by Sharon Pape
Rory studied the papers in her hand. They were all photocopies of original documents held by the Marshals Service. Two of the sheets contained the statements given by Winston Samuels and his daughter Claire. These provided essentially the same information as the newspaper article Rory had found from that time. There was also a sketch of a man with a caption that read “John Trask, aka John Corbin” and a letter stating that Ezekiel Drummond’s personal effects, i.e., his badge and billfold, had been returned to the U.S. Marshals Service in the Arizona Territory to be disposed of as they saw fit.
The final sheet of paper showed a picture of what appeared to be a ticket, the ornate printing on it badly faded and difficult to read. Dislodging her feet from beneath Hobo’s rump, she went to the kitchen drawer where she kept a miscellaneous pile of items. After a minute of rummaging through it, she came away with a small magnifying glass.
The ticket was from the Pennsylvania Railroad. It had been purchased for travel from Philadelphia to Jersey City and was stamped with the date, September fifth, 1878. Beneath the image, someone in the Marshals office had written, “recovered from the parlor of the Samuels residence September sixth, 1878.” Since the ticket didn’t bear the passenger’s name, its usefulness pretty much ended right there. She couldn’t go back and interview the ticket agent who had sold it, unless she wanted to hold a séance. Her only hope was that seeing the image might stir up some memories for the marshal.
When she looked at the clock she realized that half the afternoon had slipped away between grocery shopping and dealing with Zeke. She only had a few minutes left before her appointment with Joanne Lester. With any luck Holbrook’s accountant would have a promising lead for them.
Hobo was still sleeping soundly, and Rory decided not to wake him. He’d be fine alone in the house while she commuted to her office in the backyard.
Joanne Lester arrived ten minutes late, full of apologies. She was a pale, fragile-looking young woman, several inches shorter than Rory, who’d always considered herself short at five-four. Joanne’s brown hair fell straight and blunt to her shoulders as if it had been cut with a hedge trimmer instead of a hairdresser’s scissors. Parted on the left, it draped over the right side of her face, partially covering her right eye, like a curtain behind which she could hide from the world.
“Okay, Joanne, how can I help you?” Rory asked once her visitor was seated on the couch.
“Actually I think I may be able to help you,” Joanne said in a politely measured voice that was so soft Rory found herself leaning forward to hear her.
“Well, you certainly have my attention.” She smiled, hoping to put the accountant at ease.
Joanne smiled back, then quickly looked down at her hands as if she’d crossed some invisible line in interpersonal relationships. “Sorry,” she said without looking up. “I’m not very good with people.”
Rory cast about for an appropriate remark that didn’t sound condescending or inane and came up empty. In the end she decided to simply skip over it and get on with the conversation. “How did you know I was investigating the dognappings?”
“I overheard some of the staff talking about it after you brought Hobo in,” Joanne replied, looking up again, but fixing her eyes on the computer monitor to Rory’s right. “Not that I eavesdropped,” she added. “I would never do that.”
“I understand,” Rory said when Joanne didn’t immediately pick up her narrative.
“Right. Sorry. I lost my place. Anyway, I thought to myself, ‘Joanne, you really ought to go see this woman and tell her what you know.’ ” She risked an oblique glance at Rory, then looked away again.
“I’m glad to have any information that might help me solve a case,” Rory encouraged her, thinking that Joanne had probably picked the perfect career, given her issues. She worked with numbers in an office populated with more animals than people.
Joanne stopped and took a deep breath as if she were summoning up the courage to dive into cold water. “I think Dr. Holbrook might be stealing the dogs.” The words gushed out of her as she exhaled, and her whole body went a little limp, as if she’d been rigid with the effort of keeping the accusation tamped down inside.
Rory sat back in her chair, feeling like the air had escaped her as well. It was definitely not the sort of remark she’d expected to hear. She had no doubt that Joanne believed what she was saying. She was clearly not the type to seek out a conversation with a total stranger unless her conscience was making it hard for her to sleep at night. Even so, in all fairness to Stanley Holbrook, a person who lived as insular a life as Joanne probably did couldn’t necessarily be counted upon to be a good judge of others.
“I’m sure you have strong reasons to believe that,” Rory said, wondering if one of those reasons might be the list that Holbrook hadn’t wanted her to see.
“It just makes sense,” the accountant said, her voice a bit more confident now that she’d unloaded the burden of her suspicions.
“I’m listening.”
She cleared her throat as if she were about to address a gathering. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”
“That’s okay, go on.”
“Well, I’ve been taking care of Dr. Holbrook’s finances, personal as well as business, for almost five years now. He has an expensive lifestyle. Up until two years ago that wasn’t a problem. His income supported it. But he got divorced at that time, and between child support and alimony for his ex-wife while she went back to school, his practice just wasn’t covering the bills anymore. I know he tried to cut back, but I guess that’s not so easy to do when you’re used to the finer things. I’m sorry,” she interrupted herself, “I know that must sound like I’m trying to make excuses for him, but really I’m not. I just want you to get the whole picture.”
Rory nodded.
“Then about five months ago the money problems disappeared. I didn’t see any upswing in revenue from the practice, and Dr. Holbrook never explained how there was suddenly enough money in his bank account for everything again. So I was trying to figure out where he was getting the extra money. That’s when I realized that he’s in a perfect position to steal dogs. You’d be amazed by how many dogs come through that office.”
Rory remembered thinking the same thing during Hobo’s visit there, but she refrained from commenting, because it sounded like Joanne had memorized her little speech and might have to start at the beginning again if she lost the thread of her narrative.
“Now, I’m not saying he’s doing this all on his own. I think maybe he’s just selling the information to the real thieves. They probably pay him in cash so he doesn’t have to declare the extra income or explain where it came from.” She looked at Rory again, as if trying to assess her reaction, and this time she managed to maintain eye contact for a moment before dropping her gaze to her clasped hands.
“Have you ever seen a list with the names of Holbrook’s clients, their pets and phone numbers?” Rory asked.
Joanne shook her head, but continued to stare at her hands as if she were afraid they might do something awful if she wasn’t vigilant.
“I saw a list like that when I was in his office,” Rory explained, “and there was a letter notation next to each of the names—either a ‘T’ or an ‘M.’ Any idea what that might mean?”
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Rory assured her that she’d already been very helpful. She rose from her chair and held out her hand to say good-bye, hoping it didn’t seem too abrupt. But if she heard Joanne apologize once more, she might just have to wash her mouth out with soap.
Joanne stood and shook her hand. “You won’t . . . I mean you’ll keep what I told you in confidence, right?” she asked, looking deeply worried, as if it had only now occurred to her that Rory might not be bound by the same ethics as a doctor, lawyer or priest. “I can’t afford to lose my job. I only wanted to do the right thing, you know. . . .”
“Discretion is my watchword,” Rory
assured her. Of course if Holbrook was involved in the dog thefts, he’d probably lose his veterinary license along with his need for Joanne’s services, a possibility the accountant didn’t seem to have considered. But there wasn’t much Rory could do about her suspicions anyway, without some actual evidence. If Holbrook was guilty, he’d no doubt fed the list she’d seen to a shredder the moment she’d left his office that day.
“Welcome back,” Rory said. She’d been sitting on the couch in the living room reading the newspaper, with Hobo beside her chewing on a stuffed toy, when the lights flickered and Zeke appeared in the chair kitty-corner to them. Hobo immediately dropped the toy and tucked his big head into the protective curve of Rory’s arm, like a furry, four-legged ostrich.
“Glad to be back.” Zeke grinned, a slash of dimples bracketing his mouth like exclamation marks. He appeared refreshed, even jaunty. And if he’d thought of any sarcastic remarks to make about Hobo’s hiding skills, he courteously chose not to voice them. Rest was apparently as good for a ghost as it was for folks still hooked up to flesh and bone.
“I have something to show you,” Rory said. With her free hand she reached for the manila envelope she’d left on the glass cocktail table, away from the threat of kitchen spills and stains. She shook the envelope until all the pages slid out, then picked up the sheet with the image of the railroad ticket and held it up for him to see. “Does this look familiar?”
Since Rory was still seated with the cowering Hobo for an anchor, Zeke stood up and came closer to get a better look at it. His eyebrows arched in surprise. “It surely does,” he said, straightening to his full height. “That’s a Pennsylvania Railroad ticket to Jersey City, New Jersey. Back in my day the train didn’t take you all the way into Manhattan, it being an island and all. You had to take a boat for the last part. Where ever did you come by that?”
“The U.S. Marshals Service. It was one of the only pieces of hard evidence they had from the day you were killed.”
“I’m impressed, Aurora.”
In the spirit of good sportsmanship, Rory didn’t chastise him for using her given name. “I want you to know that before Mac died he’d also been tracking this down.”
“I thank you for that,” Zeke said, his smile ebbing into a gentle sadness. “I never did lose faith in his efforts to help me.”
Rory wanted to ask him why he’d been giving her such a rough time about it then, but she snatched the words back before they could pass through her lips.
“Wait a second,” Zeke said, hunkering down and frowning at the image of the ticket. “That’s not my ticket.”
“Are you sure?”
“Damn sure. Look at the date it was purchased.”
Rory had seen the date, but it hadn’t raised any questions in her mind. She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Well, I boarded the train for Jersey City on September the fourth. This ticket’s dated the fifth. And Trask was workin’ out here in Huntington for near on a month by then, so the ticket can’t be his, neither.”
“It belonged to the man who killed you,” Rory murmured, the words no more than a whisper. Although she already knew that Zeke had died in this house, in this very room, she was suddenly swamped by the image of his dying moments, moments that had played out within inches of where she sat. A tremor flashed up her spine and spun out through her limbs, making her grateful she was still seated.
Neither of them spoke for a couple of minutes, Zeke as lost in his thoughts as she was in hers. Hobo finally broke the silence with a whimper of confusion. Rory ran her hand down his back to soothe him, but he wasn’t buying it. The whimper grew into a round of anxious, high-pitched barking right next to her ear.
“This here ticket’s the first link I’ve had to the coward who shot me,” Zeke said, for once oblivious to the racket the dog was making.
Rory hushed Hobo back to a whimper. “The only trouble is that it might be the last link too. If that’s all the U.S. Marshals Service could find back when the trail was fresh, I don’t see how I can possibly come up with anything else.”
“You didn’t think you’d find this, until you found it,” Zeke reminded her, undaunted by her pessimism.
Since there was nothing to be gained by belaboring the point, she decided to put the subject aside. “Have you got your traveling shoes on?” she asked him instead. The day was winding down and she had a promise to keep.
“I don’t believe I have travelin’ shoes,” Zeke said with some concern. “I’ve always been partial to boots.”
“Boots will do just fine,” Rory assured him. “I’m going out to the backyard. Care to join me?”
1878
New Mexico Territory
Drummond left Las Cruces barely two hours after he arrived there. He’d only lingered that long to give his horse a chance to rest and dine on fresh oats and hay. Part of that time the marshal spent wolfing down a meal of beefsteak, rice and beans at a narrow restaurant that looked as if it had been compressed over the years between the larger boardinghouse and general store that were its neighbors. After he’d eaten, Drummond made his way through the town, stopping to show Trask’s picture to shopkeepers and people he passed on the dusty wooden sidewalks. Several of Las Cruces’ citizens claimed to have seen the fugitive, but hadn’t taken notice of which way he’d been heading when he rode out two days earlier. Drummond had the distinct feeling that some of them knew more than they were willing to let on, either due to an imagined fear of reprisal or a very specific threat of one. A young mother herding her two children home from school remarked that she’d been relieved to see him go.
“I’m a God-fearing woman, Marshal, and I don’t like to talk ill of folks, but I believe I saw Lucifer himself staring out of that man’s eyes.” Her shoulders jerked with an involuntary shudder as if she’d intuited the horror that her family had mercifully escaped.
“You didn’t happen to notice where he was headed, did you, ma’am?” Drummond asked.
“No, but I daresay no matter where he was headed, he’s bound for the fires of Hell.”
“I saw, I saw,” the little girl chirped up, proud to be of help. “He went that way.” She pointed north, up the road that led to Albuquerque. She couldn’t have been more than six years old, with sunny blond hair and wide, guileless eyes. Looking at her, Drummond was struck by the random nature of tragedy. This child had crossed Trask’s path and been left unscathed, but if he didn’t stop Trask soon, there was another child somewhere who would not be as lucky. As soon as he restocked his saddlebags with provisions for himself and oats for his horse, he was back on the fugitive’s trail.
The road to Albuquerque was well-worn and for the most part provided easy footing for the chestnut. As much as Drummond yearned to run the horse flat out and eat up the miles between him and Trask, he knew there was nothing to be gained that way. The horse had a loyal and willing nature and would no doubt try to accommodate him. But in the end, the animal would only wind up dropping in his tracks, leaving the marshal to finish his journey on foot. So he set a reasonable pace, stopping often to rest and water the horse while he did the best he could to still the demons that gnawed at his heart and haunted his dreams.
He was still several hours from Albuquerque, riding in the shade of the Manzano Mountains, when the bullet slammed into his left shoulder, knocking him backward like a fist and nearly unseating him. He was so stunned by the assault that he didn’t immediately feel any pain, a blessing as he struggled to keep the terrified horse from rearing and throwing him. Once he’d regained control, Drummond slid down from the saddle, pulling his Winchester free of the scabbard that held it. By his best estimate, the shot had come from the high ground where the slopes of the Manzano Mountains rose to the east. Crouched low and holding tight to the reins, he made for the only source of cover in the area, an old barn half burned to the ground. Before he could reach it, another bullet whistled by, digging into the ground near the chestnut’s front hoo
ves. Eyes wild and nostrils flared, the horse reared, then bolted, tearing the reins out of Drummond’s hand and racing off to some imagined refuge.
By the time the marshal reached the barn the pain had laid claim to him. It blazed through his chest, a red-hot branding iron that knocked him to his knees and forced up the remains of the hardtack and peaches he’d eaten for lunch. The pain crashed over him in waves, a relentless tide ebbing and flowing, and in the troughs a gentle darkness crept around the edges of his mind, calling to him, wooing him with the promise of a long and painless sleep. He fought off the darkness and forced his mind back to the business of survival.
There hadn’t been another shot, which most likely meant that the gunman had left his position and was coming down to see if the job needed finishing. Drummond could only wait. Wait and hope that he was still conscious when the man reached him. Was it someone he would recognize? His mind sifted through the possibilities. An old enemy with a score to settle? Possibly a bandit. A lone Apache marauder? Not likely. Or had Trask heard that he was on his trail and circled back to set up the ambush? No matter. He needed to make a decision. After considering his limited options, he settled on playing possum. It was a dangerous game, one that could easily end with his death, but in his present state he stood little chance of overwhelming his attacker without some element of surprise.
He placed his rifle within arm’s reach, where it might logically have fallen at the moment he’d succumbed to his wound, and drew the pistol from his holster. Thankfully he’d been hit on the left side so he still had reasonable use of his right arm. He lowered himself as gently as he could onto the hard-packed earth. Even so, all the moving and jostling spiked the pain beyond endurance. He clenched his jaw against the scream that was clawing its way up his throat, but he couldn’t shut out the siren song that promised sweet oblivion. If the gunman walked in before he was properly settled, it would be over. Curiously that thought was no longer cobbled with fear. In a strangely removed state of calm, he tucked the pistol into the lee of his body where it would not be immediately visible and he set about the difficult business of waiting.
