Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The)

by Eddie Jones

  I grabbed a plastic plate and silverware and said in a low voice, “My parents argue. A lot.”

  “I wish I had parents who argued,” Annie shot back.

  “Speaking of arguing,” I said. “What were you and James talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You sure? Looked pretty heated to me.”

  “He’s just that way. Really, it was nothing.”

  “Is he the one we saw last night on Boot Hill? Is that what you two were arguing about?”

  “Don’t you ever talk about anything else?”

  “Cars. I like talking about them, sometimes.” I skipped the salad bar and green beans and went for a double helping of chipped beef. “You need to be careful,” I told her. “James is a lot more dangerous than you think.”

  “And you need to be careful about assuming things about people without proof.”

  “Come on, Annie. Tell me who you saw in the graveyard last night.”

  She dropped a roll on her plate. “I … can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Forget I said anything about it, please. Otherwise—”

  “What? Did he threaten to hit you again?”

  “Jess? No! You seriously need to get your facts straight before you end up looking even more foolish than you already do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Let’s just drop it.”

  “Don’t forget, Annie. You saw the body too!”

  “No, all I saw was some man burying something. I thought I might know who it was. I was mistaken.”

  I felt my cheeks grow warm. “You’re lying.”

  “I am not! I honestly don’t know. I thought I did but I don’t.”

  “Fine. At least tell me who you think you saw last night in the graveyard. Was it James? Your uncle? Wyatt Earp?”

  She whirled, glaring at me. “You know what your problem is, Nick Caden? You’ve let this detective stuff go to your head. You’ve become convinced there really was a murder.”

  “What happened to you at the corral this morning, Annie?”

  “Nothing happened. I mean, nothing except I fell off my horse, which, by the way, wasn’t the first time. You know the reason I was there last night? In the graveyard? I thought it would be fun to tag along. This place is, like, so boring. I mean, your family and the other guests might think it’s cool, but day after day of the same stunts and skits and it’s like, gag me with a spoon. Anyway, I thought with you … well, it’s not important.”

  “Come on. Tell me.”

  “Jess was right about you. You are weird. And a little obsessive-compulsive.”

  “Oh, so now you’re taking his side?”

  She pushed her tray down the line and placed a cup of tea next to her plate. “I’m not taking anybody’s side. But since you’re probably going to keep badgering me until I tell you—the thing we were arguing about was you.”

  “Me?”

  “Jess thinks you’re weird. I was trying to stand up for you. But I swear, it’s getting harder and harder. Do you know what Uncle Walt told me today? He said you accused him of murder. The town marshal! How crazy is that? Is there anyone you don’t suspect?”

  She pivoted and headed toward the staff table.

  I said, “I thought you were sitting with me and my family.”

  “Changed my mind.”

  “Oh great. Leave. Go on! That’s what you’re good at. Starting stuff and not finishing.”

  She marched back, slammed her tray down, and barked, “You want to know why Jess dragged me over there? What we were really talking about? He had something he wanted to tell me. Something important. Said it might help with your stupid investigation. When I got all excited and asked him what it was, he started laughing at me. Told me he was only trying to find out how much of your stupid murder mystery theory I actually believed.”

  “So he didn’t really have anything to add to the case?”

  “Oh for crying out loud. Don’t you get it? There is no case! No murder!”

  Others turned and stared, causing her to blush.

  “Oh there’s a case, all right,” I said in a low voice. “And if you want, after dinner I’ll let you in on who I think the killer is.”

  “How could you possibly know that? Jess told me himself that Bill is in L.A. My uncle told me the same thing.”

  “Meet me outside your uncle’s office after dinner, and I’ll show you how I know.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BOOT UP AND BOOTED OUT

  “My uncle would kill me if he knew I was letting you into his office.”

  “Don’t use that word,” I replied, taking a moment to warm my hands. “He’s on my suspect list.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  We stood outside the marshal’s office, shivering in the cool night air. I couldn’t believe how quickly the temperature dropped, but Annie explained that part of it was the high elevation. We huddled on the stoop while Annie worked her key into the lock, jiggling it until the knob turned.

  “Am I?” she said, pushing the door open. “On your list of suspects?”

  “Of course. Now please hurry before someone sees us. Or I freeze.”

  I followed her inside, and she switched on the desk lamp. “He keeps his user password …”

  “On a sticky note, I know,” I said as I stepped around her. I pulled out the keyboard drawer and hit the enter key, bringing the computer out of sleep mode. Dropping into Buckleberry’s chair, I began to type while Annie leaned over my shoulder.

  “Wow, you’re fast.”

  “I’ve done this so often it’s become habit,” I said, waiting for the page to load. “But I have to be careful because if I key in the wrong ID and password more than twice, the program will blacklist my IP address and lock me out of the system.”

  The screen changed. A long stream of text populated the center column.

  “I don’t understand; none of those words make any sense.”

  “What you’re seeing is a statistical analysis showing the highest probability of who might have killed Billy the Kid.”

  “I’m seeing what?”

  “The list of likely suspects.”

  “Oh.” She leaned closer to the screen. “So I am on the list.”

  “Yes, but not too high. See?” I said, pointing to her name.

  “But why am I listed at all?”

  “You work here. You carry a gun. I haven’t asked if you have an alibi for yesterday afternoon and don’t know if you have motive. That might change your ranking.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “You’re rated low because you’re female and young.”

  “And that helps me why?”

  “Because Billy was killed in a violent act. Males are more likely to use brute force. Statistics show males are more likely to shoot, strangle, stab, or bludgeon their victims. Females, on the other hand, are more inclined to use poison to kill their victims. It’s also true that males are significantly more likely to kill strangers than are females, and that females kill family members more often than males.”

  “So if you’re a married guy and you make your wife mad, watch what you eat.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Wow. You really do know a lot about this. So your list, it’s ranked in order?” I nodded. “And you have Jess at the top?”

  “Not me. The program. Based on comparable crimes where suspects of a similar nature had means, motive, and opportunity, your buddy Jesse James would be considered the primary person of interest. Due to the nature of this particular murder, the program is weighted in favor of motivation.”

  “What do you mean ‘nature of this murder’? How would Bill’s death be different from any other crime?”

  “It probably wasn’t a crime of passion. Evidence points to a calculated and planned assassination.”

  “Because …?”

  “Of the single gunshot wound to the chest, the lack of evidence at the crim
e scene, and the fact that nothing was taken from the victim that we know of. A crime of passion would have been messier. Blood splatters, footprints, clothes fibers. You see something like what happened to Billy the Kid and it suggests the murderer killed for money, power, or revenge, not passion. More than likely the killer took his time sanitizing the crime scene. Not that I’ve had a chance to see for myself. Your uncle hasn’t let me.”

  “But it could possibly change your assumptions of the case if you were able to examine the supposed crime scene, right?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt, but it’s not necessary. Remember, I’m not trying to solve the case based on the actual evidence. What I mean is, I’m not building a case for the prosecution. What I’m doing is pulling together the list of suspects and letting the program determine who the killer is. That information, plus the fact that most of the time the program is correct, saves the real detectives and the prosecuting attorney a lot of time.”

  “But what if your program is wrong and they arrest the wrong person?”

  “The Cyberslueth program has a fail-safe feature built in that runs a scan against wrongful convictions. Once the authorities have the suspect in custody and all the evidence has been gathered, we run the scan. Most wrongful convictions come from over-aggressive detectives and prosecuting attorneys anxious to get a win. If those working within the system would take their time, analyze the data, and rely less on eyewitness testimony, fewer innocent men and women would go to prison. Not to mention there would be fewer criminals roaming the streets. Like here.”

  Annie stared at the monitor. “You weren’t kidding. You really do have Uncle Walt on that list.”

  “After James, yes. But you can see his rating isn’t anywhere near that of your friend Jess. There’s only a 42 percent likelihood the marshal is the killer.”

  “Looks like you have every staff member in town listed.”

  “All that I could identify. Can you do me a favor and make sure that printer is powered on?” I nodded toward the metal stand behind the desk. A hulking, ancient dot-matrix printer crouched on a wobbly metal table. “I’d like to study this back in my room tonight.”

  “Wyatt Earp has a drinking problem? How would you know?”

  “I put in what I learn and what people tell me. Doesn’t make it true.”

  She pressed a button and the printer began to hum.

  “So what’s next? Are you going to tell Uncle Walt to arrest Jess?”

  “Not until we recover the body. Once we get the ballistic report on the slug found in the barn …” I hesitated, wondering if I should mention the other slug I’d found in my pocket, but I decided against it.

  “You were saying?”

  “Right, after the ballistic report, I’ll need to find the murder weapon. From there we call in the coroner to perform an autopsy on the body. That’ll tell us everything we need to know about how Billy was killed. Hopefully, then the authorities will take it and follow up from there.”

  Due to the whirring of the printer and my own excited yapping, I’d failed to hear the trailer door open. I’d been so eager to impress Annie with my knowledge that I didn’t even notice the marshal standing in the doorway until I felt the rush of cool air enter the room.

  “Er—Marshal?”

  Buckleberry stared stone-faced at Annie. “Him, I’m not surprised. But you? Sneaking into my office? Get out. Both of you.”

  “In a minute,” I mumbled. “Need to get—”

  “OUT!” roared the marshal. “I never expected this, young lady. What would your mother think if she found out her daughter was caught breaking and entering.”

  “Technically, I didn’t break anything,” Annie answered. “I just—”

  “Do you think because you’re family you can have the run of the place?”

  The marshal held out his hand. Annie pulled the office key from her skirt pocket and sheepishly walked past the marshal.

  I used the momentary distraction to kill the browser window and my session on our server. With a click of the mouse I deleted my browsing history.

  “We’re not finished talking about this, Annie.”

  She gave me a quick, guilty look, then pulled the door shut behind her.

  “And you,” Buckleberry said to me. “I thought I made it clear you were only to use my computer when I was with you.” The marshal’s eyes narrowed into slits no wider than a snake’s. Anything I said would only prolong the sermon, so I remained silent and tried to look penitent. Penitent: that was one of the words on my AP English exam. Means “sorry, remorseful, or contrite.” I was none of those, but needed this to blow over so I could get back to my room and study the report.

  “Be thankful I’m not going to file charges. I should. This is serious, you being in here like this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I wanted to tell him that I would have been glad to wait to use his computer, but he had been so busy calling instructions to square dancers that I didn’t want to bother him. Problem was, I hadn’t wanted him watching over my shoulder while I reviewed the results.

  “Sorry, Marshal. Wasn’t sure you’d ever get around to letting me use the computer. You said I could visit the crime scene, but that hasn’t happened yet either.”

  “Been busy trying to do my job. But it’s getting harder with you fouling things up. Like this.” He held up a computer cable as though unsure where it went.

  “Sorry. I guess I accidently bumped it loose.” I took the USB cable from him and plugged it into the front of the computer.

  “But don’t forget, Marshal. You asked me to investigate a murder and that’s what I’m doing. Maybe you thought you were humoring me. Or maybe you were trying to keep Mom and Dad off your back. But the more I learn, the easier it is for me to believe that any one of you could have killed Billy.”

  “Fine. I have no problem with you having hunches and following leads. That’s all well and good. But don’t you ever let me catch you in my office again without my permission, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get out.” He snatched the report from the printer and handed it to me. “And take this with you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  GLORY HOLE

  The alarm on my cell went off at five in the morning. I dressed quickly and hurried to the corral where I found a middle-aged ranch hand with lizard-brown skin climbing from the cab of a pickup. I intercepted him on his way to the stables, and when we reached the stalls, I pointed to my pony.

  “No, señor,” he said apologetically.

  I placed my hands together as though praying and said with a huge smile on my face, “Pony, please?”

  He exhaled loudly, making it sound like he was doing me a huge favor. Strapping a saddle onto my pony, he handed me a helmet. I declined, hopped on, and off I rode at a fast walk. I followed the same route as before, making my way toward Rattlesnake Gulch and the burial grounds. I had sat up past midnight reviewing the summary of the case, and I now knew with certainty who killed Billy the Kid. One new wrinkle bothered me, though, and that was Annie’s behavior at the dance last night.

  There had been tension between her and James, but not the sort I expected between a brawler and his victim. More like a high school couple having a tiff. But if James didn’t hit Annie, who did? And if James was the man who’d attacked us in the graveyard, then why hadn’t she shown more fear? Did I have the wrong suspect at the top of my list? Or were the two of them in it together?

  I reached the train tracks and crossed over, guiding my pony through the thicket and toward the burial mounds. A smudge of mist clung to the ground. As before, the fog hovered primarily over the burial site. And, as before, vapors wafted into the air. A chill crept its way down my back. Earp’s words came back to me: Wish I could tell you for sure there wasn’t any such thing as ghosts.

  A short way past the mounds, I crossed over a ridge and followed a trail down to the Hole in the Wall Junction and the abandoned mine. I knew I’d found the
path because the sign read:

  TRIAL LEADING TO THE ABANDONED MIND.

  Apparently this trail was a trial for the mind of the person responsible for making mine signs.

  The trail circled around the back of the water tower and up a steep ridge, dumping me onto a wide, level area littered with rusty tools. A weathered gray shack tilted severely to one side not more than fifty feet from a man-sized mouse hole cut into the mountain. Large boulders from a fresh rockslide covered one half of the entrance. On a discarded pile of lumber someone had tossed a wooden sign spray-painted with the word “CLOSD.”

  I scanned the rocky crags of the mesa towering above me. The first rays of dawn brushed the tips of the mountains, turning them purple. Majestic, just like the song says. Circling overhead, a hawk searched the valley floor for jackrabbits and prairie dogs and slow-footed mice. I crept closer to the entrance, hesitating. I had no intention of going too far into the mine—only enough to see for myself if Pat Garrett’s claim was true. Find evidence that Mr. Earp’s been drinking on the job and I’ve got motive. Not much of one, but motive nonetheless.

  I pulled my Streamlight Stinger flashlight from my jacket pocket and, taking a deep breath, crawled over the debris of dirt and rocks.

  The air inside felt noticeably cooler and carried the musty odor of dampness. I followed the shaft back a good twenty feet before coming to a larger cavern. Aiming my Streamlight, I swept the beam across the chamber floor, up the walls, and overhead. Stalactites covered the ceiling, their pointed fangs aimed downward as if the cave were the mouth of a large beast preparing to snap shut. Bits of broken glass, snack food wrappers, and crumpled beer cans lay scattered about. At the far reach of the Streamlight’s beam, a pair of narrow-gauge metal rails curved away into darkness. Next to the track, a wooden pushcart lay tipped on its side. Based on the tracks and size of the chamber, the area had probably served as the main staging area for miners.

  I paused, listening for the heavy breathing of a furry beast or the husky rattle of a snake. Mr. Earp had warned of a brown bear prowling the area; Deputy Garrett of snakes. I had no desire to encounter either. Certainly not in here.