August 13

By Jack Coey

A Catholic workingman knows the truth about a murder and is betrayed by the institutions of the community controlled by Protestants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465339447

Jack Coey

Jack Coey was raised by the Shakers @ Mount Lebanon until he figured out they were celibate, and he wanted more fun than that, so he escaped to Manhattan, and got a job in the choir of a musical until they discovered he couldn't sing, but by that time he was uncelibate so life wasn't so bad, and he thought, "Hey I know the alphabet maybe I'll be a writer!"

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Copyright © 2011 by Jack Coey.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011912718

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-3943-0

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-3942-3

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-3944-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Monday, August 19

Friday, August 23

Saturday, August24

August, 1917

Tuesday, August 27

Thursday, August 15

Thursday, August 22

Tuesday, August 20

Wednesday, August 28

Friday, August 30

Monday, September 2

April, 1918

Friday, August 23

Monday, September 9

Thursday, September 12

Wednesday, August 14

Thursday, September 5

Monday, September 9

Wednesday, September 11

Monday, September 16

Saturday, September 14

Tuesday, August 13

Wednesday, August 28

Wednesday, August 14

Monday, September 9

Thursday, September 12

Monday, September 16

Thursday, Halloween

Monday, Armistice Day.

Tuesday, November 19

Thanksgiving Day, 1918

December, 1918

January 6, 1919

Wednesday, January 15

Sunday, January 26

February, 1919

Monday, March 10.

Tuesday, March 11

St. Patrick’s Day

Tuesday, March 18

Friday, March 21

Friday Night, March 21

Saturday, March 22

Tuesday, March 25

Tuesday, April 1

Thursday, April 3

Friday, April 11

Friday, April 18

Tuesday, April 22

Sunday, April 27

Monday, August 19

It was an August night, several hours after dark, and there was a single window lighted in the rectory. There was a figure walking on the sidewalk outside the rectory who turned up the rectory walkway and stopped at the dark front door. He knocked, and waited, turning his body this way and that. He started to knock for a second time when the door swung open and a woman holding a candle stood there.

Is Father Hennon available? he asked.

Wait.

The light receded down the hallway and returned again in several moments.

Come in, she invited.

He entered the rectory and followed the woman down the hallway, closing the door behind him. She ushered him into the room where Father Hennon was reading. She left the room and Father Hennon took off his glasses.

Albany, he said, this is unexpected.

I know Father, and I am sorry. There is something weighting on me and I didn’t want another restless night. I hate to bother you at this late hour, but I know I won’t be able to sleep until I can share this with someone.

I see, said the priest, motioning to Albany to sit in a chair, you couldn’t share this burden with your wife?

I have, Father, but I need to tell someone in authority.

Father Hennon smiled.

Albany, I don’t know how much corporeal authority I have, commented the priest.

I need some guidance as to what to do.

I see. Tell me what is troubling you, and we’ll see if I can help.

Father, the night of the murder, I saw Charles Rich’s horse and buggy at the sawdust chute at nine o’clock.

The two men looked at each other in the silent August night. Father Hennon spoke,

I don’t think I understand; he was smiling. Albany sat forward in his chair.

Rich says he was kicked right before nine. He swears to it.

Oh yes. Yes indeed. I see your problem.

The men were quiet. At last, the priest asked,

It was Charles Rich you saw at the chute?

No, no, Father, it was Ed Baldwin, but it was Rich’s horse and buggy. I know it was.

Why would Ed Baldwin be driving Rich’s horse and buggy?

They share a barn, and sometimes, Baldwin comes to the chute for sawdust.

With Rich’s horse and buggy?

Yes, Father.

You’re certain of this?

Yes, Father, I am.

There was the sound of far off thunder and neither man spoke. Finally out of the silence,

What should I do, Father?

The priest stood up from his chair and walked to a window, and spent several moments looking out, before he said,

Albany I’m glad you came to me to share your uncertainties and I want you to know you are always welcome to do so. What you know is important, and should be shared with the authorities. I pledge to keep what you tell me secret. Let me ask you how did you come to know this?

I was the night watchman that night at Bean and Symonds, and I was doing my nine o’clock rounds. I was fired a week after when I told my supervisor about what I had seen. He claimed I was sleeping on the job which wasn’t true.

Of course.

Rich has a lot of influence in this town and I was doubtful if it would do any good.

You should speak the truth, Albany, and what happens after that is out of your hands.

I know that Father. I needed someone to say it to me.

They heard the sound of rain.

Sounds like I’m going to get wet, joked Albany.

You’re welcome to stay the night here.

Oh no, Father, I couldn’t—you know, the misses, but thank-you, Father. Thank-you very much.

Father Hennon rang a bell, and in a few moments, the woman was at the door to lead Albany out.

Friday, August 23

Two men, one behind the other, stepped from the train to the platform. The first man looked like he belonged there; the second, out of place. He wore a black suit with a monocle in his eye—more European than New England, small town New England in 1918. He carried a tripod, and had a bag over his shoulder. He followed the first man who was William