Sheriff Coffee said Frank Mitchel was dead.
Adam was the one who killed him— Coffee said that too. When Ben pressed him for more information, questioning how he could be so certain of such a thing, Coffee looked upon Ben and was slow to reply.
"Adam turned himself in," he said finally. "He owned up to it, Ben. I didn't want to believe it, myself. I know he's been havin' difficulties as of late. Problems with his mind and such. I wanted to believe it was some story he had made up. But judging by the looks of him, I couldn't. He's covered in blood that isn't his own, and when I asked him to lead me to Mitchel's body, he did. Adam knew exactly where to find him, even turned over the knife he used to cut the man's throat."
Even with these words, Ben was hesitant to believe the truth.
Time seemed to slow down during the ride into town. The winter air was frigid and cold, biting, and freezing Ben's sparsely exposed skin; it was the most agonizing trip Ben could ever remember enduring for a multitude of reasons. Their pace and the snow, the prolonged silence of the men riding in his company, Hoss and Joe and Sheriff Coffee, and truth that echoed maddingly in the depths of his mind. Prompted by what Kane told him in his dream, he thought about ghosts and games, the Silver Dollar, and the true identity of who Adam saw. He knew now what he supposed he should have known a long time ago.
When they arrived at the jail, Ben found Doc Martin sitting with Adam, not inside the cell which contained him rather on a chair next to the exterior of the bars. Contrary to the reason which had prompted their visit, it was a comforting sight. Ben was grateful both the sheriff and the doctor had cared enough to ensure Adam wasn't left alone.
"Hello, Ben," Martin greeted quietly, his face set in an indecipherable mask. "Adam and I just had quite the conversation."
"He spoke to you?" Hoss asked. Standing next to his father, his surprise was clear.
"He did," Martin affirmed.
"What did he say?" Little Joe pressed skeptically.
Shaking his head, Martin didn't answer the question as he stood and expelled a hearty sigh.
"I'd like to be alone with my son," Ben said.
Sheriff Coffee looked at Doc Martin whose attention did not waver from Ben.
"Good," Martin said. "I believe the two of you have a lot to discuss." He looked at Adam. "I will return," he promised. "I think this is far from over, despite what you believe."
Ben was taken aback by the assurance; given recent history, he couldn't conceive of Adam speaking to anyone other than himself. Of course, he couldn't conceive of Adam killing anyone either, so maybe his expectations of his son were drastically lower than they should have been.
"Pa," Hoss said. "I think me and Joe should stay."
"I want you both to leave too," Ben instructed, his eyes locked on his eldest son behind the steel bars.
"But, Pa," Joe protested.
"I mean it," Ben said firmly, his tone leaving no room for further disagreement. Looking at Coffee, he nodded at the jail cell. "I want in there. I don't care if you lock us both in, but I want to be next to my son when I speak to him."
"Alright," Coffee said. Unlocking the door, he pulled it open slightly. "I suppose I can trust you to do the right thing," he added, looking Ben up and down before following the others out of the room.
Thudding heavily against the floorboards the soles of Ben's boots seemed to echo around the room as he approached his son.
Sitting on the side of the cot in the very back of the jail cell, Adam was shaking, his skin glistening with sweat and blood. For a moment, Ben thought the action was compulsive and maniacal, driven by the fear he had become so accustomed to seeing his son display. Then he realized it wasn't fear making Adam's body quiver and shake. It was the temperature of the room.
Missing his jacket, Adam's shirt was marred by sporadic bloodstains. Some small and others large, they were all still wet, prevented from drying by the bitter cold seeping in from the bar-covered window. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, pushed back to expose his bloodstained hands. Balls of packed snow still clung to the bottom of his pant-legs; warmed slightly by the heat of the distant fire contained in the fireplace beyond the cell, they melted at a leisurely pace to form a small puddle collecting around the soles of his boots.
His boots, Ben snorted woefully. Adam may have been without a jacket but at least he had put on boots. He kept his clothes on too—which was an odd thing to find reassurance in. It was the first time in a long time such a thing had happened. It was the first time in a long time for a lot of things, the most glaring of which was Adam venturing outside of the safety of their home and property. He had risen, dressed, and left on his own. He had gone to the timber camp and now he was in town; it was a journey he had completed alone.
Well, maybe not completely alone if the Kane in Ben's dreams was to be believed. And he was. Looking at Adam, Ben knew that, because this Adam—despite the blood staining his hands and clothes and the chill consuming his body—he was decidedly different from the one he had been the day before.
Looking directly at his father, Adam's eyes were no longer clouded with apprehension, anxiety, and fear; they glistened with acceptance and resolution and a slight hint of sadness. He looked so much like the son Ben knew and missed that he hesitated in place, mournfully assessing his son from mere paces away. It was overwhelming to look at him now, to see in Adam's face and eyes a version of his son he wanted so badly so see again and be forced to reconcile this want—this need—with the blood on his clothes and hands. Red and accusing, it declared a new truth, one which would not—could not—be ignored.
Frank Marshal was dead. Adam had killed him and for what reason Ben didn't know. What difference did it make? Dead was dead; murder was wrong; and actions always came with consequences. It was almost too much to think about—and see. Heart clenching in his chest, Ben was overwhelmed by grief, fear, and guilt. If he hadn't dreamed of Kane, if he had not been so determined to speak with him, would he have slept light enough to wake when Adam rose from his bed? Would he have been able to stop him from doing what he had done?
Would anything have stopped their lives from becoming what they had?
When his vision became blurry with tears, he turned around and looked at the floor. Taking a moment to clear his throat and regain control of his emotions.
"It's okay to cry," Adam said. "You don't have to hide your emotions from me." Low and even, his voice sounded stronger than it had in months. He sounded normal; he sounded sane. "Jesus, Pa, how long have I been at your side? You don't have to act like I haven't seen you do such a thing before."
Taken aback by the normalcy of Adam's tone and words, Ben had no choice but to look at him again, and when he did, he found Adam's gaze did not waver from his own. For the first time in months Adam was confident enough to look him in the eye without coaxing or prompt. His expression was set in a mask of calm determination. He was still thin, but save for the blood, everything about Adam suddenly felt so certain, so familiar, despite knowledge of what he had done. This horrifying, brutal, violent unpredictable thing. Adam had killed Mitchel, there was no question about that, but his appearance did beg another. It was almost as though a veil of darkness had been suddenly lifted, the cloud that had been rendering Adam so incapable of functioning properly had dispersed, leaving him inexplicably whole again.
"You sound..." Ben struggled for words. His son took a man's life. How could that possibly leave him better rather than worse? "...You look..."
"Different? Better?" Adam asked. "Yeah, I know."
He sounded so much like he was supposed to that Ben almost sank to his knees, first because of the relief he felt, then because of the weight of knowing what Adam had done to Mitchel. He had killed a man and now he was in jail, patiently awaiting what would come next. There would be a request made for the presence of a circuit judge, a trial and a verdict, and gallows built for all to see. There was no denying it, and there was no way out. Dead was dead; murder was wrong; and Adam's actions were punishable by law, tall gallows, and carefully braided rope.
That's gonna be me out there, Adam had whispered breathlessly as he watched Obadiah Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth. At the time, it had been an outrageous declaration, born from confusion and misplaced guilt. Now, however, the memory of the words seemed to be something else entirely. A prophetic statement. A premonition Adam had experienced months ago.
Ben's stomach violently turned. He was certain he was going to be sick. His knees threatened to give out beneath him, but he forced himself to remain upright. He couldn't fall on the ground now; if he did, he would never be able to summon enough strength to get up.
"It's okay to be disappointed," Adam said, his assurance sounding rehearsed.
Given recent history, it was odd to hear such a levelheaded response. Ben had become accustomed to taking care of him, of reassuring and comforting him, it felt foreign for Adam to be offering condolences or for Ben to accept them.
"It's okay to be upset about what I did," Adam said.
"What you did," Ben repeated numbly, the words feeling so wrong as they rolled off his tongue. "Son, do you understand what you did?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why you did it?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me," Ben implored. "Help me understand."
Pursing his lips firmly, Adam hesitated for a moment, then clasped his hands in front of him and looked at the wet floorboards at his feet. "I killed Frank Mitchel."
"Why?"
Lifting his hands in the air, Adam opened his mouth to voice a reply that seemed destined to never come.
"Did he seek you out?" Ben asked when he grew tired of waiting. "Did he show up at the house looking for you?"
"No."
"Did he threaten you?"
"No."
"Did he hurt you?"
"No."
"Then why, Adam?"
Again, Adam hesitated.
"Tell me the truth," Ben said. "Say it now, because, given the circumstances, you may not be allotted another chance."
"I want to," Adam said softly. "But…"
"You're afraid."
Adam shook his head. "No. I was, but I'm not anymore."
"What could possibly be stopping you then?"
Eyes roaming the small jail cell, Adam didn't reply. Ben wondered if he was looking for something—or someone, rather. He wondered if the ghost Kane had alluded to was in the room, carefully watching them and controlling Adam's willingness to speak. It was then, Ben knew it was time to address what he knew—the conclusion Kane had prompted him to reason in his dream. It was time to stand beside his son in a fight they seemed so destined to lose. He should have known the truth long before now. As Kane had said, he had the clues—all along he had—he just couldn't seem to connect one behavior or event to another, putting them together to form a clear understanding of what was going on. He hadn't known before, but he knew now, and it was knowledge he would share in effort to finally help and comfort his son.
"Is Ross stopping you?" Ben asked simply. Gaze snapping to his own, the sheer surprise in Adam's eyes declared his father's suspicion as truth. "Ross is who you see," he added. "He's who you've seen all along. His ghost was haunting you long before you went to Eastgate."
"He was," Adam carefully whispered.
"He isn't anymore?"
Again, Adam's gaze roamed the room. "I don't think so..." he said. "Unless... unless he's decided upon a new game."
"Game?"
Adam dismissed the question with a shake of his head. "I don't see him, Pa. I think he's gone."
"You think or you know?" Ben challenged.
"I can't know anything for sure."
Given the dire circumstances, it was not a satisfactory response. "When was the last time you saw him?"
"It's been a while."
"Days? Hours? Minutes?"
"Hours. I haven't seen him since..." Cringing painfully, Adam abandoned his disclosure.
"Since when?" Ben pressed.
"Since after I killed Mitchel."
"He wanted you to kill Mitchel." It wasn't a question, Adam nodded. "Why?"
"Because…" Adam began, then stopped. He wasn't so much hesitant to speak as overly thoughtful, struggling to properly explain the inexplicable.
"Why, Adam?" Ben demanded. The question was the fiercest he had posed to his son in a while. He wouldn't tolerate it remaining unanswered. There was little point in not speaking the truth now.
"Because," Adam said again, expelling the word with a heavy sigh. "Because… nobody knows the truth of what happened, so nobody could hold Frank responsible for what he did. Pa, this whole-time people have believed that Ross went crazy, that there was no explanation for what he did or why. People think they know what Ross did, but they don't know. Not really."
"And you do."
"Of course, I do. Ross made sure of it. He told me the truth, Pa. He said it over and over again. He made sure I knew, so I would never forget."
"What is this truth?"
"Ross wasn't sane when he died. We all saw examples of that in his behavior toward the end. He changed. The truth changed him because it wasn't something he could share. It was a secret; it was a heavy burden he was forced to carry. It warped his perception, broke his heart, and crushed his soul. It was too much for him. The pain he felt became too much and it changed him. It made him spiteful and violent. It made him forget who he was, what he should have been able to do."
"And what is that?"
"He should have been able to protect Del. He should have known better than to place his trust in a man who wasn't who he seemed to be."
"Frank Mitchel wasn't who he seemed to be," Ben said simply. It was an easy enough deduction, Mitchel the most glaring link between Adam and his deceased friends.
"Ross trusted him; he trusted him with the things he held most dear. Frank betrayed that trust, and worse than that, he did it in a way that he knew neither Ross nor Del would ever want to hold him responsible for."
"Will you please say the truth outright—?"
"Frank attacked Del."
"What?"
"He forced himself on her, Pa."
"When?" Ben probed, his stomach turning with renewed force.
Adam shook his head. "Does that really matter now?"
"Considering Mitchel is dead I would say the reason why is quite important given the circumstances."
"It was a month or two before Ross pulled his gun on me, before everything he and Del had begun to really fall apart."
"Did Ross tell you this?"
"No... Del did."
"Before she died."
"No... after."
"Son?"
"I see them both," Adam admitted softly. "They both linger, reaching out to me, making me listen to their secrets and regrets, their fury and resentment toward the living. They're not like they were when they were alive, neither one of them are. They're evil, frightening, and cruel and dangerous. They will do anything to get their way."
"And their way was seeing Frank Mitchel dead."
"No... That was Ross's way. Del's is something else entirely. It's impossible to satisfy them both," Adam said sadly. "It's foolish to even try."
Leaning forward, Adam planted his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together in front of him. He was still shaking from the cold, his gaze frozen on the blood staining his hands.
Ben felt suddenly remiss, neglectful of his son's most obvious needs. Striding to the cot, he grabbed a blanket which lay at the foot, unfolded it, and wrapped it tightly around his son's shoulders. It wasn't enough to chase the chill from Adam's body and warm him but at least it was something. Sitting next to his son, he leaned forward, unconsciously copying Adam's posture while pressing their knees tightly together. He knew the physical contact wasn't enough to soothe either of them, but at least it was something.
"You did try to satisfy them both," Ben asked softly. "Didn't you? Even in death, you tried to help them, because that's who you are. It's what you do. Is that why Frank is dead?"
Adam inhaled a deep, hissing breath. "I didn't want to do it, Pa," he whispered, exhaling the words with his breath. "I need you to know that. If I would have had a choice, I wouldn't have done what I did."
"How far back does this go? How long have you been making decisions where you felt like you had no other choice?"
"A while. It seems like forever since I've done anything by my own volition."
Ben wouldn't disagree. How long had it been since Adam made a decision solely based on his own needs and desires? He was hard-pressed to recall an example. But he recalled other things, things he had heard from others and not the son who sat before him. "Hoss told me about the cliff; Joe told me about your nightmares; and Kane told me it wasn't him you see."
"He told you about Ross?"
"You should have told me."
"I tried," Adam admitted. "That's why I came back into the house before I left for Eastgate. I wanted to tell you then, but I just couldn't. I knew you were nervous about that trip. What you didn't know was that I was too. I didn't want to go. I had to."
"Why?"
"Because it wasn't my choice anymore. I had to go into that desert. I had to find Kane."
"For what reason?" Ben demanded deeply. Though the question sounded harsher than he intended, he felt no remorse; he made no apology for his firmness. He was both baffled and disgusted that his son would ever seek out the demon of his dreams.
"Help," Adam said. "I wanted—needed—his help."
"You should have come to me for help."
"I couldn't."
"You could have, you didn't. You were having trouble after Ross and Del's deaths, that much was obvious to anyone around you. You were struggling; you were fighting something. All this time I thought it was pain, regret, and guilt because of how things ended. But now I think—in fact, I'm sure I know—it wasn't just those things. It was something else too. I thought you were angry at me; first because I failed to protect you from having to take the life of your best friend, then later because I didn't know how to help you with your grief. I was too soft on you and then I was too hard; you needed me to be somewhere in the middle, firmly holding you close and in place when all you wanted was to push me away and run."
"It wouldn't have changed anything."
Ben didn't agree. "It would have changed everything. When did this begin? When was the first time you saw Ross and Del after they died?"
Taking deep breath, Adam held it, his pregnant pause only serving to reawaken Ben's worry.
"When Adam?" he prompted, his voice low.
Adam exhaled, expelling the breath in a low groan. "It wasn't long after we buried them," he admitted, his voice hauntingly quiet.
It was dark and quiet; I woke up in the middle of one night so convinced that I was still stuck in a dream. I saw Ross. He looked like he did the last time I saw him but different too. I didn't…
Del was in my bedroom, standing next to my bed. She looked so much like she did when she was alive but different too. I didn't… I thought it was a dream—a nightmare, really. He said things to me I wish I never would have heard. He told me the truth about Del and Mitchel and a lot of other things. With these words he told me what made him change so drastically before he died."
"And what was that?"
"Frank laid with Del."
"So, you said."
"He left her with child."
Ben was repulsed. "What?"
"Del was frightened and ashamed; it took everything for her to tell Ross what happened, and then it took a little more to convince him not to go to the sheriff. She didn't want anyone to know what happened; she wanted to forget it instead. When she realized she was with child, she knew immediately it wasn't Ross's. When she told him, Ross went mad over it, Pa. Without a baby, he may have been able to move on; but he couldn't do that if he was forced to raise a child that was proof of the shameful interaction. It weighed on him, until he couldn't think straight. He couldn't accept the truth."
"Ross began to blame Del for her condition," Ben said. "That's why he was cruel to her toward the end. But why did she involve you?"
"She needed somebody to protect her. She thought I could help them both." Adam snorted forlornly. "Even in death, she still thinks that, though she has different ways of asking now."
"What kind of ways?"
Adam shook his head. "I wanted to tell you," he repeated. "Believe me, Pa. When I started seeing them, when they began haunting me, I wanted to tell you. I just…" he shrugged helplessly. "... couldn't seem to get the words to come out of my mouth. Ross didn't want me to talk. He had ways of keeping me quiet, and so did Del."
"And now?" Ben asked. "What's changed to allow you to speak so freely?"
"Mitchel is dead. Ross finally got his way."
"What about Del? Or Kane?"
"Del can't have what she wants," Adam said cryptically. "And Kane will have what I promised him soon enough."
"What about you? What do you want?"
"Me? There's no room for what I want in any of this, not anymore. I murdered a man. I committed a crime, and I owned up to it. I'm guilty, so I'll hang. No man is above the law, no matter the circumstances that led him to commit his crimes."
It was the most Adam-like statement Ben had heard in a while, still it prompted no joy or relief. Despite everything, Adam's moral compass hadn't shifted, and his beliefs hadn't changed. Things were right or they were wrong; actions were acceptable or punishable. He had done wrong, and he was accepting the consequences.
"This is what you want," Ben whispered sadly. "You may not have wanted to kill Mitchel, but you turned yourself in."
"I'm tired. I want this to be over. I don't think I care what it takes to end it, not anymore."
"I care," Ben whispered. It was a quiet statement of resolve that was ignored by his son.
Extending his arm, Ben cupped the back of Adam's neck, then pulled him close to his side. Holding his son in a tight half-hug, Ben tried to ignore how Adam didn't reciprocate the action. How different he felt in comparison to how he had been in recent weeks. He couldn't help likening this moment to the interpretations of before and after only to find his definition of before and after had changed.
Before Mitchel's death Adam was fearful and hesitant. After he was somber and resolute about what he had decided would happen next. He had done wrong, and he was determined to take responsibility for it. It was an admirable decision though Ben struggled to see it as such.
There had to be a way out of this; there had to be some silver lining of hope, some defense that could acquit Adam of his crime. He wasn't justifying what his son had done but Adam wasn't the only guilty party. Frank Mitchel had done wrong too. There had to be some way to prove it. There had to be some fight they could wage. There had to be something he could do; there had to be some way he could hold on to Adam. He had to hold on to him; he had promised he would never let go.
Eventually, though, he had to let go, when Sheriff Coffee entered the room and approached the jail cell once more. "Ben," he said with a nod. "Doc and me have been talkin' and now we need to talk to you."
Glancing between Adam and Sheriff Coffee, Ben hesitated, unwilling to leave his son's side. "Can't we speak in here?"
"Best not," Coffee said. "Given the circumstances, I think we ought to speak in private."
"It's okay, Pa," Adam said. "I'll be fine by myself."
"Except you ain't gonna be by yourself," Hoss said as he and Joe emerged from behind Sheriff Coffee. "It's alright, Pa. Joe and me are gonna sit with our older brother here, while you and Roy and Doc do your talkin'."
Ushering Ben up and off the cot, Hoss took his father's place and Joe sat on the opposite side of his oldest brother.
"It's okay, Pa," Joe said. "We're not going to leave him. Adam isn't going to be alone ever again."
"You do your talkin'," Hoss said. "We'll all be waiting here when you get done."
Despite his son's assurances, Ben still hesitated. Standing in place, he looked upon his sons as they sat next to each other, trying hard to memorize the moment, dreadfully wondering if it was the last time he would ever see such a thing.
