Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The) (13 page)

Dad, trying to sound like he was in charge, piped up. “I already told him he was grounded.”

Wendy swiveled and eyed her plate. “Nick! I told you no! Dad! Did you see what he did?”

“We all are,” I announced.

“All are what?” asked Dad.

“Grounded. Everyone.”

Mom slumped onto the bench next to Dad. “I don’t understand, Nick.”

I flipped my bangs back and sighed. “The marshal called the coroner and was told that as of right now, Deadwood is a crime scene. All of it. No one can leave their room.”

Wendy went ballistic. “But that’s not fair!
I
didn’t do anything wrong. Nick’s the one who should be punished, not me.”

“I know,” said Dad. “But if the marshal says for us to stay put, we don’t have any choice.”

“Can’t he put Nick in jail instead?”

Dad, looking exasperated, shook his head. I saw the other guests beginning to look in our direction. Apparently word was beginning to leak that a body had been found and I was the one who’d discovered it—and got everyone banished to their rooms.

“Can I still go to the Prairie Dog Poetry reading?” my sister whined. “It starts at nine.”

“If Nick says the marshal wants us in the bunkhouse, then that means you too, honey.”

“This is so unfair!”

“Maybe later, honey. After all this blows over. But right now,” he paused and surveyed the crowd staring at us, “the less we’re seen the better.”

I should’ve told them about us getting booted out of town right then but I just couldn’t. Everyone was so bummed, me included.

“Nick, go to your room and stay there,” said Dad. “I don’t even want to hear that you were on the porch, understood?”

Wendy, sounding like her usual sarcastic self, added, “Yeah, Nick. Why don’t you play detective in your room?”

I looked to my mother for moral support, but she only came to my defense long enough to lob her own verbal jab. In a sad and tired-sounding voice she said, “That’s enough, Wendy. I’m sure Nick feels bad about all the trouble he’s caused for us and everyone else, isn’t that right?”

BUT I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING WRONG
! I wanted to scream.
I didn’t cause the tunnel to collapse. I didn’t put Earp’s gun in the mine. And I certainly didn’t make that snake bite Jesse
James, who, by the way, shouldn’t have been in the mine in the first place
. Of course I said none of this, just chewed on my bottom lip while staring at my sneakers. I had a pretty good idea who the real killer was. Finding James dead in the mine and the gun in the glory hole confirmed my hunch. All I needed was the chance to prove it—a chance that now looked hopelessly lost since I couldn’t leave my room.

Wendy tossed the remains of her breakfast into the fire and glowered at me. Mom looked as if she were about to say something, but just then the marshal rode up on an ATV.

“Nick told us about the curfew, Marshal. We were just about to head back to the bunkhouse. Any idea how long we’ll be confined to our rooms?”

“He didn’t say anything about the other thing?”

“There’s more?” Mom asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so. Mr. Caden, remember the other day when you came to me and asked if I’d let your son play detective, and you promised there wouldn’t be any trouble? Remember that?” Dad nodded. “Now I got a dead actor in a mine that’s supposed to be off limits and a whole lot of questions from the county deputy that I can’t answer. I told your son that I was sending you home, but I guess he didn’t relay that part of the message. I think that’s best for everyone involved. I was all set to refund the balance of your money, but I can’t. At least not yet.”

Dad cut his eyes my direction but didn’t say anything. “So we’re being evicted?”

“Something like that.” The marshal folded his arms. “I could charge Nick with trespassing. He knew the mine was off-limits,
even if the sign wasn’t at the entrance so he could see it.” Shifting his gaze toward me he said, “But I won’t. For now.”

“Marshal, if you’ll just listen,” I interrupted. “I can tell you who the killer is and we can clear all this up.”

“First off, I wouldn’t believe anything you tell me right now. You promised you’d obey the rules and you haven’t. Second, I’m not about to arrest someone just because
you
think he or she killed someone. Watching TV and figuring out who done it … that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Marshal, unless there’s something more, we’ll head on back to our bunkhouse now.”

“You do that. All except him.” The marshal pointed his finger at me. “You, come with me. The county coroner wants to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh, great. I have to miss the Prairie Dog Poetry reading but he still gets to play supersleuth?” Wendy said. “This is so not right.”

“I know, Wendy. But there will be other opportunities.”

“Not here there won’t, Mom. We’re never coming back to this place. You and Dad know it.”

“Tell you what,” the marshal volunteered. “Let me make a few phone calls; see what else is going on in the area. I can recommend a couple of nice motels. Maybe you can take in some of the other sights in the area on your way back to the interstate.”

“Whatever,” Wendy said bitterly and stormed off.

The marshal jabbed his thumb toward his idling ATV. “Come on. Let’s get this over with so you and your family can hit the road.”

T
he marshal led me through the small cluster of photojournalists snapping pictures of the mine. Deputy Garrett stood with his arms crossed guarding the entrance while a crew of county workers carefully removed the rubble and reinforced the opening with temporary pillars.

“If law enforcement personnel scanned the emergency frequencies like these reporters do, we’d catch a lot more criminals.” Buckleberry lifted the yellow crime scene tape. I ducked under and paused, waiting for him. “I’ll stay out here. Not big on small places. Took every ounce of courage I had to crawl in to find you. Hurry, now. Don’t want this thing to drag out any longer than it has to.”

I followed the incandescent glow of stick lights, returning to where I’d found the body earlier that morning. A county deputy met me near the place where Annie had killed the snake. Further on, a heavy-set, gray-haired woman knelt over James. She wore a baggy navy blue jumpsuit and teal footies over her shoes. She jabbed a temperature probe into James’s skin and pressed it downward.

“You the one who found the body?” the deputy asked in a dull voice.

“Yes.”

“What can you tell me?”

I explained that I’d been informed by one of the staff at Deadwood that another employee was thought to be drinking on the job and how, if I could verify the allegation, that individual might have a reason to see Billy the Kid dead.

The officer looked confused.

“Long story,” I added. “Billy was one of the characters in town. I believe the actor who played the role of Billy the Kid has been murdered.”

That drew a surprised reaction from the deputy. He pointed to the body. “That the way you found him?”

I said it was.

“Got a time of death, Janice?”

“Best guess is between eight and twelve hours ago. Won’t be able to say with certainty until we get the body back to the lab.”

“What time did you say you arrived here?” I heard the deputy ask.

“Around daybreak. I woke up at five, got my pony, and rode up,
rode
being a generous term for her speed. If I had to guess, I would say I got here a little before six.”

“Alone?”

I told him how Annie surprised me about the time I found the gun. “Right after that the shaft collapsed and we came back this way looking for an air vent.”

“Janice, you find anything on the body to change your opinion as to the cause of death?”

The coroner replied, “It would appear this poor man was the victim of a rattlesnake bite. And a nasty one at that. See here?” With the tip of a pencil she touched two puncture wounds. “Straight into his jugular vein. Once the venom entered his bloodstream the toxins would have attacked his nervous system, causing neurotoxicity, making breathing difficult. Most likely he died of respiratory failure within minutes.”

“But if it was a snakebite, wouldn’t you expect to see fang marks on his calf or ankle?” I pointed out.

“Might have been on his knees,” the deputy replied irritably. “Looking for something. Who knows what?”

“Just before we found the body, Annie shot a large rattlesnake. Any way to test the venom to see if it matches what’s in his body?” I asked.

“Why certainly, if we had the snake,” said the coroner.

I glanced around. No trace of the snake.

The coroner shrugged. “Perhaps a rodent carried if off. I find it odd, however, that there would be a rattlesnake this far from the entrance. They feed on bugs and rodents. I would expect to find them nearer to their food source.”

I told them about finding bats down the other shaft and suggested maybe a bat had carried away the carcass.

“So, Janice,” the deputy was saying. “Can we rule his death an accident?”

“I would say yes if not for this.” With her fingers, the coroner parted the hair on the back of James’s head. “Appears to be a contusion just above the base of his skull. What you say is true. The bites are in an unusual location. It’s possible our victim may have been unconscious when he was bitten.”

“But wouldn’t that suggest he was …”

“Murdered? Indeed it would.”

“Then if you don’t mind,” I said, my voice quivering with excitement, “I’d like you to examine another corpse.”

“Oh? Is it nearby?”

“Yes, ma’am. In the graveyard on Boot Hill.”

I
sat in the rear of a rickety buckboard, my legs dangling off the back. Behind me Marshal Buckleberry led a convoy of reporters, the county deputy, Deputy Garrett, the coroner, my parents, and Wendy out of town and toward Boot Hill. At first the marshal had bristled at the presence of the media, but he must’ve seen the value of the exposure because he allowed them to tag along. I suppose even a rumor of a murder was better than tumbleweeds blowing down Main Street.

We reached the trail leading up to the cemetery, and I hopped down and followed the others up the twisting path. The cold front had blown the sky clear of clouds, leaving a
brilliant blue tarp overhead, but the wind had a definite bite. I wished I’d worn something more than my lightweight jacket.

Brushing bangs from my eyes, I peeked back and saw Annie trudging up the path. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not, but she seemed to be avoiding me. I suspected part of Annie’s odd behavior had something to do with the death of her friend, Jess. But I also wondered if she might be dreading the trip back to Boot Hill. She still had not revealed the identity of the man we’d seen in the graveyard, and it got me wondering:
Does she know that I know who the killer is? Is that why she won’t look at me?

We reached a short plateau offering a good resting place and paused to let the others catch up. When I saw Annie glace over, I gave her a reassuring wink. You know, just to gauge her reaction. Her eyes found mine and became as cold as the snowy crust capping those Rocky Mountain peaks.

Here’s the thing you need to know about murder: killing is never as sterile and impersonal as the movies and television make it out to be. Only a heartless monster can kill and not be affected by the act of taking a life. And even then, they are changed and driven deeper into the dark world. That’s what guilt does; it buries you. I know this because in addition to watching lots of television crime shows and figuring out “who done it,” I also examine the “why they done it.” The
why
is way more interesting than the
who
.

Given the right circumstances, any of us can be taught to kill. The question is, will we?

I remember one time finding a mound of ants in our backyard and stomping that conical hill until there was nothing but
black specks in the dirt. We swat mosquitoes and think nothing of it. Kill roaches and wasps and set traps for mice. When I was in the fourth grade, Tommy Brewer dared me to shove a lit firecracker into the mouth of a frog. My point is, any of us can change and become a murderer when placed in the right circumstances.

Sweet Annie, good-natured and wholesome Annie—the girl who’d met me outside the saloon and tried to teach me how to fire a revolver, the dead-eye killer of rattlesnakes, and the haunting shadow that magically appears around every turn—that Annie had changed. And not in a good way.

We reached the graveyard, and the crowd fanned out.

The marshal took a position beneath the gnarled tree and scowled at me. “Well? Which grave is it?”

“In a minute, Marshal. There are a few things I’d like to say first.”

My sister slapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh pleeeeease!”

“I want to thank my friend Annie for sticking by me. No matter how much trouble I got in this week, she was always there beside me. Sometimes before I even knew she was there.”

Her cheeks reddened and she tried to shrink back in the crowd, but there was only so much room along the edge of the cemetery.

“I’m due at a hearing this afternoon,” the county deputy piped up. “Is this going to take much longer?”

“Before we exhume the body of Billy the Kid, I want to assure you that even though the murderer is among us, we are safe.”

A murmur rumbled through the crowd. Annie cocked her head like she wasn’t sure if she’d heard me right.

“Last night when I returned to my room, I got to thinking that this is a murder investigation. And yes, that’s exactly what it is: a homicide. I thought back to several television episodes I’d seen, most dealing with events similar to what happened in Lazy Jack’s stable two days ago.”

“Hey, Nick, if I’m not the killer, can I go?” Wendy shouted at me.

“Actually, sis, believe it or not, you helped me. If you hadn’t insisted there were such things as ghosts, I might never have found the killer. Or found those Bible references. Thanks, by the way, to whoever left that Gideon Bible in my room.”

I saw the county deputy look over at the coroner and tap his watch.

“So, yes, Wendy. Because of your infatuation with the occult and gothic myths, I was able to solve the case.”

“Actually, you haven’t,” Marshal Buckleberry said impatiently. “You still haven’t produced one shred of evidence that there has even been a murder.”

“I have Billy the Kid’s body, that’s a start.”

“No you don’t,” Annie shot back. “
You
don’t even know where it is.”

She was right. I honestly didn’t know. I wished now I’d paid closer attention to where the mysterious stranger dug the grave, but at the time I’d thought it would be easy to find.

“We’re leaving,” said the county deputy, motioning to the coroner to gather her things.

“How ‘bout this one?” said Pat Garrett. He’d changed into his lawman outfit. With the toe of his cowboy boot he poked at a swatch of matted grass.

“I … don’t know,” I replied. “That
could
be the right one.”

He knelt and pointed to the grass. “Right there, see? You can just make out the muddy discoloring like maybe someone’s been digging.”

“I can’t say for sure. Was pretty dark. I was standing over there, behind those rocks. I didn’t get a great look.”

Buckleberry motioned to the undertaker, a string bean of a man dressed in black. No doubt the undertaker was there purely for visual effect. I couldn’t wait for the photographers to snap a picture of the undertaker standing over Billy’s corpse.
Will probably make the front page of the Denver paper
.

I left the digging to the worker bees and drifted back to join my family.

“Nick, I don’t know what you hope to accomplish with this little stunt, but mark my words, there will be consequences,” Dad said with his usual sternness. “That business in the mine was bad enough, but this? Making everyone stand around while you hunt for a corpse in a graveyard?”

“Trust me, Dad, I know what I’m doing. I only wish I’d gone to the marshal last night as soon as I figured out who the killer was. If I had, Jesse James might still be alive.”

“You don’t get it, do you, Nick?” my sister said. “The only reason the marshal let you come up here is because he’s hoping you’ll look like an idiot—which the rest of us know you are.”

“That’s enough, Wendy,” Mom said halfheartedly.

Wendy kept on. “Those reporters over there? They can’t wait to write about how some teen with a wild imagination led the marshal of Deadwood on a manhunt for a killer who’s been dead for more than a century. I knew you’d mess up our vacation. You always do.”

I waited for Mom to add her pithy comment about how I’d ruined her vacation too, but this time she kept quiet. I think she genuinely felt sorry for me. But she didn’t need to. I knew what I was doing. At least I thought I did.

“Hey, I think we found something,” Garrett called out.

“Now you’ll see I’m right,” I said smugly.

“And if you’re not?” Mom demanded. “If it turns out this was all a colossal waste of time? Then mark my words: you’re online cybersleuthing, virtual detective gaming days are over.”

“You can’t do that. I’m vice president of our club. And next year, when Bart McLean doesn’t run for re-election, I might be even be president.”

“Not only
can
I, but I will. That,” said Mom, eyeing the partially uncovered grave, “is the direct result of your obsession with video gaming and all those detective shows. Don’t you see, Nick? You’ve turned our vacation
into
one of your cybersleuth games.”

“Mom’s right, son. You need to spend less time on online cybersleuthing and more time playing sports. Maybe it’s not too late to get you into a summer baseball league or maybe sign you up for soccer.”

“But I hate team sports.”

“All the more reason to get you involved,” Mom said.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I turned my attention back toward the headstones.

The previous day’s rain had softened the ground, making the undertaker’s job easy. He and Deputy Garrett gouged the earth with shovels, piling up uneven chunks of grass and dirt. The growing mound became a small monument to Billy the
Kid. I wondered how the young man would be remembered. Cowboy and actor? Son and friend? A blazing star rocketing toward the bright lights of Hollywood only to be blasted out of the sky by a jealous coworker? I wondered too how long he’d suffered in that hayloft before I arrived; how many gurgling breaths he’d taken before his eyes fixed on the ceiling and he saw the white light—or the dark, wispy shapes of demons rushing to sweep him away. Maybe he’d died quickly. Maybe he hadn’t had time to feel the terrifying fear that precedes death. But I had my doubts. I’d seen the shock in his eyes and the blood on his hands. He had tried for a few seconds—or minutes—to plug the geyser spewing blood from his chest.

And had failed.

Garrett and the undertaker tossed the shovels aside. The two of them reached down and, taking the two ends, lifted the long sheath of black plastic from the grave. The thin polymer did little to keep the pungent stench of decay from escaping. Gagging, the undertaker went trotting over to the edge of the cemetery and threw up. Garrett clamped his hand over his mouth and nose and turned away.

“Well, son. Could be you were right,” said the marshal. “Looks like we do have a fresh body. Deputy, cut that plastic and let’s take a look.”

Pat Garrett tucked his nose inside his shirt and inhaled deeply. Then taking a knife from his pocket, he dropped to one knee and cut the plastic. Instantly flies swarmed, their buzzing adding to the grotesque sight of the victim’s sunken face. The shotgun blast had caved in one half of the skull leaving a large corroded cavity of dried blood, bone fragments, and black fur.
One opal eye looked out. I stepped closer, noting the small brown bear’s sneering grin under its curled lips.

My stomach churned, and I whirled and jogged back toward the path upwind of the smell.

“That’s your vic?” I heard the marshal saying. “You drag us all the way up here for that? A dead bear? Deputy, hurry and throw some dirt on that poor creature before we all start puking.”

The crowd did not need to be told to leave. The exodus began with Wendy at the head of the stampede. I remained bent forward with my hands on my knees, taking in large gulps of air. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Annie looking at me with a strange, sad expression as if to say, “I told you so.”

Told me what? That it was all a joke? That the prank was at my expense?
She followed her uncle back down the trail, leaving me with the deputy and the dead bear.

I heard the clank of shovels banging together and knew the deputy was finished burying the bear. I looked across the valley for a long while, savoring its rustic beauty. I’d guessed right about the identity of the killer—even if I hadn’t been able to prove it. Even if I didn’t have a body. At least I could take satisfaction in that.

Wyatt Earp ambled over. “Guess we’d better get going,” he drawled. “Marshal wants me to escort you back to the bunkhouse. And I know it looks bad, you not finding a body and all, but don’t let it get to you. I know what it’s like to have people saying things about you that aren’t true. Know what I mean?” He paused, allowing his words to sink in.

I thought of how eager I’d been to tell Annie about Earp’s alleged drinking problem and felt ashamed. I’d never seen him
drinking, only heard the rumor. But I’d latched onto it because it fit what I wanted to believe about the investigation.

“If you can’t say something nice about a man, then keep your mouth shut. That’s what my Marge always said.”

“Sounds like your wife was a smart woman.”

“You have no idea, son. Look here, finding the truth is never easy. Anyone who says otherwise doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Fact is, those lies we believe about ourselves are the
real
ghosts that haunt us. The ‘what ifs’ and ‘wish I hadn’ts’ and ‘I’m not good enoughs.’ Those whispering voices that tear us down and leave us feeling worthless and ugly. It’s those spooks you need to be worried about. You get what I’m saying?”

I did. But I wasn’t doubting myself. At least, not regarding the case. I knew what I’d seen.

“I’m not upset about this,” I said, falling in step with Mr. Earp as we angled toward the trail. “I mean, I hate that everyone had to see that back there. But there’s no doubt Bill was killed in Lazy Jack’s with your gun. And now I know for sure who murdered him.”

“So you still think Bill is dead and
not
on his way back from L.A. like the marshal says?”

“I don’t think it. I know it. And if I hurry, I can prove who the killer is before the county deputy and coroner leave. But I’ll need your help.”

“Can’t let you into the marshal’s office, if that’s what you’re going to ask.”

“Actually, it’s a lot more complicated than that. And dangerous.”
Especially for me
.

Smiling, Mr. Earp asked, “How do you know I’m not the killer?”

“Who says you’re not? And if you are, this is your chance to get rid of the one person who knows who the killer is. So, will you help me?”

“What do you have in mind?”

Taking a huge gamble, I told him my plan—at least the part I wanted him to know—and we started down the trail toward town.