In the middle of October, a man stood at my door, introducing himself as Lars Olsen from Montana. He came, he said, because my brother had told him I was looking for a carriage and some horses, which he had with him, right there. He wondered if I wanted to have a look.
They were fine horses and the carriage was sturdy, but I wondered why James had sent Olsen my way. He was not exactly what I asked for. He was elderly, for one, and I was not in any dire need of horses, although one could never have too many of those. Was that what James was sending me? A chance to gain some horses? If so, I thought it a poor trade for my hours spent carving in the cellar.
I invited the man inside. I thought he could be a suitor if encouraged, although that did not seem to be his intention. I said his horses looked fine and I would have a closer look come morning, and then I asked him to stay and rest a few days.
The farm and my cooking appropriately impressed Mr. Olsen. He was appropriately drunk too, come night. I had Jennie make up a bed for him, and when he had gone up, I went outside to think.
What was I to do with this stranger in my house? James must have had some purpose in sending him to me, and it had nothing to do with his horses. I thought about the night I had just spent in his company, and realized that Mr. Olsen had kept his coat on all through the meal. When he went upstairs to sleep, it was still buttoned.
He had something to hide, then.
When I came inside, I took a lamp and walked up the creaking stairs. I was very careful when I opened the door just a crack to look at him in bed. He was snoring loudly with the coat cradled in his arms. They were strong arms too, despite his age. Perhaps he would be a worthy opponent. When I went back downstairs, my pulse went racing, as I thought of how it would feel to tackle this beast to the ground. To have him at my feet with my hands flecked with his blood. To conquer and win another game, and even gain some cash as a prize. I could not stop thinking about it. I could not help but being excited.
What good was that man to anyone but himself? Better his treasure—whatever it was—was used to feed and clothe my children. That way he had some purpose in this world.
The next day, I told Mr. Olsen that I would buy his horses and pretended to go into town to get cash. Instead, I went to the pharmacist and purchased chloral, a more potent sedative than the laudanum drops, as I did not want to take any chances. I did not know this opponent as I had my husbands.
“I cannot sleep at all,” I told the pharmacist, dressed in my widow’s garb. “Perhaps this fine concoction will help.”
I fed Mr. Olsen well that night, and laced his drinks before I served them. When the house was quiet, I went to his room. Mr. Olsen was snoring just as loudly as before; I knew he would be deep in his dreams from the chloral. Still, I was very quiet when I made my way across the floor. My heart pounded so hard it almost hurt and my hands felt clammy, but there was excitement as well. I was about to test my strength again and feel that wondrous feeling.
I pulled one of the pillows from under his head and was just about to cover his face, when he suddenly woke up and started thrashing. His legs flayed and his hands clawed at mine; it reminded me of wrestling with a young bull in the barn. I had to use what I had of strength to suppress his violent thrashing; still, I held the pillow firm until he went limp as a gutted fish. His hands fell away from mine, leaving angry scratches.
When I let go, my heart was pounding and my breath was shivering. My clothes were drenched in sweat. I picked up the coat from the bed and felt the heavy weight. I laid it out the floor and patted it down until I felt the rolls of cash sewn into the lining. There was my surprise, then, my gift from James Lee.
Lars Olsen lay as dead on the bed, but alas, he was not yet. I could see the pulse throbbing on his neck. I brought out a sheet and laid it out on the floor, and then I rolled the man down on top of it. He landed with a heavy thud. I wrapped him up good and hauled him with me across the floor, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and down all the steps to cellar. It was hard work, for the man was heavy, and though I was big and strong, I was just a woman. I managed, though, with much fuss. When we got down there, his head was bloody from the stairs, and I do not know if he was still alive. I gave him a few whacks with the cleaver to be sure.
It reminded me of Peter, dealing him those blows, and I gave him more than enough to see him good and dead. Then I hauled him onto the table and he was just meat after that. I bled him as well as I could and took the soft parts for the pigs. Then I sawed off his limbs, took his head off and brought him outside in gunnysacks to slip him in the ground. Ashes and quicklime. I covered him up.
Back inside, I moved his trunk to a room that was not in use and made up his bed neatly. Next, I cleaned the cleaver. Then I sat down in the kitchen with his coat. I cut the lining with my scissors and the rolls of money tumbled to the floor, almost a thousand in all.
It was well-deserved payment for a hard night’s work, and I even got new horses and a carriage in the bargain. I threw the coat in his trunk then, and placed the money in a locked box I kept for that very purpose.
But I did not get that feeling. What I felt was barely triumphant at all; it was merely an echo of that joyous sense of power I remembered. I was satisfied with my work, yes, but the ecstasy evaded me—still as distant as a memory. Lars Olsen could fill my money box, but he could not sate my yearning. Killing him and taking him apart did nothing to bring me sweet bliss. I wondered if it was because of my nerves, or because I had expected too much. Perhaps that feeling could not be forced but had to erupt on its own. Perhaps it was like a snake: powerful but shy. All I could do was set the stage to try to coax it forth. Give it the proper bait and hope.
When Colson and the girls came down for breakfast the next day, I told them Mr. Olsen had left late the night before because he remembered he had to be in Chicago this morning.
I’d bought his horses, though, I said, and asked Colson to dig a new hole.
36.
Nellie
Bella did not invite us back to La Porte before Christmas, about which I felt relieved, but troubled, too. As much as I had wanted to stay away before—to turn a blind eye, as it was—I was now plagued by the notion that something terrible would happen if I were not there to keep watch.