Wicked Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 3)

by Jordan Elizabeth

  “Stop.” Amethyst tried to push the girl away, but Samantha dug her fingers in.

  “You will hand over the final blow.”

  Clark hugged his mother. Her hair, curling out from beneath her mob cap, smelled of flour. “Mother, I’m fine. I promise.”

  She leaned back, chewing her lower lip. “All that commotion. How did this happen?”

  Clark extracted her hands from around his neck and stepped back, but didn’t release her. Jonathan and Captain MacFarland lay the bodies in a row, and his father spread sheets over them. Not a one had identifying papers or cards. They could have been vagabonds if not for the pristine, albeit dusty, attire. They’d been hired.

  “I’ve done things and the government wants those things gone.” Clark shifted his stance. “We’ve done things.”

  “Clark…”

  “We can’t step back. This has to be finished.”

  “How is that?” Eric asked. “All information has been given to the papers. They ran the story about the fortunetelling twins. In a few days the stories will go out about how the president isn’t working to save the water and how he is framing the royal family. I gave them the scientific details for that.” Eric frowned. “They should free the queen and prince once that is run.”

  “The president needs to be taken from his post,” Jonathan said.

  Everyone had a little corruption in them, but the president had wrongfully imprisoned some and forced others into a less-than-human state. Clark ground his teeth. They could do a rescue, but that wouldn’t help sway the people’s opinions away from the presidency.

  They could form a rebellion to storm the president. On the day the water story ran, they could demand his impeachment.

  lark lifted the beer bottle in a toast. “To those good old days when we ate dirt and loved it.”

  The other gang members around the table lifted their beers and whiskeys. A mouse scampered across the dirt floor of the prairie dugout to grab at a hunk of bread. The gangs still had their hideouts —sanctuaries for those who couldn’t make it in “civilized” society —but Clark had worked to get many of them new identities and jobs.

  The man sitting across from him at the table with one broken leg, propped up on a crate, had a twin brother named James Winston, private secretary to a rancher. When the government discovered the ranch owner had been cheating on his taxes, they’d gone after him, and he’d blamed James. How many times had Clark heard a similar story? He wiped his tongue over his teeth to keep from grinding them.

  James and his twin had taken off together to live in the wild, stealing what they could, oftentimes preying on that corrupt rancher. Now James Winston was Jeremy Engel, and he worked as a train conductor.

  Clark took a swig from his beer and leaned forward on the stool. “President Wilcox is going down.”

  Someone coughed, but the other gang members gathered in the dugout stared at him, waiting for more. The president wasn’t that important in the Wild West fields, but Clark was —and they trusted him.

  “Hey.” A girl —Daoma, once an actress and now a trick rider —elbowed a man aside to step up to Clark’s seat. “What’s a new president gonna get us?”

  He’d kissed her once, back when they were both running, and she’d laughed at him for trying to stroke her cheek.

  Clark swirled the last inch of beer around his glass bottle. Whoever came next probably wouldn’t have much more to do with the west than did President Wilcox. “Someone who doesn’t try to change innocent babies into weapons. Someone who doesn’t poison water systems just to take down someone else.”

  “I’m all for helping Jas,” Daoma said. “Brass glass, he’s one of us. It’s the president that I don’t care about.” She rolled up the sleeve of her oversized military jacket so she could flash a thumbs up to Clark. “I say we put him into office. He knows what it’s like to live outside the law.”

  “Yeah!” The others echoed her words and gulped their drinks.

  Jas. President. Jas, with his oily smile and his too friendly laugh. Still, Jas wouldn’t hurt people and he had seen his father lead the country.

  “To Jas,” Clark echoed, even though his lips felt stiff.

  “Those are the facts.” Garth rested his hand atop the newspaper on his desk. His friends murmured under their breaths and glanced at each other.

  Businessmen. Lawyers. Doctors. Esteemed in the country. They had come when he called them to the senator’s office because they respected him. They appreciated his work ethic.

  Others he had sent letters to, but the twelve men in his office were influential. They needed to speak out.

  “President Wilcox is cruel in his ambition. Innocent people were poisoned to achieve his gains.” Garth rose and held out his hand. “I call for an impeachment.”

  Zeke Branwith, head of the surgeon’s council, shifted his stance. “Shouldn’t you be asking this of other congressmen?”

  Garth inclined his head. “I’m asking it of them as well, but it is the people who own this country. The people should rule it. I need your backing.”

  “To impeach the president,” said Jeff Phillips, head of the country’s legal council.

  “Yes. Once the country is rallied, I can call together congress. The president cannot brainwash them or storm them beforehand.”

  “You have our support then,” murmured Zeke. “When the story runs about the poisoned water, we will be at the ready to attack.”

  “Lies!” President Wilcox yanked on the edges of the newspaper, but it wouldn’t tear in half. Growling under his breath, he dashed it to the floor.

  “You did poison the river,” his vice president hissed.

  “Shut up.” The president stormed across his office to slam his fist into the wall beside the window. The country wasn’t to know that.

  He had to have enough supporters to staunch that vicious “rumor.” He had to send out more supporters. His publicist had to find a way to get the papers to write a retraction like they had last time, even if that so-called retraction had been skillfully worded to not retract anything.

  At President Wilcox’s urging, we are placing a retraction on the previous article regarding his involvement in the fortunetelling twins’ plight. Seeing such actions in print has caused him to have a moral concern.

  Something along those lines. His mind had hoped to block it out, just as he hoped the country would forget soon.

  Then the condemning articles about his involvement in the river poison set him back.

  A knock sounded at the office door before his secretary opened, not waiting for a by-your-leave. “Sir, Senator Treasure has called an emergency assembly of congress. The senators are all on their way here and should arrive within the week.”

  “Bloody gears.” President Wilcox slammed his fist again against the wall. “Can’t imagine what that’s about.”

  Garth Treasure had once been his friend. A pox on the man now.

  “You’ll have to find a way to put a stop to that,” the vice president said, as if he couldn’t do anything on his own.

  “I’ll have to put a stop to that,” President Wilcox repeated under his breath in a falsetto. His heart pounded so hard, blood sounded in his ears. He had to do a lot of things. He couldn’t allow any of it to get out of hand.

  “Also…” The secretary cleared his throat. “The people are, um, storming the building.”

  “They are what?” the president roared, while the vice president paled.

  “Um, storming the, um, building.”

  “Storming it like with a ramrod? Are we a castle with a moat now?” President Wilcox laughed to calm his own nerves, but he shoved the secretary aside, the vice president now ashen enough to faint, and President Wilcox fumed down the hallway.

  The window from his office had given him that serene view of the garden. He yanked open the balcony doors, the sheer white curtains waving from the impact, and stepped out to face the front of the presidential residence.

  The people
needed pitchforks in hand to mesh with his childhood nightmares.

  Citizens of the country pushed against the wrought iron gates, lifting their voices, shaking their fists.

  “Impeachment for President Wilcox!”

  “No more President Wilcox!”

  The mess of faces and clothes, colors bright in the harsh afternoon sunlight, whirled around him like a kaleidoscope.

  He could not allow impeachment.

  “Freedom for the prince and queen!”

  President Wilcox gripped the railing and closed his eyes. When had everything crumbled? When had he lost his strong footing? The country had once loved him. They’d proclaimed him far better than their old tyrant.

  “Sir.” The secretary stood in the open doorway. “If the people want to rally to the prince’s side, it might be best if we freed him and found the real culprit.”

  The real culprit. Him.

  “No.” The president tried to smile at the people, but they seemed content to shout and rattle against the gate rather than look up. “We stick to our plans. We weather through this.” We fight back.

  methyst pulled the chair away from the scarred table and dropped onto it, a bit more gracefully than the other men in the gambling den. One of them, a cowboy in a stained bandana, spit tobacco juice onto the wooden floor.

  “Deal them to me.” She tried to keep her voice gruff, but it came out too high, cheerful even, better suited to the singsong manner of the city clubs.

  The dealer and the other players all turned toward her, their eyebrows lifted below their leather and felt caps.

  The young man to the right of the dealer gulped.

  “Hello, Randolph.” She drummed her painted fingernails against the table. “I didn’t take you as a card shark.” Judging by the small pile of paper money and coins in front of him, the fortuneteller wasn’t the best. If she made a quip about him not seeing the winning hand, he might get shot.

  Her finger caught on something sticky on the table, so she switched to tapping her pearl necklace. “Clara Larkin was kind enough to show me the way to you.”

  The fortuneteller gulped again.

  “Lady, you in?” The dealer spoke from around his cigarette.

  She never played cards to win, just to have fun. Amethyst pushed back the chair and stood, her hoop pushing out her white silk skirt. The only other women in the saloon wore little more than corsets and thigh-high stockings as they hung over the gamblers with the biggest cash piles. She’d hoped the ball gown would attract attention so the fortuneteller would come to her, but so be it.

  “Actually, we were just leaving.” She winked at Randolph and stepped toward the door. He gulped again before mumbling something as he stuffed his winnings into his jacket pockets and scurried toward her.

  She held the door open to lead him onto the porch. “I had to find you, Randolph.”

  “Why?” He pulled a handkerchief from his slacks to wipe his shiny face. “You find her? You save my sister?”

  “We did!” Amethyst held out her hands to embrace him, but he stood trembling in shadow cast by the porch roof. “She’s safe. No one can hurt her anymore.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “Where you going to keep her? No, don’t tell me. It’s enough knowing she’s fine. Don’t want anyone tracing me back to her.”

  “No, Randolph, listen. I want to take you to her.”

  “You can’t!” He stumbled against the side of the building. “The government can’t get us.”

  “You have to stand up to them,” she hissed. “Haven’t you seen the papers? We found proof about what was done to you and your sister, and the country is enraged.”

  “I… I avoid papers, and here…” He nodded toward the dusty town around them. “News don’t come here much. This is all about gambling and prostitutes.”

  How Jeremiah and Alyssa, waiting in the steamcoach for her, would love to hear that.

  “My husband wants you to speak out against the president about what kind of life you’ve lived. My father and his father agree,” she added. “It will help build the case against him.”

  Randolph pulled off his cowboy hat and ran his gloved fingers through his damp hair.

  “Clark would be here, but he’s rounding up his old posse.” She smiled for Randolph’s sake, but the man turned away to squint at the setting sun. “We are all on your side. We’ll protect you. Please, Randolph. Don’t let them do this to others. Don’t leave your sister scared forever.” She had to believe Amethyst. Samantha shouldn’t have to stand up alone in court, even with Captain MacFarland at her side. It would mean more if her brother testified with her.

  Randolph shook his head.

  “Please,” she began, but he flared his nostrils and bared his teeth at the cloudless sky stained rose and purple.

  “I saw this, once, when I was reading a fortune. I’d face everybody down to protect my sister. That’s why I was so excited to find you, Mrs. Grisham. You were going to help that happen. I’m just a bit scared now. Don’t want anything to go wrong. Guess I can’t really tell the future all that well, huh?” He jerked his hat back on. “Lead the way.”

  President Wilcox clutched the arms of his chair. If he could have, he would have ripped them off and stuck the wooden stakes through Garth Treasure’s heart.

  The rancher stood at the podium in front of the courthouse. The table formed a U-shape so all could see him, and a microphone on the stand projected his voice against the white walls.

  “Not enough evidence,” the president burst out.

  The courtroom of senators fell silent. A few of them shifted; no one looked at him. Garth Treasure pointed at the small, circular table in front of him upon which lay old notebooks and newspapers. “Here is all the evidence we need regarding the fortunetelling potions.”

  “Fiction.” President Wilcox stood, but his legs trembled and he leaned against the edge of the table. The senators all wore gray suits, like a sea of fish. “Nothing but fiction. That isn’t proof.”

  To his left, his publicist hissed something, probably to get him to sit down, but if he didn’t speak up, no one would say a word in his defense.

  “Next,” Garth Treasure raised his voice, “I will cover the issue of the poisoned river. I will prove that the prince is innocent and it was actually a sick ploy committed by our President Wilcox to manipulate the country.”

  Bloody gears. The president’s knees gave out, and he collapsed back into his chair.

  Clark stepped forward as the officer unlocked the prison cell. Jas stepped out, pulling a cowboy hat over his head.

  “Thanks for the clothes.” He winked at Clark.

  Clark grinned and held out his hand for a shake. “Couldn’t let you walk out a free man in rags. Got to look the part for court.”

  “Court?” Jas nodded to the officer, who kept his gaze downward.

  “They’re going to have you and your mother testify against the president.”

  “Well now.” Jas tucked his hands into the pockets of his new slacks and leaned against the brick wall. “That normal? I seem to remember that senators make the decisions. It isn’t like a court of law.”

  “Garth is changing that for this case. He wants President Wilcox impeached.”

  Jas whistled before striding after the officer toward the prison’s entrance. “I rather like the sound of that.”

  “Thought you would,” Clark said.

  A crowd had gathered around the prison gates, and upon the prince’s exit from the four-story building, a cheer arose. People screamed his name and just screamed in general.

  Jas slung his arm over Clark’s shoulders. “Looks like I got quite a following. Reckon I’m more popular than the president now?”

  Judging by Daoma’s opinion, and the support of the other gang members… “Reckon so, Jas.”

  “Recess.” President Wilcox lifted his hand, but he closed his eyes to make the courtroom cease its spinning. Against his eyelids, the senators in gray laughed at him. T
hey twirled and fluttered, ripping at him like vampire butterflies. “I would like a recess.”

  “Recess,” called out his publicist, at last taking a stand against the mayhem.

  None of this went as President Wilcox would have preferred. He was the president, not the bad guy. Would they listen to his own defense?

  He bared his teeth at the table so they wouldn’t think he growled at anyone in particular. He would get his mercenaries. There had to be enough recess time for him to contact the boss of the group.

  When they finished with the courtroom, no one but the president would be alive and he could create his own winning defense without the backing of the senators. How sad it would be that one of his loyal followers would send villains against the group. What a waste of bloodshed. Yes, that would be his claim once it was over.

  methyst smiled at Randolph from the back of the courthouse. They shouldn’t have let her in, but she hadn’t accepted “No, all pedestrians must stay outside.” Amethyst Treasure Grisham did not count as a pedestrian.

  The senators stayed quiet at the table, but President Wilcox fidgeted in his high-backed chair, tapping his fingers against the tabletop and glancing toward the doorway.

  “Go on, son.” Her father squeezed Matthew’s shoulder before stepping back, allowing the fortuneteller free reign at the podium.

  Randolph cleared his throat. “I can see the future. When I touch someone. Skin to skin. Little snippets, but I know what’s going on. I’ve been this way since birth.” He licked his lips.

  The gas lamps around the room shone upon his pinstripe suit, an ensemble Amethyst had helped him assemble. She crossed her fingers for him and glanced across the hall to wear Clark waited in the shadows, one hand resting on his pistol.

  He should stand next to her. They could clutch each other’s hands while the president heard the aftermath of his deeds.

  “Son,” her father said, “tell them about your childhood. Explain everything you’ve had to go through.”