Authors: Michael P. Spradlin
J
onas Hollister sat in the main dining room of the Paradise Hotel. He couldn’t stop staring at the table linen and thought for a moment it might be the brightest white cloth he’d ever seen. After four years of nothing but the drab gray and dank darkness of Leavenworth, it almost hurt his eyes. But the mug of cold beer sitting before him was another object of rapt attention.
Hollister had never been much of a drinker. He had shared brandy with General Sheridan during the war or when he called his officers together for staff meetings. And he occasionally had imbibed with his commanding officers at various posts on the frontier, so when it came to liquor he could take it or leave it. But the first sip of beer in more than four years felt like someone had tipped back his head and poured liquid ambrosia down his throat.
Hollister fingered the pips on his collar, feeling the major’s leaves there, and looked down at the dark blue sleeves of his blouse, something he thought he’d never wear again. He touched his belt and the leather cover of the holster holding the Navy Colt he’d been issued by the prison quartermaster. There was almost too much to take in. He felt slightly disconnected, like he was walking through a parallel world.
The Paradise was the fanciest hotel in Leavenworth. Pinkerton had given Hollister his first month’s salary in advance and told him and Sergeant Chee to have dinner, then meet at the railway station, where their train car was being readied.
Hollister sensed motion beside him, looked up and nearly jumped out of his seat, for the newly promoted Sergeant Major Chee was standing next to the table at attention.
“Holy shit, Sergeant! How did you do that?”
“Sir?” Chee asked.
“You snuck up on me,” Hollister said.
“No, sir. I’m reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”
Hollister studied the man before him. Not quite six feet tall, thin and rangy, his skin was coffee colored, his hair dark and curly. He had gray eyes, a shade Hollister had never seen before, but surmised they were eyes that never missed much.
“At ease, Sergeant, have a seat.”
Chee sat in the chair to Hollister’s right and Jonas could tell he was uncomfortable.
“Something wrong, Sergeant Chee?” Hollister asked.
“Sir? Uh . . . no, sir,” Chee said, shifting in his seat.
Hollister raised his hand and gestured to the waiter, who stood behind the bar across the room, in conversation with the bartender. Hollister watched until the waiter looked at him again. Hollister waved him over but the man stayed rooted to his spot. Another fellow dressed in a black suit walked into the dining room and strolled behind the bar, speaking quietly to the waiter and the bartender. After a moment he approached their table.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said to Hollister. He was portly, with a full set of whiskers. His hair was streaked with white, and he had stared hard at Chee as he approached the table.
“Evening,” said Hollister.
“Sir . . . Major . . . there is . . . if you would be kind enough to join me in the lobby for a brief discussion?”
Hollister looked at the man and a glimmer of understanding washed over him. “I’m a little pressed for time. Let’s discuss it here if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Sir, really . . .” the man stammered.
“Get to the point,” Hollister said.
The man sighed deeply, pinching his nose with his fingers. “Sir, our hotel has a strict policy regarding the . . .”
“Regarding what?” Hollister interrupted.
Chee had been silently watching the exchange, but then understood. He was not welcome in a place like the Paradise Hotel, and he started to rise from his chair.
“At ease, Sergeant,” Hollister said. Chee, confused, sat back down.
“Regarding
what
?” Hollister asked the man again.
“Major, you are of course more than welcome to dine with us this evening, but the hotel has a strict policy regarding the service of . . . certain individuals.”
“Really? What individuals would that be? It wouldn’t be soldiers wearing the uniform of the United States Army, would it?” Hollister asked.
“No sir, of course not . . . it’s just that your companion . . . is . . . sir, I’m sure you understand we
. . . the Paradise Hotel
. . . does not allow . . . Negroes to be served on our premises,” the man said, choosing his words very carefully.
“Really?” Hollister asked, the incredulity dripping from his voice. He turned and looked at Chee. “Sergeant? Are you a Negro?”
“One quarter, sir,” the sergeant answered quietly.
“I’ll be damned. Well there you go . . . Mr. . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t get your name?” Hollister asked.
“It’s McLaren, sir, general manager of—”
Hollister interrupted again, “You heard the man. He’s only one quarter Negro, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sir . . . Major . . . I have no desire to make this uncomfortable for anyone. You, of course, are welcome to dine at your leisure, and I would be happy to have the kitchen prepare something for the sergeant . . . but I’m afraid he will have to leave the dining room.”
Hollister put his head down for a moment. He thought of the events earlier in the day, of Chee taking on McAfee in the yard. He chuckled to himself quietly. He unsnapped the leather cover of his holster, removed the .44 caliber Navy Colt, and laid it on the linen tablecloth.
“Sergeant, were you able to test fire your weapon before you met me here?” Hollister asked.
“No, sir,” Chee answered.
“I see. Perhaps we can do it here, starting with the first row of whiskey bottles behind the bar. My last Colt tended to pull up and to the right on the recoil. Hollister picked up the weapon and cocked the hammer, aiming it at the bottles. The bartender and waiter shouted, ducking quickly beneath the wooden bar.
“Major!” McLaren shouted waving his hands. “Please. There is no need . . .”
“You’re quite correct, Mr. McLaren, there is no
need
,” Hollister said. He extended his arm and sighted down the barrel. “So here is what is going to happen.” He paused. “Look at me, Mr. McLaren, while I tell you how this is going to play out.” McLaren had turned away and buried his head in his arms, waiting for the sound of shots. He reluctantly uncurled and faced the Major.
“Master Sergeant Chee and I are going to sit here in the dining room of the Paradise Hotel of Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and enjoy two of your finest steak dinners. Then we are going to pay our bill and leave. Otherwise, I’m going to work on test firing my Colt right here in your fine establishment. Are we clear?”
Mr. McLaren swallowed hard. “Sir, please, my job . . .”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about your job, Mr. McLaren. I’d be more worried about the noise and all the busted glass if we don’t get our dinners post haste. Besides you wouldn’t want word to get out the Paradise Hotel doesn’t welcome patrons from the U.S. Army, would you? Hollister released the hammer on the Colt and put it back on the table.
“We’re waiting on our steaks. My companion here would like a beer and I’d like another. And I’ll expect them promptly or I may have to reconsider target practice. Am I understood?” Hollister looked up at McLaren.
“Yes, sir, perfectly. Your dinner shall be here momentarily.” McLaren turned on his heel and headed back to the bar. Hollister could hear him issuing orders to his employees.
Chee stared in disbelief at Hollister for a long moment.
“Thank you, sir,” Chee finally said.
“Don’t mention it, Sergeant,” Hollister said. “Enjoy your dinner.”
P
inkerton’s car sat on a siding behind the train station. From the outside it looked like a normal Pullman car painted black and silver, and drawing closer in the gathering dusk it was clear the car was brand new. The metal shone and the sunlight glinted off the rounded corners of polished steel. Hollister bounded up the steps at the rear of the car and knocked on the door. A muffled command to enter came from inside.
Hollister entered first, followed by Chee, and both of them stopped for a moment to grasp what their eyes were seeing, for as normal as the train car appeared from the outside, inside it was anything but.
Pinkerton sat at a writing table placed beneath a window at the center of the car. And it was the windows that first drew Hollister’s attention. Strange shapes were painted in white all around each window and the far door at the other end of the car. The ceiling had three different trap doors built into it and the paintings circled them as well. A strange aroma filled the car and Hollister thought it was familiar but he couldn’t place it.
“
Madre de Dios
,” Chee muttered, barely getting the words out.
Pinkerton finished his writing and looked up.
“Ah, Major, so glad you’re here. You must be Sergeant Chee?” Pinkerton stood and strode confidently up to the young man. Chee nearly backed up a step and stared at Hollister in amazement as the detective pumped his hand. Hollister shrugged.
“Welcome, Sergeant. Major Hollister has told me all about you,” Pinkerton said.
“He has?” Chee answered quietly.
“Yes. Did he tell you he requested you specifically?” Pinkerton asked.
“No, sir. Me and the major haven’t had much time to talk yet,” Chee said.
“Well, I’m certain he’ll give you all the details shortly. But I’m glad you’re . . .” Dog, who moved around from behind Chee and advanced toward Pinkerton, his nose working the air, interrupted him. Pinkerton jumped, for he had not noticed the stealthy animal in the low light of the car.
“Jesus Christ! What is that!” he shouted. His hand instinctively went inside his coat toward his shoulder holster.
“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” Chee said. “This is Dog. He doesn’t it like it when people he doesn’t know hold guns.”
“That is not a dog . . . that is . . . good God I have no idea . . .” He slowly removed his hand from his coat and Dog sat on his haunches, studying Pinkerton.
“Dog,” Chee said, pointing to Pinkerton, “friend. Good boy.” Dog completely relaxed, reached forward and licked Pinkerton’s hand. Then lay down on the floor.
Pinkerton glared at Hollister. “Did you know about this?”
“Nope,” Hollister answered.
“I didn’t make any agreement for a goddamn . . . half wolf . . . half . . . lion . . .” Pinkerton stammered.
“I think they’re a package deal,” Hollister said. “And I’m not going to tell him he’s not welcome. Are you?”
Pinkerton sighed and his shoulders slumped. He turned with his back to the men and gestured around the interior of the car. He muttered something neither man could hear but had apparently given up on the subject of Dog.
“This will be your home for at least the next few weeks. It’s a specially made Pullman car, built to my exact specifications. We’ve consulted with an expert in these matters—in fact, he will be here to brief you shortly. But in the meantime I suggest you take some time to get acquainted with the car. I have had provisions and extra clothing delivered this afternoon. This car, a kitchen car, another for your horses, and a locomotive will be at your disposal for as long as you need it.
“Mr. Pinkerton, what is that smell?” Hollister asked.
“Garlic,” Pinkerton answered, pointing to small cloth bags hanging in the upper corners of each window.
“To what purpose?” Hollister asked.
“It has proven very effective in keeping out certain types of unwanted guests,” Pinkerton remarked. He looked at Chee. “Tell me, Sergeant, what have you heard about your new CO?”
“Heard, sir?” Chee replied.
“Yes. You’ve been in Leavenworth for a year and a half. You must have heard about Major Hollister.”
Hollister looked at Chee and saw the wariness creep into his eyes.
“I didn’t . . . I don’t . . . just rumors mostly, sir,” Chee stammered.
“And what rumors did you hear?” Pinkerton pressed on.
Chee looked at Hollister in desperation and Hollister nodded, telling the sergeant it was okay to speak his mind.
“He fought against Deathwalkers, sir, only no one believed him and he was sent to prison instead.” Chee had removed his hat when he entered the car and he worked it back and forth nervously in his hands.
“Deathwalkers? I’m not familiar with the term,” Pinkerton said, not taking his eyes off Chee.
“My people call them Deathwalkers, sir. They are blood devils: monsters that come awake at night and drink the blood of human beings.”
Hollister shifted uncomfortably. He realized, perhaps for the first time, how ridiculous his story had sounded. No wonder his colonel had not believed him. He understood why no one came to his defense. It sounded unbelievable to him, and he had lived it.
“And what do you think of his claim?” Pinkerton asked.
Chee shrugged. “I don’t know the major well sir, but I have no reason to doubt him. If he says it happened that way, then it did.”
“Really? And what about you, Chee? Tell me, do you believe in these so-called Deathwalkers?” Pinkerton held Chee’s stare until the sergeant looked down at the floor.
“Yes, sir. I do,” Chee replied quietly.
“Really? Have you ever seen one?”
“No, sir! And I hope I don’t. Bad juju. But Deathwalkers are real, all right.”
“Is that so? How do you know?” Pinkerton asked.
“My grandmother, Annabel. My people are from New Orleans, sir. My grandmother has told me stories about Deathwalkers,” he said.
“I see.” Pinkerton nodded. “Hmm. Well, you may hope you’re wrong. Did Major Hollister brief you on your mission?”
“No, sir, we . . . had dinner . . . then came here . . . I haven’t . . . he hasn’t . . . no, sir.” Something was very wrong here. This Pinkerton fellow was very odd, and Major Hollister hadn’t said two words in his presence. Chee tugged nervously at his collar.
“Well as it turns out, his story may be true. There has been another incident in Colorado. You and the major will go there and investigate. How does that sound to you?”
Chee just shrugged and said nothing.
“No thoughts, Sergeant? You have no problem going after these Deathwalkers?” Pinkerton pressed.
“No. No, I don’t, sir,” Chee replied.
“And why is that? If Major Hollister has been telling the truth all these years, this could be a very dangerous assignment.”
“I expect so, sir. But it beats being in prison,” Chee said.
“Yes, Sergeant. From what I know of Leavenworth, I’m sure it does.”
Pinkerton chuckled as he walked behind the writing table and sat down.
Hollister took the opportunity to study the interior of the car. The writing desk was to his right and behind it another doorway led to the rear, where Hollister assumed he would find sleeping quarters. On his left between two of the windows a large wooden rack held several rifles and shotguns. There were numerous Winchesters, two Henrys, and a pair of short-barreled Greener ten gauges. Shelves below the gun rack held boxes of ammunition.
“Make yourselves at home, gentlemen,” Pinkerton said. “As I said, this car has been specially outfitted and . . .” He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Ah, it must be our guest. Come in!”
A short, dark-haired man, wearing glasses and carrying a small valise, entered the train car. The better light inside revealed that his hair and the goatee framing his mouth were speckled with gray.
“Major Hollister and Sergeant Chee, it is my pleasure to introduce Dr. Abraham Van Helsing.”