Behind His Blue Eyes (30 page)

Thirty

B
y the time Ethan and the sheriff arrived back at the hotel, Yancey, Billy, and the other three men had returned.

“Get Thomas,” Brodie told the bellboy when he walked into the lobby. “Have him bring the children here. Yancey, get someone to help carry Bonet's body to Doc's clinic.”

“Bonet's body?” Tait looked at him in surprise. “He's dead?”

“And Audra's gone.”

Ash dragged a hand through his graying hair. “Bluidy hell.”

After assuring the women they would keep them apprised of any changes, Brodie took the men back to his office so they could organize the search for Audra without them hovering nearby.

They now knew the killer was Ezra Weems. Ash reported he was the only person to cross the sentry line that afternoon. “They let him pass because he's a regular traveler in and out of town. They dinna see anything suspicious.”

“Driscoll said he saw him earlier,” Rafe Jessup added, “leading his mule down the back road behind the hotel. Could have been headed to the newspaper office.”

“Then let's go after him,” Ethan said, impatiently. “The longer we wait, the more danger she's in.”

“Better to wait for Thomas,” Brodie advised. “He knows exactly where Weems's camp is, and how best to approach it unseen. If we go barging in, no telling how he'll react.”

“Aye. A surprise attack would be best, lad.”

It made sense, but the thought of sitting and doing nothing while Audra was out there . . .

Ash rested a hand on Ethan's shoulder. “Ten minutes, lad. That'll give Thomas time to get here, and time for us to come up with a battle plan. If Weems stays true to form, she'll be safe until the full moon.”

If . . .

Ethan let out an explosive breath. “Then I'm going to the Arlan place for my heavy jacket and rifle and bedroll. I'll be staying out until I find her, no matter how long it takes.”

“Good idea.” Tait followed him to the door. “I'll tell Lucinda to have Cook pack food to take with us.”

A few minutes later, Ethan walked into the kitchen at the Arlan house. A lamp sat on the table, but the main room was empty except for Phe, who came to greet him with a wagging tail. Ethan gathered what he would need, and was rolling up his bedding when Curtis came out of the downstairs bedroom.

Winnie came behind him, tightening the belt on her robe. “You find her?”

“No.” He finished tying the bedroll then turned to the old couple. “He's got her.” Admitting that aloud for the second time sucked the strength from his legs. He sagged onto the couch, suddenly dizzy. “He killed Bonet and took her. I don't know why. It makes no sense.”

“The killer got our Audra?”

“Laws a 'mercy, my poor baby.”

Ethan looked up, his eyes burning. “We'll find her. We'll bring her back.”

At a sound, he looked over to see Mr. Pearsall standing on the stair in his nightclothes. Seeing how the old man's hand shook as he clutched at the handrail, Ethan rose to go help him.

Palsied fingers gripped his arm. Faded brown eyes bore into Ethan's with fierce intensity. “My Audie is in trouble?”

Ethan nodded.

The fingers tightened, dug into his arm with surprising strength. “Then you find her, boy. You find my girl and bring her home.”

“I will, sir.”

* * *

The other men were mounting up when he returned to the sheriff's office. Thomas was there, sitting calmly on his spotted horse, weapons strung all over him; a sheathed knife, a rifle, a bow and quiver of arrows strapped across his back, and a long-handled war ax hanging from a low belt over his leather tunic. Every inch the Cheyenne warrior.

“You're not bringing your dog?” Ethan asked the Scotsman when he reined in beside him.

“I wouldna want Tricks killing the bluidy bastard before we learned the lass's whereabouts. He's an impatient sort, so he is.”

“There will only be the six of us,” Brodie said as he swung up on his leggy sorrel. “We'll move faster and quieter that way. Hold up your right hands.”

The sheriff rattled off the deputy oath so fast Ethan scarcely made sense of the words, but he said, “I do,” with the others at the appropriate time.

“Thomas says Weems's camp is on a high, open ledge about seven miles up the left fork.” The sheriff explained that since they wouldn't be able to approach unannounced, they would have to split up. He and Tait would ride into the camp like they were doing a general sweep and Weems wasn't their target, while the other four moved into hidden positions.

“Thomas and Ethan will go north and watch the camp from the top of the slope above his camp. Ash will be watching from the west, and Rafe from the east. On the south is a hundred-foot drop, so we don't have to worry about that. Since we're boxing him in, if there's shooting, be careful where you aim so we don't get each other in a cross fire.”

“He'll want to keep her hidden until the full moon,” Tait added, “so be patient. After the sheriff and I talk to him, we'll ride out while you four remain to see what he does. Eventually, if he feels he's safe, he'll go to wherever he has her hidden. Then we'll have him.”

Unless it's already too late.

Ethan blocked the thought and fought to bring the panic back down. He took a deep breath and let it out, then saw Thomas studying him. No expression showed on the Indian's swarthy face, but he gave a single, curt nod, and Ethan saw the resolve in those hard, black eyes.

Somehow, Audra had made it onto the warrior's protected list. Thank God.

It was full dark when they rode single-file into the canyon. Since the south side of Weems's camp was a sheer drop, the only way Ash could get to his position on the west was to loop north, so he followed Thomas and Ethan up the right fork along the sluice. The other three would ride past Audra's burned cabin, then Brodie and Tait would leave Rafe to cover their backs, and ride in alone.

After following the sluice for a couple of miles, Thomas angled off onto a higher trail. They rode through tall pines that soon dwindled into the stunted growth of alpine firs, and finally broke into the open above the timberline. The moon was still high enough to cast enough light for them to see a long way in the treeless terrain.

Ethan was glad he had gone back for his shearling jacket; the wind was sharp and steady, sweeping through the low scrub with a keening moan. The silvery light leached the world of color, and the black-and-white landscape seemed alien and barren.

After about two miles of picking their way over rocky trails and broad open stretches, Thomas reined in. When Ethan and Ash stopped beside him, he pointed down to a stand of wind-bent firs. “Ethan and I will leave our horses there and go the rest of the way on foot. Scotsman, you continue to that outcrop ahead, then cut south. The wind is against us, so that will help hide the sound of our passage. Go now,
nesene
, my friend.”

As Ash rode off, the Cheyenne glanced down at Ethan's sturdy boots. “If you make noise,
ve'ho'e
, you will take those off. From now on, we do not speak.” Without waiting for a response, he rode down toward the trees.

Ethan followed.

Minutes later, they were moving on foot through the stunted trees. Ethan tested every step so he wouldn't tread on a downed branch or kick up loose stones. When he caught the scent of wood smoke, it was a struggle to keep from racing ahead to see if Audra was there. The deeper they went into the trees, the less wind there was, and by the time Thomas signaled for him to stop, Ethan was sweating under his heavy jacket.

“
Hatahaoe,
” the Cheyenne whispered and pointed down the slope. “There.”

Ethan crept to the edge and peered down.

Thirty yards below was a wide ledge that was bordered by trees on the east and west, the slope where Thomas and Ethan waited on the north, and a sheer drop on the south. At the edge of the camp, a mule stood under a line stretched between two stunted trees. Nearby sat a sagging tent with a stovepipe sticking out the top, and behind it, in a group of boulders at the base of the bluff, a small spring dribbled water into a rocky pool. In the center of the clearing, a fading campfire sent up lazy tendrils of smoke, and on a rock beside it, scraping a hide by the light of a sooty lantern, sat Ezra Weems.

But no Audra.

Ethan looked at Thomas.

The Cheyenne shook his head.

Hell.

Looking back at the moonlit camp, Ethan searched for any sign of movement other than Weems working by the fire, or the mule moving restlessly on his tether. He saw nothing. The night was so still, he could hear the prospector muttering and singing. It sounded like “Buffalo Gals.”

Where was she? Was she even down there?

Frustration drumming through him, he stretched out beside Thomas to watch for Brodie and Tait, careful not to send loose pebbles bouncing down the slope. If she was being held nearby, at least Weems was sitting outside alone, rather than off hurting her in his tent or somewhere else. Ethan strained to listen, but heard only the singing and mumbling of the man by the fire.

A few minutes later, the mule snorted and lifted its head. Ethan froze, hoping the animal hadn't caught their scent, but it was looking off to the east.

Weems dropped the hide and rose. Picking up the rifle leaning against the rock he had used as a seat, he scanned the edge of the clearing, then hurried over to duck behind a big boulder near the spring directly below Ethan and Thomas.

Ethan heard them then, the clatter of shod hooves on rock announcing two riders making no effort to hide their progress. A moment later, the sheriff and Rylander rode out of the trees and into the clearing.

“Hallo the camp,” Brodie called as they reined in.

Ethan brought up his rifle in case the prospector came out shooting.

“That you, Sheriff?” Weems shouted from behind the boulder.

“It is,” Brodie called back. “And Tait Rylander from the hotel.”

The prospector stepped into view, his rifle ready but not at his shoulder.

Ethan relaxed. Flattening on the ground beside Thomas, he watched the men below.

Weems walked down toward the fire. “Out kinda late, ain't you, Sheriff?”

“We're looking for somebody. A woman.”

Weems snickered. “Then you come to the right place. Got a whole passel of them yonder in the tent. Take yer pick. Damn whores won't leave me alone.” Pleased with his wit, he broke into a belly laugh that ended in a coughing and spitting fit.

Ethan's fingers itched to close around his neck.

“We're looking for the woman who works in the newspaper office,” Brodie went on once Weems caught his breath. “Miss Pearsall. Somebody carried her off. You see anyone ride by here this evening?”

“Nobody rides by here, Sheriff. I'm so far off the beaten path, not even the badgers visit. She the one marrying the railroader?”

“How'd you hear about that?”

“I get to town now and again. Today, in fact.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary while you were there?”

“Like a woman getting carried off?” Another laugh. Another cough. More spit. “Can't say's I did,” he said, wiping a jacket sleeve over his mouth. “'Spect I mighta noticed that.”

“Anybody else farther up the canyon?”

The prospector shook his head. “Trail ends here. Too steep beyond. Until the railroad blasts it out, I suppose.” He made a show of looking around. “And speaking of railroads, why ain't her
fi-an-say
here looking for her?”

“He is. Over on the other side of the ravine.”

Tait shifted in the saddle, one hand reaching down to rub his bad knee. “The man who owns the newspaper was found dead in the office. Last she was seen, Miss Pearsall was headed that way.”

“Maybe she killed him and run off.”

“I doubt it.”

“Then maybe the railroader killed him.”

“He was with us all afternoon,” Brodie said.

“Then I guess you wasted your day.”

“Probably.” Brodie swung down and handed his reins to Tait. “But just to be sure, I'll take a look in your tent before we head back to town.”

Weems waved him to it, and settled again on his rock, the rifle across his bent knees. “Tell the ladies I'll be in shortly,” he called and laughed.

Ten minutes later, Brodie and Tait rode out.

Weems continued to sit by the fire until the sound of their progress back down the trail faded, then he laughed, put the rifle away, and dug out the fixings for supper. While it cooked, he puttered around camp, turning the hides on the drying rack, throwing hay to his mule, carting buckets of water from the pool in the rocks. Then he sat on his seat by the fire and ate his meal straight from the pan.

Apparently, he wasn't saving anything for Audra—if she was even there. Once he licked the pan clean, he dropped it on a stack of firewood by the fire, picked up his lantern, and started up the slope where Thomas and Ethan waited.

Expecting to be discovered, Ethan grabbed his rifle again. But before he could work the lever, Thomas put out a hand to stop him.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

Weems continued up the slope, humming softly to himself. Halfway up, he stepped off the trail and disappeared behind several big boulders. Not even the glow from his lantern showed in the darkness.

Ethan looked at Thomas. “What's he doing?”

Thomas shrugged.

“I'm going down.” Ethan started to rise.

“Patience,” Thomas said, and pulled him back down. “If he does not show himself soon, we will both go down.”

“‘Soon' better not be more than a few minutes.”

Thirty-one

A
udra didn't know how long she sat in the dark. Minutes? Hours? Without light, she had no way to mark the passage of time. As if to compensate, her other senses seemed to grow stronger, adding fuel to her overworked imagination.

She heard things crawling, smelled the rankness of the decaying meat on the plate, tasted acid from her own churning stomach. Trapped in blackness, she jumped at every furtive rustling, not knowing what was coming at her and from which direction. She wondered how the blind could bear it.

She tried to combat the terror with thoughts of Ethan, Father, all her new friends in Heartbreak Creek. Did they know now that she was missing? Were they looking for her yet?

Earlier, she imagined she'd heard hushed voices, but they were gone in a moment. They sounded like they had come from just outside in the corridor, or from somewhere overhead. But that was impossible. She had seen the stone walls of the passageway and this small cavern. If someone had been walking on the ground above her, she couldn't have heard them this far underground.

Time passed. And as she huddled fearfully in the dark, arms locked around her knees and skirts tucked so the bugs couldn't crawl up her legs, a horrible realization had come to her. They wouldn't find her in time. Even if Ethan came to Weems's camp, he would never think to look for her in this black pit. She would die here unless she found a way to escape.

But to do that, she would need light.

She knew Weems wouldn't simply give her a candle or lantern. She would have to bargain for it. But all she had to bargain with was herself. The notion was so repugnant she almost vomited. There had to be another way.

Forcing the fear aside, she tried to think. What did Weems want most?

To kill me.

So why didn't he?

He's waiting for the full moon.

And what would spoil his plans?

If I killed myself first.

A horrifying thought. Yet, it might work if she could bluff him into thinking she would actually do it.

How?

I could tell him I'll fling myself against the collar so hard it will break my neck.

Improbable that it would work, and doubtful that he would believe her capable of doing it.

I could hang myself.

From what?
There was no convenient hook in the ceiling or a chair from which to take that final fatal step.

I could refuse to eat or drink.

Too long.
She only had four days. Or was it three now?

I could swallow my tongue.

Was that even possible? What if he dared her to try it?

I could use the piece of metal in my pocket. Threaten to open a vein in my wrist.

And what if he called her bluff? Could she stick the tine in her arm? More likely, as soon as he saw what she intended to do, he would take it away from her, leaving her with nothing to use against him later.

So it would have to be something she could demonstrate if necessary, without doing permanent damage to herself. Something so believable he would give her a candle or lantern rather than miss out on the fun of killing her.

Like what?

For a long time, she played different scenarios through her mind. Most were implausible at best. All of it was implausible, in fact. Absurdly macabre—horrifying—that she would be sitting here in a living tomb, at the mercy of a madman, devising ways to end her life.

Perhaps she was trapped in a terrible dream.

Perhaps she was insane.

Either way, she wouldn't allow Weems to defeat her. She would keep thinking and plotting, and as long as she didn't let fear and despair take over her mind, a workable idea would come to her.

And finally it did. She remembered that several of her father's papers on ancient cultures had dealt with ritual human sacrifice. She recalled one involving self-strangulation. The victim put a noose around his neck, tied the other end to a stationary object behind him, then knelt down at the end of the tether and leaned into the noose until he slowly ran out of air. Because the spine couldn't bend backward, even if the victim fainted, he would hang there against the noose until eventually he died.

She sat up, hope building. She had the noose—her collar. And she had the stationary object—the wall to which the chain was bolted. All that was missing was the will to do it. Or, at least the ability to convince Weems she had the will.

It could work.

A faint glow of light showed through the opening. Shuffling footsteps.

Terror engulfed her, sent irrational thoughts careening through her head. What if it was already the full moon? What if he was coming to kill her early? What if he intended to force himself on her, torture her, beat her with Gallagher's whip just for fun?

She buried her face in her knees, almost choking on fear. Then that voice of reason screamed through her mind.
No! You can do this!

She had to. Or go insane. Or give up and die.

On trembling legs, she stood, smoothed back her tangled hair, and clasped her shaking hands at her waist. Hiking her chin, she stared at the opening and watched the light grow brighter with each shuffling step.

Then suddenly he was there, a hulking form in the opening, his rank odor wafting through the small space like a poisonous cloud. Breathing through her mouth, she squinted against the sudden brightness.

“Still alive, I see.” His laughter boomed off the walls. “The little buggies didn't get you yet?”

“I want a lamp.”

He set the lantern on the high rock, then faced her, hands on hips. “Not a chance.”

“A candle then. Or I kill myself.”

He tensed. “Kill yourself how?”

“Self-strangulation. It was a practice among ancient cultures that indulged in human sacrifice.” Seeing he had difficulty following, she explained how she would go about it. “It's really quite painless,” she concluded. “And most effective.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To ruin your fun. And because I'm afraid of the dark.”

She watched speculation flash in his pig-like eyes, and realized she would have no trouble driving the jagged point of the piece of metal into one of them. But he was too crafty to come within reach of her tether.

“I ain't giving you no lantern.”

She didn't respond.

“But I guess a candle wouldn't hurt.” Reaching up to the shelf where he had set the lantern, he retrieved a candle and a small box of friction matches. When he saw her expression of surprise, he snickered. “Poor little girlie. Spent all that time crying in the dark when she had a candle right above her head.” He tossed the candle and matches at her, laughing as she fell to her knees, scrambling to find them in the tangled blankets.

“They came looking for you today.”

She rose, the precious candle and box of matches in her hands.

“Didn't stay long. Looked around some, then left. They'll never find you, girl, not in this old mine shaft, so you can get that hope out of your head. You're here to do with as I please. Or at least until the full moon.” He laughed and rubbed his crotch. “Now for some fun.”

Horrified, she sidled away.

He grabbed the chain and hauled her back. “Relax. I ain't gonna hurt you. Not this time. Just want to see the goods. Take off your shirt.”

“N-No.”

Another yank almost pulled her off her feet. “Do it, girl. Or I will. In fact, you keep defying me and I may do more than look. Now take it off.” Grinning, he stepped back out of reach and slid a hand into his trousers.

Do what he says. Stay alive.

Shaking so much she feared she'd drop them, she slipped the candle and matches into her skirt pocket, then unbuttoned her blouse.

“Open it,” he said, hoarsely. “And pull down that underthing so I can see your titties.”

She did, her tear-blurred gaze fixed on the far wall, bile rising in her throat.

“Nice. I like 'em plump and round.”

Shivering with revulsion, she waited for him to touch her.

He didn't.

But she heard his breathing change and the rustle of fabric grow louder as he fondled himself, and imagined the vile thoughts circling his maggot brain.

A few minutes later, he let out a deep groaning breath. More rustling as he righted his clothing. “Next time I'll have a taste.” Picking up the lantern, he turned and walked through the opening.

With trembling fingers, she buttoned her blouse, then sank down onto the pallet. Nausea rolled through her stomach. She couldn't stop shaking.

Yet, as the light and his footsteps faded, despite the loathing and fear, she felt a thrilling sense of triumph.

“I'll kill you!” she screamed into the darkness, then cringed when her voice ricocheted back at her from all directions, building into a thousand angry voices. But instead of frightening her, they filled her with hope.

Now she had a weapon. And a light. She could win this.

* * *

Impatience ate at Ethan. Weems had been out of sight for too long. What was he doing? Where had he gone? Did he have Audra hidden in those rocks?

“I'm not waiting any longer.” He rose, then immediately dropped down when the prospector stepped back into sight. After pausing to do up his trousers, he headed down to his camp, the lantern swinging from his hand.

Apparently, the boulders were his latrine.
Son of a bitch.

Beside him, Thomas muttered something in Cheyenne and shook his head.

So where was Audra? If she was here, why hadn't Weems gone to her?

Unless she wasn't here. Or someone else had her. Or Weems had no more use for her.

No. She's alive
. He could feel it.

Weems went into his tent. Before long, a thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the stovepipe, reminding Ethan that he'd left his bedroll tied to Renny's saddle, and that the night would get colder. A few minutes later, the tent went dark and silence settled over the camp.

He had been so sure the killer would lead them to Audra. Now they would have to wait until dawn. If the bastard didn't go to her then, Ethan vowed to go down and confront Weems himself. His only comfort was that Weems wasn't with her now.

With a weary sigh, he lay back and watched the moon slide toward the western peaks. In the trees nearby, an owl hooted, and farther away, the howl of a wolf cut through the stillness. Lonely sounds on a cold, lonely night that conjured up thoughts of Audra, and another night not too long in the past when he'd held her in his arms and felt her shiver beneath his stroking hands.

Would he ever touch her again?

The waiting was agony—not knowing what was happening to her or what he should do. She could be within feet of where he sat, waiting for him to come. Not even those chaotic hours after the walls fell at Salty Point had been this bad.

He glanced over at the man dozing beside him, his hands folded over his belly, his chin tucked to his chest. The waiting didn't seem to bother Thomas. Either the Cheyenne was made of stone, or he was unconscious. Ethan had never seen a man sit so long without moving. He wished he could doze like that, but somebody had to keep watch. Maybe if he closed his eyes just for a minute . . .

When next he opened them, the moon had disappeared, the sky was the color of pewter, and Thomas was sitting nearby on a downed log, eating from one of the packets of food Tait had given them.

Ethan sat up when a second packet landed on his chest. “Canteen?” he whispered.

The Indian smirked. “White people.”

Even though he had no appetite and his stomach was a mass of knots, Ethan made himself eat so he could keep up his strength. He was finishing off a slightly stale biscuit when Thomas suddenly appeared beside him—how did the man move so silently?

Bending, the Cheyenne whispered, “I will go now to check with the others. You will stay here and make no sound.”

“Tell them that as soon as it's full light, I'm going down there.”

“Wait until I return. I will go with you.”

* * *

After Weems left, Audra lit the candle and studied her prison. Knowing she wouldn't have light for long if she burned the candle continuously, she mapped every inch of the cavern in her mind so she would still be able to find her bearings in the dark.

Now that she knew searchers had come and gone, she gave up any hope of being found in time. And as much as she might want to kill her captor, she knew if Weems died, she would remain chained to the wall in this hole forever.

Her only hope of survival was escape. And her only hope of escape was to break her tether.

Working as quickly as she could in the flickering candlelight, she examined the chain. Rusty but still solid. The collar was too thick to cut through with her piece of metal, and the lock on it wouldn't budge. If there was any weakness, it was where the chain attached to the wall.

Wishing she had her spectacles, she studied it intently. A screw with an open, looped top had been drilled into the stone. The chain was then passed through the loop and secured with another lock.

She yanked on the chain. Nothing. She tried to pick the lock, but the metal tine was too big to fit into the keyhole. Using her rocks, she struck the bolt again and again, trying to snap it off, but the rocks broke apart first. Sobbing in frustration, she sank down against the wall, trembling from lack of food and sleep, her mind dulled by hours of unrelenting fear.

I can't do this anymore. I want it over.

How? A brutal death at the hands of Weems? Or a slow, agonizing death by starvation? Or . . .

Tears streaming down her face, she pulled out the piece of metal.

Or . . . end it herself.

The idea was abhorrent. An affront to everything she believed. But what choice did she have? They weren't coming back. And if they did, they would never find her down here. Better to die on her own terms, rather than those of a madman.