Sparrow let loose a full smile. “You’re probably right.”
Silence followed, except for the sound of Sparrow’s munching. Then Elizabeth had a thought. It came slowly, through the delirium of spice and evacuating fluids. She swished the milk between her teeth and knitted her brow. She set the cup on the table and rubbed a pair of fingers together.
“You know something, don’t you?”
Sparrow leaned back in his chair. His face went stony. “Maybe. What might I know?”
Elizabeth pulled her chair forward and leaned into the table. Her voice was low and deliberate. “It wasn’t mustard gas at all, was it?”
“Why would you say that?” His cadence made it sound like two questions.
“The Deputy told me that there was a subtle scent. Earthy, he said. Mustard gas smells more like garlic. And even then, you get used to the odor and it seems to go away.”
“You talk like one who knows,” said Sparrow.
Elizabeth ignored this. “At first I thought he was too old to smell it. Maybe his sniffer isn’t what it used to be. Tobacco ruins the membranes. So I guessed it was gas. The burns and blindness and pulmonary damage are all consistent. But there was one hitch—and I’m guessing you know that hitch as well as I do.”
“Go on.”
“Mustard gas doesn’t work that quickly. Most victims don’t even know what’s happened to them for the first day. And anyway, the color’s wrong. Sulfur mustards are yellow, maybe brown. But certainly not red.”
“Yet you had to rule it out,” said Sparrow. “To make sure.”
“And you figured that out, the moment I walked into your apothecary and asked for the flame test. You knew exactly why I was there, and what I was investigating. But that’s not all. I think you knew something else, too.”
Sparrow crumpled his napkin and placed it on his empty plate. “And what would that be?”
“I think you brought me here for a reason. Not to be friendly. Not to play a joke. You wanted me to taste that habanero. To realize just how picante it is. Because the weapon they used, the weapon no one can identify, is—chili peppers.”
Now the pharmacist placed his hands on his belly and fixed his gaze on Elizabeth. His mouth refused to bend, yet his eyes welled over with respect.
“Chili peppers,” echoed Sparrow. “But a chili pepper so powerful, no man has ever seen its like. That is, no white man.”
“You’ve seen it?” whispered Elizabeth.
“I know of it. In your language, they would call it fire fruit. There’s no scientific name, because no white scientist has yet learned of it. The Navajo tell me that fire fruit only grows wild. They say you can’t even pass the grove without weeping.”
“But somebody is picking it,” said Elizabeth. “Someone found a grove. They must grind the peppers into a powder. And then—the Deputy said there were flashes. Bursts. They must have attached some kind of small explosive. They threw them like grenades, and the chili powder was blown everywhere.”
“That sounds right to me,” said Sparrow. “And maybe, if you go to the authorities, they’ll believe you.”
Elizabeth sighed. Sparrow had obviously said nothing to anyone. At best, they would laugh off his theory; at worst, they would string him up for conspiracy. Men like Sparrow had to be careful, she knew. But if Robins was right, the bandits would be back, and the town wouldn’t be any better defended than before.
“If the bandits found this fire fruit,” said Elizabeth, “they might be quartered near the grove. They’d need to rearm themselves for their next attack. And they’d want to protect their secret weapon. Otherwise, anyone could find those chilies and do what they did.”
“That stands to reason,” said Sparrow.
“Is there a grove near here?”
Sparrow scratched the side of his nose. “Well, that’s what has me stumped, Miss Crowne. There is only one place where the fire fruit grows. And it’s three hundred miles away.”
Chapter 4
Maude trudged slowly up the hill, feeling dizzier with every step. She’d swallowed the last of her water, and each breath tasted like clay. She finally threw herself against the hotel’s iron gate and sighed with relief. Thirty more paces and she’d be sitting in the hotel lobby, cooling her face beneath that lone ceiling fan.
Maude looked back at the town. The hotel was perched just high enough to oversee the rooftops and mountains. Yet hard as she tried, Maude couldn’t understand what she was looking at. She tried to put the skyline in context: What if Columbus, her hometown, had been stripped of trees and water? What if some divine force uprooted the skyscrapers, razed whole neighborhoods, and cleared the sky of overcast? What if jagged mountains and fat boulders were thrust out of Columbus’ humble hills? What if you baked the Ohio flatlands for a million-odd years, burning away everything but cacti and Gila monsters? Were these the brittle wilds that would result?
As she wiped the glaze of sweat from her brow, Maude felt a flash of inspiration. She ripped her back from the gate and marched to the hotel. She crossed the lobby to the desk, where Orville was nursing a glass of lemonade.
The clerk looked up. “Good afternoon, Miss Kapuscinski,” he said. After a pause, he glanced guiltily at his beverage. “Would you care for some—?”
“Do you…” Maude pursed her lips timidly. “That is, do you have…?”
“Have?”
“A map?”
To Maude’s surprise, Orville brightened. He spread his hands excitedly across the desk and said, “Of the town, you mean?”
“Well—I was thinking, maybe, a map of the whole valley.”
“You bet I do!” Orville exclaimed, and he sank behind the desk. His retreat was so sudden that Maude wondered where he had gone. She stood on her toes, trying to see what the squatting clerk was up to. Orville abruptly stood again, clutching several scrolls under his arm. He flung them onto the desk, picked one out, and unfurled it.
“Here we are!” he proclaimed. “This isn’t a surveyor’s map or anything. Just a regular map we show to tourists. But it gives you a good idea what the valley looks like.”
They both leaned over at once, and they narrowly avoided butting heads. The clerk was too excited to notice; he jabbed a finger into the middle of the map. A messy grid represented the interlocking streets around them.
“This is us,” Orville said. “The hotel is on this rise, here. One of the oldest buildings in town. Folks used to come here to cure their consumption. This here is Main Street, right in the middle. You came from Tucson, right? So this is the highway you took to get here.”
Orville traced the road through the foothills. The sight of that zigzagging line made Maude queasy, and she turned her attention back to the town.
“Over here…” Orville went on, dragging his finger to the northern corner of the valley. “You have the copper mill.”
Maude scratched her head. “But it’s so far away!”
“I’m glad you noticed that,” said Orville, his tone turning professorial. “Easterners are always surprised. See, the town was built around a natural aquifer, so that’s why it’s here. But the copper deposits are about three miles north. There’s a camp up there, mostly for the Mexicans. Most of the white miners live here in town, and a truck picks ‘em up for every shift. You follow?”
“I—think so.”
“The mill is next to Mine Number Two. See, they all have numbers. Mine Number Three is just a little ways down the road. So the company has itself a small train. Real fancy, runs on compressed air, follows a little track. And every day, that train takes the ore from Mine Number Three straight to the mill, so they can process it.” He beamed. “Ain’t that just fascinating?”
“But…” Maude tipped her head. “Isn’t there a Mine Number One?”
In an instant, the good cheer faded from Orville’s face. He drew a finger across his lips, as if to silence himself. “Well…” he said. “That’s a different story.”
“What do you mean,
haunted?” Elizabeth demanded.
“That’s exactly what he told me, just an hour ago, when we were talking about the maps and the aquifers and everything!” jabbered Maude. “He said there were disappearances, and voices, and figures who came out of nowhere, and… and…”
“Hold your horses, Maude,” snapped Elizabeth. “You’re not making any sense.”
Elizabeth lamented the words the moment they left her mouth. Maude stopped, stunned. She went quiet, then wilted into herself. She was embarrassed, Elizabeth could tell. It was rare for her assistant become so animated, especially after so many trying days on the road. Were it not for her throbbing headache, Elizabeth would have reveled in Maude’s enthusiasm.
At the same time, nothing irked Elizabeth like a rambling ghost story. In all these years of strange encounters, Elizabeth had never put much credence in rowdy afterlives. Too many events had been explained to her as magic and miracle, angel and poltergeist. Each new report of moaning spirits annoyed her more. She was a scientist above all, and clients were often surprised by her rigid worldview. Lycanthropy was a condition she had witnessed. Little green men she might accept. But specters and ghouls were the stuff of folklore. In Elizabeth’s eyes, bumps in the night were usually just that.
Maude sank into a chair and let her arms hang out, defeated. As she sulked, the modest hotel room felt even smaller. Elizabeth turned to the meal that Maude had ordered, a stew of chicken and rice, which was now lukewarm and gelatinous. She poured two tumblers of iced water from a carafe and offered one.
“Why don’t we start over,” said Elizabeth gently. “I’ll have an aspirin, you take a breath, and let’s hear this story from the top.”
“All right,” said Maude, slurping the water through tinkling cubes. “So you see, I was talking with Orville…”
“The hotel clerk.”
“Yes. I asked him about the town. He said there used to be a copper mine—the first mine in the valley—but nobody uses it anymore.”
“Normally I’d guess there’s nothing left to dig.”
“Not at all! He said there’s plenty of copper, and it’s the purest vein in the valley. But the miners won’t go in. They flat-out refuse. And it’s not just one miner, it’s all of them.”
“Why do they think it’s haunted?”
“Well, first they heard voices. All kinds of noises. Then they saw movement in the shafts. And then tools went missing. Carts were moved around in the night. And then—workers would disappear.”
“But that’s just a peril of the trade,” Elizabeth said. “Cave-ins and pitfalls. Dangerous way to live.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Maude. “But Orville said it was stranger than that. Workers would be walking together, and then—just like that—one of them would vanish.”
Elizabeth perked up. She was about to take a sip, but instead she set the water on the sideboard. “Vanished, you say? Right in front of the others?”
“That’s right. And they never came back! The company thought they were pulling one over, so they fired those workers and replaced them with another team. Most of them were Mexicans and didn’t speak English, so they couldn’t understand the warnings. But sure enough, they started seeing the same thing. They kept saying, ‘Fantasma! Fantasma!’”
“And they shut it down? Completely?”
“That’s what Orville said. No one, not even scabs, will go near that place. They’re scared to death of it.”
“I’m sorry I doubted you, Maude,” Elizabeth conceded. “I suppose even skeptics get too skeptical.”
“But there’s more!” Maude said, clasping her hands in front of her face. “Orville was working the desk.”
“Doesn’t he always?”
“Oh, not today. I mean the day of the robbery. He was here, at the hotel. He heard the explosions, and he ran outside. From up here, he could see the whole town. He couldn’t see the robbery itself, but he watched the bandits riding away. He saw where they went. And it wasn’t the highway to Tucson, and it wasn’t the highway to Bisbee.”
“My God,” Elizabeth whispered.
“Do you see?” Maude cried, her voice cracking. “They’re right here, in the valley. They escaped to the one place no one would dare follow them. They went to Mine Number One.”
Chapter 5
Elizabeth was deep asleep when a rapping at the door infiltrated her dreams. She untangled herself from her bedding, adjusted her nightgown, and staggered through the dark. Light from the hallway poured into the room as Elizabeth pulled back the door, and she scowled at the site of Orville.
“Don’t you ever go home?” she muttered.
After she smacked her cheek a few times, Elizabeth was conscious enough to see Orville’s misty eyes. He was trying to hold back the pout of his lower lip. The sight of so much unexplained emotion melted her.
“Orville, are you all right?” she said.
“I…” He sniffed. “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I just got a phone call from Deputy Robins. He says the Sheriff’s awake, and he’s asking for you.”
Maude had never seen a dawn break so resplendently. The sun emerged between two distant peaks and sprayed its light across the rooftops. The sky was still cloudless, but its enormity was dyed pink and violet, like a blanket of cosmic cashmere. The two women silently descended the road from the hotel and cut through Ezra’s gridded streets. Between the shuttered buildings, the shadows were long and cool, the light intense and warm. For the first time Maude delighted in the scenery.
The town was already restless. Trucks loaded workers. Roosters called from hidden yards. A rug was stretched across a sagging clothesline, and a housewife beat it with a paddle. Engines mumbled and horses snorted. In a climate so scorched, an early rise meant everything.
At last they approached the chalky walls of the hospital, which were tinted pink in the morning light. Deputy Robins crouched on the front stairs, just as before, his arms resting on his bowed knees. As the two women approached, he saluted them with two fingers.
“How do?” he called out.
“Good morning,” Elizabeth called back.
“You could say that,” Robins replied. He flexed his legs, groaning, and dusted his trousers with his hat. “I hope you’ll forgive the hour. Didn’t want to waste any time.”
“Agreed,” said Elizabeth. “The clerk at the hotel was pretty shaken up. Any idea why?”
Robins hummed. “The Sheriff’s well-liked, round these parts. He’s a decent man, and respected, too. Folks’ve had him in their prayers. This’ll be a happy day for a good bunch of people.”
In the morning light, the interior seemed even larger than before, more like a great hall than a hospital ward. Elizabeth shuffled across the floor, sticking now and again, nearly tripping her up. Danger rarely fazed her, but she felt herself softening. The Sheriff was awake. This should reassure her. Any patient risen from his coma was as good as Lazarus, no matter what his condition.
Yet when the man came into view, Elizabeth’s heart sank.
He was enwrapped in the same bandages and moldering nightgown. The same blankets, recently laundered, were still hiked up to his chest. At first, Elizabeth could see no difference, except that MacAuley was sitting upright, his back propped against a mound of pillows. But then she saw that the lower dressings had been removed; his chin and cheeks were exposed. Gauzy fabric was layered around his head like an oversized turban. The visible skin of his lower face was deep red—burned, blemished, melted. Elizabeth had imagined a youthful face, but instead she saw jowls and flaking skin. His once symmetrical lips curled to one side; his permanent snarl exposed rows of yellowed teeth.
Robins leaned over the bed. He did his best to whisper, despite the natural huskiness of his voice.
“Sheriff, Miss Crowne’s here to see you.”
MacAuley didn’t reply. Instead, he raised two fingers in the air, like a priest blessing a parishioner. Elizabeth took her cue and stepped forward; she knew she was invisib
le to the Sheriff, yet she sensed the reverential atmosphere and folded her hands.
“Sheriff,” she said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
MacAuley swallowed painfully and crooked the two fingers. A pitiful wave.
“I want you to know,” Elizabeth added, “that we will do everything we can to bring these brigands to justice. I know we’re not acquainted, and you have no reason to believe me, aside from your Deputy’s good faith. But I promise you, we will apprehend these men, dead or alive.”
The Sheriff’s lips parted. Elizabeth leaned forward, anticipating his response. But MacAuley spoke only one syllable, in a voice as soft as a breeze. It was all he could muster; to utter that one sound was to suppress layers of pain.
“Dead,” he rasped.
His mouth tightened. His face wrinkled with rage. He wheezed through his tattered nostrils, and then he sputtered. MacAuley ejected rusty spittle over his chin, and Elizabeth feared he might choke. But then his neck loosened; his head sank back into the pillows. His body went flaccid. The only movement was the subtle rise of his chest.
There was nothing more to say. The trio backed off, toward the front door. Elizabeth trod lightly, conscious of every footfall. The Sheriff’s body was even more devastated than she had supposed. He was the only living witness to the crime, his memories their only guide. Yet the damage was too complete; his lungs and vocal chords were as rough as sandpaper. Months might pass before MacAuley could speak in sentences, and who knew what the bandits would be up to by then?
There was only the word: dead. Elizabeth felt a chill. The word echoed in her mind, its ruthless bidding. Clearly, the attackers had ruined more than MacAuley’s eyesight. The weeks of bedridden agony had dissolved his peacekeeping ways. Even if the bandits could be captured, what then? No judge’s sentence would ever mollify his hate. His blinded eyes couldn’t watch them hang. Even the sound of a neck snapping in its noose, the cheer of onlookers, would fail to ease his tortured mind. Dead, he’d said. There was no reason to bring them back alive.
Ghost Bandits of Sonora (Elizabeth Crowne) Page 4