The Curse of Jacob Tracy: A Novel

by Holly Messinger

  So Trace asked for the sheriff’s office, figuring if anyone knew the whereabouts of a lawyer, it would be another lawman. But once they’d waded through the semi-flooded streets and the washes of mud, they found the sheriff’s office dark and vacant.

  “Well, hell,” Trace said, peering at the sign propped inside the glass.

  “What’s it say?” Boz asked, scraping mud from his boot on the top edge of the porch steps.

  “Sheriff’s out of town for a trial. Won’t be back til Tuesday.”

  “You sure Miz Fairweather said McGillicuddy?”

  “Didn’t just say, I saw it printed on the letter. Here! Mister! Father, I mean,” Trace amended as the man on the street tilted his black umbrella to reveal a round hat and clerical collar. Trace took off his own hat. “Pardon me, Father…” The older man stopped in the mud, on the other side of the moat running in the street, and looked up at him calmly. “We’re lookin for a man named McGillicuddy, supposed to be practicin law in this town.”

  “I assume you mean the business aspect of law,” the priest said. “The only lawyer in Sikeston keeps his offices at the printer’s.”

  “We’ve been there, Father. They never heard of him. It’s about the estate of a lady by name of Lisette DuPres—”

  “DuPres?” The priest cracked a smile. “She was hardly a lady, but if you’re looking for her estate, it’s over there.” He raised one dripping black wing to point across the street at the saloon, brightly lit and inviting in the misty gloom.

  “I don’t think I catch your drift, Father,” Trace said.

  “Son, Madame DuPres was not only a practitioner but a purveyor of the world’s oldest profession. Any assets she left behind would most likely be found in there. I believe the current proprietor is named McGillicuddy, though I’ve never met him personally. And while I don’t mind standing and chatting with you lads, if I don’t move soon I shall be permanently mired in this spot, so if you wish to continue this conversation—”

  “No, no, Father.” Trace tipped his hat. “Sorry to keep you.”

  “Not at all,” the priest said, and splashed along his way.

  Trace looked at Boz, who shrugged, but there was a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Maybe Miz Fairweather heard about your former callin and feared you wouldn’t take the job.”

  “If that’s the case, she was mistaken,” Trace said.

  They waded across Main Street to the saloon. The place was handsome and prosperous-looking on the outside—brightly painted with gold-leaf lettering on the windows, offering meals, liquor, and rooms at a nightly rate. The lights inside were burning bright and from the porch they could hear the din of voices and music. It was suppertime and falling dark, and in weather like this, Trace knew, the place would be packed.

  This was the sticky bit—although he and Boz knew which places in St. Louis would serve them both without fuss, walking into a new establishment in a strange town was always a bit of a gamble. Trace tried not to patronize his partner, but he also didn’t like watching Boz get harassed by men who had half his class.

  “You comin?” Trace said, their customary code.

  Boz snorted. “I ain’t lettin an innocent like you in there alone.”

  Trace allowed a grin and pushed through the gilt-painted doors.

  It was lucky Boz was behind him. As soon as he crossed the threshold, something cold and vicious and distinctly feminine sank its claws into him and shoved. Non! the voice sounded distinctly in his head. Non, non, vous n’êtes pas le bienvenu!

  He grabbed for the swinging door but it scraped past his fingernails. He would have gone down flat if Boz hadn’t caught him and wheel-barrowed him forward into the saloon. It was like being pushed through a briar hedge, but as soon as both feet were through the door he was loose of it. His lungs were left chilled and aching like the time he had slipped in a Colorado river and swallowed half of it.

  “You all right?” Boz said.

  “Yeah,” he said gruffly, trying to catch his breath. “Just hit a slick spot, there.” He had a stitch in his side, a pain where the old scar was. Some of the faces near the door turned toward him with varying degrees of curiosity and ridicule, but beneath the bright gas lamps and the beaming drunken faces he glimpsed something feral and mad, twisting in the shadows under their eyes and between the chair legs.

  “Stay close,” he muttered to Boz.

  They made their way to the bar, careful not to step on any toes. Their quarry wasn’t hard to spot: a short, ugly, Irish fellow in a striped vest stood at the corner of the bar, watching over the room and swinging a black-lacquered cane. He was surrounded by river hands, all drinking whiskey and laughing at his jokes.

  Trace worked his way through the crowd until he could commandeer a spot near the Irishman. Boz took up a space at his back, not crowding anyone, keeping his own face to the room.

  “Evenin,” Trace said, when the proprietor broke from his posturing to notice their intrusion. “I’m lookin for a man name of McGillicuddy. Heard I might find him here.”

  The Irishman’s piggy little eyes slid over them both. “I’m McGillicuddy. What can I do for yez?”

  “It’s a bit of private business,” Trace said. “Don’t suppose we could step into a corner somewhere?”

  “Private?” McGillicuddy repeated. “Can’t be anything shameful. I have no secrets, have I, lads?” This last was delivered over his shoulder, with a grin for the river hands, who lifted their glasses and declared their support for good ol’ Gill.

  “Suits me.” Trace shrugged. “Has to do with the estate of Lisette DuPres—”

  “Miss DuPres died more’n a year ago, boyo, and the sheriff’s inquest ruled it a suicide, so if yer nursin a grudge or a broken heart…”

  “I was sent here to retrieve some property of hers,” Trace said. “I was given to understand you were in possession of it.”

  “And so I am. Left me the whole damn place, bless her little poxy heart.” McGillicuddy swept his arm toward the ceiling of the saloon, buoyed by a fresh gale of laughter. His sleeve pulled free from the white starched cuff, baring a few inches of wrist and a glimpse of puckered scar, like a brand.

  Trace felt an ugly jolt at the sight of it. He was still wearing a bandage on his own wrist. Miss Fairweather’s salve had kept the wound from festering, but it also kept it from crusting over. “It’s a rosewood box. Bout the size of a fist. Was told you had the whereabouts of it.”

  McGillicuddy’s hand spilled the drink he was pouring, although Trace was probably the only one who noticed. The river hands were still jeering and joshing each other, but McGillicuddy set the bottle down and stared at Trace, the flush of drink standing out against his pallor. “I don’t believe I caught yer name, friend.”

  “Sure you didn’t. It’s Jacob Tracy. And this is John Bosley.”

  McGillicuddy looked over Boz with the same strained curiosity. “Well then. We’re all in the service of the Master, ain’t we?” His left hand strayed to the opposite forearm and clenched around it. “Of course I’ll fetch it for ye. Ain’t I kept it safe all this time? It’s just I’ll have to make the proper preparations, being the time of the moon an’ all.”

  “Of course.” Trace matched McGillicuddy’s smooth, bullying tone. “We’re not in a rush.”

  “In the meantime you lads’ll stay on as my guests, won’t yez?” The Irishman twisted his thumb and forefinger around his right wrist as if trying to unscrew the hand from his arm. “Course I’ll have to see the mark, ye ken, just to be sure…”

  Trace hitched up the sleeve of his coat and held out his forearm. The sight of that grimy bandage made McGillicuddy shudder.

  “It’s still healin,” Trace said.

  “Hurts like a bastard, don’t it?” McGillicuddy managed a strangled grin. “Even now … Well, then. Ye’ll just have to stay the night, won’t yez? You and yer man, here.” He beckoned to a little red-haired whore near the stairs. “Sadie! Come here, girl. You lads’ll have to tarry
a couple days, while I make the arrangements—”

  “Just don’t let it take too long,” Trace said, wondering what on earth Miss Fairweather had sent him into.

  “O’ course, o’ course! We mustn’t keep Mr. Mereck waitin, eh? Let me buy you lads a drink.”

  “That’s mighty hospitable of you,” Trace said insincerely. The last thing he wanted was to get drunk in this place. Even stone sober he could feel hostility prowling the bar, sniffing along his boots and collar like a cold draft. There was something nasty in this bar, far worse than any dead parlormaid. Something bitter and vindictive.

  Meanwhile McGillicuddy was putting away whiskey as if preparing to have something amputated. Whatever he was afraid of, it was making him pugnacious; by the third or fourth shot the Irishman had some of his color back and his tongue was sharpening. “Hafta say I’m surprised ta see ye so soon. Mr. Mereck gave me to understand our arrangement was for the long term.”

  “I don’t question the Master’s orders,” Trace said.

  “Quite so, quite so.” McGillicuddy eyed Trace shrewdly, though he seemed oblivious to the black tendrils of smoke coiling around his neck and limbs. “I’m not surprised he’d send you—he favors the ones with the Sight.”

  Trace managed not to flinch. He pushed his glass toward McGillicuddy, holding the Irishman’s eye. “You must have a touch of it yourself, then.”

  McGillicuddy shook his head. “Naw, me dear ol’ mother was the one with the gift. Me, I got just enough to make me lucky at cards.” Trace watched in repulsed fascination as a tendril of black smoke looped around the glass in McGillicuddy’s hand. “Can’t say I regret it, seeing as how it made both Ma and Miss Lisette mad as hatters—”

  The glass was wrenched from his grasp. It shot five feet down the bar and smashed into a bottle the bartender had left sitting. Glass and alcohol exploded in a stinging patter. The men sitting close yelped in surprise and then laughed uneasily, pointing out the mess to their friends who had missed it.

  “That happen a lot?” Trace asked.

  McGillicuddy looked like he’d swallowed something the wrong way. “Barman’s trick!” he said, with ghastly false cheer. “Used to be able t’tip the bottle and make it pour, ha ha!”

  “Think you’ve had enough, boss.” Boz’s hand landed heavy on Trace’s shoulder, and Trace took the cue, feigning more wobbliness than he felt as he pushed away from the bar. “We’ll take that room now, mister.”

  “Surely, surely!” McGillicuddy summoned the red-haired Sadie again. “Take them up to Miss Lisette’s room. She don’t need it, and sure she won’t mind the company, eh?”

  Aw, hell, Trace thought. He had to lean on Boz more than pretense required, to go up the stairs: the black smoke twined around his legs, so he couldn’t see where his feet were landing. He looked up, through the darkness that swirled among the dancing and groping couples, and saw a little girl peering between the railings of the gallery. She was about five or six, with black curls and a full, pouting mouth. She was so solid Trace wouldn’t have known she was dead except she had no eyes.

  Trace tripped onto the landing. “Careful, there,” Boz said.

  Skinny little Sadie led them to the end of the gallery, where a corridor opened up and turned down the back of the building. “That’s your room.” She pointed at the door in the corner, then dropped her arm and scuttled back along the wall a few inches.

  “It ain’t gonna bite us, is it?” Boz said.

  “N-no. I don’t like goin by there, that’s all. Miss Lisette died in there.”

  Better and better, Trace thought sourly. He eased off Boz’s support, put a hand on the wall, and grabbed the doorknob. There was no feeling of cold, nothing pushing him away. The scrolled knob opened easily.

  The room was large, and richly furnished. The curtains at the window and bedposts were wine velvet. There was a large mahogany wardrobe, a breakfast table, and a gilt mirror over the dressing table. No blood dripping down the walls, no flying furniture, not even a tormented moan.

  Boz flipped a coin at Sadie and closed the door in her face.

  “What in blazes did you get us into?” he asked, in a tone that would have made a prairie wife proud.

  “If I had to guess,” Trace said, “I’d suppose Miss Fairweather left a couple things out of her story.”

  “All that business with the mark, and servin the Master—that’s talk I don’t like at all.”

  “Me either,” Trace said, but not for quite the same reasons. He unwrapped a corner of the bandage and peered at the weeping wound. There was nothing special about it, just a raw semi-triangular patch out of his hide. McGillicuddy’s scar had been curved, elaborate, but he hadn’t seen enough of it to make out the pattern. “I shoulda known this wasn’t an accident. Nobody’s that clumsy.”

  “You’re thinkin she branded you, and sent you here, cuz that little potato bug is expecting a messenger from his boss?”

  “Appears to be the case, don’t it?” Trace fought his way out of the sodden oilcloth coat and went to work on his boots. The mud was half-dry and sticky, getting up his sleeves and pant legs despite his best efforts. “Wonder if the hospitality extends to a bath.”

  “We passed a water closet, comin up.” Boz prowled the room, inspecting the large gilded mirror and the cluttered dressing table. “Miss DuPres must’ve had some money.” He opened a door of the wardrobe and ran a hand over the opulence of silk and ruffles inside. “They didn’t clean out her things.”

  “Girls are afraid of this room. McGillicuddy, too. You saw that look he got. Sure bet she died bad, short odds he had something to do with it.”

  “Probably haunted,” Boz said, with a sidelong glance Trace pretended not to notice.

  A few years ago, during a campfire exchange of ghost stories with the drovers on the trail, Trace had told about the abandoned farmhouse he’d stayed at in Oklahoma, and how he’d heard screams in the gray dawn and woke to find a dead man standing over him, blood running down his face, shrieking and clasping his scalped head. Trace guessed he had told it with a little too much conviction, because the drovers’ laughter had been uneasy, and Boz had looked at him speculatively for some time after that.

  “You believe in spirits, right?” Boz had asked once.

  “Sure,” Trace said. “Scripture says they exist.”

  “But you think you seen some yourself, right?”

  Trace had learned the hard way not to answer that question. “Aw, hell, Boz, everybody’s had somethin happen they can’t explain. Most of the time folks forget it come sunup. I don’t try to explain it.”

  That had shut him up, for a while. Boz knew he’d been wounded at Antietam and in hospital for a long time after—although Trace had never told him the exact nature of that hospital—and he probably thought Trace had a case of soldier’s melancholy. Or maybe he thought soft-headedness was the inevitable result of a Catholic education. Trace didn’t care, so long as Boz didn’t realize how often and intimately he saw the spirits.

  “Flip you for the bed?” Boz offered.

  “You can have it,” Trace said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He dreamt of the battlefield.

  Artillery rent the air and clawed up the dirt around him, but he lay naked on the bleeding earth, skin flayed off and nerves exposed to every scream and stab and bullet. Horses pawed the air and groaned, legs broken and lungs collapsing. He soaked it all up as the ground did the blood of the fallen; as his life seeped out of him the souls of others bled into him and he was powerless to stop it. His eyes fixed on the blackened sky, found an opening in the clouds and he tried to get to it, but his dead and dying comrades dragged at him, crying they couldn’t make it, they hurt too bad, they were missing limbs and heads and torsos and he had to carry them. They were pulling him down, he was skidding and sliding through loose earth into a mass grave, and he thrashed to break free.

  The thrashing woke him to a strange bed—soft, perfumed—and a fire blazing on the hea
rth, which was fortunate because he had not a stitch of clothing on.

  Hot, dry, smooth palms landed on his thighs. He jerked, tried to sit up, but he was just as immobilized as he had been on the battlefield. He could see only a silhouette against the firelight—a bright nimbus of sable curls, the slim line of a shoulder and hip. Soft laughter touched his ears. The hot, smooth fingers slid up his thighs to his groin, lingered a moment, and continued upward to the scar, above his hipbone on the right, which a bayonet had started and the surgeons had finished.

  You were the lucky one, non? the voice said, husky and sensual, but with a disturbing guttural quality in the laughter.

  “Wouldn’t call it luck,” Trace gasped. Sweet and soft and searing, skin against skin—

  Mais vous avez le Vision, n’est ce pas? You speak with the lost souls. You can uncover tous les mystères de l’universe. Stroking, stroking, the hot pointed fingers found the seam of his scar and pushed deep into it. He screamed. Scarlet lips peeled back from teeth, grinning while she twisted his guts. Quel est le problème? Voulez-vous le boît, ou non?

  Trace jolted awake, twisted in his bedroll on the floor, the old scar throbbing as it had not in years. “Jesus,” he muttered, half-prayer, turning on his side to relieve the crushing sensation on his chest.

  It was bright morning. Late, by the look of the light. The bed was empty, Boz’s boots gone from the hearth. Trace rubbed the grit from his eyes. His mouth tasted like brine, the metallic tang of blood.

  Someone was humming.

  He turned his head, across the room to where the breakfast table sat beneath an eastern window. Pale sunlight slanted in, laying a golden halo on the sable curls of the little girl who sat there. She was playing tea party, with a doll and two shot glasses, humming happily to herself. She looked up at him with her empty eye sockets and then looked to the door as it opened.