by Rob DeBorde
“I’m sure we’ll be fine, Mr. Edmonds. This city has been through a great many floods in its short existence.” Kate motioned to the raised walkways and flood barriers built up around them. “As you can see, we know how to handle a little unwanted water.”
“But what if it’s not a little? What if it’s a lot of water all at once? What if the flood level rises three feet in an hour? Every business in the downtown area that is currently protected will be under water. The current scaffold-sidewalk system could collapse. If the storm comes on as suddenly as I suspect it will, there could be several thousand people caught downtown in rising floodwaters.”
“Six,” Kate said. “The mayor’s office is hoping for at least six thousand people at tonight’s opening ceremonies, more if it rains.”
Edmonds sat back in his chair as the enormity of what he was predicting struck him. If his predictions were right—and he had no reason to believe they weren’t—it was going get ugly.
“I should speak to the mayor.”
“Maybe you should,” Kate said, knowing the young man’s pronouncement of excessive rain would be greeted by cheers at city hall. “While you’re at it, why not pass along your information to the fire department. They’ve got one of their water cannons on the other side of the stage. If there’s any rescuing that needs to be done, they’ve got the biggest boats capable of navigating the city streets.”
“Good idea,” Edmonds said and began gathering up his latest maps and calculations. He took a long look at his collection of weather paraphernalia, unsure whether to pack it up or trust that no one else would find it of any value.
“Would you like us to watch over your equipment while you’re gone, Mr. Edmonds?”
“That would be wonderful. I won’t be long.” Edmonds snatched one last chart and then took off down the boardwalk. He got to the corner before turning around and coming straight back.
“Do you happen to know the current location of the mayor?”
“I do,” said Kate.
* * *
“Seems a mite agitated, doesn’t he?” said Ollie.
Kate turned toward the conversation across the room. While certainly there was no argument, both the mayor’s and his weatherman’s voices had been raised at times.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Kate said, turning her attention back to the main attraction in the room: the placement of the storm totem atop a small stage in the center of the Corbett Hotel’s two-story ballroom. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows faced the main square, making the large room ideal for additional festival activities and for refuge should the weather prove inclement. Kate couldn’t help but wonder if the mayor had informed the hotel’s owners of his plans to bring the weather indoors. She suspected that fact might have been excluded from the arrangements.
“I’d say he seems very excited,” Ollie said. “And it’s been my observation that Mr. Edmonds is quite unflappable on most matters. The only time I recall him raising his voice was with regards to the weather.”
Kate was not surprised.
A few minutes later, the mayor escorted Edmonds to the door and then rejoined Kate and Ollie.
“Everything all right?” Ollie asked.
“Better than all right, my friend. Mr. Edmonds claims it’s going to rain buckets tonight. An epic flood, by his estimation.”
“Oh, dear. And you’re happy about this, Jim?”
The mayor beamed. “Delighted.”
Ollie raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.
“It seems our Rain Festival is going to live up to its name and then some. Good thing, too. I was loath to spend the weekend explaining away the sunshine.”
“It can be a nuisance,” Kate said without a hint of irony.
“Yes,” said the mayor. “It’s unnatural. We’ve had so much this year it’s a wonder the land doesn’t burst into flames.”
Ollie chuckled. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Quite,” said the mayor.
Kate turned to the storm totem.
“What do you think of your star attraction?” she asked.
The mayor studied the totem pole, looking at it from the left and then the right. Several times he glanced out the front windows as if judging the view from the downtown square. Finally, he nodded to himself. He’d made his decision, which he announced to all:
“Take it outside.”
A few of the festival workers groaned, having spent the morning getting the totem in the perfect position. Kate shared a glance with Ollie.
“Outside? Are you sure? Joseph said it would work better inside.”
“Mayor’s prerogative, my dear. The weatherman says it’s going to rain, but what if it’s only a sprinkle? No reason not to up the odds.”
“But if a storm comes in, it might make things worse,” Kate said, letting some of the unease she felt slip into her voice. “It could get pretty wet.”
“Mrs. Wylde, you sound positively Californian!”
Kate could have slapped him. Instead, she smiled and decided to hold her comments for the first reporter to ask her whose idea it had been to drown the voting public.
“All right, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I have a store to open for business.”
“Pleasure to see you again, madam,” said Ollie, tipping his hat.
Kate nodded and headed for the exit, the mayor slipping along beside her.
“Now, when can I expect your man tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“I’ll need him by my side, of course. He’s my expert in all things heathen.”
“Of course. I believe he’s due back late this afternoon.”
“Perfect. Send him along no later than six o’clock. And be sure he brings that father of yours.”
Kate reached the main entrance to the hall and stopped.
“I thought the marshal was part of tomorrow evening’s grand entertainment.”
“He is, but I’d like him at the opening ceremony, as well. I thought we might offer a preview of upcoming events. It’s never too early to stir up some excitement.”
“I suppose not,” Kate said, wondering how much the mayor’s decision was based on recent events. Along with a festival preview, the latest edition of the Portlandian had a lengthy follow-up story about the violence in Tillamook, along with a report of the attacks in Astoria. The Hanged Man’s name had appeared in both articles, suggesting a link between the two incidents. The story made clear that it was not the infamous villain himself but rather an unknown agent hoping to take advantage of the dead man’s reputation. There was, however, substantial information about the Hanged Man, including the circumstances of his demise at the hands of Marshal James Kleberg. The paper was kind enough to point out that the marshal would be appearing at the festival.
Kate smiled. “I’ll let him know about tonight.”
“Actually, I’d speak to him prior to the show, if I may. We have details to discuss.”
* * *
Six blocks south, the marshal arrived at the store and found the front door locked. He was late, but apparently he was not the only one. Kate had offered him a key, but he’d turned her down, afraid he’d lose it. No matter; he would wait.
The marshal walked to the edge of the wooden sidewalk. A makeshift rail had been added since his visit a few days earlier, which he tested before leaning against it with his full weight. The intersection at Third Street was more crowded than it had any right to be, given that there was still no actual street. The floodwaters had receded, although not enough to discourage local water traffic. Numerous small boats and rafts were tied up along Alder on both sides of the road, three deep in some places.
Despite the continued sunny weather, the marshal had chosen his favorite riding coat for the day. It wasn’t a particularly effective defense against the elements, hot or cold, but it was long—long enough to cover the weapon holstered on his hip.
The Hanged Man’s gun was heavy but not uncomfortably so. It belonged there. It
felt right. Kate would surely balk at his wearing it in public, but the marshal needed to get used to the gun if he was going to be shooting in front of an audience.
And perhaps his daughter didn’t need to know.
When the show was over, the festival done, he would pack it away. He would dismantle it. He would destroy it. He’d promised. No matter how good it felt on his hip … or in his hands.
The marshal considered sliding his right hand inside his coat to feel the butt of the gun, but it was already there. It felt good.
Thus distracted, he missed the scruffy young man’s arrival and subsequent attempt to gain entrance to the bookstore. Failing, the man saw the marshal and approached him.
“Hey, you work here?”
The marshal slowly withdrew his hand from beneath his coat and turned to his questioner.
“Excuse me?”
“The bookstore—you the owner?”
“Not me,” he stuttered. “Family owns it, my daughter and her husband. I’m just here for special negotiations.”
“Oh,” said the courier, not fully understanding, or caring. “I got this telegram needs signin’ for, and this was the address they gave me. Addressed to … Kate Wylde.”
“That’s my daughter.”
“You can sign for it then,” the young man said, passing over a register and a pen. “Right on the dotted line.”
The marshal hesitated but then went ahead and made his mark. The courier glanced at the signature, then handed over a folded sheet of paper.
“Good day, sir. Enjoy the festival.”
The marshal watched the man slip between a pair of pedestrians and then dart over a scaffold walkway to the other side of the street. Once the man was out of sight, he unfolded the telegram and read the words printed on it.
And then he read them again.
He was still staring at the message several minutes later, when Kate arrived.
“Sorry I’m late, Dad. I ran into the mayor.”
Kate unlocked the front door and pushed it open, but the marshal had yet to join her. He remained standing at the sidewalk’s edge, his attention elsewhere.
Kate took a step toward him. “Did someone send you a telegram?”
The marshal looked at the paper in his hand and said, “From home.”
“Astoria? Is it from Joseph?”
“Well-wishers,” the marshal said quickly. “News of my festival appearance has reached the ears of my neighbors. Seems I’m a celebrity.”
The marshal tucked the telegram into a pocket and walked past Kate into the store.
“The preparations went well, then?”
“Yes, fine,” Kate said, following him inside. “Rain or shine it should be quite a show tonight, which apparently you are to be a part of.”
“Tonight?”
“It was news to me, as well. The mayor plans to speak to you about it.”
The marshal stepped behind one of the half-height bookcases. He wasn’t looking for a book but rather cover as he slipped a hand into his jacket. He saw no reason to alert his daughter to what lay under his coat. She might try to take it away. The marshal could not have that.
“What about Joseph?” he asked.
“The mayor wants to see him, too. He has big plans for you both.”
The marshal said nothing. For a moment, all he heard was the sound of skin tightening around polished wood and metal locking into place. There was no mistaking what it was.
“Marshal?”
The marshal looked at Kate, letting go of the pistol beneath his coat, unsure even why he’d been gripping it so tightly.
“What is it, Katie?”
Kate glanced down, catching a glimpse of something shiny beneath her father’s coat.
The marshal saw the recognition in her eyes and moved swiftly to the front door.
“Takin’ a walk,” he said and left before she could stop him.
* * *
By the late afternoon, a slow-moving avalanche of billowing white plumes began rolling over the western hills. The long reign of the sun was nearly over in Portland and every citizen knew it. It would be a few hours before the sky truly opened up, but the rain would come. There was no stopping it now.
The approaching storm was good news for the festival, which was officially open for business. The crowds around the plaza continued to swell as out-of-towners poured into the city. Every berth along the downtown waterfront was occupied by steamer, ferry, or other river-borne transport. Travelers streamed from the boats, delighted to find their time on the water would continue as they transferred from riverboat to water taxi for their first journey around town.
The roads leading into Portland were likewise congested, notably from the south and west. For those catching their first glimpse of the city from atop the western slope, the view was particularly spectacular. All of the city could be seen, as could ten miles of the Willamette River, most of the surrounding valley, and, for a few hours more, the three great mountains, Hood, Adams, and St. Helens.
Henry Macke had never seen such a thing. His only previous trip to the city had been when he was too young to remember, and since then he’d rarely traveled outside county limits. Portland, spread out across a vast landscape with enormous volcanoes reaching into the sky beyond, was truly a remarkable sight to see.
“I didn’t know they made cities so big.”
The Hanged Man brought his steed in line with the younger man’s, much to the displeasure of Henry’s horse.
“You should see one burn.”
Henry grimaced at the Hanged Man’s voice. Neither had spoken for two hours, which was almost enough time for Henry to forget that his riding partner was a monster. Almost.
Henry glanced over his shoulder at the approaching clouds.
“Looks like rain. Hard to start a fire if everything’s wet.”
The Hanged Man eyed Henry.
“You’d be surprised.”
Henry felt his stomach churn and twist. His horse must have sensed its rider’s discomfort and trotted forward without command. Henry didn’t correct the animal.
The path cut down the hillside a short distance to a wider road already clogged with traffic. Henry was surprised there were so many travelers. On this road, as well as several others visible from the hill, he could see hundreds of riders, carts, and pedestrians all moving toward the center of the city.
Henry waved to a man on horseback as he passed by.
“Where’s everyone going?”
“Festival,” said the rider, not slowing down. Sensing Henry’s confusion, he stopped and drew his horse back to Henry. “You know, the Rain Festival?”
Henry shook his head.
“They do it every year. Big party downtown—lots of folks, drinkin’ in the rain. It’s great fun.”
“Getting wet is fun?”
“Sure, why not?”
It was then that the Hanged Man came down the hill. He didn’t join Henry but stopped ten feet behind. It was close enough for the rider and his mount to take notice.
“Everyone’s invited,” he said, immediately wishing he hadn’t. His horse bucked and whinnied. “Whoa, now! Settle down.” The rider pulled his horse around and let the animal carry him back into the flow of traffic. He glanced back at Henry and the dark figure but didn’t say another word.
Henry didn’t look around. He didn’t have to. He turned his horse and climbed back up the hill until he was once more at the Hanged Man’s side.
“There’s some kind of festival. Looks like a big crowd. I don’t see how we can make a play for the old man with so many people around.”
The Hanged Man ignored Henry and instead turned his head to the south.
Henry followed the dead man’s gaze to a hillside cemetery on the edge of town. The knot in his gut grew tighter.
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll have to wait until dark with so many people about. And then what? More digging?”
The Hanged Man closed his eyes and brea
thed in the air—or at least appeared to. Whatever it was, it seemed to please him. Henry doubted he’d feel the same but asked the question anyway.
“What is it?”
“Death,” said the Hanged Man, pointing at a large building on the hill just beyond the cemetery. The dead man then pulled his beast to the right and directed it off through the hillside brush. He crossed the road shortly after, eliciting a wide berth from the other travelers.
Henry felt his own horse lean in the opposite direction—a course he was very tempted to follow. It would be so simple. Ride down the road, blend in with the crowd, and disappear.
(find you)
He’d go to the authorities, then. Tell someone who’d believe enough of the story to take up arms against the dead man. He wouldn’t last against so many men. He couldn’t.
(he would)
Henry sighed. He’d already lost the argument a hundred times since leaving Tillamook. Nothing was going to change. There was only one voice that mattered now, and it told Henry to follow his master. It told him everything would be all right.
The pain in his belly subsided and Henry hoped, as always, that it wouldn’t return. He turned his horse against its will and directed it to follow the path laid down by the Hanged Man. The cemetery loomed directly ahead. Henry began to prepare himself for the digging that would surely come soon.
It never occurred to him there might be something worse.
23
At five minutes to seven, the first report of thunder rumbled overhead, earning a cheer from the assembled masses. The crowd at Foundling Square had swelled to nearly four thousand, less than what festival organizers had hoped for but still the largest turnout ever for opening night. Many stood on the large raised platform built over the center of the festival square, with the rest lining the boardwalks, rooftops, and boat docks surrounding the plaza. A few had brought waders so they could stand in the water, which was now below the knees of most patrons.
Mayor Gates climbed onto a raised stage at one end of the platform to respectable applause. A seven-piece band played a slightly off-key version of “Hail to the Chief” until the mayor finished glad-handing those closest to him.
“Welcome to the Portlandtown!” he said, his voice projected throughout the plaza by a two-foot-long megaphone. “I officially declare the Rain Festival of 1887 open for business!”
