Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5)

by Linell Jeppsen

  “What the hell are you waiting for, McPhearson?” he snarled. “Go and park the car! I want every man that works for me in my office in one hour!”

  Donnie stared through the slightly open doorway to the dimly-lit interior of the house. As he backed away, he couldn’t help but think, Trask should be at the front door and this house should be lit up like a torch! Something bad has happened here in the last couple of hours and I want no part in it! If the old man is too stupid to see that, it’s on him—not me!

  Tipping his hat, Donnie said, “I’ll be right back, sir,” and then he took off running past the automobile and into the night.

  Branson, meanwhile, was still too filled with anger to pay attention to his surroundings. He used the wheels of his chair to bully the door open and rolled into the front entrance hall of his home. “Hello…where is everybody? Trask, Jonesy…get down here right now or you’re fired!” he roared.

  Suddenly, the front door slammed shut with a bang. Branson jumped in his chair and turned around to look but no one was there. Shrugging, he thought, The men must be out on the back veranda. There is always a draft in here when both doors are open.

  “Still,” he grumped under his breath, “Someone should be here to greet me upon my return!”

  Wheeling himself along the hallway toward the back of the house, he stopped and sniffed the air. The whole place reeked of a privy house and he thought, Trask is sure being lax about cleaning the bathroom! Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he grumbled, “and why is it so damn dark in here?”

  Angrier than ever, Branson came to the kitchen area and ground to a halt. His mouth opened and he gasped in shock as he observed the carnage in front of his eyes. Every single one of his men, besides Trask and young Donnie McPhearson, was lying dead on the kitchen floor!

  There was very little blood and, moving his chair a little closer, Branson saw why. All of his men had been garroted and a few of them had voided their bowels and bladders at the moment of their deaths. The kitchen door was open and, despite the late hour, flies were finding their way inside the house.

  Their steady drone filled the air and for the first time, Edward Branson took a deep, shuddering breath and screamed out loud. Instantly, his head was seized and a smelly gag was stuffed into his mouth. Grunting and quivering in fear, Branson bucked in his chair. “Numph!” he cried.

  Someone seized the handles on his wheelchair, saying, “Shush now, Mr. Branson…this will all be over with soon.” His chair was hauled backward down the hallway, and although Branson writhed and fought to break free, something soaked into the fabric of his gag was making him feel horribly sleepy. His head nodded on his chest and he allowed his eyelids to close. He flew far away for a moment, allowing himself to let go of the horror his reality had just become, but then a felt a light slap on his cheek.

  He jerked awake and peered up at a number of men who were milling around his parlor. The strangers wore white robes with red crosses on them and Branson’s eyes grew wide with alarm. Templars? he thought in disbelief. What are these religious freaks doing in my parlor? He bucked and wriggled in his chair again but, to no avail.

  One of the robed men leaned over and said, “You can do one of two things, Mr. Branson. You can sign this written confession, acknowledging your part in the activities of the so-called Trinity over the last year or so in North Idaho. These charges include murder, theft and graft, and will result in your incarceration and eventual hanging.”

  Branson glared over the top of his gag at the gentle-faced man with wide, brown eyes thinking, or else what? The first choice was, of course, no choice at all! “Orrrr-aught?” he growled, thickly.

  The Templar knight smiled and said, “You will die without atonement.” Staring deeply into Branson’s small angry eyes, the knight said, “We take our duties seriously, sir. Every man, no matter how evil, has the right to make his peace with God before he dies. We are giving you that chance now.”

  Branson’s claw-like hands clutched at the arms of his wheelchair and the knights watched as he grimaced and spat into the gag over his mouth. Of course, the fluid had nowhere to go but back down his throat, and Branson hunched over, gagging and coughing. The Knights watched impassively while the old man heaved.

  Finally, Branson quieted and tried to speak through the gag. Someone standing behind him loosened the cloth and Branson said, “Who are you? I will see all of you shot! You are nothing but criminals dressed up in fancy robes!” he squawked, hoarsely.

  Shaking his head, the tall knight in front of him said, “Will you sign this confession and make peace with God…or not?”

  Branson tried to lunge up out of his chair, but strong, heavy hands held him still. “I won’t do a thing, damn your hides! You don’t know who you are dealing with…I’ll see you all hang for this!” he howled.

  The knight shook his head and said, “Do it, Geoffrey.”

  Suddenly, Branson’s head was seized again and his mouth forced open. Bucking and lunging, Branson tried to turn his mouth away but a small vial was pressed to his lips. Try as he might, he could not stop the bitter liquid from trickling down his throat.

  The smell of almonds filled his nostrils and lungs and Branson realized he had just been poisoned. Shaking his head back and forth in fear, Branson grew weak and his stomach convulsed in agony. Staring up at his tormentors, Branson whispered, “I’ll see you in Hell, Knight!”

  The older knight who had forced the liquid down his throat stepped backward, out of sight, and the younger Templar stepped into his place. Bending over, he murmured, “I seriously doubt it, sir. You had your chance to repent…now the only thing you will ever know are the enduring flames of Hell.”

  Branson’s eyes filled with sudden, terrible fear, and then he knew no more.

  Staring down at Branson’s dead body, the Knight sighed. “A pity,” Looking up, he added, “Now, we should be quick. Mr. Trask, you can come out now.”

  An elderly black man stepped into the drawing room. His large, brown eyes were filled with sadness but he couldn’t keep a small smile from lifting the corners of his mouth. He had been given to Edward Branson almost fifty years ago and had never been granted his freedom—not even after the War and the Emancipation Act.

  Trask had never known another master, and he would not have left Branson’s service after he was freed, but Edward had sworn that would never happen. He had even gone so far as to say, “Try leaving, Boy, and I’ll have you shot down like the dirty, black dog you are!”

  Any loyalty Trask might have felt toward his old master’s son had died that day, and this afternoon, when the Templar Knights had shown up at the front door, Trask finally had a means to exact his revenge.

  The old butler stared at the Knights, and nodded in agreement when the priest known as Father Adams said, “You four, please remove the men’s bodies from the kitchen and take them to consecrated ground. Bury them and say prayers over their immortal souls.”

  Putting a hand on the oldest knight’s sleeve, he said, “Geoffrey, you and Mr. Trask stay with me, please, and help me make this look like a natural death.”

  “As you wish, Father,” Geoffrey replied.

  Three and a half hours later, Branson’s men had been buried and prayed over in a mass grave close to the Seattle cemetery, and Branson was sitting in his wheelchair, having died peacefully in front of a cold fireplace.

  All evidence of ether and poison had been wiped clean and Branson was now dressed in his pajamas and silk robe. The following day a Seattle coroner talked to the old man’s butler and, after hearing that Trask had found his employer sitting dead in his parlor early that morning, he signed a report of death by natural causes, with no foul play suspected.

  The Knights Templar Order of the Red Cross disappeared like smoke on a breezy day.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Matthew and Chance Head Home

  The next morning dawned cool and cloudy. The curtains stirred and a soft breeze ran caressing fingers over Matt
hew’s shoulder. He awoke with a snort of alarm. What time is it? he thought in confusion. Peering over at the small mantle clock by the fireplace he was shocked to see that it was already ten-thirty in the morning.

  Sitting up on the edge of the bed, Matthew ran his hands over his face. He had slept like the dead and felt guilty over the fact. It had been a long time since he had slept so soundly, but there was no time for that kind of rest—not yet, anyway!

  Despite everything, Branson had managed to wriggle away from the long arm of the law. He was free and that meant trouble as far as Matthew was concerned.

  Cocking his head, Matthew noticed how quiet the house was and for a moment, he felt a thrill of alarm. Like a boogie-man in the night, Branson had cast a shadow of fear over everyone and everything he held dear. Even now, knowing Branson was out in the world, instead of behind steel bars made Matthew jump to his feet to search for his loved ones.

  He strode to the washbasin and splashed water on his face. Then he smeared some cleaning paste on a mouth brush and scrubbed his teeth. He studied his face and decided that shaving could wait. He pulled a clean, white shirt from a clothes-horse and was just starting to button up when there was a knock on the door.

  Matthew opened it and saw Clyde’s butler standing in the hallway with a cup of coffee on a silver platter. “Good morning, sir. Miss Annie thought you would like to join the others in the front parlor. We have company… Mr. Revell has come to call.” The old man smiled. “I think you might be pleased by what he has to say…” he added, mysteriously.

  “What? What is he saying?” Matthew blurted.

  The butler pursed his lips and said, “Forgive me, sir. I have already spoken out of turn. Please, have some coffee. There is a full breakfast laid out on the warming tables, downstairs.” With those words the man spun on his heels and walked away, leaving Matthew to stare after him.

  Calming down now that he knew that all was well in the house, at least for the moment, Matthew finished dressing, combed his hair and walked downstairs. Sure enough, he saw the rest of his family and friends listening intently to their houseguest, Ian Revell, in the next room. Grabbing a couple of pastries, he walked into the parlor and sat down.

  Ian Revell stopped speaking and stood up to shake Matthew’s hand. Matthew stood as well, and said, “Well, it was a good try but I guess we need to come up with another plan, right?”

  Matthew had not really noticed the expressions on his friends and family’s faces but he saw the twinkle in Revell’s eye as he sat down and said, “It’s all over, Mr. Wilcox. I, and a couple of other Masons traveled to Branson’s house earlier today to inform him his candidacy had been revoked. That’s when we found out that his butler, Mr. Trask, found Mr. Branson dead in his own parlor early this morning.”

  “Dead?” Matthew echoed in shock.

  Revell nodded with a look of satisfaction on his face. “It appears that the man expired from a heart attack. We called the coroner and he has written Branson’s death off as an act of God.”

  Feeling relief sweep over him, Matthew murmured, “Amen to that!” and then he gazed about the room and apologized for his uncivil tongue. “I am sorry, but I won’t pretend to be sorry.”

  Clyde grinned and said, “No need to apologize, my boy. We would all like to dance on that man’s grave!”

  Ian said, “Mr. Wilcox, I was just telling the others that the City of Seattle will be launching a full-scale inquiry into Mr. Branson’s activities in the North Idaho area mines. Stephen Castle has learned of Branson’s death and is now implicating Branson as the ringleader in multiple claim-jumps, thefts and murders in Idaho, Spokane and here in Seattle. If the city can prove Branson’s culpability, his properties will be seized and sold for cash.

  “Also,” Revell paused to grin for a moment. “Fanny Castle has offered full compensation to any and all affected citizens. This will do nothing to bring back the dead, of course, but she promises to be generous, just so long as her husband is treated kindly in jail. What do you think about that, Mr. Wilcox?”

  Matthew sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. Being faced with a moral dilemma was not his forte, but Ian was asking him—as a direct complainant and witness—to sign off on Castle’s incarceration. On one hand, Stephen Castle had done plenty wrong, and Matthew would never forgive the death of young Tommy during Stephen’s revenge-filled assassination attempt.

  On the other hand, Stephen had tried to set thing right. It was far too little and way too late, but Matthew knew the man had really tried to put an end to Branson’s murderous schemes. Plus, if Fanny Castle was actually ready to award financial compensation to Branson’s victims, who was he to take that away?

  Glancing up at Annie’s face, he saw her give him a slight wink. He knew that she would not try to sway him, one way or the other, but he also realized she was giving her tacit approval of Mrs. Castle’s offer.

  Turning to face Ian, Matthew said, “I will cease my investigation and withdraw my complaints, Ian. As long as there are no further problems in my town, I am willing to let bygones be bygones.”

  Ian smiled. “Oh, trust me, Mr. Castle will not be going anywhere…not for a long time. But, this way, Fanny can visit her husband in jail and perhaps make his life a little easier. He is, after all, standing as State witness for more than two dozen accomplices’!”

  “What about you, Mr. Revell? Will you be stepping in as Grand Master, now?” Annie asked.

  Ian looked horrified. “No! I am nowhere near ready to step into those shoes! The Masons will have a valid vote in due time and swear in the best candidate available.”

  Standing up to take his leave, Revell bowed slightly and said, “I am pleased that this sad affair has come to a satisfactory conclusion. Will all of you be heading back to Spokane now?”

  Chance spoke up. “Yes…just as soon as possible!”

  “Well,” Ian said, “Perhaps I could call on you sometime? I have heard that Spokane is beautiful…”

  Matthew said, “Yes, we would welcome you anytime…and thank you, Ian, for your help.”

  The young man suddenly looked close to tears and his frail hand trembled slightly when he shook Matthew’s hand in farewell. Studying Ian’s face, Matthew knew that there was more to Branson’s death than met the eye and he wondered, for a moment, if he should look into it…

  Then he decided that he would not even give it a second thought. There were some things that were better left alone.

  Three weeks later, Matthew and Chance stepped off the train in Granville, Washington. They had gone to Spokane to see the Lindsay’s back home to their land claim in Idaho. After that they went to their little office, answered a few letters and paid some bills. They also picked up a number of realty sheets. Annie, who had stayed behind at the Imes’ ranch, wanted to rebuild the Thurston home in Spokane, but closer to the downtown news office and not until next year.

  It was full summer now, and the sun’s heat pressed down on them from a pale blue sky. Chance seemed slightly morose, and Matthew grinned. “You’ll see Hannah again soon enough, son…”

  Chance started and grinned. “Oh, I know, Pa. She and her family had to get back to their claim, especially now that their new equipment is about to arrive. I just miss her, that’s all.”

  “I know, Chance. I miss her, too,” Matthew replied. “Hey, what do you think about maybe planning a double wedding come autumn?”

  Chance had asked for Hannah’s hand in marriage about a week ago and received joyful permission from Hannah’s family. The happy couple were planning on getting married in October.

  Chance stared at his father now, though, with his mouth hanging open in shock. Matthew wondered if he had overstepped. Young folks shouldn’t have to share their wedding day, and he had just put Chance on the spot!

  “Hey, never mind, son.” Matthew mumbled. “I was just killing two birds with one stone, but I wasn’t thinking straight. Of course, you and Hannah want your own special day…don’t give it anot
her thought!”

  But Chance grinned and said, “Well, you might have given me a little warning, Pa…I didn’t even know you and Annie were planning on getting hitched! But, nothing would make me happier, sir, than to get married with you by my side!”

  Matthew and his son smiled at each other, and then turned to watch as Annie rode up on the wagon to fetch them home. Turning back to Chance, Matthew murmured, “Maybe we ought to ask the womenfolk what they want first, eh?”

  Chance just grinned and said, “They’ll love the idea, Pa. I just know it!”

  THE END

  A Sample Chapter from Heart Of Ice, the next book in The Deadman Series

  Chapter One

  Winter 1847

  Lenny “The Spoon”—named for his habit of pinning two tin spoons to the front of his coat—Turnbull sat on a high branch of an ice-encrusted pine tree, chewing a finger joint and watching thoughtfully as young Miles Manning buried what was left of his cousin’s body in a 12-foot-high snowdrift.

  The lad was sawing Samuel Tarley’s limbs off, one by one, starting and staring about in alarm at the slightest sound… the high chitter of a chipmunk, the whispery sound of frail branches giving way under the ever-shifting weight of the heavy wet snow, the sharp crack of larger tree limbs succumbing to the ravages of the latest winter storm.

  Lenny knew almost to the minute when the Donner/Reed party had finally resorted to cannibalism. He couldn’t really blame them. One mishap after another had haunted the pilgrims’ passage ever since they had abandoned the famous Oregon Trail and followed the ill-advised Hastings Cutoff trail into the Wasatch Range of the Sierra-Nevada Mountains.

  Between losing most of their oxen and horseflesh to Indians while crossing the Great Salt Lake Desert and getting snowed in here along the Humboldt River, the sixty people left to rot away in these high hills were literally starving to death.

  Again and again, Lenny wished he could have followed the last wagon train heading over the Oregon Trail into Montana rather than these sorry critters but the teamsters for that outfit were a tough bunch and had chased him off when he approached.