by J. M. Hayes
Hornbaker. Horn. Baker. It made sense. Among brass instruments, the French Horn was commonly just called the horn. And what was a baker but a chef? The French Chef. The Horn Baker. Louis Henry Silverstein had been a clever man, and a cautious one.
“I’m not sure,” Doc muttered, “but I think the guardian of the words is about to help us find out.”
***
Judah was airborne, coming straight at the sheriff and he knew he should shoot the kid. He tried to get the gun back up in time and yank the trigger, no time to squeeze. Only Judah did a somersault in mid-air and landed on his butt, feet splayed, a terrified look on his face directed toward where he’d been going.
Something immense and black had materialized back there. It was plastered with blood and snow. The sheriff had a bad moment in which the thing seemed the stuff of delirium, then it was just a Brahma bull. Just? The thing was enormous. Its horns hadn’t been cut and dulled the way any sane rancher should have done. It was coming closer. Coming for him, or maybe for Judah.
Judah screamed. His cry was audible over the wind, then the bull’s head slammed into Judah’s body and began grinding it into the earth.
“Hey! Heyah!” the sheriff shouted, waving his arms. The beast paid him no attention. It tossed Judah a few feet and charged again.
Smith spoke. So did Wesson. The bull didn’t seem to care. It was busy savaging the broken figure through which one of its horns now penetrated.
The sheriff stepped sideways, avoiding the flailing body and the horns that ravaged it. He moved in close, just behind the beast’s front shoulder. He pulled the trigger again and again and still the thing refused to go down.
Finally it paused, turned a burning eye the sheriff’s way. He aimed at the eye. He pulled the trigger one last time. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
The bull turned then, and trotted off into the storm. Judah flopped on its horns. He seemed to be waving farewell, a dead Captain Ahab on a great anti-white whale. And then they were gone. Only the bloody snow remained as evidence that this had been anything more than vivid imagination or too many blows to the head.
***
Judy struggled from under the wraith’s scraggly hair and tattered clothing. Her assailant was a mere wisp of a thing. No weight to her. Old and frail, she decided. And, as the other woman, the one she’d met earlier at the Towers, claimed, no threat to a healthy person such as herself.
“My daughters?” Judy got her feet back under her. The old woman with the red tennis shoes helped pull the strange one away, but not before she uttered another baffling pronouncement.
“And children learn to walk on frozen toes.”
“I don’t understand,” Judy said. “What does she mean.”
“Outside, would be my guess,” red shoes replied. “She’s not as crazy as she seems. She only speaks with other people’s words now, but she knows what she’s saying. Her quotes usually mean something.”
Judy turned to the window. It was shrouded with hurtling crystals. “Outside?”
“As frozen as charity.”
Who was the hag, Judy wondered? Could she be right? Could her daughters have been here, safe and warm, then left? They weren’t foolish enough to do something like that. Surely this woman must be as mad as she looked.
“No,” Judy said. “They’d stay here, where it’s safe.”
“There’s your mistake,” red shoes corrected. “Hasn’t been safe here since Tommie took ill. Maybe not even then.”
“Where should I look?” Judy didn’t trust the fantastic creature who had assaulted her, and wasn’t sure about her companion. But she was desperate. She needed a place to start.
The wild woman crumpled at Judy’s feet. It was as if she hadn’t enough strength to go on. Only then she popped back up holding the gun Judy had left on the floor, and it was pointed straight at Judy’s heart.
“I have a gub!” she said. Judy recognized the line this time. It was from a Woody Allen movie about a bank robber whose handwritten note to the teller was illegible. She’d found it hilarious when she saw it. Right now, it wasn’t funny at all.
“Whoops!” her companion said. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there’s still harm in her after all.”
***
Doc moved the Buick all of three feet before imbedding it in the drift that had formed on its south side. Between that, and the ones sneaking into the parking lot from the evergreens that were part of Klausen’s landscaping, he suspected it was trapped for the duration.
“Mary, we’re going to have to walk.”
She smiled. “I don’t mind.” It was all a grand adventure for her. She hadn’t seen much of the county in her lifetime. Even the storm-swept streets of destitute Buffalo Springs must seem the height of urban tourism. She didn’t understand how painful walking into that wind would be, nor how far those six blocks would seem. But he didn’t have a choice. The sheriff had to know about this stuff in the envelope.
Abel Hornbaker had been murdered in Oklahoma more than forty years ago. His sons and a nephew and niece were accused of the crime. Some of their names rang bells, loud ones—Zeke Hornbaker, and Tommie and Becky Irons.
Abel Hornbaker was a successful businessman of German ancestry. A widower, he lived with his three sons (Ezekiel, Obadiah, and Malachi), a sister’s children (Thomas and Rebekah), and a succession of housekeepers. He was involved in the German-American Bund in St. Louis before the Second World War. When he moved to Oklahoma to escape the hard feelings his pro-Nazi sympathies had raised in Missouri, he’d brought, some said, the organization’s secret treasure.
Actually, he’d been a dealer in treasures. He bought and marketed odd collectibles. Religious artifacts were his specialty.
Nobody knew what kind of treasure he might have had. They were just certain there was one. He lived well. Visitors to the opulent Hornbaker residence recalled seeing a locked iron chest. It was memorable, they said, for its swastika-shaped keyhole. Hornbaker’s friends had thought it a joke, but they’d never seen what was inside. It had seemed mysterious but not especially important, until he was murdered and it disappeared.
Then the rumors started. Diamonds, some said, stolen from the Jews, though how Jewish diamonds would have come into the possession of prewar German-Americans wasn’t addressed. When his body was found, bludgeoned to death, no one was surprised that the chest was missing too.
The collection of newspaper articles told a complex tale. There’d been hints of an incestuous relationship between Hornbaker and his niece, Becky, and suggestions of hanky-panky with the Cheyenne woman who’d been his live-in caretaker. At first, people thought the rumors of Nazi treasure had lured a professional burglar and things must have gone wrong when Hornbaker caught him in the act. Only a witness turned up. Someone who claimed to have seen two of the boys, soaked in blood and in possession of the iron chest. A cache of bloody clothes was found, along with the fire iron that had been the murder weapon. Three of the kids were arrested. Tommie Irons and Obadiah Hornbaker got away.
Becky wasn’t held long. She’d been at a dance with hundreds of witnesses. Her husband Zeke was there as well, though he’d left long enough to have been involved. Eventually, the state took Zeke and Malachi to trial on first-degree murder charges. In a Perry Mason moment, the Cheyenne housekeeper exonerated Zeke. She was having his baby and they’d been in the process of conceiving it when Abel was killed. Then Malachi broke on the stand and admitted killing his father. There were doubts about his confession, though, since he claimed Becky was his accomplice and she clearly couldn’t have been. The state never learned for certain who was. Malachi got the death penalty. Ezekiel got life as an accessory. Obadiah was never found. Becky came back to Kansas. Tommie followed, and cleared himself with the local sheriff. Someone else’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon.
Doc wasn’t sure what it all meant. Louis Henry Silverstein, Guardian of the Words, must not have been sure either, but he’d been looking into it. Apparently, he’d b
een worried someone might discover his research. Why else hide the envelope in a cook book among children’s literature on the reserve cart?
The appearance of Ezekiel Hornbaker at the Irons farm, accompanied by a Cheyenne girl enroute to Wounded Knee, had obviously intrigued the newspaperman. And one of those old articles had talked about a ring being stolen from Abel Hornbaker’s finger. With it, actually, since the ring hadn’t slipped off easily. It was evidently Mary’s magic ring.
Englishman needed to know all this. Maybe Mad Dog, too. And Doc felt the need to ponder it, sort through all the possible Hornbakers and Ironses and work out who the guy with the broken nose was in the ID Mad Dog had found, and in the picture in the old Times.
There were three other interesting documents in the envelope, and no explanation how they’d gotten there. One was a list of the items Abel Hornbaker had been offering for sale. His suggested prices were phenomenal, but no more so than the items themselves. Doc had only thumbed through a few pages, but Abel Hornbaker claimed to be able to deliver pieces of the true cross, the authentic bones of saints, an original letter written by Saul of Tarsus, and an autographed presentation copy of Mein Kampf. Authenticity was guaranteed. Verification of provenance would be supplied to the successful bidder.
It was hard to believe, harder still considering the contents of a letter on Abel Hornbaker’s stationery. Above his signature was a statement declaring his satisfaction with one order, and a request for additional stock. The merchandise referred to was scalps. Hornbaker acknowledged receiving two wavy brunettes, one Negro, and four with long, straight, black hair. He requested half a dozen blonds, and a dozen in a miscellaneous assortment of other racial types. The letter was addressed to a taxidermist in Kansas City. The scalp of Estevan the Moor (the first “European” to visit the mythic cities of Cibola) included on Hornbaker’s list was more likely a scrap of buffalo hide or the like.
Finally, there was an inquiry from a collector in Argentina. As someone who claimed to trace his descent from Mary Magdalen, its author was willing to pay Hornbaker’s price. But before parting with a million dollars, he wished to send his own expert to verify authenticity. The letter was dated 1956, when one million dollars was a far more staggering sum than it was today. It made Doc especially curious about what had been for sale.
Outside the Buick, the wind was worse than he’d imagined. Mary had the resilience of the young, but neither of them was up to six blocks into the face of intolerable fury. Doc explored the offerings in the used car lot down the street. He had the keys to the office, and, therefore, to all the vehicles on the lot. He had permission to borrow any of them whenever he wanted as well, thanks to a long past-due loan to “Honest But Ugly Fred,” the proprietor. Fred had lots of light pickups and several sedans, and not a four-wheel drive among them. Doc and Mary pushed on.
By the time the truck pulled up beside them and threw its door open, Doc reached for its handle as desperately as a drowning man grasps at a flotation device. He pulled Mary in and fought with the door to close it.
“Thanks,” he said. “You’re a life saver.” The chubby guy behind the wheel stared at him with an unpleasant scowl.
“This is Doctor Jones,” Mary said. “He’s my friend. Please don’t be mad at him Uncle Simon.”
***
It was a couple of minutes before Deputy Wynn could get his feet under him. They had assumed a Jello-like consistency, too wobbly to hold him.
“Heathers?” he called.
No one answered. But for the glow from the forge, it was dark in the shed. Dim light filtered through windows that hadn’t been cleaned in decades. The illumination behind them was paler than it had been. It must be getting toward sunset.
The flame in the forge was blinding. Looking toward it made seeing what was on the floor, below the level of the firebox, harder. Wynn took a couple of tentative steps.
At least it was warm. He could feel the heat on his face, noticed a little feeling coming back into his hands.
“Heathers?” Still nothing. He bent, shielding his eyes with one arm. The first girl was right at his feet. He dropped to his knees and shook her a little.
“Heather!” He shouted it this time. It was loud in there. Maybe Englishman’s daughter hadn’t heard him over the roar of the furnace and the cry of the wind.
Jesus! He was kneeling in her blood. He looked for a wound and couldn’t see any. Nothing obvious. All of a sudden he didn’t want to risk moving her again. She might have a spinal injury.
“Uhh,” somebody said. That somebody sat up slowly on the other side of the forge. She was holding her face in her hands. Even in the ruddy light of the flame she looked pale. Naked to her waist, but pale. Uncharacteristically, Wynn hardly noticed her breasts as he hurried to offer her a hand, even found himself helping her cover herself with her jacket. Later, the deputy who patrolled back roads in search of parked couples so he could sneak up and use his flashlight to peek at a naked prom queen might kick himself for not taking advantage of the chance to extend this viewing time. Just now he was too busy being scared, and not just for himself.
“He socked me,” Heather Lane explained. She had the beginnings of a magnificent shiner. “He grabbed the rifle and popped me with a fist.”
“Heather’s out cold,” he told her. “I couldn’t find a pulse.”
“What?” She started pulling herself down the aisle, crawling toward the place where her sister lay.
“There’s blood all around her,” Wynn said. Two sat on the floor and gently lifted One’s head into her lap, hands exploring her skull with a feather-light touch.
“She’s breathing. What happened to her?”
Wynn wasn’t sure. “Judah Hornbaker musta done it,” he said. “She was already down on the floor when I came in, just before you shot him. He took the gun away from you somehow, then he went out. Said you hurt him and he was gonna tell.”
“Did I hurt him? I thought I missed.”
“Oh no. You got him. High up near the shoulder. He was bleeding bad. The bullet went right through him. Pretty near hit me too.” Wynn turned to point at the hole in the door just in time to watch it open. Judah stood there. There was no wound in his shoulder and the only blood on his coat was on one of his sleeves. His eyes stared at them, absorbing the glow of the forge without reflecting it. It was like there was no soul in there, Wynn thought. Like soul and body had somehow parted, and what was left wasn’t truly human. A ghost?
Wynn wanted to open his mouth to demand that this spirit be gone. He didn’t manage it. All he was able to produce was a tiny sound even he could hardly hear. “Mama!” he whispered.
***
“It’s not loaded,” Judy said. It was, of course, but she thought she was close enough to get to the gun if the hag looked down to check.
The hag didn’t seem to care.
“I don’t think she believes you,” the lady in the red tennies said. “Lock someone in a cage for forty-odd years and it’s not surprising if they have trust issues.”
Judy nodded. Cage? Forty years? It didn’t matter, nor did whatever issues the woman might have. Judy didn’t even care who the old bags were. Only her daughters mattered.
“Look. I just want to find my girls and get out of here. I don’t care about any of this. You can keep the gun if you want.”
“No,” the lady in the tennies said. “I don’t think she should do that.” She put out her hand. “Why don’t you give it to me, dear?”
The crone backed up a couple of steps, swinging the Beretta to keep both of them covered.
“I’ll just leave you two to work this out,” Judy said. She took a tentative step toward the exit to the kitchen. The door across the room creaked as it began to open.
Now, Judy thought. She lunged, snapped her leg up the way Englishman had taught her, and kicked the spot the Beretta occupied. The wild woman swung toward the far door. Judy’s foot encountered air. She felt herself losing her balance.
Chairma
n Wynn was pushing through the door and saying, “Judy, you’ve got to come look at this. I think we’ve found Harriet. There’s a regular laboratory in here. Dead babies in jars. I mean some weird shit.” She tried to comprehend as she twisted in mid-air so she’d have another chance at the gun. The woman in the red tennies was grabbing for it too.
Judy brushed the pistol with one hand as the lady in the tennies tackled the crone around the shoulders. The gun exploded. Once! Twice!
Someone shrieked and Judy fell in a heap. So did the old women. The gun skittered across the floor, just out of reach.
The far door finished opening. The chairman stumbled into the room. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open. He was the one screaming. His hands clasped the front of his jacket where a crimson stain was spreading. His legs went out from under him and he sat heavily on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry again, only this time hardly any sound emerged. Blood did though. Too much, Judy thought, for a man to lose and live.
***
Most Benteen County deaths were from natural causes. Given the increasing age of the population, and the decreasing economic incentives to keep young people living here, most were simply a matter of organisms wearing out.
You couldn’t hang around a brother who was sheriff, though, without running into the exceptions. Mad Dog had come face to face with death in many forms—automobile accidents, farm accidents, suicides, even a brutally murdered preacher a few years back. He’d never faced it quite like this, though.
Death had assumed a persona and it stood just before him. Little puffs of steam exploded from the bull’s nostrils. Blood tinged Black Death’s horns. Bloody sputum dripped from the corner of his mouth and more blood flowed down his flanks and spoiled the pristine snow.
Mad Dog had left the AK 47 back in the hog shed. That’s what you did when you didn’t believe in guns. He wished he didn’t believe in bulls either.
A lightning bolt. He needed another lightning bolt, only he couldn’t begin to concentrate. Not with death so close at hand.