CHAPTER 19
The next morning Charles Hagen sipped whiskey as he listened to Dr. Downs sitting across from him as she offered her professional opinion on how John Bookman had died.
He had never noticed before how pretty she was. Graceful and intelligent, too. She was still young, perhaps thirty-five or so, and could become quite remarkable given the right support. He regretted not paying more attention to her before now, but vowed to remedy that in the future. He also reminded himself that he was mildly drunk, though it was not yet eight in the morning.
Sheriff Trammel’s presence served to ruin the effect. He loomed behind her like a dark cloud.
“I’ve completed a thorough examination of John Bookman’s remains,” Dr. Downs told him.
“A mere formality, I suppose,” Hagen said. “We all know how he died.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” the doctor told him. “This may come as cold comfort to you, but Mr. Bookman did not die from being burned to death.”
Hagen’s jaw tightened. “I know. He died when I shot him to put him out of his misery.”
“He did,” Emily allowed, “but although he was close to death, it wasn’t only due to the burns he received from the torch. He was going to die because his neck had been broken long before that.”
Charles Hagen set his glass on the desk before he spilled it. “What?”
“His neck was broken here,” she explained, showing the impacted area on her own neck. “It wasn’t caused from a fall or by being struck by a blunt instrument like a club or a piece of iron, but separated and crushed. The damage was similar to what happens during a hanging, though in Mr. Bookman’s case, he did not die right away. That has been known to happen in hangings, too, especially when the knot is not tied properly.”
But Charles Hagen did not care about other cases or other men, only John Bookman. “You mean he was alive when he was being burned?”
“Yes,” Emily said, “but I don’t think he was able to feel it. It was still a horrible experience and scarred his lungs, but you can rest assured he did not feel it. If he had, I doubt he would have lived long enough to speak to you.”
Recovering from the shock of the nature of Bookman’s death, Charles Hagen regained his composure and finished the rest of his whiskey. “Yes, that is cold comfort indeed, Doctor, but I’m glad his suffering was minimal.”
He looked up at Trammel. Good Lord, he was a big man! “As for you, Sheriff, you undoubtedly remembered that John spoke to me before . . . before I did what had to be done.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Hagen liked that the sheriff still called him “sir” despite all their past disagreements. “But what you don’t know is that he told me the name of the man who killed him. At the time I thought it was the man who had set fire to him, but now I know his assault was far more brutal than that.” Charles Hagen jutted out his jaw and aimed it at the sheriff. “I know the man’s name, Trammel. I sincerely hope you know it, for if you don’t, I will have to take matters into my own hands per our agreement.”
Trammel did not hesitate. “Ben London broke his neck and set him on fire.”
Hagen was surprised and pleased by the sheriff’s honesty. “That’s the same name John gave me. Now the only question is whether or not you’ve already arrested him.”
“He’s been confined to town,” Trammel told him. “He’s recovering from a bullet wound, so he won’t be going anywhere for a while. I’m still looking into a few things.”
“Things?” Hagen roared. “What things? The man is guilty, sir. You said so yourself. You also have John Bookman’s dying declaration, which is a mighty powerful bit of evidence in any court of law in the land. I’m no attorney, but even I know that much.”
“That’s my understanding, too, sir,” Trammel admitted. “And if I need to arrest him, you can rest assured I will.”
“If?” Hagen repeated. “There’s no ‘ifs,’ ‘ands,’ or ‘buts’ about it, sir. Ben London is guilty. You’ll arrest him, by God, or if you’re afraid of him, I’ll do it for you. I’ll hang him from the nearest tree and he’ll be a long time dying.”
“You do anything to that man or any other in Blackstone, you’ll find yourself in the cell next to him,” Trammel said. “Or with him, if you force the issue.”
Hagen wagged a crooked finger at him. “I know what this is. You’ve worked out a deal with Adam, haven’t you?”
“No one’s worked out anything with anyone,” Trammel told him. “Including me. I’m still trying to work out a few things myself, such as why Bookman took three men into Blackstone to attack the laudanum den in the first place.”
In all the blood and horror that had filled his thoughts those past dreadful hours, Charles Hagen had allowed himself to forget how it had all started. It seemed as if it had happened years ago, but less than twenty-four hours had passed since he had given Bookman the orders that had ultimately cost him his life.
He sat in his chair as though he had been struck by lightning.
Trammel seized on the great man’s silence. “See, the real problem here isn’t who killed your men, Mr. Hagen. In fact, that’s just about the only clear thing about this whole mess. Ben London killed them. The bigger question is what they were doing in town.” The big man leaned on Hagen’s desk. “And on whose orders.”
The proximity of Trammel served to bring King Charles back to his senses. “You don’t imagine I had anything to do with it, do you?”
Trammel remained leaning on his desk. “Bookman was your right-hand man. The men he brought to town with him worked for you. They were ready to kill people in Adam Hagen’s laudanum den. You and Adam hate each other. So, yeah, the thought of you ordering them to do it had crossed my mind.”
The sheriff brought down a thick hand on his desk, causing Charles to jump. “What’s the matter, Mr. Hagen? I thought you were all fired up about getting some answers. How about giving some of your own? You ordered Bookman and the others to attack the laudanum den last night, didn’t you?”
Charles Hagen froze. He had always done so in the opening moments of a crisis. Bad news from his lawyer, Montague, or a financial problem he had not anticipated. An acquisition gone wrong or learning of a devastating business problem from one of his sons. One of his real sons anyway.
This usually was done in the privacy of his den. Despite his reputation to the contrary, he had never been the kind of man who thought well on his feet. He had discovered during childhood that he could not lie worth a damn, but he knew the truth could be a terrible weapon if used too soon. That was why he had taught himself to be a cunning man instead. To plan everything out in advance so that when disaster did eventually strike—which, inevitably, it would—he had a plan in place to respond appropriately to buy time until he decided upon the right course of action.
Planning in advance had become more than second nature to him. It had become as much a part of him as his own limbs and organs. He did it without thinking and, as the initial shock of Trammel’s accusation began to subside, he remembered he had also planned for this without realizing it.
He took a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to Trammel. “I’m afraid this may have had something to do with it, Sheriff.”
Trammel took the paper and held it so that the doctor could read it, too.
“That’s the notice about the march Mike Albertson is planning for this Saturday,” she said. “Mrs. Higgins was handing them out yesterday.”
Trammel looked at Hagen. “What’s this got to do with Bookman and the others being in town last night?”
The story Charles Hagen had concocted even before he had summoned Bookman into his study came to his mind. “I’ll admit that I was not in a good way when I came back to the ranch last night. Seeing John like that and being forced to do what I did threw me. Despite what Adam may have told you, I do have feelings, Sheriff. I don’t care about many people, but I counted John Bookman among them. I was angry and confused about all that had happe
ned. I didn’t understand why such a good man had died in such a horrible manner. I was too upset to speak to any of my men, and they were still reeling from the loss of Bookman and not much help anyway, so I turned to the one place I thought I could find answers. The small home John has on the spread.”
“He didn’t live in the bunkhouse with the other men?” Trammel asked.
“No,” Hagen told them. “It’s difficult to maintain authority over men when they all sleep in the same place, so I always allowed John to live separately from them. To maintain the right amount of distance from the men in our employ. It was an indulgence, I suppose, but one he never abused.” Hagen pointed at the handbill Trammel now held. “I found that among his things, along with a small journal he had begun to keep. I know it was an invasion of his privacy, but the dead have no dignity to offend, so I sat on his bunk and began to read it. The words he wrote down surprised me, Sheriff. Their depth of thought confounded me. I had known John Bookman for decades and never knew him capable of such feeling.”
“What did it say?” Emily asked.
“Ramblings about the evils of laudanum,” Hagen lied. “He had lost a sister to the dreaded stuff, a fact he had managed to keep from me all these years. It’s a strange thing, Trammel, to see a man I thought I knew spill out his mind on paper like that. And with such hatred. I suppose the animosity that exists between me and Adam had breathed new life into that hatred. Perhaps he even felt it had given him license to act against the place that reminded him of his sister’s unfortunate passing. I don’t know.”
Hagen rubbed his hand across his mouth for effect. “And now I suppose we’ll never know.”
Trammel placed the handbill on Hagen’s desk. “I’ll need to take a look at that notebook you’re talking about.”
As part of his natural course of thought, Charles Hagen had already taken that into account, too. “You can’t.”
Trammel’s jaw clenched. “This is no time for games, Hagen.”
“You can’t because I don’t have it anymore,” Charles admitted. “I was so horrified and disgusted by what I had read that I tossed it into the fireplace. A foolish thing to do, I know, but as I said, I was not in my right mind. I know that makes your investigation more difficult, Sheriff, and for that I apologize, but in the fog of war, things happen that we don’t intend to happen.”
“‘Fog of war,’” Trammel repeated as he walked to the windows that looked out on the width and breadth of the Blackstone Ranch. It was a view Charles Hagen had spent countless hours admiring and had designed his house around. Whenever pain or turmoil about the ranch reached his desk, he took comfort in being able to look up from his troubles and see the very thing he was fighting to preserve. That which he had built with his own iron will, and he would be damned if Adam, or his puppet Trammel, took it from him.
Hagen watched the sheriff linger by the windows, as if something had caught his eye. Even Dr. Downs began to look uncomfortable.
Hagen did not like the silence. “I know I’ve upset you, Sheriff, especially after our unpleasant conversation last night, but—”
“What fireplace?” Trammel interrupted him.
Hagen had not been expecting that. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
Trammel pointed at a wooden cabin in the near distance. “I take it that’s where Bookman lived, isn’t it?”
Hagen did not have to look at what Trammel was pointing at to know what it was. “Yes, that’s the foreman’s house where he lived. Why?”
Trammel turned away from the window. “What fireplace? That one doesn’t have a chimney. Just a bunch of piping sticking out of the roof.”
“Yes,” Hagen said, trying to hide his annoyance. “It’s a potbellied stove. You don’t expect me to allow the man to freeze to death in the winter, do you?”
“No,” Trammel said. “But you just told us that you sat on his bunk and was so taken by Bookman’s words that you threw the notebook into the fireplace.” He poked a thumb over his left shoulder. “There’s no fireplace in there, Mr. Hagen. Just a potbellied stove. You said so yourself. So you couldn’t have thrown it in the fireplace, could you?”
Hagen cursed himself for telling too elaborate a lie, but quickly recovered. “Of course not. I flipped through the book in there and saw there was a great deal to read, so I brought it back here to the main house, where the light was better.” He pointed to the fireplace at the other end of the study. “I sat there where the light was better and, upon finding the more troubling parts, threw the book in the flames in disgust.”
Trammel looked around the room, and Hagen noticed the doctor was following the path of his eyes. “Those oil lamps on your desk look like they’d throw off a hell of a lot more light than that cozy spot by the fire would.”
A cold sweat broke out on Hagen’s back as the sheriff slowly walked from the desk to the fireplace. “It’s an awfully long way to throw a book from where you’re sitting. Pages would probably fly open, even if you did manage to chuck it pretty good.”
Trammel crouched beside the still-burning embers and took a closer look at the fire. He grabbed a poker and began moving some of the logs.
“You must’ve had one hell of a fire going here,” Trammel said, “because I don’t see a scrap of it left. Not even in the ashes. Something like that usually leaves some kind of trace, especially if it was a notebook, like you said. Usually a scrap of the cover would still be in there.”
Hagen was as panicked as he was annoyed. “I wasn’t in the right state of mind to judge the quality of the binding, sir. It was a notebook. I threw it in the fire. It burned. That’s all I know. I was wrong for doing it, but I wasn’t thinking properly. I don’t think any of us were after what we witnessed last night.”
Trammel stood up and replaced the poker in the stand. “Well, I’ve got to tell you, Mr. Hagen, you’ve got a stronger constitution than I do and I’m not afraid to admit it.”
The sheriff was playing coy and it was beginning to concern him. “How’s that?”
Trammel clapped his hands clean of the dust from the fire. “Because after what we saw last night, I didn’t want any part of a fire. Sounds like you didn’t mind it, though. Like I said, you’ve got a stronger constitution than me.”
Hagen could see the effect his words were having on Dr. Downs and knew he needed to draw this meeting to a close before he dug himself into a deeper hole. “I doubt anyone has a stronger constitution than you do, Sheriff Trammel, but I’m afraid I have important business to attend to. We lost four men last night, and we’ll be burying them within the hour. I’ve also lost my foreman and three good men only days before I’m supposed to bring horses and cattle down to the railroad in Laramie. I’m quite busy, so I hope you’ll excuse me. Just let Mr. Montague know when you want my official statement and he’ll be glad to provide it.”
He shook hands with Dr. Downs as she got up to leave. Trammel opened the study door for her and held it open as she passed, but not before taking a final, long look at the fireplace. He looked at Hagen and smiled. “Yes, sir. A hell of a fire. Good day to you.”
He tipped his hat and left, softly closing the door behind him.
King Charles Hagen snatched the whiskey from the desk and filled his glass to the brim and drank it down hard.
He had intended to drive Trammel away. Now he had only served to make him curious. And dullards were at their most dangerous when they were curious.
CHAPTER 20
Dr. Emily Downs struggled to keep up with Trammel’s long strides as they walked back to her wagon. “Well, what do you think?”
He grabbed hold of her by the waist and hoisted her into the wagon box without asking her first. She normally would have taken offense at him handling her like she was a child but knew there was no malice behind it. He was so troubled by their conversation with Charles Hagen that he probably had not even realized he had done it.
During their short time together, Emily Downs had le
arned that there was a time and place to talk to Buck Trammel and this was not it.
He climbed atop the horse he had borrowed from Elias’s livery as she snapped the reins and got her horse to begin pulling the wagon back down the hill toward Blackstone.
As cumbersome as it may be at times, Emily Downs had grown fond of using her wagon instead of a single horse. She had always found riding sidesaddle almost as uncomfortable as a regular saddle. And the wagon afforded her more room to haul things if and when she needed it. In her line of work, she never knew when she might need the extra room, especially given what was happening in Blackstone these days.
She watched Buck grind his teeth as he rode his own horse beside her. She knew he normally rode much faster than this but was riding slower for her sake. She could tell he was upset by their conversation with King Hagen. He always ground his teeth when he was annoyed.
She waited until they were well out of earshot of the ranch house before saying, “Enough brooding, Buck. What did you think of our talk with King Charles?”
“I think there’s more horse poop in that den than there is on this road,” Trammel said. “Bookman didn’t keep a diary, nor that handbill neither. Bookman and the others didn’t ride into town on some crusade. He did it on Hagen’s orders just so he could hit Adam where it hurt most. And do you want to know the worst part? I’m kind of sorry Bookman didn’t get his way.”
“You don’t mean that,” Emily said. “Think of all the people who would have died.”
“Most of them are already dead,” Trammel said. “Their bodies just haven’t figured it out yet. As for the Celestials, it would’ve taken Hagen a while to replace them and the laudanum, too. Would’ve made Blackstone a livable town again. There’s no denying that.”
Trammel spat off to the side of his horse and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now all we’ve got is a big mess brewing with that damned march of Albertson’s only a few days away.”
Emily hoped her services would not be needed during the march, but she was also a realist. “I wonder where Mr. Hagen got that handbill for the march. I agree it wasn’t in Bookman’s place.”
The Intruders Page 15
