Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  Michael sighed, feeling sorry for the town drunk. "What did he do, fall off his horse and break his neck?"

  Billy shook his head, looking pained.

  "Say it!" Anne cried.

  Billy exhaled. "No, he didn't fall off his horse. Someone—something!—got ahold of him. Colonel, it's just like it was with the Indians. There's pieces of Billy strewn all over the place!"

  "Oh, my God!" Anne breathed.

  "I'm coming," Michael said quickly. He turned and gave Anne a shake. "You stay here!" he told her. "Stay here, do you hear me?"

  Wide-eyed, she nodded.

  Michael started to leave. But some instinct made him pause and turn back to her. He swept her into his arms and kissed her passionately.

  Yes, there was evil out there! What was he going to do? How was he going to fight it?

  Easy, keep her away from everyone, keep her inside, locked in!

  He whispered softly, "Don't let anyone in. Don't invite anyone in, do you understand? Don't go out, don't let anyone in. Not until I'm back!"

  She didn't understand. Life had suddenly changed. It had just been breezes and shadows at first. Now it was terrifying.

  And Michael was leaving her again.

  "Anne!"

  "Yes, yes!" she promised. "I understand."

  But it was a lie.

  She didn't understand anything anymore. Not at all.

  Chapter 4

  Smokey Timmons was indeed dead.

  With Billy behind him, Michael looked on while Mort Jenkins, the town mortician, gingerly collected the pieces of the man, trying to arrange him in the hastily- slapped-together coffin that was to be his final resting place.

  They were standing outside Sheriff Dougherty's office, just the sheriff, Michael, Billy, Mort, the sheriff's deputy—and the remnants of poor old Smokey Timmons.

  "It's just like the Indians, Colonel," Billy whispered. "Just like!"

  Michael felt his throat constrict. Yes, it was just the same. A man, torn to shreds, limb from limb.

  And there was that same lack of blood.

  Sheriff Dougherty, a good man, a tall man with bushy white hair and a rotund belly, shook his head. "If it don't beat all, if it don't beat all!" he muttered.

  This kind of thing just didn't happen in places like Green Valley. Sure, they were tough Westerners. Many of the men had been in the war. And they'd all fought Indians.

  But they'd never seen anything like this.

  Sheriff Dougherty must have heard Billy's whisper to Michael. He stared at him sharply. "All right there, Colonel Johnston. You think you can shed some light on this subject?"

  Michael shook his head and the sheriff narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

  "Injuns?" he asked.

  "I don't think so," Michael replied.

  "You just defendin' those heathen Apaches again, Johnston?" the sheriff pressed.

  He shook his head again and decided to answer in kind. "Dougherty, the Apaches never mind leaving a calling card. They've never hidden a raid or a battle—or a killing of any kind. What Billy's talking about is something that just happened to the Indians."

  "And?" the sheriff said.

  "There was a whole tribe of them, a small encampment. Maybe forty or fifty in all."

  "Jesus H. Christ, Michael, you gonna make me drag it all out of you?" Dougherty demanded.

  Michael faced him. "They were all dead. Just like Smokey here. Every single one of them—"

  He paused, amazed at his sudden realization.

  "Every single one of them what?" Dougherty exploded.

  "Decapitated. The bodies were torn up too, to different degrees. But every single one of them..."

  "Was missing his head," Billy said. He giggled nervously. "Someone's not happy with scalps, eh? The whole head has gotta go these days!"

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Mort complained. He was the perfect undertaker, always dressed in a neat black suit. He was as slim as death itself with a gaunt face and skeletal cheekbones. He inclined his head toward them, folding his long fingers in a steeple-like fashion. "Gentlemen, I am accustomed to dealing with the dead, but your levity here is—quite frankly!—making me ill."

  Michael ignored Mort, frowning, then looked across the dry, parched street that made up Green Valley's main thoroughfare. "The Indians said that it was an evil spirit. A white spirit."

  "An evil, white spirit. You want me to find—and hang!—an evil spirit for the death of Smokey Timmons?"

  Dougherty was going to laugh at him any minute. Michael couldn't quite say that he blamed him.

  "Well, I can't help you. I'm damned sorry," Michael told him, "but that's all the Indians would say, and they must have believed it, because they didn't try to blame us."

  "Someone killed Smokey," the sheriff said firmly.

  "Or something!" his deputy, Tim McAllistair, said softly. "It looks like something an animal would do."

  "Wild dogs," Mort suggested.

  "Wolves!" Billy said.

  "Right," Tim agreed. Like his daughter, Cissy, Tim was blue-eyed and blonde-haired, a man of forty who looked as young as twenty. There was hope in his eyes. Just like there was a ray of hope in every pair of eyes now meeting Michael's.

  "Wolves!" he murmured. "And none of us heard them. And there's not a tuft of fur anywhere—"

  "Or a drop of blood, for that matter," Mort commented.

  "Well, hell!" Dougherty exploded. "Something went on! A man don't get drunk and tear himself up like this! Now, until we do find out what's going on in this town, you're all deputies!"

  "Don't we need some kind of formal ceremony for that?" Billy asked.

  "Yeah, real formal! You're a deputy 'cause I said so!" Dougherty said firmly. "All of you, keep a good eye out. Jesu, how the hell did this happen in a fine place like Green Valley? Hell, we ain't even had no horse thieves here in years and years!" He spun on Michael. "Don't you go discounting those Apaches, you Injun lover!" he warned him.

  Michael lifted his hands, staring at Dougherty. "I'm not discounting anything. And may I give you the same advice?"

  Dougherty looked affronted, but then he sighed. "Dammit, Michael, I'm just scared. Scared down to my bones."

  Mort cleared his throat. "May I—er, take the deceased? Doc Phelan can examine the—er, remains. Maybe he'll be able to give us some clue."

  "Yeah, maybe," Dougherty agreed.

  Tim, Billy, and Michael helped Mort hoist the coffin up onto Mort's horse-drawn hearse-wagon. Everyone was silent as Mort clambered up to the seat and flicked the reins over his pitch-black horse's haunches. The wagon rattled down the dusty street.

  Dougherty pointed a finger at Michael. "If you can spare me an hour or so, I'd like a firsthand report on your latest excursion into Injun territory. I want to hear all about what you found, and what the Injuns had to say. You come too, Tim. I'll buy you both some lunch."

  During the meal Michael stared at the bowl of fine stew set before him, but all he could see was Smokey. He had eaten wormy hardtack upon occasion, between battles, with dead men lined up in hearses behind him. But this was different. He pushed the food away and talked as fast as he could, anxious to get back to Anne. He gave Dougherty a thorough report, but he felt sorry for the sheriff because, like them all, the man was left so damned confused.

  Tim sat and listened, but with only half his attention. He seemed withdrawn, an unusual way for Tim to be, Michael thought. But then, they had spent most of the morning with Smokey, noon till now with the sheriff, and it seemed that even the afternoon was waning away and they hadn't accomplished much of anything, "Is that it for now, Sheriff?" Tim finally asked his boss. He hadn't eaten much of his stew either.

  Dougherty immediately looked contrite. "Yeah, sure, Tim. You go on home now. You tell Cissy we're all thinking about her."

  Tim nodded, rose, offered Michael a faint smile, and hurried out of the inn's dining room. Michael could see him walking out on the porch and then down the steps to the street. There was a
slump to his shoulders.

  "What's the matter with Cissy?" Michael asked.

  Dougherty shrugged. "She just took sick," he said. "Tim's awful worried. Says she was as pale as death this morning and has hardly opened her eyes all day. There's no fever or the like. It's just as if the life had been drained right out of her."

  "I think I'll take a walk over myself," Michael said. "Cissy is a special friend of Anne's. That is—if you're done with me too now."

  Dougherty waved a hand in the air. "Sure, I'm done with you, Michael. Evil spirits!" he said. He shook his head. "Jesu, Michael, what's going on here?" Not expecting an answer, he went on his way as Michael went his.

  Michael hurried after Tim McAllistair. When he reached the McAllistair house, he found Anne there.

  He'd told her not to go anywhere...

  But what could he say? Cissy was a friend. A good friend. And Anne was obviously fine.

  She was sitting by Cissy's bed, spelling Jeannie McAllistair, who looked something like a ghost herself. The strain of her daughter's illness was already showing on Jeannie's face. She had a multitude of children, but she and Tim adored each and every one of their offspring. A cold chill seemed to touch Michael's heart from the moment he walked into the house. He didn't feel any better when Anne's grave gaze touched his. He sat beside her on the bed, trying to think of something to say to make Cissy smile.

  But Cissy wasn't going to smile. She was lying there as still as death, as white as a sheet, so very young, so innocent, so lovely. He sat beside Anne, taking her hand, and in silence, they both stood vigil over the girl. In another room, Jeannie was quietly sobbing. Her sons and her husband were trying to comfort her.

  "What happened to her?" Michael asked at last.

  "No one knows," Anne murmured. "Jeannie says that she was fine last night—but that she didn't get up this morning. She's been more or less like this all day."

  "Has Doc Phelan seen her?"

  "Yes."

  "What did he say?"

  Anne's beautiful amber eyes touched his. "He said that we should pray."

  Michael nodded. He sat with Anne, taking her hand, and they both watched Cissy.

  Time passed. Anne stretched, and Michael looked at her. She probably hadn't had a thing to eat or drink since he had left her that morning. He whispered to her, "I'll stay with her. You go eat something."

  Anne seemed startled. "Well, a glass of water," she murmured. She still looked uneasy about leaving Cissy.

  "Go!" he commanded her.

  She did. Cissy remained still. He looked out the window. What a strange day! The sky was mottled with clouds. Time seemed to slip by so quickly. There were streaks of crimson on the horizon. Far off, in the distance, he could almost see the darkness of night coming. How strange. But then, maybe he had never looked for the night before.

  Anne returned. Smiling, she sat beside him again, squeezing his hand. "Any change?" she whispered.

  He shook his head. Then he rose and leaned closer to Cissy. "Come back, little one!" he murmured. "Come back." He thought he saw her stir at the sound of his voice. Startled, he sat back down again.

  "Michael, look! Her eyes are flickering!" Anne cried.

  And suddenly Cissy's eyes were open. Startlingly blue against the pallor of her face, they focused fully on Michael. She smiled slowly. "Michael," she said very softly. Then she gazed at Anne, her smile deepening. "See, he's home!"

  Anne leaned over her. "Yes, he's home. And we're both worried sick about you. Your mother is in tears."

  Cissy frowned. "Why?"

  "You've been sick all day."

  "Not sick. Just dreaming."

  "I'll get Jeannie," Michael said quickly. He stood and went down the short hallway to the McAllistairs' bedroom. The door was open. He walked in. He gave Jeannie a hug. "She's talking!"

  "Oh! Oh!" Jeannie cried. She leaped up and kissed Michael on the cheek. "Oh, thank you, Michael!"

  "I didn't do anything," he protested, but Jeannie was gone, and Tim and his young sons, Anthony and Andrew, were grinning at him.

  Michael grinned wryly in return.

  "How about a drink?" Tim asked him. "I could use a shot of whiskey myself."

  "Pa, it's a little early," Anthony, the younger of the boys, reminded him.

  "Nonsense, take a look outside. The afternoon is waning. Hell, it's going to be sunset very soon," Tim said. He stood, clapped Michael on the shoulder, and led him into the small parlor. "Damn strangest thing I've ever seen!" he murmured as he poured the whiskeys. They could hear Cissy chatting away with her mother and Anne in the bedroom. "Last night, she was as right as rain. This morning, when Jeannie started screaming, I rushed in and Cissy was as pale and cold as death, barely breathing. We've been praying all day. And now..." He lifted a glass to Michael. "You walk in and talk to her and she's just fine!"

  "I didn't do anything," Michael protested.

  Even as he spoke, they heard a rapping at the front door. Tim excused himself and went from the parlor to the small entryway to open the door.

  Michael heard a low murmur of voices. The newcomer was a man with a low, deep, well-modulated voice. An intriguing one, with just the touch of an accent. Definitely European, but with an edge...

  There was something strange about listening to the murmur of that voice.

  The hackles began to rise on Michael's neck, just as if he were an old hunting hound. Something was...

  No.

  Yes.

  Evil.

  A touch of it, just a trace of it, something that made Michael increasingly uneasy.

  He swallowed down the whiskey. After all this time, he was finally losing his mind. An Indian had talked to him about an evil white spirit, and he was hearing and seeing and feeling this evil everywhere!

  Tim entered the parlor with the newcomer. Michael assessed him quickly, not needing to be told who he was. David Drago.

  The man was dark, with ebony hair. More jet than the color of any crow or blackbird Michael had ever seen. His brows were the same shade. But then the concept of dark faded, for his skin was a strange shade. It was rather ashen, with a tinge of blue.

  No human had blue skin, Michael quickly assured himself.

  But Drago did.

  His mouth was full and red. His features were handsome, so fine that they were almost too perfect. And his eyes...

  They were gold. Gold, yes, really gold. Different from hazel, different from brown, different from Anne's beautiful soft amber. They were really, truly gold. With just a hint, just an edge of...

  Of something else.

  He was dressed elegantly in black: handsome black frock coat, trousers, boots, and vest. His white shirt was ruffled. His fingers were long, his nails well-manicured. And also very long.

  "Ah, I need no introduction to this man," Drago was exclaiming, offering a hand to Michael. Unwillingly, Michael took that hand. "The very, very famous Indian-hunting war hero, Colonel Michael Johnston!"

  He had never felt such a jolt of unease. The touch of Drago's fingers was like ice. Michael wanted to wrench his hand away instantly.

  Michael was a strong man, but Drago was stronger. His handshake was like a clasp of steel. Michael had the panicked feeling of a man finding himself cast into a pit of rattlers—with no way out.

  He gave himself a mental shake, fighting the strange power that seemed to steal away his ability to speak.

  "Ah, Mr. Drago, I presume. I'm afraid that I hate killing Indians; I much prefer befriending them, and as for my being a war hero—well, sir, my side lost, and so we are not referred to as heroes but as the vanquished!"

  Drago released his hand, his gold eyes gleaming with challenge.

  "It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Colonel Johnston," he said. "I came, of course, because I heard dear Cissy was ailing, but her father tells me she is doing much better."

  "And I'm certain that Cissy will want to see you," Tim McAllistair said.

  "Well, if I am welcome..." Drago
said.

  "Anytime, sir," Tim said. "You are welcome here anytime."

  Drago smiled. Slowly. It gave Michael the shivers.

  "Thank you, Mr. McAllistair. I will take the warmth of that welcome to heart, sir! If I may..."

  Drago bowed to the two of them and started down the hallway to Cissy's room.

  A moment later, Anne, smiling with relief over Cissy's improved condition, walked out of the room. Tim excused himself to return to his daughter, leaving Anne and Michael alone. "I see you've met my new beau," Anne teased him, her amber eyes curiously aglow. A ribbon of anger snaked through him. Anne just wasn't the type of woman to pit one man against another.

  "I don't like him, Anne," Michael told her honestly. Drago did have some kind of a draw, he told himself, and Anne had obviously felt it.

  "Really, Michael," she said coolly. "He's an incredible gentleman. Polite, considerate, concerned—"

  "And I'm none of those?" he asked her. He wanted to shake her. She seemed so very tall, elegant, and beautiful with her dark hair and amber eyes—and the rather superior way she was looking at him right now. Since Drago had walked in!

  Then her lashes fluttered momentarily, and the Anne he knew was smiling at him. Warm. Sweet. "Mr. Johnston, you are all those things, and much, much more. When—and I do mean when!—you're here!"

  He sighed. "Anne... !"

  "Hush!" she murmured. "They're coming from the bedroom. Now, be nice to him, Michael. He's a newcomer in town. You must make him feel welcome. Please."

  He wished he could. And yet, as soon as Drago had walked into the room, Michael had felt the presence of evil.

  It was his imagination. It was all the awful things that had happened in the past few days.

  But the awful things began to happen from the time Drago had come to town.

  And, of course, he was jealous as all hell and he really needed to watch himself. Still...

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. "He's a newcomer in town. I'm not making any accusations. It's just that he did arrive right when things started happening."

  "Things?"

  "Like Smokey!" he whispered.

  "Michael!" Anne gasped, her eyes wide. "What a horrible thing to imply! Why, you've no right, no proof!"