Authors: Ann Parker
Inez sniffed. Sulfur fumes from smelters mixed with sewer stink. "It doesn’t smell much like heaven."
Sands acknowledged her remark with a smile. "My interim term was up. Besides,
Sacramento
was too tame. I prefer ministering where it counts."
"Ah yes, you like preaching to the sinners. In that case, you should be spending more time on
State Street
."
"How do you know that I’m not?"
Inez considered this as they walked up
Harrison
. Reverend Sands interrupted her thoughts. "I hoped we could talk about Rose. I know about the crooked assay results, about his office. When I talk with folks about him, I sense a man living two lives: straight and narrow on the top, in deep trouble beneath. You knew him. Did you see any of that?"
Inez thought back. "He seemed more…reserved the last few months. But I can’t say for certain. Emma never said anything to me, though."
"Any idea what might’ve been the problem?"
"I’ve wondered myself. Perhaps a large gambling debt? He must have been desperate. I can’t imagine Joe doing what he did except out of desperation."
The reverend was silent, as if dissecting her words. He then said, "The people who were in his office might not have found what they were looking for. The family may be in danger. That’s why I’m pushing them to leave Leadville sooner rather than later." He looked pointedly at her. "That danger could extend to you, since you’re settling his affairs. It might be safer for you to hand over this business to his lawyer or banker."
"I can take care of myself," she said with some asperity.
Sands laughed. "Mrs. Stannert, you remind me of someone."
Sands slowed his gait, then stopped under the gaslight on the corner of
Park Street
. Without
Harrison
’s sheltering buildings, the west wind whistled upslope across the
Arkansas
Valley
and tugged at their overcoats.
Looking down the unlit street toward the white, distant peaks of Elbert and Massive, Sands tapped his gloved fingers on the buttons of his black overcoat before reaching a decision. He opened his coat, pulled out his pocketwatch, and flipped the casing open, angling it for Inez to see. An ambrotype fitted inside the cover showed a young boy and a girl on the edge of womanhood. The fair-haired boy had some baby softness lingering in his face, but the determined mouth sang of Reverend Sands. The girl looked like a younger, feminine counterpoint to the man standing by Inez.
"My sister and me. Soon after this was taken, our parents died of consumption."
Inez swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. "I’m sorry to hear. What happened to you and your sister?"
Sands caressed the ghostly image with his thumb. "Judith and I were shuffled from relative to relative. Judith was all I had. Mother and father to me for all those years."
"Is she in
California
?"
He closed the watch with a click and tucked it back inside his waistcoat pocket. "Judith died during the War."
The ache in her throat grew. Sands rebuttoned his coat and gently refolded her hand back over his arm. "It all happened a long time ago. The point is, you remind me of her. No one told her what to do. Not even me."
They turned away from the light and started down Park.
In front of her house, Sands stopped. "There’s something else."
He fished through his coat pockets and extracted a square, formal envelope. "I wondered if you might accompany me to this." He fumbled with the envelope, then pulled out the enclosure.
Inez ran a gloved fingertip over the embossed lettering and tipped the invitation to the moonlight. She read aloud, "Your presence is requested on Saturday, December 27,
in the evening—" She stopped. "You have an invitation to the Silver Soiree?"
He watched her waver between temptation and caution.
"I’d be honored if you’d say yes, Mrs. Stannert. You could consider yourself a guide of sorts. Point out the illustrious folks of Leadville, explain some of the town’s history. I hear there’s going to be fine food, music, champagne from
France
, dancing—"
"French champagne? I doubt that. At the most, it might be from
California
, dressed up to look imported."
The mischievous smile of a five-year-old boy crossed his face. "Only one way to find out."
He opened his hands up and away from his sides, the gesture of an unarmed man. "I’ll be the most proper of escorts. A perfect gentleman."
She laughed in spite of herself. "Very well, Reverend. Since you seem in need of a ‘guide’ and promise to be on your best behavior. So you don’t mind being seen in the company of a saloonkeeper?"
He grinned back and dropped his hands. "No more than you mind being seen in the company of a minister."
As Inez unlocked her front door, she hesitated. "Reverend, one question. Does it snow in
Sacramento
?"
"Almost never. Why?"
Inez thought of the sled she and Abe had picked out for Joey for Christmas, wrapped and waiting in her back room. "I just wondered."
As she opened her door, Sands touched his hat. "Thank you for allowing me to accompany you home. I hope we might do this again soon."
"Yes. Well, good night." She shut the door softly and stood in the dark, thinking.
By morning, the clouds had returned in force. A gray ceiling pressed down on the town and obscured the mountains. Hurrying to the bank, Inez noticed that people and objects cast no shadows.
Like paper dolls.
The flat lighting made everything appear dirtier than usual: the raw, peeling lumber of hastily constructed buildings, the garbage encased in the snowbanks between boardwalk and street, the grimy creases on passing faces.
The bank looked staid and East Coast in its brick solidity. The brass knob turned in her hand, and she walked into the dim bank foyer. Light spilled from Nigel’s office behind the two teller cages. Her boots echoed on the plank floors.
"Nigel?"
Inez thought she heard a cough, a muffled response. Striding with more certainty, she skirted the teller area, pushed open the assistant bank manager’s door, and entered.
"I’m sorry, Nigel, I detest being late."
At first, she thought maybe he was taking a short nap, head down on the desk by the loan papers. Weary, perhaps, from waiting or from too long an evening sampling the nighttime entertainments of Leadville.
Then, she saw—
A slow red river, soaking the blotter, oozing across the cherrywood desk, dripping to the carpet.
Comprehension, then horror gripped her, shook her bones. She took two quick steps forward. Stopped, suddenly realizing there was too much blood for hope. She turned—
A gloved hand from behind grabbed her throat, cutting off her breath. Yanked off-balance, she slammed backward into her assailant.
Panic washed over her. Labored breathing filled her ears.
Inez jabbed with an elbow, connecting with a coat-padded body. She stamped her boot heel on an unseen foot as she attempted to twist away.
The grip on her neck grew tighter.
"Bitch!"
The whispered word overflowed with rage and something close to triumph.
Black spots danced before her eyes. Her anger and fear rose on a last resolve:
NO!
Her hands grabbed one of the fingers at her neck, bending it back. The grip loosened. A hiss of pain erupted in her ear as she gasped for breath.
The body pressed to hers shifted.
Sudden pain split her head like a scream. Her vision exploded into black, streaked with white fireworks. The streaks receded like an express train at night, carrying her away.
The light winked out.
999
A black sound in her head would not stop. Ugly buzzing
filled her body with pain.
The buzz separated into voices. The voices into words.
One voice, filled with alarm: "The blood!"
Another voice, calm, almost matter-of-fact: "Head wounds bleed a lot."
Familiar.
"Are you certain she’s not dead?"
The voices dissolved in a roar. She was swallowed, turning around in sound, more nauseated with each revolution.
She resurfaced.
"Does she know about—"
"No!" The familiar voice was sharp. Then slow and tired. "I don’t know what she knows."
What I know?
"Shouldn’t we remove—"
"Leave it."
Leave?
"She’s moving!"
A warm hand enclosed her throat. She gasped. Ammonia vapors assaulted her. Coughing painfully, Inez opened watering eyes on an unsteady image of wood-beamed ceilings. She grabbed at the hand and tried to roll away but was hopelessly tangled in her long cloak and skirts.
The hand withdrew.
"Easy, easy, Mrs. Stannert."
Two faces met, crown to crown, in her narrow view of the ceiling. One belonged to bank manager Morris Cooke, his round countenance like a worried cherub unprepared to welcome her to Heaven. He held a small bottle of smelling salts.
The other belonged to Reverend Sands. Relief flooded his face. He flexed his ungloved fingers and glanced at Cooke. "There’s a definite pulse. You can cap those salts."