The Rifters

by M. Pax

  Scott trotted off. The outer door banged with a jarring clank. Earl jumped in his skin. Hearing that sound was a living nightmare, one from which he couldn’t wake up. “I can’t hang. Can’t.” Neither could he live one more day in a cage.

  hapter

  Daelin had seven minutes left in which to secure the job she had come all the way to Settler to get or she’d wind up more destitute than she was. She scooted inside the glass doors of the county offices, scurrying around the little lobby, figuring out where to go. White tile covered the walls, and tan and ivory speckled granite squares made up the floor, both from another decade. Typewriters clicked from the office across from the stairway winding its way up to the other levels.

  Typewriters? Daelin peeked inside the opened double wood doors. A stylish young man’s fingers flew over the keys. He appeared about Daelin’s age. His shoulders had a strength, and he had a nice head of hair. Next to him sat an old-fashioned rotary phone. Both pieces gleamed in an old-fashioned black enamel under fluorescent lights that hummed at an annoying pitch. Daelin only knew what the outmoded office machines were from old movies.

  The phone rang, a loud clanging that halted the rhythmic clacking. He marked the page set next to his typewriter then picked up the receiver. “No, she hasn’t returned to town. Her sister just arrived. We’re debating what to tell her.” His fingers wound around the cord, and he nodded for a full minute. “What?” He swiveled around in his chair, gaping at Daelin. “Yeah, later.”

  He placed the receiver gently in its cradle. “We’re really sorry for the incident out at the motel. The B&B here in town has agreed to take in all of Leeds’ guests.” He rose from his seat behind the ancient typewriter and straightened the cuffs of his lavender dress shirt. Grabbing a form off a stack on the counter and a stubby pencil from a bin, he handed both to her. “Just fill this out.”

  Daelin fished the job forms out of her purse, clearing her throat. The morning frost had made her hoarse, or perhaps the news about Earl. “Ms. Staley told me to give these to you.” She held the completed forms out.

  “Oh, the new gal.” He extended a well-manicured hand. “Wald Macadam. It’s wonderful to meet you, Darlin Dae Long.” Before she could reply, he said, “I know, I know. You prefer Daelin.”

  “You know an awful lot about me.” She took his hand, smooth and strong, normal and reassuring despite his psychic knowledge of her.

  “Since you’re going to live here, you should know I know everything.” His hair sported the latest cut popular with fashionable men. His hazel irises sparkled with each word, and his smile could make the sun’s eyes water.

  His dimples deepened, his laugh tumbling from his chest, flirting with the air. “Before you go getting all hinked up, Sabina told me you’d be by, and I’m the one who checked your references.”

  Hinked up? Settler had a language of its own. “Ah. When do I start?”

  Wald held up a set of keys. Three dangled from a plain key ring—a squat brass one with elaborate scroll details, a long silver one, and a squarish bronze one. A crystal was embedded at the end of each key. “You can start now if you’d like.”

  It’d take her mind off Charming, Earl, and almost dying. “I would.”

  “Let me take you over.” He grabbed a long wool camel coat and a hat. The hat had to come from the thrift store, because it was straight out of the 1960s. The retro piece confused Wald’s modern hairstyle and clothes.

  Outside the glass doors, Daelin grimaced against the biting wind and hurried around the corner. A dry cleaner graced one side of the library, a bright red firehouse the other. Located across the street were the Sparrow Roadhouse and the bank. Past the fire station came several empty lots then the high school. Behind the school rose steep hills that nipped at the dizzying heights of Gold Peak. The other end of town butted up against Swit Peak.

  The firehouse had fresh paint, the only building to have such in the whole town. “You all seriously put the library next to the fire department?” Daelin asked. Its long, narrow windows displayed antique axes, hoses, boots, and hats. “Is it a museum too?”

  “Nah, the doodads add flavor and mystique. A taste of Settler.” His hand moved across the sky as if A Taste of Settler had been scrawled in the clouds. “Besides, we really treasure our firefighters. Notice the fresh coat of paint? Yeah, if not for this firehouse Settler would be a total ghost town.”

  Guess, he didn’t notice it already was, at least by Daelin’s definition. “Why’s that?”

  “The town burned down in the early 1900’s, except for the heart of it, which is why most buildings are new and why the town is still here at all.”

  New had a different definition here too. Daelin struggled to hold in her smile. “How much of it burned?”

  “Whoosh it went.” He threw his arms up. “In the old days the roads, the water lines, the buildings, everything was made of wood. A lightning strike in the wrong place and everything went up like tinder.”

  Daelin surveyed the main street, Brucker Avenue. None of the structures dated more recently than fifty years ago. “I see no sign of fire.”

  “It was over a hundred years ago. September 9, 1909.”

  “That’s a lot of nines. Did it happen at 9 o’clock too?”

  Not a hint of amusement graced his cheeks. “Yes. It began at 9:09 that night. Burned until morning.”

  “It all burned?” Daelin examined Brucker Avenue again, searching for any evidence of a big fire. At the other end of the main street, East Lake quietly reflected the cloudless sky.

  “All except the Patrick Swit House and the original county courthouse, which is now the county museum. There’s some old scorch marks on their foundations if you need that sort of proof.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Daelin shook her head. “I’m not macabre. I like stories. If I’m going to live here, I want to know Settler’s stories. When was the Swit House built?”

  His chin rose higher and his shoulders squared. “1872. The old courthouse was established in 1888, the official founding of Settler.”

  On the east coast, that would be considered recent history. “I’ll have to check those out. Is the Swit House open to visitors? Obviously, the museum is.”

  “Saturdays and by appointment through me.” He beamed and grabbed onto his lapels. “The museum’s hours are Thursday through Monday.”

  “Noted.” She approached the door to the library, a small white building resembling a quaint one-story house more than a public building. Its white paint had aged and weathered. Blinds covered the window, hiding the inside. How dated would it be? Typewriters and rotary phones?

  She held the set of keys Wald had given her, catching the light. The sun hit the stones on the keys, which glittered like tiny prisms sending tiny rainbows onto the crumbling sidewalk laced with weeds. “Which is for this door?” she asked.

  Wald pointed at the long silver key. “That one.”

  She slid the key into the lock and twisted it. A green flash flared, growing stronger until green was all Daelin saw.

  hapter

  A woman’s face drifted in the green light enveloping Daelin. She felt so dizzy, She groped for a wall. The woman’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Her face was round and eyes hard, neither old nor young. She spoke slowly, her gaze boring into Daelin’s. It appeared as if the woman said, ‘Beware.’ She silently spoke the warning several times then the green disappeared.

  Wald tapped Daelin’s cheeks. “What happened? Did you see something?”

  Beware echoed in her thoughts. “It’s silly,” she said, laughing. She didn’t know what else to do other than laugh.

  He grabbed her shoulders, his brow crinkling and lips frowning. “What did you see?”

  “I…” She didn’t want to tell him, but she needed to know she wasn’t crazy more. “I think I saw a ghost.”

  “Really? You know, the founder of Settler claimed this area haunted, very haunted. You’ll see evidence of it when you come tour his house. What di
d the ghost look like?”

  “I’d never seen her before. Maybe it was the murdered woman. Although the clothes were wrong. Too old fashioned.” Daelin fanned her face. This town should have been called Unsettler.

  “Let’s get you inside, huh?” Wald pushed open the library door.

  Daelin stumbled in, smelling paper, cedar, dust, a lack of use, and old library. Before leaving New York, she had studied up on libraries. Old library smell meant some very aged books decayed on the shelves. She’d have to order some magnesium oxide to slow their deterioration.

  The lowered blinds and lack of other windows cast the library in gloom. She groped the wall for a light switch. A beam blasted from Wald, bouncing around worn green carpet, wood, and books. It lit up the desk and the wall behind it. Wald squeezed past Daelin to go slap the switches. Old-fashioned 1960s rectangular fluorescent lights hummed, faintly glowing, growing brighter, illuminating the room, the only room.

  If it spanned more than two thousand square feet, she’d need her eyes checked. Shelves crammed the floor space, and every inch of the bookcases were piled with references, knowledge, and stories. Stacks lay on the floor and rose on the uppermost shelves to the ceiling. A few cobwebs draped over the books from the ceiling lights, connecting the shelves and books in dusty lines.

  A high counter gave the librarian a bit of protection from the cold and the public. Made from dark paneling, it had chips enough to have been gnawed by a rabid dog, and the varnish had begun to peal. The desk beside it had to weigh over a hundred pounds, built from substantial pieces of lumber. A portrait behind the desk froze Daelin in place. It was the face she had seen when unlocking the door. “That’s her. That’s the ghost.” She inched up to it and peered at the name on the brass plate attached to the frame. Cordelia Swit.

  “Patrick Swit’s granddaughter. She crafted the desk from a single board of cedar. She and her husband felled the giant on their land, and the shelves come from that same tree. This library was her dream and gift to Settler. She was quite the character. Made her husband take her last name. Rebuilt this town after the fire. Settler would be long gone if not for her. Makes sense she would want to greet the new librarian. I’d say it’s a good omen for you.”

  Right. A ghost would be a blessing in a town riddled with weirdness. Daelin didn’t know how to feel about it, other than Cordelia didn’t seem to want to harm her. “It’ll be nice to have a friend.” She returned to surveying her new workplace.

  The monitor sitting on top of the desk was as bulky as the 1990s. Daelin shuffled around to get a look at the rest of it. The PC came from the early 2000s, a vast improvement over a typewriter.

  “There are newer laptops in the locked cabinet.” Wald pointed behind the desk at a metal cupboard next to Cordelia’s portrait. “Culver… Have you met Culver?”

  She nodded.

  “He put in Wi-Fi two years ago. He’s a descendant of old Patrick too, and Wi-Fi is his gift to the library on behalf of the Swit legacy.”

  “Hmm.” Daelin plucked a book off the New Releases rack, a popular novel about teenagers killing one another. “Not too terribly old.” She set it down and pivoted in a slow circle. “It’s rather dusty. How long since my predecessor left?”

  “The high desert surrounds us. We’ve always got dust. The library has been closed for three months.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What happened to the last librarian?”

  “Dante Grimes was his name. His mind started going, so he retired. He moved to Arizona into a retirement community.”

  The first name hit her ear with familiar notes. She had heard it before. Puzzling over it, she frowned. The answer eluded her. The harder she thought about it, the farther it slipped from her conscious thoughts. “I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Will you be all right? I can stay longer and scare off any ghosts.”

  She tucked her arm through his, smiling, and led him to the door. “Cordelia will look after me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, call if you need me. For anything. The county office is in the book and so am I.” He pointed at a quaint printed phone book the thickness of a slice of cheese lying on the desk.

  The phone had push buttons and, thankfully, had come from a more recent decade than the equipment Wald worked with. “I won’t hesitate if I need you. Before you go, can you tell me what these other two keys are for?” She held out the library keys.

  “I assume one is for the cabinet where the new computers are kept, and there’s a storage closet in the back somewhere.”

  “Guess you don’t come to the library often.”

  “I can see that changing.” He grinned and tipped his hat. “In fact, I’ll bring you some lunch later.” With a wink, he scooted out the door.

  She couldn’t return the smile. The last thing she needed was a romance, especially with a guy she considered a coworker. Once she had her life settled, she’d take a gander at the men around here to see if one would suit her.

  The room had more books than space. Daelin didn’t know where she’d put them. It’d take her a decade to get them all organized, but she didn’t concern herself with work at the moment. She needed to find out if Cordelia was real. She peered into the racks one by one, picking her way through the books. “Cordelia? Are you here? Beware of what?”

  A tap on her shoulder whirled her about, and she gasped into the face of a very tan, very square man. He took off his cowboy hat, and the top of his head barely reached her shoulder.

  “Excuse me, miss. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you the new librarian?”

  Her breath settled back into her lungs, and she gasped again. “Yes. That’s me.”

  His hands moved nervously around the brim of his hat. “My name is Scott. Scott Zayas. From… uh… I need some information and hope you can help me.”

  “Have a seat.” She motioned at a couple of chairs set around a table piled with books. She turned her seat to face him and sat down. “What is it you need to know?”

  “I’m researching a man, a man from history.”

  “Did he live around here?”

  “I don’t know. I found his name among my grandfather’s things. That’s all I know.”

  “It’s a start.” She went over to the large desk piled with books, mail, and papers, grabbing an envelope and a pen. “Jot his name down. Sorry I’m not better organized yet.”

  “That’s all right, miss. I think he was an outlaw. He had an alias, Haw Shot.” Scott wrote both names down and handed the envelope back to her.

  Mysteries and stories. Maybe working in a library would be fun. “How soon do you need this? You can see I have a lot of straightening up to do.”

  Scott scanned the floor-to-ceiling mess around the entire room. “Before sunset if you will, señorita. I could send my wife to help you clean. A fair trade for your time.”

  “Finding things out is part of my job, Mr. Zayas. No need to offer the labor of your family.” What was so urgent about the history of an outlaw? A siren screamed outside, the library’s doors and walls offering no defense against its wail.

  Scott’s gaze darted in that direction, and he visibly gulped. “You heard of the phantom? The one seen at the murder? I think it’s him. I think it’s George Hawley’s ghost.”

  Daelin rubbed her arms against a sudden chill.

  hapter

  The shadows in Earl’s prison cell deepened, darkening blacker than the deepest mineshaft, stretching into a stain of horror with two heads. Instinct had Earl inching to the opposite corner. The shadow slinked after him across the floor.

  “Haw, haw,” it whispered. An unholy laugh erupted from its blackest core. “Told you, you’d pay. I’ve got more planned for you. Haw, haw.”

  Standing tall was never a bad policy when squaring off. Earl had learned the lesson in the 1800s. It applied in any time. “You’re a stupid puppet without any brain matter.” He stepped on it, and in a shuddering agony his leg went numb.

  “What d
oes that make you? You’re my puppet. I could spring you. I’ve got special talents, ‘cause I been resurrected. You’d like to be sprung, wouldn’t you? Bart and Haw Shot on the prowl together. We’d be invincible. Although, they don’t have stagecoaches anymore. Did you know that?”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. My name will be cleared, I’ll be let out, then I’m coming for you, George Hawley.”

  “No, it doesn’t work that way. You’ll do what I make you do.”

  Ghosts didn’t have the powers Haw Shot displayed. The beaked thing from the rift had to wield them. Did Earl talk to it or Haw Shot? He’d have to keep the ghost jabbering to find out. “Which is?”

  “I need another head.” The shadow of a second head on Haw Shot’s shoulder jiggled indecently, twisted at an unnatural angle. “Susan has pretty hair, but pretty isn’t everything in the Afterlife.”

  The day the army had released him from service, Earl had sworn he’d never kill again. What did that thing need with heads anyway? “I’m not going to help you.” He hopped up on the cot. Black followed, marring the blanket. There was no getting away from Hawley.

  “Sure as the desert is dry, you will. Unless…” Haw Shot dangled unless like an unguarded shipment of gold.

  Earl had to ask, “Unless what?”

  “Apparently your freedom can be bought.”

  Earl had sold a piece of himself to stoop to robbing stagecoaches. He wasn’t that man anymore, and if the ghost couldn’t offer redemption, Earl had nothing to sell. It didn’t hurt to find out what he could, though. “At what price?”

  “Dante and Charming. You know where they are.” It wasn’t a question. His ghostly mouth lightened when he spoke.

  His girl was in trouble with the things in the rift, just as Earl feared. He sucked in a slow breath. “Why do you hate me so much? I don’t recall ever meeting you.”