The Railwalkers

Chapter 1-4

“But she works with you!” Violet pried. “Wouldn’t you have heard somethin’?”

He turned a page and continued writing. “All I know is that she’s ill, and all I can do is wish her better.” Finally, he laid his pencil down and closed his books. “There we are.” He smiled at Violet. “Orders to be filled by the end of the week. I’m afraid I’d left it to the last minute.” He tucked the note pad and book neatly to the corner of his desk. “Before I take you home,” he continued, “would you care for a drink, Miss Donovan?”

Violet looked up, surprised. “A drink?” she repeated. Violet didn’t drink often. A glass of wine at Christmas, a sip at communion, but nothing really beyond that. “I…Mama wouldn’t approve, I don’t think.”

“Oh?” Mr. Munts pulled a glass decanter from his wardrobe. Violet immediately admired it; it was a beautiful bottle, and most likely expensive. The liquid, she noticed, did not look like wine. Mr. Munts uncorked it and began to pour two small, crystal glasses. “And why would she disprove? You know me, don’t you?”

“Well…well, yes.”

“As does your mother.” Mr. Munts set a glass in front of her. The amber liquid reflected the orange flames of the oil lamps. It smelled stronger than any wine she’d ever had. “This isn’t a pint of beer at the bar. You’re in my home. And from what I can tell, you’ve had a stressful night.” He sipped his own glass, leaning against the desk beside her. “It’s only neighborly of me.”

Hesitant, Violet took the glass in her hands. It was heavier than she first suspected; the glass looked so delicate. She glanced back up at Mr. Munts one last time before taking a sip. Instantly, the bitter liquid bit at her tongue and the back of her throat. She scrunched her face tightly and pulled her head back. Mr. Munts chuckled.

“Brandy,” he said. “It’s an acquired taste.” He sipped his own easily. “Tell me something, Miss Donovan—may I call you Violet?”

Violet felt a prickle on her neck as he said her name. It unnerved her in a way she couldn’t put to words. Still, she nodded. “Of course, Mr. Munts.”

Mr. Munts nodded. “Violet,” he began again. “How are you doing these days? How is your health?”

Violet was somehow surprised at the simple question. Perhaps because she was alone, at night, in a man’s house drinking liquor; usually, one didn’t make light conversation in such a telling circumstance. But Violet steadied herself. This is Mr. Munts, she thought. Ain’t nothing wrong with it.

“Well enough,” she said plainly. “It’s gettin’ colder at night, ain’t it? Round this time, I mean…Last year I had a fever something terrible, but Charlie was able to whip up this chili oil concoction. Lord, it was the worst tasting stuff in the whole wide world, but she had me drink it all. I couldn’t taste nothing for a full week after that, but sure enough, my fever broke the next morning…” She hesitated. “I’m-I’m sayin’ too much, aren’t I?”

“Not at all.”

“Cause Mama always goes on about me talkin’ too much. When I was little, she used to smack my hands with a ruler. Sometimes that still wasn’t enough to get me to shut up.”

“I see.”

“I remember one day at school, me and Mary were supposed to help with the Christmas service, but that dress Mama put me in was so unbearable. It was hotter than it shoulda been, I remember that. And I kept begging her to let me change, even in the middle of the sermon.” She stared at her drink. “Mary…Oh, Mr. Munts, I fear something truly dreadful has happened to her. And you know what I think?” She snapped her face back up to Mr. Munts. “I think it was Eustace Carpenter. He musta done something to poor Mary. Assaulted her or the like. Like what he was trying to pull on me just tonight. We should go to the sheriff, Mr. Munts!”

“Violet?”

“Mm?”

“Take another drink.” Violet stalled before taking a delicate sip of her brandy. It didn’t taste any better.

“Now.” Mr. Munts set his glass on the desk. “I’m going to ask you something. And I’m going to need you to not ask me why.” He turned to her fully, his eyes serious. “I need you to forget about Mary Humphrey.”

A cold spell ran down Violet’s spine. Forget about Mary? It was an impossible thing to ask. “What do you mean, Mr. Munts?”

“I mean,” Mr. Munts began to clarify, “that whatever it was that happened to her is none of your concern. It’s for the best, you see? Think of all the trouble it would cause Mrs. Humphrey if you started sticking your nose into where it didn’t belong.”

“But Mary’s my friend.” Violet began to feel her muscles tense. She was uneasy and growing steadily angrier. “I can’t just forget my friend. And if something really did happen—”

“Then it would be up to Mary’s family to deal with it. Don’t misunderstand me, child, I’m sure you have the best of intentions, but you would only do more harm than good.”

“And how’d you know, Mr. Munts?” Violet stood, bubbling in frustration.

“I’d know because I’ve been around quite a bit longer than you have.” While Violet’s voice grew louder, Mr. Munts’ voice grew softer. More than that, there was something deadly in his tone. “Stay out of it, Violet.”

“Why should I?”

“I told you not to ask me why.” Mr. Munts stepped forward, and Violet felt smaller. It was like being cornered by Eustace, but worse. Eustace was a dumb dog, easily distracted by bone or an old shoe. Looking at Mr. Munts felt like looking down the muzzle of a hungry coyote. Violet now wished that she’d taken her chances with the dog.

“What ain’t you telling me, Mr. Munts?” Violet’s voice was weakening, but she held firm.

“It’s getting late.” Mr. Munts suddenly grabbed her arm. His bony fingers gripped her tightly. “Perhaps it’s time I walk you home, Violet.”

“Not till you tell me—”

“A lady should know her place.” Mr. Munts began to drag her towards the door. “She should know when to keep out of a man’s business.”

Violet struggled, and eventually managed to rip her arm away from Munts’ grip. She dodged around him and rushed towards the desk, though she realized it might have been best if she’d gone for the door. Violet turned as Munts approached her, slowly. Her hands went behind her back, fingers feeling for the crystal glass of brandy that sat in the lamplight. “Come now, Violet,” said Munts. “This is all so silly. Let me walk you home.” He took two more steps, and when he was just within reach—

KSSH!

Munts cried out as Violet slammed the glass against his temple. Twinkling shards of crystal fell from his face like snow as the brandy splashed wildly. Violet dashed back around him and went for the door. However, Munts’ hand flailed, managing to grab her skirts as she passed. Violet fell to the floor, inches away from freedom. She turned, horrified, as a bloodied Munts loomed over her.

“Pestilent w***e!” he spat, now clasping his soiled temple. “I’ll have your neck for this, girl! Or maybe…” He loomed closer, Violet now trembling on the floor, too afraid to run. “Maybe I should teach you a lesson like I taught your dear Mary.”

“Mary—!”

Munts slammed his fist into the door, keeping it in its frame. “She was quiet, that one. Barely made a peep, even when she cried. You? Well…I think you’ll be a whole different story.” He knelt over her, his filthy hand grabbing at the front of her dress. He began to rip it as she struggled.

“I wonder…You really a virgin under all them skirts, Violet?”

Violet was sick with horror. Overpowered and head spinning, she could think of nothing to do but close her eyes and pray. She shut them tightly, heart beating against her neck as Munts clawed at her dress.

God in heaven! Help me! Save me!

As though her prayers had been answered, Munts’ hands suddenly stopped. In fact, he seemed to stop breathing all together. Confused, Violet cracked her eyes open. There was Munts, staring at her, with the end of a hunting knife sticking straight out of his neck.

Violet was so shocked, she couldn’t scream. She could only watch as Munts gargled his last breath, the blood dripping like oil down his gangly tendons. With a sudden pull, the knife was removed. Munts lingered only a second, and then fell to the side, dead as a door nail.

Cold and woozy, Violet noticed a new figure standing behind Munts, who was clutching the murder weapon. It was a woman, with deep black hair and eyes, dressed in trousers and boots. A bandanna hung around the base of her neck, leaving Violet free to stare her straight in the eye. The woman—Chinese, by the look of her—turned to Violet with genuine surprise. Then, it melted into frustration. With an exasperated sigh, the woman pinched her nose and said:

“Christ, it’s gonna be a long night.”