Deadman's Fury (The Deadman Series Book 2)

by Linell Jeppsen

  “Took you long enough,” he growled.

  Fred stood tongue-tied as Earl answered, “Sorry, boss. We got your prize though.”

  “Let’s give her a look.” Patrick smiled.

  Fred reached inside and pulled Iris out of the wagon. She was still out cold, both from the swift uppercut Earl had dealt her earlier and from the ether they had forced her to breathe.

  He placed her on the ground at Patrick’s feet and the older man stared at her face gleaming in the moonlight. Well, she IS a rare beauty, he mused and—for a moment—he thought twice about what he planned to do. Then anger filled him again and he bared his teeth.

  Well, Danny was a beaut, too, he thought, and Matthew Wilcox took him away just as sure as shootin’. Let him feel the loss!

  Looking up, he growled, “Take her over to that grave by the light. There’s a coffin there. Dump her inside and bury it quick!”

  Fred frowned at the red-haired woman but Earl stooped over, picked her up and flung her over his right shoulder. Then they moved through the burial mounds and broken crosses until they reached a newly dug hole in the ground and a pine casket.

  Placing Iris’s body inside, Patrick, Earl, Fred and another man Marston didn’t know lowered the coffin into the hole and started shoveling dirt over it. At the last minute, Patrick called a halt and placed a long rubber tube into a hole drilled through the coffin’s lid. Chances were the woman would perish long before she discovered the breathing tube or the string that sounded a tiny bell but, just in case they were able to shoot her husband and his deputy quick enough, she might come in handy.

  Recently, Patrick had heard a train baron by the name of Sterling Morris say that he was desirous of a new wife—someone comely and not too green. The fact that this same man was thought to have killed off his first two wives meant nothing to Donnelly. Cash was cash and Morris was offering a lot of it.

  Finally finished, the men scurried off to the furthest corners of Potter’s Field where they hunkered down and prepared to wait for their quarry to arrive.

  ~

  Three hours later, Sheriff Wilcox, Roy, and a young man named Tommy King rowed a small boat through the oily waters around the many piers and wharves that dotted the inland coastline of Seattle. The docks were alive with people despite the hour; Matthew could see fires burning brightly, hear the sound of late-night revelers and, occasionally, the tinkle of a piano or the keen of fiddle strings in the night.

  He had spoken with Gerald earlier and learned that Potter’s Field abutted against the shoreline. So the best way to get in without being seen was from the water’s edge. The older man and Amelia were now sitting by Lewis’s side waiting to either bid the doctor adieu or clasp him tight to their hearts if he survived the horrible blow to his head.

  Gerald had sent Tommy—the same Irishman who had driven the carriage to the auction—with them to act as a guide. The young man was handsome with inky-black hair and bright blue eyes. He was also mad as hell—Gerald Winters had taken him in fresh off the boat, given him a livelihood, three meals a day and all the time he could wish for with horses, the most blessed of God’s beasts in his opinion.

  When he wasn’t cutting and tying weight ropes, painting backdrops or helping in the production of the troupe’s many performances, Tommy was downstairs in the stables caring for their horses. The success or failure of any troupe of actors was an illusion, Gerald advised. If their animals or tack looked illused, the troupe was seen as being unprofessional. Tommy took this as gospel and looked to Gerald as a replacement of his own father who had died so many years ago in Ireland.

  He studied the shoreline carefully, looking for the small dock below the graveyard and he cleared his throat of fear. This sheriff seemed like a mean git and Tommy approved, vowing he would help the man and his deputy bring the men who had hurt his boss’s children to a swift end.

  “Here it is,” he whispered. “Now bring us in soft…”

  Roy saw a rotting dock jutting out from a patch of weeds and, standing up on the bow, he picked up a coil of rope and threw it with barely a sound. Then he stepped lightly onto the wooden structure and tied the boat fast.

  Matthew and Tommy climbed quietly out of the boat and joined Roy, peering through the brush and brambles into the back acres of Potter’s Field. It was as dark as ink and the air was thick with a foggy mist. As they stepped off the dock, the ground below their feet was soft with mud and the whole area stunk of moldering vegetation, fish, and…Roy shuddered…was that a whiff of human decay?

  According to Gerald Winters, the first few graves dug here had been placed too close to shore and many of those interred had drifted out of their plots and into the harbor or had swum, so to speak, into neighboring graves and took up residence forevermore in the arms of total strangers. It was a poorly kept secret and the town fathers had sworn to practice better burial techniques in the future so that the likes of Seattle’s Potter’s Field not be repeated.

  Tommy stepped up close and whispered, “I have no way of knowing where they took your wife, Sheriff. But if they brought a wagon or a hearse in here, the main access road is over there—about two city blocks away.”

  Matthew regarded the cemetery and knew this was a trap. Although it was clear that Dicky was proud of himself for being able to give his boss the new intelligence, it was equally evident to Matthew and Roy that the information had been planted. The men who had taken Iris had shown no mercy when it came to Amelia’s parents and if Dicky had not been necessary to their plans, they would have finished him off with no second thoughts.

  Still, Matthew didn’t doubt that Donnelly and his men meant to harm Iris purely out of spite so whether they also meant to lure him and Roy to their deaths was beside the point. The trick, he thought, is to grab Iris as quickly as possible, get her to safety, and do it all before Donnelly even knows we’re here.

  Matthew felt his heart thump hard in his chest. “But what if Iris is already dead?” a little voice in the back of his mind whispered. “What if, despite everything you do now, the love of your life has already taken her last breath?”

  “Shut up,” he mumbled to himself. Roy looked up at the sheriff in surprise.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked as he eyed his friend in sympathy. So many things had happened to Matthew during his short life, Roy marveled that he was as balanced and levelheaded as he was. Losing Iris, however, might be the one thing that tipped the scales.

  Roy and his family had also grown to love Iris Imes Wilcox. They admired her strength, beauty, and determination. Maybe more than anything else, they loved how she took such good care of Matthew and had helped heal the many scars on his heart.

  All things being equal, though, Roy understood that there was simply no good reason why Iris would still be alive. Donnelly’s objective was to silence Matthew and anyone else he ran with so that he could continue to make money from the women he kidnapped. Roy vowed to bring the criminal and his sister to justice—and then try to keep Matthew from falling apart, if worse came to worst.

  Matthew was still staring into the darkness but he turned to Roy after a moment and murmured, “We need to split up and make our way to the front of the cemetery. Use your knives, if you can, since I’m sure Donnelly has quite a few men stationed around this property and this can turn into a gunfight. But if that happens we run the risk of being arrested by the local authorities and, more importantly, not being able to find Iris in time.”

  Looking at Tommy, he said, “You can head on back now. I don’t want you getting involved in what’s about to take place here.”

  The young man shook his head. “Nay! I’m a good fighter, sir. Those men hurt my boss and I want to make them hurt, too.”

  Matthew asked, “You ever been in a fight like this before?”

  Tommy nodded grimly. “Aye, sir, plenty of times. And I know how to use my blade as well as the next man.”

  The sheriff sighed. “Well, do what you can to avoid bloodshed, okay? I would ra
ther arrest these men than try to explain why they are all dead. Got it?” He added, “And heaven help you, kid, if you’re lying to me. This is going to get rough.”

  Matthew bent over and fished a knife out of each of his boots. Pointing at Roy, he gestured to the right; the deputy nodded and moved silently away into the fog. He watched as Tommy went to the left, then he moved ahead in a slight crouch…an eight-inch knife clutched in each fist and his trusty old slingshot within easy reach.

  Chapter 31

  Redemption

  Margaret scrambled out from under the desk in the caretaker’s hut. She sneezed and shook her head in disgust. The smell under there was revolting—a mixture of sweat, dirty shoes and mice. Standing still, she listened and her eyes grew wide with fear. A bell was sounding off in the distance.

  She had been lurking outside the parlor door in the warehouse earlier when she heard her brother’s plans. Heart sinking, she understood then that Patrick was beyond redemption. Although Amelia Winters had fetched a huge amount of money—far more than any other girl they had ever sold at auction—Patrick was bent on revenge.

  What was worse was the fact that they were going to bury a sheriff’s wife alive and Margaret shuddered in shame. She knew she had done terrible things since moving to Washington with her brother but this was a mortal sin! Sitting down on the only piece of furniture in the building—a broken, straight-backed chair—she heard the bell’s frantic tinkle again.

  Margaret had just spent the better part of two days in the grip of withdrawals from the poppy. Actually, she’d been rudely deprived of her narcotic for almost two weeks and was only now beginning to think straight. Understanding that her addiction had implemented her compliance in Patrick’s schemes, however, did nothing to alleviate her guilt.

  The time to act was now. Clear-headed for the first time in years, Margaret knew that if she didn’t at least try to save the young woman from suffocating to death in that coffin, she herself would suffer eternal damnation. She remembered the old stone church back home in Ireland and the priest’s fierce sermons about God and the devil, and Margaret shook with fear. The anguish of withdrawal was nothing compared to the eternal fires of hell.

  She crept to the door. It was so dark and there was so much fog, Margaret felt sure she wouldn’t be seen if she ran to the newly dug grave. Still, she hesitated. Patrick was the only family she had left. If she were found out, Margaret had no doubt that he would either kill her or cast her out.

  She heard the tiny bell once more but it seemed faint now, as if the one who pulled the string was losing the strength—or the will—to live. Throwing caution to the four winds, Margaret took off running. She had spied upon Patrick and his men earlier and had a pretty good idea where they had buried the woman. Twice, she stumbled and fell; once on a hoe that lay hidden near a pile of dirt and then again over another new grave.

  The second time she fell, she placed both hands over her mouth to stifle a gasp of pain. She had twisted her ankle and spears of agony lanced up and down her leg. As she recovered her breath, Margaret heard the mournful tinkle again—this time very near to where she sat in a heap on the ground.

  Peering through the misty dark, Margaret could make out a pile of soil, a number of shovels and a long white, rubber hose coiled up on the ground about eight feet away. I found it! She exulted even as she felt another pulse of pain from her rapidly swelling ankle.

  Crawling on all fours, Margaret Donnelly made her way to the grave and peered into the opening. There was not too much dirt on the casket she noted and wondered why. Perhaps Patrick meant to let Iris Wilcox live, after all?

  Lying on her belly, she seized the hose and wriggled it back and forth, not knowing whether the woman trapped inside even knew the breathing apparatus was there. Then she whispered into it. Since there was so little dirt over the casket, Margaret thought there was a possibility the sheriff’s wife might be able to hear her voice.

  “Hello! Grab the hose and breathe into it! Do you hear me? Breathe into the end of the tube…it should be there right next to you!”

  Margaret waited as still as death and listened. The bell was completely quiet now and, for a moment, she thought Iris had expired. Then she felt a small tug on the hose she held loosely in her hand.

  “That’s a good girl! Now breathe!” she crooned.

  A few seconds later, she heard an exhalation of breath through the tube, then the sound of steady breathing. Knowing she had very little time to save the trapped woman, Margaret slipped down inside the grave and started scooping dirt away from the casket’s lid.

  ~

  Three hundred and fifty feet away from where Margaret dug, Tommy King stopped as he saw a dark form hiding behind a tree trunk in front of him. Clutching his knife tightly, he crept up on the figure and was just about to hit him on the back of the head with the hilt when the man sprang to his feet with an inarticulate shout. Unlike Matthew, Patrick had not been particularly concerned about stealth so, as soon as Fred Marston saw the threat, he brought his pistol about and shot.

  He missed, though, because Tommy had stepped to his left and brought his blade down on Fred’s arm. Dropping the gun, he cried out in pain. Then he cried no more when that same stinging blade swung a wide arc across his neck.

  Falling to the ground, Fred Marston choked and gurgled as a slender young man picked up the pistol and disappeared silently into the fog. Wishing one last time he could have had a piece of that red-haired action, he died in the mud of Potter’s Field.

  ~

  Seventy-five feet away from where Fred Marston gasped his last breath, Roy was engaged in silent, hand-to hand combat with Earl Dickson. Roy was far younger and in much better shape but Dickson seemed to be all grasping hands and kicking feet. But, unbeknownst to Roy, Earl had learned as a youngster roaming the streets of New York City how to fight dirty.

  The deputy knew a thing or two as well but his testicles were throbbing from being pummeled and he was bleeding steadily from a knife wound in his back. Growing weaker by the second, Roy was beginning to worry as his lower back screamed in torment. He had no way of knowing where he had been stuck but understood that, if it was in his liver, he might die before the fight ended.

  He wriggled free from Dickson’s clutches and was just about to jump on the man’s back and bite him on the ear when he heard a gunshot. Both he and Dickson stood still for a moment, wondering who was on the receiving end of that gunfire. Then Earl stiffened, his eyes wide open and staring at nothing.

  A second later, he dropped like a stone and lay still on the ground. Roy shook his head and stared as Matthew stepped out from behind a tall tree. The sheriff held his slingshot loosely in one hand and studied his quarry as he approached.

  “You and that gopher-chucker,” Roy mumbled.

  Matthew grinned. “Well, it’s gotten me out of a few jams.” Then he frowned and said, “Turn around, Roy, and let me see.” His fingers peeled away the wet shirt. “Oh yeah, buddy, he got you a good one.”

  “Is it my liver?” Roy asked.

  The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t think so, but you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. You need to sit down now.”

  Roy shook his head, but Matthew glared. “That’s an order, deputy!”

  Roy sighed in frustration. Normally, Matthew never pulled rank but the wound must be serious enough that it scared his boss into doing so this time. Making his way slowly to a nearby tree he watched as Matthew tore a length of cloth from his sleeve.

  After bundling up the material and placing it over the gash on his friend’s back, he told Roy to lean back hard against the tree’s trunk. “Stay right there. If you can keep pressure on that wound, it’ll act as a compress until we can get you to a doctor.”

  Staring at Dickson’s prone body, Roy asked, “Is he dead?”

  Matthew knelt down and placed two fingers on the man’s throat. Then he shook his head. “No, but he IS knocked out cold.”

  “Goddamn cheater,” Roy grumbled
as Matthew tied Earl’s hands behind his back.

  “How many did you get to before this character had his way with you?” Matthew asked.

  “I was doing pretty good,” Roy answered. “Got two trussed up back there and hidden in the weeds. I know how you feel about killing, Matthew, but I got to say this one here was going down the hard way or not at all.”

  The sheriff nodded. “I know, Roy. There was never going to be a way out of this mess without some bloodshed. Speaking of which, I’ve got to hurry up and find Iris. If you see Tommy, tell him to stand down and wait here with you…that is, if he is still alive.”

  He stood up and made to leave but Roy stopped him. “Be careful.”

  Matthew nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered and moved away into the gloom.

  ~

  Patrick Donnelly was bothered. First, he kept hearing something like the sound of digging and scraping… Is the woman escaping? he wondered. Then he heard the gunshot and cursed himself for a fool. He realized it was too late now to do anything about it, that he had not cautioned his men to be quiet. But the last thing he needed was a bunch of Seattle coppers down here snooping around.

  To make matters worse, one of his city boys—a man by the name of Lanny Smith—ran up, gasping for breath.

  “Boss!” he said, bending over with his hands on his knees, gulping air. “They’re coming in the back way and there must be a dozen of them, if not more!”

  Patrick frowned. “A dozen men? You gotta be kidding me!”

  “Well, I ain’t exactly seen ‘em,” Smith squealed. “But I know that most of the men we brung are down. I seed it with my own eyes!”

  “Goddammit!” Patrick swore, “Get back out there, Smith! What are you waiting for?”

  The man took off running again as Patrick heard the sound of wood being dragged across wood. Whirling around, he ground his teeth in frustration. That godforsaken sheriff must have found his way to where his wife is buried!