The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday

by David Corbett

  The fact that RPG didn’t take him out wasn’t the miracle. She was. You want happy? Happiness was getting the chance to show her at last just how deep and strong his gratitude ran.

  ***

  Right on schedule at one a.m., the moon nudged up from the horizon line and rose radiant and full, claiming its place among the vast spray of stars. Its light to Rags seemed overly stark, like sun-bleached bone, but that was the problem with desert moons. They reminded you too vividly that all those seas—Sea of Tranquility, Sea of Cleverness, Sea of Crises—were nothing but cratered dust.

  They pulled up on a low rise to rest, lifting off their NVGs to enjoy for a moment the milky light and the things it brought into focus.

  For the first time since leaving the forest road, they caught signs of other humans: water bottles, paper bags, cellophane, wads of soiled tissue, other trash, some of it clinging to mesquite and manzanita branches, the rest of it hastily buried or tangled in the sage and bear grass.

  The anthropology of litter, Rags thought. The Dragoons and the other regional mountain chains served as a kind of over-ground railroad, lending a refuge as migrants shuttled north from the border toward waypoints and safe houses spread across this entire corner of the state.

  The mountain passes offered daylight shelter and a first-rate hiding place, just as they had for the Apache a century and a half before.

  Returning his eyes skyward and gazing into the canopy of stars, he shortly caught himself humming quietly, and smiled once he recognized the tune: “The Night Has a Thousand Eyes.”

  Wander, restless as always, ventured ahead, scouting out the next leg of the trek. He disappeared over a shallow knoll spiked with scrawny pinyon pine and century plants, the long thin stalks of the latter rising like ostrich necks.

  Shortly, they heard him calling, “Rags, Chalky, BBK! Check this out.”

  They followed the direction of his voice, scrambling over the low hill. It opened onto a wide meadow walled by rock and bedded with tall grass rustling in a stiff wind coming from the west.

  Wander pointed to three makeshift gallows in a clearing, arranged around a fire pit. Bodies hung from two of them, or rather the remains of bodies. The legs had been chewed away by a pack of coyotes who’d retreated to the distant edge of the clearing.

  A chorus of whimpering snarls emanated from the yellow-eyed shadows where they circled and massed, meaning to scare off the intruders and get back to their feed.

  To no one in particular, Wander said, “So whaddya think—this the work of that potshot judge and his posse we heard about?”

  His voice had a keening edge, like he’d seen a ghost. There were those who believed Cochise himself wandered around up here. Maybe the coyotes themselves embodied the souls of slain braves.

  Rags ventured into the clearing, training his weapon, a Benelli semi-auto shotgun, at the alpha coyote who’d also inched forward, blood clotting the fur on its snout, lips snarling back to expose the fangs.

  If he’d had his Mossberg, he could’ve racked it, using the deep scraping crack of the slide to scare off the animal, but probably not even that would’ve worked. The pack was here to finish the job, and a mere four men weren’t going to keep that from happening.

  Rags didn’t want to risk exposing their position by actually firing off rounds, but the animals didn’t know that, so as he edged toward the nearest scaffold he trained the shotgun on the alpha male then scanned the barrel this way and that toward the gray-brown shapes behind as they slithered back and forth beyond the rim of scrub thickets.

  The closer he got to the swaying remains of the nearest corpse, the worse the stench and the more agitated the coyotes became, not just snarling now but letting out their distinctive, eerie yips and howls. When they edged forward, BBK and the others did as well, hissing as they advanced, and the hunching animals inched back again.

  Rags, gagging from the smell, ran his hand along the coarse, splintered wood of the scaffold’s shaft, tested it with a nudge—no give, no sway. The thing was solid, meant to be used. Meant to work.

  And so it had. The dead man’s eyes stared blankly down—a Mexican, maybe in his twenties, the skin of his broad empty face gray from the loss of blood.

  Wander said, “Puts a whole new meaning to hanging judge.” His voice edged toward shrill. He wiped at his face with his sleeve. “This here seems like some kinda message, ya ask me.”

  The dead man’s tattered plaid shirt fluttered in the breeze, nothing but dangling scraps of flesh and exposed bone where his legs and viscera used to be. Blood darkened the ground, littered with scraps of denim and flesh, splinters of bone, some small, some large. The larger pieces were pitted from where the coyotes had gnawed away.

  A single sheet of shiny white cardboard—like you find inside a store-bought shirt—hung crookedly around the young man’s neck, attached by a loop of twine. In bright red magic marker, the words: No pasaran.

  All guilt and regret over Giordano’s death melted away. Whoever does something like this, Rags thought, orders it, condones it, turns a blind eye, deserves what he gets.

  He said, “I’d call this more than a message.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Lisa lay awake with a song echoing faintly in the background of her thoughts: Richard Thompson, “Dad’s Gonna Kill Me.”

  From sheer exhaustion, she’d fallen asleep twice, once when she’d returned to her room after supper and once again after suffering through the late-night news.

  From the local broadcast, she’d learned not only that someone, despite her motion to seal the proceedings, had tipped off the media, but that Rankin, playing spokesman for the defense, lustily denied everything he and Littmann and the others had done.

  Worse, a senior member of the Holliday clan, the great-granddaughter of a female cousin to both Doc and Mattie, categorically reaffirmed the family’s position that the original letters had been destroyed. If any had supposedly surfaced, they had to be fake.

  Go ahead and say it, Lisa had thought, they’re worse than worthless. She tried to take heart from Nico’s affidavit, the one from the Hollywood producer placing the letters’ intangible value at $100,000 minimum. How much weight would that carry? Would even the Honorable Celestina Numkena, judge of the U.S. District Court, find that value a bit too intangible.

  She’d switched off the TV at that point and, despite the uptick in anxiety, or perhaps because of it, once again crashed. Now, two and a half hours later, her whole body shimmered with wakefulness. It felt not a little like terror.

  She checked her phone. Finally, an email:

  Sorry to be out of touch all day. Everybody was restless and on edge, so I took Rayella and the fellas down to the Chiricahuas for a hike in Cave Canyon, then a drive up through the oaks and pines to Massai Point to check out the hoodoos. We all scrambled around the rocks for a while—even me, imagine that, though admittedly only a bit—then drove down to Douglas for supper. Everybody had too much to drink for a safe drive back, so we’re hunkered down at a local hotel, down for the count. I’m about to turn in, too, but I’ve finally got Internet and wanted to let you know we’re all safe, nothing to worry about.

  Good luck tomorrow. Sorry we won’t be there to cheer you on, but we all know you’ll do great. Show those bastards what you’re made of, lady. Knock ’em dead. ~ Tuck

  She read it through twice, face brightened by the glow of her phone. With each pass, the same two words snagged on the door of her mind: imagine that.

  Struck by a sudden wave of nausea, she decided to catch some air.

  Rising from the bed, she shouldered into her robe—she’d bought pajamas late that afternoon, so she’d no longer be naked underneath as she ventured about—and slipped out barefoot onto the second-floor walkway.

  The air felt cool and smelled of windblown sage. Still queasy and a little lightheaded, she told herself to take slow deep breaths, and that did the trick for a moment. Then, as though thunderstruck, she found herself gripping the handr
ail, trying not to keel over.

  She stood there, like a seasick stowaway fighting the heaves. Finally, she gathered the strength to look up and became aware of the moon.

  It had ascended plump and white above the Santa Catalinas, the random markings across its surface so like the wrinkles and freckles of a big fat jolly face. How like Mr. Moon, she thought, to greet you with such radiant mockery.

  And that returned her to the memory that had darted along the edges of her mind all day, and in shards of surreal abstraction had bled into her dreams.

  ***

  Just before sunset, the day of the senior prom.

  Her gown was floor-length with a sweetheart neckline and keyhole back, made from chiffon lace with a patterned tule overlay and corseted piping.

  She’d stolen the retro hairstyle from Zooey Deschanel, using a boar bristle brush—volume up top, a tucked-under chignon, pins here and there to hold it all in place.

  One last glance in the full-length mirror, a final spin to enjoy the swooshing fullness of her skirt—time to show Father.

  He was out on the tennis court behind the house, one last game before dark, playing against her younger sister, Phoebe—the youngest, the whiz kid, the beauty.

  Even from a distance, Lisa caught the triumphant glisten of sweat on their skin, heard in every screech of their sneakers against the clay and every grunt as their rackets slammed the ball the utter joy of competition, the family obsession.

  Lisa was lousy at tennis, of course. Lousy at sports in general, crummy at puzzles, worthless at cards. Middle child. Middling in every respect.

  She stepped onto the porch. When, even after what felt like hours, she’d failed to get their attention, she waved—tentatively at first, then bit by bit more grandly, her whole arm sailing back and forth over her head, until finally she caught their eye—Phoebe first, for she was facing this way, then her father, who followed the direction of his favorite daughter’s gaze.

  Come look, Lisa thought, wanting to say it out loud. Shout it. The words caught in her throat.

  I’ve never looked lovelier. Please.

  Standing together at the net, her father and sister returned her wave, offering smiles. Then her father dribbled the ball with his racket as he walked back into position to resume his serve.

  I’m invisible, she thought. Like Old Lodge Skins in Little Big Man. The magic fool. Maybe not so magic.

  When her date arrived—Gabriel Kinzleman, her male BFF, incredible artist, hopelessly gay—her mother was upstairs on the phone, talking to Jonathan, oldest of the children and the only son, calling from Cambridge. And so it was Thuy, the housekeeper, who helped Gabe pin the corsage on Lisa’s gown.

  Once at the event, they parted ways, Gabe to find his real date, Donny Blackwell, Lisa merely the beard.

  Within minutes, she was halfway to hammered, sharing a flask of rum with Monica Sloan, Nicky Lancelotti’s fiancée—Nicky, the nephew of Michael Lancelotti, the infamous Mikey Lance, underboss to Handsome Stevie Mazzone, suspected triggerman in the hit on Joseph “Joey Chang” Ciancaglini.

  It was virtually impossible in Philadelphia, once you’d risen to a certain social and economic plateau, or attended certain schools, not to find yourself, in whatever peripheral way, connected to the so-called connected.

  Shortly, Nicky sidled up, two of his friends in tow, wearing their liquor reasonably well and, judging from the aroma, a blunt or two.

  Nicky lifted the flask from Monica’s hand, threw back a swig, passed it on to his nearest pal, then glanced around the ballroom, grimacing. “This thing blows.”

  “We were just saying,” Monica lied, nodding to Lisa for affirmation.

  “Definitely.” Lisa, always the trooper.

  At the sound of her voice, Nicky turned, checked her out top to bottom. “Holy goddamn. You are a stone cold fox.”

  She smiled, her skin tingly and hot all over, thinking: There. Is that so hard?

  He turned to his buddies. “Boyle, Ferry. Check out Balamaro.”

  The two eyed her up and down like they had pulleys attached to their necks.

  “Cha-didda-cha,” Boyle said, wiggling his hand, Ferry adding, “Lisa All-a-Smokeshow.”

  “We got a suite at the Rittenhouse,” Nicky said. “Private party. None of this,” gesturing with the flask around the room, the scrolls of bunting, the clustered balloons. As though on cue, the DJ segued from Mr. C’s “Cha Cha Slide” to Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.”

  In unison, Boyle and Ferry groaned, rolling their eyes. “Somebody wake up Grandpa.”

  “I’m serious,” Nicky said, leaning closer toward Lisa, looking a little possessed. “Bar’s fully stocked. Party hearty. We can flag down a cab.”

  “Couple cabs,” Monica said. “There’s, like, five of us now.”

  “Whatever.” Nicky’s eyes like switchblades. “Come on, Smokeshow. It’ll be fun.”

  ***

  In retrospect, she should have had the sense or strength to say no. In retrospect, she should have realized they were playing her, all of them, sensing she was vulnerable and ripe for a laugh—mobster’s nephew lures judge’s daughter into mortal sin.

  Not just any judge. The Honorable Jerome Balamaro, U.S. Third Circuit, constitutional scholar, routinely short-listed for the Supreme Court, just as routinely not chosen (too candid, too smart, too hard to predict and thus control).

  In retrospect…

  That was the problem with looking back. From the vantage point of the immaculate future, everything looked grim—her life a shambles, punctuated here and there with glimmers of promise and poise, sudden flashes in the dark, like fireflies in a graveyard.

  And so she went, she saw, she surrendered. In the guilty haze of memory: kissing, fondling, clothes coming off. No talking. Why bother? The answer was yes.

  When she woke, she was naked, her gown across the room with somebody’s puke caked across the front—hers? Did it matter?

  While everyone else slept on, she pushed through her merciless hangover and washed out the discolored tulle and lace in the bathroom sink, then tracked down her purse, dug out her phone. What cash she’d had was gone—she’d let them talk her into paying for both cabs.

  It meant she had to call home for a ride.

  Her only hope: Phoebe. She dialed her sister’s cell. Pick up, she pleaded silently. Come on, come on…

  The call went to voicemail. She dialed again. Same result. Same response. On the fourth try, finally, a groggy voice. “Are you nuts? What the—”

  “Phoebe,” she whispered. “Look. I’m in a jam. Don’t tell Mom and Dad. Okay? Please. I need a favor.”

  She gave her sister directions, hung up, and searched for her underthings, her shoes, then slithered back into the rank, sopping gown.

  The elevator to the lobby felt like a descending coffin—the silence, the smell. Outside on the curb, she sat down on a bench to wait. A half hour passed before the familiar Subaru appeared.

  She almost ran, only noticing once she opened the door that Phoebe wasn’t behind the wheel.

  Her father was.

  Dad’s gonna kill me…

  And there you have it, she thought. Your friends played you for a sucker, and your sister snitched you out.

  Her father said nothing the whole ride home. In fact, he never said much of anything to her ever again, even when she graduated summa cum laude from Georgetown, or earned her JD from Fordham. He returned his attention to his other two children, the ones who understood who they were, where they came from.

  And so, Lisa thought, staring up into the night sky—dressed in her spanking new PJs, silently howling at the moon—there’s the million-dollar question.

  Who am I?

  CHAPTER 33

  October 11, 1878

  Dear John Henry:

  I am in receipt of your most recent letter, the one mailed from Kansas. No need to apologize for the tardiness in your writing. I understand how time can slip through one’s fingers. So many
daily commitments, so little time for probing thought. Forgive me, though, if I permit myself a wry smile at the ironic aptness of the town’s name: Dodge City. Indeed.

  I will confess to growing concerned, since your last letter arrived so shortly after your convalescence in the wake of being shot, when you lay so near death.

  How pleasant, though, to hear from you at last, even if your news is largely offhand. How doubly rewarding to see that you are in such cheerful spirits, relative to the more bitter, cynical frame of mind you yourself admit characterized so many of your previous letters.

  I am in particular touched by the fact that, contrary to your previous admission to living by necessity in a state of abject, even savage solitude, you now find yourself almost swarmed with friends.

  Can I rightly assume that most prominent in that circle of camaraderie is the woman you call your bride?

  Let me see if I have my facts right.

  Her name is Katherine or Katrina or Kate, and she claims a noble heritage somewhere in Europe—Germany, perhaps, or Hungary.

  You have registered as man and wife at a boarding house owned by a man named Deacon Cox. There is, however, also some scurrilous gossip that she once worked as a nymph du pave.

  Now, I can imagine you wondering how I came by this information.

  I believe that at some point during your sojourn in Texas you made the acquaintance of a buffalo hunter named Bob Fambro, who harkens from southern Georgia. Apparently, his family received word from him about your present circumstances, and they shared it with Uncle John and Aunt Permelia.

  As you and I have both kept secret the more intimate feelings between us, they saw nothing untoward in alerting me to your marriage. Admittedly, I had to dig a little to learn the more salacious details, but I am nothing if not persistent, would you not agree?