For a few moments, the clerk seemed hypnotized by the throbbing pulse in Maria’s throat, but he managed to croak, “No, ma’am. There was only an English gentleman in residence. Well, him and old Mrs. Betsy Conroy in Room Twelve. The poor old soul is our permanent resident.”
“Who is the English gent?” Shawn asked. “I spent several years in England and I might know him.”
The clerk looked at Shawn with obvious distaste. “Though England is not as large as the United States, I imagine that your knowing him is highly unlikely.” “Besides, the gentleman in question is a Scotland Yard detective and he must be careful who he knows and does not know.” The man looked Shawn up and down. “Violent roughnecks are everywhere.”
Shawn O’Brien had a short fuse and it was possible the clerk would have found himself with yet another nose full of Colt had Maria not seen the danger and said, “La, la, Scotland Yard indeed, and right here in Big Buck. How perfectly exquisite! Is he here to investigate an international crime?”
The clerk smiled. “O dear no. He’s a guest of Mr. Perry. I imagine he is here to discuss the role of cannons in police work. Small cannons of course. Perhaps for controlling striking industrial workers and mobs like that.”
“Did the box that was carried out of here last night come from the detective’s room?” Shawn asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Something was hidden behind the clerk’s eyes.
“It could only have come from the detective’s room,” Shawn said. “Unless dear old permanent resident Betsy had a body stashed away under her bed.”
“There was no box and no body was taken from this hotel,” the clerk emphasized. “If you think otherwise, you are very much mistaken. And now I wish you good day, sir.”
None of the O’Brien brothers were blushing violets. Jacob did his best to keep an explosive temper on a short leash, but since the murder of his wife, Shawn never did. It flared. His right hand shot out and he grabbed the clerk by the ear and twisted. Hard. As the man struggled and grimaced, Shawn said, “Show me the Englishman’s room. Maria, do you have your derringer?”
“Yes, I have it.”
“Good. If this ranny gives me any trouble, shoot him.” To the clerk, he said, “Now, show me the room. What the hell is your name anyhow?”
“It’s Claude Finain and Mr. Perry will hear of this.”
Unaffected by the threat, Shawn led Finain to the stairs by his ear. “Rather hot out today, isn’t it? But I think we can expect some rain.”
The clerk said nothing. His pained expression was answer enough.
He climbed the stairs and stopped at the Englishman’s room. “This room . . . this room. Now let loose of my ear.”
“Open the door. Now, sonny, in you go.” Shawn pushed the clerk inside, let go of the man’s tormented ear, and looked around. The room had been vacated, the bed had been made up, and nothing seemed amiss.
Maria stood rooted to the spot and her beautiful face took on an expression of horror, as though she’d just seen a headless ghost. Her knees buckled and she quickly sat on the edge of the bed.
Even Finain looked concerned as Shawn said, “Maria, are you feeling ill?”
“Can’t you smell it, Shawn? Blood, so much blood. And pain and fear and a terrible death.”
Shawn stood baffled
Finain shook his head. and said, “There is no blood here. No death.”
“Look between the floorboards.” She watched Shawn get down on one knee and asked, “Do you see it?”
Shawn got out his Barlow knife and probed with the blade. He brought up some black stuff on the tip of the blade and rubbed it between finger and thumb. He sniffed the smear and studied it closely. “It’s blood all right. And it’s fresh.” He spent the next couple minutes on his knees examining the spaces between the boards. “Maria, what do you think this is?” Between his fingers, he held up a small piece of gold-colored metal.
She looked at it closely. “It’s the back of a woman’s earring. It may have been lost last night or a long time ago.”
“Well, there’s blood everywhere between the floorboards. Somebody bled out in this room and the body was taken away in a box. The question is who?”
“And was it murder or suicide?” Maria said. “I say murder, and I think a woman may have been the victim.”
“And her killer? He could only be the English detective, huh, Finain?”
“Everything you two have said is ridiculous. Inspector Adam Ready is from Scotland Yard. He wouldn’t commit a crime like murder, if indeed it ever happened. Maybe somebody killed a dog.”
“And maybe pigs fly,” Shawn said. “Maria, what’s the mayor’s name again?”
“John Deakins.”
“Yeah, him. Let’s go talk to His Honor.”
“About what?” Finain asked. “Mr. Deakins is a busy man.”
Shawn shrugged. “What I have in mind won’t take long.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“No, it’s out of the question. I might go as far as to say that your request is as monstrous as your accusation,” Mayor John Deakins blustered in his loud fashion.
“Who else could have committed murder in the Rest and Be Thankful last night?” Shawn asked.
“Mr. O’Brien, you have no proof there even was a murder.”
“What about the blood?”
“Some drummer cut himself shaving weeks ago. How the hell should I know? To accuse a Scotland Yard detective inspector of such a crime is outrageous. Why, it could be a casus belli between the United States and Great Britain. If you know what casus belli means.”
Shawn smirked. “Just looked it up, did you, Mayor? I think that bringing a depraved killer to justice would hardly be a cause for war.”
“That is a terrible accusation, Mr. O’Brien. And who was the murdered party? Can you even guess?”
“No, I can’t guess. That’s why you’re going to swear me in as the sheriff of Big Buck.”
“Indeed I will not. Mr. Caleb Perry provides us with all the law enforcement we need. Why, thanks to him, this is the safest, most peaceful town west of the Mississippi.”
“That’s your the last word on the matter?” Shawn asked.
“Indeed it is. I will say no more.”
“Then hear me.” Shawn stepped around the mayor’s desk, bent over, and whispered something in Deakins’s ear.
The mayor’s round face turned red. “Damn you, sir. That is most singularly unfair,” the mayor said.
“You gave me no choice,” Shawn said.
Angry, Deakins opened a desk drawer, searched but found nothing, and slammed it shut. He opened another and found what he was looking for, a five-pointed tin star. He passed the badge to Shawn and said, “You are now the sheriff of Big Buck with all the legal powers appertaining thereto.”
Shawn glanced at the star. “Right there it says marshal, not sheriff.”
“Marshal, sheriff, what the hell difference does it make? For better or for worse, you’re now the law in this town.”
“Thank you most kindly, Mayor. We’ll discuss my salary later.”
* * *
After they left City Hall and regained the boardwalk, Maria snapped her parasol open and asked, “How did you get Deakins to change his mind?”
“I told him that I’d send a wire to my brother Jake and tell him that the mayor of Big Buck called him an ignorant, yellow-bellied, papist mick, and that he planned to shoot him on sight.”
“A threat like that would get any man to change his mind.”
“Yeah it would, especially since I mentioned that my brother has killed men for a lot less. Of course Jake would just ignore it, but Deakins doesn’t know that.”
“Do you think Deakins really has heard of Jacob?”
Shawn grinned. “I sure do. A man who hasn’t doesn’t shake like that.”
* * *
“I’m shaken to the core, Mr. Perry,” Mayor John Deakins said. “He threatened me with his brother, a known gunman
and desperado by the name of Jake O’Brien.”
Perry’s eyes lifted to Valentine Kilcoyn in a question.
The big foreman said, “Last I heard, O’Brien was running with Doc Holliday up in the New Mexico Territory, but that was a couple years back. They say him and his brothers don’t get along, something to do with who’ll inherit their pa’s ranch or some such.”
“There’s little chance of O’Brien showing up in Big Buck?” Perry asked.
“That would be my guess, boss. Hell, don’t wet your pants, Mayor. If he does show, I’ll take care of him.”
Deakins’s face was still troubled. “I’ve heard he’d killed a score of men and he’s mean enough to piss in a widow woman’s kindling.”
“Well dear me. I’ve pissed on a widow woman’s kindling before and I bite so hard my mama had to feed me with a slingshot,” Kilcoyn said. “So don’t worry about Jake O’Brien. I’ve cut the suspenders of his kind before and ground their bones into dust for tooth powder.”
Perry smiled. “Mr. Kilcoyn’s curriculum vita impresses us all. I think you have little to fear, Mayor Deakins.”
“What about Shawn O’Brien, our new marshal? He’s no kind of bargain, either.”
“We put the crawl on him before and we’ll do it again,” Kilcoyn said. “After the beating he took, I’m surprised he’s got the gall to show his face around here.”
“Let O’Brien think he’s the law in Big Buck,” Perry ordered. “He’s harmless.”
“He says the English detective murdered somebody in his hotel room. O’Brien is trying to stir up trouble.”
Perry and Kilcoyn exchanged glances, then a sudden roar drowned out Perry’s voice as he started speaking. After a few moments, the racket stopped and he explained. “They must be testing the new frigate’s steam engine.” To Deakins, he said, “Inspector Ready will leave us tomorrow on the noon train and return to Washington. So that particular mischief of O’Brien’s will end.” Perry smiled. “Now, I hope we’ve put your mind at rest, Mayor. If you encounter any other problems, feel free to come and talk to me.”
Deakins replaced his top hat and goggles and rose to his feet. “Is Miss Skates available?”
“No. Lizzie will be indisposed for a few days. You understand?”
“Yes, yes perfectly. I am a married man. Well, I must be on my way. Good day to you, Mr. Perry.”
“Yes, and good day to you, Mayor. Don’t worry about a thing.”
After Deakins left, Perry said, “I hope that fool gets decapitated in the first broadside.”
“Are we worried about O’Brien snooping around the hotel, boss?”
“Of course we’re worried. And we will be until Ready is safely on the train and becomes someone else’s problem.”
“He wants to be that Jack the Ripper ranny,” Kilcoyn surmised.
“Yeah, well he can be whoever the hell he wants so long as he does his ripping in England and not here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Detective Inspector Adam Ready strolled leisurely through a field of bloodred poppies, the summer sun warming his naked body and the air he breathed carrying the scent of distant pines. Ahead of him, the gray stone walls of a ruined gothic cathedral gleamed like ivory and from somewhere within, the laughter of a young girl fell around him as soft as a spring rain.
Ready had never felt happier . . . the poppies, the sun, the girl, and the vicious curved blade in his hand, keen as a razor, combined to assure him he’d truly found paradise.
Above his head, like a lily on the blue pool of the sky, a great sky craft clattered, its bronze cannons gleaming like gold. The canopy was as yellow as the sun and suspended underneath was a graceful Viking ship, the dragonhead at the prow snarling with painted white fangs. As the ship passed overhead, its propeller spun lazily and cast a spectrum of red, yellow, blue, and purple light on his body, making him look like a man of many colors. A rainbow man. A door opened under the ship and cascades of scarlet roses fell on his head and shoulders.
A gentle voice that was neither male nor female sang out to him, “Good luck, Adam. And good hunting.”
The airship passed and became lost in distance. Ready smiled and walked through the rippling poppies like a man wading through blood and headed for the ruin where the girl was. He saw her as she stood watching him, a slender nymph with white blond hair to her waist. She wore a garland of pink wildflowers about her head and a gown as green as grass and so diaphanous it appeared to be made of spider silk. Her body was lithe and supple, white as new-fallen snow except for the coral tips of her breasts. He couldn’t see the girl’s face. From eyes to forehead, she wore a golden mask painted with a checkerboard pattern of tiny ebony and silver squares.
His lips wet, he increased his pace and blood drops of poppy petals fell to the ground.
The girl stood and beckoned to him with both arms and she sang in the voice of an angel, “Come to me . . . come hither to me . . . my love . . . my life . . . my death . . .”
Reaching the ruined cathedral, he walked to the girl, but she flitted away from him like a startled bird.”
“Are you a harlot?” he yelled, his voice hollow as a drum. “I wish to know if you’re a harlot.”
The girl stopped, parted her gown so that her beautiful body was revealed, and said, “I am Kateryn, the Queen of Harlots.”
“I’m down on such women, streetwalkers and the like,” Ready said.
She laughed and ran into the echoing nave, roofless but with the surrounding walls still intact. Carved pillars supported pointed arches and above them, the triforiums and clerestories with their long slender windows. He followed until she stopped where the high altar once stood. A mist fell quickly and curled through the nave like a gray serpent. Standing like a marble statue, the naked girl held chains attached to iron collars around the necks of two massive and horrific gargoyles—crouching figures of men with bat wings and grotesque, snarling faces of ravenous wolves.
“Why do you come here, Adam Ready?” she asked.
“Because I’m down on the likes of you. I have my knife.”
“I am Kateryn.”
“I know who you are,” Ready said. “You’re the queen of all the harlots.”
Her face was hidden behind her mask, her body lost in mist. “Tell me again. Why are you here?”
“I’m here to kill you, gut you like a pink hog.”
“Ah, you wish to be like Jack from London town. The girls all love Jolly Jack.”
“He is a master with the blade. I learned much from him.”
On either side of Kateryn, the gargoyles rose to their feet. Both were eight foot tall and their savage heads and massive shoulders showed above the mist. They lifted their heads and roared like jungle beasts.
“Come closer, Adam,” the girl enticed. “The gargoyles won’t harm you. Jack the Jester is himself a gargoyle and so are you. Come, make your sport and let us see how well you cut.”
The knife felt good in Ready’s hand. He advanced on Kateryn, stepped close. The saliva from the muzzles of the towering gargoyles slicked over his head and shoulders.
“Cut,” she said. “Cut . . . cut deep . . .” Her breathing was heavy. Her breath rotten, like someone long dead.
Ready placed the tip of the knife against Kateryn’s belly and drew a dewdrop of blood. “Now,” he said and plunged his knife into her. He must kiss her as she died in his arms. He reached up and tore off her mask . . . and recoiled in horror.
* * *
Adam Ready woke and stared at the scowling, bearded face of a man looking down at him. Something sharp and cold dug into him just under his chin. “Remember me? Blaine Keeners, Lizzie’s friend. How does it feel to be her, Ready?”
He’d had a wonderful dream. It was behind him and he wanted to scream, but the sound choked in his throat as the knife went in . . . just a smidgen deeper. He tried to struggle out of his cot, but the foreman was big and strong and easily pinned him down.
“How does it feel?”
Keeners’s face was so close, Ready smelled his rancid, alcohol-heavy breath. “Are you scared, like Lizzie must have been?”
Ready’s eyes were huge in the darkness of his room. He heard the dim roar of the foundry just beyond his wall. “She was only a harlot. My life is worth more than a hundred, a thousand of those.”
“You killed her for being what she was,” Keener said.
“I’m down on them, seed, breed, and generation,” Ready said, his voice a whisper.
“Lizzie was the queen of harlots, and you murdered her.”
Ready begged, “Don’t, please don’t hurt me. I’ll give you money. I have it in my pocket.”
“What did Lizzie say as you cut her? What did she say? Tell me what she said.”
“Nothing . . . she was in shock and said nothing. She breathed hard, gasped when the knife went in, and sobbed, but said nothing.”
“Now it’s time, Ready. We’ll meet again in hell.” Keeners pushed on the knife. The blade plunged into the detective’s throat, thrust upward through the roof of his mouth, and rammed upward with terrible strength into his brain.
Adam Ready caught of a glimpse of Kateryn in the misty cathedral where the high altar once stood. The girl removed her mask, opened her mouth, and laughed . . . and then he saw nothing at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Just before dawn, Valentine Kilcoyn roused Jacob O’Brien from sleep. “You’re on deck.” He laid a cup of coffee on the side table next to Jacob’s cot. “Drink that and then report to the construction bay.”
Still groggy, Jacob said, “What’s going on?”
“That damn fool Egbert Killick talked Mr. Perry into testing the prototype frigate with all eight gun crews. He wants fifty trolls onboard to see how she handles with that much weight.”
“The cannon crews aren’t ready,” Jacob said, realizing that on Killick’s whim his plan might be compromised.
“This trip there’s no shooting involved.” Kilcoyn made a face. “Killick wants to check the steering. All you’re there for is to keep control of the trolls so make sure you’re armed. An engineer and a few technicians will do the rest.”
Better Off Dead Page 13
