Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5)

by Linell Jeppsen

  “Silence!” one of the men barked as he stood up, and Stephen could see how tall he was. The man wore a white, floor-length robe with a red cross stitched on the front. His hair was dark brown with wide streaks of gray, his large hands were spotted with age and gnarly as old tree branches.

  One of those mighty hands reached out now and slapped Stephen so hard that both he and the chair he was sitting in flew backwards to the floor. Stephen lay still for a moment tasting blood on his tongue and fighting against the shocked tears threatening to fill his eyes. I will not weep like a baby, he thought, even as his heart turned icy with fear.

  The Knights Templar were a religious order within (and without) the Freemasons. An entity of its own, its members swore allegiance to no particular order but acted independently on its own to reinforce the Bible and its teachings. Almost all Freemasons were expected to swear allegiance to God above but the Knights Templar Order were fanatical in their beliefs and for centuries had been known to seek out and destroy those they perceived as sinners.

  Who called them here? Stephen wondered frantically as his chair was hauled upright and situated in front of a wide, polished desk. A young, mild-looking man sat behind the desk, polishing a pair of spectacles. He finished cleaning his glasses and perched them on a dainty, almost feminine nose. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “Good evening, Mr. Castle. My name is Ian Revell.”

  Castle sat up in fury, and barked, “What do you want? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in, young man? I’ll own you for this…this outrage!”

  Instantly, Stephen saw stars as he was cuffed hard over his left ear. The same old man who had hit him earlier leaned over and whispered into his right ear. “Mr. Castle, as I said earlier this evening, you have been accused of crimes against God such as theft and murder. Both things are cause for your immediate execution, but Mr. Revell here is offering you a chance at redemption.”

  Sitting down on the desk with a sigh, the old knight crossed his arms over his chest, adding, “Personally, I think you’re irredeemable. I think that during your long life, you and your companions have committed crimes untold and you are only now—through God’s grace—being called upon to be a witness to these terrible crimes.”

  Stephen’s throat filled with bile. Who is this religious fanatic to speak to me so…But the spit in his mouth dried up in alarm as the old man drew a gleaming silver sword from his long white robe. Castle drew back in his chair as the knight stood up, but there was simply nowhere to go!

  Stephen stared as the sword lifted into the air over his head and then he closed his eyes and started praying to the benevolent God he suddenly believed in with all his heart and soul.

  “My Father, who art in Heaven,

  Hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come…”

  “Enough!’ a soft voice spoke from behind him and Stephen craned his neck to see who had spoken.

  A man walked by him and sat in a chair by the side of the desk. He had removed his mask and sat still now, staring into Castle’s face with wide brown eyes. Although the man was probably in his thirties or forties there was a childlike innocence in his expression.

  He smiled slightly and said, “My brother knight believes that some sins are unforgivable, and that nothing short of death will atone for them.” Gazing up at the old brute still seated in front of Castle, glaring down at him like Beelzebub, the younger man said, “Thank you, Geoffrey, that will be all for now.”

  The old knight stood up instantly and moved to the back of the room, leaving Stephen alone with the bespectacled pretty boy and the Knight Templar.

  Stephen cleared his throat and whispered, “What do you want from me?”

  Ian smiled and shrugged. “We want you to confess your sins, Mr. Castle…loudly and at length.”

  The knight smiled as well. “Do that, Mr. Castle, and my brothers and I will let you live. Refuse, and you will die—right here and now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Folly

  Approximately an hour later, a brassy trumpet squawked and the orchestra members put their instruments away so they, too, could watch the show planned for tonight’s intermission.

  Edward Branson hardly noticed. When Stephen had disappeared into the teeming crowd to fetch him back some shrimp and cake, Edward had sat comfortably alone. Then, minutes passed and he grew impatient and alarmed. Where the hell is that man? he wondered, irritably.

  One Mason after another came to sit at his table. To a person, they congratulated him on his new position, flattered him and whispered hopeful plans in his ears. At one point, he asked the men surrounding him if they had seen where Mr. Castle had gotten off to and complained about his lack of refreshments.

  One fellow—the man with the red devil’s mask, who had opened tonight’s festivities—answered that Stephen Castle had been detained by his wife, Fanny, and that he would be joining them shortly. He also offered to bring Edward some shrimp and cake, which brought a smile to the old man’s face.

  While that man left to bring Branson some dinner, even more people joined his table. Although, normally, he didn’t appreciate crowds, Edward was having the time of his life. Every person there seemed to be swearing fealty to him, as if he was a newly-anointed king!

  A plate full of shrimp and cake landed in front of him and Edward set to with gusto, looking up as a trumpet sounded again with a noisy wheeze. The curtains on the player’s tent swept to the side and a tall, rather stout gentleman cried out, “Ladies and Gentleman, sit up straight now and pay close attention to the Little Globe Theater’s presentation of a “FOLLY!”

  There was a round of applause as people tried to peer through a sheer inner-curtain that hid the makeshift stage, but they didn’t have to wait long. The sheer curtain was pulled to the side by unseen hands and many of the guests murmured in surprise as they spied a large, hand-painted sign that read, OREORNOGO SILVER MINE—IDAHO!!!

  Three or four filthy-looking men were dressed up as miners and tapping away at silver and gold-painted rocks. One of the actors managed to chip a piece of fake gold away from the large boulder by his feet. The actor let out a whoop of joy and began prancing around the stage and crowing with delight. “Gold!” he cried, “I found me some gold, and now me an’ my family are gonna be rich!”

  There was a polite round of applause as all of the miners on the makeshift stage hugged one another and the sheer curtains closed. People turned to one another in confusion… “What on Earth is this all about?” they wondered aloud.

  A couple of minutes later, the curtain swept aside again and the actor who found the large gold nugget had apparently come home to his family and was showing them his wonderful find. “We can buy a real home now, darling wife and maybe now that we have some money, take our daughter, little Suzie, in to the doctor to fix her poor lungs!”

  The wife and children cheered and wept with joy, hugging their Pa tight in celebration. Then, three large men with black hats, black bandanas, large fake pistols and paper mâché knives crept onto the back of the stage and, amidst the squeals of the titillated crowd, murdered the whole family.

  The actors must have been holding bags of red-dyed gelatin, because suddenly the stage area was dripping with what looked like gallons of blood and gore and more than one spectator stood up with cries of disgust. Their loud complaints were silenced, however, as the three black-garbed men stood up from their bloody chore and, after facing the crowd with evil sneers, turned their backs on them.

  Gasps and scandalized whispers filled the ballroom as the ball-goers read the names on the men’s backs. One sign read, BRANSON, one read, FARNSWORTH and one read, CASTLE! Underneath each name the word, MURDERERS! was written in large, red letters.

  Edward’s jolly smile had melted off his face as soon as the curtains opened. The Oreornogo mine was long since dismantled but the whole, North Idaho mining region was much too close to home for comfort.

  He stared from side-to-side, peering suspiciously at the masks surrounding h
im to see if anyone at his table was in on the joke but he couldn’t see past their strange facades. He murmured under his breath, “It’s time to go home now…someone go and fetch Stephen Castle back here!”

  There was a small ruckus behind the curtains and the guests craned their necks to see what new thing was about to present itself. The three men with the damning signs on their backs stepped to the side of the stage and bowed their heads as if in prayer. Then Stephen Castle himself stepped onto the platform.

  As Edward watched, Stephen took a kerchief from his back pocket and wiped sweat from his face. He stared, dazedly, out over the crowd and, finally, his gaze landed on Branson. The same, gaudy trumpet blared once and silence fell over the ballroom.

  Stephen cleared his throat, and swept his handkerchief over his face again. He looked like an animal with its paw stuck in the steely jaws of a trap. He started to speak, stopped and opened his mouth to speak again. He had no sooner said, “Ladies and Gentlemen…I am here tonight to…” when his wife Fanny stood up and cried, “Stephen, what are you doing?”

  He turned to face her, and the sorrow in his eyes was unmistakable. “Fanny, I am sorry but I really have no other choice! Go home now, please! I have been promised that you and the rest of the family will be safe, but you must leave!”

  The delicate, middle-aged woman looked as if she would argue, but a tall gentleman with beautiful red hair and a silver-white mask stepped to her side and whispered in her ear. She listened to the man for a few seconds and then she removed her mask, bowed her head, and wiped tears from under her eyes. Taking the man’s arm, she swept through the doors of the ballroom and out of sight.

  Most of the guests paid little attention to the woman’s exit and focused, instead, on what Castle had to say. He turned to face Branson, and then he said, “Edward, I have been caught out, and I need to confess my crimes. Please forgive me—everyone—for letting my greed dictate my actions.”

  Branson sat up straight, and put his hands on the wheels of his chair but, somehow, he had become lodged in close to the table. At least a dozen men and women stood directly behind him so he was unable to make a fast getaway without running someone over in the process. “Excuse me, but I need to leave…EXCUSE ME!”

  A man in a black and gray feathered mask, fashioned to look like a moth, leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You need to hear this, Mr. Branson. Stay still!”

  Ignoring the moth man’s orders, Edward still tried to back way but no one moved so he was forced to sit like a fool and listen as Stephen confessed in a loud voice, his part in the claim jumps over the last six months, or so, in North Idaho. He talked about the murders of landowners around the assorted mines in North Idaho, the assassination of a certain Chloe Brazil and the recent, murder of a young boy named Tommy O’Roarke.

  He talked and talked until Branson wanted to scream in frustration! The whole time Stephen spoke, he stared at Branson as if he was urging Edward to confess as well, but Edward would no sooner do that than he would attempt to fly to the moon! Glancing around, Edward saw that the city sheriffs had stood up from their table and were making their way to the stage.

  By now, many people in the crowd were booing softly and hissing their displeasure. The sound of their scorn sounded like angry waves agitating still sand in a rising storm. Edward groaned softly and, once more, tried to back his chair away from the table.

  Stephen’s words finally came to a stop and he held his wrists out for the Seattle deputies’ handcuffs. He looked and acted like a whipped dog as he was led off stage by the policemen but, apparently, there was one more thing the man in the moth mask standing behind Branson wanted…

  Matthew called out, “Is there anything more you need to get off your chest, Mr. Castle? You have implicated Timothy Farnsworth and yourself, but was anyone else involved in your schemes…anyone at all?”

  Castle stared into Edward’s eyes with almost superstitious fear. The two men faced one another as the attending audience held bated breath. Edward held his head high in arrogant disdain, while Stephen studied his old friend with equal parts love and dread.

  Then Edward said, “Take this man away and clap him in chains! I had no idea what Tim and Stephen were doing behind my back! You must believe me…besides, I know you have no proof of wrongdoing on my part, or you would be arresting me too!

  Matthew saw the defeat and raw sorrow in Castle’s eyes and knew that their gamble had not paid off. He, Chance, Clyde and the King County sheriff had counted on Castle to implicate Branson during his confession so they would both be hauled off to jail but Castle had, apparently, lost his nerve.

  Looking at the flat, cold hatred in Branson’s eyes as Castle was escorted outside by the many lawmen who surrounded him, Matthew couldn’t help but sympathize. The minute Castle implicated Branson would be the exact same moment Branson arranged for Fanny’s demise.

  Stepping back from Edward’s wheeled chair, he bent down and murmured, “We will get you yet, Mr. Branson…rest assured.”

  To which Branson replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir. Now, let me pass!”

  Matthew watched as Branson wheeled his chair through the throngs of people attending the ball. Many people stepped back in loathing at Branson’s passing but, it seemed to Matthew, just as many people stepped close and seemed to whisper encouragement in the old man’s ear.

  Chance, who had just returned from escorting Fanny Castle to her car, stood next to his father. “Any luck?” he asked.

  Matthew shook his head. “No, he didn’t implicate Branson at all…dammit!”

  Chance stared over at Branson’s table, where a number of men and women still remained after Branson had fled. Most of their masks had been removed by now and he saw the look of anger and disgust filling their faces. Ian Revell stood amongst them, and Chance was sure he was telling the bystanders that Branson would not be sworn in as Grand Master after all.

  Both he and his father knew that the ball was just a ploy to get Branson accused as publicly as possible. Although the public accusation had never taken place, he had the feeling that Branson’s place in society was now severely compromised. He bumped Matthew’s shoulder and said, “Pa, I doubt that Branson will be able to continue his claim-jumping with one of his men dead and the other one rotting in jail!”

  Matthew sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right about that. I just wish…” He was interrupted by the arrival of Annie and Hannah.

  “Well,” Annie said with a smile. “I guess we have done our part, Matthew. Shall we go home? I think the ball is over and done with now, anyway.”

  In fact, many of the party-goers were starting to file out of the ballroom and the musicians seemed disinclined to pick up their musical instruments.

  Matthew felt some relief…Branson was probably making his way home by now, and Castle was acquainting himself with the inside of a jail cell. He figured this was as good (and safe) a time as any to make their way back home to the Thurston mansion.

  He would contact Revell and the King County sheriff’s office tomorrow morning and try to make a new plan to finally put Branson out of business for good. For now, he was tired to the bone and ready to call the night over.

  Taking Annie’s arm he said, “Absolutely, let’s head home.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Knights of Darkness

  Edward Branson was met outside the Masonic Grand Orient by his lead henchman, Donnie McPhearson. Donnie had been forced to cool his heels outside, since he was not a Mason and now, as Branson rolled, unescorted, toward the car, he looked at his boss in alarm. Branson’s face was red as a beet and the man seemed apoplectic with fury.

  Sighing internally, Donnie thought, Uh, oh! Normally, working for the old man was a piece of cake as long as you bowed your head at all the right times and ate large slices of humble pie, but when Branson got in a rage, no one was safe…not even loyal employees!

  Donnie ran to meet Branson and, taking ahold of the chair
handles, he asked, “What happened, sir? Are you okay?”

  Branson barked, “No! I am far from okay. Take me home—immediately!”

  “Yes, sir!” Donnie replied, and whisked Edward and in his chair into the back of the car in record time. They drove the miles to Branson’s home in silence, but Edward was already scheming his revenge. On the morrow, he would arrange for Fanny Castle to meet an untimely death and, while he was at it, he would arrange for a number of Castle and Castle partners to suffer as well. A small smile twisted his lips as he thought about the damage he could do to that prestigious law-firm!

  When they reached the house, Branson said, “Go and park the car and then meet me inside. How many men are here tonight, do you know?”

  Donnie thought about it for a few seconds and said, “All of ’em, I think, boss.”

  Branson nodded, “Good, I want to meet with all of you within the hour!” Staring at the front porch, he said, “Where the hell is Trask? He should be here to help me inside!”

  “I’ll do it, Sir! Just hold on a sec…” Donnie cried.

  He hustled around the back of the car, plucked Branson’s wheeled chair out onto the graveled driveway and then helped Branson into it. As Donnie pushed the old man up a slight incline to the front porch, Branson muttered, “Looks like I might have to remind some of you men how things are done properly! The next time Trask forgets to meet me at the front door will be the last day he works for me!”

  Josiah Trask, Branson’s old Negro butler was always on hand—always—but Branson seemed to have forgotten that in his current furious state. Rolling his eyes, Donnie said, “Yes, sir!”

  Panting with exertion Donnie pushed the old bastard toward the house. The driveway was steeper than he had thought, and he was sweating under his dress coat. Reaching the porch he pushed Branson to the front door, which was slightly ajar.

  “Sir…” Donnie started to say in alarm, but Branson cut him off in mid-sentence.