Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The)

by Eddie Jones

  “And if you’re not?” Mom demanded. “If it turns out this was all a colossal waste of time? Then mark my words: you’re online cybersleuthing, virtual detective gaming days are over.”

  “You can’t do that. I’m vice president of our club. And next year, when Bart McLean doesn’t run for re-election, I might be even be president.”

  “Not only can I, but I will. That,” said Mom, eyeing the partially uncovered grave, “is the direct result of your obsession with video gaming and all those detective shows. Don’t you see, Nick? You’ve turned our vacation into one of your cybersleuth games.”

  “Mom’s right, son. You need to spend less time on online cybersleuthing and more time playing sports. Maybe it’s not too late to get you into a summer baseball league or maybe sign you up for soccer.”

  “But I hate team sports.”

  “All the more reason to get you involved,” Mom said.

  Shoving my hands in my pockets, I turned my attention back toward the headstones.

  The previous day’s rain had softened the ground, making the undertaker’s job easy. He and Deputy Garrett gouged the earth with shovels, piling up uneven chunks of grass and dirt. The growing mound became a small monument to Billy the Kid. I wondered how the young man would be remembered. Cowboy and actor? Son and friend? A blazing star rocketing toward the bright lights of Hollywood only to be blasted out of the sky by a jealous coworker? I wondered too how long he’d suffered in that hayloft before I arrived; how many gurgling breaths he’d taken before his eyes fixed on the ceiling and he saw the white light—or the dark, wispy shapes of demons rushing to sweep him away. Maybe he’d died quickly. Maybe he hadn’t had time to feel the terrifying fear that precedes death. But I had my doubts. I’d seen the shock in his eyes and the blood on his hands. He had tried for a few seconds—or minutes—to plug the geyser spewing blood from his chest.

  And had failed.

  Garrett and the undertaker tossed the shovels aside. The two of them reached down and, taking the two ends, lifted the long sheath of black plastic from the grave. The thin polymer did little to keep the pungent stench of decay from escaping. Gagging, the undertaker went trotting over to the edge of the cemetery and threw up. Garrett clamped his hand over his mouth and nose and turned away.

  “Well, son. Could be you were right,” said the marshal. “Looks like we do have a fresh body. Deputy, cut that plastic and let’s take a look.”

  Pat Garrett tucked his nose inside his shirt and inhaled deeply. Then taking a knife from his pocket, he dropped to one knee and cut the plastic. Instantly flies swarmed, their buzzing adding to the grotesque sight of the victim’s sunken face. The shotgun blast had caved in one half of the skull leaving a large corroded cavity of dried blood, bone fragments, and black fur. One opal eye looked out. I stepped closer, noting the small brown bear’s sneering grin under its curled lips.

  My stomach churned, and I whirled and jogged back toward the path upwind of the smell.

  “That’s your vic?” I heard the marshal saying. “You drag us all the way up here for that? A dead bear? Deputy, hurry and throw some dirt on that poor creature before we all start puking.”

  The crowd did not need to be told to leave. The exodus began with Wendy at the head of the stampede. I remained bent forward with my hands on my knees, taking in large gulps of air. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Annie looking at me with a strange, sad expression as if to say, “I told you so.”

  Told me what? That it was all a joke? That the prank was at my expense? She followed her uncle back down the trail, leaving me with the deputy and the dead bear.

  I heard the clank of shovels banging together and knew the deputy was finished burying the bear. I looked across the valley for a long while, savoring its rustic beauty. I’d guessed right about the identity of the killer—even if I hadn’t been able to prove it. Even if I didn’t have a body. At least I could take satisfaction in that.

  Wyatt Earp ambled over. “Guess we’d better get going,” he drawled. “Marshal wants me to escort you back to the bunkhouse. And I know it looks bad, you not finding a body and all, but don’t let it get to you. I know what it’s like to have people saying things about you that aren’t true. Know what I mean?” He paused, allowing his words to sink in.

  I thought of how eager I’d been to tell Annie about Earp’s alleged drinking problem and felt ashamed. I’d never seen him drinking, only heard the rumor. But I’d latched onto it because it fit what I wanted to believe about the investigation.

  “If you can’t say something nice about a man, then keep your mouth shut. That’s what my Marge always said.”

  “Sounds like your wife was a smart woman.”

  “You have no idea, son. Look here, finding the truth is never easy. Anyone who says otherwise doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Fact is, those lies we believe about ourselves are the real ghosts that haunt us. The ‘what ifs’ and ‘wish I hadn’ts’ and ‘I’m not good enoughs.’ Those whispering voices that tear us down and leave us feeling worthless and ugly. It’s those spooks you need to be worried about. You get what I’m saying?”

  I did. But I wasn’t doubting myself. At least, not regarding the case. I knew what I’d seen.

  “I’m not upset about this,” I said, falling in step with Mr. Earp as we angled toward the trail. “I mean, I hate that everyone had to see that back there. But there’s no doubt Bill was killed in Lazy Jack’s with your gun. And now I know for sure who murdered him.”

  “So you still think Bill is dead and not on his way back from L.A. like the marshal says?”

  “I don’t think it. I know it. And if I hurry, I can prove who the killer is before the county deputy and coroner leave. But I’ll need your help.”

  “Can’t let you into the marshal’s office, if that’s what you’re going to ask.”

  “Actually, it’s a lot more complicated than that. And dangerous.” Especially for me.

  Smiling, Mr. Earp asked, “How do you know I’m not the killer?”

  “Who says you’re not? And if you are, this is your chance to get rid of the one person who knows who the killer is. So, will you help me?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Taking a huge gamble, I told him my plan—at least the part I wanted him to know—and we started down the trail toward town.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  FOOL’S GOLD

  “Hey, I’ve been wondering what happened to you.” Annie stood outside the blacksmith shop, acting all friendly as if nothing had happened on Boot Hill. Relief can make you giddy, and she certainly looked chipper.

  With Earp’s permission, I’d stopped by to tell her good-bye. It was part of my plan, the part I’d told him about. Motioning inside, we stepped into the shop and out of earshot of the workers by the O.K. Corral.

  “Thanks for sticking by me up there in the graveyard,” I replied, trying to sound disappointed.

  Her mood instantly changed. “What’d you expect me to do? Tell the world I’d seen a body buried up there too? You get to go home when this is over. I still have to work here.”

  “Did you put that note in my backpack?”

  “No! How could you say such a thing? Of course not.”

  “Funny how I found it and then found you waiting for me at the bottom of Boot Hill that evening.”

  “I told you. Uncle Walt said for me to—”

  “I know, I know. Keep an eye on me. Problem is, you’ve been keeping too close an eye on me. It seems you show up every time the killer does.”

  “You’re not mad because I tried to help, are you?”

  “Help? What help? You’re like the fair-weather friend who splits when the teacher walks into the room and catches you peeking at her homework assignment.”

  “I let you into my uncle’s office, didn’t I?” she answered. “That little stunt almost cost me my job, thank you very much.”

  “I didn’t twist your arm.”

  “No, you certainly d
id not. Maybe I should just go.”

  She pivoted to leave, and I caught her by the elbow. “Wait. I’m sorry. It’s just that …” I hesitated, studying her eyes. I needed to know how far I’d set the hook; how committed she was to keeping an eye on me.

  “Your mom’s right. You’re obsessed with playing detective stuff.”

  “Could be she’s right. It’s all I think about. Even now I keep wondering if I could have solved this case sooner and maybe saved your friend Jess if I’d paid more attention to the evidence in front of me.”

  “Oh, give me a break. Haven’t you heard anything my uncle has been saying? Billy’s alive. Uncle Walt let me listen to the voice mail. He wanted me to know just how childish I was to let you drag me into this whole ghost murder mystery mess. Said it was time I stop acting like such a scatterbrained tomboy and grow up. He’s thinking of sending me to an allgirl prep school.”

  “Too bad. Near as I can tell you’re the only fun thing there is in this tumbleweed, dead-end town.”

  “Thanks,” she said, half-smiling. “I think.”

  “Anyway, just came to say it’s been fun and hope there’s no hard feelings.” I paused, glancing casually around the shop at the horseshoes and smelting equipment. “You never did finish telling me who pushed you and gave you that nasty bruise.”

  She looked down, pushed her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, and mumbled, “Oh, you know what? I changed my mind about that. After that business in the graveyard I realized I was wrong to even bring it up. Just forget I said anything.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to sound concerned. “But remember, Annie. Whoever did that to you is probably the same person who killed Billy the Kid and whacked your friend Jess in the back of the head.”

  “What are you talking about? Jess died of a snakebite.”

  “After he’d been knocked unconscious. Ask the coroner if you don’t believe me. She discovered a knot on the back of his head. Looks like someone clubbed James, hauled him to the back of the mine, and somehow enticed that rattler to bite. Of course, I can’t prove that any more than I can prove Bell was killed in the hayloft. But I just thought you should know if you were pushed, that someone is probably still around and willing to do anything to keep you quiet.”

  Looking flustered she said, “I, ah … thanks for the heads up.” Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed me quickly on the cheek. “You be careful, Nick Caden.”

  Annie trotted away and I headed back to the corral to find Earp. I found him readying a pony for me. “Think she’ll go for it?” he asked.

  “No doubt. She’s too scared not to.”

  He lifted the latch of the stall and led my pony out. Handing me the reins he said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, son. You’re taking a huge risk.”

  “Don’t I know it. But I’ll be fine. I have a little something I think will help me.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “Truth. I heard it can set you free. Now let’s hope it can corral the bad guys too.”

  The crime scene tape remained stretched across the entrance to the mine. The excavated lumber, broken beam supports, rocks, and tools were piled just where Buckleberry and the others had left them. I knew I had one chance to catch the killer. One wrong move and I would vanish just like Billy the Kid, the farmer in the saloon, the comic cowboy on the Big Sky, and the bandit outside the bank. Poof … never to be heard from again. The ghosts in Deadwood weren’t real; I knew that much. But I didn’t need to see the evidence of wispy phantom figures to know that the killer was close by. I could sense it.

  I ducked my head under the temporary pillars and listened. Nothing. Just the sound of my own anxious breathing. I checked to make sure the flashlight and other tools hadn’t fallen out of my jacket pocket, then entered the killer’s lair.

  The darkness felt worse than before, the closeness of the walls suffocating. I reached the miners’ staging area and took a few moments to slow my breathing. I didn’t dare turn on the light. Not yet. Not until I had the snare set.

  Onward I crept, counting my steps and trying to remember how far back we’d come before reaching the cave of bats. It seemed longer in the dark, and I had to tell myself I wasn’t lost. Couldn’t get lost. There was just the one long tunnel. As long as my feet kept tripping over the pushcart rails, I would be fine.

  At last I reached the bats. Their clicking sounds served as the perfect cover, allowing me to bump my way along until I found the ladder. I checked my pockets once more. The last thing I needed was to drop my light and tools in the dark. Swinging one leg over, I felt for the rung, found good footing, and began my descent.

  Around the fifth or sixth rung I detected a change in the bats clicking. Hurrying, I climbed down and reached the next level. Peering up into darkness, I strained to hear. Someone was definitely coming; the shuffle of feet confirmed it.

  I moved quickly across the chamber, feeling my way along until I found the one tunnel. Scraping into walls with my elbows and thighs, I moved toward the place where I’d found James’s body, waited until I was around the corner, and clicked on the flashlight. But only for a second. Only long enough to sweep the beam side-to-side and examine the length of the passageway. The twisting shaft went back much further than I’d expected. Behind me came a grunt of effort followed by the rough sound of the ladder shifting against the ledge. Breaking into a jog, I hurried away from my stalker.

  The tunnel ended like all the others—a dead end.

  I clicked on the light for a moment and found that what I’d thought was a wall of support beams was really a rough wooden door attached with three sturdy hinges. Timber posts had been cemented into the wall. Someone had gone to great effort to seal off this end of the tunnel, and I had a hunch I knew why. Light off.

  I pushed against the door and felt it give a little. Using a Barlow knife I’d purchased at the general store, I felt for the crack between door and post, slipped the blade through, and lifted the J hook. The door opened and I stepped in, pushing it shut. Confident that I’d baited the trap properly, I turned on the light and aimed the beam at the glittering flecks of gold embedded in the ceiling and walls. Amber flecks glittered with such brilliance and density that the walls appeared to be moving. For several moments I stood transfixed by the sight. This wasn’t just a glory hole. This was the mother lode.

  “You should’ve left when you had the chance, boy.”

  Instantly a light blinded me.

  The intensity of the spotlight consumed my flashlight’s puny beam. Beyond the glare of the spotlight, I heard the sound of a magazine sliding into place and knew, even blinded, that there was a gun aimed at me.

  “After the way you embarrassed yourself in the graveyard, I felt sure you would be on your way home by now. Guess I misjudged you.”

  “You seem to be doing that a lot lately,” I replied, struggling to keep my voice from cracking.

  “Careful now with that knife. Wouldn’t want you to get any ideas.”

  My hand froze. I’d hoped to tuck it away after entering the chamber, but I’d been so caught off guard by the brilliance of the gold flecks that I’d forgotten.

  “Kick it over here. Excellent. Now the flashlight.”

  It, too, clanked onto the floor.

  “Good. Now get those hands up where I can see them.”

  This was not exactly how I’d planned to confront the killer, but it could still work. I just needed to buy a little more time.

  I lifted my right arm, but instead of raising it over my head I used my hand to shield my eyes. It knocked the glare down just enough for me to see past the miner’s light. Annie stood near the light hunched forward, her head sagging, and bangs flopping into her face.

  I said, “How you doing? Doing okay? Anything you need?”

  “I, ah … I’m fine,” she stammered.

  She appeared to be on the verge of tears. I could see why. I’d have been terrified too if someone had a Glock 19 handgun pressed against the back of m
y head.

  “You can’t possibly think you’ll get away with killing the two of us, deputy.”

  “Oh? And why not?”

  Deputy Pat Garrett removed the miner’s light from his forehead and propped it on the floor, angling it in such a way that it illuminated the room and cast more light on Annie. Her wrists were tied in front, ankles unbound.

  “I figure right about now your parents will start wondering where you wandered off to, and they’ll send out a search party. No doubt the marshal will ride up to the railroad trestle and find the spot where the two of you stood too close to the edge. He’ll see where the ledge gave way and a bloodstain near the river’s edge and assume the bodies were swept downstream. Be just another tragic accident in a long line that’ll finally put this place out of business. So what is it exactly I’m not understanding?”

  “That tunnel behind you,” I said. “The one you and Annie came in through. If I follow it out it’ll take me to the train trestle, right?”

  “Every time.” With his free hand, Garrett shoved Annie onto her knees and pressed the gun execution-style against her head. A look of panic swept across her face.

  “Bill Bell found out about the gold in the mine, didn’t he?” I said grimly. “Threatened to go to the marshal, and that’s why you killed him.”

  “Caught me coming out of here a few days ago. He wanted to know what I was doing. Told him it was none of his business. He reminded me ‘bout that kid getting bit and how the marshal warned us that we couldn’t afford another mining disaster, that more bad press would shut us down. That was all I needed: that punk actor blabbing his mouth to Buckleberry.”

  “So you shot him.”

  He shrugged. “Could be your girl here shot him.”

  “For a little while I wondered if she had,” I admitted, casually moving toward the knife. “But I couldn’t find any reason for Annie to want Bell dead. I admit she has an uncanny ability of showing up at the wrong time. Why not just tell Bell what you found and cut him in on it?” I surveyed the walls again, taking in the abundance of gold. “From the looks of it, there’s plenty to go around.”