Gunsmoke Blues

by Balogun Ojetade

  “No, but—” Smokey began.

  Ida raised her hand for silence. “The constables, and even we Dispatches, have to work with the available evidence. We’ve all seen the evidence here, or rather the lack of any. You heard something, I don’t doubt that. But you were mistaken about what you heard. Marcel has gone missing, but perhaps that’s just because he got into trouble at school. Let’s say he ran away because he was afraid of what his parents would do, or because he was ashamed of what he’d done. Most people who are reported missing turn up again within twenty-four hours. Marcel might be sitting at home right now, for all we know.”

  “He’s not,” Smokey said stubbornly. “Because he’s dead.”

  “Then where’s his body?” Ida asked.

  “I dunno. That doesn’t mean he’s not dead. Mr. Howard got rid of the remains, that’s all. Why can’t you believe us?”

  “Because extraordinary claims require firm evidence. And in this case there’s no evidence whatsoever. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks for taking a look anyway,” Anton said.

  Ida sighed. “I’ll take you home,” she said. “Let me know if anything else happens at school.”

  “Ain’t no way I’m going back to school,” Smokey said. “Not with a mad principal on the loose.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In all the years Ida B. Wells had served as a consultant for the Black Dispatches and as an Investigative Journalist, she had never known such a demanding time. The constables and dispatches were under intense pressure both to capture the creature known as the Beast of Back of Town and also to apprehend the serial killer dubbed TheRipper. More brutal murders had taken place, and everyone was scratching their heads trying to find a link between the victims, other than the manner of their death.

  Ida felt personally connected to both cases. She had seen the Beast for herself, the night it attacked John Scobell, and she would have liked nothing better than to track the monster down. Frustratingly, there had been no further sightings of the creature since the night of the attack. Some of her colleagues joked that the whole business had been mere hysteria, but Ida knew otherwise.

  Scobell wasn’t getting any better. She’d visited him again in the hospital a few days previously and had been alarmed to see how weak he’d become. He’d been barely conscious and hadn’t responded to anything she’d said. His eyes had flickered open once, and they’d been unmistakably and chillingly yellow, just like the animal that had bitten him.

  As for the Ripper, she couldn’t stop thinking about the story Anton and Smokey had told her. Mr. Howard ate Marcel. The boys believed it, even though it seemed preposterous. She had checked the missing persons file every morning, hoping for good news, but Marcel had still not shown up. She was sick with worry. If the Principal really was the Ripper, she needed to tell someone urgently. But no corpse had been found, unlike the mutilated corpses that the Ripper had left in full view ready to be discovered. More mangled remains had been discovered in parks and by the side of roads, and in each case, no attempt had been made to hide the body. Even if Ida took Anton and Smokey at their word, the story they told didn’t match the broader pattern. She had made discreet enquiries and discovered that Mr. Howard had been in school at the times the various Ripper victims had been murdered, so that seemed to rule him out as a suspect.

  The constables were still searching for Robert Charles in connection with the murder of Reverend Clark. Apparently the mild-mannered, polite man was their top suspect. Robert, who’d also had yellow eyes, and who had saved those children from being eaten by Mr. Celestin, the Earth Sciences teacher at Audubon High School.

  Connections… they were everywhere, almost physically tangible, but confusing and contradictory. None of them fitted neatly together. She was driving herself mad turning the facts over and over in her mind.

  “You’re very quiet this evening,” her new partner, Dabney Espion, said. A big man with a balding head shaped like a bullet, Dabney was a man of few words. It was strange for him call Ida quiet. Usually he moaned that she talked too much.

  They were riding along the edge of Back of Town, looking out for signs of large animals, or anything out of the ordinary. Unlike the night she and Scobell had encountered the Beast, there was no moon visible, just heavy clouds and light rain. So far they’d seen nothing unusual.

  “Just concentrating on my job,” Ida said, looking out at the dark street.

  “Yeah? Want to talk to me about it?” Dabney scratched at the short, kinky hair that crawled over the sides of his head.

  Ida sighed. Dabney was no fool. He knew she had something on her mind. “Suppose you had a hunch that someone was guilty of a crime, but you had no evidence that any crime had even been committed? In fact, the whole story was totally implausible? And you’d been given the idea in the first place by a couple of children who would never make reliable witnesses in a court of law? What would you do?”

  “Hypothetically, right?”

  “Hypothetically,” Ida agreed.

  “So, despite the lack of evidence, and the total implausibility of the story, and the absence of reliable witnesses, you had a feeling in your gut, right?”

  “Right.”

  Dabney was quick to reply. “I’d tell someone I could trust the reasons for my hunch and see what they thought.”

  “Hmm.” It seemed like sound advice, and Dabney was a man who would tell it to you straight. It would do Ida a lot of good to get it off her chest. And yet she feared what he might say.

  “Well, are you going to tell me about it, or shall we play more guessing games?” Dabney shouted over the thunder of horses’ hooves and the din of the carriage’s wheels for the driver to make a left turn.

  So Ida told him, about the giant rat that had bitten Scobell, about Mr. Celestin biting Robert, about the yellow eyes, and what Anton and Smokey had said about Marcel being eaten. She felt stupid saying it out loud, yet Dabney listened carefully and took his time before he gave his reply.

  Eventually he said, “So, here’s what I think. These two boys were in trouble at school, they were frightened of the Principal, and they’d heard some stories about a serial killer and some half-eaten bodies turning up. They ran off, and then invented a story to cover it.”

  Ida had told herself the same thing enough times, but hearing it from Dabney felt like a betrayal. “But the other boy, Marcel, really has gone missing.”

  “So he ran off too, big deal. I reckon if you want to find Marcel, you just need to bring those other two in for questioning, and they’ll tell you where he’s hiding quick enough.”

  He was probably right, of course. Children like Marcel went missing all the time. Ninety-nine percent of them were found safe. And yet… “What about the yellow eyes?” she asked, bracing herself for Dabney’s response.

  “Ida, if you value your career prospects, you’ll say no more about yellow eyes, not to anyone. You’re starting to sound nuttier than a squirrel turd.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Ida said. “I’m glad I told my story to someone so open and sympathetic.”

  “Well, what I always say is, if you don’t want to be called crazy, don’t act like it.”

  “Don’t you say the nicest things?” Ida said. “I can’t wait until Scobell comes back to work. I never thought I’d miss that grumpy bastard.” She said the words lightly, but they disguised a lump that had appeared in her throat.

  “How is Scobell?” Dabney asked, his voice softer. “Have you been to see him again?”

  “Not for a couple of days. He slipped back into unconsciousness. They’ve moved him back into Intensive Care. They said the infection’s getting worse.”

  “Poor fella,” Dabney said.

  Ida felt her eyes sting with tears. “I’m scared, Dabney. I don’t think he’s going to make it. The nurse I spoke to reckoned he had a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through.”

  “Hey sis, don’t give up hope. Fifty-fifty—I’d bet on that. Scobell’s a tough guy. Isn’t he
always telling us how tough he is?”

  Ida managed a tiny smile at that. “Yeah. He certainly is.”

  “You watch. I bet he’ll be out of that hospital bed and back on his feet in no time. Then you won’t have to put up with me anymore.”

  “Right,” Ida said. “I’ll be glad of that.”

  They rode along in silence for a while. The road was deserted on that cold, damp night. Hardly surprising. No right-minded person would be out on a night like that, especially with news of the Beast and the Ripper splashed across the front page of the Picayune. A light rain fell steadily. The streets were completely dark. If the Beast was out there lurking in the bushes, or running across its muddy grass, they would never spot it. The search seemed hopeless.

  Up ahead, the soft glow of a gas lamp picked out a figure crouching low. “Slow down,” Ida shouted. Something was wrong.

  The driver slowed the carriage to a crawl. As they drew closer, a second figure became visible, lying on the pavement. The first person was crouching over the prone body.

  The carriage stopped about twenty feet from the scene. “God Almighty,” Dabney muttered. “What’s this?”

  They both knew what it was though. “The Ripper,” Ida whispered, almost too afraid to say the word.

  Alerted by the beam of the carriage’s lanterns, the crouching figure looked up. It was a man, stooped low like an animal, squatting down on his legs, holding some dark object in his hands. He raised one hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the lanterns.

  The second figure lay completely still. Another man, Ida guessed, his arms splayed out, his clothing torn to shreds, exposing his upper body to the elements. Where his chest should have been, a dark red cavity stared back at Ida, stripped of its vital organs, blood pooled on the ground around the body. The first man huddled over the corpse like a ghoul, and now Ida recognized the object he held in his bloody hands—a human heart.

  “Oh, shit,” Dabney gasped.

  The man by the roadside hadn’t moved, except to shield his eyes from the lanterns. In fact, he didn’t seem particularly bothered by the arrival of the carriage. He continued to chew his bloody mouthful unhurriedly. Ida waited, her hand gripping the door handle, ready to spring.

  The carriage’s lanterns picked out the man clearly in their twin beams. Ida peered at him through the drizzling rain, struggling for recognition. The man was dressed in navy blue trousers and a navy blue shirt. His feet were bare. His face was youthful but weather-beaten. He looked like a wild man, his kinky-wavy black hair slick with blood and rain and plastered to the side of his face. More blood dribbled down his straggly beard and soaked into his shirt. Yellow eyes shone brightly under the glare of the lanterns.

  Ida breathed a deep sigh of relief. It wasn’t Mr. Howard, the Principal. She had already studied his tintype. This man looks nothing like him, thank God.

  The crouching man shuffled out of the whitish beam of the lanterns, moving sideways on all fours. His features dimmed until he was no more than a silhouette under the gaslight, his eyes still shining in the darkness. He gripped the heart in his teeth, and seemed in no hurry to leave the scene.

  “The bastard looks like he just doesn’t care,” Dabney said. “What should we do? Fire a flare and wait for assistance, or make a move? I don’t want to risk losing him.”

  The man squatted down on the wet pavement again, his eyes fixed on the carriage, chewing hungrily at his gruesome meal.

  “I’m damned if I’m going to sit here and watch him do that,” Ida said. “Let’s take him.”

  “Right,” Dabney agreed, reaching for the Bello Lightning Gun on his belt.

  Ida drew a shiny, slender, copper cylinder, trimmed with brass, out of her boot. “I’ll take his left flank, you go right. On the count of three—”

  They flung open the doors of the carriage, leapt out and rushed the man together.

  He reacted instantly, spitting out the remains of his feast and jumping backward away from the circle of light that ringed the streetlamp.

  Ida rushed forward, raising the cylinder over her shoulder and sliding a button on its base upward with her thumb. A stiff copper wire filament extended from the cylinder to a length of three feet. A moment later, a strange, glowing black “blade,” of light surrounded the filament.

  The heart-eating man darted to Ida’s right, moving quickly toward the darkness of the trees that lined the road.

  “He’s mine!” Dabney yelled, diving into the undergrowth to follow him.

  “I’m right behind you!” Ida shouted.

  She ran as quickly as her short legs would carry her. Dabney sprinted ahead. She stopped for a moment to assess the situation. They were near the southwestern edge of the Tremé, and the man wouldn’t have to run far before he reached North Rampart Street, which bordered it to the south. If she headed down St. Peter Street, there was a chance she could cut him off.

  She set off in the direction of the road, her progress hampered by the slippery mud and the darkness of the night. It was never truly dark anywhere in the city, but away from the roads, and with thick clouds shielding the moon, visibility was very limited.

  She tripped over a branch and went sprawling into the cold wet mud.

  Dammit, she thought.

  She crawled to her knees, feeling freezing water soak into her skirt, and then she pushed herself back to her feet. She could see the lights from the road up ahead.

  When she reached it, she saw no sign of Dabney or the madman. Streetlamps cast an orange glow over the area. In the Tremé, it hardly seemed possible that a man-eating killer was on the loose. She jogged along St. Peter, straining her eyes for signs of movement. Beyond the roadside, she could see nothing but trees and bushes.

  A noise off to her left was her first warning that someone was coming.

  The killer burst out of the darkness, arms and legs pumping furiously. A look of desperate madness filled his eyes and he ran like a man possessed, straight toward her. Dabney followed, struggling to keep pace.

  The man seemed unaware of Ida’s presence. She crouched low and braced herself for impact. The man careered straight into her, heedless of where he was going.

  She grappled his legs, bringing him down in a tackle. His momentum carried him forward, but she held on tight, careful not to let the black-light blade in her hand touch her flesh as she rolled with him across the ground.

  The man let out a wild roar like a beast, snarling and gnashing his white teeth. He lashed out at her with his hand, and Ida felt sharp fingernails rake her arm. The man’s nails were like claws, overgrown and twisted. They dug into her flesh but she clung on doggedly.

  Dabney lumbered into view, Bello Lightning Gun in hand, approaching from the muddy field. “Keep hold of him!” he bellowed.

  Ida tightened her hold on the man’s legs, but a mania gripped him. He thrashed his limbs and rolled over and over like a lunatic, a shrill scream escaping from his lips. He broke free just before Dabney arrived, and leapt to his feet in an instant.

  Ida pushed herself up and saw him sprint across the road. Dabney dashed across, hot on the madman’s heels.

  The man reached the other side of the road and ran up the vertical side of a wall, his bare toes somehow finding purchase in the mortared joints between the bricks. He barely slowed as he climbed the ten-foot wall, and sprang lightly atop it.

  Ida watched, amazed as he sprinted along the top of the wall for some distance before jumping down on the other side and vanishing. She shook her head in disbelief. Carts carrying dozens of constables converged on the scene from all sides, tearing the night apart with sirens and raised lanterns, but it was already too late. They would never catch him. Not if he could move like that.

  Dabney bashed his fist against the bricks in frustration, then re-crossed the road to check on Ida. “You okay?” he grunted, reaching out a hand and pulling her to her feet. “There’s blood on your arm.”

  She looked where he was pointing. Her sleeve had ripped away
at the shoulder where the man had scratched her. Two red stripes marked the flesh beneath. Small droplets of blood welled up through the broken skin. She wiped them away with her palm. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just a scratch.”

  Dabney gave her a grim look. “The bastard just slipped out of our hands. Was that a man or a monster?”

  Ida shrugged. In her experience, the two were often the same.

  They gave their statements to the commanding officer of the constables. There’d be several reports to complete in the morning no doubt, but for now they could do no more.

  On the way home, Ida stopped at the hospital to check on Scobell. She spoke to the nurse Susie King Taylor.

  “Mr. Scobell’s situation has changed,” Susie said.

  “Okay,” Ida said. Her heart was suddenly hammering inside her chest.

  “I’m so sorry. He passed away about an hour ago.”

  “Thank you,” Ida said. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Charity Hospital.

  Susie King Taylor had arrived in New Orleans as a young woman of eighteen, bringing nothing with her except a small suitcase packed with clothes, and a big heart full of dreams. The clothes in her suitcase had consisted mostly of heavy work dresses— suitable for work healing the tattered hands and worn backs of the once enslaved population in Liberty County, Georgia, where she had called home—but they had quickly been replaced with the finer clothes befitting a healer in urbane New Orleans.

  Years of working long hours in New Orleans hospitals hadn’t caused the dreams to fade, for the more misery and suffering Susie encountered, the more she was able to help. She knew that the direction of her life could change in a heartbeat, but despite that, wherever she found herself, she made the world better by helping others.

  But the outbreak of the bite cases had stretched even her patience to a breaking point. The ward was busier than she could ever recall. As soon as a bed was vacated, another patient filled it. Some, like John Scobell, passed away. Others, like Robert Charles, were discharged.