Ice and Blood

by Oliver Altair

  Tiberius pulled the paper out, avoiding touching the gore. It was a torn photograph. He swiped off the blood to reveal a robust young man looking directly into the lens. He rummaged through the pockets of his duster until he felt the jagged edges of another piece of paper. The one he’d found inside Henry Albers’ open chest. He placed both pieces on his palm. They matched like a jigsaw puzzle.

  The men in the photograph shared the same outfit: white shirt, dusty overalls, and heavy boots. They stood against a barren, rocky background. Both of them looked familiar, more so next to each other. But none shared any resemblance to the late reverend lying on the bloody mattress. Tiberius flipped the photograph pieces. The second completed the number scrabbled on the first. It read 1865.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” a gruff voice shouted behind Tiberius’ back.

  Tiberius turned to the man at the door. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in your goddamned room?”

  Ray Wilson stepped inside, trying to peek over his shoulder. “What in God’s name happened here?”

  His bare feet splashed the puddled blood and water on the wooden floor. He jumped back with a grimace. “Ew! What the heck.”

  Tiberius pulled the sheet crumpled at the bottom of the bed on top of the corpse. He guided Ray back to the entrance, pushed him out, and closed the door on his pallid face. “Do yourself a favor and stay on that side.”

  He glanced over the shrouded lump on the bed. Blood already soaked through the white sheet. The stains almost matched the patterned roses of the bedspread rumpled on the floor. His eyes moved to the nightstand, an austere piece of dark wood that contrasted with the extravagant avian design of the bedframe. On top, there was a short oil lamp with a brass base and a narrow glass screen. By the lamp, he saw an ashtray. It almost overflowed with ashes and specks of tobacco.

  A wooden washstand with chiseled garlands stood close to the window. The reverend’s clothes hung in disarray over its basin, which had no water. A closer look revealed traces of dried mud and blood around the bowl, but nothing fresh. The reverend’s shoes sat half-hidden under the washstand’s base as if the object was growing its own pair of feet. A chest of drawers leaned against the wall in the corner. Tiberius opened it. It emanated a strong, musky odor but was empty.

  He went back to the hallway. Ray paced from one wall to the other like a caged dog. “That makes two butchered men in two days, Tiberius. Two. And we’re all trapped in this nightmare of a town till the spring.”

  Tiberius stopped Ray’s frantic trot. “You spent the night with Madame Valentine?”

  “I did.”

  “The whole night?”

  Ray furrowed his brow. “Well, I stepped out for a second. Felt like gutting a minister.”

  Tiberius grasped his shoulders and pushed him hard against the wall. “Save me the quips and answer the question.”

  “Yes, the whole night.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  Ray shook his head. “There was plenty of noise in my own room. And I was, you know, distracted. But maybe…”

  “Go on.”

  “Do you know that moment right before falling asleep? When you’re almost dreaming but not quite? I remember hearing an odd sound then. Like dragging a heavy sack on the floor but smoother. I don’t know.”

  He eyed the corridor up and down. “Oh no. The killer walked by my very door. It could’ve been me. Or Angeline. I mean, Madame Valentine.”

  He pointed at the room next to the reverend’s on the right, eyes wide with alarm. “Oh, Lord… Did you check on Miss Gray?”

  They rushed to her door. Locked.

  Tiberius knocked, louder with each bang. “Miss Gray? It’s Sheriff Tibbetts. Please let me in.”

  No answer.

  Ray waved his hand in front of the crack between the door and its frame. “There’s smoke coming out. Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh L—”

  “Stop clucking and help me out.”

  They rammed the door once, twice, three times, until it swung open with a rumbling crack. A sweet, resinous scent overwhelmed Tiberius as soon as he barged into the bedroom. Miss Gray lay on her bed behind a veil of thin smoke. Her wrinkled face looked waxen but peaceful. Her hair flowed over her pillow like a silver crown. Her chest raised and lowered slowly below the blankets.

  “She seems fine,” Ray said, his intonation between a statement and a question.

  Miss Gray’s bony arm hung over the side of the bed. Her open palm floated above a thin pipe on a frayed yellow rug. Tiberius darted to the room’s only window, fanning the smoke with his hand. He opened it wide. A frosty gust swung the sheer curtains. They tangled and knocked down a glass jar on the windowsill. Its contents dripped onto the floor. The pungent scent of opium grew stronger, overpowering his senses for a second.

  Tiberius joined Ray at the bedside. Miss Gray quivered. She half-opened her eyes.

  “How far are we, driver?” she mumbled.

  Ray glanced at Tiberius, quizzical. “Poor lady’s lost her marbles.”

  Tiberius shook his head. “She’s high as the goddamned North Star.”

  He placed his hand on her shoulder, rocking her gently. “Miss Gray? Time to wake up.”

  She turned her face to him. She palmed his hand. “What gentle eyes. Yet so full of dread.”

  He helped her sit up. Miss Gray pulled down her covers and hunched at the edge of the mattress, trembling as if the weight of her nightgown was too much to bear. She pointed to the woolen shawl folded at the foot of her bed. Ray picked it up and wrapped it around her. She leaned on his arm and smiled, her eyelids drooping again.

  “What now?” Ray asked.

  “Take her to Madame Valentine. She’ll know what to do. And send Jesse my way.”

  Ray nodded. He walked Miss Gray out of her room, one step at a time. Tiberius put his head through the open window. He let the cold wind blow on his face, caress his stubble. It brought him clarity, but not as much as he needed. He exited the bedroom and waited in front of the reverend’s door until Jesse Valentine ran into the hallway.

  “Lock this door, Jesse. Then go get Doc Tucker. No one gets in here but him or me. Understood?”

  “Sure. But the doc might be in rough shape. I had to shoo him away from the bar twice last night. He could hardly walk in a straight line. Or at all.”

  “I don’t care. Kick his door open if you have to. Put snow down his britches to get him movin’. He better be here by the time I get back. Tell him I said that.”

  Tiberius went back to the social area of the saloon. The Silver Moon was busier with the first wave of the breakfast crowd. He disregarded his neighbors’ probing stares as he made his way out. An amalgam of smells seemed to cling to his duster: fresh blood, opiate smoke, and that musky, animalistic odor inside the reverend’s chest of drawers.

  14

  Miss Sheppard sat at the round tea table, silent and stern. She kept her hands intertwined on her lap, her back rigid against the back of her chair. Tiberius chose to stand. He tried to occupy the least amount of space possible in that nook Miss Chipman generously called her parlor. From the bland watercolors on the walls to the musty doilies on the table and faded pillows on the chairs, everything spoke of a bygone era of better days that most likely never took hold.

  Miss Chipman returned to the sitting room carrying a tea set on a tray. She placed it on the table, poured the steaming contents of the china teapot into its matching cup, and offered it to Miss Sheppard with a sympathetic smile. “It’s a blend of chamomile and dry lavender. It’ll calm you down.”

  Her statement sounded pointless. Miss Sheppard appeared perfectly calm. She picked up the cup though, thanking her hostess with a slow cock of the chin.

  Miss Chipman turned her nervous gaze to Tiberius. “Are you sure I can’t offer you a beverage, Sheriff? I have no spirits in the house but maybe some tea?”

  He tipped his hat. “I’m good, ma’am. Thanks.”

  She lingered around the room, undecided if to sit or s
tand, until the smothering silence became too obvious. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  Miss Chipman left. Miss Sheppard placed the steaming cup back on the table.

  “How?” she asked.

  “I’d rather save you the details, miss,” Tiberius replied.

  She crossed herself.

  He peeked behind his back, making sure Miss Chipman was out of sight. “How long have you been traveling with Reverend Conn?”

  “Long.”

  A row of pocket watches decorated the wall behind her. They were all wound up but ticked at slightly different rhythms.

  “So you knew him well.”

  She threw him a killer glance. “Not as well as you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying anything. And you better change your tune unless you want to finish your tea in my office.”

  She held his gaze. “I knew Elmer quite well, yes.”

  “Did he ever get into trouble? Had any enemies?”

  “He was a pious man.”

  “He seemed unconventional for a preacher, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Elmer carried vices from his younger days, but I always felt the light of the Lord shone bright within him. I knew he could do a lot of good. With the right guidance.”

  Miss Sheppard moved the cup from the table to her mouth. She took a sip. She curved down her lips. “One does what one can to follow our Lord’s mission, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I’m not too acquainted with the almighty.”

  She placed the cup back on its plate. “I see.”

  Her reply was not contemptuous, but acrid, dry. Tiberius almost envied her lack of effort to come across as pleasant or even socially palatable.

  Miss Sheppard stood up. “I have to tend to the burial arrangements as soon as possible. I assume you have a Christian cemetery in town.”

  “We do, but it’s hard to reach because of the snowstorms.”

  She frowned. “That’s troubling.”

  “I’m sure Father Darley—”

  “Isn’t he Catholic?” She pronounced the word Catholic with the same spite as one would an insult.

  “Father Darley will be glad to assist you any way he can,” he finished, brushing aside her interruption.

  She smiled without warmth. “I’m sure he will. Where’s Reverend Conn now?”

  “Still at the Silver Moon. Doctor Tucker should be with him.”

  Miss Sheppard pressed the cross around her neck tight against her chest. She shut her eyes. “What a somber place this town turned out to be.”

  Her statement darkened the room as if all the candles of the brass chandelier above their heads had extinguished themselves. Tiberius felt tremendous relief when Miss Sheppard left the parlor, and he heard the main door open then close.

  Tiberius found Miss Chipman not in her kitchen but in the house’s foyer. She sat on a rocking chair by the stairs, pretending to focus on her needlework. She dawdled far enough from the parlor to seem uninterested, yet sufficiently close to catch a good amount of stray words from their conversation.

  “Her devotion is commendable,” she said without him asking. “She’s not as good a conversationalist as my late mother, mind you, but I find her company most gratifying.”

  “Can you vow for her whereabouts last night?”

  She put her needlework on her lap and cocked her head to the side. “We shared a pleasant supper, she read from her bible, then we both retired to our bedrooms.”

  “And you’re certain she stayed in her room until the morning.”

  She resumed her sewing. “Absolutely.”

  Miss Chipman missed a stitch. She sighed and tried again. She missed once more.

  Tiberius lowered his voice. “Is there anything else on your mind? Remember, anything you tell me stays between you and me.”

  She craned her neck left and right as if she feared being watched. “Not last night, but the night before, I thought I heard a rattling noise. I went to check on Miss Sheppard to make sure she was all right.”

  “Was she?”

  “Well… For a moment, I thought the room was empty.”

  “For a moment?”

  “I checked the rest of the house first, in case she’d come downstairs. Everything was quiet. But when I checked the guest bedroom again, there she was, sleeping like an angel. I guess I made a mistake the first time. My sight is not what it used to be. Especially at night.”

  Those words zipped inside Tiberius’ mind like flying bullets. “Would you mind showing me where Miss Sheppard sleeps?”

  “If you consider it necessary.”

  He followed her up the stairs to a cozy bedroom on the second floor. It was less crammed with objects than the rooms downstairs. It had a narrow bed, round rugs on each side, a washstand, mirror, and dresser.

  Tiberius paid no attention to the furniture or decoration. He moved to the window, opened it, and peeked outside. The roof of the porch was less than a foot away. From there, the street wouldn’t be that hard to reach, considering the piled snow would ease the jump. Anyone with nimble limbs and some agility could climb up and down with little effort.

  Miss Chipman tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you think Miss Sheppard is in danger, Sheriff?”

  He kept quiet.

  She closed the window and the flowery drapes. “I always lock the door at night.”

  “Good. You continue to do so. Thank you for your time.”

  He returned to the first floor. The mismatched ticking of Miss Chipman’s clocks followed him to the door. It stayed with him for most of the day, like the heartbeat of the town itself: one beat made of many that drummed close but never together.

  The day passed not like a new day, but like tragic déjà vu. Another service with almost no mourners. Another mangled corpse put to rest inside a cold, empty warehouse, waiting for its burial in the spring.

  Afternoon melted into evening. He joined the search party for Bennett Rowland with no success, but they found traces of a campfire inside a ruined warehouse at the edge of town. Enough to bring a sliver of hope to the boy’s father. And to Tiberius himself.

  At sunset he watched the windows turn from black to orange from the porch of the Silver Moon. He cherished the silence that spread over the streets come dusk. He spun a half-empty mug in his hand. The coffee inside had gone cold long ago. Caffeine stopped its invigorating effect against his thriving exhaustion and his heavy heart. He heard the tapping of Miss Gray’s cane coming closer. She joined him in front of the balustrade, wrapped in a woolen blanket. Her long, silver hair fell loose over her shoulders. She seemed so fragile Tiberius wouldn’t look twice if the evening breeze blew her away like a cloud of snowflakes.

  “I’m not an addict,” she stated after a few minutes of silence.

  “All right.”

  “I use a mix to help me sleep. That’s all. It’s harmless.”

  “I’d be much obliged if you kept your herbal mix to yourself.”

  She faced him and smiled. “You’re so protective of your town.”

  “I’m the sheriff.”

  Miss Gray shook her head. “It’s goes deeper than that. Souls Well is lucky to have you.”

  “You would think.” Tiberius threw the rest of his coffee to the street. “You seem awfully calm after what happened to your fellow travelers. Two in jail and one murdered in his sleep.”

  Her face showed no alarm, nor her voice faltered. “I’m far from shocked, Sheriff. I suspected they weren’t who they claimed to be since they set foot in the stagecoach. They tried too hard to pretend none of them had seen the other before.”

  “Weren’t you afraid? Things can get wild in the West.”

  Miss Gray laughed. Her soft-spoken voice recalled a more youthful countenance. “I’ve encountered all kinds of people in my lifetime. Good, bad, and everything in between. None of my traveling companions struck me as much of a danger. Was I wrong?”

  “Not really. I believe the
y’re just a bunch of petty swindlers. But who’s to say?”

  She adjusted her blanket around her shoulders. “Swindlers, not murderers?”

  Tiberius smirked. “You seem to have a good eye. What do you think?”

  She leaned forward and looked up as if the darkening sky held the answer to his question. “No. They’re not that far gone yet. They’re just survivors. In the West we all are. For better or worse.”

  “True. Still, their kind are beacons for trouble. Any mistake weighs more around these parts, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Very much so.”

  Miss Gray gently tapped his arm. “It’s getting cold. I should get back inside and rest. You should too.”

  “Soon.”

  The echo of the lie stood with him long after she was gone.

  Soon.

  15

  The streets quieted as the moon traced her path over the winter sky. The snowstorm raged. A sharp evening wind howled around the corners. Most lanterns at the side of the road lost their glow. The few flames that survived spattered the ground with flickering patches of warmth. Shadows melted in a shapeless mass of inky blackness. Not even drunkards or night owls would venture the streets of Souls Well.

  Tiberius hid behind a pile of crates buried in snow, surveilling Miss Chipman’s across the street. He shook the snow off his clothes and stretched his tingling muscles. The house’s windows had gone dark hours ago. But he never looked away from the rooftops.

  Waddling steps sounded behind his back. “You got my message. I thought you wouldn’t come,” he said without turning.