The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday

by David Corbett

  The patrol car had already made its pass along the base of the mountain. This was their window. Rags rose and signaled the others to follow as he headed for the ranch house another quarter mile due east.

  ***

  The plan had always relied on stealth and surprise, with a little dumb luck thrown in.

  First and foremost: Avoid a frontal assault, since the gate, out closer to the road and several hundred yards from the house, was where at least two if not three of the guards hung out most of the time.

  Instead, come up from the rear, pretend to be hunters if anyone notices, play dumb, act nice, then neutralize the in-house guard and the woman, tie them up good and tight so they don’t get free before, voila, the letters. Then hightail out and scramble back over the mountain, using the same overgrowth along the trail for cover.

  The car that patrolled the perimeter did so every two hours like a drone, same exact circuit, same exact speed. Just before dawn, as he’d looked out from on high across the lowlands, he’d watched the monotonous headlights and timed its route, doing so again as they’d snuck down the trail, lying still in the brush when the driver had any chance of spotting them.

  Forty-two minutes on the dot to make its rounds, and it’d cross their entrance and exit route just once in those two hours, making it relatively easy not to get spotted if all went well.

  As plans went, it was not particularly spectacular. It relied on timing, sure, and a certain level of skill, speed, and daring, but it also assumed the guards were victims of their routine—days and days of empty habit, seeing what they’ve always seen instead of paying attention, failing to notice what’s actually happening in front of them. Easy to get the slip on men like that, which was why you constantly goaded men in combat to keep alert, stay frosty.

  If the whole thing went sideways, well, they’d hijack one of the vehicles on the property, take off on one of the dirt roads snaking along the base of the mountain, head for the Middle Pass, and hope for the best.

  If anybody gave chase, so be it. Wander would be manning the wheel, and he wasn’t one to let anybody catch up, especially with the other three laying down cover fire.

  ***

  A line of Indian laurel trees grown in columns provided a visual barrier along the edge of the back garden. Peering through the thick hedge, Rags spotted a manicured landscape of chaparral sage, plus a variety of fragrant wildflowers: cowparsnip, beeblossom, catclaw. The house sat quiet beyond. Easing his way toward the side yard, he was gesturing for the others to follow when his cell phone thrummed in his pocket.

  Digging it out—the caller ID read: Rayella. Rags answered, a whisper. “Not a good time.”

  “Don’t be mad,” Rayella said, the words etched with static. “But I’m not far away. Right outside the ranch, in fact, near the front gate.”

  A pause, as though she were waiting for Rags to say something. Words failed him.

  “Tuck’s here with me. We wanted to be here when you came down off—”

  “And why is that?” What’s so hard, Rags thought, about sticking to the plan?

  “I’ve got a right to be here.” Sounding like a teenager. Making a point. “And it just felt wrong leaving it all to you. It’s not fair.”

  By now the others had gathered around, crouching behind the laurel hedge to remain unseen.

  Rags could feel his carotid artery throbbing in his neck.

  He said, “Not sure I understand what fair’s got to do with it.”

  “Here. Tuck wants to say something.”

  Like that’ll make a goddamn difference, Rags thought.

  “Hey. This is Tuck. Listen, I realize you probably think we crossed a line, showing up out of the blue.”

  Welcome to the realm of understatement, Rags thought. “Yeah?”

  “But seems to me the weak link has always been the gate up front. No guarantee they won’t get tipped off somehow—the guy inside the house, if you don’t get the jump on him. Mrs. Littmann. And if they get word—”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

  “Okay, fine. But hear me out. We coordinate it right, I think there’s a workaround that’ll solve the problem.”

  ***

  Meredith heard a voice calling to her from the end of the hallway outside her room—Seth, her private guard with the hopeless crush. Tightening the belt of her robe, she peeked out, still somewhat shocked to see the walls bare except for French cleats and picture hooks, the floor littered with wreckage—the mutilated canvases, the splintered frames.

  “Yes, Seth. Is something the matter?”

  He made a face that seemed to say, How can you ask that? “You want me to clean all this up, m’am?”

  “Not at all. I believe Judge Littmann—this is his handiwork, in case you were unclear on that point—prefers it be kept just the way it is. Incidentally, is there coffee made?”

  His expression seemed to compress, as though she’d spoken in some unknown language. “Not recent, m’am. I can make fresh.”

  “Don’t bother, it’s fine. I’ll come on out make some for both of us.”

  She hiked up the pant legs on her pajamas and began making way along the wall, aiming each step for a bare spot on the floor. Here and there, a portion of one savaged painting or another, peeking through the torn canvas, met her glance, and for just a moment that glimpse of familiar form and color broke her heart.

  ***

  As Tuck and Rayella approached the Bristlecone’s gatehouse, gravel rumbled beneath the tires and pinged against the undercarriage. A churning cloud of coarse white dust ballooned in the car’s wake.

  Tuck said, “I know you’re scared. Try turning scared into angry, okay? Remember what these assholes did to you. Time to get even. Better than even.”

  Rayella said, “I don’t need a pep talk, Pops. Okay?”

  It wasn’t entirely true. She glanced down at the heavily creased map sprawled across her thighs and knees. The .38 snub nose lay underneath, nestled against her thigh

  She said, “This is the same damn trick Rags and Chalky pulled on Giordano outside the sandwich shop. More or less.”

  “If it ain’t broke,” Tuck replied. “Okay, here we go.”

  One of the guards, wearing jeans and a western shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no uniform, exited the gatehouse, palm raised. He had a shortstop’s trim build, short-cropped beard, shades perched in his hair, smeary tats on each forearm. Easy gait, cautious eyes, a holstered pistol at his hip.

  Tuck turned hard left and pulled to a stop so the guard stood on the passenger side. Rayella lowered her window then returned her hand beneath the map.

  The trim, bearded guard leaned down. “Can I help you folks?”

  That was Tuck’s cue. He opened his door, got out as though in pain. “Damn leg cramp,” he said sheepishly and made as though walking it off, up toward the front of the car, then across.

  The guard’s gaze followed him, but then came back to Rayella when she said, “I think we took a wrong turn somewhere.” She flashed a girly smile and lifted the map with her left hand as though to help him see, while her right hand secured its grip on her pistol. “Could you point out where we are?”

  Tuck, exaggerating his limp like he had a burr in his boot, made way toward the gatehouse. The guard sitting there hadn’t even bothered as yet to glance up at what was happening, seemingly preoccupied, some handheld gizmo, likely his phone.

  The first guard leaned in at her window for a better look. Rayella grabbed his shirt with her left hand, pulled him down as the pistol came up from beneath the map, and she jammed the barrel hard into his throat.

  “Don’t move or say a fucking word or I’ll blow your neck to shit. Show me your goddamn hands. Now!”

  Tuck reached the gatehouse door and collected the .45 from beneath the shirttail at the small of his back. He offered a beaming smile to the second guard, this one hefty and baby-faced. “That one of the new Androids?”

  “No, no,
it’s an old—”

  Tuck rushed him, slammed his soft face down onto the desktop. “Drop the damn phone, Chuckles, hands where I can see ’em.” He grabbed the man by the scruff, yanked him hard like a stubborn cow, lifting him with his gushing nosebleed out of the chair.

  “Outside. Now. Move!”

  ***

  Seth’s cell phone rang as Mrs. Littmann, across the kitchen at the counter, poured coffee carefully into their mugs, leaning close the better to see. As she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the thought of her dressed only in pajamas under her robe created an uneasy inner heat. He’d already caught himself staring at her bare ankles more than once.

  His phone began vibrating, a welcome distraction. Caller ID read simply: Billingham. “Ray. What’s up?”

  The man—ex-military, two tours in Iraq—walked point for the judge’s bushrangers, and worked security here at the Bristlecone weekends.

  “Yo, Seth. Yeah. Hey. Listen. Got a problem I was hoping you could rectify.”

  Meredith delivered his mug, now filled and steaming, then sat down across the island from him, hiking herself onto a stool. Glancing down blearily at an open magazine, she stirred her coffee with one hand while the other drifted up into her hair, mindlessly twirling a strand.

  Seth wondered what it was with older women. Even the simplest things screamed sex.

  Returning his attention to Billingham, he said, “Yeah. Sure. Shoot.”

  “My sister-in-law’s getting married this Saturday and Maribeth is just hammering at me, ‘You can’t skip this, numbnuts, this is family,’ on and on. Anyway, cut to the chase—I was wondering if we could trade shifts, like, maybe—”

  The doorbell rang—a thundering carillon three-chime bong. Seth couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard it. This wasn’t the kind of place to attract visitors, let alone welcome them.

  In unison, he and Meredith traded puzzled expressions.

  “Ray? Gimme a minute, okay? Somebody just showed up at the door.”

  Seth slipped off his stool, eased toward the entry, Meredith trailing behind. He gestured for her to stay back, but she ignored him, her robe fluttering open slightly as she walked.

  First, he checked the panes of rippled, frosted glass to either side of the door. Two men, one tall, one not, nothing distinguishable beyond that given the distortion.

  Through the peephole, he saw they both wore cammies, the tall one black-haired and pale, the shorter one a freckled, bucktooth redhead. Another distortion, the fisheye curvature of the lens, prevented any further verdict.

  The tall one pushed the doorbell button again. That strange, loud, demanding toll.

  Seth lifted his phone. “Ray? Call you back.” He thumbed off and considered the shotgun in the closet to the right. At Meredith’s specific request, he no longer carried a sidearm.

  She eased forward, gently nudging Seth aside, placing her better eye to the peephole. “They look like hunters.”

  “Can’t jump to conclusions, m’am.”

  “Shall we open the door like civilized people and find out?”

  Nothing like this had ever come up. What you are, he thought, what you’ve always been, is a babysitter.

  “I need to get you into the panic room, m’am.”

  She cocked her head. “My God. We have a panic room?” A feathery laugh. “Let me guess, it’s in Gideon’s half of the house.”

  “They’re likely armed, m’am. Please.”

  He grabbed her hand, clutched it tight, and began to drag her away from the door.

  She broke free. “I won’t be stowed away like a crazy aunt.”

  “M’am, please, I—”

  She turned and headed straight for the door, opening it before he could stop her. He turned to the closet, opened it fast, grabbed the pump gun from its vertical rack and, discreetly as possible, racked a shell into the chamber.

  ***

  Meredith said, “May I help you gentlemen?”

  The tall one had powder-white skin and devastating eyes of a glacial blue. The shorter one resembled a ventriloquist’s dummy, one who spent a lot of time at the gym.

  Blue Eyes spoke, offering an embarrassed smile. “Sorry to be a bother, ma’am. We were hoping to tag some bobcats or ki-yotes up in the hills, but our car broke down about a mile east of here, along the range bottom. Can’t get a cell signal on either of our phones—we were wondering if we might use your landline?”

  Seth appeared at her side. It wasn’t until she caught the change in expression of the two visitors that she turned and noticed the shotgun. Seth held it barrel-down, along his leg, as though trying to pretend it wasn’t really there, his expression vivid with fright.

  He said, “Back away from the door. Both of you. Now!”

  Neither of the strangers moved. Blues Eyes, calm as can be, said, “There a problem?”

  In the distance, a lone car—unaccompanied by the security detail, which seemed odd—rumbled down the curving gravel lane from the front gate, spewing dust as it passed between the cottonwoods and sycamores.

  “I’m not playing games.” Seth edged forward, lifting the shotgun, gripping it in both hands now.

  “Whoa there, partner.” Blue Eyes raised a cautioning hand. “No need for that. We’re not here to stir up trouble.”

  “Then back the fuck up!”

  “What’s your name, brother?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Finally, the smaller one spoke, barking out his words. “Let’s call him Hoo the Hell-nose. Hangdog Tidyboots. Chairman Meow.”

  If he was hoping to get under Seth’s skin, it worked. Edging out farther from the door, Seth tried to back the strangers away, shotgun now tucked against his shoulder.

  What happened next occurred so quickly Meredith felt an almost dreamish disbelief.

  Two men appeared, one from each side—on the left a tall boy-scout type with a terribly burned face, on the right a mountainous Negro—both pointing rifles of ominous appearance.

  The Big Black Mountain pressed the barrel of his gun to Seth’s head, while the other reached for Seth’s weapon and gently lowered the barrel.

  Little Barker said, “Don’t make the big man angry, Hangdog. He’ll pull that trigger in a heartbeat, just so he can brag to his sister about it.”

  The one with the burned face spoke next—softly, calmly. “We’re not here to hurt anybody. Just came to collect something that belongs to a friend. Then we’ll go.”

  The letters, Meredith thought. Of course.

  After a few encouraging but gentle tugs on the shotgun barrel by Mr. Burn, plus an almost inaudible exhalation from the black man, as though he was readying to shoot, Seth relinquished the weapon. At almost the same moment, the strange car pulled up to the porch skirt in a breezy swirl of dust.

  A sudden, clearly coordinated flurry of action: Two figures emerged from the car’s front seat, one on either side, both bearing pistols. The passenger seemed to be a smallish, tan-skinned woman with wild hair, the driver an older man, vaguely familiar, not so much from appearance, which remained hazy, but a nagging intuition.

  They opened the back doors of the car, and the two guards from the gatehouse emerged, hands atop their heads. They were led to the porch steps and forced to lie face-down. Seth joined them shortly, marched down the steps at gunpoint by the black man and the little loudmouth.

  Mr. Burn glanced at his watch then told Blue Eyes, “Ten minutes till the patrol car returns to the gatehouse. That’s the fourth guard. Better get to it.”

  Without a word, Blue Eyes hustled down the steps, rifle in hand. As he did, he passed the driver of the car, who favored one leg as he ascended the steps. It seemed to take a very long while before he made it all the way to the top. Once he did, he crossed the porch and, in a voice from behind the last locked door of her memory, said gently, “Hello, Meredith.”

  CHAPTER 36

  March 10, 1879

  My Dearest Mattie:

  A very long while
has passed since either of us has written. Your last letter, so deservedly harsh in its tone, created within me a paralyzing reluctance. Perhaps you were serious, I thought, and no longer wished to communicate, no longer wished even to know of my existence. I would not blame you if that were the case.

  However, as time has passed, I have found the silence between us increasingly unbearable, to the point I have come to feel like a man who gradually discovers that his shadow has mysteriously vanished.

  I apologize for not being entirely honest and open with you about Kate. My intentions were not in any way mendacious, nor did I mean to play you for a fool. Never, ever has such a thought entered my mind.

  Rather, I simply wished to spare you needless distress. It has been my experience that those who conduct themselves all according-to-Hoyle in matters of personal candor, confessing to things that can only bring pain to their listener, all too often simply mean to veil their spite in rectitude.

  I am not like that. And you deserve better treatment than to be subjected to such hypocrisy. As for your reference to Kate as my “wife,” let me dispel that illusion at once.

  We are not, nor have we ever been, married. Rumors to the contrary are largely her doing, and the presumptuousness of that has driven a wedge between us, a wedge that has only widened over time.

  As regards her occupation, Kate by and large gave up the role of “nymph du pave,” as you so delicately put it, in 1877, when she and I became reacquainted in Texas.

  I say “reacquainted” because we first met during the winter and spring of 1872, when I joined one of my dental college classmates in St. Louis, hoping to gain some experience in his practice. A theater lay not far from his office, where Kate worked as a dancer. I learned she came from a colony of Hungarian immigrants in Davenport, Iowa, but left home after her parents’ death, finding work where she could.