The Beadle Files: Broken Choices

By Ken R. Abell

Broken Choices, the second installment of The Beadle Files, begins in the midst of bad omens on the high desert of New Mexico, then weaves its hard-edged suspense to the final page. For several members of the ensemble cast, both physical and supernatural threats lurk in the shadows as a dark man masquerading as a crazy-eyed scarecrow invades their consciousness.

Storylines take the reader to Rooster's Barnyard on the southern outskirts of Denver, where murder precipitates a change in management; to the musty basement of a building where cans of gasoline and peculiar bundles are strategically placed by a man in black; to an unemployed nurse who is guilt-ridden and tormented by menacing nightmares; and to a seasoned policeman upchucking the contents of his stomach at a crime scene.

Boss Hawkins, who has thoroughly exasperated Mandy Kilmer, is the catalyst for trauma that strikes close to home. Criminal powerbrokers initiate a scheme to neutralize, or quite possibly terminate, the Pinkerton man's crusade against them. Lifelong allies come alongside Hawkins, which puts into motion preparations that culminate in dramatic violence.

In the aftermath, LC Beadle utters thoughts that tie the soul-testing adversity into a thorny Gordian knot: "Killing someone is a broken choice, but these circumstances were precarious at best. There was no other way for the quandary to be resolved."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Jan 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532653933

Ken R. Abell

Ken R. Abell is a teller of tales who understands that there is strength in a story well-told and well-lived. A consummate seeker and learner, he’s a transplanted Canadian who resides in Pennsylvania with his wife, Anita. He is currently working on the eighth episode of The Beadle Files. His work can be found at www.danceswithcorn.com.

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The Beadle Files:Broken Choices

by 
Ken R. Abell

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The Beadle Files: Broken Choices

Copyright © 2019 Ken R. Abell. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

Eugene, OR 97401

www.wipfandstock.com

paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-5391-9

hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-5392-6

ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-5393-3

Manufactured in the U.S.A. March 13, 2019

The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats, Public Domain.

The Conqueror Worm by Edgar Allan Poe, Public Domain.

The Mystery by Margaret Steele Anderson, Public Domain.

Curfew by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Public Domain.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgements

I. ~ Omens ~

II. ~ Raw Evidence ~

III. ~ Deceit & Treachery ~

IV. ~ Dilemmas ~

V. ~ Grim Desperation ~

VI. ~ Recoil & Intrigue ~

For Anita Irene, who never fails to surprise me with inspiration when I’m stuck in an early morning rut because characters and plotlines are playing hide and seek.

&

For our sons and grandchildren. When inevitably confronted by difficult choices on their travels and adventures, may each one be blessed and overwhelmed by grace and wisdom.

&

For my paternal grandmother, Sylvia Burger Abell, a woman of rare eccentricity, who had a penchant for telling connect the dot type stories that required the listener to heed every twist and turn because it would all come together when she delivered the punchline.

Acknowledgements

I have always been an avid people watcher so it’d be remiss of me to not acknowledge the nameless strangers who, across the years and miles, contributed a quirk here or an expression there that somehow managed to get incorporated into the development of characters.

Also by Ken R. Abell

Nonfiction

An Ordinary Story of Extraordinary Hope

Fiction

Days of Purgatory

Shadows of Revenge

Echoes of Evil

Nightmares of Terror

Pieces of Justice

Altars of Tomorrow

The Beadle Files: Graveyard Promises

Website

www.danceswithcorn.com

I

~ Omens ~

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world . . .

~William Butler Yeats~

In the springtime of 1921, LC Beadle was on the trail with his brother and sister. The night skies were clear and picturesque, with a bone-white full moon fringed by yellowish tendrils that made him think about straw sticking from the neckline of a scarecrow; a knot of muscle clutched at the small of his back. He looked around the campsite brightened by flickering firelight.

Yaz.

Yeah-huh.

Where’s Bethsuelo?

Lightfoot removed a dusty bandana from his forehead and shook the creases out. He stepped back from the smallish campfire to survey the surrounding darkness. His neck craned as he listened to the stillness. Wandering in the moonlight, or going potty would be my guess.

Beadle laughed—it was a dour and melancholy jest. One of the horses, picketed amongst the sagebrush, whinnied skittishly. The newspaperman reacted with a twitch of his shoulders while taking another peek skyward. He knelt, exhaling a sigh. There’s pestilence in the air, Yaz.

I feel it, my brother.

So I’m not crazy?

A psychiatric license I do not have.

Trying out as a funny man, Yaz?

Yeah-huh.

You’ll need better material.

Just then, Bethsuelo Weitzel emerged from the darkness. She edged close to the flames and took a knee. There was sorrow or apprehension nipping at the lines of her face. You are not crazy, LC, she said, tautness in her voice. My heart is grieving. Something’s not right.

Beadle reacted by staring wide-eyed at her for a good long while before shifting focus to his Lakota Sioux sibling. The trio were camped on the high desert of New Mexico several miles west of Blanco Trading Post. Tension and foreboding passed between them. The journalist crouched next to her. What is it, Bethsuelo? Do you have any inklings or insights?

No. Sensations full of nothing.

Not anything, Bethsuelo?

An indistinct premonition, Yaz.

What of you, LC?

A feeling, is all, Yaz.

The owl fails you.

So it would seem, LC replied, smiling grimly. "It’s an intense feeling, but the intuitive clarity of my spirit animal is absent. True reality is hidden. I lack the wisdom of the owl."

Yeah-huh. The deer fails me.

The pigtailed woman had dismay spilling from the depths of her darkish eyes. Be not alarmed, my brothers, but extraordinary trouble is brewing that is being concealed from us.

Extraordinary trouble?

Indeed, LC, she replied tersely. I first sensed it yesterday; the impression has gotten stronger with each passing hour. I went off by myself earlier to discern otherworldly happenings, but drew a blank. My totem, the butterfly, is also not being cooperative. I am concerned.

Beadle cocked an eyebrow. What do you suspect?

Of that I am wary to say, she answered, offering a cautious shrug. If it was only the owl, or only the deer, or only the butterfly, then I’d come to a different or easier conclusion, but all three? The only possible reason for this mysterious phenomenon raises many red flags.

Someone or something is aligned against us, Yaz said flatly.

Bethsuelo nodded, sad-eyed. In a nutshell, yes.

Who? What?

A force of evil, LC.

From where, Yaz? For what reason?

Bethsuelo gawked at him. Really, LC? Of all people you’d ask such things? She shifted onto her bottom to sit cross-legged. Evil wears many masks, but its purpose never changes. It prowls along a pathway of pillage and destruction to slaughter all that is good and virtuous.

Why come against us, Bethsuelo? Why now?

We shall surely see soon enough.

Yeah-huh.

The reporter cast a tight-lipped glance at his companions. He bumped the gray flatcap up his brow, which was furrowed. A nearby pack of coyotes began yap-yap-yapping. He clasped his hands together and studied the full moon. Chills chased down his spine, and in a flare of instinct, LC Beadle absorbed the fact that tragic events were looming on a not too distant horizon.



The fifteen-year-old girl, dark-haired and ruddy-cheeked, ran with carefree abandon in a grassy meadow beside the Animas River. Buttercups and alpine sunflowers were in assorted stages of budding and blossoming. The stems and petals of the wildflowers seemed to be stretching heavenward to acquire all the sunshiny glory of a perfect blue skies day.

She had just beaten her father in a rock skipping contest, and was now sprinting up the slope to where her mother sat on an oversized blanket. The girl dance-hopped several steps, then did a series of cartwheels that ended with her landing beside the picnic basket. I whupped him, she said, squatting on her heels. Daddy put up a good challenge, but I seized victory.

Do you two have to compete at everything?

Kind of, I guess, Mom. It’s what we do.

Always have, always will, I suppose.

The teen shrugged hugely. What else would we do?

Be sweet and nice to each other.

We are, Mom. First and foremost.

Keep it that way, my dear. Always.

Her father, a stout and solid man of sixty, was red-faced and sweating profusely when he arrived at the summit of the incline. You’re lucky or skillful, young lady. He winked at her, then sat next to his wife. I’ve never seen anyone have three six-skip rocks in a row. Ever.

Lucky and skillful, Daddy.

Her mother smiled gently. And honest.

Would you expect otherwise, Dolly?

Of course not, Malcom.

I was raised proper.

You remember that, young lady.

I will, Daddy.

I want my grandchildren . . .

Malcom! Dolly exclaimed, sharp-voiced. She’s only fifteen.

She’ll be married and have little ones in a blink. An abrupt wince clenched his face. He held up a hand, then coughed and wheezed. His mouth twisted and distress showed in his eyes as the cough became nagging and persistent. The crimson in his cheeks increased as a fresh flow of perspiration soaked the collar of his shirt. He hacked and hacked, gasping helplessly for air.

Malcom!

Daddy! Daddy . . .

His hands contorted into claws grabbing and grappling in desperation. A shadow passed overhead. The tick-tock of seconds became excruciatingly slow. His arms flailed. The sky grew darker and darker. And darker. His family reached to help him, but to no avail. He hissed a final breath and collapsed as a total eclipse of the sun cast the grassy meadow into darkness.

Daddy . . . Katey Rae Wyant woke up alone, hearing her voice crying for him. Damp and shaky, she threw the blankets aside. The vivid memory of that terrible day haunted her, and though she’d soon turn twenty-nine, she still remembered her father’s last words: She’ll be married and have little ones in a blink. As a prophetic utterance, it was a miserable hoax.

She felt an emptiness inside that never went away. Her yearning for motherhood grew stronger and stronger, but the prospects became dimmer and dimmer as time went by. She got up and fluffed her nightclothes, then tiptoed to the window and drew the curtains open. Awash in moonlight, Katey Rae Wyant gazed at her reflection in the glass and silently wept.



Across town, Jack Whistler stood in the alley of the Backdoor Vault rolling a slim cigar between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He took an occasional puff, but mostly he toyed with the twist of tobacco as he paid heed to the full moon, which was collared by wispy strands the color of jaundice. His imagination set off on a reverie that crooked his lips into a smirk.

All was peaceful and quiet on the streets of Durango, and as far as Whistler cared so too were the far reaches of the world beyond the Colorado haven that had become the nerve center of his money-making operations. He had no troubles in mind because due to his attention to details the multiple pieces of his business interests were greased and in perfect alignment.

His entrepreneurial skills put fistfuls of dollars to work to give him an advantage, and being the master of information meant, that as much as humanly possible, schemes and intrigues were kept under wraps. He dropped the stogy and crushed it with an almost violent stomp, then he took a few steps and chuckled. The smarmy expression broadened. Whistler slid his hands into his pockets as he warily observed the celestial orb lighting up the nighttime.



Meanwhile, inside the Backdoor Vault, Sonny Trego sat on a stool next to the piano listening to Emma Rafferty play nothing but sad-sounding blues melodies. His shoulders were hunched, newsboy cap turned backwards, eyes gleaming. He had his nose stuck in a newspaper reading the same article over and over as his feet kept tapping in rhythm with the music.

Emma brought the latest tune to a close with a flourish, then stretched and wiggled her fingers. She glanced around to see that the speakeasy was near empty. There was a couple at a corner table and a straggler at the bar. She lowered the fallboard to cover the keys. She looked at the adolescent in warmth and kindness. Quitting time, Sonny. Have those words changed?

No, ma’am.

Go get some sleep.

Not tired, Miss Emma.

Tomorrow’s another story.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Betcha there’s no maybe about it.

Trego folded the Durango Herald. He was formulating a reply when the proprietor came in from outside and clapped his hands. Trego watched as he brusquely hustled the customers to the door, then strolled toward them. What’s up, Mr. Whistler? Where’ve you been?

Out and about, Sonny. Are you finally finished reading?

For now, I guess. I’ll read it again later.

You’ll make the words disappear, kiddo.

Ah, you’re just funning me, Mr. Whistler.

Have either of you seen the moon?

Not me, Mr. Whistler. I’ve been here since suppertime.

Me neither. Hard at tinkling the ivories for hours, Jack.

Trego frowned. What’s special about the moon?

Ghostly and sickish. It’s a nice night for a murder.

Jack! Emma blurted, stiffening. Why would you say such a thing?

Telling the truth, Emma. It’s a murderer’s moon.

I never heard of such a thing.

Your schooling is lacking, Emma.

I think not, Jack. You’re spinning malarkey.

Emma, when have I ever been less than upright? Jack asked whimsically. He picked up a stool and placed it between them, then settled on it. Mark my words. There’s an ice-water in his veins killer lurking and biding time. Somewhere somebody is getting murdered tonight.

How can you know that, Mr. Whistler?

The moon tells all, Sonny. His gray eyes flashed as he lazily cracked his knuckles. "I have some experience in such matters. Years and years ago I was at a sidewalk café in Barcelona on a night reminiscent of this one. My escort was a fiery Spaniard named Lavinia who had many charms to hold me captive. She was a treasure-trove of folklore and I soaked in an education.

Early in the evening, when the moon was on the rise, she used the words ghostly and sickish to describe it, then referred to it as a murderer’s moon. My inclination to scoff at the idea wasn’t much different than yours. She told me to wait and see. Later, after she took me on a tour of back alleys, we were enjoying a delightful red wine on the balcony of our second floor suite, chatting and pointing out constellations. It was past midnight when chaos came calling.

What happened?

Gunshots, Sonny. A half-dozen rapid blasts.

From where?

Not far. Around a corner, Jack answered, leaning forward. All of a sudden the street below was alive and hopping. Cops were shouting while running hither and yon. In a short while a greasy-faced culprit was paraded past us in cuffs. ‘Twas a crime of passion, and quite a sordid affair. A double murder. The gunman caught his wife and her lover in hot hanky-panky.

And you attribute that bloody violence to the moon?

The moon was a contributing factor, Emma.

An old wives’ tale, Jack. Nothing but poppycock.

I disagree. What say you, Sonny?

Can I abstain without offense?

Are you bucking for a job as a politician?

No, sir. Trying to be prudent.

The black woman snickered. A show of wisdom, Sonny.

Whistler laughed, gruff and loud. Let me assure you folks that I had nothing to do with the events on that night in Barcelona. I was an innocent bystander. Across the years and miles there have been other such circumstances to provide proof that the moon indeed tells all.

How about I conduct my own investigation? Sonny queried, chuckling as he stood. He tucked the newspaper under an arm and scooted to the exit. He flipped them a wave as the heavy oak door closed behind him. His eyes immediately bent upward. He stopped in his tracks. His stomach soured, and Sonny Trego marveled at the emotions the full moon conjured in him.



Dr. Reuben Hernandez was undone. The Executive Director of Triad Medical couldn’t sleep—hadn’t slept for several nights. His hair, usually combed to perfection, was mussed up, and despite wearing satin pajamas he appeared unkempt and in serious disarray. The wide lapels of the top were creased in different directions and the buttons were fastened haphazardly.

He sat at his bedroom window fixated on the darkness. The house, large and rather ostentatious for a man who lived alone, was situated on an acreage in the countryside east of Aurora. Many of the walls throughout were decorated by photographs he had taken and mounted in frames. He took great pride in the results of his hobby, but as of late not so much.

Just now his excitements were snagged on the haunting of sleepless nights. His lungs ached—his breathing came in sporadic rasps. Fear and loathing pestered him the way a cat pawed at a ball of yarn, and his tightly wound tendencies were unraveling. Every time he closed his eyes and attempted to gain restful slumber he was assaulted by abominable brutality that disturbed his religious sensibilities and gouged channels of guilt on the slate of his soul.

His devout Catholic faith was failing him. Hernandez had a rosary in hand, desperate for his prayers to smash through the ceiling and into the supernatural presence of the Almighty, but no matter his intensity or perseverance there were no advances or answers. He fingered each bead with practiced precision, wondering when the power of the church would rescue him.

He faithfully attended mass. His fierce struggles with the weaknesses of the flesh were ever-present defeats that consumed him. His patterns of sinful behavior demanded that he make confession weekly, and sometimes when beleaguered by the excesses of lust or gluttony or greed, he would utilize the sacrament of the confessional on an almost daily basis.

Mental and physical exhaustion crept over him. His neck went limp, chin striking chest. The doctor blinked and shook his head for several seconds. He got to his feet and while doing so glanced at the moon, which caused him to wobble and hitch in a gulp of air. His mind flooded with intimidating images of cruelty as the soft hair on the nape of his neck prickled.

He held onto the window-frame for support and balance. He squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to jettison the ugliness inside his head, but the dreadful imaginings remained. A gasping groan trembled over his lips. Nausea struck him. Five minutes of shakiness passed before he had the gumption and surety to return his buttocks to the chair without fear of vomiting.

His eyelids were heavy and growing heavier by the moment. He wanted to sleep, but was too scared to even give it a try. A wave of fatigue and dizziness washed over him. He pressed his forehead against the windowpane—the coolness of the glass felt nice and soothing. His heartrate slowed and in a fleeting instant the sandman triumphed and he was dead to the world.

Horror, of the kind that clawed at his sanity, materialized once more to distress him. It was all so distinct—a bruised and battered man wearing nothing but a loincloth was tied to a whipping post. His face was twisted in agony. An enraged throng of onlookers, fueled by bloodlust and hate, were screaming and shouting vulgarities to cheer on the torture.

Hernandez was on the frontline of the crowd. Raging conflict seared his conscience. A furious war between stark contradictions waged inside his heart; dissent and protest against the outrageous punishment were at odds with agreement and celebration. He wanted the victim’s anguish to end—he wanted the sorrows to continually increase. His senses were inflamed.

The brutalized man made eye-contact. You’re killing me, Reuben.

Die, die, die! the physician wailed, slobber dripping off his lips.

I am innocent. A lamb to be slaughtered.

A centurion barked orders, which were immediately put into action. Soldiers unhooked Jesus of Nazareth. The grossly abused man crumpled in a heap. His disfigured face contorted into a grimace. The flesh on his back was flayed into a bloody pulp. He was unceremoniously dragged in the dirt, enduring the savagery and humiliation in teeth-clenched silence.

A section of his ribcage was exposed, which was given a kick by a uniformed guard. The near-naked man writhed as his arms were stretched on a rough-hewn timber. He was resigned to his destiny. An enthusiastic soldier, swinging a hefty mallet, picked up pegs to secure Jesus to the crossbeam. In workmanlike exactitude, the nails were hammered through his hands—each rusty spike entered at the base of his thumb and was driven at an angle through the wrist.

You’re killing me, Reuben. The horrid pound-pound-pounding was despicable. Mockery and contempt were hurled at the man being crucified; the voices thickened by scornful hostility. Hernandez recoiled in his footsteps. He readily switched from being sickened to overjoyed by the gore of the torture. The thud-thud of the hammer tore him loose from sleep.

He nearly fell off the chair. You’re killing me, Reuben. He grabbed handfuls of air. His throat was clogged. The pounding hadn’t stopped; it kept clouting his eardrums. He cringed. The volume of it startled him. He cautiously checked his relationship to reality and found a measure of equilibrium. The noise stressing him was someone knocking hard on his front door.

Go away, he muttered tiredly. The knock-knock became louder and monotonous. He cussed in vehement disgust. You’re killing me, Reuben. Like a scalpel’s blade, the accusation sliced to his core. He swallowed and hesitantly gained his feet. A fly buzzed past his eyes. Then another and another. He swatted at them, stutter-stepping toward the invasion of noise.

Hernandez, oblivious of his frazzled appearance, inched the door wide enough to see a vaguely familiar man with a hat pulled low on his brow. The doctor squinted and timidly pressed closer. His face screwed into stunned confusion lined by doubt. When recognition slammed through him, he gasped in bulgy-eyed breathlessness. You? What are you doing here?

Time to take a bath, my good doctor.



When Amanda Axler was fifteen she had passion in her heart for Stace Hawkins. There could be no denying that he sparked and kindled lovey-dovey emotions which ignited a physical response. He could make her weak-kneed and lightheaded, but in her experiences with him, she concluded that from his viewpoint she was invisible—that dismissal and rejection framed her perspective. Her unrequited love for him defined her coming of age years.

At nineteen, she crossed the boundary between desperate and reckless to get his attention and hold it. Despite being raised to be courteous and ladylike, she decided to throw caution to the wind and go after him. She pulled out all stops and engaged every tool of her vivacious feminine wiles and charms. She contrived to be alone with him as much as possible to blatantly flirt and put forth innuendo-laced remarks whenever situations arose for her to take a chance.

On a singularly pristine summer afternoon she planned a picnic for the two of them along the Rio Grande that included swimming. Whilst he was bare-chested and soaking wet, she posed and postured in her bathing suit less than an arm’s length away. In coquettish fashion, she turned a slow pirouette, but her suggestive ploys were all for naught—she couldn’t even steal a kiss or get one stolen. She was confounded and shattered on that long ago yesterday.

Now, as a forty-three year old widow woman, all these thoughts roiled through Mandy Kilmer, and competed with a far different present reality. Embers of anticipation and yearning desires burned deep within as she waited for Stace Hawkins. If all went according to plan, tonight the past would change forever as they consummated their relationship.

Excited and impatient, Mandy bustled around the kitchen, which was filled with the aroma of a roast beef meal with all the trimmings. The house was empty—she had made arrangements to see that it remained so for twenty-four hours, but was having difficulty staying on task. The dinner was prelude to taking her man to bed for the first time; the joy and pleasure of that prospect flushed her complexion and put her mind in a flux of amorous meanderings.

She wore a bright-colored cotton dress that fashionably accentuated her figure, while her perfume hinted at lilacs. She was more than ready. A bit of annoyance nipped at her. She went to the window above the sink and looked outside. The beginnings of dusk crawled across the valley. He was twenty minutes late, and that caused her lips to become a straight line.

She strolled into the dining room, which was aglow in candlelight. The setting was idyllic. She had given attention to every detail to assure that the preliminaries would naturally lead to the main event in the bedroom, which