Beneath a Winter Moon (40 page)

Once he was back in the cabin, he felt that if he sat back down in the chair, nothing would prevent him from falling into a deep sleep. He had already toyed with the idea of searching through Alastair’s room, where he saw a desk, earlier. The man was a mystery.
Jeremiah Johnson…call me Alastair, it’s my real name. Oh, by the way, I have a wild beast that I take care of out in the mountains. He’s a real killer.
Thomas shrugged and walked past Alastair’s sleeping form and into the bedroom. He heard Jack’s claws clicking on the wooden floor behind him. “
Shhhhh
,” he whispered to the dog. “We’re investigating.”

The Captain’s desk inside Alastair’s room was amazing. Thomas had seen one before, the twin cabinets on the left and right, the slanted desktop covered with felt so that papers would not slide down…and the desktop that lifted to reveal a large cubby for storing books or papers. These desks had been a favorite of Union officers, who usually held a rank higher than that of a Captain, and was a prized item today in the antiquities trade. He admired the desk for a moment and then began to search through its contents. Inside the cubby were several historical novels and a textbook…the subject was the rise of
Scotland
from farmland to the land of education and opportunity. He closed the desktop and opened the desk’s right side cabinet. He found bills, receipts, a checkbook, some keys, paperclips, pens, pencils and mailing supplies. The left cabinet held a stack of photographs…very old photographs…wrapped with a rubber band. Thomas removed the rubber band and rummaged through the photos.

They were all in black and white and appeared to be photographs of Alastair’s family; the man in most of the photos had to have been his father or perhaps grandfather…as the resemblance was striking. They were photos taken during World War II. Several of them depicted a man in the uniform of the 101
^st
Airborne. In one photo, the soldier sported Lieutenant Colonel’s bars on his lapels and a large stack of ribbons on his chest. He was smiling and had his arm around a captain as they held mugs of beer for the camera. In another, the Lieutenant Colonel stood with a group of paratroopers, all wearing their parachutes, their faces camouflaged and with weapons hanging from their sides. Written on the back of the photo was “June 6
^th
, 1944.”

“D-Day…I’ll be damned,” Thomas muttered. He scanned through the rest of the photos, still amazed at the subject’s resemblance to Alastair. The man in the photos must have been his grandfather, as he looked to be at least forty years old. If Alastair was in his forties, then the man would have been nearing sixty when Alastair was born. Thomas shrugged. The colonel might have been a late starter. Many of the photos were from after the war…the man standing beside a 1955 Ford Thunderbird, in another he smiled while standing next to what appeared to be an early 1960s Harley Davidson.
That must be Alastair’s father
, Thomas thought….though the man in the 1960’s photo looks to be the exact same man in the World War II photos…
but that isn’t possible
.

Thomas set the photos back in their place and reached in to remove a letter-sized leather binder. The leather was old…very old. Although Alastair could feel the oil between his fingers, the leather was still cracked and brittle in several areas, especially in the fold.
Someone took great care to preserve this
.

On the cover of the leather binder was some sort of family crest. The crest was obviously Scottish, in the familiar circular belt and buckle pattern. Inside the circle was a bull’s head, a banner near each horn. Underneath was a length of twisted rope. The motto, barely readable now, said “Hold Fast.” The crest had once been painted, but the colors were faded and the leather beneath was cracked.

Thomas opened the folder. Inside were papers that had yellowed with age. He shuffled through them carefully, as though he cared about Alastair’s things, which he did not…but he had respect for anything that had lasted this long, and felt it would be wrong to mishandle them.

One particular paper caught his eye. It was thick and didn’t feel like paper at all. It felt more like…skin? Handwritten on the paper in a thick, beautiful, font were the words, “Alastair McLeod.” It appeared to be some sort of orders…a set of instructions that placed this Alastair in charge of tax collection for areas north of Edinburgh, Scotland “and West to the sea” it read. The date on the parchment was 1849.

“Amazing,’ Thomas muttered. Jeremiah…Alastair…had to be at least fifth generation. Thomas wasn’t even sure he could trace his family farther back than both sets of his grandparents. Keeping up with the family history had not been a goal of his mother or father. Thomas flipped through some more of the old papers and stopped and stared at the sheet on the bottom on the pile. It was from 1977 and it read:

Thomas went on to read that Alastair, 41 years of age at the date listed on the paperwork, requested to change his name for
“personal
reasons,” swearing “no fraudulent purpose or to infringe on the rights of others.”

1977?
Forty-one years old in 1977?
Thomas thought. No way was this petitioner the same man who now sat bound, taped, and bloodied in his own kitchen. It had to be Alastair’s father. But that could not be right, either…it just didn’t fit.
A forgery?
Thomas frowned and tried to reconcile what he’d seen, but finally decided that no matter how intriguing the documents were, they had no bearing on his current crisis. He closed the folder and put it back in the desk. He would look into it later, if he had a chance.

He found some other old and interesting items in the bedroom. A small leather pouch of old silver coins, apparently English and from the late eighteenth to early nineteenth centuries, some silver buttons that looked like those from a military uniform, a plaque with WWII medals inside and a folded flag, and also a bayonet of a type that Thomas had never seen before. On a night table beside the small bed lay a dagger with a nine-inch blade that had to be pure silver. The blade was about five inches long and sharpened on both edges.

Etched into the dagger’s blade was an image of a man and a wolf. The etching was of a man who was leaning, a sickle in hand, toward the menacing wolf as it poised to leap. On the opposite side of the blade was a small inscription in beautiful cursive: “With God’s Mercy.” Thomas thought that it was very strange, to say the least…and not just a little creepy.
A blade made from silver
, he thought as a cold shiver fluttered down his spine. There was something sinister about the weapon…something familiar, too.

Thomas left the bedroom, carrying the knife with him. He placed the odd weapon in his cargo pocket as he entered the kitchen. He wanted to tell Alastair that he had seen the photographs, the name-change, family history…but he decided he’d rather just leave the man gagged for now. Alastair opened his eyes, as if aware that Thomas was watching him. He seemed to smile under the gag, and then lay his head back on the table and closed his eyes.

Thomas tapped on the table. Alastair opened his eyes again and lifted his head. “If I remove the gag, will you give me your word that there will be no more scare tactics? Nothing that would scare Jenny?”

Alastair nodded, so Thomas moved behind him and started to remove the tape. There was no way to ease the pain, so he yanked it free, flinching as he heard the sharp, tearing sound of the tape peeling away from the man’s skin. Alastair sighed with relief, then shook his head and stretched his jaw, yawning with a groan. Thomas frowned. The man’s nose showed no signs of the injury from when he slammed his head onto the table. He took a closer look.
Amazing
, he thought. He shrugged it off. “Mind if I take a look at your rifles?”

“Would it do any good?” Alastair asked.

“As a matter of fact, it would.”

“Will you get me some water, please, Thomas?”

“Sure.”

Once Alastair had taken a drink of the water, he said, “Go ahead and look. He smiled. After all, mi casa
es
su
casa.”

Thomas ignored him and walked over to check on Delmar. His breathing seemed to be better…slower and more…normal. The fever was still there, but perhaps not quite as bad. Thomas patted Jack, and then stepped to the gun cabinet. He had seen a rifle that looked out of place, and he was curious. He pulled the rifle from its felt-lined seat and held it, nodding with satisfaction. He looked down at the scope. The thin, black tube spanned the entire length of the barrel.

“That is a Moissan
Nagant
,” Alastair said, casually, pronouncing it as
mo-seen nah-
gon
. Thomas looked over at him and started to say something but Alastair spoke first.

“The Moissan
Nagant
was created and employed by the Russians, but its design was said to have been stolen from the Finnish. It utilizes the ever-popular 7.62 round…it was not only fantastic for the long shot, but also had great military potential because it was so rugged and easy to maintain. The Russians ended up selling the rifles to countries all over the world. The Viet Cong came to appreciate its simplicity, stamina, and accuracy. If you will notice, Thomas, that
particular
rifle has the letters
V
,
K
, and
T
stamped just above the breech. That means…”

  “Means that I am holding one manufactured by the Finnish, not the Russians. But those letters aren’t just letters indicating
Finland
…they actually stand for
Valtion
Kirvaaritehdas
…the name of the factory that produced it. It’s known by most…simply as the
Valmet
factory,” Thomas said, unable to hide the satisfaction.

  Alastair smiled. “You do indeed know your rifles. I applaud you.”

  “Actually,” Thomas said, as he set the rifle back into its place in the rack and picked up the one next to it, “It’s not that I am an expert on just any rifle—I’m not. I learned about the
Nagant
when I studied the history of the war in
Viet Nam
.
U.S.
soldiers came across these rifles quite a lot…especially during counter-sniper operations.” He paused to look into the breech of the
Winchester
rifle he was now holding. “In fact, they were the Viet
Cong’s
sniper rifle of choice. When the
Nagant
is paired up with a cheap, but still magnificent
Unertl
scope, it’s one hell of a military grade sniper rifle…especially for third world countries that couldn’t afford much else.” He put the
Winchester
back in place and took out a double-barreled shotgun that was so tall it barely fit into the cabinet.

“Now this is really impressive,” Thomas said, whistling as he opened the breach to expose barrels large enough to hold rolls of quarters. The double triggers stood exceptionally tall and the scrollwork was amazing. “I bet this would stop an elephant in its tracks.”

“Are you familiar with it?” Alastair asked.

Thomas shook his head. “Nope…but I bet it wouldn’t take much to get to know this darling.”

Alastair appreciated the way Thomas held and obviously revered the shotgun…and for a moment, he pitied that this man had to die. It was a waste, he knew, and now he felt it was a shame as well. “That’s a Hollis and Sons ten gauge
boxlock
rifle, made in
England
. I believe that one was shipped out in 1866, after the civil war. And yes, with the right shells it would probably stop an elephant…one shot placed in the head and down the animal would go.” He chuckled.

“You have rounds for it?”

Alastair frowned, but nodded his head. “Indeed, in the bottom drawer. I had the rifle pins modified to better accept a newer quality shell. You will find the round quite impressive.”

Thomas knelt down and pulled out the drawer at the base of the cabinet. He mulled through many boxes of ammunition until he found what he was looking for. Alastair was right. The rounds were very impressive. Impressive enough to instill a confidence in him that there was no way an animal…any North American animal…could withstand a direct hit from one. Something else caught his eye. Among the various packages of ammunition was a black, metal container perhaps an inch thick and six inches square. Without taking the container out of the drawer, he opened it. He saw inside four tranquilizer darts approximately the same diameter as the 10-gauge shells.
Well, now
, he thought.
Something tells me they aren’t for the indigenous wildlife.

“What are the tranquilizers for?” Thomas asked, holding the open box up so that Alastair could see.

“Oh…the tranquilizers…yes. They won’t work on it, Thomas. I tried to use them on several occasions and they had no effect.” In fact, he was telling the truth. He had used them on Parker in various stages of his transformation, to no avail.

Thomas doubted Alastair. “Why keep them?”

Alastair shrugged. “Why not?”

Thomas closed the container and then the drawer, deciding to bring the subject up again, later. He thought now might be a good time to change the topic of conversation and maybe dig a little into Alastair’s background. “You’re from
Scotland
? Are you a
Scotland
native, then?”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. “I’m from a Scottish family, yes. I am American, however.”

Thomas turned to look at the man. “Yet you still have a pretty deep Scottish accent.”

“Yes.”

Thomas shrugged. “Your father…was he ever in the military?”

Alastair was amused by that. “My father?” He chuckled again. “Lord knows my father would have made an excellent soldier, the bastard, but no, he was not.”

“Grandfather, then?”

Alastair frowned. He now understood.

“Yes. He was in the army. 101
^st
Airborne. A Colonel.”

Ah
, Thomas thought.
That explains a part of it
. “So, you are at least third generation American…and yet you still have that accent. I don’t get it.”

Alastair didn’t reply.

“You know, you look younger than me, Alastair. May I ask how old you really are?”

Alastair smiled to himself.
He knows everything, but his simple mind won’t allow him to even begin to put it all together, the poor sot.
“I’m forty…
ish
,” he answered.

Thomas laughed and nodded. “You know, all of this is going to come out. By…I’d say by day after tomorrow, your
whole story
will be known. What’s the point in being so mysterious now if everyone’s going to find out, anyway?”

Alastair decided to see if he could jump-start Thomas’s weak mind…perhaps push him into the truth. It might be dangerous, but darkness was coming soon. A few more hours and none of this would matter. “Did you even stop to think that maybe I chained up the animal precisely so that it could not get loose and hurt anyone?”

The question took Thomas by surprise. “I…no, I hadn’t.”

Alastair nodded. “You didn’t allow yourself to believe that perhaps the restraints were there for compassionate reasons and not for some abhorrent experiments. What if I chained it up so that it could not get loose?” he prodded. “What if I tried to protect you? What if the animal showed signs that led me to believe people were nearby, so I chained it down for their own protection?”

 “Is that what happened?”

“Yes, Thomas…it is. I had the framework designed for the animal and anytime someone was near, I secured him to it. Only this time, this once…he broke free.”

Thomas walked over and sat down across from Alastair. “You were trying to protect us?”

Alastair nodded. “Though I’d be lying if it was not to protect the animal as well…and even to protect me. I did not want it killed or trapped, and so I restrained it if there were any signs…any signs at all that someone had strayed into this land.”