In Pace Requiescat

In Pace Requiescat
A Gunsmoke Story

By Wendy and AmandaChapter Three: Dissever My Soul

The day had faded to dusk and the rain was just beginning to fall by the time Kitty was hauled roughly from the wagon, her captor unconcerned when her nightgown caught on a nail and ripped. Before them stood a modest house, decay slanting it grotesquely so that it looked almost as if it had suffered a stroke. He tugged her up the few, jagged steps to the porch.

"What do you want from me?" she asked.

Instead of answering her, he pushed open the door, not even flinching at the mournful moan of neglected hinges. Cobwebs clung to the scarred wood like skeletal fingers. The heavy feeling of doom weighed down the thick air. In contrast, almost jauntily, he ushered her in, bowing like a gallant gentleman welcoming his lady. "I apologize for the disarray, Annabel."

"Annabel? What the – "

"But I trust you will find the accommodations further inside to be satisfactory."

He could not have been talking about the room they were in, because it appeared as if the house had been vacant for some time. He kicked the rug that lay in front of the fireplace and a huge cloud of dust billowed up, dragging air from their lungs in harsh coughs. Kitty was surprised to see what looked like a trap door.

"I hope you like the dark. It's so peaceful." He smiled when he bent down to retrieve the handle. The door creaked as he pulled upwards, releasing a damp, musty odor; then he made an ushering sweep with his gun hand.

"I'm not going down there!" The sound of Kitty's voice was not as forceful as she had hoped, but it was enough to rile her kidnapper enough that he dropped the door. It slammed shut with a loud thud and caused another cloud of dust to rise. The noise reverberated through the house and the walls wailed with the sudden movement.

"But you have to, don't you see? How else can we be together, my dear Annabel?"

"Look, Mister," Kitty spat, "I am not Annabel, and we will never be together."

He grabbed Kitty's left arm, jerked her up out of the chair, and pushed her over to the cellar door, which he lifted again. The damp odor from below only intensified.

"I wouldn't want to have to push you. It's a long way down and the fall might disfigure that lovely face."

He truly was mad, she realized, common sense urging her not to tempt him. As she descended, the air thickened with mold and dampness, making it more difficult to breathe. She counted twenty-three steps and decided she was about twenty feet beneath the house, just about the same distance as the cellar in the Long Branch. Kitty could make out a small light at the end of a narrow passageway. She walked toward it to find it opened to a tiny room that reminded her of that dugout Chester he had built years ago for his bride-to-be. There was a small kerosene lamp, though the oil was low, and a cot with a pillow and blanket. She spun around when Barton whispered to her.

"I do hope you are comfortable here." As he turned to leave, Kitty saw the pile of bricks and bucket of mortar in the corner of the room. Her stomach flip-flopped with the implication.

"You can't leave me down here," she pleaded. "I don't have anything to eat or drink."

"You won't need anything," he assured her. "Before long, you won't need anything, at all."

The door thudded shut, the lock engaging with an echoing clang. Falling against the door, she pounded on it furiously. "Let me out of here! Please!"

When there was no reply, she turned and faced her surroundings. Forcing calm, she stumbled over to the cot and collapsed, drawing up her knees, wrapping her arms around them, and leaning her smooth cheek on the cool wall. As the tears cascaded down her face, she could only pray that Matt would find her. Sleep was the last thing on her mind. As she contemplated her predicament, her thoughts centered on staying focused and not letting the fear that lay just beneath her usual brave façade surface in the presence of the madman who held her.

Everyone in Dodge would know she was missing by now, both of them for that matter. She wondered how the night was progressing at the Long Branch. Wednesday was not one of the busier nights of the week. She had a shipment coming in on Friday and definitely needed to be there when it arrived. She was a stickler for making sure that the shipment matched the invoice. There were bullet holes that needed fixing, tables and chairs that were in need of repair, and the storeroom needed to be straightened up before the shipment arrived. Hopefully, Sam had taken care of the bullet holes in the ceiling before the rain had begun to fall. She smiled for just a brief moment as she tried to picture a saloon full of cowboys dodging pots and pans that were collecting water dripping from above.

A loud boom above her jerked her out of the nostalgic reverie and back to reality. The smile disappeared when the realization of her situation hit her. She wasn't at the Long Branch. She wasn't watching Sam meander around the room with his fiddle as Clem poured shot after shot of rye whiskey into seemingly bottomless glasses. She was locked in a storm cellar, unable to communicate with the outside world. Fear choked her. Shocked to find her body shaking, she fought to steady herself, wondering how long she had until Barton fulfilled the crazed game he was playing. She could only hope Matt would figure it out before she became the subject of a macabre piece of literature herself.

Thunder rolled across the skies above her echoing the storm brewing inside her soul. Images flashed before her eyes much the way she imagined bolts of lightening were streaking across the sky tonight, illuminating the world below them. She closed her eyes to watch as the scenes play in her mind. If it ended tonight, in this room, it had been a good life. The last vision she had before sleep staked claim to her body was a pair of sky-blue eyes that regarded her with more love than she had even known in her life. As she drifted off, resolve fortified her. It would not end tonight. She would see those blue eyes again.

XXXXX

It was still dark when Matt's thoughts coalesced once more into consciousness. A good thing, too, he figured. As much as his head pounded, much more light would have been unbearable. He blinked a couple of times, letting his eyes adjust enough to distinguish the dim surroundings, and found himself on his side, arms and ankles still bound. With a few grunts, he managed to push himself up to a sitting position on the dirt floor, his eyes snapping shut again at the renewed pain behind them. Just by the coolness of the air, he discerned that he was underground; a cellar, perhaps, or an icehouse.

"I would remain still if I were you."

Squinting carefully, he let his eyes adjust to the dim light, making out a cot and a lamp. It didn't appear as if the cot was anywhere near long enough for his expansive frame; he hoped he wouldn't be here long enough to find out how well it slept.

"Where am I?" he rasped, immediately wishing he hadn't. The screaming pain behind his eyes made its presence known once again.

"Now, now, Fortunato. Let us not rush things. I will supply you with information you need and you, in turn, will supply me with information I require."

"What do you want, Barton?"

Fury distorted the face. "I told you, it's Montressor." Clenching his fists, visibly fighting for control, he continued, "First, perhaps I should inquire as to just how close you and my dear Annabel Lee are."

Matt's voice flattened. "None of your business."

"Oh, but it is. It most certainly is. You see, my actions depend upon that information."

The Marshal studied him closely, his eyes calculating. "We're just friends," he shared.

Barton clicked his tongue in disappointment. "That's a lie. I've seen how you look at her. No, I'd say you're much more than friends. I had hoped you would be honest with me, Fortunato. See, now I will have to keep her with me. I can't abandon her to a prevaricator, now, can I?"

Matt didn't answer right away. He simply stared at Barton with a coldness usually reserved for the hard-nosed criminals he encountered. "What have you done with her?" the Marshal ground out finally, his vision almost red with fury over what might have happened to Kitty, or what might happen to her in the near future. His blood began to boil, but he knew better than to tempt this madman.

Barton turned to leave but looked over his shoulder at his prisoner. "At least you don't pretend to know Amontillado from Sherry."

"What?"

But before he received a response, the door slammed shut on his dungeon cell, leaving him on the ground, bound hand and ankle. Forcing calmness he didn't feel, he began to replay the recent events in his head. He had to get to Kitty before this crazy man did something terrible. But at the moment, he was at a loss as to how he could do that. He didn't even know where she was. The real storm had just begun; he could hear the rumble of thunder and the angry whipping of the wind above. And, more importantly, he could feel them shaking the very foundation of the house, knowing full well and with distinct certainty that if anything happened to Kitty, it would shake the very foundation of his soul.

XXXXX

Kitty awoke with a start to the sound of the cell door opening. Barton entered with a cloth-draped tray and her pussy-willow dress. She didn't know how long she'd been asleep, but the crick in her neck told her it was longer than a few minutes. The lamp was still burning. However she noticed that there couldn't be more than a few hours worth of oil left in it.

"I've brought you some breakfast. I do hope you like it. And here's something else for you to wear, and a lovely shroud it is." The man set the tray on the table, laid the dress on the bed, and turned to leave.

Kitty shuddered. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing from you, my dear. I just want you. And now I have you."

"Look, if it's money you want, I can give you ten thousand dollars in cash as soon as the bank opens tomorrow. Just don't hurt him."

"Him? You're not worried about yourself?"

She glared at him.

After a moment, he sighed. "Well, you are more honest and cooperative than I have given you credit for, but you have misinterpreted my motives. May I ask you something?"

"Ask me something?" she repeated, incredulous. Here she was, his captive, and he was requesting?

He took her answer as permission. "Just how well do you and Fortunato know each other?"

"Fortunato?"

A shadow of irritation crossed his face. "The Marshal," he supplied sharply.

She answered automatically, their usual response to that question. "Matt and I are very good friends."

Barton inhaled deeply. "Oh, Annabel, how will we ever be eternal lovers if you aren't honest with me?"

"Lovers!" Kitty exclaimed. "You can go to hell, Mister, if you think that's ever gonna happen!"

But he was not perturbed by her denial. "We will be -- together -- forever, my dear."

"Go to hell!"

A frown drew down his brow. "I will ask you again, how well do you and Fortunato know each other?"

"Like I said, we're just good friends."

"Do you give all of your friends free drinks?" he challenged.

"Sometimes I do," she retorted. "My friends and I barter a lot with each other. I give Louie shots for straightening up the storeroom. I give Festus beer for keeping my mare brushed and shod. I gave Matt a beer in exchange for fixing the door in my office. Remember?"

"And what does he fix in your room after closing time? How do you pay him for that?"

Kitty clenched her fist to keep from striking him for that comment. At the same time, his knowledge frightened her. He knew more than some of the people who had actually lived in Dodge for years. Somehow, she had to distract him, turn him from his goal – at least long enough for her to try to figure out what was really going on.

Pasting a smile on her lips and changing the subject, she asked, "Could you tell me what time it is?"

Barton cocked his head. "It's a little after sunrise."

"Do you know how long I'll be down here?" she asked, putting on her best poker face and a bit of timidity into her voice. "The oil in the lamp here is getting kind of low and I'm a little scared of the dark."

"Darkness is not to be feared, but rather embraced. It hides things that shouldn't be in the open. It can hide things that are offensive." With a nod toward the forgotten tray, he said, "Now, eat your breakfast before it's too cold. I made everything especially for you, as you like it."

The kind words did nothing to re-assure her.

As he paused at the door, he added, "I hope Fortunato is more cooperative the next time we meet."

This last comment caught Kitty off-guard, and her blood pounded through her veins. "Matt?"

Matt was here, but what had Barton done to him? Suddenly not very hungry, she nevertheless removed the cloth and took note of the eggs, bacon, and toast on the tray, another shudder running through her. This madman obviously knew what she liked, a terrifying thought. How long had he been watching her? A gleam of silver caught her eye and she stared at her fork, an idea forming quickly. She had once seen what a fork could do, and it wasn't very pretty. Sneaking it under the mattress of the cot, she fell back against the wall. Tugging the dress into her lap, she began to dabble with the sequins on it as her thoughts returned to Matt. He would find her. She knew he would.

But, from what Barton had said, she was afraid that Matt wasn't in any position, or – Heaven forbid – condition to be searching.

XXXXX

Matt Dillon still sat on the floor, working in vain to ignore the throbbing in his head, when the door opened again. Barton entered, carrying a tray and set it on the floor next to him. He held a gun in his other hand, pointing it directly at the Marshal's heart.

"I'm going to remove your hand shackles so you can eat, but if you try anything foolish, I will be forced to fire. Nothing too serious, of course, but it won't be too comfortable. And, you won't be much help for Annabel."

"Don't call her that," Matt demanded.

Barton bent down and untied the marshal's hands, putting the rope in his pocket. "Now, I hope you enjoy your breakfast. I believe it will be to your liking."

"What have done with Kitty?" he ground out.

"Annabel is just fine," he said, and his face softened suddenly, his voice mellowed as he quoted:

"And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."

Eyes narrowing, Matt asked, "What is that supposed to mean?"

But Barton merely smiled strangely and shook his head. His exit was just as silent. Sitting on the floor, Matt closed his eyes as thoughts of Kitty raced through his mind. Dear God, if this maniac had her, please make her be nearby, make her close enough so that he could save her. And he would, he vowed. He had to.

TBC