by Cameron Judd
“Is it really her?”
“Don’t know. But if it is, I wish she’d visit the Outlaw Train and fall over dead while she was there. She’d be quite the display, that particular woman’s corpse.”
Jakey had to ponder how strange a man this was he’d allowed into Ben Keely’s house. “How would you keep her corpse from going bad on you?”
“Same way I’ve preserved the others, like Tennessee out there. That’s my trained skill, son, preserving the dead. It’s what I know how to do, better than anybody else in this nation. This woman Haus talks to the dead. Me, I preserve them.”
“But even an undertaker can’t make a corpse last for good.”
“Not if he hasn’t been trained in certain secret old arts that make it possible. Me, I’ve been trained. I’ve been taught the old arts. In my field, son, I’m a famous man, in one small circle. No other like me. No other at all, not since my teacher passed on. No one else alive knows what I know about preserving the dead.”
“So who will know when you’re gone?”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Well…nobody lives forever.”
“I’m not an old man yet.”
“No…but nobody lives forever.”
“Well, I…I don’t know. I haven’t given it a thought.”
“You ought to teach somebody else.”
Anubis rubbed his hand across his chin and looked distressed. After a few moments he said, “No. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I wouldn’t be the only one. It’s good, you see, to be the only one. It’s all I’ve got…being the only one.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jimmy Wills, seated behind the desk of the Gable House Hotel, looked up quickly when he realized he had a customer. He’d been absorbed in a dime novel, something he counted on to help him pass what promised to be a boring day. Mr. Gable had moved him off night duty, a positive change, in Jimmy’s view, but he’d been surprised to find that the only difference now was that daytime rather than night had become an endless drudgery.
Jimmy slipped the novel onto a shelf under the desk and stood to welcome the newcomer. The ravenhaired man was dressed like a typical traveler, but Jimmy noticed his clothing, though of seemingly high quality, was threadbare and worn. Old. His hat bore the dark stains of much wear and handling. This man was accustomed to travel, and was no man of means.
What intrigued him about the man, though, were his eyes. They were quite large and extraordinarily blue, but not the kind of pale, dog’s-eye blue that made some people striking, but a deep, almost lavender hue, made more obvious in contrast to his pallid complexion. The thought that crossed Jimmy’s mind as he looked at the stranger was that this man came from some exotic, and definitely European, ancestry.
“Good day, sir,” Jimmy said brightly. “Welcome to the Gable House.”
“Thank you,” the man replied in an accent that sounded familiar to Jimmy, though he couldn’t remember just where he’d heard another like it. As the man continued to speak, though, Jimmy made the connection. Katrina Haus. That’s who he talked like. “I’m a traveler in need of a room, young man. Have you anything available?”
“We do, sir,” Jimmy said. “Your choice of any of four rooms at the moment.”
“All of equal quality?”
“They are. All with a good bed, extra pillows, extra quilts in the trunk at the foot of the bed—though you won’t need those in this warm weather—and cherrywood wardrobes with a dozen hangers each. There’s a basin on a washstand, and every morning our guests find a pitcher of heated water outside their door by eight o’clock, with a clean towel and washcloth. We also offer a free razor-sharpening service for our guests in conjunction with the general hardware store down the street. And discounted meals for our guests in the Almanac Café over on Emporium Street.”
“Emporium Street…named for the Montague’s Emporium that is making your town so famous?”
“It is. Though I don’t know that our town is ‘famous,’ exactly.”
“Well, I can tell you that word about that remarkable establishment has spread far and wide. The nearest store to compare to Montague’s Emporium, I’ve been told, is in Chicago, far from here.”
“It is a big place, no doubt about it. I wasn’t sure the emporium would survive here, with the size of our population, but it draws customers from miles away. Many people travel to Wiles just to visit the place. It’s been good for this town, sir.”
“The town of Wiles owes a great deal to Mr. Montague.”
“How long do you anticipate staying with us, Mr…”
“Baum. Fredrick Baum. Two nights at least. Perhaps more if the ground here proves fertile. I speak metaphorically in that regard.”
He might as well have been speaking Greek as far as Jimmy Wills was concerned. Jimmy had no notion what a word such as “metaphorically” meant. The “fertile ground” reference made him assume that Baum was in some way involved in agriculture.
“If you need to extend your stay, that will be no problem. We give preference to lodgers already in place. Now, if you wish to sign in…”
Jimmy turned the ledger around to allow Baum to put his name on the first open line. While signing, Baum scanned previous names. He lifted a forefinger and touched the name of Katrina Haus higher on the register page.
“You know her?” Jimmy asked.
“Years ago, back in Pennsylvania, from where I come, I knew a girl by that name, while both of us were children. A beautiful girl…the first I ever took notice of, if you understand me.”
“The Katrina Haus who is staying here is a very beautiful woman,” Jimmy said. “The most beautiful I’ve seen.”
“I’ll keep an eye peeled, then. Doubtful it would be the same person, though.”
“Probably not.” Jimmy fished a ringed key off the pegboard behind him. “May I help you get your bags upstairs?”
“I have only what I’m already carrying,” Baum replied. “I’ll manage alone. But thank you.” He hefted his things and stepped toward the stair. “Would it be improper for me to ask what room Miss Haus is staying in?”
“She’s right down the hall from the room I just put you in, sir,” Jimmy replied. “Two doors, same side of the corridor as you.”
“Thank you, sir. I look forward to my stay in your hotel.”
“Glad to have you with us, Mr. Baum.”
Baum started again toward the stairs, then stopped. “Oh, young man,” he said, “I take it you are a reader. I saw you reading a book when I came in.”
“Helps to pass the time.”
“Let me give you something you might enjoy, then.” He set down his bags, opened one of them, and from it produced something that at first Jimmy thought was another dime novel, or perhaps an almanac. Baum laid it on the desk in front of Jimmy.
SPRING-HEELED JACK’S ARGUS OF MYSTERY, the illustrated cover read. Then a smaller line of ornamental type beneath: A Compendium of the Strange, Spiritual, and Supernatural from across the United States of America.
The illustration, an etching similar in style to what Jimmy had seen in such publications as Harper’s and Leslie’s Illustrated, showed a woman on the street of some city, cowering by night from an apparition that loomed out of a dark alley, leaning over her like a giant made of smoke. Beneath the image were the words Ghosts of the Philadelphia Backstreets, a Study by F.A.B.
“That’s me, ‘F.A.B.,’” Baum said. “Frederick Allen Baum.”
Jimmy picked up the paper-bound volume and studied the picture closely. “You print this thing?” he asked.
“No, but I write for it. And I work closely with the illustrators who provide the excellent art such as you see on that cover.”
“So this thing is about ghosts and such?”
“It is a periodical journal that explores those mysteries that confront us in this world, particularly when it intersects with worlds beyond. Do you understand me?”
�
��I ain’t sure.”
“Then let me put it this way: it’s about ‘ghosts and such.’ The ‘and such’ part being a broad category indeed.”
“I don’t know of ghosts in Wiles, mister.”
“Oh, there may be some. There are often ghosts in places where violent death has occurred. And small Western towns such as this one are known as sites of violent death.”
“Not Wiles. We’re known for nothing much happening.” He paused. “Except…our county sheriff just got killed by a famous outlaw. Scar Nolan. Shot him dead. Marshal’s posse is still out looking for him, far as I know.”
“Any evidence of ghostly activity where your sheriff died?”
“He ain’t even buried yet, mister. I figure a ghost would at least wait for the burying before he stirred himself.”
“Well…no matter. I didn’t come to this town on the hope of stumbling upon some random ghost tale.”
“Why, then?” By the standards of the Kansas frontier, this was an intrusive question, and Jimmy knew it, but he was too curious not to ask.
“I’m on…a trail. The trail of a particular story. This is the place, I think, where I will find it.”
“Well, good luck to you in that, sir. Most times there’s nothing in this town with the least bit of excitement to it.”
“Sometimes a town has its own excitement, and sometimes excitement comes to it.”
“Let me know if you find any problem with your room, Mr. Baum.”
“Thank you, young man.”
Baum hefted his things and started toward the stairs again. But Jimmy said, “Sir, I told you I knew of no ghosts in Wiles. And that’s true, except that there was a meeting here in the last little bit where folks gathered and talked to their dead kin. It was Miss Haus who led it.”
“Really? She is a medium?”
“She says she can talk to spirits of the departed. I saw her doing it…it was my job to collect the admission money at the door.”
“Did she succeed at her task?”
“She seemed like she did. She told a lot of folks a lot of things they seemed to want to hear. About their dead children being in heaven and all. So I guess she must have gotten through to the spirits.”
“There are ways, really quite simple ones, by which such things can be faked. Did you see manifestations? Mists? Smokes? Plasmas? Audible voices coming from nowhere?”
“Nothing like that, no.”
“I see.” Baum pursed his lips and knit his brows. “I see.”
He headed up the stairs, carrying whatever thoughts he had with him in silence.
Jimmy, meanwhile, was glad the subject of Katrina Haus had come up. It reminded him that there was something he needed to give her. Something he’d found on the hotel desk when he arrived for his shift. He put his hand into a drawer and withdrew it.
It was an envelope, sealed with wax, with the name of Katrina Haus on the front of it. He had no idea who had left it.
Jimmy laid the envelope out near the ledger so he would be sure to see it when Katrina next came in. And as luck would have it, she walked into the lobby within the next five minutes, and headed toward the stairs. Baum was long gone by now, locked away up in his room.
“Ma’am,” he said. She turned. He held up the envelope. “Someone left this for you.”
She took the envelope and unsealed it on the spot. Pulling out a folding note card, she opened it and read quickly. Jimmy recognized the monogram on the outside of the card. It was one of the personalized note cards used by banker Howard Ashworth for his informal correspondence.
To Jimmy’s surprise, Katrina brought the card over to him. Covering up much of the writing inside with her hand, she let him see a few words.
“Tell me, Jimmy,” Katrina asked, “does this writing look like Mr. Ashworth’s writing to you?”
He glanced at it and shook his head. “The impression it gives me, ma’am, is of a woman’s hand.”
“I thought the same.” Katrina pulled the card back and frowned at it.
“What is your concern, ma’am?”
Katrina looked up at Jimmy. “I probably shouldn’t…oh, what does it matter? I’m certain you know what I do. For my living, I mean. Other than my communications with the departed.”
“I think I know what you’re referring to, ma’am.”
“Well, then you’ll understand why I find it odd that the wife of a man with whom I’ve…done, well, ‘business’ would write a note requesting me to meet her husband in a private location, and sign her husband’s name to it. That’s what this note is. A request supposedly from Howard Ashworth to meet me in a dark lot near the emporium building. His name is signed, but I’m inclined to believe this was done by his wife.”
“I don’t think you should go, Miss Haus,” Jimmy said. “Maybe she knows you were with him before. Maybe she’s got bad designs. Or, maybe they just want to thank you for putting their dead son in touch with them at your presentation.”
“Maybe so.” She thought about it a few moments and seemed to seize upon the idea. “I’m sure you are right, Jimmy. They simply want to thank me.”
“Or maybe Mr. Ashworth has just got a womanish way of writing,” Jimmy suggested.
“It’s possible.” Katrina laughed musically. “You have been a most helpful young man while I’ve been in this town,” she said. “Before I depart here, I am thinking of, shall we say, rewarding you in a special way.”
Jimmy tried to speak, but his voice had disappeared.
Katrina Haus laughed and went up the stairs to her room. There she looked again at the card bearing Howard Ashworth’s monogram and signature, and marked in her mind the time and place of the requested meeting. It was this same day, the time not very far away.
She listened to a peal of thunder and regretted that the weather was turning bad. She would proceed nonetheless. Maybe the storm would come and go before she met Ashworth in that lot near the emporium.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Percival Raintree stood beside the railroad car that housed Gypsy Nick Anubis’s rolling embalming chamber, and studied the sky. Dark and roiling clouds dominated, and the air felt thick with the threat of rain. The downpour would begin within fifteen minutes, Raintree estimated. As a traveling man usually separated from the natural world only by the thin walls of a railroad car, he’d become proficient at reading the weather, and was seldom wrong in his predictions.
Raintree looked at the shallow ruts left by Anubis’s wagon when he’d left for Wiles earlier. Despite his partner’s assurances, he was still uncertain it was a good idea to actually parade one of their main displays into the heart of town. Sure, it had worked elsewhere, enticing customers who might otherwise have never attended…but it was also a dangerous move, inviting uncomfortable questions from the local law. There were plenty of people out there who just couldn’t shake off the notion that there had to be something wrong, morally, legally, or both, with displaying actual corpses or portions thereof. Never mind that there were museums all across the country and world displaying the mummified remains of ancient Egyptians, South American natives, American Indians, and others. Still, Raintree had been in his line of work long enough to conclude that sometimes it was best simply not to invite controversy in the first place. Come into a locale, hang a few advertising flyers around town, welcome the crowds, and move on quickly to the next stop.
The problem was, it simply wasn’t working as well as it had at the beginning. Some years ago, when Perkins Ironwood, a part-Cherokee member of an acting troupe and habitual collector of oddities, had transformed himself into Percival Raintree, tattooeared showman of unspecified exotic origin and traveling displayer of outlaw relics and even dead outlaws themselves, the process had been simple and efficient. A simple covered wagon, highly decorated, had borne his collection of grim collectibles from town to town, and by help of his posted flyers and word-of-mouth, plenty of viewers had turned out night after night.
Raintree couldn’t account for why it wa
s no longer that way. The decline had started about a year and a half before, inexplicably, and had slowly but steadily worsened since then. Raintree wondered if the world simply was changing, and outlawry was losing its fascination in the public mind. Why would such a thing happen?
By the time of what, in his mind, he called “the change,” he was working with Nicholas Anubis. Not that he held Anubis in any way accountable; in fact, Anubis’s contributions to the show were equally as significant as their improved mode of travel. Gone was traveling by wagon. The wagon, sans its former cover, now was used merely for transport, and by Anubis whenever he made advertising forays into whatever town they happened to be nearby, as he had into the town of Wiles tonight.
Anubis. Raintree had mixed feelings about the man he had drawn in as a subordinate partner. Anubis had been a faithful and supportive associate, yet Raintree felt vaguely threatened by him. The hard truth was that Raintree’s Outlaw Train operation, as it now was, needed Anubis much more than it needed Raintree himself.
It all had to do with Anubis’s specialized skill and knowledge, knowledge he would not possess if not for Raintree. It was Raintree who had conceived the idea of moving beyond typical criminal relics such as guns, items of clothing, and so on, and adding actual bodies and body portions of dead outlaws, if such could be had.
There was an obvious problem, however, in the notion of hauling around corpses for an extended time: decomposition. And so Raintree had begun thinking, then researching, trying to find an answer. In that process he’d discovered he had a propensity for such prowling, information-gathering work; he’d discovered that, in Chicago, a very old man resided who purportedly possessed secrets that had enabled the ancient Egyptians to preserve the dead in a way that lasted for centuries. Raintree meticulously sought that man out, and after careful and delicate blandishments won his friendship. That process was made easier by the fact that the old man, Samuel Zuka, was near his own death and desirous of having his own remains preserved after death by the methods no one but he knew. Because a man could hardly mummify himself, Zuka at length agreed to Raintree’s proposal to teach his art to an appropriate student, on condition that that student mummify and honor Zuka’s corpse after he was gone.
