Cody let his gaze wander down to the man’s hips, where, sure enough, there hung a pair of .45 caliber Schofield pistols. Cody said, “My dad’s got one of those.”
Ebright had turned most of the way around in his chair, and now he patted the grips of his guns. “I got two. And I don’t give a shit what your dad carries. This is the same gun Virgil Earp used against the Clantons.”
Cody nodded. “I expect Virgil only owns one Schofield. A good shot like him wouldn’t require two guns.”
Ebright’s swollen red lips spread in a nasty grin. “I carry the extra one just in case a kid-fucker like you comes to Mesquite. Kid-fuckers deserve to eat more lead than the average criminal.”
Soft laughter to Cody’s left. It came from Slim Keeley, who tipped John Ebright an approving wink and commenced rolling a cigarette. Cody remembered the way the son of a bitch had waylaid him earlier, not even giving him a chance to defend himself. He wanted to call the cocksucker over here now, challenge him to a fair fight.
With an effort, Cody held his tongue.
As the minutes ticked down and the crowd of smelly men became restless, Cody’s thoughts tended more and more toward Slim Keeley. It was a fool’s pastime, he realized, to waste his mental energy on the tall deputy, but now that the image had grabbed ahold of his mind, it bored in with the obduracy of a nightmare: Slim Keeley mounting Marguerite several years ago on the same bed on which Cody had lain earlier today. Marguerite gloriously naked, offering herself up to her husband. Keeley thrusting up into Marguerite and making her bite her wrist to stifle her cries of pleasure.
Why are you torturing yourself with thoughts like that? Cody’s father asked. It had been a common litany around their ranch when Cody was growing up. Cody would become obsessed with some perceived wrong he’d committed and brood about it instead letting go of it. Once, at around the age of eleven, Cody had gotten runner-up in a spelling contest and had proceeded to rip his hair out in clumps. For weeks Cody had lost sleep over it, convinced he was a worthless simpleton who’d never be as smart as his father. When Jack Wilson assured his son that the spelling of hippopotamus would have no bearing on Cody’s success in life, Cody had informed him that it wasn’t the misspelling that haunted Cody to such a degree—it was the fact that Cody had known the word but had forgotten it under pressure. And wasn’t the ability to do well under pressure, the eleven-year-old Cody had asked his father, something that would have a bearing on how successful he’d be?
His father had smiled wearily and told Cody he didn’t have to be perfect.
Inside his head, Cody had answered that his father wouldn’t have put an extra m in hippopotamus.
Nor, Cody thought now, would Jack Wilson have married a faithless tart. Nor stand idly by while the tart humiliated him. Nor let the bastards who wrought that humiliation on him get away with it unscathed.
Cody’s fists balled into tight knots.
And now he realized why he’d been brought to witness this foul drama again. He knew why Price had taken such pains to make sure he was present for what was about to take place, as well as the reason why Cody was so thoroughly guarded by corrupt lawmen. For what Cody would witness tonight might indeed drive him crazy. Hell, he recognized how close to madness he already was. Bone weary and stabbed in the leg and grieving not one loss, but two. He hadn’t seen Willet since this morning, and the knowledge that the boy’s disappearance was largely due to Cody’s negligence sat in his belly like a coiled rattlesnake. He’d met a friend in Marguerite, who in time might have developed into more than a friend—much more—had they been given the opportunity to know each other better. But they’d only been acquainted long enough for Cody to become attached to her, and that too harkened back to his father’s wry cracks about him: “Boy, you fall for every pretty thing you see.”
The words had been spoken in jest when Cody was but a boy, but when the tendency toward infatuation, if anything, became magnified with age, the jest turned into a fret and finally a caution. His father had spoken loudest when he’d met and fallen for Angela McCarrick: “You always have been one to make plans before you even courted a girl.”
But Cody, wildly smitten and more than a little aroused by the mere thought of the leggy blond from the other side of Escondido, had told his dad to mind his own business. Then to mind his own damn business. And from there things had deteriorated between them.
In retrospect, he could see Jack Wilson had been dead-on about Angela, but he suspected the man would happily approve of Cody’s courting Marguerite. The fact of this—the notion that his father would recognize in Marguerite exactly what Cody saw, the quickness of Cody’s affections toward her be damned—somehow made what was about to happen so much worse. And this too, Cody was bitterly certain, Adam Price understood.
When the kerosene lamps dimmed and the hoots and catcalls erupted around him, Cody steeled himself as best he could for the opening scene. The play would begin as it always did, with a pretty young maiden making her unsuspecting way through the forest. Tonight that maiden would be played by Marguerite. Debasing her while Cody bore witness was the last thing the devils had planned before they finally murdered him. Of this Cody had no doubt.
But when the brilliant limelight illuminated the maiden onstage and the crowd of men sighed in happy lust, Cody was spared the ultimate indignity of seeing the girl he’d just begun to hold dear made the plaything of the devils. The woman wearing the virginal white dress was someone he’d been sure he’d never see again.
The woman was Angela.
“Holy hell, that’s one fine lady!” a slurry voice called out from the dark crowd.
There came a smattering of assent from the glassy-eyed audience, but mainly the men just watched, gape-mouthed, as Cody’s once-wife strode unselfconsciously across the stage. Though the white dress sheathed her all the way to her ankles, the sultry way she walked marked her as one of the devils.
Converted, Cody thought. She’s been converted to the darkness, been made a willing member of their bestial cult. Though she was more beautiful than she’d ever been, she wore her otherness like a new, tainted skin. And going back to the night of her supposed death, Cody understood how easily they had fooled him.
After awakening from the brutal face-stomping Horton had given him and finding the bastard still screwing Angela, Cody had staggered to his feet only to be pummeled by Penders, who’d been stationed just inside the bedroom to stop Cody from interrupting the festivities. Or Penders was simply watching the pair have sex. Regardless, the beating Cody received at the hands of the huge man had been far worse than the stomp he’d gotten from Horton, and this time he’d lost consciousness for several hours.
When he awoke, it was well past ten o’clock, which meant the second and final Tonuco performance of The Return of the Maiden Carmilla had already begun. Though the clanging in Cody’s head was savage enough to make him want to stick a gun in his mouth, he got up again and soldiered through the pain and humiliation as well as he could.
Cody packed the saddlebags with some necessaries, went out and mounted Sally. And though every step the old mare took sent glancing spires of pain through his skull, he was able to reach his neighbor’s ranch by ten thirty.
Ethan Griggs was a gentle soul in his late fifties who cared more for relaxing with his family than he did making money, and as a result, his humble little ranch had never prospered. Three of the man’s children and three times as many grandchildren all somehow lived on the ranch, and outside of being cramped, they seemed to get along fine. On many occasions Griggs or one of his progeny had done Cody a good turn, so Cody knew he could count on the man for help. Bailey Griggs, Ethan’s youngest son, would often kid Cody about purchasing Cody’s ranch so Bailey’s own brood could have some room to breathe. And had Bailey Griggs the funds to do so, Cody might have actually considered it. But like his father, Bailey barely scraped by.
It was Bailey who answered the door when Cody showed up that night to ask for help taking c
are of his cattle.
“How long you figure on being gone?” Bailey had asked.
Cody had answered that he had no idea, which was true enough. He didn’t mention the possibility that he might commit murder that night or be killed himself, and therefore might never be returning to reclaim his stock. But time was wasting, and he sure as hell didn’t feel like explaining the whole thing to Bailey Griggs. So Cody told him it might be awhile and that he’d compensate him fairly for looking after his ranch. And with Bailey and his wife Esther watching after him, Cody rode off toward town.
He figured the play would end sometime between eleven and midnight, and it was likely that Angela and the acting troupe would be pulling out of Tonuco shortly after that. Somehow, he managed to reach the outskirts by eleven. He tethered Sally to a gnarled old juniper tree just outside of town and waited, though out in the open as he was, the febrile New Mexico breeze did his headache no favors. Crouched on a hillside, he figured he and Sally were hidden well enough to go unnoticed. On the far side of the road, the terrain dropped off severely into a rocky arroyo.
Just after midnight, he heard the sable coach approaching. Moments later, the six quarter horses appeared, their sinuous muscles flexing and their bodies black as pitch. The figure leading the coach was likely Horton, but Cody wasn’t certain.
Suddenly worried they’d be seen, Cody untied Sally and led her as far up the hillside as he could. Tethering her again, he hustled back toward the road and hunkered low in the hope of catching a glimpse of Angela through the coach windows. He was armed, of course, but he had no real intention of taking on the whole troupe—at least not yet. So it was with a nasty jolt of surprise that he watched the sextet of black quarter horses pull up only thirty or so yards from where he’d hidden. It was a further surprise to see Angela step out of the coach and scamper up the hill toward him. For a brief and hideous moment he was sure she was aware of his presence. Then she’d turned her back to him, hiked up her dress, squatted and taken a piss in the gravelly dust.
Shaking with nervous energy and unaccountably embarrassed despite the fact that he’d seen this woman naked countless times, Cody had regarded the .32 in his right hand until she’d finished and stood up again.
He’d seen Angela climb into the black deathwagon, had watched in sick humiliation as the many hands of the devils had groped at her from the shadows of the coach and drawn her greedily inside. When the coach door knocked shut, the prurient laughter within gave way to vile rutting noises—rapturous moans from Angela and porcine grunts from the men. Even as the unseen spectacle unfolded within the black coach, Cody had wondered how many of the men were at her, how one woman could take on five of them at once. But that thought scattered when Angela’s moans spread into wails, and the easy rocking of the black coach became an arrhythmic thrashing. The door was thrust open, and despite the late hour, there had been enough of a moon for Cody to see gouts of blood splashing out of the opening. It had been Penders who’d appeared bearing what looked like the remnants of a slaughterhouse kill. The gory mass of bones and flesh and viscera clutched to his broad chest, Penders had crossed to the drop-off and heaved it all into the gorge. Cody hadn’t bothered checking to make sure the remains were Angela’s because he had no reason to believe they weren’t hers.
But now in Marguerite’s saloon, watching Angela cast fearful glances into the stage forest—the same portable set the devils used in all their shows—Cody understood how easily he’d been fooled. He could imagine Angela in there with the devils while Horton drove the team and Penders disposed of the slop. Had she been snickering at Cody while they hoodwinked him? Had Price or one of the Seneslavs been screwing her at the same moment Cody mourned her death? He figured yes on both counts.
And whose remains had it been that Penders had dumped? Did it matter? In the days since Cody’d first encountered the devils, he had seen them kill indiscriminately. Men, women, the very old, the very young. It didn’t matter. And thinking about Price’s ghastly transformation…the ageless evil in those infernal eyes…Cody suspected Price, at least, had been doing this sort of thing for much longer than anyone might believe. Thousands of years? Longer?
And right on cue Price came skulking out from the darkness and onto the stage. But where before he’d been flanked by the Seneslav twins, there was now only one brother—The Dragon, Penders had called him—creeping to his left, near the edge of the stage. Adam Price and Dragomir Seneslav were almost upon Angela, whose back was dutifully turned, when Dragomir’s colorless eyes performed a quick scan of the audience.
And fixed on Cody.
The effect was instantaneous. Dragomir’s role as a servant to Adam Price’s supreme villain was forgotten, and in its place arose an unreasoning hatred. Had Sheriff Bittner, John Ebright, Boom Catterson and that bastard Slim Keeley not been watching Cody, he’d have bolted the moment the Dragon locked eyes with him. But there was no way to escape without being gunned down by one of the lawmen, and Cody suspected that even if he did evade Bittner and his deputies, Dragomir would run him down and rend him to pieces before he breached the doorway.
Dragomir looked for a moment like he might do exactly that. He even began to transform, though Cody was sure that the yokels surrounding him counted it as part of the show. The square underjaw began to elongate, the muscles there hopping and bulging. Dragomir stepped toward Cody, but Price turned and hissed something at him. Dragomir paused, mouth still opened unnaturally wide, the eyes glowing the way no human eyes ever could, but he didn’t make a move to relent. Price strode toward him, his expression hard, and clamped a hand on Dragomir’s shoulder. He muttered something again, this time in some foreign-sounding language Cody had never heard before, and the change in Dragomir began to reverse itself.
A relieved exhalation seemed to ripple through the audience.
A man in front of Cody turned back to Sheriff Bittner and said, “Some show, huh, Sheriff?”
Bittner’s voice was laced with poorly concealed relief. “I expect so.”
The man in front of them giggled, a high, juvenile sound, and leered at Boom Catterson. “I damn near shat myself when that guy’s eyes turned orange. How about you, Boomer?”
Before Boom could reply, Bittner said, “That’ll be enough, Luke.”
The one named Luke giggled again, unabashed, and turned back to the stage. Cody frowned a moment, flailing for a scrap of memory, and soon he had it. Luke Lind, the man’s name was. Cody had spilled the drunkard’s urine all over himself in the jail cell. Lind turned, grinning, to the guy next to him, and Cody caught a glimpse of the man’s missing front teeth. The pitted, unwashed skin. The nose hair so long Lind could braid it if he had the urge.
Studying Lind, Bittner mumbled, “That bastard’s got the brains of a two-year-old.” Bittner glanced at Boom Catterson, who was still staring uncomfortably at Dragomir. Cody noted the large beads of sweat on the man’s bald forehead. Boom had taken his silly bowler hat off and now sat fondling it in his lap.
You know, don’t you? Cody thought. You know something’s wrong, but you’re too scared to say it. Don’t want to lose face in front of Bittner or Slim Keeley. But you suspect.
Onstage, both Price and Dragomir were closing on Angela again, but this time she whirled before they got too close and let loose with an earsplitting shriek. Cody knew her well enough to know she was enjoying every moment of this, but to the men in the audience she was every bit the scared virgin she was meant to portray. Before Price could grab hold of her, Angela bounded offstage. Price and Seneslav followed, and moments later the lights dimmed.
It was too dark to see precisely what was happening now, but Cody made out the vague forms of the devils rushing around, changing scenery, the forest giving way to an old barn.
A couple minutes later the lamps were rekindled to reveal Horton, shirtless, shoveling invisible hay with a pitchfork. Like she had that first night at the Crooked Tree, Angela appeared shortly after, throwing frightened glances over her sh
oulder. They exchanged approximately the same lines as they had in Tonuco, Angela telling Horton about the vampires pursuing her.
Then things began to diverge from the play Cody had witnessed before. Rather than shielding Angela as Price and Dragomir approached, Horton merely moved upstage and pretended to peer into the darkness. Coming back to her, Horton shook his head and told her everything was clear; there were no monsters headed their way.
“Then I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude,” Angela said, her manner instantly changing.
Here we go again, Cody thought.
Angela reached back, untied a string between her shoulder blades, and suddenly the whole dress was pooling around her feet, leaving her completely naked.
“Godamighty,” Bittner whispered.
Cody slumped back in his seat, glanced around at the men so he wouldn’t have to watch the happenings onstage. Cody saw in the men’s faces what he figured he’d see. Most of them were ogling Angela’s naked body; here and there Cody could discern guys elbowing their neighbors and prodding each other to make sure they really were seeing what they thought they were seeing.
At least it’s not in Tonuco, Cody thought. At least it’s not in front of the people I went to church with and did business with.
He threw an incurious glance at the stage and discovered without much surprise that Horton was naked now and that Angela was wrapping one sinuous leg around him. The pagan aura of the scene was only enhanced by the glare of the limelight directed at the pair from above the stage.
“Holy shit,” the one named Luke Lind said.
Cody looked away as Angela leaned back and began to undulate with Horton.
“That ain’t proper!” someone nearer the stage called out, and a dozen voices promptly shouted the protester down.
As one, the all-male audience leaned forward while the pair on stage copulated, and though there were a few appreciative comments, most of the men simply stared in rapt, aching silence. Cody eyed Boom Catterson, who was one of the only men not gawking, who was instead studying the bowler in his lap. To Cody he looked like a chastened little boy engaged in an act of contrition. The plump man was sweating so badly he looked like he’d been submerged in a vat of cooking oil.
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