The Circuit Rider

by Dani Amore

  “You don’t want to do that, ma’am,” the young man said, his face going visibly pale with the words. “It’s not pretty.”

  “I can handle it,” Bird said. “Do you want to take off the sheet, or do you want me to?”

  The young man didn’t answer; instead, he went to the table and pulled the sheet away from the body.

  Bird took the briefest of glances at the young woman’s face.

  Pretty, she thought.

  And then she looked at the girl’s chest.

  At the pentagram carved into her flesh.

  Forty-Three

  “It’s some kind of Chinese symbol,” the young man said. “At least, that’s what most of the men around here were saying.”

  Tower and Bird stared at the jagged design ripped into the woman’s body, and then Tower pulled the sheet back over the body.

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “That’s got nothing to do with the Chinese.”

  Bird abruptly turned on her heel and walked out of the undertaker’s. She felt the heat of her anger singe her cheeks. She ground her teeth until her jaw hurt.

  She headed straight for the nearest saloon, got a bottle of whiskey from the bartender, and took a seat at the table farthest in back, with her back against the wall.

  Tower entered the saloon moments later and walked to her table. He looked at her, an odd expression on his face, then went back to the bar, ordered a beer, came back, pulled out a chair, and sat down across from her. He sipped from his beer.

  Bird threw down two shots of whiskey in quick succession and caught Tower looking at her.

  “I get the idea you know more than you’re telling me,” he said.

  She looked up at him, the way his face was so open. Almost like he cared about her. For a brief moment, she had the urge to talk about things she had never talked about with another human being. But that door closed quickly, with a resounding thud.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Some sick bastard is slicing up women.” She took another shot of whiskey. Felt the warm buzz start to sprinkle its way across her forehead.

  “The same one who killed Nancy Hockings back in Green Springs,” Tower said. “He’s heading west, too.” He sipped from his beer and got a little foam on his upper lip, which he wiped away with his thumb.

  Bird nodded. “He is. And we’re going to catch up with him sooner than later. I promise you that.”

  Tower must have heard something in her voice. Because he looked hard into her eyes.

  “What?” she said.

  “If you know something, you should tell me, especially if it will help us catch this man.”

  She slammed her whiskey glass down. She absolutely hated it when men tried to force her to do anything. But most of all, she hated it when they tried to get her to talk.

  “Goddamn it!” she said, her voice loud and ragged. “I told you I don’t know anything else.” Her tone cut through the dense air of the saloon, and several heads turned toward their table.

  Tower held up his hands.

  “All right, I believe you,” he said.

  To Bird, it sounded like he wasn’t telling the truth.

  Forty-Four

  The Whitcomb estate encompassed its own plateau and series of ravines. A spring-fed creek wound its way through the property and gurgled its welcome to guests within a stone’s throw of the main building.

  The Whitcomb house was a structure of oversize proportions. Native timbers and logs provided the framework, supporting a wraparound porch, four oversize gables, and a roof made of Spanish tile.

  Tower had come alone, as Bird wanted to stay back in town.

  He left his horse at the hitching post and watering trough along the side of the house. He climbed the steps to the porch and knocked on the massive rough-hewn oak front door.

  A butler answered, complete with a black suit and white gloves. He was old; Tower estimated him to be at least eighty years old, which in itself was an impressive achievement out on the frontier.

  “How may I help you?” the butler said.

  “If they’re available, I would like a word with Mr. and Mrs. Whitcomb,” Tower said.

  The butler gave Tower a quick, but thorough, appraising glance from head to toe.

  “May I ask who’s calling?” he said.

  “My name is Mike Tower.”

  The butler opened the door and gestured toward a small handmade wooden bench with a well-worn dark leather seat cushion.

  “Please make yourself comfortable while I inquire of the Whitcombs,” the butler said. Tower took a seat and waited.

  He watched the butler disappear down a long hallway. Tower looked around the main floor of the house from his vantage point on the bench. It was a spacious entrance, designed to impress and intimidate, no doubt, with several hallways leading off in different directions.

  In one room, Tower could just make out an impressive fireplace and an unusual lighting fixture made with colored glass.

  “It’s Italian,” a voice boomed from down the hallway.

  Tower’s gaze fell upon a short, stocky man with huge, long arms. The physique reminded Tower of photographs he’d once seen of lowland gorillas in Africa.

  The man lifted one of his thick arms and pointed at the light.

  “The glass is Italian,” he said. “From Murano. It’s a little island off the coast of Italy. All they do is make glass. The best in the world.” The man stuck out an enormous hand. “Name’s William Whitcomb,” he said.

  “Mike Tower.”

  They shook, and the man gestured for Tower to follow him.

  “Let’s talk in the library. Bertram is serving cognac.”

  Tower followed Whitcomb to a two-story library complete with a ladder system for reaching the top shelves.

  Tower sat in a leather armchair, Whitcomb in a straight-backed chair that featured horns at the top.

  Bertram the butler brought a decanter of cognac, which Tower declined. Whitcomb accepted a healthy serving deposited into a heavy leaded-glass snifter.

  “So what can I do for you, Mr. Tower?” Whitcomb said. He sipped from the glass of cognac and smacked his thick lips together.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Sadie Bell,” Tower said.

  Whitcomb shook his head. “Horrible, horrible tragedy. The children absolutely adored her, and I did, too. We all did. Just an angel of a girl. Is the riot over? I heard Hop Alley was being burned to the ground.” Tower noted that Whitcomb made the observation with next to no emotion. He ignored the question.

  “Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill her?” Tower asked.

  “Who can explain those Chinamen?” Whitcomb asked. “They sit around, gamble, and smoke opium, never tire of the cheapest prostitutes money can buy, and pray to some strange god.” Whitcomb took in Tower’s attire. “You of all people should know the dangers of worshipping a false god.”

  “Don’t you find it strange that Sadie Bell was in Hop Alley?” Tower said. “From what I understand, she would have had very little reason to go there.”

  “Maybe she was taking some laundry there. Or possibly the Chinamen lured her there, then captured her and took her against her will. Who knows?” Whitcomb took a deep drink of his cognac. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Well, I know there are still some lingering hostilities against the Chinese community,” Tower began.

  “And there should be.”

  “But the fact is, if the Chinese didn’t kill Sadie Bell, and we don’t know because there hasn’t been a trial, then Sadie Bell wasn’t the only innocent person murdered,” Tower said.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that sentiment, Mr. Tower?” Whitcomb asked. “And a bit late for this ‘investigation’ you seem to be undertaking?”

  “I believe there are still some unanswered questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “A friend mentioned that Sadie was not herself lately. Acting strangely,
a disheveled appearance, as if something was deeply bothering her.”

  “I saw no such behavior.”

  “Did your wife?” Tower asked.

  Whitcomb’s face turned a shade of crimson. “You’ll be wise to leave Annette out of this. This has been quite an ordeal for her. She was very close with Sadie.”

  “Is she available to speak with me?” Tower said.

  “Absolutely not,” Whitcomb responded. “She is resting.”

  Tower heard the whisper of something in the hall. Had it been the soft scrape of a shoe? Was someone listening just outside the door?

  He decided that with a man like Whitcomb, the direct approach might be the best.

  “There is also the issue of the mutilations done to her body,” Tower said. “They do not appear to have anything to do with the Chinese.”

  Whitcomb quickly drank the rest of his liquor. His face had now gone from crimson to bright red.

  “I don’t want to speak of atrocities in this house. This is a family home, Mr. Tower. These types of conversations are better held in a court of law or a sheriff’s office. Not here.”

  “I meant no disrespect.”

  Whitcomb set his empty glass on a table next to his chair and stood.

  “Now, I’ll have Bertram show you out. I have much work to do.”

  Tower stood and allowed himself to be escorted from the Whitcomb house.

  The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, a resounding punctuation to his visit.

  Forty-Five

  The whorehouse was called the Emerald Club, and the green carpet combined with the green paint left no doubt as to the origin of the name.

  Bird walked inside and inhaled the cloying scent of perfume. She assumed men walking in associated the smell with all sorts of pleasant activities, but it made Bird’s skin crawl.

  There were several ladies seated on ostentatious but well-worn chairs and couches. Both the furniture and the women looked tired. The heavily painted faces, thick with rouge, all looked at her with bemused skepticism.

  “You looking for some lady love?” one of the women asked. She had yellow teeth and a scar just below her hairline.

  “Kind of you to ask,” Bird responded. “But I haven’t looked for any kind of love in a long time. No, I’m looking for Big Kate.”

  The woman with the scar got up, walked into the back, and promptly returned with a woman who was at least a foot taller than Bird and outweighed her by a hundred pounds, if not more.

  The woman had an almost regal face, an enormous head, an anvil-like chin, and a towering mass of bright-blond hair.

  Bird knew a wig when she saw one.

  She had come to the Emerald Club because the men at the saloon had spoken of Big Kate and how she had hidden some of the Chinese women during the riot. Bird figured if anyone might provide some objective information, Big Kate would be the one.

  “I’ll be damned if it isn’t Bird Hitchcock,” the woman said, her voice a rich baritone.

  Bird looked closely at the woman, hiding the surprise from her face. Being recognized happened occasionally, but she wasn’t expecting it here.

  “Do I know you?” Bird said.

  The woman’s bright-green eyes twinkled at Bird. Maybe the Emerald Club hadn’t gotten its name from the interior decoration, after all.

  “We’ve met, but I’m sure you don’t remember,” Big Kate said. Her voice had the deep resonance of an opera singer Bird had once seen in Kansas City. “You were drunker than a degenerate passed out in a whiskey distillery, and you nearly shot the balls off of my boss!”

  Bird shook her head.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t believe I recall that. But it does sound like something I might do from time to time.”

  “What can I do you for, Bird Hitchcock? Need some female company?”

  Why did they keep asking her that? What did she look like? A woman-lover?

  “I understand you’re a woman of high moral fiber,” Bird said. “And that you cared for some Chinese women during the riot.”

  “That’s right. I don’t like to see innocent women and children hurt. I’m not about to let that happen right under my nose. If those Chinamen did what people say, that’s one thing, but I sure as hell doubt the women and children did.”

  “What can you tell me about Sadie Bell?” Bird said.

  Big Kate took a quick glance around the room. All of the women were listening.

  “Why don’t we go to my office and chat?”

  The big woman led Bird to a tiny enclosed porch that had been converted to an office and shut the door behind them. Big Kate took a seat in a rolling wooden chair that was stationed behind a heavy desk.

  “Why the secrecy?” Bird said.

  “Let’s just say there isn’t a lot of discussion going on about poor Sadie, and there should be.”

  “How come no one’s talking?”

  Big Kate looked out the room’s two small windows.

  “Good question. Something doesn’t seem right about it, is all. But whenever something like this involves the powers-that-be, people tend to get pretty tight-lipped.”

  Bird knew she was talking about the Whitcombs.

  “So what do you think happened?” Bird said.

  Big Kate shrugged her big shoulders. “I’ve been wanting to talk to Dawn about it, but she hasn’t been in for the past few days.”

  “Dawn?”

  “Dawn Ratcliffe,” Big Kate said. She adjusted the wig on her head, using a small mirror propped on her desk. “She lives out east of town with her brother on a small spread. She was friends with Sadie, sort of on the sly, seeing as how Dawn worked here and the proper ladies don’t necessarily like to mingle with the likes of us.”

  “So why hasn’t Dawn been in?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What else do you know about Sadie?”

  Big Kate looked directly at Bird. “I’ve seen my share of troubled young ladies. I know the ones that are slightly off and the ones that are deeply tormented. Sadie was of the slightly variety but headed toward deeply at a pretty fast rate.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Outside a door slammed, and somewhere a dog barked in response.

  “Seen Toby Raines lately?” Bird said as casually as she could.

  “Toby Raines? God, no, not that one. Haven’t seen him, don’t want to. He’s like the dark legend no one talks about. The bogeyman. Why?”

  Bird stood.

  “Just wondering. Thanks for your time. And sorry about trying to shoot the balls off of your boss.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Big Kate said. “I ended up cutting them off myself a few weeks later. Finished the job you’d started.”

  Bird wasn’t sure if the woman was joking or not.

  Decided she wasn’t.

  Forty-Six

  Bird rode the Appaloosa hard, not sure why she was racing out to Dawn Ratcliffe’s spread, but her intuition told her time was of the essence if she wanted to find Toby Raines. Find him, that is, and kill him.

  She felt that old Perkins woman at the boardinghouse hadn’t been completely honest or forthcoming. Claiming that she hadn’t known anything, really, about the girl’s death. Just that Sadie Bell was a sweet, innocent girl. Well, it sounded like everyone knew that.

  But the old man with the pipe, now, he had told them something they could use.

  And Bird knew he couldn’t be the only one who knew more than what they were saying.

  Someone somewhere knew how Toby Raines was involved in all of this.

  The little ranch presented itself around a bend in the trail. It was set back in a thick stand of blue pine, and the only sign of life was a thin plume of smoke from the chimney.

  Bird rode ahead into the small clearing in front of the main house. It was in a sad state. Several boards had simply fallen off the building’s side and remained there. The narrow porch was swaybacked, with gaps big enough for a
grown man to fall through.

  There had once been a small working corral to the right of the house, but its lodgepole fencing was in complete disarray. Entire sections were missing. That corral couldn’t hold a blind mule, Bird thought.

  “Hello the house,” she called out.

  Inside, she heard someone laugh and then the sound of glass breaking.

  Bird climbed off her horse and approached the front door. She knocked.

  “Who the hell is it?” a man’s voice shouted out. To Bird’s experienced ear, he sounded drunk.

  “I’m looking for Dawn Ratcliffe. Is she here?”

  “Hell yes, she’s here—she sure as damn lives here! Let me see who the hell’s askin’! Come on in!”

  Bird pushed open the front door, her right hand loose and brushing up against the butt of her gun.

  She took a quick peek inside and saw a man seated at a table with a bottle of whiskey in front of him. A woman lay on a cot at the side of the room, looking at Bird with a blank expression completely devoid of interest.

  Bird stepped inside, letting her eyes adjust to the darker interior.

  “Damn, look at this!” the man said. His voice was slurred and thick.

  “Dawn?” Bird said to the woman on the cot. The woman sat up, her hair a mess, and yawned.

  “What do you want?” she said. And then, “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of Sadie Bell’s,” Bird lied.

  “Shit!” the man said. He got up and grabbed a second glass, set it on the table, and poured some whiskey into it for Bird. “Let’s drink to Sadie!” he said.

  Bird recoiled at the smell of the man. He probably hadn’t bathed in ages, and the combination of whiskey and filth was overpowering.

  “Dawn, do you have any idea what really happened to her?” Bird said. She eyed the whiskey, then downed it. It was rotgut and the glass was probably dirty, but she didn’t mind. Anything to help mask the smell of the place.

  The woman got up from the cot, came to the table, and sat down. Her skin was sweaty, and a smattering of angry red pimples was splashed across her forehead.

  “Those Chinamen killed her. What else is there to know?”