by Ed Gorman
A few moments later Harry Creed was on his hands and knees like a dog, vomiting up chunks of the evening's repast.
For good measure and because sometimes he was—he had to admit—a mean son of a bitch, Speaks then kicked Harry Creed in the ribs twice.
Harry did a little more throwing up.
Speaks went back to Amy and Keegan and said, "C'mon."
Keegan said, "God, friend, I really owe you one."
Speaks took Amy by the arm and helped her up the stairs. "I want to get you two into your own room and then I'm going to stand guard all night."
"All night," Amy said. "Are you kidding?"
"No," Speaks said, knowing that Harry Creed would try something else later on. "No. I'm not kidding at all."
* * *
Speaks found a straight-backed chair and hauled it down in front of Keegan's door. He sat down and put his weapon in his lap and rolled himself another one of his sloppy, lumpen cigarettes.
He was just enjoying the first couple of drags when he heard footsteps coming up the hall stairs. Moments later, a cop appeared.
Out west they were wearing those kepi hats, the kind favored by Foreign Legionnaires and other types of fancy-uniform complements. But Cedar Rapids would apparently brook no such foolishness. This hefty Irishman wore a blue coat and a blue cap and a dramatic star pinned on the chest of his coat. He carried a nightstick and wore a squeaking holster filled with a shiny Navy Colt.
"You the man in the gunfight?" he asked Speaks.
"There wasn't any gunfight."
"There almost was."
Speaks shook his head.
"Some punk named the Pecos Kid stepped out of line."
The big Mick grinned.
"The Pecos Kid, huh? In Cedar Rapids?"
"That's what he calls himself."
"So it's all over?"
"All over."
"You a Pinkerton man or something?" the Mick asked.
"No, why?"
"You're guarding the door."
"Oh. No, I just want to see that my friends get a good night's sleep."
"You think the punk'll be back?"
Speaks shrugged. "I just don't want to take any chances."
The Mick said, "Pecos, huh?"
Speaks smiled. "Pecos."
"Wait till I tell the boys."
In the silence again Speaks listened to the various sounds of humanity up and down the hall. A few doors away a couple was having enviably noisy sex. Then there was the man with the tobacco hack. And then there was the nightmare-screamer. And then there was the snorer.
The guy was sawing logs so loudly Speaks half-expected to hear the door ripped off its hinges.
Every time he got dozy, Speaks rolled another cigarette. By the fourth one, three hours after he'd applied the seat of his pants to the seat of the chair, he was really starting to get the hang of rolling smokes. Imagine, after all these years, he was finally learning to do it right.
He heard the noise then, and he knew instantly that Harry Creed had outfoxed him.
Creed knew Speaks was sitting in the hall. So Harry decided to shinny up the side of the hotel and go in the window.
The bastard.
Speaks burst through the door into darkness. He glimpsed shifting figures in the gloom, but that was all because just then somebody hit him very hard from behind with a gun.
Pain. Anger. Then a rushing coldness. And then—darkness. Speaks was out, sprawled on the floor.
* * *
Pain.
He wondered what time it was.
The hotel room was empty.
More pain. Then anger again as he remembered how Harry Creed had come up the side of the hotel.
Muzzy streetlight filled the window frame.
The town of Cedar Rapids was quiet.
Speaks pushed himself to his feet. He'd been out long enough for the blood on the back of his head to dry and scab over a bit.
He poured warm but clean water from the metal pitcher into the washing pan. He splashed water across his face and the back of his head.
Not until now had he seen the small white piece of paper on top of the bureau. He picked it up.
BARN
The one word. Nothing more. He wondered what the hell Harry Creed was up to now.
* * *
Moonlight lent the old buildings lining the alley a shabby dignity. A couple of cats sat atop a garbage can, imperiously noting Speaks's passing.
Only one of the smithy's doors was open now. The interior was completely dark.
A kind of metallic chittering sound reached Speaks's ears.
At first he couldn't fathom what could make such a noise.
But as he pushed into the barn, his gun leading the way, he had a terrible premonition of what he was about to see.
And of what was making that noise.
One of the rear barn doors was ajar just enough for Speaks to see the shape of the ring.
Keegan was in the ring. Or what was left of him, anyway. The rats had eaten most of his face. One of his eyeballs was already gone. They'd probably fought each other for the sake of eating it. Keegan's forehead glistened. Harry Creed had borrowed an old trick from the Indians. Cover a man in honey and let the rats at him. The rats had also eaten out Keegan's throat. They were working on his stomach and groin now. The air stank of fresh blood and feces.
He was about to fire at the rats, drive them away, when he felt a rifle barrel prod the back of his head, the wound inflicted earlier. He winced.
"Kind of makes you hungry, don't it?" Harry Creed laughed from the darkness behind Speaks.
"Where's Amy?" Speaks snapped.
"Ain't that sweet?" Harry Creed said. "He's worried about Amy. I knew he was interested in that sweet ass of hers. I just knew it."
He stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing his pirate getup again. He plucked Speaks's gun from him. "Pecos went and got hisself killed."
"I'm really sorry to hear that."
"Forced Keegan into a gunfight. Guess you were right, Lyle. Keegan killed Pecos right off."
"Then you tied Keegan to the ring."
Harry Creed shook his head.
"I love that woman, Lyle. I purely do. And she was my wife before she was his. I had to teach him a lesson, didn't I?" Then Creed smiled. "He didn't scream for very long. They killed him right off. I mean, there wasn't all that much pain for him, if that's what you're worried about."
"Where's Amy?"
"I guess that's for me to know," Harry Creed laughed, "and for you to find out. Now it's gonna be your turn, Lyle. You always did think you was a little better'n me. Now you're gonna find out otherwise."
Harry Creed nudged Speaks toward the pit.
"You get in there and sit down."
Speaks hesitated a moment. Not until a few minutes before had he realized how crazy Harry Creed really was. Speaks had no doubt that Creed would shoot him right now if he disobeyed.
Speaks looked in the pit at the rats swarming all over poor Keegan. Poor Keegan was going to be poor Speaks in just a few more seconds.
"Climb in," Harry Creed said.
Speaks raised his leg, climbed into the pit. The rats were too busy feasting on Keegan to pay much attention to Speaks.
Speaks saw the honey pot then, stashed over in the shadows near the right side of the pit. It was about the size of a coffeepot.
"Start daubin' that stuff on your face and hands," Harry Creed said.
Speaks thought of refusing, but why die sooner rather than later? But it'd be better to be shot than to have rats rend you. It'd be much better.
The honey pot was a lidded ceramic bowl. Speaks took the lid off and plunged his hand deep inside.
Sticky honey oozed around his hand, sucking it ever deeper into the bowl.
"Now start rubbin' it on your face, Speaks."
For the first time a few of the scrambling rats looked over in his direction. The sweet smell of the honey pot was what did it. There was a whole new
feast over here. Their eyes glowed red in the oppressive darkness.
Harry Creed came right over to the edge of the ring now.
"Start rubbin' it on your face, Speaks. You heard me."
Speaks had no choice. His hand dripping honey, he began to wipe the thick stuff on the angles of his face.
Already a few of the rats had drifted over and were starting to climb his legs. At this point, he could still kick them away. But not for much longer.
"Now sit down."
"No."
Harry Creed aimed the rifle right at Speaks's face.
"I said sit down."
Speaks had one chance, and if he muffed it he was going to be eaten alive the way his friend Keegan had been.
Speaks slowly sat down on his haunches.
More and more rats swarmed around him.
"All the way down," Harry Creed said.
Speaks reluctantly sat all the way down.
Now the rats were all over him, on his back and arms and legs. All he could think of was the illustrations he'd seen of Gulliver's Travels, a book Clytie had given him to read, all the tiny people walking up and down the giant.
A rat scrambling over his shoulder lashed out at Speaks's honey-painted face.
Speaks jumped half an inch off the pit floor and made a wild wailing sound in his throat.
"Scary little buggers, aren't they?" Harry Creed said. "Now lay down."
"What?"
"You heard me, Lyle. Lay down. Flat. On the floor."
"No way."
The bullet passed so close to his ear, he could smell the metal of it. A few of the rats scattered. Most continued to cling to Speaks. There were maybe two dozen of the things on him now.
"Lay down, you son of a bitch."
So Speaks lay down. The pit was so small that he had to prop his legs up on the edge of the ring.
Then he screamed.
The rats seemed to suddenly triple in number, and they were all over him, especially his head and hands.
The small honey pot was four inches from his right hand. He would have to be quick. And then he would have to roll away from where Harry Creed was likely to fire.
"My, these fellas sure have big appetites," Harry Creed said. "You and Keegan in one night. My, my."
A rat sank teeth into Speaks's left hand. Speaks sobbed with pain and terror and reached for the honey pot.
He caught Harry Creed right in the center of the forehead.
Then he rolled quickly to the right. Harry Creed staggered, then pumped three bullets into the exact spot Speaks had occupied only moments earlier.
Speaks jumped to his feet, rats hanging off of him as he did so, and lunged at Harry Creed.
He tore the rifle from Creed's hand and drove a punch deep into Harry's stomach. Harry doubled over. Speaks took the rifle and started clubbing Harry Creed on the side of the head until the man slumped forward into unconsciousness.
Once he had slapped and shaken the rats off of him the first thing he did was take the rope off Keegan's wrists and ankles and carry the ripped and bloody body out of the pit. Bleeding from his own bite wounds, he found a horse blanket and covered him with it.
His final act was to pick up the honey pot and empty it lavishly over the length of Harry Creed's face and body, back and forth, back and forth, until Harry was saturated with honey.
* * *
A few minutes later, Speaks found Amy up in the haymow. She'd been bound and gagged.
She was sobbing when she got to her feet.
"I'll never forget the screaming," she said, leaning on Speaks for support. "He died so slowly."
He let her cling to him, let him be her strength for a long moment. He kept seeing how Keegan's face had looked after the rats had finished with it. He wanted to slice a knife blade into his brain and cut out the memory forever.
"Where's Harry?" she said finally.
"Don't worry about Harry."
"You're going to turn him over to the law, aren't you?"
Grimly, with no hint of humor, he said, "Let's just say I've taken care of Harry in my own way."
They went down the ladder to the ground floor and then out the door. He steered her away from the ring so she couldn't see. Being a good Christian woman, she might try to talk Speaks out of what he was doing.
"We'll go to my hotel room and wash up," Speaks said.
"But Harry. Where's Harry?" Amy said. "Shouldn't we turn him over to the law?"
Harry Creed regained consciousness just then. Two, three, even four blocks away they could still hear him screaming.
"Oh, my God," she said. "You put the rats on him, didn't you?"
Speaks said nothing.
Just took her arm a little tighter and escorted her out of the alley.
After a block or so you couldn't hear Harry scream hardly at all.
Anna and the Players
At least they didn't have her running out and getting lunch for them anymore, Anna thought. That in itself was a sort of promotion.
She yawned.
As the lone female on the ten-man Cedar Rapids Police Department in the year of Our Lord 1883, police matron Anna Tolan had spent the previous night studying the work of a French criminal scientist named Marie Francoise Goron. The field was called criminology and both Scotland Yard and its French counterpart were expanding it every day. Using various methods she'd learned from Goron's writings, Anna had solved three murders in the fourteen months of her employment here. Not that anybody knew this, of course. Two detectives named Riley and Czmeck had been quick to claim credit on all three cases.
Anna yawned again. Her sweet landlady, Mrs. Goldman, had come to her door late last night and begged Anna to turn off the kerosene lamp and get some sleep. "You push yourself way too hard with this police thing, Anna."
Yes, and for what reason? Anna thought. It was doubtful she'd ever be promoted to full police officer. There were people in town who thought it was sinful for her to be on the police force at all. A woman. Just imagine. Tsk-tsk. They even stood before the mayor in city council meetings and quoted scripture to her that "proved" that God didn't want women police officers. Apparently, God had opinions on everything.
Thunder rumbled down the sky. The chill, rainy October morning was at least partly responsible for Anna's mood. Rain affected her immediately and deeply, made her feel vulnerable, melancholy. Even as a child back on the farm near Parnell, Anna had been this way. Rain always brought demons.
"There's a lady up front who won't talk to me," a male voice said. "Said she wanted to talk to the one and only Anna Tolan."
The half-bellow, the smell of cheap cigars and the doglike odor of rain on a wool suit meant that Detective Riley was leaning in the door of Anna's office in the back of the station house.
"Something about ghosts," Riley said.
Anna turned in her chair and looked at him. Fifty pounds ago he'd been a good-looking man. But early middle-age hadn't been kind to him. He looked puffy and tired. Ten years ago, he'd pitched a no-hit game against Des Moines and had been town hero for several years following. Now, he looked like the bloated uncle of that young man, only the faintest resemblance showing.
"Ghosts?"
"That's what she said."
"Nice of you to give it to me."
Half the cops were nice to her and helped her in every way possible. They recognized her for the competent law officer she was. This, thank God, included the Chief. The other half gave her all the cases they didn't want. But she was glad to get even the bad ones, because otherwise her day would consist of checking the jail three times a day, walking around town in her light blue pinafore and starched white blouse and asking merchants if everything was going well with them—no break-ins, no robberies, nobody harassing them. One of the reasons that Cedar Rapids had grown so quickly was that it knew how to attract and keep businesses. Twenty-five thousand citizens. More than four hundred telephones. Electricity. In two or three years, there'd even be steam trolleys to replac
e the present horse-drawn ones. There was even an opera house that featured some of the world's most notable theatrical attractions. Chief Ryan once said, "It sure doesn't hurt to have a pretty little slip of an Irish girl—and with beautiful red hair yet—talking to the merchants to see that the town keeps them happy. It sure doesn't, Anna."
"I thought you wanted any cases we gave you," Riley said. "If you want me to, I'll give it to somebody else."
"I'm sorry. I'm just in kind of a crabby mood today."
"Trace Wydmore bothering you to marry him again?"
"I wish you'd leave him alone. He's a decent man."
"If he's so decent, why don't you marry him?"
"That really isn't any of your business."
"Tell him to give me some of his money. He's got plenty to go around, that's for sure."
Trace Wydmore was intelligent, handsome, pleasant, fun and kind. He was also very, very rich. About every three months, even though they'd long ago quit seeing each other, Trace would suddenly reappear and ask her to marry him. She felt sorry for him. But she didn't love him. She liked him, admired him, and appreciated him. But she didn't love him.
She changed the subject. "You're right, Riley. I do want the case. Thank you for giving it to me. I guess I'm just in a bad mood. The rain."
"You and my old lady," he said. "If it's not her monthly visitor, it's the weather. There's always some reason she's crabby." Then he waggled his fingers at her wraithlike and made a spooky noise. "I'll go get the ghost lady."
Her name was Virginia Olson, a bulky, middle-aged woman with a doughy face and hard, bright, not terribly friendly blue eyes. She cleaned rooms at the Astor Hotel, a somewhat seedy place along the river. She wore a pinafore, not unlike Anna's in cut and style, but stained and smudged with the indelicacies of hotel guests. When she talked, silver spittle frothed up in the corners of her mouth and ran down the sides of her lips. She said, "Oh, I seen her all right."
"Anthea Murchison?"
"Anthea Murchison. Right in front of my eyes."
"She's been dead over a year now. Her buggy overturned over in Johnson County and she went off a cliff."
"I don't need no rehash, miss," she said. "I read the papers. I keep up."
