D-Boy

Chapter 1-2

Within a month, Derek was well settled in to his new life. Occasionally he would get a fleeting memory of his old life but nothing that told him who he was or where he came from.

In the evenings after supper, they would sit on the floor by the small fireplace. At first they just talked about their day but slowly Michael opened up enough to talk about his childhood, nothing more. He refused to reveal what his life had been like once he left home or why he had become a recluse.

Michael had an old, well used chess board as well as both chess and checker sets, so they usually ended their evenings playing one game or another. Soon Derek became quite proficient at chess, beating Michael as often as he lost to him.

It all ended suddenly.

Derek was out hunting, this time hoping to find a deer. Michael said if he did, they would save the skin to make new boots and jackets to replace the ones they had already, eat what they could of the meat while it was fresh, and dry the rest for later consumption.

He had no luck with the deer but did shoot two rabbits. As he headed back to the cabin, he thought he heard something. A loud bang, followed quickly by a shout, and then two more bangs. Frowning, he stepped up his pace, wondering if there were hunters in the area. If they had found the cabin…

He raced the last quarter mile to the clearing. Everything looked the way it always did—no hunters, no dead animal, nothing to say who had shouted. Not until he opened the cabin door.

Michael lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, two gaping wounds in his chest, a third lower down in his gut. Blood covered the floor around Michael’s body.

Derek dropped the bow and the rabbits on the narrow stoop, hastening to kneel by Michael. He knew the man was dead. No one could survive such wounds. But he still cradled his friend in his arms, rocking back and forth as he cried, begging Michael to say something.

Later—he didn’t know how much later other than that the sun was pouring in through the west window as it went down over a mountain top—Derek finally laid Michael’s body down. Staggering to his feet, he looked around the cabin, searching for any clue to who had killed his friend.

He realized there were bloody footprints leading toward the door—boot prints, he thought. Michael’s killer had checked to see if he was dead—like there could be any doubt.

The small cupboard beside the fireplace stood open, the contents strewn on the floor. Derek bent to pick up the red king from the chess set, gripping it tightly in his hand. What was he looking for? Michael had nothing personal—nothing from his past. But maybe the killer didn’t know that.

He wiped one hand over his face to dry the last of his tears.

“What do I do now?” he said softly. “Bury him? There’s no one I know of to tell what happened. The police? How would I find them? In the town he talked about—somewhere out there?”

He looked down at Michael’s body again, shuddering. All I can do is give him a decent burial. And then what?

He decided he’d wait to figure that out until later. Getting the shovel they used for the garden, he went outside. The ground was soft in the center of the garden, between the last of the tomato plants and the vines of squash. Slowly he dug a grave, stopping often to wipe away more tears. When it was ready, he went back inside.

Taking the worn blanket from Michael’s bed, he gently wrapped it around him, but not before he took the Saint Christopher medal Michael always wore and fastened it around his neck. At least I’ll have something to remember him by. When he finished wrapping the body, the blanket was blood soaked, leaving a trail behind Derek as he half-carried, half-dragged Michael out the cabin’s back door.

Very carefully, he laid Michael to rest. The only prayers he knew were the ones Michael had taught him on Sunday mornings when they’d given their thanks to God for making it through another week. He said them, kneeling beside the grave, then covered the body with dirt. By then it was dark, except for the light from the full moon shining between the treetops.

Gathering up his waning courage, Derek returned to the cabin, lit the lanterns, and got the bucket they used for water. He filled it at the stream then went back and began to clean the blood from the floor as best he could. By the time he was finished, he was relieved to see most of it was gone.

Next, too wired to even think of trying to sleep, he began his own search of the small cabin. If someone thought Michael had something here, maybe he did and he just didn’t tell me about it, or where it was.

The tiny storage area off to one side of the room only had shelves, no cupboards, and there was nothing on any of them except the few dishes they used and some jars of canned vegetables and fruits. He lifted the pillows on the old sofa, feeling each one as he did, doing the same for the thin mattress on Michael’s bed. There was nothing.

Picking up one of the lanterns, he went outside again to the side of the cabin, lifting the small door that opened onto the root cellar beneath the cabin. Going down, he began a systematic search of the small room. The lantern cast eerie shadows over the bottles of canned produce and the packages of dried meat as he moved around, leaving the areas behind them darkness. So he almost missed a square tin box tucked away in the corner of one full shelf.

Taking it out, he found it was locked. If there was a key—and there had to be—he had the feeling it was probably in Michael’s pants pocket. No way am I digging him up to find it. The thought made him shudder as he went back up the steps. Closing the door behind him, he returned to the cabin, setting the box down on the table at one side of the room.

He studied the lock and the lid then got a screwdriver from the box of tools on a shelf in the storage area. Prying it under the seam by the lock between the lid and the box, he twisted and turned it until the lid popped up with a dull screech of the hinges.

The first thing he saw was money, several thick wads of bills, one of hundreds, the rest of twenties.

“Holy smoke,” he whispered.

Taking them out, he looked at what was underneath them and frowned. It was a gun. Not that he knew anything about guns, but to his unpracticed eye, it looked very lethal. He took it out as well, and a small box of ammo, setting them by the cash. The last thing in the box was a sheaf of papers. He lifted them out and went over to the sofa. He tried to read the top one and realized he was so tired his sight was blurring when he tried to make out the small print.

Tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Now I need to sleep. If I can.

He put everything back in the box in reverse order, closed it, and hid it underneath his bed. Then he crawled into the sleeping bag and despite his fear he wouldn’t sleep, he did.