His restless eyes took in the teeming city built around the confluence of two canyons: Brewery Gulch, cutting its shadowy track to the north, and Main Street, at the mouth of Tombstone Canyon to the west. The busy depot, the swells in their gaudy suits, the mining stiffs squatting against stuccoed walls or leaning in darkened doorways, the dirt, the cobblestones, the shiny hides of mules and horses, and the accompanying odors of dust and fresh manure. The noises, always loud—voices, trains, mining machinery, carpentry, wagons, and harnesses. The bare hills—Lucas knew that the citizenry had stripped away every bit of foliage for the hungry smelter, now dismantled.
Noise. Dirt. Effluence. Bisbee.
The Frontier—one of the few frontiers left. A place where a man could build a dynasty—providing he was the right type of man.
Copper. Construction. Transportation. Power.
Bisbee was a raw, untamed place. Perfect soil for the seeds Lucas wanted to sow. Here he would build an empire.
The idea came to Chelsea fully blown. Last night she had brought the old photo album into the house and leafed through it again. She had fallen asleep with the light on, the album open to the picture of the baby girl.
And this morning she thought, why not put together a book of drawings featuring Bisbee? A pictorial of Bisbee, the emphasis on her drawings, with one theme running through it: Bisbee as seen through the eyes of a McCord.
What excited her was Bisbee’s old-world quality, the feeling that it had been transported—whole and unchanged—from another era. How to capture that feeling in art?
She thought of the album. The pictures were faded, almost to sepia . . . Sepia would work. She sat down at the drawing board she’d set up in the living room and roughed out a sketch of the Copper Queen Hotel from memory with a brown Prismacolor pencil.
Uncle Bob would have a lot of pictures of Bisbee, and he could fill her in on the history. Not that there was a dearth of information right here. There was the mining museum, the Historical Society, the public library . . .
Chelsea got up and poured herself some coffee. It must have been that old album that got her started. That and the dream the other night.
She frowned. Most of the dream eluded her, but she remembered one fragment, something about people in old-fashioned clothing crumbling like clods of dirt. Goosebumps rippled up her arms. Not a nightmare exactly, but morbid.
Mr. Chips strolled in just then and demanded his breakfast, and she forgot all about it.
Later that morning, Chelsea drove into Sierra Vista twenty-five miles away to purchase art supplies and some white lace for curtains. By the time she returned to Bisbee, she was starving. She parked on Brewery Gulch and looked for a place to eat lunch, deciding on the Sacred Cow Cafe on the corner of Howell and Brewery. A sign over the counter declared HOT DOGGER and listed hot dog and beer prices.
“That's an old sign,” the woman behind the counter said. “We’ve had a change in management. We only serve healthy stuff now.” Her gray hair was braided, and she wore a purple velour blouse—a poor choice in this weather. She pointed to an easel by the door. “That’s everything we got.” She grinned unpleasantly. Her teeth were like tombstones.
Chelsea ordered a sandwich and a cup of gazpacho, then sat down at one of the rickety tables not covered by drifts of newspaper and copies of Mother Jones magazine. Sun had made yellowing inroads on the lime-green plastic tablecloth.
Chelsea noticed the signs taped to the cash register: a bumper sticker declaring “Visualize World Peace” and a crayoned quote: “All you have shall someday be given; Therefore, give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors—Kahlil Gibran.” Underneath, in bold black letters: NO CREDIT.
The bell above the door chimed and a woman entered. Her beauty was exotic: heavy eyebrows and full lips in a childlike face, long, black hair falling in a shivering spray down her back. She wore a tie-dyed shirt, denim skirt, and Birkenstock sandals.
A male voice called from the back room, “Is that Sunshine?” His voice sounded ominous.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“You’re late!” the man called out.
“I’m sorry,” Sunshine replied, reaching under a plastic cake cover to grab a piece of cornbread. “It won’t happen again.” She bit into the cornbread.
“Better not,” the voice again, sullen.
“I gotta go. Take over, will you?” the older woman told Sunshine. “A turkey sandwich on white.” She glared at Chelsea and left.
Through the dust-grimed window, Chelsea watched the woman’s progress down the street. Tourists strolled along the wooden sidewalk, carrying cameras.
Suddenly Chelsea’s gaze riveted on a man and woman walking past the window. Her heart squeezed. The cropped, feathery, blond hair, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, even the style of his dolman-sleeved shirt, were painfully familiar. Even though she only glimpsed his back, she was sure it was Jason.
Jason in Bisbee? No. It couldn’t be. Chelsea strained to get a better look. The couple paused at the edge of the sidewalk.
“Here you are.” The woman called Sunshine set the plate down and sat opposite Chelsea, elbow propped on the table, chin in hand.
As Chelsea’s eyes strayed back to the man and woman on the corner, Sunshine had asked a question.
“Excuse me?” Chelsea’s glance darted to the waitress, then back at the street. The couple stood in the same place. The woman was taking a picture of the mountain opposite.
“I said, are you a tourist? You don’t look like you’re from here.”
The man leaned down and kissed the woman. If only he’d turn around just a little bit . . . Chelsea’s heart thumped wildly in her chest, Why would Jason come here? How would he know she was in Bisbee? She certainly hadn’t told him.
He doesn’t have to be a detective to figure out where you are. After all, her family came from here.
“Well?” The intrusive voice yanked Chelsea back to the present. The waitress scrutinized her openly, bright-eyed, her head cocked to one side.
“I'm sorry. I didn’t get . . .” Chelsea’s eyes followed the couple as they turned the corner and walked out of sight.
“What do you do? For a living, I mean.”
Chelsea stared at Sunshine, feeling as if she had been kicked in the stomach. “I’m a painter.”
Sunshine pounced on the admission like a bird on a bug. “Far out!” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I do some art, too, but I’m really a writer. As a matter of fact, I’m only working here until I can get enough money to write full time.”
It couldn’t have been Jason.
Chelsea listened with half a mind as the waitress talked about her daughter, her love affairs—in short, her life story.
He doesn’t know I’m here. And the woman—she didn’t look like Jason’s type. Not young enough.
“. . . don’t you think?”
Chelsea didn’t catch the question. She fervently wished Sunshine would go away.
“Sunshine!” The male voice called from the back room. “Get over here!”
“ ‘Scuse me.” Sunshine disappeared into the doorway beyond the counter.
The man’s voice drifted out. “. . . I’m not going to tell you again! . . . and for Christ’s sake . . . work to do.” Sunshine said something unintelligible.
“Leave the customers alone,” the baritone voice said.
Chelsea’s mind wandered back to the man and woman. A lot of people look like that.
Sunshine returned. “That’s Dean,” she said. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately. His girlfriend’s jealous because when I first came to town, Dean and I were really hot for each other.”
“Sunshine!”
“All right!” Sunshine stood up and made a face in the direction of the back room. “Nice to meet you, Chelsea,” she said sweetly, and left.
Chelsea pushed away her half-eaten sandwich. She had no appetite now. The childish part of her wanted to bolt out of the cafe
and search for the man and woman until she found them. It required a real act of will to stay where she was. She took another bite of the dry sandwich, then looked for the check.
He might be just around the corner at the Copper Queen Hotel, having a drink on the terrace. I could—
“I'll take that.” A lanky man with fuzzy, black hair towered over her. Dean?
“Thanks.” Chelsea followed him up to the cash register.
“No problem.”
“What kind of writing does Sunshine do?”
Dean leaned forward, hands splayed on the counter. “You new in Bisbee?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t pay much attention to what Sunshine says.” He wound his index finger in the air by his ear. “She’s nuts.”
On the way home, Chelsea detoured into San Jose to buy groceries. As she pulled up at the house, she saw a blue panel truck marked PHILLIPS CARPENTRY parked out front.
A man about Chelsea’s age stood up from his seat on the top step. “Hi!” he called. “You must be Chelsea.” He crossed the yard, hand outstretched. “I was just leaving. Didn’t know you were coming this week, and when I looked in and saw your stuff . . .” he shrugged, “I’m Gary Phillips.”
Chelsea shook his hand, liking his firm grasp. “You’ve done some wonderful work on the house.”
“Thanks. But I’m not finished yet.” He smiled easily. “I was going to paint the rest of the interior today. I can come back later if you want.”
Chelsea thought a moment. She had planned to go out and sketch this afternoon, but the incident at the cafe had unsettled her. In retrospect, she was certain the man wasn’t Jason, but her jubilant mood of this morning was spoiled. Besides, the sooner the house was finished, the sooner she would really be able to concentrate on her work. “I was going to work on the place myself.” She motioned to the grocery bags on the passenger seat of the Thunderbird. “I’ll just put these away, and we’re in business.”
“Let me help you.”
That chore done, Chelsea turned to Gary. “Maybe we could pull up the carpet in the spare room first.”
“You mean to tell me you don’t like chartreuse?” Gary pulled a face. “Next, I suppose you’ll want to throw out that great old furniture, cigarette burns and all.”
It was dusty work, but Chelsea enjoyed the physical exertion. Around mid-afternoon, they broke for a snack. Chelsea brought out two glasses of iced tea and a ham sandwich for Gary. They sat on the porch steps.
Gary told her he had been in Bisbee only a few months. He was taking time off from school to earn money. “Twenty-six is a little old to be a college student,” he told Chelsea self-consciously, “but you know what they say: Better late than never.” He took a bite out of the sandwich. “I’m glad I came here. There’s a lot of renovation going on in Bisbee.” As a student of architecture, his construction jobs carried with them an unforeseen bonus—they taught him the practical applications of architectural design.
Chelsea liked his cheerful candor. She reflected that Uncle Bob must have been impressed with him to give him such a free rein with the house. “How did you meet my uncle?” she asked.
“Actually, I didn’t.” Gary set his plate down on the step. “The boss on my last project asked me if I had time to do a job for a friend of his. I gave your uncle a call, and the rest is history.”
“You must have gotten a pretty good recommendation. Uncle Bob doesn’t usually hire anybody sight unseen.”
Mr. Chips sauntered over and sat down beside Chelsea. After a few moments, he flicked his tail, annoyed at being ignored.
Chelsea reached over and scratched him under the chin. “This is Mr. Chips. He’s not much with a paint brush, but he’s one heck of a supervisor.”
“How did you like the bedroom?” Gary asked.
“I love it. But that’s not the point. You took quite a chance. What if I’d hated it?”
“But you didn’t.” He smiled, his blue eyes dancing. “Victorian houses are a passion of mine. When your uncle told me to fix up the interior, well, I admit I went a little wild.”
“I like the color in the bedroom.”
“It’s a Victorian reproduction.”
Chelsea stood and picked up the empty glasses, amused at Gary’s serious attitude. “Thank you for maintaining my house’s integrity. I thank you, and my house thanks you,” she said, bowing with mock solemnity.
“Any time.”
“You know, this little place has a lot of possibilities. Might take some work, but . . .” He appraised the room. “I like a challenge.”
“That’s what you think this house is? A challenge?”
“I forget. You didn’t see it before I cleaned it up.” He rapped the walls with his fist. “Boy, this place is solid. They really built them in those days . . .”
“I’m not really in the market to make this a showplace,” Chelsea said. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay.” But even as she spoke, Chelsea thought of her mother’s antiques stored in San Diego. Her own apartment had been too modem for them; they would look perfect here.
Gary glanced at the sketch of the Copper Queen Hotel on the drawing table. “This is good!” he said.
“It’s probably not accurate. I drew it from memory.”
“It’s beautiful,” Gary said. “I knew you’d be good. You can tell sometimes, just looking at people. Know what I mean?”
Three hours later, exhausted from painting, Chelsea allowed herself to be coaxed out for pizza.
She couldn’t remember when she’d had a more enjoyable evening.
Gary talked her into sending for her mother’s antiques, promising to help her unpack and arrange them.
By the time she reached the house, Chelsea could barely keep her eyes open. She bade Gary good night and flopped into bed, Falling asleep instantly.
Six
The dream again.
Jack Perrault sat up in bed, soaked with sweat. Heart pounding, he scanned the darkness. Eyes. There would be eyes—bright yellow.
He saw only the familiar outline of his bedroom furniture; his clothes slung over a chair, the chest of drawers near the window, the portable television on his work desk.
Only a dream. The same dream.
He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the image of the panther, its powerful body crouched to spring.
Think about something else. He pushed aside the covers and stood up. Think about your future. But he found himself thinking of the past, the day he discovered that he was special.
The turning point in his life.
He’d gotten out of school early, the third time in a week. Miss Matson had liked him. She’d liked him a lot as a matter of fact, and when he had told her that his mother was sick and he needed to go with her to the doctor—she was oh so nervous!—Miss Matson had let him right out. She hadn’t even mentioned that his mother had already been to the doctor once this week or that he seemed to have a lot of grandparents dying awfully close together.
In his hurry to leave, he had dropped his Understanding New Math book. Jeannine, who sat across from him, had picked the book up and handed it over, her eyes like an adoring puppy’s. He’d wanted to tell her how stupid she looked with that braid in her hair and the peasant blouse that had to be three sizes too big. But he had smiled and thanked her politely. She was good at math and there was a test coming up.
It had been a lazy afternoon. He’d hung around the house, putting up his new black light poster, throwing the baseball around, watching TV. He’d even dozed for a while. He’d fallen asleep to the droning of a bee in the front yard, waking up a short time later. What had awoken him was the creaking of the gate.
“Jackie, you’re home already!” his mother had gushed.
She’d had someone with her. An old guy with deep lines scored into his face, shaggy brows, and gray hair slicked back from liver-spotted temples. All his clothes—shirt, pants, even shoes—had been too big on him. None too clean either.
“I want you to meet a relat
ive of yours.” His mother had introduced the man as his uncle. Jack had been skeptical; he’d never heard of any uncle.
The man had held out a gnarled hand. “I know we’ll be great friends,” he’d said.
Jack hadn’t known it then, but this man would play an important part in his life. They wouldn’t be friends exactly. But they would be allies.
Seven
“Damn!” Chelsea shoved the cardboard box back into the closet. She was sure she had packed her camera.
A picture materialized, as clear as day, of the Nikon thirty-five millimeter camera sitting on the bookshelf in the living room. In San Diego. How could she have left it behind?
It had been two weeks since Chelsea had moved to Bisbee, and despite her best efforts, most of her time had been spent fixing up the house and unloading furniture. Oh, she’d done dozens of rough sketches, but still felt that the project wasn’t really going anywhere. She’d always taken photographs of her subjects. More of a ritual than anything else, the snapshots sometimes aided her in determining which angle worked best in terms of composition. Taking pictures from several angles was faster than doing that many sketches.
Chelsea walked into the living room. The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains of the side window, throwing patterns on the Chinese carpet. She had never felt so at home anywhere. This room filled her with peace and a sense of belonging.
The last couple of weeks had been a revelation. Every morning had greeted her with a sparkling, gemlike sky. The nights were cool—after all, Bisbee was in the mountains—but the days were warm and clear and dry, the sun beaming benignly. Jason seemed farther away than ever. Chelsea had unconsciously looked for his doppelganger in town, but Jason’s double had vanished. The man had probably been a tourist down for the weekend.
Darkscope Page 4
