by Mark Frost
Time to reassume his own identity.
By nine o'clock that morning, the Chicago Western Union office had received a flurry of responses to their late-night barrage of telegrams. Attaching the name Arthur Conan Doyle to the inquiries greatly increased the alacrity and density of detail in the returns, particularly from newspaper editors, most of whom confessed they couldn't help with the requested information but were unable to resist firing off a question or two about the uncertain fictional fate of you-know-who.
As they had suspected, the most promising results came back in a lengthy reply from the Arizona Republican in Phoenix, the Arizona Territory's first newspaper.
The editor wrote that local attention was growing in the direction of a recently found religious settlement a hundred miles to the northwest. Called itself The New City, built on private property; its founders had bought over fifty square miles of surrounding undeveloped land. Clearly they had a lot of money to throw around; speculation about The New City's wealth centered on the possible striking of some fabulous silver lode.
Every one of the paper's repeated attempts to research a story on the place had been politely but firmly rebuffed; folks wanted to hang on to their privacy out there for some reason. That attitude didn't raise a sea of red flags in this sparsely populated corner of the world; a lot of people came west in search of that same commodity.
One of the reporters the Republican sent out that way had found the The New City so much to his liking he decided to stay on. They hadn't heard a single word from the man after a telegram announced his resignation—in which he described the place only as a "kind of Utopia"—but that didn't surprise folks at the paper much: He was a bachelor fellow from Indiana, an odd duck who'd never quite fit in.
Neither were Utopian social experiments that great a rarity in the development of the American character, noted Doyle. Over a hundred had sprung up all over the country since the Civil War, the most noteworthy being the Oneida Community of Perfectionists in upstate New York; known for the fine silverware they produced but even more for their bold rejection of marital monogamy. At the opposite end of the sexual spectrum were Mother Ann Lee's Shakers of the Millennial Church, strict celibate abstainers who had set up shop in more than thirty different locations from Massachusetts to Ohio. How they planned to perpetuate themselves without benefit of biological reproduction didn't seem to worry them since Mother Lee had prophesied the end of civilization within their lifetimes; chastity ensured them that theirs would be the only souls allowed through the Gates of Heaven. Why the Shakers then devoted themselves to building such sturdy, built-to-last crafts and furniture when there wouldn't be anyone left to appreciate them was a question they never got around to asking.
Arizona's attitude toward The New City could best be described as "live and let live," wrote the editor. A number of Mormon settlements had established themselves in that same northwest quarter of the territory over the last few years, and they kept to themselves as their creed dictated without raising any eyebrows; why, the entire state of Utah had sprung up around the Mormons and the fortunes they'd made in their ranching and mining enterprises. Far be it from the politicians of Arizona to turn their back on such rich potential revenue out of small-minded religious prejudice.
So: Economically self-sustaining and socially self-governing, what business was it of anybody's if these people of The New City wanted to live according to their own beliefs, whatever they might be? (No one seemed to know a thing about that.) And if any financial benefits trickled down to the surrounding area in which they chose to establish their community, as they so obviously had to the non-Mormons of Utah, so much the better. Absolutely consistent with the American guarantee of religious freedom, that was the Republican's editorial position on the subject.
Hustling to a local bookstore and returning with a detailed map of the Arizona Territory, Innes charted The New City's location as described by the editor directly in the heart of the eastern Mojave Desert.
So far so good. The issue of what they should do in response was definitively settled by one last nugget from the Republican. Rumor had it the citizens of The New City were building a tabernacle to rival the one the Mormons had recently completed in Salt Lake City. No one at the paper had actually laid eyes on the place, but it was going up fast and was supposedly being fashioned from black stones drawn from quarries in northern Mexico.
The black church.
After leaving the telegraph office, Doyle returned to the Palmer House and delivered a promissory note of $2,500 to Major Rolando Pepperman, guaranteeing Doyle's participation in the remainder of his tour after a two-week delay. Needed, he told the Major, for the resolution of unspecified personal difficulties. Confined to his bed, hung over and glum, Pepperman accepted Doyle's offer without question, fully expecting never to see the man again, and with a resigned feeling of relief. The Major had already made up his mind; if they would have him, he was going back to the circus.
Because no connection to The New City had been established, the editor of the Republican did not mention in his telegram the story dominating their local headlines, that of the decapitating fugitive Chinaman, Chop-Chop—he'd coined the nickname personally; one of his finer editorial hours.
If he had, Doyle, Jack, Innes, Presto, Stern, and Walks Alone would have made their way to the Chicago train station and purchased their one-way tickets to Phoenix with even greater urgency.
The night before, while visiting the dream again, Walks Alone had been able to distinguish one of the faces of the other three figures that had joined them underground:
An Asian man, who held in his hands a flaming sword.
By the time Dante Scruggs knitted his savaged wits back into something close to working order, he realized he was riding a train. A private compartment, daylight outside the windows, moving through open countryside; farms, fields of wheat. Three other men sitting with him, dressed in suits, vaguely recognizable: He'd seen them all in Frederick's offices the night before.
The men who'd hurt him.
They watched Dante closely as he came around, with interest but without emotion or friendliness. The three looked different from one another but seemed the same in behavior, gesture, each of them pulled taut as a bowstring, containing a violence that threatened to spill over at the slightest provocation. Dante understood what that feeling was all about.
"What time is it?" asked Dante.
The three men stared at him; finally one of them pointed to the watch pocket of his vest.
Looking down at himself, Dante realized he was similarly dressed, like a traveling businessman. Dante put a hand into his own vest pocket, pulled out a watch, and opened it.
Two-fifteen.
He replaced the watch. Felt a dull throbbing on the inside of his left arm, then, remembering the brand they'd inflicted on him there, decided not to touch the area or draw their attention to it. Who knew what else they might do to him?
Why couldn't he remember anything after the searing pain of those moments? Their hands holding him down; Frederick's lace looming over his, speaking softly, hypnotically. He had obviously blacked out but more than twelve hours had passed since then. Had they given him some kind of drug that erased everything else from his mind?
He wanted to ask a hundred questions, but fear kept him quiet. Something else rose up unexpectedly: a feeling of kinship with these men. Dante had seen the marks on their arms; obviously they'd all experienced what he'd gone through last night—the suffering and terror of that nightmarish initiation. It united them in a way that meant more than friendship; he didn't need friends, never had.
Fellowship, that was something else again.
What had Frederick said to him?
An army. These were soldiers, as he had been once and was now again.
Fighting men. The idea grew on him.
What had he hated about the regular army, anyway? The small talk, petty complaints, and laziness of the average volunteer, their stupidity and lack
of discipline. Any behavior that distracted from what he saw as their primary business: killing.
That didn't seem to be a problem with these men. Dante felt himself relax. Maybe Frederick was right. Maybe he did fit right in.
The door opened; the two men nearest to it got up and went outside, as Frederick entered and took a seat directly across from Dante. At the sight of Frederick's handsome smiling face, Dante tensed up again, his heart raced, his palms went moist.
"How are you feeling?" asked Frederick warmly.
"Okay," said Dante. "Real good."
"Any discomfort?"
Dante shook his head.
"Any ... second thoughts?"
"No, sir."
Frederick stared at him until Dante had to look away. Frederick put a friendly hand on his knee, rubbed it intimately. Dante blushed, looked up at him, and grinned.
"You'll do just fine," said Frederick. "With your background, the training shouldn't prove difficult."
"Training?"
"Shouldn't take long, either. You've been a leader of men before. You may even be officer material."
"Whatever you say."
Frederick leaned back and studied him. "Hungry, Mr.Scruggs?"
"Yes, sir," said Dante, realizing. "Real hungry."
Frederick gestured; the man remaining in the compartment pulled down a wicker basket from the luggage rack, set it on the seat beside Dante, and snapped it open, revealing a mouthwatering selection of sandwiches, fruit, and beverages.
"We are careful about what we eat," said Frederick. "Good food. Nutritious and well balanced. No liquor is allowed."
"I don't drink, anyway," said Dante.
"That's fine. An army travels on its stomach, isn't that right, Mr. Scruggs? Help yourself."
Dante could hardly recall ever feeling so ravenous; he devoured three sandwiches and two bottles of ginger ale without saying a word, wiping his mouth across the sleeve of his new jacket, shameless as a starving dog. Frederick leaned back in his seat, folded his hands neatly, and watched Dante eat, a sly smile playing across his strong features.
As Dante finished eating and let out a resounding belch, at a signal from Frederick the third man replaced the basket in the rack and left the compartment. Frederick delicately held out a napkin; Dante stared at it for a moment before realizing what this was, then took it and cleaned off his dripping mouth and chin.
"Are you curious about the group you've become part of, Mr. Scruggs?" asked Frederick, with that teasing smile again.
"I figure my job is," said Dante, pausing to bring up another burp, "do what I'm told and don't ask questions."
"Good. For instance, you do not need to know what we call ourselves, because it is not a question you will ever be required to answer."
Dante nodded.
"You will never be told anything unless we determine that you need to know it. Do you know where we are going now?''
"West somewhere," said Dante with a shrug, observing the position of the sun out the window.
"Quite perceptive; but beyond that, do you care where you are going?"
"No, sir."
"We are great believers in discipline, Mr. Scruggs. Discipline of behavior; discipline of the self. It is essential to our work that people should not take any notice of us. Imagine, for example, that a job you were involved with required you to dine in a fancy restaurant and it was important for you to blend seamlessly into that crowd."
"Okay."
Frederick leaned forward and whispered, "Do you think that would be possible, Mr. Scruggs, if you were to exhibit the table manners of a pig rolling around in its own shit?"
Dante felt the blood drain from his face; Frederick still smiled at him.
"No, sir."
"This is why we learn to train our minds; and why we believe every personal failing must be so severely punished. this is how we learn."
Sweat trickled down the back of Dante's neck. Frederick reached over and patted Dante's leg.
"Don't look so worried, Mr. Scruggs. I hadn't made you aware of our standards and you were so very hungry. But having had this conversation, I won't expect to see such a disgusting display from you ever again. Will I?"
"No, sir."
Frederick gave Dante's thigh a reassuring squeeze and leaned back.
"We recognize that each of our men is uniquely qualified In do our work, and if he pleases us, he should be uniquely rewarded. You have developed your own particular interests in life, Mr. Scruggs, apart from ours; we feel that if you have fulfilled our needs to a high level of satisfaction, we should in turn provide you with an opportunity to satisfy yours."
"Okay." What did he mean?
"Do not be deceived; this generosity springs from a selfish foundation: It has been our experience that giving a man what he wants when he pleases us will only provoke him to work that much harder in the future. It is an investment. Do you follow me?"
"I'm not sure."
"An example would be in order. Let's imagine that we have given you a difficult assignment to complete and you have performed it flawlessly. What might you expect from us in return?"
Dante shook his head.
Frederick, all-knowing, snapped his fingers; one of the men opened the door from the corridor outside and in walked a plump, attractive young woman, a strawberry blonde, provocatively dressed, carrying a small valise.
"Yes?" said Frederick to the woman.
"Pardon me, gentlemen, I don't mean to intrude," said the woman, obviously nervous.
"How can we help you, miss?" asked Frederick politely.
"I found this case, you see, under my seat in the next car over?" she said, in a grating midwestern drawl. "And the fella outside—your friend, I guess, he was sitting across from me— he said he thought it belonged to one of you gents in here. So he asked if I wouldn't mind bringing it back myself."
"How very kind of you," said Frederick. "Did our friend offer you anything for its safe return?"
"Sort of," said the woman, blushing.
"How do you mean?"
"He said one of you fellas would give me ten dollars if I did it."
"He would be right," said Frederick, taking out his billfold. "Forgive my manners, won't you join us for a moment, miss? It must be more comfortable in here and we really are most grateful."
"All right," she said, still standing, awkwardly holding the valise.
The man in the hall closed the door behind her, leaving her alone with Dante and Frederick.
"Here then, Mr. Johnson," said Frederick to Dante, "why don't you take your case back from the young lady?"
Dante glanced at Frederick in confusion.
"Oh, is it yours?" said the woman, holding it out to him.
"Thank you," said Dante. He accepted the case from her, holding it stiffly in his lap.
Frederick patted the seat beside him and the young woman sat down, as he slipped a ten-dollar bill from his billfold.
"As promised," said Frederick.
"Thank you very much, sir," said the woman, taking the money, eyes downcast, embarrassed.
"No, thank you, my dear," said Frederick. "Mr. Johnson, perhaps you should examine your case and make sure everything is in order."
Dante nodded, set the case flat across his knees, and carefully unfastened the twin clasps.
"If you don't mind my asking, are you traveling alone, miss?" asked Frederick. "What is your name, by the way?"
"Rowena. Rowena Jenkis. No, I don't mind. And yes, I am," she said. "Traveling alone, that is."
"I see," said Frederick, smiling warmly. "You're a very pretty girl, if you don't mind my remarking."
"No, I don't mind at all."
"Are you a prostitute, by any chance, Rowena?"
The girl looked stricken; her hands tensed into fists and she (•lanced nervously at the door. Frederick studied her reaction carefully.
"Please, I don't mean any offense by the question," said Frederick pleasantly. "And I certainly hold no ill fe
eling towards you if you are. We're all very open-minded here. It's only an observation. To satisfy my curiosity."
She looked rapidly back and forth between them. "I guess I done some of that, yeah," she said, her hands relaxing, stroking the silky mohair seat.
Dante opened the case; inside, laid out meticulously on a bed of black velvet were arrayed two rows of new, gleaming, stainless steel surgical instruments; scalpers, spreaders, saws.
"Is everything in order, Mr. Johnson?" asked Frederick.
"Oh yes."
"Nothing missing?"
"No," said Dante. "Everything's fine."
"Good."
Dante slowly fastened the case and looked up at the girl.
She smiled at him; the one with the accent seemed a bit sophisticated and intimidating for her taste, but she liked this boyish-looking blond. She thought she could have some fun with this one, bringing that little boy out in him. He had a real friendly face—she was severely nearsighted but hated wearing glasses—but there was something funny about his left eye: What was it?
"May I offer you a drink, Rowena?" asked Frederick, bringing down the picnic basket. "Perhaps something to eat. We've brought along some lovely sandwiches."
"That'd be just wonderful, thanks," said Rowena, snuggling back into her first-class seat.
Rowena hadn't been looking forward to moving to Kansas City one little bit; she knew the house she was going to work in there was nowhere near as nice as the one she'd just left in Chicago, and she hated having to get to know a whole bunch of new girls all over again.
But judging by the size of the bankroll in this fancy gent's billfold, she had a feeling this trip might turn out all right after all.
By midafternoon, Buckskin Frank had made up the actors' head start. For all his years riding through the region, he'd never been out this far before; not even Apaches had much use for the place. The heat was brutal once you hit the sand, but he knew how to pace a horse through it; he'd done it a hundred times in other wastelands, and he stopped every hour to water both himself and the horse; he'd always taken good care of his animals. They seemed more deserving of kindness than most people he'd known and returned it more faithfully.
