by M. Pax
“We didn’t. I watched you rob a stagecoach and copied you the next day. With a very different result.” Haw Shot pointed at a gash of light running through his shadowy neck. “They hung me. Why didn’t they ever hang you?”
Maybe if Haw Shot had satisfaction on this subject, he’d slink off and leave Earl in peace. “Was there a rider on the wagon?”
“Two.”
Like most other stagecoach robbers, Hawley was an idiot. He deserved what he had earned. “See, I was careful to never stickup a coach with a rider,” Earl said. “That’ll get you shot.”
“It did.”
Shot and hung. Dead two ways. Luck worse than Earl ever had, and he had a really bad streak of it prior to his days of highway robbery. “Why is your idiocy my fault?”
“You could have learned me better.”
The pout in the thing’s voice came off as comical. The argument was stupider. Yet continuing to antagonize Hawley didn’t seem wise. Earl feigned an empathetic frown. “I didn’t know you, brother. How could I teach you if I didn’t know you existed?”
“That’s my other issue with you. Everyone knew your name. You left no immortality for the rest of us.”
“Not my doing. A pain-in-the-ass lawman used me as an example to the rest of you. I never wanted fame. Seems to me, you found your immortality anyway.” Earl shrugged at the lumpy shadow then wondered at his sanity. He conversed with a spook like it had reason.
“By end of the week, the world will whisper my name before yours, and you will burn.” A green glow brightened in the shadow’s throat then dimmed. The crystal, the source of the phantom’s existence. Since none of the town’s protectors, the ones who guarded what came out of the rift, came running, the crystal’s energy had to hide the birdman. Interesting. Dante and Charming could use the same technique to hide. If Earl found the chance to tell them.
However this went, he had to figure out how to get the crystal out of Haw Shot’s throat. Earl had no idea how, only knew it was the way to take this vile creature down. “You delivered your message. You can go now.” Yeah, go and fall into a mineshaft to the other side of the globe.
“I didn’t get what I came for. The whereabouts of Charming and Dante. I will know where they are. If you tell me, I’ll spring you and share my special talents. You’re going to like them, Bart. You can walk into any vault without detection. You’ll be richer than the moon.”
The offer didn’t at all appeal to Earl. It wouldn’t change him into a better man. “I think you’re speaking Chinese.”
“Haw, haw. Quit playing the dumbass. The woman you treasure, the broken cog in the rift, she was brought here by you. So, it’ll be your fault when Charming dies. She is going to die. And Dante. Like Wells Fargo made an example of you, the Governors of the rift will make one of them.”
Not if Earl had anything to do with it. Problem was, he needed Dante to put up a decent fight. Yet, he couldn’t contact Dante without leading Hawley straight to him. Earl would have to use Daelin as a messenger. He’d have to get her to the gate, so she remembered the conversation in the sandwich shop. Earl had no better chance to save his girl. “Charming is out with the Paleo Institute digging fossils, and Dante retired. He said he was going to Arizona. You ever been there? I think it’d suit you.”
“We’ll see how your courage serves you after sundown. Haw, haw.”
The shadows lightened, leaving Earl alone, but not for long.
hapter
Curiosities littered the shelves beside the laptops in the locked cabinet behind the librarian’s desk: aviator goggles with coils soldered around the rims, a clunky windup watch on a thick leather band, and what looked like an old tape recorder refitted with coils, wires, and crystals.
“In all the dictionaries.” Daelin picked up the device resembling a watch and examined it more carefully. She held it out to Cordelia’s portrait. “What is it?”
“Those things are mine. Will you hand them over?”
Daelin whirled. Not a ghost. The clipped words belonged to Sabina Staley. Daelin consciously twitched her mouth into a smile. “Nice to see you, Ms. Staley. Did you get my paperwork?”
Sabina pushed her black bubble frames up her angular nose and pursed her lips. “I see you’re settling in.”
“I promised to get information for a townsperson, which is why I was getting out a laptop.” Daelin found it hard to swallow. Why did she explain as if an alien-possessed five-year-old caught with her hand in the candy jar?
“What a citizen requests should always come first. It’s part of your job.”
Cleaning the library and getting it organized would take the rest of Daelin’s life, finding a way to please Sabina Staley would take longer. Daelin picked up the goggles, the tape recorder, and the watch, cradling them in her arms. “Do you have any suggestions on how best to manage the library?” Right. Find out what the woman expected. Bosses liked that sort of thing.
“Being here when people need you is enough.” She reached for the dressed-up items in Daelin’s arms. “We’ll be needing these for the Swit Days festival. It’s this weekend. The library will be open and festooned. Understood?”
To get this place ready by the weekend meant no sleep this week and no time to track down Charming and the Paleo Institute’s dig. Earl will save her, popped into Daelin’s thoughts. Why? The answer tickled out of reach. Her stomach rumbled, wanting a sandwich. No time for it. Not with a library to spruce up for a party.
For her new boss and her new life, Daelin broadened her smile. “The library will be ready.” She dumped the bizarre objects into Sabina’s hands. Maybe some of the townspeople wore costumes. Daelin could think of no other use for the wildly modified goggles, tape recorder, and watch.
Sabina dangled the watch-like thing from the end of her finger. “Would you mind trying it on? You appear the same size as my niece. I need to get her a gift.”
What young woman wouldn’t love a weirdo watch? It wasn’t Daelin’s place to point it out, though. She took the trinket and strapped it on. Covered in bronze filigree, the watch face shone with a soft white glow. Between the bits of bronze decoration, bubbles of color burst inside, mesmerizing. Daelin felt so drowsy, blinking rapidly to ward off the need for a nap.
Sing a song. It drifted like a pleasant memory, tickling the back of Daelin’s throat. She sat on a busted up tour bus with her younger sister and brother. Their mother had passed out in the arms of the lead guitarist in front. The rest of the band sat with Daelin and her siblings. “It goes like this,” the bassist said, clearing his throat, “I had a farm on the moon.”
“I had a farm on the moon,” Daelin whispered. Her mind cleared, and she stared into the smirking face of Sabina Staley who had removed the watch from Daelin’s wrist. Daelin rubbed the empty spot, which felt icy to the touch.
“Very good, my dear,” Sabina said. She hummed with a hint of happiness in her tone. “I’ll be in touch. Tell your sister to call me when she returns to town.” Like a brisk wind, she reeled about and left.
Daelin shuffled to the window, watching until her new boss trotted around the corner. Daelin had never seen anyone walk so fast without actually running, except in New York where most people rushed around like mini tornados. Absently, she massaged her wrist, missing the warmth of the watch. “I had a farm on the moon.” Why had that song popped into her head? Why had any? She never sang, not since leaving her mother far behind.
She stayed at the window, opening the blinds to let in more light and to observe her new town. Her view differed so greatly from the one she had a mere week ago. Mountains instead of skyscrapers. Birds louder than car horns. Cedar-sweetened air instead of car exhaust.
Other people had come out, abandoning the morbid crime scene on the other end of town, adding life to the streets. Finally. Their presence made Daelin feel better. The postman stood in front of the Sparrow Roadhouse across the street holding a rectangular object. Green and purple flashes erupted as if he held strings of Christmas lights. “In all
the dictionaries, what is he doing?”
She focused so hard, he must have felt it, because he wheeled around. He waved, wearing coil-wrapped goggles and holding a tape recorder device like the one Daelin had given Sabina. Where a cassette would go, purple and green light pulsed. Settler sure had strange words and strange forms of entertainment. She waved then veered away from the window.
One thing for certain, she needed a new phone, and she tired of waiting to hear from Charming. She could fix both easily enough with one call. The receiver of the push button phone on her desk had heft to it. Good to know in case of a robbery. “A book robber,” she snorted, dialing her brother’s number. He interned for a communications company this summer. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she whispered.
Cobra Moondae Buckley. His name rivaled his sisters’ in bizarreness. He went by Cobb. “Hey, sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message. Awesome!” His voicemail beeped.
“Cobb, it’s Dae. I need your help. First, I need a new phone. You can send it to Charming’s. I’m at her place now. Second, I need the current location of her phone. She’s out on a dig somewhere. I want to know where. Miss you. Stay sane, little brother.”
The phone clicked in a satisfactory way in the cradle, signaling it was in the off position. So she hoped. She picked up the handset and set it down again to be sure. “You probably had an older phone than this, huh Cordelia?” Why did she keep talking to the old woman? Settler had an unsettling effect. “I’m not sure about your town, Ms. Swit.”
From the cabinet behind her, Daelin grabbed a laptop. She fired it up and tapped onto the internet, typing, ‘George Hawley,’ into the search bar. The only article she found was a short paragraph on a site about outlaws.
George “Haw Shot” Hawley (1848 - 1882) - Held up a stagecoach outside of Angel’s Camp, California. He jumped from the brush and fired his guns. One of those bullets hit a Miss Ruth Lewis of Valley Springs, who later died. Two riders accompanied the coach, which had been held up the day before by the notorious Black Bart. The riders had better aim than Hawley, hitting him in the shoulder and stomach. Miss Lewis’s family was so angered by her death, they didn’t wait for the fatal wounds to kill Hawley. They gathered their neighbors and lynched him. In a bizarre twist of fate, the rope beheaded George Hawley. Prior to his outlaw days, he’d been a cabinet maker in Illinois and served in the infantry in the Civil War.
Not a word more. She switched on the PC, hoping the machine would have access to the library’s catalog and records. Maybe one of the ancient dust-encrusted books littering the room had more information. She could spend years combing through records on Illinois and the Union Army to find another half sentence or two. Perhaps the little snippet she had found would be enough. What would Scott do with the information? Would it help get rid of the phantom?
It took forever for the PC to boot up. Daelin poised her fingers on the keys, waiting. The library door swung open, dumping in a flood of sun and cold. The juicy aroma of roasted meat preceded Wald. He carried a white paper sack with grease splotches on it and a cardboard tray of soft drinks, picking his way through the piles of books.
“Lunch as promised. Can we clear some of this stuff to make room?”
“Sure.” Daelin transferred heaps of papers and books onto the floor. Her stomach rumbled. “Those smell divine.”
“Across the road from the county offices, a few blocks over, is the FastR Burger.” He took out paper-wrapped sandwiches, the paper transparent from the juices, and paper-wrapped baskets. One had fries, the other onion rings. “Which do you prefer?”
“How about we share?” She took the sandwich he offered, unpackaging it with care, happily surprised to find sliced pork with sautéed mushrooms, caramelized onions, and heirloom tomato slices. “You just missed Sabina. She took those crazy Swit Day props with her. What are they for? I saw Culver outside using one resembling a repurposed cassette recorder.” She popped a bit of the pork in her mouth. It tasted as sublime as a perfect ending. “Sabina made me try on the watch-like thing.”
Wald put his sandwich down without taking a bite and wiped off his hands. “This town likes a good party. Swit Days and the rodeo are a big deal.” He took a long sip of his soda.
“I’m looking forward to it. Although, I’m not sure this place will be ready by the weekend like Sabina requested.” She took a bite of the sandwich. She’d be visiting FastR burger often once she had money.
“Don’t fret. I’ll see to it you get help.” Wald gestured at the computers with his soda cup. “What are you working on?”
“Thank you for the offer. I’ll not say no.” Daelin dabbed a French fry into the little container of ketchup. “Scott Zayas came in earlier, asking me to find information on George Hawley, an outlaw from the 1800s.”
Setting down his drink, Wald reached for an onion ring. “You know Scott is employed by Earl Blacke?”
What? That fact ruined her appetite, and Wald said it so matter-of-factly. “No, I didn’t know.”
He dipped the flaky onion ring into some orange sauce. “What did he want to know?”
“About George Hawley. He thinks he might be the phantom. I’m sure you heard about the ghost?” She arched a brow.
He maintained a stoic expression. “The phantom appeared last night to ferry Susan Leeds to heaven. That’s what the town is saying.”
News traveled faster in Settler than on the internet. “Well, George Hawley was hung and the rope snapped off his head. Interesting, because I heard Susan’s head is missing. Strange coincidence, huh?”
He wrapped up his sandwich, leaving the fries and onion rings. “I need to get back to the office. There’s a lot to be done before this weekend’s events. I’ll send over a crew in the morning to give you a hand cleaning up. Thanks, Daelin.” He hurried out the door.
Thanks for what?
hapter
Haw Shot needed to learn some respect. Earl contorted his face into his worst sneer. For the first time since leaving the war, he wished for a loaded gun then sneered at himself. What good would bullets do against a phantom?
His wit would be the better weapon. Earl stood taller. No matter how many heads Hawley gathered, Earl had more smarts.
The shadows bounced, becoming inkier, having nothing to do with the lowering sun. Not fully dark, this spook had special powers indeed, for it materialized in the sole patch of natural light remaining inside the cell block, a block of two cages rarely visited by worse than disorderly drunks.
Shadows left the recesses, gathering in the pool of light. The black sparked with a dim glow of green slowly brightening until the green matched the glare of the sun, then Haw Shot fully materialized. This time, he sported three heads, his own on one shoulder, Susan’s on the other, and the birdman’s in the center. Earl’s throat tightened, but he stood his ground.
“Haw, haw. You ready for some fun?”
Earl couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “You have no room for another head.”
“Hell on hot sand, I’ve plenty of room for plenty more.”
“There’s the issue of me being locked in here.”
“Ain’t a problem.” Haw Shot’s green-glowing hands wrapped around the locking mechanism and squeezed. The metal creaked, squealed, and popped, crumbling into flakes, which sifted to the ground like Hell’s snow. With a theatrical wave, Haw Shot aimed his fingers at the door, wiggling them. Electric arcs of green pulsed at the hinges until the cell swung open. “Come out and play, Bart.”
Earl studied the jewel embedded in the ghost’s neck, the stone of energy the birdman had created with his gyroscope. The power it emitted crackled and pushed Earl away. Cautiously, he sidled out of its reach and out of his cell.
“It’s a great night for killing. Haw, haw. The moon is bright, the stars twinkling, cold as dead woman’s kiss.”
Wow, an image Earl needed to expel from his mind. More than that, he had to clear his name of murder and get away from Haw Shot. No way would Earl hang. No way would h
e return to San Quentin. He cleared his throat and yelled, “Lou, I need you. Get your behind in here.”
“How pathetic.” Haw Shot’s heads bounced, his belly laugh threatening to dislodge them to the floor. His meaty fingers clasped around Earl’s throat, not feeling like mist and shadow.
Earl gulped, kicking at Haw Shot’s knees. His boot swept through air to connect with the wall. The sting in his toes sprung tears in his eyes. How could the ghost touch him and Earl not be able to touch it? Was that a smirk on the birdman’s face? Earl poked at its eyes, his fingers sinking into fleshy, gooey moistness. The birdman squawked, and the phantom let go. Well, that was something. “Duly noted,” Earl muttered under his breath. He could affect the thing from the rift, but not the ghost from this world.
The birdman spoke in a language Earl had never heard—squawks, burps, guzzles. It made no sense.
Apparently it did to Haw Shot, though. He frowned like a seven-year-old who was refused a cookie. “The heads are fine on my shoulder. I like it this way.”
More gibberish came from the beaked thing, its eyes, which resembled goggles more than eyes, shone with a sickly yellow light.
“I could deal with that. okay.” Haw Shot plucked his head off his shoulder and settled it over the birdman’s. The green radiance of his face took on a more yellow tone, and he grabbed Earl by the back of his shirt, lifting him off his feet.
Earl twisted and flailed. With the beaked thing covered by the phantom’s head, Earl could find nothing solid to punch or gouge. He couldn’t get away. “Lou!”
The cell block door clanged open. “What in Timbuktu is going on in here…” Deputy Banks’ mouth fell open, his eyes widening to the size of gold coins.
“Don’t let it take me,” Earl gasped.
“Haw, haw. Let’s get going.” Haw Shot lumbered past Lou, using Earl to shove the deputy out of the way, leaving the police station.
The sun had fully set, sending pitch over every crevice of Settler. The high desert night shocked Earl’s breath out of his lungs. He gasped at the slap of cold, struggling harder to get away from Haw Shot.
