Also By Dani Amore
The Circuit Rider
Beer Money (A Burr Ashland Mystery)
Killing the Rat
The Recruiter
The Killing League (A Wallace Mack Thriller)
Murder with Sarcastic Intent (The 2nd Mary Cooper Mystery)
Death by Sarcasm (The 1st Mary Cooper Mystery)
To Find A Mountain
Dead Wood (A John Rockne Mystery)
Bullet River (The Garbage Collector 2)
The Garbage Collector #1
Four (A Short Story Collection)
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 Dani Amore
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
ISBN-13: 9781477849033
ISBN-10: 1477849033
Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911780
Originally published as a Kindle Serial, July 2013
For Elmore Leonard
Table of Contents
EPIGRAPH
EPISODE ONE
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
EPISODE TWO
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
EPISODE THREE
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
EPISODE FOUR
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
EPISODE FIVE
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
EPISODE SIX
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Eighty-Three
Eighty-Four
Eighty-five
Eighty-Six
Eighty-Seven
Eighty-Eight
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kindle Serials
draw
1: a geographical term used to describe a shallow waterway; a gully.
2: to remove a weapon, as in a pistol.
“Vengeance is just: Justly we rid the earth of human fiends Who carry hell for pattern in their souls.”
—George Eliot
EPISODE ONE
One
No one heard the shot, least of all the man on his knees, his hands bound behind him, tears streaming from underneath the blindfold. The tall prairie grass brushed against his bare chest, stuck to the tendrils of blood streaming down his belly.
The muzzle of the pistol, pressed directly into the flesh of the man’s left temple, singed the skin. Then the bullet crashed through bone, brain matter, and the other side of the man’s head before exiting and landing some twenty yards from the site of the execution.
It was almost as if the wind died to watch the man’s death along with the killer, before gaining strength to help topple him over. He landed on his side, eyes wide open at ground level.
The shooter gazed at the dead man.
The buzzards would soon be overhead, starting their feast before any human being would make the gruesome discovery. The location was strategically chosen, however, so the dead man would be found, and found soon.
The killer had to admit that the level of violence perpetrated upon the dead man had been severe. Great, jagged slices adorned the dead man’s chest and arms. The face was battered and nearly all of the fingers and toes were broken.
The killer felt only mild satisfaction, yet a certain pride wound its way through his veil of consciousness. Not everyone could do something like this. The killing part had been easy but everything that had come before required skills and talents that very few people possessed. In fact, the killer bet that only a handful of people in the country could have pulled off what he had just done.
While the feeling was subtle, a single, coherent, starkly crystallized thought occupied the shooter’s consciousness more than anything else.
The sight of the dead man in the grass created a circular argument that shuddered through the shooter’s mind. Even as the killer looked at the massive amount of pain and torment inflicted upon the dead man, he kept thinking: It wasn’t enough.
Two
“The victim was one of us,” Silas said to Tower. Father Silas was head of the church in San Francisco, and hence, leader of the organization’s entire Western branch. As such, he oversaw the contingent of circuit riders, one of whom was Mike Tower.
Tower set his coffee cup on the table and glanced at the older man. “What happened?”
Next to him, Bird Hitchcock splashed more whiskey into her coffee. She had provided security for Tower on his circuit ride from St. Louis to San Francisco. Along the way, she had kept Tower alive—and helped more than one man stop living.
At the table next to them, an older man in a black suit observed her liberal use of whiskey and shot her a disapproving glare. Bird winked at him, then cursed the man under her breath.
“Someone beat him, tortured him, then shot him in the head,” Silas said. He drummed his fingers on the thin stack of papers before him. He shook his head.
The café area of the Grand Hotel in San Francisco was crowded as the city’s business elite geared up for another day. Thin shafts of light poured down from the atrium’s windows, and the smell of freshly cut flowers filled the air.
“Any idea why?” Tower asked.
“No,” Silas answered. “That is why I would like you to look into it. There are … rumors.”
“Where did it happen?” Bird asked. She drank her coffee. The thick, rich brew was balanced nicely with the burn of good whiskey. Christ, she thought
, she could get used to this.
“Big River, Wyoming,” Silas said.
“Don’t they have a sheriff out there?” Bird asked. “Why aren’t they looking into what happened?”
Silas glanced at Tower. “They do have law out there, but they don’t have an idea who would have wanted to kill a man of the cloth.” The older man spread his hands out on the thick linen tablecloth as if he were seeking some sort of balance. “Some of the suggestions, from what we’ve learned, are less than savory,” he said.
Tower looked over Silas’ shoulder at the entrance to the famed hotel. A couple entered, the woman wearing an expensive-looking dress, probably made of calico, followed by several porters lugging large travel trunks. It was the finest hotel in the state of California, people claimed. An odd place to be talking about a murder.
“What is it they’re saying?” Tower asked. “That the preacher was doing something he shouldn’t have been?”
The old man leaned back in his chair. He tilted his head back and stretched his neck, as if such a simple movement could relieve the stress.
“I don’t know exactly what they’re saying,” he said. “I only hear rumors and theories. There are people there who believe. And they don’t like what’s being said about this man. The church wants to find out the truth as much as they do. And I want you to find out what really happened over there. For me. And for our fallen brother.”
He slid the packet of paper across the table to Tower. “I want you to go to Big River and find out what happened.” He turned to Bird. “And I want you to provide for Mr. Tower’s security, a talent for which you have provided ample evidence.”
Tower glanced at Bird. It had been a long ride from Missouri to California. The trip had been tough, as they had tracked down a man who had taken great pleasure in the torture and killing of women. A man named Toby Raines. Tower knew the journey had taken its toll on Bird. She had experienced the violence Raines was capable of firsthand. Still, he knew that she was the kind of woman who had no fear. As if reading his mind, Bird caught his eye, then glanced at Silas.
“Pay the same?” she asked, swallowing the last of her whiskey-laced coffee.
Tower smiled, knowing that Bird had been well compensated for her security detail. He also wondered if, on some level, she had felt the bond that had been forged between them. Tower knew that he felt it.
Silas nodded in response to her question.
Bird smiled at Tower.
“Then what the hell are we waiting for?”
Three
Bird had ridden by train before, but not like this. She had vague memories of liquor-soaked nights in the freight section. A bottle in one hand and her pistol in the other, watching the stars pass by in a blur that seemed both beautiful and ominous.
But this, this was something else.
By the time Silas had arranged for their travel, he was forced to buy the only tickets left. And those were in the forward car, first class. With an unlimited bar, all drinks were included with the ticket price. Bird was in heaven.
With their horses and gear stowed in the stock car near the rear of the train, they made their way to the luxury car. Bird opened the door and a server wearing a suit, white gloves, and a bow tie, and sporting a thin moustache, seated them at a table. Bird ordered a bottle of whiskey. Tower, a beer.
When their drinks arrived, she tipped the server. Bird figured it was the least she could do. After all, her drink was an entire bottle.
Bird poured herself a tumbler full of Tennessee mash and raised the glass to Tower. He clinked his beer mug with her glass.
“To your health,” he said. The train had started, and Bird saw the slow movement of light across Tower’s face. He almost looked handsome. Almost.
“Here’s to getting to the bottom of things in Big River,” Bird said. She poured herself three thick fingers of whiskey, then took a long pull directly from the bottle. It was good. Smooth, with a fine taste of smoke and lingering memories.
Tower sipped his beer and looked out the window.
Bird tossed off her whiskey and filled her glass again, then watched as Tower opened the packet of papers Silas had given them. He looked so studious she almost laughed.
“What’s it say?” she asked.
Tower took a drink of beer, read a bit more, then answered.
“His name was Bertram Egans. Twenty-three years old.” Tower’s voice was solemn and hushed.
“Young for a preacher,” Bird said.
Tower nodded.
“Looks like he was killed in the middle of nowhere,” Tower said. “No rhyme or reason.”
Bird’s eyes traced the mahogany woodwork that trimmed the first-class car’s ceiling.
“Do you think his being a preacher was the reason?” she asked.
Tower looked up from the papers. “Why is that your first question? When there appears to be no reason, why is that the initial conclusion?”
Bird noted that he had avoided her question, so she avoided his.
She shrugged off her leather overcoat as the whiskey warmed her from the inside.
Tower read some more as Bird watched an older man in the booth across from them alternatively fall asleep, wake up, then fall back asleep, his chin drooping to his chest in a predictable rhythm.
She shook her head, disapproving. First class was for people who could hold their drink.
Bird’s judgment was interrupted when she heard Tower’s breath intake sharply.
“What?” she asked.
Tower leaned back, his gaze fixed on the faux ceiling.
“This preacher,” he said.
“What about him?”
“Says he was probably tortured. Hard to tell though. The buzzards had been at him for awhile.”
Four
Bird slipped the bottle of whiskey from the table into one of the long pockets in her leather overcoat, then left the first-class cabin and stepped off the train onto the good earth of Big River, Wyoming.
The smell of smoke from the train mixed with the scent of cattle, and Bird spotted the stock pens just east of the train depot. The pens were some of the biggest she’d ever seen. Not exactly miles of stockyards, but close, she thought. The cattle business was obviously alive and well in Big River.
Bird caught sight of Tower emerging from the back of the train with their horses behind him. She smiled to herself. Gotta love a man who brings a woman her horse.
“Where do you want to start?” she asked, taking the reins of her Appaloosa from Tower. Bird knew that because she and Tower had gone first class, their horses had gone luxury, too, being fed corn and rich grain. Bird patted her horse’s flank. She already felt thicker and better fed than two days ago.
“The sheriff, I suppose,” Tower said. He was looking off toward the town, a gaze of assertiveness, and, Bird thought, a curiosity about what they might find.
They mounted their horses and walked them down the main street of Big River.
The town was impressive, she had to admit. It sat astride a bend in the Bighorn River, and the land itself was a perfect plain, a smooth slope that ran down to the banks of the river.
As impressive and wide as the river was, what caught the eye of every new arrival was the impressive view of Big River and the mountains that surrounded it. It was as if someone had scraped away any hills or variations in the valley floor to create a perfect site for a town.
And it was called Big River for a reason. The town was booming, and its buildings reflected the river money that was pouring into the community. There was a massive schoolhouse and a solid, square building that had to be the county courthouse, plus wide streets extending far beyond the main thoroughfare. Bird caught a glimpse of some of the stately homes on First Street—probably belonging to prominent merchants or some of the cattle barons who chose to reside in town.
They rode their horses through the center of town, Bird ticking off the saloons as she passed them by with satisfaction in her mind. Choosing the place
to have her first drink in a new town was always her favorite part of arriving. Close second was hitting every other saloon to see if she had chosen well with her first pick.
The sheriff’s office was at the south end of town, a block behind the main street. It was a square, squat building made of stone with a heavy, elaborately carved wooden door.
They tied their horses to the hitching post, then Tower opened the door and went inside. Bird followed.
A man sat behind a heavy wooden desk with a knife in one hand. In the other, he held a piece of wood that to Bird looked like a fish. As he worked the knife’s edge on the center of the carving, Bird noticed a window ledge behind the man holding a neat row of at least a dozen delicately carved wooden fish.
“I’m looking for the sheriff,” Tower said. Bird thought she caught a touch of sarcasm in Tower’s tone, but she figured it was her imagination.