Twenty years ago I killed a woman.
A woman and her unborn baby.
No, I did not literally squeeze the life from her, my hands around her slim neck.
Nor did I send a hot bullet on its deadly path through her voluptuous body.
But I killed her all the same.
And her unborn child.
Twenty years have gone by, but this terrible knowledge weaves its constant circular path through my brain like a judgmental worm.
I am waiting for my own death, but first must somehow atone.
How does a person atone to the dead?
Until I find that out, I wander the country, waiting for either an answer or a sign to give up my quest and my own life.
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I have somehow made my way to Dodge City, Kansas after aimlessly riding the meat grinder of a stage from Saint Louis. When it stopped , the dust roiled up in thick clouds, making me cough and sneeze. With no other thought, I opened the door, stepped down and caught my battered carpetbag that was suddenly thrown down, saw the Long Branch saloon and headed over.
I do not drink. Not since my murders. I want to punish myself, and my constant thirsty craving is an exquisite pain as I sit silently watching others partake.
Then I see her.
The shock makes me gasp out loud before the blood rushes from my head, making me dizzy. I put my head down for a few moments with my eyes closed, then cautiously look up again.
She is still there, over by the bar talking and laughing with a big, craggy-faced barkeep.
Mary.
No one else could have that glorious shade of red hair, like the brightest glowing sunrise. And those bluest-of-blue eyes that a man could happily drown in.
Mary.
I buried her myself, but there she is somehow, with that same beautiful heart-shaped face, full lips, and cheekbones like no others. I remember the soft, finely freckled creamy skin. The hourglass figure. The voice like the low lull of music.
Mary.
As I unabashedly stare, I feel a strange, almost forgotten spark of something flare up inside. Happiness. I can atone for my terrible deeds. I can finally atone.
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"Miss Kitty?"
"Yes Sam?" She looked up from the order sheet on the bar top and focused her full attention on her close friend and head barkeep.
"Uh, did you notice that strange, thin fella in the back staring at you? Of course, any man is apt to stare at you the first time he sees you, but his one looks like he knows you. Or is trying to memorize you." Sam's dark eyes left her face and went back to studying the tall, thin man dressed all in dusty black still staring at Miss Kitty. Sam was a big, gentle man by nature, but as protective as a dangerous watch dog when it came to this woman who was his most cherished friend. She had saved him by hiring him when no one else would, shown him kindness, respect, and love, and he would unhesitatingly give his life to save hers.
"I see him, Sam. There IS something off or odd about him, isn't there? He reminds me of that sad-eyed, lost soul of a preacher who came through her a few years ago. The one Matt saved from a big bully determined to beat him to death. It was before your time here, Sam, but he certainly was a different sort of man. Not dangerous, though. And this one looks pretty harmless, too." With a quick smile at her friend's worried face, she turned her attention back to the order list. "Sam, do we really need so much rye whiskey already?" Catching some movement from the corner of her left eye, she glanced over at the back table and saw that the strange man was gone.
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Culver Whitlock had quietly slipped out of the back door of the Long Branch and gone back to his shabby room at the Poppy Hotel to think. Sitting on the sagging bed, springs squeaking in protest, he put his head in his long-fingered hands, covering his unsettling bright, yellow-green eyes.
"I buried her."
"I buried her and I know she is dead."
Raising his head and looking up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes, he gathered his conflicting thoughts and began to speak aloud, as he often did, rarely sharing his words with others.
"That woman in the saloon can NOT be Mary, but she reminds me of her so much. More by the way she stands and wears her hair, maybe. Yes, this woman is taller, and more shapely, but there is just something about her."
Now his mind spiraled down into the deep darkness of a rarely visited, buried memory. Memory of what he had done, and what he had not done. How "his" Mary had never been his. He had loved her with a frightening obsession that had helped turn her away from him and towards big, blond, handsome Tom Benson. Tom swept Mary up with his easy laugh and carefree ways.
"She was a few months along with their baby, about to marry Tom, as she told me, when I killed them all. I didn't actually put my hands on them, but I may as well have." Now Whitlock wanted a drink more than he ever had, and he savored the deprivation before letting the next pain-filled words out.
"When nine-year-old Susie White was murdered, I was the one who found her twisted body in the alley, and without any thought, snatched up her rag doll and one of her green hair ribbons. Then I hurried to Tom's room at his boarding house, sneaked in through the open window, and stuffed the evidence under his mattress, careful to leave the end of the ribbon hanging out."
Taking in a shuddering breath, the thin, sallow man swallowed hard, ran his hand through his long, straight black hair, and said what he needed to say, even if no one else was listening.
"That blood-thirsty town didn't even give Tom a trial once the child's doll and ribbon were found. He was strung up that night, and I found Mary's body floating in Webster Pond early the next morning."
A wracking sob came out, like the wail of an animal with its foot caught in a trap.
"But NOW, NOW, I have been sent a sign. This special woman will be my Mary, and I will finally be able to ATONE, but I must wait for the perfect moment!'
To be continued.