The German (28 page)

His confession came together in my head like electric wires completing a circuit. It was true. All of it. Hugo had gotten the man to confess, and the German’s sick past and his grotesque plan for me erased what little sense I had retained.

I walked forward and took the sock from Hugo’s hand, felt the weight of it hanging like an extension of my arm. The monster on the bed continued to watch me, and I thought I saw that twitch at the corners of his mouth, that near-smile that he’d fought when we’d first removed the blanket from the queer’s face.

The weight of the sock felt good and I swung it, hitting the German’s chest feebly, and he did smile then, and he began muttering in German, and I knew he was calling me a baby and weak. Ben moved in on the other side of the bed, holding a knife of his own and Austin lit a fresh cigarette for the burning. The German’s disdain only emboldened me and my next blow was solid, and the next and the next, and I kept hitting him and Ben scored his arm and Austin burned him until the German again cried out, and Hugo shoved the roll of socks back into his mouth, and on and on it went until he fell silent and stared like a corpse at the ceiling, no longer able to voice or respond to the trauma in any physical way, but we didn’t stop. Not even then. Not even when I felt certain he was dead.

When Uncle Stan Moffat blew his head off with a shotgun, his mama was the one that called Sheriff Tom Rabbit. Tom walked into that bedroom and saw Uncle Stan’s remains draped across that bed with the top of his head opened like the mouth of a volcano – a volcano that had just erupted all over the walls and bed clothes. It was a damned sight. A mother shouldn’t have to see that, and Tom didn’t want to see it, but he’d admit he’d seen worse. Harold Ashton and David Williams were bad in a wholly different way, because Tom could still sense their fear – boys shouldn’t know such fear. But seeing Ernst Lang trussed up on his bed naked and cut with those boys looking down at him their eyes fired up with an ugly, ugly passion like they were looking at their first woman…was about the worst thing he’d ever seen. His gut tumbled and tried to climb on up the back of his throat.

A lot of blood covered the German. His face wore a mask of it, making his eyes look bigger and whiter like a couple of eggs floating in a tomato soup. Ernst’s body quaked uncontrollably.

Those four boys. What in the name of God had they been thinking?

“We got him, Sheriff,” Hugo Jones said proudly. “We got the queer bastard.”

“Let him up,” Tom said. None of the boys moved. They looked at him like he was dancing around the room in a dress, and Tom honestly couldn’t remember if he’d actually spoken the words that first time, so he repeated the order. “Let him up!”

“But he’s the Cowboy. He confessed,” Hugo protested.

“Yeah,” Austin Chitwood added. “He confessed to being a spy and a Nazi and a pervert. He killed Harold and David and Little Lenny.”

He didn’t do as Tom said, though. Tim Randall fled the room and a second later Tom heard the porch door swing out with a squeal, then slam. The sheriff looked back at the German, and those big white eyes were burning, and he understood the Randall boy’s fear. Once Lang was loose, that bull-built bastard would rip those kids’ heads off. How they’d gotten the best of him in the first place, Tom didn’t know, but he’d seen enough violence for one night.

“You boys get out of here,” he said.

“Are you gonna arrest him?” Hugo asked, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly.

“I’m going to arrest
you
, Hugo Jones,” Tom said. “What you’ve done here breaks too many laws for me to list, but you are going to answer for each and every one of them. Now you get out of this house. I’m letting this man loose, and if he has a mind to break your stupid necks, I’m inclined to turn the other way and let him.”

“My pa won’t stand for this.”

“Then you send him to me. Now, get the fuck out of this house.”

The curse seemed to do the trick. Boys were used to throwing those words around easy enough amongst themselves, but hearing an adult invoke such an obscenity got their attention. And it was a good thing too, because the German’s condition so disturbed Tom he had a strong urge to break some necks himself.

The boys fled, all but Hugo, who strutted across the floor like he’d gotten the best of the sheriff. Infuriated by his manner, Tom hauled off and slapped the boy upside his head. Hugo yelped, and Tom was glad to hear it. “This is on your head, Hugo Jones.”

“I ain’t….”

Tom didn’t let the puffed up little bastard say another word. Instead, his palm made a second visit to the boy’s head. This time, Hugo cried out and then he stumbled out of the room, leaving the sheriff alone with Ernst Lang.

At the bedside, the man’s wounds were clear enough. The boys had burned him and cut him. His skin was bruised and swollen in so many places Tom figured the man was lucky to be conscious. Using his knife, the sheriff freed Ernst’s ankles. Then he pulled a pair of rolled up socks out of his mouth. The German didn’t make a sound. Not a thank you or a damn you; not a whimper or a sigh, so Tom went to work on the rope at his wrist, freeing his left arm first. Then the sheriff circled the bed and sliced through the hemp securing Ernst’s right arm to the wooden bed frame.

“
Scheisse!
” the German said. It was meant to be a shout, but it snapped in his throat, dry and brittle like the crushing of dead leaves. “
Scheisse! Verdammete Scheisse!
” Ernst bolted upright. He lunged in Tom’s direction, throwing himself from the mattress. But his legs must have been starved for circulation, and he crumbled to his knees.

He startled Tom so badly the sheriff spun away, holding his knife out in a defensive stance. Kneeling on the floor and looking up as if in furious prayer, Ernst stared at the blade in the sheriff’s hand. The German wanted the knife. Tom didn’t know if the man thought he might use it on him or those boys or everyone in Barnard, but the blade rapt his attention.

“Settle down, now. You’re hurt bad and a bit muddled.” Truth was the German seemed out of his mind, but it looked to Tom like he had sufficient reason for it. “We have to take care of you.”

“Don’t know,” Lang said. His eyes lost that hungry cast and they clouded over. The lids drooped, and he leaned forward on his hands. “Last night. At sunset.”

“Let me call an ambulance. You’re hurt real bad.”

“No.
Nein.
No.”

“The bed….” Ernst interrupted, but the sentence ended. He grunted heavily as if releasing a great burden from his shoulders. The sound came again, only harsher, rasping – a dull file on a length of mesquite. The noise grew more frequent, almost panting like a dog about to retch. His head lowered and his muscled back expanded and contracted furiously.

Tom had never seen anything like it and didn’t know what it meant. He only knew he needed to get the man to a hospital.

“The bed,” Ernst repeated quickly between raking breaths, “shit and piss and blood.” He inhaled deeply. The air fled him in those short sawing grunts. He gasped again. “You sleep in it.” He tried to get to his feet and failed. His second attempt was no more successful. He crawled forward and spread out on the floor, lying on his back. “Water, yes? A glass of water, yes?”

“Sure.”

Tom returned his knife to its sheath and walked to the kitchen. He poured a glass of water, then carried it back to the room, where he knelt by the wounded man’s side, holding his head and helping his drink. After the glass was drained, Tom set it aside and began checking Ernst’s wounds. One of his thighs had a long gash that drew a line from his knee nearly to his privates. The boys had removed two of his fingernails and ragged flesh framed the purple wounds beneath. Black circles on his outer thighs looked to be the work of cigarettes; they oozed clear fluid. The German’s belly was one purple smear of bruise. Similar marks covered both of his arms. These didn’t worry Tom as much as the cuts, though. The boys had carved his arm like notching a gun butt. Four on the left and three on the right. They still oozed blood.

The sheriff ignored the comment and told him he had to get an ambulance. Ernst was bleeding all over the floor, and there might have been more damage inside. Tom didn’t know. The sheriff could manage snakebite and maybe a broken arm. The German’s wounds were well beyond his medical abilities.

“No, I’m not running the bath, you goddamn fool. You could bleed out. Jesus, Ernst, the last thing you should be thinking about is the way you smell.”

“So I deserve no dignity?”

Tom didn’t know what to make of that. Dignity? Was the German so damn proud he was willing to die rather than be seen with a smear of shit on him?

The situation had Tom perplexed. He couldn’t carry the man out of the house. Lang was too heavy for that, though Tom could have dragged him, he figured it would do more harm than good. Finally, he decided to grant Lang’s request for a bath. If nothing else, it would give Tom time to get Doc Randolph down to Dodd Street.

He left Ernst on the floor and walked into the bathroom. The stopper went into the drain and he turned on the faucet. Then Tom slipped back into the hall and made his way to the phone in Ernst’s kitchen. The Doc’s wife, Myrna, told him the doctor would be on down to Dodd Street as soon as he could. A few minutes later, the sheriff helped Ernst to the tub. The man moaned in pain when they reached the bedroom threshold and Tom stopped uncertain.

“The bath,” Lang insisted, his voice pinched.

The water turned pink as his bulk slid into the tub. The wounds on his arms opened like tiny mouths drooling blood into the water. Ernst lifted a small towel from the edge of the tub, using the right hand, which still had all of its fingernails intact; he struggled with the cloth’s weight as if it were lead rather than cotton. Dipping the towel into the foul water, he brought it to his face and dabbed gently across his forehead, cleaning away the sweat and blood accumulated there. With the skin clean, Tom saw a purple welt the size of an acorn on the man’s right brow. Rivulets of crimson rose through the water like smoke from the wounds on his arms. Once his face was clean, Lang dragged the towel over his chin and down his throat. He winced but did not stop the motion. The towel slid lower and he passed it over his privates. Then the cloth grazed the cuts and burns on his legs. Lang cried out. It was a terrible sound, a squeal of animal agony. He gritted his teeth, biting off its tail, then he squeezed his eyes shut, continuing to clean himself.

“Is there anything you need?” Tom asked. It was a jackass thing to say, but he didn’t know what else to do. Watching the German bathe himself was like watching a gutshot man crawling around a field picking flowers.

“Those boys,” Ernst said. His voice was stronger, though still drained. He draped the cloth over the side of the tub. What he did next shocked the sheriff. The German grasped his privates in one of his hands, not covering them, but circling them and squeezing. “Those boys were afraid of my cock, yes? That’s why I still have it. They talked about cutting it off, but none of them would touch it. I’m lucky, yes?”

Tom was grateful when Doc Randolph finally arrived, though the doctor cursed him out something fierce for having put the German in the tub, but once he set to mending Lang’s wounds Tom was forgotten. They helped the German to the sofa, and the Doc got to work and Tom went back into the bedroom where he collected the ropes and set them in a pile by the door. Then he stripped off the dirty sheets and took them to the back porch to air out. The mattress beneath was also stained, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that just then.

Once the doc had Ernst patched up, he gave the man a shot of something and together they helped Lang outside and into Doc Randolph’s car.

“He’ll stay in the hospital for a day or so. Keep an eye out for infection. You mind telling me who did this to that man?”