Slowly, surely, Mehta forced the pistol from Euclid’s other hand. Euclid’s soft grip was easily overcome. “That’s mine! I’m within my rights to kill Mutt. He was my property!”
Mehta could feel the surge within him. His blood continued to pulse with rage and anger. There was no stopping him now—no law, no contract. Justice must be done.
With his other hand, Mehta grabbed Euclid by the neck, silencing him and suffocating him at the same time. Then he threw him down on the ground, smothering a patch of rosemary.
Mehta looked at the pistol in his other hand, in his mind’s eye connecting form to function. He slowly arced his hand behind his head and then came down with a precise blow, hammering the butt of the pistol into Euclid’s face. Then, with the discipline and stamina of a practiced carpenter, he repeated the action, again and again, until Euclid’s face had caved in and his head had turned to a bloody pulp.
THE WANDERER
Pierre was the first to notice the wanderer’s hut. He grabbed Duncan’s arm and pointed avidly at a spiral of smoke through the trees. “Should we all go, or just you and me?” he asked in French.
Duncan put his hand up and turned to assess the rest of their party. The five other men were well bundled, wearing large parkas and oversized mitts, with scarves draped around their faces. They all had walking sticks that were puncturing the snow beside them. Two of them leaned on these as a crutch as they waited.
It was probably best to bring the lot of them, to have strength in numbers. He couldn’t know if this was a trap set by the people of Clearfield, or if the merc woman knew he was coming. And by the description he’d heard in Clearfield it didn’t sound like this wanderer would be fearful of big parties, or anything else for that matter.
“We all go,” Duncan said in French, “but I do the talking.”
They nodded back at him.
The trail opened up into a meadow spanned by a long wooden fence and covered by islands of dirty snow. Two large dogs came running at them, barking fiercely. They scratched and clawed at the slats of the fence. Duncan held his ground, while his men took a cautious step back. They looked to be some sort of German shepherd sheep dog mix. Spittle flew off sharp incisors as they yapped and snarled.
Beyond the fence and up a small incline was an Old World house than had been gutted, leaving behind only structural beams and a partial roof. Extending out from the roof was a covered pergola, with crates of all kinds stacked underneath. The spiral of smoke came from a deep fire pit that burned in front of it.
The silhouette of a man grew as it approached them slowly across the meadow, rifle in hand.
When closer, Duncan could see the man’s hair was laden with sharp sticks forming a dense mess that looked impossible to untangle. His beard was long and tied off in places with elastics. One of his eyes was an empty socket, dark save for subtle ripples of cartilage.
“What do you want?” the man asked in a husky voice when he was within earshot.
“We seek the wanderer.”
“What for?”
“To ask about a Merchant Merc woman, blonde, and from the south. She may have had a prisoner in tow. We seek their whereabouts.”
“I’m the wanderer,” the man said. He looked down at the dogs. They still hadn’t stopped barking. “They don’t like you,” he said, “and I don’t like the looks of you, either.”
“I can’t help the way we look.”
“You aren’t from Lockhaven, then?” the wanderer asked, scanning their party with his one good eye. Duncan shook his head.
“Syracuse and such?” the wanderer asked.
Duncan again shook his head.
“Did the Alleghenies send you then?”
“No.”
The wanderer looked confused. “What you got to share?”
“We caught a hare this morning. Two of them, in fact. We could share a meal, if you’re inclined to join us.”
The wanderer stared at Duncan icily for a moment, then let out a shrill whistle. The dogs fell silent and ran back up the incline toward the structure, kicking up mud as they went.
“Come in, then,” the wanderer said. “I’m hungry.” He opened the main gate for them, turned his back and began making his way up the incline to the fire pit. They followed.
They used cylindrical cross-sections of cedar trunks as makeshift chairs. Duncan’s men immediately began preparing the two hares for the fire, while the wanderer looked on with interest. The two hounds sat next to the wanderer, occasionally baring their teeth and growling menacingly at Duncan and the others.
“I found out about you in town, in Clearview, but they wouldn’t tell me your real name. How should I address you?” Duncan asked.
“Wanderer has been my name long enough. Parents might not like it, but fuck ’em.”
Duncan nodded slowly.
“And you are what you do,” the wanderer continued. “I wander. I’ve been a thousand miles west and a thousand miles south. Now I mostly wander ‘round these parts, trade with the Alleghenies and such. Nobody else seems to wanna.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“The Allegheny, they don’t like most people.”
“And why do they like you?”
“I’m a song doctor.”
It was probably unimportant, but his curiosity got the better of him. “I’m sorry, I’m not really sure what that is.”
“You know, I sing to them, to help them heal and such.”
“Oh, I see.”
Duncan didn’t want to ask about the merc woman until the wanderer had gained some level of comfort, until they had some level of rapport. But the more questions Duncan asked the more he felt like this man might be damaged in some way. It made him wary.
“I don’t think you do,” said the wanderer.
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t think you see. Or maybe you don’t believe me, like most folks. Most people from far abouts don’t until they see me do it. I’ll show you.” The wanderer stood up and headed for the open structure of the house. He pulled up a trap door and descended into an underground chamber.
His men had prepared spits for the hares and started roasting them while Duncan waited nervously. The two hounds remained, docile but still baring their teeth and drooling, as if they were looking at a rack of lamb through a butcher shop window.
Pierre came to him and whispered in his ear. “Monsieur Duncan, I think you should go piss over there. Gerard saw something interesting.” Pierre gestured to a small depression in the topography just beyond the Old World structure.
Duncan walked cautiously, careful not to rouse the ire of the hounds, making his way over to where Pierre had been pointing. He easily found what Pierre was referring to. Several skulls, some still with flesh and hair, were littered there, half interred in the earth. None of the skulls were identifiable. There was one with black hair. It was possible it belonged to Cecile.
He contained his revulsion and forced himself to urinate nearby, in case the wanderer was watching.
When finished, he walked back to the fire, trying to maintain his composure. Was this wanderer a murderer? Did he kill the merc woman, and maybe Cecile as well?
But it didn’t make much sense. What would be in it for him? And surely this merc woman would know how to defend herself.
Duncan whispered to Pierre, “be ready. If we find out he harmed Cecile, we’ll take him.”
Duncan sat down again, slowly, while staring down the dogs.
The wanderer returned a moment later. He brought with him two bags, a guitar, and a long staff. He placed the staff in a worn-out old footing so it stood upright, and he pulled out a greenish stone and placed it on top, hooking a groove in the stone onto a fork coming out of the staff. Then he sat down and started playing, strumming yellowed fingernails over the strings.