Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  John hit Tatum across the collarbone with the gun barrel, and the second man stepped forward to punch him hard in the side of the head, so hard the chair tipped over.

  “That will do. Set him upright.”

  The chair was put on its feet. Tatum’s head and breast roared with pain, and vomit burst from him, to splash across his knees.

  “Mr. Tatum, I’ll strike a bargain with you. The terms may not be to your liking. Then again, to a creature unusual as yourself, they might.”

  “What … what bargain?”

  Tatum hired the surrey himself, and escorted Jared down to the street to climb aboard. He whisked a sheet from the picnic basket placed carefully behind the seat, and said, “I know a fellow who needs cheering up in the great outdoors.”

  “Tatie, you’re more thoughtful sometimes than I give you credit for.”

  “I agree. I’ll take the reins; you just relax and enjoy the ride, as the king said to the page boy.”

  “Tatie, really.”

  Tatum drove them into the mountains, along little known trails, and eventually announced that they had arrived. Their destination was high enough to see Denver below, and the plains beyond. Jared pronounced himself well content with the place, and ravenously hungry. Tatum spread a blanket and unpacked the basket. While they ate, he teased Jared over his hangdog behavior of late.

  “Tatie, I can’t help it. My papa has died, you know.”

  “No need to bring up unpleasantness, Jarie. What’s done is done, and will forever stay done. You have a life of your own now, not some feeble arrangement that gave you what you wanted only by kind permission of your great and wonderful papa. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, but … I don’t know. I just feel so guilty over all this. He could have treated me much worse.”

  “And much better too. Spilled milk, Jarie—it never tastes as good as champagne. Present your glass, sir.”

  When they were done with eating and drinking, they lay beside each other, smoking cigars while they watched eagles soar above them. It was unusual for either man to be silent for so long when in each other’s company.

  “Jarie, do you want to?”

  “Want to what?”

  “Be mine, in the way you like to be mine?”

  “I might be persuaded.”

  “I had hoped to hear that, sweet. What a happy fellow you can make me sometimes.”

  “My pleasure, Tatie.”

  “I’m sure, and mine too.”

  Jared laughed as Tatum took his thigh in a tight grip.

  When they were done with each other, Tatum asked, “Was that a fine end to the day?”

  “The day isn’t over yet.”

  “True, but the best part is behind us. Does that make you sad at all?”

  “I feel too content to be sad. You do that to me, Tatie, when you’re in the mood. You should be that way more often.”

  “I’ll make it my duty to be so. But do you agree the best has come and gone for this particular afternoon?”

  “If you insist, yes, I guess it has.”

  “And you are content?”

  “I am.”

  “That makes me happy too, my friend.”

  “Good.”

  “Did you ever see so big a bird?”

  “Where?”

  “Directly above us. What a wingspan!”

  Jared tipped back his head and squinted into the sunlight. Tatum drew from his boot a six-inch ice pick and drove it deftly into Jared’s throat, at such an angle as to penetrate the brain. Jared’s body stiffened convulsively, as it had just minutes before under Tatum’s thrusting, then was still. Tatum left the ice pick there; very little blood seeped out around the wooden handle.

  Tatum picked up his friend and took him back among the trees. The hole he had prepared the day before was as he had left it, a shovel still jammed into the mound of fresh earth. He flung the body into its waiting grave and began covering it, humming one of Jared’s favorite tunes as he did so. When the task was completed, the mound patted down and strewn with leaves, Tatum packed up the picnic dishes and climbed into the surrey for a return to town.

  The dismay she had felt at Walter’s death was one thing, but to learn that his son had now disappeared without any trace set Lovey Doll’s mind to wondering. That the two things were linked was obvious. The newspaper reports were lurid in their imaginings, with a different plot laid out for each day that Jared refused to show himself. Lovey Doll had never met the boy, but had formed the opinion that Walter was disappointed in him somehow. Could the source of the disappointment have been a suspicion that young Jared coveted his father’s riches, and was not inclined to wait and receive them in the fullness of time? Hints to that effect had been published, but the disappearance of Jared Morrow well in advance of his legal acceptance of Walter’s wealth had sent the rumormongers scurrying in twelve different directions for a motive or scenario that would explain the facts as they were known; certainly no one in Denver now accepted the notion that Walter had committed suicide. Lovey Doll had said as much herself when interviewed by the police detectives, and when they returned to question her regarding the vanishment of Jared, she told them it was not her job to solve such mysterious goings-on, and would they mind very much wiping their muddy boots before entering a clean house in future.

  The question Lovey Doll truly wanted answered concerned her financial position now that Walter was gone. He had bought the house outright, but never told her if the deed was in her name or his. If the former, she was secure for the moment, but would eventually have to find work; if the latter, she was in trouble. Lovey Doll had never known permanent security in her life, and so was inclined to expect the worst.

  Her expectations were confirmed when Tatum came to call. Lovey Doll was impressed by the elegant appearance of the slim young man at her door, and allowed him in when he presented a card stating that he was an employee of Walter’s bank, an institution Lovey Doll understood from the newspapers was in a state of limbo, pending an outcome to the search for Jared Morrow. She seated Tatum in the parlor and asked sweetly what brought him to her home.

  “A coach brought me”—he smiled—“and it isn’t your home.”

  Lovey Doll knew then that Walter had not provided for her the way a man of honor would have. Like all the other rich men she had encountered, he had been a skinflint at heart, and she crushed her memory of him, until now laced with mild pleasantness, into the black chest of her past, never to be scrutinized again. Her immediate attention was required by the young man, who continued smiling as he studied her reaction. Lovey Doll smiled also as she asked for proof that what her guest had suggested was true.

  “I should like to see some kind of court order stating that the house is not mine.”

  “It isn’t. Take my word.”

  “I will not take your word.”

  “You’ll begin packing your personal things at once.”

  “Indeed I will not.”

  “When you’re done packing, I’ll take you to the station. You can have a ticket to anywhere you like, for nothing.”

  “I have no intention of doing any of that.”

  Tatum slid a throwing knife from beneath his silk vest and threw it at the wall. It punctured the heart of an oil portrait of Lovey Doll that Walter had commissioned from Denver’s finest portrait artist. Tatum produced two more of the wicked little knives and flung them into her canvas nipples. Lovey Doll continued to smile.

  “Am I to be impressed by this?”

  “You’re to pack. Begin now.”

  A fourth blade flew from Tatum’s hand to bury its point in the back of Lovey Doll’s chair, an inch or so from her ear. She ceased smiling. The young man of the knives would not be denied. She saw in him now a different aspect, one that had eluded her at first, hidden as it was behind his fine clothing and smooth good looks. He was not human in quite the same way as most. Lovey Doll recognized the quality, possessing it to some degree herself, but in Tatum the absence of e
motion or sympathy was in concentrated form, a kind of shell surrounding him, shielding him from ordinary folk and the workings of their hearts. Nothing could penetrate such armor. Tatum was a sleek beast of the jungles, a panther, perhaps, with a taste for blood. Lovey Doll felt herself become a little frightened. She saw also that it would serve no purpose to flirt with him; he was not a man for women. She had met several of his kind, but never one like Tatum. He was uniquely awful, and she resigned herself to his will.

  Standing, she asked him, “Where is Jared?” The question had come from her mind without bidding, simply popped from her mouth as she rose. She was not sure why she had asked it.

  “Jared is running to save his guilty hide, madam. You’ll read about it in the evening papers, or maybe you won’t, since you’ll be on a train by then. A letter has been found, a confession to the murder of his father. He’ll likely end up in Patagonia. It’s none of your concern in any case.”

  Lovey Doll packed what she could in the time available, but she owned so many dresses it was impossible to carry them all. Tatum assured her the rest would be packed and forwarded to her, care of whichever destination she chose. Lovey Doll did not believe him, and came close to weeping at the loss of her finery. She made sure every piece of jewelry was included in her trunk. Tatum brought in a large man he addressed as John, and had the chest taken downstairs to the coach. John drove them to the station and lifted Lovey Doll’s chest down from the roof.

  “Where do you wish to go?” asked Tatum.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t decided for me.”

  “I will, if you like. Choose now.”

  “Glory Hole.”

  “You won’t like it there. Glory Hole only has one rich man, and he likes his wife.”

  “Glory Hole,” she repeated, and Tatum nodded to John, who approached the ticket counter.

  “I dislike you very much,” Lovey Doll said.

  “Do you now.”

  “I do, and it is my sincere hope you die with your boots off, a slow death from tuberculosis, or syphilis.”

  “When I die, whore, my boots will be on, and I’ll take with me the lucky fool who killed me.”

  Tatum escorted Lovey Doll Pines to her car and sat with her until the train began to move. His last act before jumping from the car was to hiss in her ear, “Spread your legs wide as you please, but keep your mouth shut.”

  His wife informed Melvin Hodge that a message had been delivered while he was out of the house. Mrs. Hodge understood little of her husband’s profession, and had sometimes been given sealed notes such as this before. Hodge took it to the kitchen gaslight, tore open the envelope and read the message within, then touched it to the naked flame for incineration. Before his fingers could be burned, he tossed the remaining corner of the sheet into the enamelled sink, where it hissed for a moment. Hodge went to the hall for his coat. “Business,” he said, opening the front door. “I may be back late.” When he was gone, Mrs. Hodge inspected the scrap of moist paper in her sink. All it bore was the initial of the sender: “J.”

  When Hodge arrived at the place designated in the note, he found a coach there. A large man sat in the driver’s seat, and another sat inside, beckoning him forward. When Hodge entered the coach it began to move. The man inside would answer no questions, and Hodge sat back to await what he expected would be some clandestine meeting with Mr. Jones. He knew it would concern the reports in the evening newspapers of a confession signed by Jared Morrow. Hodge could not see how the confession, if true, jibed with what he had found in Tatum’s room. Something peculiar was afoot, and doubtless Jones wished to explain it.

  The coach traveled for some time, leaving the city behind. It came at last to a farmhouse with dimly lighted windows, and Hodge was escorted across the yard. Near the barn, a slim figure stepped from the shadows into Hodge’s path. “You …,” said Hodge, very much surprised to see Tatum before him.

  “Me,” Tatum said. “I presume you want to know about that key you snooped for in my room.”

  “I do, yes. Where is Mr. Jones?”

  “Don’t be in a rush. Take time to admire nature, why don’t you.” Tatum lifted his eyes. “Did you ever see stars like that before?” he asked. “They look like diamonds, don’t you think?”

  Hodge looked up.

  “Now then, Mr. Tatum, you understand what it is we require of you.”

  Tatum was in the office of Mr. Jones. He understood it was not a true office, nor was Jones the name of the man staring at him over a broad expanse of mahogany desktop.

  “You want me to keep on doing what I’ve done for you twice now.”

  “But only on my instruction. If you attempt anything like it for your own ends, word will reach me, and you will regret it. Any attempt to fathom the purpose of your assignments will be frowned upon. Your task is the very last line of resort. I do not issue such orders for my own amusement, Mr. Tatum. You are part of an organization dedicated to its own agenda. We wish no harm to anyone who does not stand in the way of that agenda.”

  “Have you someone in mind who does not meet that description?”

  “You are here today only to be given advice by myself. This is the advice. Find yourself a modest dwelling place. Do not attract attention to yourself in any way. Live within your means. You will be well paid for future work carried out according to instructions. Naturally you will inform no one of our arrangement with you, not one word to one soul. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

  “As the proverbial bell.”

  “There is a flippancy about you I do not approve of. You would do well to get rid of it. That is all for today, Mr. Tatum. Good-bye.”

  “Good day, Mr. Jones.”

  When Tatum was gone, Mr. Jones took a small file from his desk drawer and began shaping his nails. Mr. Jones was allied with the more conservative element within Big Circle. These men had known of their opposition’s plans for sending Walter Morrow to Glory Hole for the purpose of issuing an invitation to Leo Brannan. The conservatives had decided to allow this act of rebellion to proceed, rather than reveal their knowledge of it beforehand. The death of Morrow had been a shock to them all, and suspicion had focused on several of the members more adamantly opposed to the scheme, but Hodge had found out the truth for them, and been placed in the unfortunate noose of circumstance. Big Circle had need of an individual such as Tatum; their previous assassin had choked on a chicken bone a month before. But if Big Circle wished to retain the services of Tatum, then the one man who knew him to be guilty of Morrow’s murder had to be silenced. Bribery would not have worked with so decent a man as Hodge. His death, along with that of young Morrow, had been a test that Tatum had passed with ease. He was the perfect killer, utterly without remorse. He was now a part of Big Circle, even if he would never hear the name or know for whom he carried out his killings. His first two murders for them, without any financial reward for Tatum, had been a matter of expediency, as so much of Big Circle’s work was.

  Tatum spent the rest of the day searching out a new cane for himself. His dog-headed cane was old and chipped. He found what he wanted in the afternoon, and settled for a price higher than he would have liked, but the cane was a beauty, with a lion’s-head handle and a slender blade concealed inside.

  30

  “Boys, we see before us a pathetic study for sure.”

  Drew had grown used to the gawking and comments. His cell was no more than a cage of flat iron bars adjacent to the sidewalk, and generally used for the confinement of drunks. This day the cell contained a would-be bank robber.

  “My, my, he looks dangerous, don’t he?”

  Drew had tried again to rob and run, but this time met with even less success than on his first attempt. On leaving the bank he had tripped over a legless cripple, entering the building on a small wheeled platform. It was the cripple who commandeered Drew’s pistol and held him at gunpoint until others arrived to aim a variety of weapons at his blushing face.

  From the sidewalk
outside the bank to the open cell beside the general store was only a few yards. He had been behind bars now for several hours, and almost everyone in that small town had already come to stare and taunt. The latest arrivals were three in number, but only one seemed interested in talking to Drew.

  “Been a bank robber long?” The interested party leered. He was bearded, and wore a feather in his hatband.

  “Long enough to watch where I’m going next time.”

  “Next time! Hear that, boys? He figures there’ll be a next time.” Leaning closer to Drew’s face, he said, “It’s the next life you ought to be considering. A life of crime in this one, that’s not for you, not if you can’t do it right.”

  “Thanks for the advice, now poke your ugly head up a mule’s ass and let me get some peace.”

  “Oh, my, a banty rooster. Crows loud for someone in a cage, don’t he.”

  “Sure does,” agreed one of the men either side of the bearded man. Drew turned away from them. The bearded man said, “Think you’ll wind up in hell, banty boy?”

  “Might be worth it,” said Drew, “just to get away from your voice.”

  “I’m insulted, yessir, I sure am. Look at me, boys—can’t you see the insult writ large on my brow?”

  “Sure can.”

  “Looks to me like our banty wants to just put his fool head under his wing and maybe cry a little.”

  “Lay a egg, maybe,” suggested the third man.

  “Roosters don’t lay no eggs,” said the first. “Then again, maybe I was wrong about this one. Just a little old hen, that’s what he is. Better watch out there, hen. Mister rooster comes along, he’ll trample you good.”

  Drew ignored them until he could hear their boots receding along the sidewalk. When he turned to the street again, a small girl was staring at him.

  “Afternoon,” Drew said.

  “Did you rob the bank?”

  “Almost.”

  “Why?”

  Drew considered the question, but could think of no answer adequate for himself or the child. He had been a fool, but could not even explain that part to himself.