“Behold the power of Musica Universalis, Miss Gallatin!” Shepherd shouted, seating himself on the organist’s bench.
He brought both hands down on the lower keyboard.
The blast of sound was the loudest thing Jett had ever heard short of cannon-fire. The floor beneath her feet vibrated, and she desperately wanted to put her hands over her ears. They’ve got to be able to hear that all the way to Alsop—let alone back at the ranch house! she thought. What does the Fellowship think he’s doing out here?
The sound brought her headache back full force. But that was only the beginning. Chord followed chord—none of them anywhere near the same key—before the blasts of noise began to resolve themselves into … something. Certainly not any kind of melody. The jangling jarring discords certainly made her want to rise up—if only to do in Shepherd’s instrument. Soon the organ notes were being accompanied by a thin glassy ringing, as every piece of glass and china in the ‘inner prayer house’ vibrated madly. There was a crash as something she couldn’t see fell to the floor. Shepherd didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care. As he played faster and faster—and louder, if that was even possible—Jett leaned forward cautiously. Maybe he’d be so caught up in raising the dead that he wouldn’t notice if she moved.
The sudden silence was as deafening as the sound had been.
“You see, don’t you? The music moves you—don’t deny it.” Brother Shepherd sprang from the organist’s bench and strode over to her.
“If anything could raise the dead, it’d be that,” Jett answered. She hadn’t meant it as a joke, but Shepherd seemed to take it that way. He laughed, then put a hand under her elbow.
“But come! You have not seen the full extent of my genius!” he said, picking up the lamp on the nearby table.
Jett followed docilely, still waiting for him to lock her up somewhere private for an hour or two. She found herself wondering if Mister George Wilson Shepherd of Ohio had forgotten he’d brought her here at gunpoint and intended to kill her once he was done showing off. She didn’t think she could be that lucky. If she was Gibbons, she bet she could have talked him into it (on the other hand, if Gibbons was here she might just improve his zombie-making methods).
Brother Shepherd led her past the pipe organ and through the archway. It didn’t lead to another room, but instead opened onto a corridor. The clay walls were damp, and the scent of decay grew stronger with every step she took. Shepherd didn’t seem to notice.
“Up until now I’ve been creating my allamatons slowly, so the disappearances won’t attract too much attention. A farm here, a settlement there—I admit Sheriff Mitchell forced my hand. But no matter! Very soon I’ll have enough allamatons not merely to scour the rebel state of Texas clean of traitors, but to wipe out the godless savages as well. The Comanche, the Apache, the Pawnee, and the Ute will be no more.”
“I reckon you aren’t the first feller who’s said that about the Apache,” Jett said. “Don’t you think somebody’s going to notice?” she added quickly, since Brother Shepherd was giving her a sulky look.
“Let them!” he said happily. “Every fallen enemy will increase the strength of my unstoppable army! The wealth I’ve amassed has nothing to do with Earthly enrichment, just as my Fellowship does not exist merely to gratify some base longing for adoration!”
He glanced at her expectantly, but Jett didn’t know what to say. She was too busy trying to keep from gagging at the stench. And she wasn’t sure what she could say to someone who’d just said he was going to wipe out thousands of people with an army of walking corpses.
“Behold!” Brother Shepherd said, bringing them to a stop. He released her arm and raised his lantern high above his head and took a few more steps forward.
For a merciful instant Jett didn’t understand what she was seeing. When she did, she raised her bound hands and pressed them over her mouth. If she hadn’t, she would have screamed.
The bodies in the doorway sagged or leaned or lay heaped and tumbled like the tenants of an open grave. The ones behind them and to either side were pressed so tightly together they stood upright. She couldn’t see the back of the room, or its edges, but every square foot of the space was packed with zombies waiting for the sun to set.
“Come closer,” Shepherd urged, as if he were proudly showing off his prize roses.
“Mister, you can shoot me right here before I do any such thing,” Jett said hoarsely.
He lowered his lamp, looking disappointed. The shifting illumination gave the dead faces a hideous appearance of life and movement. Jett took an involuntary step backward.
“You think my plan won’t work,” Shepherd said quietly. For the first time since he’d brought her down here, Jett thought he sounded almost sane. “You believe everyone will share your repugnance, and so I won’t have willing followers to stand guard over my great army during the hours of daylight. Ah, but you’re wrong, Miss Gallatin. You’re wrong. And I will show you why.”
He walked back to where she stood and ushered her ahead of him. At this exact moment, Jett didn’t care where they went, as long as it was away from that room.
CHAPTER NINE
That morning, while the predawn shadows were still cold and blue, Gibbons and White Fox had watched as Jett rode out of sight, then they returned to the makeshift laboratory she’d created in the Alsop saloon. Hours passed as he watched her pace back and forth muttering to herself. From time to time she would stop and leaf through some notes—notes she had surely memorized by now—or go to stare at the makeshift map on the wall. As inscrutable as her work might be, Gibbons’s frequent detours to the street to gaze at the position of the sun—and then at the watch pinned to the front of her jacket—were utterly transparent.
Jett was late.
“Jett Gallatin is a very resourceful individual. I am certain this delay in her return has a wholly innocent cause,” White Fox offered at last, voicing a certainty he was far from feeling. Many of the Anglos who came west seemed to feel neither law nor custom bound them any longer. The Army functioned as much as policeman as a military instrument, and in his time with the Army White Fox had seen things he once would not have scrupled to name madness. He knew (perhaps better than Gibbons or even Jett) what men and women were capable of when they felt they were beyond the reach of punishment.
Gibbons grumbled something under her breath and resumed her pacing. From time to time she’d settle into her chair to consult her notes and the tiny spell book belonging to Trooper Lincoln, but such stillness would only last for a few minutes before she was on her feet once more. Finally, as the afternoon light slanted across the floor, White Fox could bear Gibbons’s pacing and semiaudible mutters no longer.
“My friend Doctor Singer was a wise and educated man,” he said. Gibbons gave no indication that she had heard him, but White Fox was reasonably convinced she was able to think and listen at the same time. “The two things are not necessarily the same,” he added dryly, slanting a sideways glance at Gibbons. She continued to ignore him.
“One day, when I was still among the Meshkwahkihaki, there came a day I happened to be with him when he was urgently summoned—so he was told—to a deathbed,” White Fox continued. “He asked me to accompany him, and I did. The lady had been traveling when she was taken ill, and when we arrived at the stagecoach stop, he found several other females present at her bedside. They had removed her outer garments, but despite the fact she was unconscious, and obviously in deep distress, none of them was doing anything. ‘It’s that patent corset she is wearing,’ one lady cried out to Dr. Singer as he moved to examine her. ‘We can’t get it off her—’”
“Exactly why I refuse to wear the miserable things!” Gibbons interjected crossly. White Fox reflected that she was surprisingly charming when she was annoyed. Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink and her eyes sparkled. She might have said more, but White Fox prevented her by resuming his tale.
“Doctor Singer snatched his scalpel from his b
lack bag. ‘Clearly you ladies never heard of Alexander the Great!’ he growled, and in an instant he sliced through the knotted laces. The lady’s breathing eased at once.” White Fox smiled faintly. “Doctor Singer was persuaded of her full recovery when she snatched up her parasol and—”
He broke off at the sudden sound of hoofbeats. Nightingale. From the sound, Jett was returning with urgent news. Perhaps his anecdote would not be needed after all. He hurried to the street to greet her, but the moment he saw the empty saddle, his heart sank. Nightingale had returned alone.
The stallion shied violently when he reached White Fox and danced to a halt a few yards away. He was covered in foam, and his mouth was bleeding where the bit had cut him. White Fox had seen Jett ride often enough to know she could never have done this damage. Someone else had obviously grabbed the stallion by the rein.
“Something has gone wrong,” White Fox said as Gibbons joined him.
“Yes,” Gibbons snapped. “That much is clear even to me. I wish you could talk,” she said to Nightingale.
The stallion skittered even further out of reach, ears flat back, then extended his neck hopefully.
“I’m not chasing you all over the landscape,” Gibbons said crossly. Nightingale minced toward her and finally nudged her shoulder. Gibbons reached up to stroke his muzzle. “Where is she?” Gibbons asked the stallion.
“Captured,” White Fox said needlessly. “Perhaps she is already dead,” he added in reluctant tones. He hated to think it, but he remembered Jett’s tale of her escape from Alsop. He’d later seen with his own eyes what Nightingale had braved to rescue her, and so he knew Nightingale wouldn’t have abandoned Jett. Not if she’d been anywhere in sight when he was attacked.
“No!” Gibbons exclaimed. Nightingale flung his head up at her vehemence. “Not you,” she said, patting his neck. White Fox saw her set her jaw in determination. “We’ll see about that,” she said grimly.
* * *
Under Shepherd’s supervision, Jett retraced her steps back to the main room, down its length, and through the second doorway. She’d expected a second corridor, but it opened at once into another room at least the size of the one she’d just left. There wasn’t enough light to see clearly, but between the light from the other room and the lamp Shepherd carried, Jett could see the shadowy outline of a long marble-topped table. The shroud-covered body on it gave the table the look of a mortuary slab.
Shepherd ushered her further into the room. When she was standing where he wanted her, he set the lamp down on the end of the table and walked away to light more lamps.
This was a chance at escape.
She turned and ran for the doorway. But before she could reach it, the sound of a shot echoed loudly through the room. The bullet struck the wall ahead of her and sprayed her face with dust. Jett recoiled and staggered sideways, falling against the wall beside the doorway.
“The next one goes into you, Miss Gallatin!” Shepherd called cheerfully. “Do not try me!”
She turned around slowly. He brandished the Colt.
“Now come here,” Shepherd said.
He motioned her forward with the gun barrel until she was standing within reach, then dragged her into the shadows. Before she could get a good look around, he yanked her hands up over her head and shoved her back against the wall. She tried to lower her arms, but he’d hooked the handcuff chain over something. As she struggled, Shepherd stuffed the Colt back into his waistband and reached toward her neck. For an instant Jett thought he was about to strangle her, but what he did was worse. He closed an iron collar around her throat. When she tried to pull away from the wall again, she couldn’t.
“I’m sure this is more comfortable for both of us,” Shepherd said, smirking unpleasantly.
“Happy to swap places with you,” Jett said tightly. You damned fool! You should have run when he walked you out of the house! You let him waltz you down here like a calf to the branding, and now he’s got you roped and tied!
Shepherd ignored her remark and walked away.
No matter how hard she struggled, Jett couldn’t pull free of the collar. She hadn’t heard a padlock click, and she didn’t hear one rattle as she struggled. It was probably held shut by a simple latch. She’d left the cuffs loose when she put them on, and whatever they were hooked over was something she could pull against. So if I can get my hands free, maybe I can get loose again.
At least Shepherd was ignoring her right now. As he walked around the room lighting lamps, the shadows receded until Jett could see clearly. There was a barred door—like a jailhouse door—off to her right. It was set flush to the wall, and all she could see behind it was shadows. She didn’t want to think about what Shepherd might be keeping in that cell.
As she worked doggedly at pulling her hands free, she studied the room. It was as large as she’d guessed. Shepherd only had five bullets left, and she didn’t think he was carrying more. If she could make him empty his gun, it would come down to a brawl. She was pretty sure she could win it. If she had her hands free.
The opposite wall held shelves filled with jars and boxes. It had a worktable in front of it. Why, I bet that table could seat thirty for supper and not leave them to bump elbows, she thought in disbelief. It was covered with a litter of bottles and tubing and jars and looked like the fancified cousin of the mess Gibbons had made of the Alsop saloon.
“But as I was saying—before you so rudely interrupted me,” Shepherd said, replacing the last chimney on the last lamp, “if you place your hopes in my failure to enlist willing followers in my crusade, you underestimate my genius. I’ve always known I must be able to count upon my acolytes’ unthinking devotion. Which means I must indicate that I can both punish and reward, as did the Biblical Patriarchs of old.”
He walked back to the mortuary slab and yanked the sheet from the body. It was a child. A boy. He was thin and frail, and dressed for burial in his Sunday suit.
“That’s Sister Catherine’s boy, Davey,” Jett said hoarsely.
She’d stopped struggling with the cuffs the moment Shepherd turned his attention to her again, but she knew now she could get them off if she had a little peace and privacy. If he meant to leave her like this, he was in for a surprise when he came back.
“How insightful of you, Miss Gallatin,” Shepherd said. “You guess my methods already. Dear loyal Sister Catherine. She never realized I had no intention of curing her boy—as if anyone could cure consumption. And yet, I will reward her by raising him up into eternal sinless life—”
“She’ll never believe that!” Jett said. “He’s dead! Anyone can see it!”
“Oh, I beg to differ. He will smell of the flowers of Paradise instead of the stink of the grave, and seeing that, what grief-crazed mother would prefer to believe her beloved son was dead? A pity that he’s been chosen for a great Heavenly task and so is called away—but a great honor, as well. But rest assured: I shall give her his words of love and devotion myself.”
“There isn’t any word vile enough for what you are,” Jett said. Of course Sister Catherine would believe everything Shepherd told her. She’d seen David die.
“Visionaries are scorned by the common herd,” Shepherd said airily, tossing the shroud casually over the body again. “But just as I reward my faithful, you—I am very much afraid—are going to become an example of my wrath.”
Shepherd walked to his workbench, hunted around for a moment, then picked up a tiny syringe. He removed the stopper from a bottle filled with dark liquid and filled the syringe. Jett began to struggle with the handcuffs again, not caring now if Shepherd saw her. I don’t know what’s in that, but I’m damned if I’m opening my mouth so he can dose me! One of her hands slipped halfway through its cuff, then stuck fast. Just a few more seconds, she prayed silently. That’s all I need—
“A hypodermic syringe can be used to introduce a concentrated dose of my Elixir directly into the body,” Shepherd announced. “It’s far more efficient that way. As yo
u’re about to discover.”
Jett didn’t know what a “hypodermic syringe” was, but it didn’t sound good.
As Shepherd walked toward her, she saw there was a needle on the syringe’s end, and she redoubled her efforts to escape. Suddenly her right hand slipped free. The chain clattered over whatever her cuffs were hung on, then caught fast. She kicked out at him and tried to hit him, hauling against the remaining cuff with all her strength. He evaded her blows easily and grabbed her arm. Jett screamed in panic and outrage as Shepherd stuck the needle into her flesh just above her elbow. Her mouth went dry and tasted of metal. A burning pain spread through her arm, and she broke out in a cold sweat. When Shepherd released her arm it flopped to her side. She couldn’t raise it—not to smack that smug smirk off his face, not to wipe the sweat from her eyes. The floor seemed to shift and slide beneath her feet. Her knees buckled, and she began to gasp for air. Now the only thing holding her upright was the collar around her throat. Her whole weight was hanging from it, and it was choking her …
From somewhere that seemed very far away, she heard Shepherd’s voice.
“The beauty of my Elixir is that it can be administered either before or after death. But ‘before’ is so much more entertaining.”
* * *
Nightingale finally permitted White Fox to lead him down to the livery stable. Gibbons returned to the saloon to pace, her mind working furiously. She refused to believe Jett was dead. Certainly Brother Shepherd was no stranger to murder, but how would he react to someone simply trying to break into his secret lair? He will decide she is a common thief, Gibbons told herself determinedly. Jett is in trouble, probably captured, but I must believe Brother Shepherd means to question her. And that means she is still alive.
Would Jett tell him anything? Betray what she knew, admit she wasn’t working alone?
Not likely, Gibbons decided. She knew something of Jett’s history by now. Jett considered herself the citizen of a conquered nation. If the destruction of her home couldn’t break her, one lunatic preacher never would. Or at least—Gibbons amended to herself—not in less than a day.
Novel - Dead Reckoning (with Rosemary Edghill) Page 19
