The Man In Number 7 Read online

  The Man in number 7

  Where the dead come to collect.

  by Sherry Briscoe

  For my mother, and all the other abused women in the world. Only when we find our inner strengths, are we able to stand up for ourselves.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including inf9ormation storage and retreival systems without the permission in writing from the author, except by reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  Chat Noir Press

  PO Box 663

  Eagle, ID 83616

  Copyright (c) 2019 Sherry Briscoe

  All right reserved.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 1

  June 12, 1961

  Winnemucca, Nevada

  Apolline Dubois stood over the lifeless body of her husband. The thin single-pane window in her cheap apartment shuddered, as did she. Crimson droplets slid off the knife in her hand, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer. His pooling blood smelled of sour whiskey.

  She gagged.

  Memories ignited as red beads slipped off the edge of the blade and soaked into the dingy threadbare carpet. The first time Jules Glenn Dubois smiled at her from across a crowded New Orleans street. The moment the unruly Cajun’s dark haunted eyes captured her teenage heart and made her body quiver in places it shouldn’t.

  Another drop. The first time he struck her. His profuse apologies and promises it would never happen again. Promises as flimsy as papier-mâché strips on the Mardi Gras floats from her childhood. Ripped and torn, they were left flapping in the wind of her mind.

  Plop. Plop. Plop.

  Her knuckles turned white as Apolline tightened her grip. Panic clawed through her belly. She clutched her free hand to her stomach as her body convulsed, demanding to vomit.

  It hurt to breathe. Apolline stepped back, sucked in air like a swimmer emerging from a deep dive, then spasms commandeered all control of her body. The knife tumbled to the floor splashing in the blood pooled around his body.

  She wanted to say she was sorry. But she wasn’t. She wanted to say she’d miss him. But she wouldn’t. All she could do was laugh and cry at the same time.

  Hysteria.

  Fear.

  Rubbing her hands across her dress only smeared his blood more. Apolline looked at the floor, blood-spattered across the toes of her new beige suede pumps with two-inch alligator-covered shoes. She had saved up for three months to purchase them. Now ruined.

  Stopping to look around the compact one-bedroom apartment, Apolline’s mind raced in irrational thoughts. The living room was covered with blood. It was on everything. All over him and all over her. Why couldn’t he have just fallen down and not moved, like in the movies?

  Stumbling into the narrow bathroom, Apolline glanced at her reflection in the mirror and gasped. She quickly turned the water on and washed the blood off her face and neck, her arms and hands. She wiped down her legs but kept her new shoes on. She looked in the bedroom and saw Jules’ cooks jacket draped across the foot of the bed. She pulled it over her pale blue dress to cover the blood. She buttoned the jacket and rolled up the sleeves that were practically a foot longer than her petite arms. She sniffled and snatched her pocketbook off the edge of the counter.

  “Elizabeth,” Apolline murmured to herself. “Where is Elizabeth?” she stood deathly still for a moment struggling to remember.

  Shirley. She had sent her daughter to Shirley’s next door to go out for ice-cream. Apolline fumbled the door knob and hurriedly slipped out and knocked on the next door over.

  No answer.

  Panic beat against her chest as she knocked again.

  Echoes of her pounding were the only sound in the hall.

  Apolline stumbled out into the moonless evening and mindlessly made her way past the crowds in front of the casinos. No one seemed to notice her. But then she didn’t notice them either. The echoes of slot machines, buzzers, bells, and people cheering and laughing floated on the dry evening breeze. She paid no attention. She trudged with slumped shoulders wrapping her arms around herself. Her left eye was swelling shut, and she felt at least one rib was injured.

  Again.

  He deserved every stab. She staggered past the drunken masses, numb, searching for her daughter.

  “Elizabeth,” Apolline whispered as her eyes frantically scanned the people. She scurried to the little ice-cream shop on the corner. But it was closed. Where did they go? The music from the Basque celebration two blocks over caught her attention. Elizabeth loved watching the dancers when they came to town. Threading her way through the crowd, Apolline reached the Winnemucca Hotel, a two-story building that doubled as a boardinghouse for the Basque sheepherders.

  “Elizabeth,” Apolline’s cry rose ever so slightly. She could taste blood from the split in her lip.

  The Basque band played on the patio near the rear entrance of the old hotel. Apolline stumbled around the edge of the crowd, desperately scouring the myriad of faces. She circled around and stopped behind the band where she slumped onto a bench and leaned back against the wall. Where was her daughter?

  The four musicians finished a song and stashed their instruments to take a break. Hopping off his stool, the drummer tripped over Apolline’s feet. His olive complexion paled as he discovered the wounded and disoriented young woman. He kneeled in front of her, his eyes full of concern.

  “What’s happened to you? Should I call the police?”

  Apolline couldn’t focus. Her eyes blankly searched the people roaming around the bandstand. “Have you seen my daughter? Shirley took her out for ice-cream,” anxiety rose in her voice with each word.

  “How old is she?” he reached out to pat her hand.

  “Five,” Apolline winced. “I must find her, before…”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Elizabeth. She went to get ice-cream,” Apolline stood up and shoved his hands aside. She edged her way toward the crowd again.

  “Dom, we’re back on in ten,” the leader of the band called out.

  “Okay Jimmy, I’ll be there.” The drummer turned back and gasped as Apolline stepped into the streetlight exposing her swollen face, marbled with deep purple. Her lip was bleeding and more blood was smeared across her neck and hands. “Come, let me help you. We must clean you up and then we will find your daughter.” The drummer spoke with a heavy accent. He gestured to a woman who was pressing her way through the crowd toward them. “Petra, she needs our help,” he glanced back at Apolline. “My wife will take care of you.”

  The Basque woman shook her head with concern. “Come,” Petra said as she pulled Apolline through the back door of the hotel. “We must wash you clean. Is there someone we can call?”

  Apolline’s eyes registered with fear. “No! There is no one. I must find my daughter.”

  “We will locate her in just a moment,” Petra said coolly as she ushered her into a narrow public restroom. The area was dirty with peeling paint on the wall and it stank of cigarettes, urine, and puke. Petra pulled the bandana off her hair, soaked it under running water and tend
erly wiped Apolline’s face then unbuttoned the oversized jacket and gasped at the blood-soaked dress beneath.

  “You need medical attention.”

  “No,” Apolline’s gaze dropped to the floor.

  “These clothes must go. Do you have anything else?”

  Apolline shook her head no.

  A small mirror on the wall above the rust-stained and dirty porcelain sink caught Apolline’s attention. She barely recognized herself, now with dark circles below her sable brown eyes, one cheek swollen and discolored. Normally, people admired her Cajun beauty, olive complexion, and captivating smile. But today, the smile was gone and she looked like a prisoner of war the way her clothes hung on her narrow frame.

  “Do you have any family close?” Petra asked.

  “No. My family is…or was…in Louisiana.”

  “No one here?”

  “No. No one. My husband…” Apolline’s eyes glistened with tears.

  “A friend?”

  Apolline shook her head no again.

  “I have to find Elizabeth. Then we have to get home before my husband wakes.” Apolline winced when Petra swiped the wet cloth over her swollen jaw and lip. “No…I…can’t go home,” she stared blankly into the distance.

  “Here, your eye is nearly swollen shut,” Petra brushed Apolline’s thick auburn hair out of her face. “No, you can’t go back home.” Petra opened the door and called out in Basque to someone in the hallway. A few minutes later another woman stepped in holding a white blouse and a red skirt in her hands. Petra handed them to Apolline. “Put these on. They’re a little big, but this way your daughter won’t be frightened when she sees you.”

  “I did it,” Apolline mumbled as she slipped out of her cotton dress and into the Basque woman’s clothes. “I didn’t mean to, but I had to.”

  “What’s your name, dear?” Petra asked as she took the blood-smeared clothes and stuffed them in a paper bag.

  “Apolline. Apolline Dubois.”

  “Well Apolline, let’s go find your daughter,” Petra buried the paper sack in the trash can, and helped the battered young woman out. They made their way back to the patio where the night was alive with music and laughter.

  The performing Basque dancers wore traditional outfits. The women in white blouses, full red skirts, black aprons and vests. They wore black slipper shoes with straps that laced around their calves over opaque white stockings. Their hair was up and covered with white scarves. The male dancers wore white trousers and shirts, black vests and red berets. The surrounding crowd clapped and cheered as they performed the dances from their motherland. Then the music shifted to a popular song, and the bystanders joined in the evening celebration.

  “Elizabeth!” Apolline shrieked as her eyes lit up and she dove through the sea of strangers. She swept the little girl up into her arms and released a muffled sob into her daughter’s thick wavy hair. Elizabeth’s sable brown eyes mirrored her mother’s. The five-year old had a round face accented by dimples and framed with thick wavy auburn hair that fell over her shoulders like a heavy shawl.

  “The ice-cream shop was closed,” Shirley stared at Apolline’s face knowingly. “But Elizabeth insisted we come down here and see the Basque dancers. Sorry dear, but I gotta’ get back. Will you be okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Merci,” Apolline kissed her daughter and held her tight.

  “Mama,” Elizabeth drew back. “I haven’t had my ice-cream yet.”

  Apolline wiped her eyes and grinned. “Oh cher,” she angled her head to look at the Basque woman behind her. “Do you have ice-cream here?”

  Wrapping an arm around Apolline’s shoulder, Petra led her over to the edge of the deck that boasted a king’s feast on three large tables. “Rest here, I’ll see what I can find for you.” Petra gently caressed the little girl’s bruised cheek. “It seems her mother isn’t the only one with battle wounds.” Apolline held Elizabeth tight in her lap as she sat in the chair and watched the Basque people fill the night with life and laughter.

  Two Australian shepherds lay at the end of the table, and one scooted up next to Apolline’s feet. Elizabeth reached down to pet the black and white shaggy dog.

  Petra pulled several other Basque women into a huddle and occasionally glanced back at Apolline. A teenage girl nodded and scurried out of the circle. The other women nodded at each other with acknowledging glances and pats on each other’s shoulders. Petra strolled back over to Apolline.

  “Miren has gone to find your daughter some ice-cream. But there’s something we wish to offer you,” Petra pointed with her chin to the side, keeping her eyes on Apolline. “Rosa, hold the child until Miren returns with her treat.” A large woman with braids wrapped several times around her head reached for Elizabeth. She spoke in Basque to her and bounced the little girl next to her broad chest. Apolline’s hands followed Elizabeth, not wanting to let go.

  “Come, she is in excellent hands. We have a proposition,” Petra guided Apolline over to the huddle of women. They drew her into their circle. She listened to their words and considered the security they promised.

  “You want me to come with you?” Apolline uttered in a trembling voice. Panic filled her chest and rose in her throat.

  “My dear,” an older woman chimed staring at Apolline’s bruised and battered face, “I do not judge.”

  Two other women scoffed and giggled.

  “Okay, maybe I judge a little. But this is no home for you to raise your little girl. It’s a casino town.”

  “But…” Apolline’s voice trembled.

  “Our community can protect you. Come back home to Idaho with us.” Petra glanced at Apolline’s bruised and swollen face. “He will never harm you or your daughter again.”

  Apolline hadn’t thought about what would happen next. What she would do, where she would go? Her heart raced. All she could see was her husband lying on the drab living room floor. Blood pulsing out of the gashes in his chest and stomach.

  How many times had she stabbed him? It all happened so fast.

  Her body was numb. Her mind blank. Apolline nodded her agreement to the women who surrounded her. Rosa handed Elizabeth back to her mother and returned to the other Basque ladies.

  Apolline licked her swollen lip and let her mind drift. Random thoughts formed as she watched the band play. Their music reminded her of the Cajun music played back home. Festive and upbeat. She recognized some of the men. She’d seen them come into the Ranch House Restaurant where she and Jules worked.

  The teenage girl with spindly legs and jet black hair rushed up with a melting ice-cream cone in her hand. She knelt down to be face to face with Elizabeth. “Here you go,” she handed the cone to Elizabeth, who cheerfully took it, her outstretched tongue eagerly anticipating the cold treat. The vanilla and chocolate swirl dripped over her small fingers as she giggled and licked both fingers and cone. Within five minutes the ice-cream and cone were gone, leaving behind nothing but sticky fingers and a smile on the little girl’s face.

  “Apolline, come with me,” Petra pointed to an old panel truck and a 1961 Chevrolet BelAir station wagon parked in the alley. “The band travels together. You will ride with us in the station wagon; it is Jimmy’s pride and joy. Brand new. There is plenty of room.” Petra opened the rear door of the station wagon. “Come, there are blankets in the very back to lie on. Let your little girl sleep until we are ready to leave.”

  “Mama,” Elizabeth yawned. “Where is Papa?”

  “Papa is…” she glanced at Petra then back at her daughter. “He is sick and cannot come with us.”

  “Will he go back home to Norleans?”

  “Yes, cher, Papa is going back to New Orleans.”

  “Merci,” Apolline picked up her daughter and climbed into the station wagon. It was stuffy and warm, even with the windows down. Elizabeth’s eyes were closed before she reached the stack of quilts. Apolline lay down beside her daughter, curling up in a ball around her. The music and mirth seemed to be miles away,
echoes of the night’s events.

  She listened for footsteps.

  For the police. For her husband.

  But no one came.

  Silence. Apolline’s chest was taut with anxiety. It was painful for her to breathe, much less think.

  What if Jules wasn’t dead? There was no place she could run that he wouldn’t find her.

  No. He was dead. She was certain of it.

  Apolline woke to the smell of cigarette smoke wafting into her nostrils. The car sped over the old highway jostling her and Elizabeth. How long had she been asleep? She opened her eyes. Petra and her husband sat in the back seat, with another woman beside them. Jimmy and the saxophone player were in the front of the car, smoking, chatting, and laughing as they drove through the quiet, dark desert. She wrapped her arms tighter around Elizabeth who was still fast asleep.

  The two vehicles that carried the crew and equipment moved along the night highway heading back to Idaho.

  She had murdered her husband tonight. In the morning she would…her thoughts drifted. What would she do in the morning? Apolline dared not think much further than this night. The future had its own complications. She squeezed her eyelids tight trying not to think about any of it. She kissed her sleeping daughter’s forehead. It was good enough for now and now was all she had.

  Drifting in and out of sleep, Apolline tried to roll over in the cramped space. The quilts beneath her gave little padding. Her back ached. A sharp pain stabbed her ribs. She opened her eyes as the vehicle slowed. Lights filtered through the windows and she raised her head. The car pulled up to the curb in front of a house and stopped.

  “We’re home,” Jimmy said on the exhale of a cigarette. “Time to unload.”

  “What time is it?” Petra asked as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and arched her back.

  “Four a.m.,” Jimmy turned the engine off and climbed out of the driver’s seat. The panel truck pulled up and parked behind them. The back door of the truck opened and the rest of the band members stretched, yawned, and slowly made their way out, pulling their instruments with them.