take up by that window behind you. I'll find you a chair.”

Lyle helped his friend sit in front of closed shutters and removed one of the bottommost wooden slats so Brendan could peek outside.

“Best not to have the candle right next you,” Lyle said. “Moon's coming out, your eyes'll adjust. Keep watch on the barn and the pasture, and whatever part of the cornfield's in your view.”

“That night we screwed up, Franklin said he saw someone looking out this window before the pitchfork was thrown at him,” Brendan said.

“Then it's a good spot. I'm gonna lie down on the couch here. Wake me in about three hours if nothing happens.”

Night fell and, indeed, Brendan and the other watchers grew accustomed to the moonlight. Despite their inevitable sleepiness, they craved Toby's men to return, longing to fight and end this. Surely the battle would reinvigorate them. They each jumped at the slightest sound of wind rustling leaves or at the sight of shadows belonging to inanimate things whose movements were the work of drowsiness. Some of the men nodded off only to be startled awake when their foreheads knocked on the shutters.

But Toby's farmhands did not come.

Brendan, desperate for someone to swap spots with him so he could sleep, rested his head in the palm of his hand, forcing himself to continually survey a moribund landscape. He figured it two in the morning.

He saw nothing.

But that sound. He heard something. He knew it.

Brendan closed his eyes to concentrate on the sound—it seemed somewhat near—a rustling, shifting noise of discomfort. But he saw nothing.

Closing his eyes felt good, relaxing.

I'll just rest 'em a little,
he thought.

Soon the contented feeling of encroaching sleep enveloped him and he disregarded the sound of fingers clawing over dirt toward the closed shutters.