by S A Falconi
“So what’s our play here?” Kraus muttered.
“What?” Donaghue grumbled, his attention still wandering the details of the investigation.
“Our play,” Kraus repeated. “What’s our approach to questioning Bucke?”
Donaghue shook his head. “I suppose the ploy we used in Georgetown is as good as any.”
“You think anyone will know we’re wanted men?”
“We better hope not. I doubt it all the same. The only way is if someone comes from Denver up here. But even then, most of the men who do come up here aren’t gonna waste their money or time on The Herald.”
Kraus responded after a brief lull, “Except for maybe the millionaire …”
“Yeah,” Donaghue nodded. “Except for him.”
“You think the Bucke’s will know anything about what happened?”
Donaghue shrugged. “It’s possible. The best chance is that they know who the girl is … was rather. We find out who the girl was and what commonality she shares with the other victims, then we’ll be one step closer to catching this guy.”
Kraus sighed and asked, “What if they don’t know her?”
“... God help us,” he grumbled.
The train hugged a sharp bend and the Blackhawk settlement came into view. Blackhawk Station was the first structure to greet travelers. To the ignorant eye, the station was nothing more than a shack that was simply too close to the rail line for comfort. The makeshift platform wasn’t even long enough to accommodate all of the rail cars, an ironic quality considering the train wasn’t more than ten cars in length.
When Kraus and Donaghue stepped out of the train car and down onto the gravel, a new sense of eagerness overcame them. Despite being a small settlement void of the typical characteristics of civilization, the air of Blackhawk teemed with exuberance. Explosions occasionally echoed in the distance and the grunts and clacks of intensive labor vibrated nearby.
Donaghue and Kraus needed first to find lodgings. Although the afternoon was fairly young, the sun was already beginning its descent behind the enveloping peaks. The first two boarding houses they found hadn’t a vacancy. “Haven’t had a vacancy in the last six years,” the owners hacked. “There is a house at the end of Main Street though. Owned by a savage so watch your scalps.”
As Donaghue and Kraus trudged along Main Street, their eyes darted about searching for any suspicious characters. Once as a boy, Kraus’ father took him to see a travelling circus ran by gypsies. Although seeing the animals was quite enthralling, the sideshows were utterly disturbing. Seeing the temporary inhabitants of Blackhawk eerily reminded Kraus of that encounter at the circus. Most of the people were hardly people at all. Some were missing limbs, while others were simply so blackened, so physically heinous that the freaks of the gypsy sideshow would be victorious in a beauty pageant against them. Based solely on physical appearance, half the people they saw could very well be the Ripper.
The Injun’s house seemed to fit its owner ironically. It was the last house on the street, but its closest neighbor was more than a hundred feet away. While every other shack, shanty, and structure of Blackhawk was constructed on top of one another, the Injun’s house was segregated as if the owner’s native affliction would infect the rest of the town. The house itself was hardly a house in the traditional sense. It was more or less a shack with fractured timbers added onto the back in piecemeal fashion. Donaghue and Kraus rented one of the many available rooms from the haggard proprietor and prepared themselves to find the Bucke residence.
Wilmont was correct that the Bucke house was impossible to miss. When Donaghue and Kraus stepped out of the boarding house, the Bucke residence was in clear view atop the mountain in front of them. A narrow yet well-worn pathway snaked its way back and forth up the length of the mountain to the front of the house. The mountain was too steep to traverse directly, so Donaghue and Kraus were left to follow the slithering pathway. Although they reached the house in half an hour, daylight was quickly evaporating.
To say the house was a diamond amongst coal was hyperbolic. Constructed of only the finest Rocky Mountain timbers and granite stones, the home’s prowess reminded Kraus of the fortress in Horace Walpole’s famed The Castle of Otranto. The home extended toward the heavens with two stories, plus a third-story tower wherein the owners likely bedded. The Bucke’s were clearly a family of tradition and panache given the Queen Anne inspiration of the gables and asymmetrical façade of the home. It seemed queer and yet elegant to Kraus to see such architectural tastes molded into a timbered frame. But the home served far more than the needs of shelter; it was a reminder to all who laid eyes upon it that steadfast labor was the only means to achieving great wealth and power. Such sights were what drove men up those neighboring mountains in the first place.
When Kraus and Donaghue finally reached the summit, the unobstructed wind howled across the peaks rather unusually as if the Almighty was whispering to them. Donaghue thumped his knuckles against the heavy wood door and waited anxiously for the unknown. Several seconds passed without a response though. Donaghue rapped his knuckles again while Kraus tried to peer through the nearby window. Finally, footsteps could be heard within, growing in clarity as their source neared the door.
The handle twisted and the door’s hinges creaked slightly as the door slowly opened. Donaghue was expecting to see a prevailing figure answer the door. What he saw was nothing of the sort. It was a slight woman, no taller than five feet and no larger than ninety pounds. She wasn’t particularly attractive, yet her youth and class were both evident in her delicate features and cleansed complexion. She was an anomaly for women of the west.
Dr. Kraus, on the contrary, wore an expression of familiarity as if he saw women such as this on a daily occurrence. He also wore an expression of confused astonishment as if seeing a distant friend in the most unlikely place.
Donaghue greeted, “Mrs. Bucke, I presume?”
“Yes,” the woman replied gently.
Donaghue extended his hand, saying, “My name is Detec …”
“Dr. Kraus?” the woman interrupted, glancing around the stranger as if he were merely a visual nuisance. “Is that you, Dr. Kraus?”
Donaghue’s brow folded with the utmost confusion. He turned and glanced at Kraus who seemed just as dumbfounded as Donaghue.
“That is you, Dr. Kraus,” the woman added rather pleasantly. “My gosh, what on earth are you doing here?”
Donaghue continued to stare at his partner. What in God’s name is going on, Donaghue wondered? Finally, he muttered, “Doc?”
Kraus’ eyes flicked from the woman to Donaghue, back to the woman, and back to Donaghue. He thought surely his senses were deceiving him. Surely the musk of the boarding house or the lack of oxygen on the peak was causing him to hallucinate. That could be the only logical explanation because there was no possible way this woman could be who she looked and sounded like.
“Certainly you haven’t forgotten me, Dr. Kraus. It’s me – Anabeth Archer.”
But Kraus just continued to glance between the woman and Donaghue.
“Doc,” Donaghue added. “Doc!”
“Huh?” Kraus finally uttered, his eyes flickering and his head shaking slightly. “What?”
“Mrs. Bucke seems to think she knows you, Doc.”
“I most certainly do!” the woman blurted. “Remember me, Dr. Kraus?”
Kraus blinked several times again. Neither his eyes nor his ears were fooling him.
Finally, Kraus muttered, “Why yes, of course I remember you, Ms. Archer.”
“Well, my goodness, look at my poor manners,” the woman stated, opening the door in its entirety. “Please come in.”
She stepped aside, granting uninhibited passage to the home. Donaghue continued to stare at Kraus as Kraus hesitantly proceeded forward.
Donaghue began, “We really mustn’t …”
“I insist,” the woman interjected. “I know Dr. Kraus prefers his tea, but what of your c
ompanion? Mr.?”
“Armstrong,” Kraus answered quickly as he stepped into the house. “Detective Armstrong actually.”
“Detective?” the woman uttered with esteem. “There’s no trouble is there, Doctor?”
“None at all,” Kraus replied. “Coming in, Detective?”
Donaghue was now the one looking back and forth foolishly. How in the hell do they know each other, he wondered? Is Kraus somehow involved in all of this? That thought alone instantly wretched Donaghue’s guts. My God, what if he’s been involved this whole time? Donaghue stepped back several steps, his eyes growing with shock as his mind pieced this entirely new puzzle together.
“Detective?” Kraus asked. “Is something wrong?”
I was right the whole time, Donaghue thought. That first time I caught him peeping at the packing house raid, my gut told me he was involved and like a damn fool, I ignored that intuition. What better way for a psychotic murderer to evade the law than to befriend a former lawman! Suddenly, everything made sense.
But two questions still remained: what did the wife of a mining tycoon have to do with it and how did he ever find Molly?
Both questions would be answered in due time, but first …
“Both of you get your hands up!” Donaghue barked, seizing his revolver and aiming it at Kraus’ forehead. “Hands up now, damn it!”
“Hell, Pete,” Kraus uttered, stupefied. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up!” Donaghue growled. “Hands up now!”
The woman’s hands flew towards the sky. Kraus’ were quick to follow.
Kraus stammered frantically, “Pete, what’s going on?”
“I said shut up!” Donaghue took a cautious step forward. “Back into the house – slow.”
Kraus nodded and backed up. “Do as he says, Ms. Archer.”
Tremors began to overcome the woman’s body, but she obediently stepped backward into the house.
“It’s okay, Ms. Archer,” Kraus reassured. “Just breathe.”
Donaghue stepped into the house. Revolver still raised, he demanded, “Why are you calling her that?”
“Pete,” Kraus explained, “Ms. Archer is one of my patients.”
Bewilderment nearly knocked Donaghue to the floor.
“What?” he gasped.
“She’s a patient, Pete,” Kraus uttered, his hands lowering slowly. “Just a patient. Tell him, Ms. Archer.”
“He-he’s right, sir,” she stuttered. “J-j-just a p-p-patient.”
Donaghue’s eyes flicked back and forth between Kraus and the woman. It all sounded completely ridiculous. Never before had Donaghue seen something so circumstantial. Never. It couldn’t possibly be.
Donaghue growled, “Why do you know her as Archer when her surname is in fact Bucke?”
A look of sincere confusion came to Kraus’ face. “Actually,” he remarked, “I was wondering the same damn thing.” Turning to the woman, he asked, “Anabeth?”
“W-w-well, Doc-Doctor,” she stammered, “it’s-it’s my husband.”
“Your husband?” Kraus uttered.
“Y-y-yes. He-he-he …”
“Yes …”
The woman’s lips quivered, but not a sound was produced. Her face flushed the purest hue of crimson and her eyes glinted with fresh moisture.
“Oh God!” she blurted, crumbling to the ground in a torrent of sobs.
“Anabeth!” Kraus gasped as he attempted to catch her before she struck the floor. Although her knees struck the wood floor, Kraus was able to prevent her entire body from crumpling to the ground. “Detective,” he ordered, “fetch me a drink from the liquor cabinet.”
Donaghue still had his revolver poised at Kraus though. Utter confusion contorted his brain now, paralyzing him in the worst way.
“Detective!” Kraus barked, “A drink before she becomes catatonic!”
Donaghue glanced down at the woman, so hysterical her body was convulsing. Intuition took over and Donaghue shoved his revolver back into his holster as he tore off down the hall toward the kitchen. In the far corner was a waist-high cabinet, the top of which was lined with various vessels for wine and spirits. He flung the first cabinet door open and grabbed for any bottle he could find. He produced a half full, corked bottle of bourbon.
Kraus called from down the hallway, “Hurry, Detective!”
Donaghue tore back down the hall and thrust the bottle at Kraus. Kraus bit the cork and freed the bottle of its shackle. The scent of the liquor was pungent, a strong spirit indeed. He pressed the bottle to the woman’s lips and tilted the bottle back. She drank effortlessly for several moments as if sipping water from an alpine stream. Donaghue watched as her convulsions slowed and eventually dissipated, followed by her thunderous sobs.
Kraus pulled the bottle away and handed it back to Donaghue. Kraus sat back on his haunches and pulled the woman up into his lap. Although her hysterics had ceased, she was still panting with exhaustion. Donaghue stared at the scene with complete disbelief. He hadn’t a clue what to think.
Kraus glanced up and saw Donaghue’s baffled expression. “She suffers from a terrible neurosis, Pete,” Kraus answered. “In times of stress, she feels the weight of the world upon her shoulders. The convulsions and hysterics are her defense mechanism against such neurosis.”
Donaghue’s head shook slowly. “The booze?” he questioned.
Kraus shrugged. “The only remedy for such episodes. I’ve yet to discover the cause of her affliction save for loneliness. The liquor merely alleviates the symptoms. Hell, she doesn’t even drink otherwise.”
Donaghue watched the woman again, her bosom rising and falling with less drama as her breaths became shallower. Soon, she was beginning to return to her normal state of being.
“Ms. Archer?” Kraus inquired. “Ms. Archer, are you alright?”
Her head nodded several times as she answered, “Yes, Doctor. Oh thank goodness you were here! You truly are a miracle worker.”
Kraus chuckled lightly. “Think nothing of it, dear. I’m just glad fortune had us in the right place at the right time.”
She lifted herself out of Kraus’ lap and sat on the floor with her legs sprawled out before her. She breathed deeply several more times, eyes closed.
“Ms. Archer,” Kraus continued, “I must know why you used a different name with me.”
“Dr. Kraus,” she answered softly, “if my husband knew I was seeking the assistance of a psychiatrist, he’d be enraged.”
“So much of what you told me during our sessions is true then?”
Her head bobbed enthusiastically. “Yes, Doctor! Every word is true. You must understand, my husband is an incredibly powerful man. If his contemporaries discovered that his wife was insane, it’d ruin him.”
“Ms. Archer,” Kraus responded, “what do I say about referring to yourself as insane?”
“I know it’s dreadfully poisonous, Dr. Kraus, but the truth is the truth.”
“Neurosis has no connection to insanity. A man who slaughters and eats young women is insane. A nice young woman suffering from a mean case of neurosis is merely afflicted. Understood?”
The woman’s head nodded understandingly and she sighed with relief.
Donaghue was still staring dumbly at the whole scene, the bottle of liquor cemented in his grasp. But no urge to kiss the bottle’s lips and taste her sweet poison ever came upon him. All he thirsted for were answers – truths.
“Now do you see, Detective?” Kraus inquired. “Ms. Archer – Mrs. Bucke suffers from an intense emotional neurosis. She’s been seeing me once every two weeks for the better half of six months. Believe it or not, we’ve made incredible progress, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t continue to battle intense episodes.”
Maybe Kraus was telling the truth after all? In his time, Donaghue was the best at determining if someone was truthful or deceitful, and although such a skill atrophied with disuse, his instinct told him that Kraus was in fact telling the truth.
/> “My apologies, Doc,” Donaghue finally muttered. “I guess this Ripper business has got me abnormally skeptical.”
Kraus nodded, adding, “Us both, Detective.”
Kraus assisted Mrs. Bucke off the ground and guided her into the sitting room where several leather chairs flanked a large timber coffee table. After placing her in one of the chairs, Kraus went back to the kitchen where he boiled water for tea. Meanwhile, Donaghue sat in the room with Mrs. Bucke as he stared at the nearly empty liquor bottle on the coffee table.
“Pardon my asking,” Mrs. Bucke began, “but are you an alcoholic?”
Donaghue’s stare broke and he glanced up at the woman. “Excuse me?” he muttered, snubbed.
Embarrassment flushed her cheeks. “My apologies, Detective. Such a rude and personal question for a woman to be asking, no less a stranger.”
“Not at all,” Donaghue replied softly. “Just didn’t realize it was that noticeable.”
“It’s not,” she assured. “It’s just that you stare at that bottle the way I stare at my husband when he’s not looking.”
Donaghue’s brow furrowed. “Ma’am?”
“Contempt,” she breathed, “You stare at that bottle as if your mind alone could make it explode into a million pieces, am I right? It’s destroyed your life in so many ways you’ve probably stopped counting by this point. You despise it for everything it’s done to you, and yet, you can’t help but yearn for it. Your body craves it even though your mind and spirit know it’s the very thing that’ll kill you. Is that about right?”