Authors: Michael P. Spradlin
B
y the time they arrived back in Denver, Hollister was almost completely healed. Even the scar where the blade had entered his stomach was slowly disappearing. Chee developed an uneasy truce with Shaniah when he saw Hollister’s improvement. She remained on Dog’s bad list though.
Monkey Pete was happy to hear his contraptions had worked, but less so when he found out his equipment had been left behind.
“Sorry, Monkey Pete,” Hollister said. “In all the excitement we forget to grab the Ass-Kicker also, so it’s gone too, and I expect Winchester ain’t going to be too happy about that either. Besides, your damn dynamite nearly got us killed, so stop whining.” Pete groused and muttered a few curses but eventually came around.
The train chugged into Denver, and Hollister was happy to see the warehouse again. He’d come to think of it as home. Which was strange because there was nothing homelike about it.
On the way Shaniah and Hollister made no attempts to hide their relationship. But to Jonas it felt as if a veil of melancholy had descended over her and he couldn’t tell why. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t jolly her out of it.
They arrived about three o’clock in the afternoon. The warehouse became a hub of activity as the train was resupplied and restocked. Shaniah and Hollister stayed in his cabin until it grew dark.
“There’s something I’ve got to go do,” he said. “When I get back, let’s take a walk. Sound good?”
She stood and took him in her arms. She kissed him, a long lingering kiss.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“For what you did for me. For my people. For keeping your promise.”
“Huh,” he said.
D
eclan hadn’t heard from Slater or any of his men and he was starting to get nervous. He entered his mansion at dusk and went to the study.
He was pouring the bourbon from his decanter when he realized a man was sitting at his desk. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted, spilling bourbon all over himself and the floor.
“Good evening, Senator,” Hollister said.
“Is that you, Hollister? What the hell are you doing here, trespassing in my house? By God, I’ll have you arrested!” His heart sank. If Hollister was here, then it meant Slater was probably dead. This was not good. Not good at all.
“I don’t think you’ll have me arrested. I don’t think you’ll do much of anything. In fact, in another forty-eight hours I don’t even think you’ll be a senator anymore.”
“What? Are you out of your mind? Get out of my house,” he said.
Hollister pulled a letter out of his vest pocket.
“I found this letter in Slater’s saddlebag. He’s dead, by the way. Pretty interesting, you transferring all this land and money to him, right before he comes trying to kill me.”
“That letter doesn’t prove anything,” the senator said. “I was simply rewarding an employee for years of loyal service.”
Hollister stood up and walked toward the senator, who instinctively backed up.
Hollister kept moving forward, the senator backpedaling until he was nearly standing in the fireplace.
“I think whether it proves anything or not isn’t up to you or me. I think I’ll send a copy of it to the governor and the president. Just for the hell of it, see what they think about it.”
“You—you—wouldn’t do that . . .” Declan stammered.
Hollister folded the letter back up and put it back in his pocket. “Your reaction tells me everything I need to know. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
Hollister stepped over to the table holding the decanters and poured himself a large glass of bourbon.
“First, you are going to get your son some help. Get him out of that bedroom, find an asylum or some doctors somewhere who will help him. Then you’re going to resign from the senate and you’re never going to run for any kind of office again. Ever. And third, you’re going to give back all the land you stole from the farmers and ranchers. Every acre. Give it back to the state, land grants, I don’t care. It goes back to the original owners if they still want it.”
“You’re insane,” Declan said.
“I am. If you’d seen what I saw, you’d be insane too,” Hollister said.
“I’m not doing any of these things.” Declan snorted.
“You will. You have two days.” Hollister put down the glass and walked back to where Declan stood. He drew his Colt, thumbing back the hammer. He put the barrel under Declan’s chin. The senator closed his eyes, tears escaping and running down his cheeks.
“You will do it, in two days. Or I”ll come back and kill you. Your choice,” Hollister said. “And don’t try sending anyone after me. Slater was as good as there was. Just not good enough.”
He left the mansion, the senator’s eyes still closed and tears cascading down his cheeks, long after Hollister was gone.
S
haniah went to the stock car and led Demeter down the ramp. He was saddled and ready to go. It was best this way. She was an Archaic who needed to return to her people. Hollister was a human being who needed to get on with his life and though she should not have these feelings for him, she did. It would be a clean break.
She mounted Demeter and was startled to find Chee standing on the other side of her horse, the ever-present Dog at his side.
“You’re leaving,” he said.
“Yes. It’s best this way,” she said.
He studied her a moment. “I agree,” he said.
“You don’t like me,” Shaniah said.
“No. Not really,” Chee answered.
“Why?”
“You think you love the major and he loves you. He does. But it cannot be,” he said.
“And so you hate me because he fell in love with me?” she asked.
“No. I hate you because you are an Archaic. And we are enemies, like the lion and the lamb,” he said.
“We leave humans alone,” she said. “We have for centuries.”
“For now. But it will not always be that way,” he said.
“Then hate me. If as you say, that is how it must be,” she said.
He nodded.
“Will you tell him I said good-bye?” she asked.
“I will not,” Chee answered.
“Why not?”
“It will only make it harder for him,” he said.
“I do not understand you, witch-man,” she said.
He shrugged.
She reined Demeter around and started on her journey home. Before she reached the warehouse door, she heard Chee call out to her and she stopped, wheeling Demeter around to face him.
“Did you tell him?” Chee said.
“Tell him what?” Shaniah asked, her voice cracking. He couldn’t know. It was far too soon. How could he tell? She was more convinced than ever he was a witch.
“To leave without telling him you are carrying his child is cowardly. He has a right to know,” Chee said.
“He can’t know . . . I’m not . . . it isn’t possible,” she stammered.
“But nevertheless it has happened. And you must tell him. It is only right,” Chee said.
She spurred Demeter close to Chee.
“You will not tell him. If you do, so help me, I will kill you, witch-man,” she said.
“First, I will not tell him because it is not my place. That responsibility belongs to you. Second, you may try to kill me at your convenience,” Chee said.
She looked at him for a long time. Then she turned Demeter toward the warehouse exit. He called out to her.
“Shaniah,” he said. “I will be watching.”
She rode away, his warning echoing in the empty warehouse.
Two weeks later
“I
s that where he spends most of his time?” Pinkerton asked.
“Yes, or at the Golden Star,” Chee said.
“God damn, I feel sorry for the man,” Pinkerton said.
Chee did not answer.
“Let’s go,” Pinkerton said.
“Before we do . . .” Chee pulled the Order of Saint Ignatius medallion from his pocket and flipped it in the air. Pinkerton caught it and held it out in his palm so Chee could plainly see it.
“Well done, Sergeant,” Pinkerton said, giving Chee his own coin. Chee repeated Pinkerton’s action, and satisfied, they left.
They walked through the streets of Denver until they reached the saloon. As he usually was, Hollister sat at the corner table farthest from the bar. A single glass and a bottle of whiskey sat in front of him, and his head was down as if he were trying to stare a hole through the table.
“Major Hollister,” Pinkerton said as he approached.
Hollister recognized the voice and glanced up. He looked briefly at Pinkerton and said nothing and returned to staring at his whiskey glass.
“I have something for you,” Pinkerton said, pulling a folded paper from his suit coat pocket.
He unfolded it and handed it to Hollister. Jonas looked at it, then tossed it onto the table. Across the top of the paper in large type it read, P
RESIDENTIAL
P
ARDON
.
“Just as we agreed,” Pinkerton said.
“Thanks,” Hollister muttered.
“I have something else,” Pinkerton said.
“What? Because if you don’t mind, I really like to drink alone.” Hollister looked at Pinkerton. The detective could tell he wasn’t much of a drinker. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and the bottle was mostly full. He came here and sat and sipped his whiskey because that’s what a man with a broken heart does.
Pinkerton removed a leather wallet from his suit pocket.
Hollister was a little drunk. “You keep pulling shit out of your pockets, Pinkerton. You haven’t got a monkey in there, have you?”
Pinkerton handed him the wallet. Hollister opened it. On one side was a badge. On the other was a small picture of Hollister from his army days, printed on a card that said,
DEPUTY INSPECTOR, U.S. DEPT. OF THE INTERIOR, OFFICE OF PARANORMAL AFFAIRS
.
“What’s this?” Hollister said.
“It’s a new job, now that you’ve completed your original assignment. Sergeant Chee here has already said yes. You’ll travel around the west, and investigate . . . things. Like you just did with the Archaics. Incidents that are strange, curious, and don’t add up. You’ll keep the train and Monkey Pete. You’ll get a raise in pay. You’ll save lives. In fact we’ve already got a case for you down near the Mexican border. Might be Apaches. Might be something else. I’d like you and Chee to find out.”
Hollister snapped the wallet shut and handed it back to Pinkerton. “Can I let you know? Think on it for a few days?”
Pinkerton stroked his beard with his gnarled fingers. “All right, fine,” he said. “But don’t take too long, Jonas. People are dying.”
Jonas picked up the glass and stared at the detective through the amber liquid.
“Mr. Pinkerton,” he said. “Someone, somewhere, is always dying.”
Chee and Pinkerton turned and left the saloon, leaving Hollister alone with his whisky bottle and his thoughts.
Four months later
T
he ship tossed and rolled in the storm. The smell of the salt water made Shaniah so nauseous she thought she might pass out. Never had she felt this ill.
It had taken her three and a half months to reach Boston from Denver. She took a combination of riverboats and trains, and some days she rode Demeter, afraid that Hollister might try to find her and bring her back. She could not go back.
At Boston Harbor, she had found a ship with a captain who would be willing to take her back to the Black Sea. The gold she offered kept him from asking questions. She had known she could not travel such a great distance alone in her condition.
In the name of the Old Ones, what had she done? Hollister, she saw his face every time she closed her eyes. She had left part of herself behind in Denver. She did not know what the Old Ones would say when she returned. When they saw her. Would they cast her out?
She had been forced to break her vow regarding
Huma Sangra
. There was no other way. She traveled to a section of Boston filled with Gnazy from Eastern Europe, what the Americans called gypsies. The Gnazy knew what she was and were spooked immediately. As she walked the streets they disappeared until she passed; crucifixes and cloves of garlic went up in storefronts and the smell of garlic was everywhere. Businesses closed at sundown, no one walked the streets.
But she finally had found what she was looking for: an elderly woman, a midwife, who lived alone. She could not enter the woman’s home without an invitation, so she caught her on the street one night on her way to see a patient that could not wait until morning. The woman could not fight her off. She sank her fangs into the gypsy’s neck. After so many centuries without it, her blood should have tasted like ambrosia, but instead it made her ill, like she wanted to vomit. Still she kept her composure long enough for her to bite her own arm and force the woman to drink her blood. She turned. It was done.
Now they were on the ship in the middle of the Atlantic, and Shaniah thought she might die. Her face was bathed in sweat. Archaics never sweat. She felt pain in her joints like she never had before.
The woman, who would remember her midwifery for a while until her human memories faded, gave Shaniah a drink of some god-awful concoction. Shaniah threw it up immediately.
“What is happening to me?” she asked the woman. She made the woman watch over her constantly, letting her feed off of animals she had bought and loaded aboard the ship. Only enough to keep the woman from going mad and attacking the crew.
“It is time,” the woman said.
“Time! Time for what? It is impossible,” Shaniah screamed, as another wave of pain rolled over her body.
“Perhaps it is not. Perhaps the legends are not true?” the woman asked.
“No!”
“Was there an Archaic?” the woman asked.
“God, no! You miserable hag!” Shaniah shouted at her.
The old woman shrugged. “Then it is a miracle. She lifted Shaniah’s blouse and put her hands on her round and swollen belly, the movement of the baby easily visible beneath her skin.
“AAAAAH!” Shaniah screamed.
“It is time,” the woman said. “This baby will be born tonight.”