by Cameron Judd
It didn’t matter. Gunnison would have carried out the hoax at almost any price, because Brady Kenton had asked him to. By becoming “dead” in the eyes of the world, Kenton had gained the opportunity to travel to England to seek his lost wife, Victoria, who for many years had been in the hands of the obsessed Dr. David Kevington. Kenton had taken with him his daughter, Rachel Frye.
But that had been nearly a year ago. Gunnison had received a single item of news from Kenton at the beginning, a letter sent to him at the Illustrated American office under a preagreed code name. The letter informed him that Kenton and Rachel had safely made their voyage and were preparing to begin the journey to the Kevington estate. Kenton promised another letter would soon follow … but none had ever come.
Gunnison had waited, waited, and waited more … but nothing.
He was worried. What if Kenton and Rachel had been captured by Kevington, or worse? The man had demonstrated his willingness to do extreme actions long ago when he’d taken the badly injured Victoria Kenton away from a train accident and spirited her off to his English estate. There he had slowly led her back to health again, though not before she had given birth to the daughter of Brady Kenton, conceived shortly before her accident. Victoria had never known of the birth; she was in a coma when Rachel Kenton was born and still in a coma when Rachel was given away to a servant family named Frye, to raise as their own.
Rachel had learned the secret of her true heritage many years later and had come to the United States and found Brady Kenton, her real father.
Now Kenton and Rachel were gone off to England … or perhaps off the face of the earth, for all Gunnison knew.
He worried almost constantly about the lack of news from Kenton and already was secretly planning a voyage of his own to England to find out what had happened to his friend.
But what if Kenton wasn’t in England at all? Could he really be in Colorado?
If so, why hadn’t he contacted Gunnison? And where were Rachel and Victoria?
Gunnison stared at his plate, lost in thought.
“Is something unsatisfactory, Mr. Gunnison?” a waiter asked.
“Hmm? Oh … no. Everything is fine. I’ve just been thinking about something.”
“Can I bring you anything?”
“No. Not at the moment.”
“Very good, sir.”
Gunnison ate the rest of his meal without interruption, paid his bill, and walked back to his lonely house with his collar turned up and his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
* * *
Kenton … in Colorado.
Gunnison rolled the possibility over in his mind again and again and found it simply didn’t fit. Kenton would not return without contacting him.
Not unless he was in trouble, major trouble, and didn’t want to embroil his old friend and partner in it. Kenton was like that.
Nearly to his house, Gunnison stopped, sighed, and turned on his heel. His mind was churning; no point in going home just yet, because he couldn’t relax if he did.
It was several blocks to the building full of renovated offices into which the Illustrated American had moved its operation only eight months before, but Gunnison walked them speedily despite his heavy supper. By the time he got to the office he’d worked off most of his tension.
He turned the key and entered the empty building. Not even a janitor around just now; Tuesday evenings the offices were empty except for the occasional late worker. The absence of lights in any windows indicated no one had stayed late tonight.
Gunnison didn’t bother to light the hallway, walking it blindly by familiarity. He passed the little office that had been Kenton’s. The door was slightly ajar, the room vaguely illuminated by the relatively brighter light outside. The desk was empty, the shelves still untouched and all Kenton’s books in place despite the fact everyone believed him dead and the stuff should have been gone through long ago. Funny how nobody wanted to do it. Everybody liked having Kenton’s office like it was.… It made it seem possible that he could reappear and come boisterously striding in like he always had. People around the office still talked in sentimental tones about this, like mourners at a funeral discussing how good the corpse looks.
Gunnison went to his office, lit and cranked up the light, and took a second look through the stack of mail he had received in the morning. He knew there was no letter from Charles Matthias, the pseudonym Kenton had chosen for his letters to Gunnison, but he looked anyway, just to be sure. Then he went to his father’s office, the door of which always stood open, and examined his father’s mail on the chance that a letter might have been delivered to the wrong Gunnison. Again, nothing.
Gunnison returned to his office and flopped down in his chair. He was tired, missed his wife, and was worried about Kenton. It had just been too long. He should have heard something by now.
The prospect of a journey to England seemed realer by the moment. But also daunting, especially as tired as he felt right now.
Gunnison leaned across his desk, resting his chin on the back of his crossed hands, then turned his head and rested his cheek instead. He closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 3
The jail was small, dirty, stinking of old coffee and older cigar smoke. The town marshal who ran the place had bleary eyes and the look of too much liquor about him and eyed the Stetson-wearing Kenton with suspicion and Gunnison, who was clad in a business suit, with something approaching disdain.
“Why should I let you see my prisoner?” the marshal said to Kenton. “What business is he of yours?”
“None at all, sir,” Kenton replied with a smile. “But he is a man who just robbed ten banks in succession and killed five officers of the law in the process, and it would be of tremendous interest to my readers if I could sketch this scoundrel before he disappears into the bowels of the courts and then on to the gallows.”
“Ain’t no concern of mine.”
“Perhaps this is,” Kenton said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a roll of bills. He tossed it onto the desk in front of the marshal.
The marshal eyed it without words.
“I could arrest you for trying to bribe an officer.”
“And I could report you to the town fathers for drinking on the job.”
“Hell, they know I do it already.”
“Take the money, Marshal. Give me fifteen minutes with the prisoner. That’s all I ask.”
The marshal reached over and took the money, pocketing it. He gestured with a toss of his head toward the big door leading into the rear cellblock.
Kenton and Gunnison followed the slightly staggering lawman through the door. The prisoner who was Kenton’s target was in a cell on the left side of the cellblock; another prisoner, apparently drunk, was in the other.
“Who the hell is this?” growled the bank robber.
“His name’s Brady Kenton. He’s with the Illustrated American. This other fellow with him is his son.”
“I’m not his son,” Gunnison quickly corrected.
The marshal said nothing, just backed away from the cell and let Kenton go nearer to it. The bank robber was spread out across his bunk, staring at Kenton with a hateful gaze that it seemed to Gunnison was a little less authentic than it had been before he found out who Kenton was.
“I’ve heard of you, Kenton,” he said. “I got no use for scribblers like you.”
“America wants to know you, my friend,” Kenton said, already beginning to sketch. “America is like that, you know. Crime and criminals intrigue us in the land of the free.”
“I didn’t give you no permission to sketch me.”
Kenton just smiled and kept on sketching, and it was obvious that the man really didn’t mind. It was an honor to be the subject of a sketch by the famous Brady Kenton.
It happened fast. The marshal made a strange, grunting sound. Gunnison turned and saw that the drunk in the cell behind him had put an arm through the bars and grabbed the marshal by the neck. His other hand was even
then pulling free the Colt in the lawman’s holster.
The lawman wrenched himself free, but the pistol remained in the prisoner’s hand.
“What the—”
The pistol boomed, incredibly loud in the small space, the stench of expended gunpowder instantly burning Gunnison’s nose. The marshal screeched as the bullet entered his thigh, dropping him to the floor at once.
Kenton had wheeled, letting his pad fall, and was making for the prisoner with the pistol before the man could withdraw too far back into the cell to be reached and before he could finish off the marshal with a second shot.
“No, Kenton!” Gunnison shouted.
But it was too late. The pistol went up, booming again, the bullet passing through Kenton’s forehead and exiting the back of his head.…
* * *
Gunnison sat up with a grunt of alarm and stared wide-eyed across his desk.
A few moments later he was able to breathe again.
A dream. Thank God it had only been a dream!
But the events in the dream were based on a memory; they had been real, for the most part. The drunken and bribed marshal, the bank robber lounging on his cell bunk, the drunkard in the cell grabbing the pistol … all this had happened several years before, much as Gunnison had dreamed it.
But in the real-life version, Kenton had been able to grab the pistol away even before the prisoner could wound the marshal.
Gunnison closed his eyes and shuddered, unable to shake off the dream image of Kenton’s head being shattered by that bullet.
Why would he dream such a thing?
He knew why. Because he was worried about Kenton. That maybe this time Kenton had run across a situation that he couldn’t get the best of and it had gotten the best of him instead.
Gunnison rose, left the office building, and walked the lonely and dark way to his house, where he climbed into his cold bed and longed for his wife’s return.
* * *
Gunnison arrived late at the office the following morning and was relieved that his father was not there to see it. Thank God for business travel!
But James Brooney, his father’s unpleasant and nitpicking personal assistant, was there and stared at Gunnison with his usual cold arrogance. Word of this would get back to Gunnison’s father. Brooney would make sure of it.
“Good morning, James,” Gunnison said brightly as he passed the man who had become his in-office nemesis. He’d long since quit trying to win James over; clearly James viewed him as an heir unworthy to the throne he was soon to receive, and nothing Gunnison could do would change that. So now he just enjoyed what fun he could with James.
“Got something I want you to do for me today, James,” he said in dead serious tones. “I want you to arrange to have the name of the magazine changed before the next edition.”
“Change the … What do you mean?”
Gunnison paused at the door of his office and frowned at James as if he couldn’t believe how dense the man was. “I said I want the name of the magazine changed. Right away.”
“Sir, you can’t change the name of the magazine without your father’s permission!”
“Who says I can’t? I’m going to be the publisher soon enough.… Can’t I call it what I want?”
“You aren’t the publisher yet, sir.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I got a letter from my father telling me that now I’m the man in charge.”
“May I see this letter?”
“Who are you to make demands on me, James? I’m the one in charge here! And I want to name my magazine … Let me see.… How about … The Flatulent’s Friend? That’ll do. Go have a nameplate designed right away.”
James, who had absolutely no sense of humor and was extremely prudish, reddened nearly to the shade of a tomato. “Sir … I can’t do such a thing! It’s atrocious.… Your father will … Sir, you can’t mean it!”
“Of course I can’t mean it, James. I’m just joking with you. When are you going to learn to laugh a little?” Gunnison swept into his office and closed the door, smiling to himself.
CHAPTER 4
The exchange had been overheard and made the rounds of office gossip, causing much sneaking laughter at James’s expense.
Gunnison, though, didn’t much enjoy the levity, because he was immersed in worry again about what had happened to Kenton. It was terribly hard to know that Kenton had faked his death and not be able to tell anyone … especially now that he was worried. There was no one in whom he could confide, no one from whom he could seek advice. Kenton had made him vow not to tell anyone, even his wife. He’d kept his promise … mostly. Roxanne did not know Kenton still lived.
But Gunnison had told one other person. It had simply been impossible not to do so, for the sake of his own mental health.
Perhaps there were steps he could take toward finding his answers without further compromising the promise he had made. He thought hard, then stood and went to the shelf for his notepad. He sat down and put his feet upon his desk and began to write, balancing the pad on his crossed legs.
Fifteen minutes later, James lowered the temperature of the room simply by entering the door.
“You’re working, I presume, on the introductory piece for the next edition?”
“It’ll get done, James.”
“It was due, you are aware, three days ago.”
“It’ll get done.”
“Your father entrusted the job to you … a job on which he never ran late.”
“It’ll get done.”
“So that is what you’re working on?”
“No. I’m writing your dismissal letter. It’s very satisfying work.”
“You … my … uh, are you joking with me again, sir?”
“Go ponder on it awhile. Close the door as you leave.”
James turned and walked away, chin up and steps a little too fast. He closed the door … hard. Gunnison shook his head. Poor James! He’d be glad to be friendlier to him if only he would quit being so blasted uppity.
James was right that Gunnison was behind on his work, and no doubt he would hear about it when his father returned from his travels. But just now Gunnison didn’t care. He was writing a letter to Scotland Yard, inquiring about Kenton.…
But as he wrote, his enthusiasm faded. A letter would take a long time to reach England and a longer time again to be answered, if ever it was. This was merely an exercise in activity for the sake of feeling better, and that was all.
Gunnison ripped the paper off the pad, wadded it, and threw it across the room into the rubbish bin, just as the office door opened again and Billy Connery stuck his head in.
“You know, Alex, I’ve been thinking of coming up with some sort of game in which the object would be throwing a ball into a basket of some sort.”
“Nobody would be interested, Billy.”
Billy Connery, Irish-born illustrator who was five years Gunnison’s junior and an employee of the Illustrated American since mere days after Kenton’s supposed death. It hadn’t taken long for him to become Gunnison’s closest friend … and not much longer to become the one living person to whom Gunnison had betrayed the truth about Kenton’s “death.”
Connery entered the office and closed the door behind him. “Having trouble finishing that introductory column, are you?”
“I’ve not started it.”
“What? But it was due days ago!”
“I know that, Billy.”
“Sorry … it’s not my place to point out deadlines to my own boss.”
“That’s not why I’m irritable. I’m just worried.”
“About your wife?”
“No … although I do miss her, very badly.”
Connery lowered his volume significantly. “About Kenton, then.”
“Yes. It’s been too long, Billy. I should have heard from him by now.”
Connery looked at him seriously. “You should tell your father.”
“I can’t. Kenton made me promise firmly. H
e was very specific that my father in particular was not to know he’s alive.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He has a strong sense of duty to my father.… Maybe having Father believe he is dead gives him a sense of freedom from that duty, so he can concentrate all his attention on finding Victoria. Whatever the reason, I made a promise to him.”
“You already broke it once, when you told me.”
“I know. I don’t claim to be consistent. I just don’t know what to do, Billy.”
“You’re going to have to go after him, I believe.”
“I’ve been thinking that.”
“You could probably find a professional pretext for going, so that no one would know the true reason for it. And you could take your Irish illustrator friend with you.”
“You’d want to come?”
“It would be a welcome trip for me. And I’m the only person around who can help you, because I’m the only other one besides you who knows.”
“I heard something last night that surprised me,” Kenton said. “I was told that Kenton has been seen in Colorado, in some little mining town I don’t know the name of.”
“It’s not surprising. As famous as Kenton’s face is, there’s bound to be people thinking they see him. They say everyone has someone else who looks like them.”
“Maybe that’s all it is. But I’d heard something similar from someone else earlier.”
“But it’s impossible. Kenton would have contacted you had he returned to the United States.”
“Yes … unless something was very wrong. Unless he had to hide so thoroughly that he couldn’t. Unless things had gone so badly that he cut himself off from everyone he knew before.”
“These are some substantial suppositions to be making on the basis of some rumors, Alex.”
“I realize that. But I’ve got a bad feeling, Billy. Something is wrong … and somehow I’ve got to find out what it is.”
“It does seem something should have been heard by now, I do confess.”
“I think maybe I really will have to go to England.”
