“He’s in a better place.”
“No, he isn’t. His place was beside his wife in Santa Fe.” Sullivan stared into the physician’s eyes. “The dead are quiet, aren’t they? Look at him lying there, very still, very silent, like he’s in a deep sleep.”
“I’ve stood in the presence of the dead many times, Mr. Sullivan,” Harvey said. “Yet I still can’t find the words.”
“Not much to say, is there?”
“I guess not.”
“I’ll take his body back to Santa Fe,” Sullivan said. “The dead don’t rest easy in this town. His wife should bury him.”
Harvey’s face took on a stricken look, like a man who’s suddenly remembered a mortal sin from his past. “Come into the parlor, Mr. Sullivan. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Seems like everybody wants to talk to me this morning. I guess I’m a real popular feller, huh?”
A faint smiled touched the doctor’s lips. “I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Sullivan.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Trigger Control
“Drink, Mr. Sullivan?” Dr. Peter Harvey asked.
“I could use one,” Tam Sullivan acknowledged.
“Hennessey brandy to your taste? A gift from a patient.”
“Suits me just fine.”
After Sullivan and the physician were settled, glasses in hand, on either side of the parlor fire, Harvey said, “I need to get something off my chest. It troubles me.”
“I love listening to other people’s troubles, Doc,” Sullivan said with a straight face. “Lay it on me.”
“Let me say this first. You understand the need for ongoing medical research? The study of the human anatomy and the brain in particular?”
Sullivan quickly jumped to a conclusion. “Are you talking about body snatching?”
Harvey nodded. “There is a particular shortage of available bodies, and it’s been going on since the 1830s when a great many people of all ages were executed for petty crimes. You have, of course, heard of Burke and Hare who supplied bodies to physicians in Scotland?”
“Ebenezer mentioned them, then wished he hadn’t.”
“At first, Burke and Hare were grave robbers, but when the bodies of executed criminals became harder to find, they turned to murder.”
“Ebenezer told me that, too.”
“After committing eighteen murders Burke was hanged and Hare died in poverty, a hopeless drunk.”
“I’m not catching your drift, Doc,” Sullivan said.
“I don’t condone what they did, but I don’t condemn the doctors who accepted the bodies for study, either. Who knows? A hundred years from now, Burke and Hare might be hailed as heroes.”
“Is that what you wanted to get off your chest, Doc?”
“No. But I wanted you to know that I have dissected cadavers myself.”
“Here? In Comanche Crossing?”
“Yes. I was present at Lady Wainright’s home the night Crow Wallace’s body was opened.”
“Where is it?” Sullivan asked quickly.
“Buried where you’ll never find it. By this time, nothing human of Crow Wallace will remain or be recognizable.”
“You cost me twenty-five hundred dollars,” Sullivan said.
“And I may have helped cause the death of Ebenezer Posey,” Harvey said.
Tam Sullivan looked like he’d just been punched in the gut.
“You know, I’ve never shot a doctor before, but there’s a first time for everything.” He carefully laid the brandy glass at his feet. “If I was you, I’d choose my next words very carefully.”
If Harvey was scared, he didn’t let it show. “I made the decision to never attend another autopsy after that one. The way so many graves are being desecrated and bodies stolen repels me. I begged the doctor to stop, but he is a man obsessed. I had nothing to do with what happened last night at the undertakers when Ebenezer was wounded.”
“Who is the doctor?” Sullivan gritted out.
Harvey saw a hundred different kinds of hell in the big man’s eyes.
“His motives are pure, even honorable, but his methods are reprehensible. He believes the scalpel can cure a tumor of the brain, but the problem is to remove the tumor while leaving the brain undamaged. Given our present state of medical knowledge, it’s an almost impossible feat.” Harvey picked up Sullivan’s glass and handed it back to him. “Of necessity, the doctor disposes of many cadavers until he finds one with a tumor advanced enough to hone his skill with the knife and improve his surgical technique.”
For a moment Harvey watched scarlet and yellow flames blossom between the logs in the fire. Then he continued. “Once the doctor believes he’s skilled enough to operate on any cancer, in any part of the body but especially the brain, only then will he feel qualified to treat living patients.”
Sullivan rose to his feet. “I won’t ask this a third time. Who is he?” His gun was level with Harvey’s eyes.
The doctor saw the gleam of blued steel, the brassy glint of percussion caps, the beautiful sweep of the walnut handle. He knew little of guns and Texas draw fighters but had no doubt that Tam Sullivan was prepared to use the revolver. “Dr. Cheng Lian,” he said in a whisper.
“Clotilde Wainright’s hired man?” Sullivan frowned.
“Her husband,” Harvey said.
Sullivan was surprised. “Since when?”
“As far as I know, since soon after the death of her first husband.”
“Who killed Ebenezer and Hogan Strike?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did Ebenezer say monstrous?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you know more than you’re telling me, Doc.” Tall, grim-faced, and angry, Tam Sullivan was an intimidating figure.
“I don’t know,” Harvey said, slanting his eyes away from him. “You said he was outraged over what happened to him and we agreed on that, didn’t we?”
“That’s what I thought, but I don’t think it any longer. I know Ebenezer was trying to tell me something.”
“He was in pain and he wasn’t thinking straight,” Harvey explained.
“No, Peter, that’s not true, and you know it. Now tell him. If you won’t, I will.” The doctor’s wife stood in the doorway. Her face was pale but set in a stubborn expression.
“Jane, I don’t know what to think,” Harvey said.
“Yes, you do, Peter. Tell Mr. Sullivan about Hong-li.”
“You’ve been listening, Jane,” Harvey accused.
“I couldn’t help but overhear. Now tell him.”
“I think . . . God, I told you, I don’t know what to think,” Harvey said, a man in pain.
“Tell him,” his wife said.
“Hong-li was probably the—I can’t call him a man—the creature who murdered Ebenezer Posey and Hogan Strike.”
“There is no probably about it, Mr. Sullivan,” Jane Harvey said.
“How can you say that with so much certainty, Mrs. Harvey?” Sullivan asked.
“Peter said you were at the undertaker’s place the night Ebenezer was killed. Did you see a dog?”
“I didn’t see it, but I heard it snarling. I fired a couple shots but don’t think I hit it.” Sullivan tried a wan smile. “I was too scared I guess.”
“And with good reason, Mr. Sullivan,” Jane said. “The dog is evil because Hong-li made it that way. He himself is as evil as he is deformed. To this day, the slaughter of the White family has never been explained.”
Sullivan directed his attention to her husband.
“The Whites had a cabin to the west of town on La Jara Creek,” the physician explained. “Abe White lost a leg at Gettysburg and was trying to make a living as a trapper. His wife was called Martha and they had three kids, all of them girls. Daisy, the oldest, was about sixteen and a tomboy. I once treated her for a broken arm after she fell out of a wild oak. She was real pretty. All three White girls were real pretty.”
“The family was slaughter
ed,” Jane said. “Sheriff Harm said it looked like they’d been hacked to death with a bladed weapon, maybe an axe.”
“Their killer was never found,” Dr. Harvey said.
“That was just a month after Lady Clotilde Wainright moved into Comanche Crossing and brought Hong-li with her,” Jane said. “Coincidence? I think not.”
“Mrs. Harvey, are you aware that your husband cut apart cadavers at Clotilde Wainright’s house?” Sullivan asked.
“Only once, Mr. Sullivan. After that, Dr. Cheng was out of control, demanding more and more bodies. His wish is to return to China as a famous brain surgeon.”
“Did you know that Cheng and Clotilde are man and wife?” Sullivan asked.
Jane looked genuinely surprised. “I had no idea. Did you, Peter?”
“Yes. I knew.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“My dear, I don’t traffic in idle gossip.”
“Only in bodies, huh?” Sullivan stepped to the door and stopped. “I’m going to end this. I aim to kill the man, or whatever it is, that murdered Ebenezer Posey and if Clotilde Wainright and her husband were involved, well, I’ll deal with them, too.”
“More killing and violence never solved anything, Mr. Sullivan,” Dr. Harvey said.
“Maybe not, but it’s my way. It’s the only way I know.” Sullivan hesitated at the door, his expression hard and inflexible. “Was Bill Longley involved in Ebenezer’s death?”
Harvey shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”
“You, Mrs. Harvey?”
“I know nothing of the man except that he’s a killer and that everyone in this town is afraid of him,” Jane said. “But Longley kills with a gun, not a sword.”
“One more thing before I go, Doc,” Sullivan said. “Think yourself damned lucky you’re still alive. When I lose control of myself bad things happen and I came real close to losing it this morning.”
Peter Harvey said nothing, but his face was ashen. He knew.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Booker Tate Makes a Decision
“Your money is no good here, Longley. Go elsewhere.” Perry Cox stood behind the bank counter next to a frightened clerk who looked like he was about to puke.
“You’re refusing my hundred dollar deposit, Cox?” Longley asked.
“If it comes from your pocket, it’s bound to be tainted money,” the banker said. “I want no part of you or your deposit.”
“Uppity this morning, ain’t you?” Longley’s eyes looked like they’d been chipped from flint.
But, like many heavy, big-bellied men, Cox was not easily intimidated. “Longley, Tom Archer was a respected man in this town and that’s why we want you out of it.”
Longley’s smile was thin as the edge of a knife. “I’ll go when I’m ready, Cox. Not a minute before.”
“Don’t count on it,” Cox said. “We have a noose all ready for you.”
“That’s been tried before. And the men who tried it are all dead.” Longley picked up his money, smirked at Cox, and barged out the door into the street.
He had no wish to pick a fight with Cox. But maybe he’d get a chance to gun the banker later. As it happened, all he’d wanted to do was scout the layout of the bank, hence the ruse of the hundred-dollar deposit.
The counter had a brass grill, but there was a door at the end of the counter that another pale clerk had opened and closed without the use of a key. That made things a lot easier.
The First Commercial Bank of Comanche Crossing was a ripe plum ready for the picking . . . and come tomorrow morning, Bill Longley intended to pick it clean.
Booker Tate had plans of his own.
He’d had women before, hog ranch whores for the most part. No decent woman would have anything to do with him and he’d forced a few to show the little gals what they were missing.
But Lisa York was in class by herself.
Since he and Bill had gone courting to the girl’s house, Tate dreamed of making Lisa his wife . . . to have and to hold until death do them part.
His old idea of using the girl before she was gutted in Santa Fe was gone. He’d never cottoned to the plan anyway.
Love—starry-eyed, head-over-heels love, had taken its place—suddenly, like a thief in the night.
Standing at his hotel room window in his underwear, Tate scratched his belly and stared out at the dark, dismal street. Sleet hurtled past his window and the wind screeched like fingernails scarring the blackboard of the morning. People scurried on the boardwalks, bent over against the cold, barely taking time to greet each other.
He let out a little sigh, imagining beautiful Lisa out there, shopping basket over her arm, braving the elements to get the grub she needed for her man’s supper.
He smiled. The joyful image made him very happy.
But then another vision . . . darker, bloodstained, terrifying. He saw Lisa York on a steel table, cut open and her intestines spilled over the floor. Her pretty face still and white, blue eyes wide but staring into nothingness.
Anguished, Tate plunged his face into his hands. “Make it go away,” he whispered. “Please make it go away.”
Then a great truth came to Booker Tate.
Pretty little Lisa shopping was a fantasy. But the image of Lisa lying butchered on a table was reality . . . Bill Longley and Clotilde Wainright’s reality.
Tate would not allow it to happen. The girl was his and he’d let no one harm her.
He knew he couldn’t face Longley’s guns, but there had to be another way.
And he’d find it.
The rap-rap on the door made Tate reach for his gun. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Booker. Open up.”
Tate unlocked the door and opened it wide.
Bill Longley stepped inside. “Get dressed. You’ve got something important to do this morning.”
Tate gave the other man a blank stare.
Longley scowled.
“Damn it, man, what’s wrong with you? Wake the hell up.”
Tate shook his head as though trying to clear the cobwebs. “Sorry, Bill. What is it you want?”
“That’s better,” Longley said. “I want you to ride up to Lady Wainright’s house and pick up the packhorse and Lisa York’s mount. Then head south into the mesa country, maybe a ten-mile, and hide the animals somewhere. Make sure you pick out a landmark so you know where the hell you left them.”
“Miss Lisa won’t have a horse when you grab her tonight?”
“No, she’ll ride with me. She’ll need the horse on the trail to Santa Fe, that’s all.” Longley stepped to the window. “As to whether she’ll ride the horse or be tied to it, I don’t know. Have you seen the weather out there?”
Tate laid his revolver on the bedside table. “Bill, maybe we should rethink this. About Miss Lisa, I mean.”
Longley’s face settled into a scowl. “It’s a done deal. What is there to rethink?”
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right to leave Miss Pretty out there to die of cold or get eaten by a wolf.”
“Listen, set your mind at rest. You can have the girl all to yourself on the trail,” Longley said. “I won’t touch her. I guarantee you’ll be tired of her by the time we reach Santa Fe.”
“You reckon so?” Tate asked, his bovine brain struggling with the implications of that.
“Sure you will and there will be plenty of women in Louisiana. Hell, I heard they swim naked in the Sabine, summer or winter.”
“Well, whatever you say, Bill,” Tate said. But he had no intention of letting Miss Lisa get anywhere near Louisiana, or Santa Fe for that matter.
“Good. Now get dressed,” Longley said. “Do what I told you and make sure you get back here before seven. I’m counting on you, Booker.”
“You can depend on me, Bill.” Tate knew then that he’d have to kill Bill Longley.
At seven o’clock.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Sullivan Sees the Light
&nbs
p; “She might come in around seven o’clock,” Buck Bowman said. “But Montana Maine does what she pleases.”
“She got a special feller?” Tam Sullivan asked, making conversation.
“Naw. She plays the field. It would be impossible for just one man to pin down Montana Maine to a life of domestic bliss.”
“She must be quite a woman.”
“She is. Believe me, you haven’t seen a real woman until you set eyes on Montana Maine.”
Sullivan stood at the bar eating an early lunch of crackers and blue-veined cheese.
Bowman topped off his beer. “I heard about Posey, poor little feller. I liked him.”
“So did I,” Sullivan said. “I liked him a lot.”
“I’ll find out who murdered him and Hogan Strike, depend on it,” Bowman said. “And I’ll arrest those responsible for the stolen bodies.”
Sullivan smiled. “You’re not a detective, Buck.”
“I was a Texas Ranger. That’s enough.”
“Have you ever dealt with evil before?” Sullivan asked.
“Sure. Wasn’t I the Ranger who gunned White River Vic Polson? Vic was a half-breed Apache and real evil.”
“Hey, Buck, I didn’t know you killed Vic Polson,” said a man standing at the far end of the bar. “I seen his body in the window of Steve Yates’s hardware store down Amarillo way. He was shot all to pieces.”
“Took two loads of double-aught buck to stop him,” Bowman said. “As I recollect, Vic had a simple brother who got hung. But none of that Polson clan ever came to any good.”
The two men talked more about the Polsons, and when the conversation petered out, Sullivan said to Bowman, “Cutting a breed in half with a scattergun ain’t detective work.”
Bowman shook his head, smiling. “Hell, Sullivan, I’m not catching your drift. You’re not a Pinkerton yourself.”
“I know, but the killing, the stolen bodies, the evil that’s descended on this town, it all ends tonight,” Sullivan said pointedly.
Bowman’s face hardened, and he gave the younger man a long, stern look. “I’m the law in this town, Sullivan. If there’s a summing-up to be done with a gun, I’ll do it. You see how it is with me.”
A Dangerous Man Page 18