Hallowed Ground (24 page)

"Thanks, Moonshine," Creed said. "I appreciate it."

"Not a problem."

He finished his drink and turned back to the stairs.
 
He wanted another look at the contents of the woman's pack.
 
More importantly, he wanted to think.
 
He climbed the stairs slowly, listening for any change in the level of noise below.
 
Too quiet most likely meant the strangers had walked in, too loud most likely meant trouble as well.
 
When he reached the upper hallway, he stopped and stood very still, straining to listen.

Something thumped.
 
The suddenness of the sound nearly made his bones jump out of his skin.
 
It came from the direction of his room.
 
He glanced both ways down the short stretch of carpeted floor.
 
None of the other doors were open.
 
Unless there'd been a rush while he'd been asleep, Mae and Silas were the only other people occupying rooms, and both of them were down in the bar.

He heard the sound again.
 
There was no mistaking where it was coming from now.
 
He pulled his gun and pressed his back to the wall, then started slowly and quietly down the hall.
 
When he reached his door, he clearly heard the shuffle of movement inside.
 
Things were being moved, and not gently.

Creed reached out and gripped the doorknob tightly.
 
It was icy cold in his hand.

He took a deep breath, cocked the hammer on his revolver, and turned the knob.

Two tall men stood inside.
 
They were hunched over his bed but whirled instantly at his intrusion.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Creed barked.

One of them held the pack he'd taken from the trappers' camp.
 
It was open.
 
He saw the contents spilled out across his bed.

"
Creeeeeed
."

The intruder closest to the window turned and lunged.
 
Creed shot from the hip.
 
The bullet ripped through the man's shoulder and slammed into the wall behind.
 
The impact spun the stranger half-around, but he didn't go down.
 
He screamed in pain, and the sound of that scream chilled Creed's blood.
 
He fired again.
 
This time his shot caught the taller man directly between the eyes.

Creed dove to the side.

The second stranger scrambled to stuff the contents of the leather pack back inside.
 
Creed fired at his hand, hoping to dislodge the bag.
 
The bullet went wide.
 
Behind him, he heard shouting voices and pounding feet.
 
The sheriff would be there in moments.
 
The man he'd shot in the face moved toward him with odd, stuttering steps.
 
Everything about the intruder's gait was jerky and uncertain – and it bloody well ought to be, he'd taken a slug in the middle of his face.
 
He should have been laid out and ready to push up daises.

"Creed!" Brady's voice called out from the hall.

"Careful," Creed called out.
 
"There's two of them.
 
And the bastards won't die!"

At the sound of the sheriff's voice, the intruder with the bag made a lunge for the window.
 
Creed emptied his gun, firing off three quick shots at the man's back.
 
He couldn't tell if they hit home, but if they did they did nothing to slow him down.
 
The man launched himself full-length through the open window, arms outstretched as though he thought he could somehow fly out of there.
 
The bag trailed behind him.

Creed pulled his second gun with his left hand and fired.
 
This time the bullet caught the diving man in the hand cleanly, punching clean through.
 
The sound that followed wasn't a scream; it was another horrible screech that tore from his odd, motionless lips like the steam whistle on a train.
 
The bag's worn-through strap gave way.
 
It spun out of the stranger's grip, the flap flying open.
 
The journal spilled out, landing on the floor.
 
The silk dress trailed after the fleeing man in a flutter of dark blue.

Moonshine stepped through the doorway.
 
It took a split second to size up the situation.
 
He saw the oddly gaited stranger tottering toward Creed, and saw Creed's back as he stared out through the window.
 
Brady fired three quick shots. All of them struck the stranger square in middle of his pig ugly face.
 
Each successive bullet drove the thing back a step.
 
The screams died away – all that remained was the gurgling,
phlegmy
sound of sucking air.

The stranger
 
staggered back, hit the windowsill and toppled out into the night.

Creed threw himself forward, reaching out for the man's arm.
 
He wasn't about to let the son of a bitch get away, but as his hand closed around what should have been a wrist, he came up empty, clutching at air.
 
He pulled back his hand and staggered away from the window.
 
Brady rushed forward and leaned out, staring down into the darkened street, his six-shooter aimed at the night.
 
Silas appeared in the doorway with the shotgun.

"Bastards," Brady grunted.
 
He leaned a little further out the window, craning his neck to see up and down the length of the street.

"What is it?" Creed asked.

Brady pushed himself away from the window and turned to the door, already moving.

"They're gone," he cursed.

Creed stared at him.
 
It was impossible.
 
They couldn't be gone.
 
He looked down at his hand.
 
He released his grip and stepped back with a cry.
 
He clutched a handful of oily black feathers.

Silas stepped aside quickly to avoid being run over by Brady, then stared at Creed.

"What in the hell…" he said.

Creed ran past him without a word.

Silas walked to the window and glanced down.
 
Then, without really knowing why, he looked up toward the face of the moon.
 
Two black shapes rose into the sky and wheeled off over the desert.
 
Silas blinked, and then glanced down.
 
He saw Brady and Creed, guns drawn, watching the street.
 
Somehow, he didn't think they were going to find anything.

Shaking his head, he lowered the barrel of his shotgun for the second time that night and closed Creed's door behind him.
 
He headed for the bar.
 
He needed a stiff drink.
 
There was going to be a lot off whiskey drank that night.
 
He aimed to get a shot or two down his throat first before the bottle ran dry.

The Deacon sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the leather surface.
 
He was impatient.
 
He leaned back in the chair and put his hands together to make shadow-birds on the wagon's canvas wall.
 
The birds transformed into the gnarled silhouette of a hag's face and again into rabbit ears.
 
He sighed.
 
He heard the creak of a wagon.
 
Sanchez finally returned with the four large earthenware bowls he'd been sent for.
 
Colleen sat on the hard sleeping boards that had been laid out at the rear of the wagon.
 
The child rested quietly against her shoulder.
 
She rocked him gently, glaring at Sanchez over the Deacon's shoulder.
 
There was no love lost between the two, the Deacon knew.
 
Under normal circumstances he would not have tolerated the kind of petty bickering and sniping the two traded, but the world around him was anything but normal now.

"You have done well," the Deacon said.
 
"The boy is with you?"

Sanchez nodded.
 
The Deacon couldn't see the dirty-haired ruffian.
 
He didn't need to; he smelled him.
 
The boy had a unique fragrance.
 
He skulked in the shadows.
 
It was where he was most comfortable.
 
Out of sight, out of mind.
 
If Sanchez whistled, he would come, grudgingly, but with The Deacon so close, he would stay hidden for as long as possible.
 
It was his way.
 
The boy didn't exactly fear being seen; but he went out of his way to avoid the Deacon whenever possible.

The sun had vacated its high noon throne and slipped down the western skyline.
 
There were hours left before darkness, but the heat was slightly less stifling.
 
The Deacon brushed dust from his long, dark coat and stepped down from the wagon.
 
He cast a lingering backward glance over his shoulder, and met Colleen's gaze.

"Keep him safe, girl," he said, pulling a short thread from his pocket.
 
He stretched it taut between his fingers.
 
"Think of it like this, you are this string, bound to me and bound to the boy," he pulled the thread, twisting it until it snapped.
 
"If anything happens to the baby, I will snap you.
 
Understood?"

He turned his back on her and started out for the edge of camp without another word.
 
Sanchez followed with the bowls.
 
The boy flitted from shadow to shadow, always just an inch out of sight.
 
He carried a spade in one hand.
 
With the other he brushed his long, greasy mop of hair out of his eyes.

The Deacon stopped, shielded his eyes, and stared off in the direction the sun's fall.
 
He pulled a small round wooden case from the pocket of his jacket and rested it on his palm.
 
Carefully, he lifted off the lid.
 
Inside, a fragile sliver of magnetized steel quivered atop a pin.
 
It pointed arrow-straight to the north.
 
He turned it in his hand to get a fix on due west, and then followed the cardinal with his line of sight.
 
He grunted and snapped the lid closed.

The Deacon struck out beyond the edge of camp, walking until he found a spot between the scattered scrub and the half-buried boulders.
 
After a second glance at his compass, he nodded with slow satisfaction and turned, holding his hand out.

"Give me the spade, boy," he said.
 
He knew the boy was there.
 
The reek had followed with him from the camp.

All skin and bone, the urchin darted out of the shadows.
 
He offered the spade handle first, and scuttled away again the moment the Deacon laid his hand on the wooden grip.

The Deacon glanced up again.
 
He thought for a moment he saw something – a dark shape – flit across the sun.
 
Holding the spade he turned, three times in a circle, but there was nothing to see in the sky.

The Deacon slammed the spade into the earth and began to dig.
 
He worked quickly, hammering the blade in and working it deeper and deeper as he dug a circular trench a few inches deep.
 
He was sweating by the time he'd finished.
 
His shirt clung to his back.
 
Dark wet stains showed through beneath his armpits.
 
He wiped his brow and turned to Sanchez.

"Leave one of the bowls here," he said, nodding at where he meant.
 
"When we have the other three spots marked, come back and bury them flush to the earth.
 
The detail's important; they must be flush.
 
Not a little low, not with the lip sticking out above ground. You understand?"

"Yes," Sanchez assured him.
 
"We'll have it done before nightfall."

The Deacon grinned.
 
It was a predatory grin.
 
"Perfect.
 
Tomorrow there will be another job that needs doing, but this one must be complete before you start.
 
It comes down to trust, Sanchez.
 
I am putting my trust in you.
 
My faith.
 
There is so much to plan, so much that I must oversee, and so much that I must do.
 
I cannot worry myself with all the little details.
 
I'm counting on you."

"It will be done," Sanchez repeated.

"Precisely as I've instructed?"

"Precisely."

"Good."

The Deacon turned and started on an almost leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the camp.
 
Using the compass carefully to check and recheck himself, he marked three more circles in the earth at the North, South, and East edges of the camp.
 
He stood and watched as Sanchez placed the bowls in the center of each circle.