He took in every detail of the room in a slow, measured sweep, noting changes since he had left for his bath. A drawer was open. The bedclothes were ruffled where they had been flat. The window was closed. He bent and peered beneath the bed, but no one lurked there. The closet likewise proved empty of all but his saddlebags. Satisfied that he was alone in the room, he opened the bags and checked the contents. He could detect no signs of theft. He pulled out the thin journal he had scribbled notes into, tucking it into his vest along with a few more cigarros to get him through the night.
Closing the closet door once again, Jericho flipped his duster up and over his shoulders, shrugging into the sleeves. As the ragged-tailed oilcloth slapped against his calves, he pushed the drawer closed with a boot and left the room once again.
"You been in my room?" he demanded of the two youths in the office. The brunette looked up at him.
"Of course," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I have been in every room here."
"Son, if I've got to come in there and beat some sense into you, I will."
"You asked a question. I answered it."
"You been in it since I got here? Let's try that one."
"No, sir. That would be against the rules."
"Somebody has. Went through my stuff."
The teen just stared at him.
"Y'all best be careful what you got going here," Jericho warned. "A man might react poorly if he were to find someone in his room that he didn't invite. Said uninvited guest might go home with a window in his skull."
He left without waiting for a reaction from the clerk. It was the work of half an hour to track down the Crow's Nest, and Jericho was glad to see the doors of the saloon wide open and waiting, like they were the arms of a long-lost friend.
His boots thudded on the wooden steps and porch of the tavern, and he strode through the open portal as if he owned the building. His confidence vanished in an instant as he looked around the building like a tourist seeing the big city for the first time.
Hemp nets were strung all over the ceiling, and shielded lamps hung from their fibers. The walls were home to paintings of seagoing vessels. Picture after picture of sail-bearing ships caught his eye, and crossed oars often took up space between them. Above the bar was an elaborately-carved ship's wheel flanked by a pair of massive anchors that had to put a strain on the wall itself. In the center of the room was an enormous mast-like pillar with dozens of ropes attached, each climbing to the ceiling and coming back down to the oil lamps. Jericho figured that this was how they were lowered and raised to light them.
The tables that filled the floor were of rough-hewn wood with attached benches, and at many of them men were hoisting large steins of beer or smaller glasses of spirits.
Jericho regained his senses, nodded a greeting to the barman and took a seat along the front of the polished bar. The only other man present was three stools down, in a suit of black linen. He was absorbed in reading a worn Bible that lay open on the bar before him, and a shot glass of whiskey sat beside a tall mug of beer. Both looked barely touched.
"Welcome aboard," the bartender said. "What can I get for you?"
"Whiskey," Jericho answered. He glanced around at the surroundings. "Better make it two."
"First time?"
"Nah. I've had whiskey before."
"I meant in here," the bartender said with a generous laugh. When Jericho nodded, he continued.
"The Crow's Nest is owned by a former Naval Commander. He felt so out of place on land he decided to make his saloon look like a sailing ship of some kind. It takes some getting used to."
“I can imagine," Jericho said, accepting the large tumbler of whiskey that the man handed him. He passed over a wrinkled dollar bill. "Keep it."
The barkeep's eyebrow twitched up for a second as he slid the money across the bar and turned to deposit it into the till.
"Wonder if you can help me," Jericho said.
"Figured you wasn't just being generous with that buck."
"Looking for a local fellow, name of Burke. Lucas Burke."
"What did he do this time?" asked the bartender, rolling his eyes. He wiped his hands off on a rag and reached beneath the bar to retrieve a couple more glasses.
"To be honest, I don't know. I was told he worked here and might have some information I've been looking for."
"Hang on," the bartender said. He scanned the room for a moment and then waved a hand in a beckoning motion. A squat, well-muscled man with an eyepatch seemed to detach himself from a wall and made his way through the room to stand beside Jericho.
"Problem, Lucas?" the man asked in a rough voice.
Jericho turned back to the barkeep. It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "You Burke?" he asked.
"Guilty as charged."
"Name's Jericho Sims. Good to make your acquaintance," Jericho said, not offended by the obfuscation. They didn't know who he was and had no reason to be trusting. "Who's your friend?"
"This is Zeke. He takes care of things around here."
"All kinds of things," Zeke said, folding powerful arms across his chest and doing his best to look tough. He was really good at that look.
"So what can I help you with?" Burke asked. The smile that graced his features was not a welcoming one at all.
"Like to buy y'all a drink and talk for a few. You were with Monroe in the war, right? Medical encampment?"
"Both of us."
"I came in from San Diego way. Christopher Wilkins told me to come find you."
Both men visibly relaxed at the drop of the name.
"Well, that makes a difference," Zeke said, lowering himself onto the stool near Jericho.
"How is Chris these days?" Burke asked.
Jericho tilted his head in an approximation of a shrug, tossed back a swallow of his whiskey and grinned. "Well, he ain't dead, leastwise not when I left. Got himself a home and a wife. Couple funny looking kids running around. I guess he's doing better than a whole mess of us."
"Ain't that the truth," Burke said. It was more a statement than question. He checked the area to ensure that no one needed his attention, and then turned back to Jericho. "So what was it he said I might know?"
"I'm trying to find a particular man. Was a surgeon in Monroe's outfit for a spell. Wilkins said y'all might know more about him than he did."
"You know which one? We had a few for a while."
"Worked under the name of Stevens."
Zeke seemed to brighten. "Doc Stevens," he said. He tapped on the bar. "Fastest saw in the theater!"
"Yeah. He were good at cutting, that's for sure," Burke agreed. He looked into space for a moment. "Can't think of much else about him."
"That's the queer part," Jericho said, rubbing a hand across his stubbled chin. "Ain't no one can remember him. He was there with Monroe through nigh on to a year and ain't nobody can tell me what he looked like. Can't remember it myself."
As he tipped back the remainder of his whiskey, the two men both stared at one another. Zeke shook his head and grinned as though he had just been shown the greatest thing ever.
"I'll be damned," he said. He slapped at his knee. "You're right! I can't recall him at all. Now me, I was just a soldier. I didn't have much dealings with the doctors and such."
"But I did," Burke said. His tone was low and breathy. "I saw them every day. I hesitate to admit it to you, mister, but I can't seem to recollect one thing about that man."
"I'm trying to find folks who might have had contact with him. He worked on a number of my buddies in the war, and it's only polite that I get a chance to express my gratitude."
As the two men nodded, Jericho dropped a five-dollar coin on the bar.
"Y'all think of anyone else who might know anything, or if you recall anything specific, you'll let me know? I'm staying about eight blocks that way," he said, pointing back the way he had come. "Place called the Arms."
"The Arms? Better you than me," Zeke said, crossing
himself. "That there place is hainted."
"Hainted?"
"Devil himself wouldn't set foot in that place, Mister Sims," Burke said, shaking his head.
"Goblins and ghosts run free in there," Zeke told him. "Imps of Hell dance in the halls."
"I wouldn't go that far, but it is a bad place," Burke said.
"T'other night they was an army of the Damned runnin' the halls," Zeke insisted. "Monsters and demons and the like."
"That is enough!" snapped the man at the end of the bar. He had turned toward the trio and was glaring at them. From this angle, Jericho could easily make out the clerical collar around the man's neck. Fiery eyes held their gaze without quailing.
"Ah, Reverend Prescott, we was -"
"Ezekiel Hare, I am well acquainted with what you 'was'," he interrupted in a powerful voice. "I will not stand for the kind of filth you spew, gossip-monger. You make light of that which you do not understand, and it dooms your eternal soul!"
"I reckon they were trying to get a point across, is all," Jericho said. "No harm done."
"No harm? It is not your place to shepherd these men into the arms of our Lord."
"No it ain't. My way of getting folks to meet up with God is a little more direct than yours, preacher."
"And when someone arranges that meeting for you, sir? What then? Do you propose to look upon His divine countenance and say, 'no harm done'?"
"Well, now, I reckon when my time comes, it ain't the good Lord what's gonna be looking at me. My dance card's a little too full for that."
"He is prone to forgiveness, you know. All you must do is ask for it."
"Mighty lot of asking I'd need to do, padre," Jericho said. He stood from his chair. Tipping his hat to the men, he bade them good night.
"Heading on back to my 'hainted' hotel," he said with a grin.
"While these two may gossip and lie like two old hens, I beg you not to make light of the Infernal One's works," the cleric said. "Should their rest be disturbed, the dead may seem to indeed return to haunt us and remind us of the promise we make when we undertake them. Only divine Light may bring them to their rightful place and see them kneeling once more at His side."
"Well, let's hope nothing like that happens tonight," Jericho said. "I just want to get a little sleep and I don't need no spirits walking in to my room."
"The only way a spirit may walk is if his rest is disturbed, and that will never be, so long as he lies in hallowed earth," Prescott said, his voice like a whip. It was obvious he was used to addressing large crowds, and also accustomed to being heard and obeyed. He lifted his Bible for emphasis. "What we have placed within the earth is but a vessel, and the souls of the redeemed will rejoice and dance upon the streets of gold!"
"Amen," Zeke said, crossing himself again.
Jericho got a few more steps toward the door and then as the preacher began to speak more to the pair of soldiers, he bolted out into the evening air.
The walk away from the Crow's Nest was a pleasant one. The air had cooled a bit from the blazing afternoon temperatures, and Jericho was content to wander the streets for a while. He scouted the city until he found a store that looked like they might have the supplies he needed - including, he thought, new socks. There were still several people walking about, and Jericho reminded himself that this was no tiny hamlet but a full city that had an after-hours life all its own.
He tipped his hat to a pair of women who were hurrying along the boardwalk, stepping aside to allow them to pass. One of them looked down rather than at him, but the other looked straight into him and a shudder passed through his body. It was as if the woman was staring through him with eyes that were bottomless pits of swirling blackness. He felt drawn into the spirals and there was a momentary sense of falling. The grin beneath her eyes was predatory, and he felt in that second that he knew how a mouse must feel before a mountain lion. A moment later and her steps carried her past his position, leaving Jericho leaning against a wall for a support. He felt drained of energy, and his heart pounded in his chest like thunder.
He turned back to try to see where the gingham-dressed woman had gone, but she and her companion had turned a corner while he was occupied trying to catch his breath. A part of him wanted to chase her down, but a more rational part knew that a nighttime confrontation with a local woman would cause more harm than good. He continued telling himself that what had happened was coincidental, although the coincidences certainly seemed to be stacking up of late.
"Like someone walked over my grave," he whispered to himself, finally understanding the phrase he had heard so many times before. He took a sip from the flask in his vest pocket and fired up another smoke before heading back to his hotel. The urge to explore the city had been quelled by what he felt after the mysterious woman passed.
When he once more entered the Arms, he saw a light burning in the window of the office, although no one was up and moving around. It was just as well. He had no desire to speak to the clerk or his assistant.
He mounted the stairs at a slow walk, emerging onto the landing of the second floor. Three of the oil lamps had been ignited, adding a touch of pale yellow light that served more to amplify the shadows than to banish them. Somewhere down the hall he heard two voices that seemed to be discussing something rather heatedly. Behind them came the the soft tones of a woman singing, though that voice was more ethereal and seemed to tease at the edges of his hearing.
"You've been gone," said a female voice. Jericho turned to look but the hall was empty other than him. He stood a moment before deciding he had caught someone else's conversation and mistaken it for one directed at him. He extracted the key and slipped it into the lock of his door.
"Don't go in there," he heard. The woman's words were clear as glass, and he pivoted in sharp movements, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker.
"This ain't funny," he said aloud.
The hallway fell silent. The arguing voices and the singing simply stopped and the quiet was a sudden shroud dropping into place, so complete that Jericho heard the thudding of his own heart. The words Zeke had spoken to him earlier came spinning back in his head and he looked around with narrowed eyes.
"Hainted," he whispered, and then laughed at himself. He was letting things get to him, and that was all. A good night's sleep would fix it.
The door swung open and he stepped into his dark room. The tiny glow from the hallway lamps let him see where his own lamp was and he struck a match to light it. In the sudden flare of the match he saw a shadow not unlike that of a man standing beside his bed but as the wick caught and he turned it up there was nothing there. He turned the lamp up to its highest setting, letting the brilliance chase away the shadows of the room.
He felt a coldness in his stomach as he saw the closet door standing open once more. He looked around the room, noting that the bedclothes were mussed as if someone had slept in the bed before he had returned. A hunch had him place a hand on the mattress, but there was no residual warmth there. Had anyone been there, they had left long ago.
"Gonna beat that kid 'til his skin peels off," he said, imagining the front desk clerk or his partner as perpetrating a hoax. He went to the closet and peered inside. There had to be a secret door in the back or something, he thought. They were entering from the next room over. He stepped into the alcove and began feeling his way along the edges of the wall, testing for any kind of give.
The door slammed shut behind him, plunging him into darkness. Whirling, he reached for the handle, twisting it and pushing. As it began to open, he heard a deep growling sound and it slammed once more. He leaned against the portal, but he might as well have been trying to lift Gideon. Stepping back, he braced himself against the rear wall and kicked out, hammering his boot into the handle. He followed with a shoulder check into the door. It gave some, and he thrust a boot through the opening, following up by throwing his shoulder into the door twice more. He could feel a change in the pressure against the portal. A second later, w
hen his shoulder impacted yet again, it opened fully and he flew into the room.
The Colt seemed to materialize in his right hand, and just as quickly nearly a foot of gleaming steel jutted from the bottom of his left. The knife was wide and thick, and its heavy blade could double for a hatchet as easily as it could slice and stab.
As fierce as his expression had become, and as heavily armed as he was, Jericho found himself utterly alone in the room. He looked beneath the bed and even glanced at the few inches behind the chest of drawers.
The word 'hainted' echoed in his mind again. He was beginning to discount the idea less and less. He looked down at his hands and sighed, holstering the weapons.
"Think about the source," he urged himself. "Even the old preacher thought they were crazy."
He stepped to the washbasin and dipped his hands into the cool water there, scrubbing it over his face and splashing some in his hair before pushing his hands over the top of his head. He breathed slowly through his nose to calm his nerves. Looking up, he jumped back a full step as he saw himself in the mirror. His face was dripping blood. A glance into the basin showed it to be full of the red liquid.
"What the hell?" he demanded. Once more he looked at the mirror. It showed him as he was, with nothing save water dripping from his features. The bowl, as well, was clear of anything that would be a contaminant and was filled with water. He looked up and down three more times, changing his angle to see if he could replicate the effect, but at no point did anything change.
"Beginning to not like this joint," he said.
He stripped out of his clothes and boots, then dimmed the lamp and lay back on the bed, intent on getting at least a little rest. The events of the night had him questioning his own sanity, and he did not like that feeling.
He had lain in darkness for almost half an hour, unable to fully shut off his mind, when he heard the first footstep. Soft and stealthy, it would have succeeded against any normal man. Jericho, on the other hand, was so keyed up from what had already happened that to him it was as plain as the sights of the .45 he carried.
He heard two more steps, each slower and more carefully placed than the one before it. He struck a match against his thumbnail and filled the room with a flash of yellow light. There was no one present. Exasperated, he blew out the match and laid his head back on the pillow. It had been so long since he had enjoyed a full night of sleep, and it was beginning to look like tonight would just add to that.
Phantoms of Phoenix: A Jericho Sims Tale (The Adventures of Jericho Sims Book 3) Page 2
