by Max McCoy
Calder rubbed his eyes. “These aren’t the Indians that killed Sarah and Johnnie?”
“No, Jack. Fight the hate.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m all right now.”
“You’re sure?”
He nodded. “What now?” Calder asked. “How do you kill a demon?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “But I’d better figure it out soon, because I’m going back down there. Lead doesn’t work, so we have to try something else—after we get the boy out.”
“You can’t.”
“I must,” I said.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We walked down the steps, following the trail of whiskey that had leaked from the barrels. It had pooled at the bottom, and rivulets were spreading across the stone floor.
Malleus was on his throne, the frightened boy on his lap.
I stopped twenty feet away, on the near side of the fire pit, and placed a hand on Calder’s forearm.
“No closer,” I said. “Don’t get near the demon’s hands.”
“Enough!” Malleus said. “I am nothing if not a businessman, and it is time to strike a bargain. I’ll let the boy go in exchange for you, Ophelia Wylde.”
“Not on your life,” Calder said.
A finger of whiskey inched across the floor toward the throne. Malleus made an ugly sound and moved away, dragging the boy with him. His yellow eyes kept glancing down at the whiskey.
“Bothered by something?” I asked.
“You for the boy,” Malleus said. “Quick, quick!”
He was sidling around toward us.
I stepped across one of the rivulets of whiskey and pulled Calder across with me. Malleus stopped.
“What are you afraid of?” I asked.
“Trade!” he said, and squeezed the boy until he cried out in pain.
I knelt down, dipped my fingers in the growing puddle, and smelled it.
“Whoa,” I said. “It’s not like the bourbon my father drank, but it must be at least eighty proof. Is that what you’re afraid of, the alcohol?”
Malleus said nothing.
“Give us the boy,” I said.
I stepped forward, following the streams of whiskey.
Malleus backed away.
There was a puddle of whiskey in the depression near the fire pit, and I knelt and cupped some in my right hand. Then I stood and flung the stuff at Malleus. He cried out, his hands going up to protect his face. Drops of whiskey sizzled and burned where they landed on his skin.
“Run!” I cried, but the boy was already in motion.
Malleus ran after him, but the boy jumped over a wet patch in the floor and landed in Calder’s arms. Malleus stopped on the other side of the whiskey like he’d hit a stone wall.
I flung more whiskey at Malleus while Calder ran up the steps with the boy. Then I got a double handful from the puddle and flung it at him.
Then I ran as well.
“No,” Malleus called. “Mercy! I will grant you anything. . . .”
At the top, the boy was already in his mother’s arms. Calder was rolling a barrel over, and as soon as I was clear, he kicked it down the steps. We could hear it bound and skip down and then crash open on the floor. Then the flood of whiskey must have hit the fire pit, because there was a whoosh followed by a great blue flash and waves of heat.
“More,” I said.
We both wrestled barrels over and let them roll down the steps.
“Please,” Malleus cried. “The world is yours for the asking!”
Now the Indian woman and the boy were helping to roll barrels over and letting them tumble down the steps, adding to the conflagration. Flames belched up from the steps and twisted toward the sky.
Malleus began to beg in Enigma.
“What language is that?” Calder asked.
“Nobody alive knows,” I said.
Now Malleus was screaming in Enigma.
Three more barrels and we had used up all the whiskey, except for the full bottles, which the woman and the child were tossing into the flames. Then there was a furious popping, like firecrackers going off, and there shot from the flames rays of glittering color: red and brown and green and blue. The colors rocketed over our heads and shot into the sky.
“Was that him?” Calder asked.
“The auras,” I said. “They’ll find their owners . . . eventually.”
“What about the ones he dropped?”
We found the five others on the gravel and threw them down the steps into the blaze. We watched as they shot over our heads in streaks of red and orange and yellow.
Then the earth trembled and Calder pulled me back. There was a great cracking sound and the bluff face collapsed, sealing inside whatever was left of Malleus.
The dust from the collapse rolled toward us, like a fog.
I stood a moment, shaking.
Then Eddie flapped down, wheeled around us once, and landed on the seat of the wagon. He still had my aura in his beak. I walked over to him and he jumped up on my shoulder. I held out my right hand and he dropped the aura in my palm.
I stared at the swirling colors.
“That’s you?” Calder asked.
“That’s me,” I said.
Then the aura began to shine even more brilliantly—and melted into my palm. It coursed down my arm and into my chest, where it made a tight, warm glow beneath my heart.
34
Calder dug a grave and buried what was left of Castor Adams, but he left the remains of Katie Bender for the crows. We found my Arabian and Calder’s bay and hitched them to the wagon. We put Vanderslice in the back of the buckboard, his hands still cuffed, and asked his Comanche wife and child if they wanted to return with us to Dodge City. The woman shook her head, took the child by the hand, and began walking down the creek to the west.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Calder said. “But anywhere has to be better than here.”
Three days later, we crossed the wooden toll bridge over the Arkansas River and drove up Bridge Street. Calder pulled the buckboard to a stop in front of the city offices, where Tom the Jailer was sitting outside, his chair tipped back and his red-flecked boots propped on a rain barrel. He was drinking coffee from an enameled tin cup.
“What do you have there?” Tom called.
“The murderer Vanderslice,” Calder said. “We arrested him on a federal warrant for peddling whiskey in the territory, but I expect that Judge Grout will want him held for the murder of the girl found on the meridian marker.”
“Thunder,” Tom said, pitching the coffee and rising from the chair. “You must have caught him not far out of town. Give him to me. I’ve got just the place for him.”
Vanderslice had gone insane in the middle of No Man’s Land. He was babbling about demons and wolves as Tom helped him down from the rear of the wagon. Then he began to describe how the weremen had eaten up Katie Bender after Calder shot her.
“What’s he talking about?” Tom asked.
“Damned if I know,” Calder said.
“What day is today?” I asked.
“Monday,” Tom said.
“We’ve been gone a whole week,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Tom asked. “You were here yesterday morning, when Doc McCarty ordered the Russian girl dug up from Boot Hill. I loaned you some clothes, remember?”
Calder and I exchanged puzzled looks.
“It’s the twenty-first, right?” Calder asked.
“You’re a week off.” Tom laughed. “Today’s the fourteenth.”
Calder turned to me.
“But how is that possible?” he asked.
“You two are sure acting strange,” Tom said. “Are you sure you didn’t catch some crazy from the whiskey trader?”
“It seems like a whole week has passed,” I said. “That’s what Jack means.”
“All righty,” Tom said, shaking his head.
“What time is
it?” I asked.
“Well, the westbound train has just pulled into the depot,” Tom said. “That means it must be a quarter to nine, give or take.”
“The hearing,” Calder said. “Let’s hope the train is early.”
“Where can I find a dress?” I asked.
I bought a dress—a white dress—at Rath’s mercantile, and ducked in the back of the store to pull it on. When I emerged, and Calder expressed his approval, I told him not to get used to it. While I rushed to the courthouse, Calder went to find Doc McCarty and tell him about the capture of Vanderslice.
In the courtroom, I found Potete already at the defense table. On the other side, Sutton was talking in low tones with a white-haired gentleman.
Judge Grout was on the bench, with his pocket watch out.
“I’m glad you could join us, Miss Wylde,” Grout said, snapping the watch shut. “It is now eight fifty-nine. You had exactly one minute to spare.”
“I apologize, Your Honor.”
I took my seat next to Potete.
Calder took a bench in the back.
Then Grout told Sutton to get on with it.
“A moment, Your Honor,” Sutton said, and turned back to the white-haired man. The man was looking over at me, and he and Sutton exchanged some furious whispers.
“I told you to get on with it,” Grout said. “I won’t ask again.”
Sutton nodded and then made a show of straightening the papers on his side of the desk. Next he cleared his throat and announced that the state was dropping the charges.
“What?” Grout asked.
“The state is dropping the complaint,” Sutton said, then coughed. “We move for dismissal.”
“Why?” Grout demanded.
“Insufficient evidence,” Sutton said.
“All right, drop the lawyering,” Grout said, shaking the handle of the gavel at Sutton. “Just tell me straight what is going on here. Who’s that gentleman with you?”
“Your Honor, I’m Colonel Alexander York,” the man said, standing, and he suddenly seemed imposing. Even though he had white hair, he wasn’t that old—forty or forty-five, perhaps. “I’m a member of the Grand Army of the Republic and a former state senator from Independence. I was summoned here by an urgent telegram from the county attorney to identify the fugitive murderess, Katie Bender.”
Sutton was looking down at the desk.
“You are in a position to do so?” Grout asked.
“I met the woman in 1874 while searching for my late brother, Dr. William York, who disappeared on the Osage Trail—may he rest in peace.”
“Go on.”
“This woman is not Kate Bender.”
Grout crossed his arms.
“But you have to admit,” Sutton said, “that she bears a striking resemblance.”
“I’ll admit to nothing of the sort,” Colonel York said. “I would recognize the murderess who killed my brother—her image is burned into my brain. If this woman is Kate Bender . . . why, I’m the queen of England!”
“What do you have to say for yourself, Coun- *selor?” Grout asked.
“I apologize,” Sutton said. “It was an honest mistake.”
“You’ll do more than apologize to Colonel York and Miss Wylde,” Grout said. “You’ll make sure that all their expenses are covered, and from your own pocket. I don’t want this fiasco to cost the citizens of Ford County one thin dime. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“This case is dismissed—with extreme prejudice.”
Grout banged his gavel so hard I thought it would break.
“So that’s it,” I said. “I’m free.”
Potete leaned over to whisper in my ear. “There is just one more thing,” he said.
I told him I couldn’t imagine what it would be.
“Armbruster,” he said. “He’s waiting for you.”
35
Potete led me to a room across the hall from the courtroom that was normally used for attorneys to consult with their clients. The door was closed, and he paused before opening it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He seemed strangely sober.
“Oh, I was expecting this day,” I said. “Not so soon, perhaps, but eventually. How’d he find me?”
“I wired Chicago to ask about this Sylvestre fellow you had mentioned, hoping that it might prove useful,” Potete said. “But Potter Palmer’s spies must be everywhere, because Armbruster came nearly at once. So it is all my fault.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “This is my fault. It’s my mess. I’ll face the music.”
Potete nodded.
He opened the door, and I stepped inside.
Armbruster was standing at the window, looking out, his hands clasped behind his back. The sun was so bright outside that he was just a silhouette framed in the glass.
“Close the door,” he said.
I gently shut the door behind me.
There was no furniture in the room except a wooden desk and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. On the desk was an inkwell and pen.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Wylde.”
I sat down on my side of the table.
“Do you know why I’m here?” he asked.
“Potter Palmer sent you.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“You’re Mr. Palmer’s . . . troubleshooter.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I fix problems for him. And I’m here to fix a problem called ‘Ophelia Wylde.’”
Then he turned, pushed his hat back to the crown of his head, and I saw his face. He was balding, and his skin was so white, it didn’t look like he’d ever spent a day in the sun. His eyes stared at me through a pair of pince-nez glasses, which perched on the bridge of his nose.
“How much will it take to fix this problem?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How much?” he asked, placing his hands on the table and leaning forward. “Don’t be coy. You must have a figure in mind. What Mr. Palmer wishes is for no embarrassment to come to him or to Mrs. Palmer. For that, he is prepared to buy your silence. If you agree never to speak of your association with Potter Palmer, we are prepared to pay you one thousand dollars.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help myself.
“Very well,” he said. “Three thousand.”
“Oh, my.” I was struggling to catch my breath. “This is too much.”
“Five thousand,” Armbruster said, fuming. “But that is the absolute limit. And you must sign the agreement now.”
He removed a legal-looking paper from his coat pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table. He showed me where to sign, and I was still giggling as I took the pen, dipped it in ink, and scribbled my name at the bottom.
“Very good,” he said, whisking the document away, folding it, and tucking it into the inside pocket of his suit. Then he removed a fat envelope from another pocket and counted out five thousand dollars in National Gold Bank Notes.
Then he tipped his hat and left, leaving the door open behind him.
I picked up the bills, then realized I had no pockets.
Calder appeared in the doorway.
“What was that all about?”
“I can’t really tell you,” I said, shoving the bills in his hands. “Here, put this in your pocket before I lose it.”
“What in the world?”
“Don’t let me spend it,” I said. “Most of it is going to pay a debt in Cincinnati. What’s left over—well, that I can spend. Just for the essentials, for me and Eddie.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
He shoved the money in his pocket.
“There’s another train this afternoon,” he said. “Going west.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll be wanting to leave now, I reckon,” he said. “Maybe you’ll want to stay for the service in the morning on Gospel Ridge. The Russian girl’s family has come to claim her body, but it
didn’t seem right to send her off without a service. So Doc McCarty organized it. He said they don’t speak much English, but they worked it out.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “I’ll stay for that.”
Calder nodded.
“You know, we made a pretty good team.”
“We did,” Calder said.
“There could be some advantage to our teaming up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Partners,” I said. “A bounty hunter and a medium who talks to the dead. Murder, a specialty. Special rates for demons and ancient evils.”
“Detectives,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked. “I can see the sign now, maybe over an office near Doc McCarty’s place on North Front. Calder and Wylde, Consulting Detectives—what do you think?”
“We could try it,” he allowed. “On a month-to-month basis.”
“Of course,” I said. “Because I’m still headed west. Eventually. Then it’s settled.”
We shook hands.
Calder allowed himself a smile.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I said. “But I have to get out of these awful clothes first.”
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by Max McCoy
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher, and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8193-7
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8194-4
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8194-3
First Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2013
