Chapter 8
Among Holmes's myriad unique talents, his ability to navigate through the physical world never ceases to amaze me. He is more reliable than a map. No matter his schemes' sometimes outlandish needs, he can locate the perfect backdrop every time. If he needs an inconspicuous place to view the movements of the celestial bodies, he can pick the lock into the one greenhouse whose wealthy owners are vacationing in Paris for the summer...and whose night watchman has conveniently imbibed in a bit too much drink that very night. If he needs to get from one point to another faster than his quarry, he can slip along the city streets, never taking a wrong step, and utilizing shortcuts known only to the city's sneakiest vermin of both two and four legs.
I once asked my companion about his unnatural insight into the spatial world around him. He insisted it was no trick or sorcery, merely the strict application of rote memory and a bit of luck. I am not certain that this is true, given that Holmes himself believes little in luck or coincidence. I half suspect Ignatius and his mysterious band of Irregulars are responsible for Holmes's knowledge of the city. The cat frequently roams for days at a time and nothing escapes his notice.
"Wait exactly an hour, Watson," Holmes said, tucking a piece of chalk and the killer's rune into his coat pocket. "Then wander down to Bryant Park. It isn't far. I think you will be able to manage."
"You can't be serious, Holmes," I protested. Despite the park's illustrious namesake, it had suffered of late and most upstanding patrons avoided the area after dark.
"You'll be safe enough," Holmes insisted. "Safer than you were most days on the front, I wager."
The clock on the mantle ticked by the seconds more slowly than I imagined possible. It was as if time had condensed upon itself within the confines of the apartment, becoming so thick and tangible that each second clung to the one before it and reluctantly separated only at the last instant. I had resumed my recent pastime of marking the steps from the dining room, across the entry, to the sitting room, and back. Just today I had made so many repetitions of the path that I expected I could accurately trace it in my sleep.
Ignatius had resumed his place on top of the bookshelf, his tail unerringly counting off the seconds as reliably as the clock.
At last the minute hand advanced the final degree and I slipped my revolver into my jacket pocket.
The departing sun had left the world blanketed in shades of grey. The world looked cleaner somehow in this limited lighting, the ash and mud camouflaged by the shadows.
Today the lamplighter is as extinct as the dodo bird, their job being taken over, as Holmes often predicted, by the wonders of electricity. But that night they still walked the streets as the electric lights of Broadway had not yet claimed this portion of the city.
A surprising number of people still traversed the streets, many dressed in suits and fine gowns. In my time in New York, I had discovered that the city succumbed to very little. Life went on despite torrential rains that flooded the streets or suffocating snow falls that collapsed rooftops. The citizens of New York were not to be intimidated by a bit of darkness.
The triple doors of St. Bartholomew's stood open, a warm orange glow spilling forth onto the dreary grey street. From inside I could hear melodic voices joined in evensong. A literal light in the darkness.
I distinctly remember pausing and considering walking through those doors, though I have never been a religious man. I felt unsettled at the moment. My life had taken quite a different turn than what I had expected and, having little idea where the road was headed, I found myself uneasy at the idea of walking further along it. Nothing bound me to my roommate's actions…except my own curiosity.
Leaving the relative safety and comfort of the light behind me, I continued into the darkness towards whatever madness Holmes had planned for us.
I found Holmes swallowed by shadow in the wake of the towering wall of Croton Reservoir. "I passed not a soul on my way through the park," I told him. "What makes you certain that she'll come?"
"I believe you have something that belongs to me, Mr. Holmes." The words cut through the night, delicate but sharp.
"It does not belong to you," Holmes said. He took the rune from his pocket and cradled it in his hand. The etching on the rock glowed faintly red in the poor light as if the energy contained within smoldered there...waiting.
Several sharp steps sounded against the stone promenade. The figure of a tall, thin woman in a plain black skirt and white blouse emerged from the darkness. Despite her light build, she appeared anything but frail. She held her head high and leaned forward in a somewhat aggressive manner. The light from the nearest gaslight flickered in her hard eyes as she kept the rune in sight.
"That's far enough. I have no plans on grappling with you again tonight," Holmes said, holding up his hand to accent his words. Though his voice was soft, the air around us vibrated with the power of his words. Even my own legs grew heavy and rooted themselves firmly to the earth.
The woman paused, her eyes widening in fear.
Holmes turned slightly and started to circle her. "You have me at a bit of a disadvantage. I'm afraid I don't even know your name."
"Lucy Hopes. At least that was the name I was to take and the only one that matters now. You won't get any more from me, Sir." A spark of defiance had returned to her eyes.
"I suspect that I might." Holmes stopped and knelt, taking something from his pocket with his free hand. The scratch of chalk along the pavement made my heart race.
Lucy stiffened where she stood and I suspected that the motion was not of her own doing.
"Else why come?" Holmes asked. He hesitated for a moment, looking up at her. His eyes glowed a soft white in the darkness.
Lucy didn't answer him and Holmes glanced back down at his writing. "Perhaps we should allow fate to decide the outcome of this standoff." He tossed the rune in his hand up into the air.
Chapter 9
Bright sun scorched the red earth, already burnt and cracked by so many similar days that Lucy had long ago lost track of them. It seemed this area of Texas had but two seasons—the parched sun of summer and the howling wind of winter. The few lazy days between were but a fleeting glimpse of Eden before the land was thrown back into the pits of Hell.
She'd ridden less than a mile and already sweat glistened along Pancho's chestnut hide. Lucy urged her mount into a lope, hoping the slight breeze might cool some of the sweat that trickled down her own neck.
Coming up over a small hill, she pulled up on the reins and Pancho slid to a stop. A dark mass milled on the other side of the ridge. The musky, slightly sweet aroma of manure and sweat was nearly visible as it rose off the spotted hides. A calf bawled and a deeper call answered.
Out of habit, she glanced to the marks burned into the creatures' flesh. The brand was still fresh on this one, red and oozing, but the mark was unmistakable. XIT was the largest ranch in the area.
Sighing, she turned Pancho around. They'd take the long way to town. It would be faster than waiting for the hands to move the herd. Cattle were contrary in the heat and these didn't look like they intended to go anywhere soon.
The staccato sound of hoof beats against the hardened earth made her pause. A boxy, grulla pony burst from the cattle herd and galloped towards her. Sans rider, the saddle's stirrups flopped with each stride.
Lucy moved Pancho to block the horse's path. "Whoa up." Her voice was calm, but firm, and the horse flicked an ear in her direction. "Whoa," Lucy said again and Pancho echoed her with a nicker of his own. The horse slowed to a trot, then a walk, as it approached. Lucy leaned over and caught one of the trailing reins.
"Thank you, Miss." A young man, his skin dark from long days in the sun and his clothes stained nearly the same color as his mount, walked through the herd. The cattle parted before him like the red sea before Moses and the cowboy had snatched up the wayward pony's reins before Lucy had fully taken in his appearance. "Smoke's usually as steady as they come," he said, patting
the horse's neck. "The heat has all the animals on edge today. My name is Jefferson Hope. I'm new around these parts."
Lucy glanced at the grulla's unbranded hip. "Lucy Ferrier," she said, smiling at the man.
"Perhaps we shall cross paths again," Jefferson said, tipping his hat at her, then swinging up easily into the saddle. His horse pivoted in place and he turned to leave.
"Wait." The word had left Lucy's mouth before she had a chance to think it through. It wasn't proper.... If her mother was still alive, she'd never hear the end of it. Still…. "Come to dinner."
Jefferson's laugh was soft, definitely not what she was used to from the other cowhands.
"We're short help, I mean," Lucy said. "Unless you have another job lined up. My father would appreciate the help."
Jefferson shook his head. "What man could turn down an invitation from such a lovely lady?"
Her father was as grateful as Lucy had predicted. Jefferson Hope, on the other hand, was far more than she had anticipated. Gentle and soft spoken, unlike any cowhand she'd met out here on the range, he spoke of his adventures along the trail and of literature and music with equal ease. Halfway through the meal he'd captured her heart and by dessert her father had hired him on to help move their small herd to the sales up north.
The days that passed were no less hot nor dry than the days that had come before them, but Lucy felt as light and giddy as if it were spring. She couldn't help but blush each time she caught sight of Jefferson mending fence or branding calves.
"I must be off, Lucy," Jefferson said, taking a step back from her. "Edward and Joseph will have the herd gathered by now. It wouldn't do to keep your father waiting."
She caught at his hand, preventing his escape. "I'll be lost without you here."
Jefferson laughed and her heart fluttered at the sound. So quickly his laugh had become familiar to her and the thought of a day without the sound weighed heavy on her heart. He shook his head. "A strong lady like you will manage to find her way, I am certain."
"I wish that I could come with you."
"Not this time, my dearest Lucy. Though when I return...." He smiled at her. "Your father and I have much to discuss along the trail."
Lucy hoped that the sudden pinkness of her cheeks didn't show more eagerness than appropriate for a lady. "I will count the days," she whispered.
"As will I." He pulled her tight and hugged her against his chest.
Lucy closed her eyes, imagining his rough hands lifting her chin and his lips pressed against her own. Instead, he sighed and stepped back away from her. She let him go this time. Soon.
Being responsible for the household since her mother's passing and occupied with the hard existence of the frontier, Lucy fein had time to fret about Jefferson's absence, though she often thought she heard the strike of his horse's hooves on the ground outside and rushed to the window...to find only a tumbleweed lazily rambling along the dusty road. With the passing of each day, she added another mark to her journal.
A grey cloud of dread began to settle about the house as the marks multiplied upon the page. Lucy slowed in her work as the joy left her. Not even daydreams of her impending wedding to Jefferson could rouse her from her melancholy. It was as if her own personal sun had set and she could no longer escape the ever lengthening shadows.
Her hand poised to draw the twenty-ninth mark, Lucy heard the front gate's hinges groan in protest. Bolting out of her chair, Lucy raced to the door and flung it open, ready to throw herself into Jefferson's arms. Neither Jefferson nor her father waited for her. Two unfamiliar horses stood tied to the fence where she expected to find her father's black gelding and Jefferson's grulla pony. Sweat glistened along the horses' sides. The all too familiar XIT brand stood out on the hip of one of the mounts.
"Miss Ferrier?"
Lucy turned to face the men standing on her porch. A cowhand and the local sheriff. Her heart spasmed and threatened to stop in her chest as she tried to process the words coming from their lips. ….bodies along the trail...robbery...murder...the Dahmen brothers missing....
Her legs began to shake and Lucy collapsed. Sobs boiled up from deep within her, refusing to be quieted. It wasn't fair. God already had claimed her mother for his heavenly kingdom. It wasn't right for him to lay claim to her father and Jefferson. Not without taking her soul as well. The looming shadows merged with one another and Lucy closed her eyes, giving in to the darkness that gripped her soul.
***
Two rough wooden crosses cast long shadows across the cracked red dirt. A mound of stones had been stacked around them to spare the resting from being ravaged by scavengers. Lucy lay two yellow roses on top of the graves, blood glistening on the steams where the sharp thorns had bit into her flesh. No names nor dates had been carved into the wooden markers and Lucy wished she had the time to do so herself. They deserved to be remembered. But the sun had already passed overhead. She had to keep moving. If she stayed the night here, she feared she would never have the courage to leave. Turning her back on the graves, she swung up into the saddle. "Come on, Pancho. We've got a long ride ahead of us."
The newspapers had provided all the gory details of the murder that the sheriff had elected to omit. While her father's choice of Jefferson had been sound, his hiring of Edward and Joseph Dahmen proved less so. In the aftermath of such tragedy, the sheriff had discovered that the brothers both carried bounties on their heads for cattle rustling and thieving. Too little, too late to save her father or her beloved.
She rode with little sense of purpose save a solemn pledge to herself to track the devil twins down and see that justice was served. Though their head start and talent at concealing themselves from the law made them difficult to follow. A whisper here...a rumor there...and only half of them true. She wandered from town to town aimlessly, not even willing to trust a God that had deprived her of all she loved to set her feet on the right path.
When the money ran out, she parted ways with Pancho.... When that ran out she picked up odd jobs—scrubbing floors and washing clothes in a bath house...serving drinks at a saloon…learning to operate the telegraph machines for the railroad.... As time passed, she heard less and less about the Dahmen brothers.
"You've lost your way, Lucy."
She started at the sound of her name. She'd only arrived in this small town a short time ago, not long enough for many people to have taken interest in her identity. Only a few of the girls at the office knew her well enough to address her by her given name. While she was certain there had been plenty of gossip passed among the residents behind her back, she doubted any would be so bold as to act so familiar.
"I did not mean to startle you," the man continued. "If I may...."
Her voice still frightened into submission by the man's sudden appearance and his knowledge of her name, Lucy couldn't protest before he took a seat on the bench next to her. His tall, lanky form was dressed impeccably in a fitted suit. The silk vest under his jacket was brightly patterned and looked expensive. Lucy nervously brushed at her skirt, suddenly acutely aware of the plain, rough fabric. While they'd never had much back at home in Texas, they'd had enough...and she'd always had a new calico dress for the Cattleman's Ball. Now…. Her breath caught in her throat as all the pain of that fateful day came rushing back to her.
"It's in your eyes," the man said. "The fierce fire of revenge that once lit them has burnt itself out. Jefferson and your father deserve more."
"Who...?" Lucy looked up to the man's face. Surely she knew him as well as he knew her. A neighbor from home perhaps. The man's top hat had been pulled low, obscuring his features. Something silver glinted deep in the shadow that covered his face.
He nodded politely. "My name is James Moriarty."
"Have we met?" In absence of a face, Lucy tried to match the voice to one she knew. It wasn't a Texas accent, of that she was certain. British, perhaps? The owners of XIT were mostly British, though she couldn't remember having ever met one in person. She supposed t
hey could have read the local papers.
"No." The word carried a finality to it that she couldn't argue.
"Then how do you know me? How do you know about Jefferson?" Her voice thinned as it retreated back in fear.
"I know many things, Lucy. Including where your quarry hides."
"Where?" The word burst from her mouth as her voice found its courage again.
"All in good time, my friend. I am not yet convinced that you have it in you to do what needs to be done."
Lucy hesitated. If the devil walked among men, she feared she had crossed his path. "I'd do anything," she said.
"Not yet. But you will. Soon." The man's lips, barely visible, pressed into a thin smile.
Chapter 10
The stone tumbled through the air as it left Holmes's fingers. Though I had been released from whatever spectral force had previously held me, I was effectively captive to the flight of the rune and the fate of the woman before me. As the stone descended, Holmes caught it and held it in his closed hand.
The woman's story spilled forth from her as if the prospect of death had opened a floodgate of memories. Holmes listened patiently, the rune still enclosed in his fist. I studied him as Lucy's tale unfolded. His face remained that of a statue, completely void of any emotion, though I felt the warm wetness of tears upon my own cheeks.
At the time, I judged my companion for his lack of compassion. Though, with the passage of years, I have come to understand it is not a lack of empathy that Holmes suffers from, but far too much. I suspect, at that moment, Holmes already knew what was to come of Lucy Hopes and sought to distance himself from her in order to maintain optimal deductive reasoning skills. While I feel that our emotions separate us from the beasts of the world in a mostly advantageous way, it cannot be denied that the resulting sentimental fever can often cloud even the most levelheaded individual's judgement. In this way I pity my friend. What can life be like without the joy of love for another or the pang of loss at a friend's passing? Emotions color the world around us. The life of one so astute in denying their existence must surely exist only in the bleakest shades of grey.
Sanguine (Improbable Truths #1) Page 5