by Erik Carter
An inconsequential confrontation with Fannie was just what I needed to warm up for the real confrontation I was about to have with Jake. He was a slight man, a real feather duster. The logical part of me said that I had nothing to worry about. My experiences, however, told me to never underestimate anyone. I’d seen the most cowering people you could ever imagine summon up beast-like ferocity when they were faced with certain jail time.
I would need to be on my guard.
Chapter Nineteen
I headed to the bank to make a withdrawal. One murdering scumbag, please.
It wasn’t yet nine in the morning. By lunchtime I’d have a confession out of him. After that I’d haul his lousy ass to Sheriff Simmons. By then, it’d be midafternoon, at which point I’d go to Lilly and get the bonus cash she’d promised me if I caught the killer. Heck, I’d have a roll of bills in my hand by dinnertime. I could even swing by the Funhouse and buy back Fannie’s attention. I knew the gal. As frustrated at me as she currently was, she’d be all smiles when I started waving dough in her face.
First things first. The bank.
When I entered, the woman I met on my last visit, Glenda, waddled over across the vast open area of the main lobby.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said. “We don’t open for another five—” She stopped mid sentence, and a smile came to her face. “Oh, it’s you. How’s that nose of yours?”
“Healed up just fine, ma’am,” I said in my most congenial tone.
“And how did your meeting with Jake go?”
“It went swell. In fact I’m here to see him again.”
“I’m not sure where he is. He’s usually here real early.” She looked about as though he might pop out of a hiding spot somewhere.
“If it’s not terribly troubling, I’d like to go upstairs and wait for him, Glenda.” I gave her a big, shiny smile.
Glenda blushed. “Of course.”
She led me up to the third floor—which was deserted save for one lady in the back writing furiously on a piece of paper—and left me outside the door to Jake’s office. When Glenda was gone, I took the lock-killer from my pocket. Keeping an eye on the lady banker, I carefully inserted the lock-killer in the doorframe. It connected with the metal inside with a loud click. I winced. But the banker didn’t miss a beat, just kept writing away. I twisted the lock-killer downward and pulled sharply. The lock opened. I quietly slid inside.
After re-locking the door, I walked over to Jake’s desk. When he came in, he wouldn’t know what hit him. You can get a good amount of honesty out of a punk if you catch him off guard. Sitting in a guy’s desk when he arrives for work would jar him more than just about anything, I would imagine. I wasn’t lacking in the area of dramatics.
I sat in his chair. It was hard. The cushion was thin. I opened one of the drawers of his desk and started flipping through his stuff. While I waited on the bastard to show, I might as well take the opportunity to find some more evidence.
The top drawer had some general supplies—inkwells, quills, and the like. All were neatly arranged, stacked and ordered by type. The other drawers held paperwork. Contracts, leases, government forms. Nothing about the kettle or Cosgrove.
I propped my feet up on his desktop. It was a cozy little office. Nice and tidy. But it didn’t hold a candle to mine. Still, I could see myself taking a nap there.
I took out my watch. It was three after nine. He was late, might not show up at all. Perhaps I should go ahead and take that nap while I waited. I was just starting to close my eyes when the door rattled. I heard the key being inserted. The knob turned.
Jake entered.
He walked in and jumped when he saw me. As he’d been when we crossed paths on the road, he was still disheveled, unshaven.
“How did you get in here?” he said, a scowl on his face.
“You’re lookin’ a little rough these days, Jake. What ya been up to?”
“Mr. Wilcox, please step away from my desk.”
“I asked you before for any information you had about the kettle. I’ll ask you again. What do you know about it?”
Jake didn’t respond. He started to turn around for the door. I whipped out my revolver.
“Careful,” I said and kept the gun pointed at him. “A better question might be, what did you and Kurt Leonard do with it after you killed Macintosh?”
His shoulders slumped. He looked at the ground.
“You killed Macintosh and took the kettle,” I said, “knowing the kidnappers would kill your enemy Cosgrove if they didn’t get the kettle. You wanted someone else to take care of him for you.”
“No. That’s not right …”
“Come on now, Jake. Don’t try’n fool me. Give me a confession, and maybe Sheriff Simmons will go easy on you.”
He nodded and put a hand to his forehead.
“It was you and Kurt, wasn’t it?” I said.
He looked at me, then away. “Yes.”
A confession. The resolution of this case was on the horizon.
I said, “You two’ve been wearing bandannas, following me around until I led you to the kettle.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Where’s the kettle?”
“I don’t have it. It’s with Kurt.”
Finally I knew where the damn thing was. “What does he want he want with it?”
Jake looked away.
“Jake! Answer me.”
He glanced at my gun. “All right. This whole kettle business is Kurt’s affair. I’ve been helping him.”
“I thought he was here on some mission of love.”
“He is in love. With a young woman named Rosie Clements.”
“Clements,” I said. “Clements kettles.”
“Exactly,” Jake said and sighed. “Kurt came to me two weeks ago. He’d come from Alabama. He was looking for a certain kettle. He’d traced it all the way here to Desecho, all the way to Cosgrove.”
“Why?”
“To hear Kurt tell it, Momma Clements holds the reigns on Rosie’s family. And she didn’t much care for Kurt. So he thought he’d do the one thing that would win the old woman’s trust and get Rosie’s hand—return one of the family’s lost kettles.”
“How exactly would getting this kettle back land him in her good graces?” This whole business with the kettle was getting weirder and weirder.
“You do know that the kettles are cursed, right?” Jake said.
I groaned. “That’s what I’ve been told, yes.”
“After the slave owner killed those folks, he took all the kettles. Three months later he fell under a plow and was cut to shreds. A little weird, don’t you think?”
“I call it coincidence.”
“I call it a curse.”
“All of you with this ‘curse’ business,” I said. “It’s madness.”
“Anyone who touches the kettle is doomed,” Jake said. “But the Clements family itself is cursed too. Their family has been through more pain and strife than you can imagine in the thirty years since the murders. And it’s all because those kettles are gone. They feel that they’re going to continue to suffer until one of those kettle returns home.”
“Then the whole family is certifiably nuts just like the rest of you,” I said. This had all gone five miles past ridiculous.
“Maybe so, but it’s the reason Kurt Leonard came out here, the reason both you and I got tangled up in this whole mess.”
“So Kurt packed a bag and headed to Arizona. He heard about your service, came to you, and you helped him with the kidnapping.”
“I … yes …” His shoulders dropped.
I stood up, keeping the gun aimed at him.
“Jesus …” I said and rubbed my temple. “One hell of a ride you’ve taken me on.” I stepped toward him. “First you’re going to take me to Kurt so we can get the kettle. Then you’re going in on murder charges.”
He took a step back toward the door.
“Not another inch,” I barked.
“You can tell it all to Sheriff Simmons.”
“This isn’t how I wanted it to end,” Jake said, tears welling in his eyes. “I didn’t mean for Macintosh and Cosgrove to die.”
Stop … the … train!
“Wait a minute,” I said. “The only folks who knew that Cosgrove was shot were Lilly and me. Because we were at Dry Rock Basin and heard the shot. And we never even saw a body. The only people who would know with certainty that Cosgrove was dead would be … the kidnappers.”
I thought of Lilly’s description of the kidnapper she gave me when she first came to my office. She said he wore all black, a bandanna covering his face. Much like the mystery man.
I stared into Jake, stood up, and took a step toward him.
“You kidnapped Cosgrove,” I said. “You and Kurt. The two of you have been working both sides.”
“I … we …” Jake avoided eye contact. He breathed hard, scared.
“You took that poor man, held him captive. Didn’t you? You two killed both of the old men. Macintosh and Cosgrove. Look at me, coward.”
Jake eyed me cautiously. He tensed up.
He suddenly grabbed a nearby cabinet and threw it to the floor. He dashed out of the office.
The cabinet landed between the desk and the door. I jumped over it. My foot caught on the top, and I fell to the floor. I got back up, holstered the Colt, and took chase into the open office space beyond his doorway.
The other banker peered curiously at me from behind her desk.
Jake was well ahead of me. He was already across the room and headed for a stairwell. I darted after him.
I reached Jake just as he made it to the stairwell. I lunged at him and grabbed him by the arm, but then my boot slid—I’d stepped on a piece of paper. I fell back. Jake took off down the stairs.
I stumbled forward and entered the stairwell. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear his footsteps echoing from below. He was already to the bottom. I took off, jumping down several steps at a time. I heard the door swing open at the base on the ground floor.
A moment later, I was down too. I rushed into the main lobby of the bank. Customers were standing about, mouths open in surprise. I ran across the lobby. My boots clicked loudly off the marble floor. An old woman screamed. Glenda fainted and fell to the floor with a thud. Jake was nowhere to be seen, but the front door was swinging shut.
I rushed to the door and out into the bright daylight. The street was swarming. Horses and buggies and wagons crisscrossed. Dust was thick in the air. A man bumped into me. I looked about frantically.
Jake was sprinting down the road, weaving his way through traffic.
“Jake!”
He didn’t stop. I took off after him.
His feet were kicking rapidly. A cloud of dust followed him. He was getting some good speed out of those short legs of his. That’s youth for you. Young as he might be, though, I had the advantage of length. My long strides were gaining on him.
He turned a corner. I followed.
I ran through a clump of people and saw Jake ahead of me snaking his way through a group of Chinese laborers. He ran out into a clearing. A moment later I did too.
Once I made it out in the open I covered some good ground. Then Jake stopped suddenly; a horseman had cut him off.
I reached out to tackle him and another horse darted in front of me. The horse whinnied and reared back. I jumped to the side and tumbled just as its front hooves fell back down with a solid thud.
“Watch where you’re goin’,” the rider grumbled.
I darted around the horse and looked down the road. I couldn’t see Jake. There were about twenty businesses in my line of vision where he could have gone. I cursed.
Ahead, a covered wagon was rumbling down the road. It caught my eye … seeing as how Jake Adamson’s head was poking out from the back watching me.
I bolted after it.
It was moving slowly, and I quickly caught up with it. Jake stood as I approached, readied himself.
I reached my hands out and grabbed the back of the wagon, put one boot on the side to pull myself in. Jake cracked his foot down on one of my hands. I yelped, and my hand fell back. My foot slipped and fell. I was now being dragged behind the wagon, clinging on by one hand.
My eyes burned with the thick dust. I put my other, throbbing hand back on the wagon. My boots pattered along the ground, which was surely helping to break in the new leather. Jake kept swinging his feet down at my hands. I dodged, feigned.
A woman—a sassy, farmer type—came from the front of the wagon. She scowled.
“What are you boys doin’ back here?” she spat. She grabbed a broom from among the supplies in the back. She started smacking Jake on the back with it. “Get out! Get out!”
Jake covered his head feebly.
She swatted at my hands. “Leave! Shoo! Both of ya!”
Finally she got a foot on Jake’s back and gave a mighty push that expelled him from the back of the wagon.
He landed on me.
We rolled in a big ball of arms and legs, tumbling roughly on the ground.
I coughed, half from losing my wind, half from the thick dust. I reached out to my left. Then to my right. No Jake.
I stood up and swung my arms about, clearing the air. Then I spotted him, running through traffic.
“Jake Adamsom,” I hollered. I pulled out my gun. It was time to get a bit more forceful.
The people on the road instinctively parted to either side. Desechoeons were more than used to seeing a fella call out another in the middle of the road. Several of them stopped and waited to watch the inevitable showdown. Most, though, simply went about their business unaffected.
Jake froze. He turned around, saw my gun, and put his hands in the air. About twenty yards separated us.
“Come on now, Jake,” I called out. “You confessed. Let’s just make this as easy as possible.”
“You don’t understand, Barnaby. You don’t have the whole story.”
“Well, that’s fine. You can tell it all to the sheriff. You two can have a nice long chat.” I took a step toward him.
He took a step back. “I’m unarmed.” He waved his hands, which remained in the air.
“Good. That makes things easy for me,” I said. “Now come on.”
He didn’t move. “I’m unarmed,” he said again. “You don’t need to shoot.”
“That depends on how compliant you are.”
He stared into me with those seemingly genuine eyes of his. Squinting, making a plea. “You won’t shoot me.” He slowly lowered his arms.
Then he bolted like a hillbilly from a library.
And I fired.
I’d aimed for his leg, but right before I shot he jumped to the side and tumbled on the ground. Some part of him must have still had a notion that I’d shoot.
He scrambled up and ran into the nearest business—Madame Fannie’s Funhouse.
I followed and in a moment I too burst through the batwing doors. The girl behind the hostess stand shrieked and pointed to the doorway leading to the common area. The beads were still swinging. I ran in.
The gals on stage were screaming, running for the exits on either side. Men in the crowd beyond were hollering. Chairs and table legs shuffled loudly as folks cleared out. Jake was across the room, looking feebly for a back exit. I ran at him.
Fannie appeared over the railing above. She glared at me. I winked.
Jake put his fists up. He slid a table in front of him.
I ran across the space separating us, right toward the table he’d placed as an obstacle. Obstacles are funny. When life puts them in your path, you just gotta leap right over them.
I dove at him, all six foot two inches of Barnaby flying over the table like a majestic eagle. I caught him in the chest with my shoulder. We landed on another table behind Jake. It broke under our weight. Chairs scattered in all directions.
>
I had him pinned. I got a hand around his throat. I pulled back for a punch to his jaw, when he suddenly got me under the chin with base of his palm. He then slugged me across the cheek. I fell to the side.
Hadn’t expected a combination like that. Hadn’t expected that Jake Adamson would be much of a fighter at all, as a matter of fact.
He kicked, and I rolled, dodging him. He popped to his feet then went to slam a heel down on my chest. I caught his shoe—a nice, well-polished wingtip that I admired for half a moment—and threw it back at him. I stood up.
A crowd had gathered around us, cheering. Money began to trade hands.
Screaming from behind. Shrill, piercing screaming. I glanced back. It was Fannie. “Barnaby Wilcox! You take your fightin’ somewhere else! Stop tearing up my club, Barnaby Wilcox!” My ears rang.
Eesh.
Jake and I squared off. He had a nice stance. Made me suspect that he’d done some sparring in the past. He got me with a left then a right. Then another left. My suspicions were confirmed.
My head was swimming a little now. But tall guys like me have reach, especially against short squirts like Jake. He came at me with another couple punches. I took a casual step backwards then threw a long, loping right hook. I caught him in the jaw with a moist thud that rattled his teeth.
There was a cheer from the onlookers. And more screaming. “Stop it! Stop it! Look what you did to my table!”
Jake caught me with a right to the gut and went for a left … which I caught. I took him by the hand and spun him in a big circle around me once, twice and threw him into the wall.
Or rather through the wall.
The thin planks and plaster gave way, and Jake landed in the billiards area of the next-door saloon. The saloon’s customers hollered and darted.
I climbed through the hole and into the other business. Jake pulled himself from the ground and leaned on one of the pool tables. I came up behind to grab him, he turned …
… and a pool cue met the side of my head.
Spots, whiteness. And I collapsed.
Chapter Twenty