Cody winced. The throbbing in his skull was so severe he was abruptly certain he’d puke. Too bad the sheriff wasn’t closer so Cody could expel the contents of his stomach all over the man’s ugly face.
A scuttling noise echoed behind Cody. With an effort, he craned his neck around and saw a cockroach the size of a scorpion crawling a few inches from his left boot. He eyed the insect with distaste but didn’t have the strength to crush it.
Bittner said something but Cody was too miserable to catch it. He closed his eyes against the black clanging in his brain. The sheriff had really rung his bell good.
Something clattered against the bars. Cody looked up in time to see the fat man striding toward him. “Whyn’t ya answer me?” Bittner demanded.
Cody watched him bend over and retrieve the object he’d hurled to get Cody’s attention, a ring full of keys. Before Cody had time to contemplate the idiocy of this risk, the sheriff was barking at him again. “That piss belonged to Luke Lind, who’s a drunken waste of life.” Bittner grinned and tapped the ring against his leg, its keys clanking together dully. “How’s his piss smell?”
Cody knew he should feel indignant, knew he should fire back at this waddling sack of wind, but all he felt was a deep weariness and a desire to be left alone.
Of course you want to be left alone, a familiar voice said. Confronting the man would take balls, which you don’t have.
Aw, Christ, he thought. Not her. Not now.
Then when? Angela persisted, exulting in his misery. Just when will it be time for you stop being a frightened little boy and stand up for something?
Cody grimaced. Oh, how he wished she’d shut the hell up. But the worst of it was, she was right. He had been a coward. In his cattle business, in his fights with Angela, that night at the Crooked Tree, then two nights ago at that doomed family’s ranch…
“No,” he said aloud. “Uh-uh.” He shook his head in wide pendulum sweeps, but he couldn’t banish the flood of memories, the laughter and the moaning and the carnage and the wails. On all fours, Cody squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to stifle a whimper.
“You like sittin’ that way?” Bittner asked. “Or’s that how you made the boy sit?”
Cody gazed up at the sheriff, perplexed, but had to look away after a moment. He couldn’t bear that raunchy grin any longer.
That’s right, Angela murmured from somewhere in the gloomy recesses of his mind. Look away, Cody. It’s what you were always best at. You were made to flinch, weren’t you? In that land deal with Albertson, he threatened to freeze your credit at the bank if you refused to sell, so you did as you were told, let him buy half our acreage for a song. Anything was better than staring someone down and letting the stakes rise.
His fingers balled into fists, his leg muscles going so tight they became one big cramp. No, goddammit, he wanted to shout, it wasn’t like that. We got fair value on that land, and anyway, Albertson was head of the bank board. What the hell was I supposed to do? Call his bluff? Let them take our credit away, lose all our land? Tell them, ‘Hey I’m sorry, common sense dictates I should take your reasonable price and pocket the money, but my wife turns everything into a test of my manhood, which is why I’ve gotta refuse’?
Angela’s voice came back, louder this time; he could almost see her standing above him in the cell, arms akimbo, her pretty face twisted in caustic disdain. Test your manhood? That’s a riot. How the hell can you test what isn’t there? Albertson took you to town with that deal and you know it. Barely enough to get us to San Fran and back. Had to stay in that seedy inn miles away from the nice places, eat at the cheap seafood dives rather than the ones where the women dress up fancy.
“That’s right,” Cody murmured, “and I did it all for you, you ungrateful bitch. If we’d’ve saved the money instead of spending it the day we got the check, we could’ve bought you a dozen dresses.”
Cody stopped, realized he’d been talking to himself. He looked up at Bittner, who eyed him with a blend of fascination and suspicions confirmed. “Godamighty,” Bittner said. “I wouldn’ta believed it if I hadn’t heard it myself. You really are as crazy as they say.”
Cody made a face at the sour tang in his mouth. “As who says?”
Bittner rolled his eyes as if the question had been an absurd one, seemed on the verge of responding, when a noise from the next room got his attention.
Bittner’s sagging cheeks rose in a smile. He gestured that way and gave a little shrug as if to say, Speak of the devil.
The door opened and Adam Price walked in.
Price stepped through the doorway and brushed at his sleeve. With a cold rush of dread, Cody saw it was the same costume Price wore for his performances.
“You got the boy with ya?” Bittner asked.
Cody noticed with little surprise that the sheriff had instantly turned deferent in Price’s presence. When Price didn’t answer, Bittner went on, “What’ll ya do with him? Take him back to his folks?”
“Unfortunately,” Price said, his strange, tenebrous eyes rising to meet Cody’s, “Mr. Wilson murdered the boy’s parents. His siblings and grandparents as well.”
Cody pushed unsteadily to his feet. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” His vision swam with gray, and he staggered forward to steady himself on the bars.
Bittner’s teeth showed, two discolored rows of tobacco-stained nubs. “You keep your mouth shut, you murderin’ bastard.”
“Check the valley,” Cody said. “You’ll find what’s left of the boy’s grandpa. They spitted him like a goddamned hog.” When Bittner’s flinty little eyes only glittered with hate and condemnation, Cody squeezed the cell bars harder. “I’m telling the truth, dammit. I mean, Christ, head back to the Blacks’ ranch north of Las Cruces. You’ll find the whole damned clan smoldering in the fire the devils set. They make it look like an accident, and people are too damned stupid to investigate.”
Bittner threw back his shoulders, his corpulent belly straining against his shirt. “You callin’ me stupid, boy? I hope to God you ain’t callin’ me stupid.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“And just how the hell you know a thing like that?” Bittner asked, striding nearer. “Just how’d you know what became of that boy’s granddad?”
“It’s obvious enough, Sheriff Bittner,” Price said. And though his expression was bland, Cody detected a hideous glee in the man’s dark eyes. “Mr. Wilson here became incensed with certain members of my troupe when his wife took a more than professional interest in them.”
Bittner chuckled. “‘More than professional interest.’”
“Listen to me,” Cody began.
But Price was going on. “What consenting adults do is none of my business. I’m merely our group’s manager and lead actor, not its chaperone. Any marital problems Mr. Wilson and his wife had are irrelevant.”
“That right?” Bittner asked in a wheedling voice. He waggled his eyebrows at Cody. “You two had you some marital problems?”
“They killed her,” Cody said.
Bittner’s vast belly shook with laughter.
But Cody persisted. “They talked her into leaving me, and when they had her out of town limits, they butchered her in their coach and drank her blood.”
“‘Drank her blood,’” Bittner repeated.
“Drank it, then ate her flesh and dumped what was left in an arroyo.” Cody threw a nod at Price. “Hasn’t been any rain since then, so her remains might still be there.”
Some of Bittner’s mirth gave way to incredulity. “Now just how dumb you think I am, boy? You peddle some fairy tale about bloodsuckers and women gettin’ spells put on them, and you expect me to buy it?” He glanced at Price. “Christ Almighty, Mr. Price, this little shit must think I’m the dumbest lawman in the whole goddamn state.”
“They’re monsters, Sheriff Bittner,” Cody said, his voice growing thin. “You gotta believe me.”
Bittner drew his gun, a Walker six-shooter, and leveled
it at Cody’s face. “I don’t listen to kid-chasin’ sonsabitches who ride into my town and kill decent folks.”
Cody turned to Price, who appeared to be studying his fingernails.
Bittner went on. “Doc Jackson always did have a bleedin’ heart. I tole him it’d come back to bite him in the ass someday, but I never thought it’d happen like this.” Bittner cocked the hammer of his six-shooter. “Poor bastard tries to patch you and the boy up, and how do you pay him back?” Bittner’s tongue flicked out, did a quick revolution around his lips. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ so awful. His goddamned ribs looked like they’d been ripped apart by two teams of horses. I’ll never forget the sight of his blood everywhere…all them flies…”
“His fanciful claims about cannibalism are only one problem with Mr. Wilson’s story,” Price said smoothly. He folded his arms, the dark cape he wore slithering behind him. “You say you saw us discard her remains in an arroyo, is that correct?”
“Saw it with my own eyes.”
Price smiled. “Sheriff Bittner, why would a husband allow his wife’s body to lie uncovered in a gulch? If he were as devastated as he’d have you believe, wouldn’t he have given her a Christian burial?”
Cody said nothing.
“Well?” Bittner said, still holding the cocked gun at his side. “What say you, Wilson?”
Cody said, “Ask Willet about it.”
Bittner shook his head. “You ain’t goin’ near that boy again.”
Price nodded. “I’ve taken custodianship of the child, Mr. Wilson. You’ve done quite enough damage to his fragile psyche.”
“Go to hell, Price!” Cody growled.
Bittner said, “Boy, I’m warnin’ you.”
“Ask Willet about it,” Cody shouted. “Ask Price here where his men are, how Willet shot one of the devils in the face and how I damn near tore another one’s head off.”
Bittner’s gun was rising. “Shut up, Wilson!”
“Ask him, goddammit!”
Bittner aimed the gun. “You say another word, I’ll put one in that nasty gob of yours.”
Without taking his eyes off Cody, Price said, “I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Wilson alone?”
Bittner frowned. The expression made his already slack face appear even dumber. “Don’t see why.”
Price turned, and though Cody couldn’t see the change in Price’s face, he could guess how angry he looked from the way the sheriff wilted. Price said, “I know you don’t see why, Mr. Bittner, which is why I want you to leave immediately.”
Bittner flinched like a child about to be slapped. Then he left the room with ten times the celerity he normally exhibited.
Price faced Cody, his features serene again. “Amusing person, the sheriff. He pretended to be aghast at the tale we told, but I suspect he was secretly envious of you and your exploits. Particularly where the little boy was concerned. There are noxious compartments in the sheriff’s tiny brain.”
“Where is he?” Cody asked. “What’d you do with Willet?”
“Nothing yet. We tend to wait until moonrise to dine, as you’ve no doubt noticed.”
“You hurt him, I’ll kill you.”
Price’s eyebrows went up, his alabaster face full of delight. “That’s quite a boast, Mr. Wilson. I’m surprised you had the nerve to utter it.”
Price approached, the actor moving with the grace of a dancer. Cody was acutely aware of the disparity in their heights. Cody was five foot eleven in boots, but Price was half a head taller, not to mention broader around the chest and shoulders. Price’s loosely curled brown hair shimmered in the dusky light slanting across the room.
“You don’t scare me,” Cody said, but even as he said it he knew how pitiful he sounded.
Price’s returning smile was gentle, almost loving, and that was somehow the most terrible thing of all. Price’s face altered again, appeared momentarily troubled. Then he snapped his fingers and stepped away from the cell. “My goodness, Mr. Wilson, I nearly forgot! There’s someone here who wants to see you.”
Cody had a momentary and completely illogical moment of hope that Willet would come through the door, but the thought vanished as swiftly as it had come. The ursine shape trudging toward him was Willet’s antithesis.
Shit, Cody thought. Penders.
So the man had lived after all.
Steve Penders’s wide brow, Cody noted with alarm, was pinched in barely contained rage. He wore the same peasant’s garb he wore for the play, and he moved with the same easy grace that had so surprised Cody that first night at the Crooked Tree. If he’d sustained any lasting injuries from the fall into the valley, he was sure as hell doing a good job disguising them. If anything, he looked livelier than he had last night when he’d climbed naked up the rock face.
Price put a hand on one of Penders’s massive shoulders. The men were just about the same height. “A frightful fall Penders took last night,” Price said. “’Twas a good thing most of his bleeding was internal. It’s easier to transfuse that way.”
“Transfuse?” Cody asked. He was dimly aware of backing away from the bars. Penders looked strong enough—and furious enough—to bend them like reeds.
“Blood has regenerative powers,” Price said. “As long as there’s a fresh supply on hand—the boy’s mother, in last night’s case—we’re able to drink ourselves back to health.”
One mystery solved, Cody thought. He hadn’t held much hope in Willet’s mom being left alive, but hearing it confirmed was still a blow. God, the poor kid.
“Yes,” Price said, as if reading Cody’s thoughts, “the woman did give out in the end. Even if she had possessed more blood to lend to our cause, I doubt it would have helped Dmitri.”
So Cody had killed one of the twins. He knew it was silly to doubt what he knew to be true, but seeing Penders walk through that door had been like seeing Lazarus rise from the dead.
But at least you got Dmitri, Cody thought.
“I’d be careful not to betray too much merriment, Mr. Wilson. Dmitri’s brother is inconsolable. In fact, Dragomir’s been so wild since his brother’s death that we forced him to remain back at the inn until the show tonight.”
Cody’s mind raced. Before he could ask the question that had arisen, Price put one hand on his elbow, the other on his chin, and leaned forward confidingly. “Dragomir aims to eat you alive, Mr. Wilson. He made me promise him we’d let him kill you in the slowest, most excruciating manner imaginable. So of course I had to acquiesce to his wishes.” Price smiled benevolently. “Few bonds are as strong as brotherhood.”
A chill whispered down Cody’s spine. He could picture Dragomir Seneslav pacing up and down his hotel room, waiting to get his hands on his brother’s killer.
Penders grasped the iron bars. “Dragon’s gonna have to get in line.”
“Patience, Steve,” Price said. “Remember we have a show to perform.”
A memory of Penders having his way with Angela on the stage of the Crooked Tree flitted through Cody’s mind, and without thinking he said, “How you gonna do your act with only three people?”
“Don’t you mean four?” a voice said from the rear of the room. Penders and Price moved aside to regard the speaker, who leaned against the back wall, his porkpie hat tilted jauntily back to reveal an arrogant, intact face.
“Howdy, old friend,” Horton said and dropped Cody a wink.
Cody’s stomach plummeted. It was impossible. How can you have a face again? Cody wanted to ask. I watched Willet turn it into a bloody stew. And now…there’s not a mark on it.
But that wasn’t quite true, Cody realized as Horton drew closer, his cocksure strut as infuriating as ever. There were marks on his face, only they were subtle and tough to see unless the lighting was just right. There was a brilliant spray of evening sun still blazing over the horizon, and as Horton took his place beside Penders just outside Cody’s cell, Cody could see the faint white lines crosshatching Horton’s face. They looked like ord
inary scar tissue, only that kind of scar had to develop over time. The ghostly latticework webbing Horton’s face might have been there for years, but Cody knew better.
But how? he almost screamed. How can a face regenerate so quickly? How can what was obliterated less than twenty-four hours ago be damn near normal already?
You know how, a voice answered. You know how, but you don’t want to admit it.
Cody steeled himself against the knowledge, suspecting in some protected and secret region of his mind that if he did succumb to the truth, if he did credit his perceptions and all the evidence and follow it until he reached a conclusion, if he did open himself up to an idea that was not only patently insane but borderline blasphemous as well, the world in which he had always lived would be plunged into chaos.
Hasn’t that already happened?
No, he thought weakly. No…
“You’d be better served by accepting it, Mr. Wilson.”
Cody shot a sickly look at Adam Price, who was standing wide-legged with his fingers laced before him. Price’s smile was small, but it was there.
My God, Cody thought. Can he read minds too?
“Scared yet, Wilson?” Horton asked.
Hell yes, I’m scared, he thought. But I’ll be damned if I admit that to you, you wife-murdering bastard.
Of course, Cody didn’t know which one had actually done the killing, for he’d been outside the black deathwagon when it was happening, too scared and sick and hurt to bust open the doors and see the devils pawing her again. Yes, he’d heard her screams, and yes, he’d recognized them for peals of anguish rather than moans of pleasure, and maybe a better man would’ve gone in there to do something about it, but all he could think at that moment, the moment when the deathwagon started shuddering with the carnage occurring within, was that he would be killed too if he intervened. But just as strong in him—and this was the part for which he never thought he could forgive himself—was the wounded rage still poisoning him in that moment, the diseased and ignoble belief that Angela deserved what was happening to her, that her vicious and continuing betrayal of her husband had earned her a death sentence.
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