Dead Man’s Hand (12 page)

“Mama?” Betty’s voice was sleepy. Her head appeared around the edge of the door as
she rubbed at one wide blue eye with the heel of her hand. “Hello, Mr. Healy.”

“Hello, Betty.” He looked back to Eleanor. “I know it’s got to be hard for you to
be here without a Nest to help keep you safe. I truly have no intention of making
things harder. But I need to know when the Apraxis started behaving like this.”

“Go back to bed, Betty,” said Eleanor, and gave her daughter a gentle nudge back into
the room. “I’ll be in soon.” She closed the door again. Her eyes all but spat fire
as she said, “If you’re lying, I’ll see you hanged for casting aspersions on my character.”

“Ma’am, unless Colorado is a strange state indeed, ‘the Widow Smith isn’t human’ is
less casting aspersions and more a sign of insanity on my part. Still, I’d be grateful
for anything you could tell us. We saw the swarm tonight, and it was…”

“Bigger than you thought it’d be?” Eleanor chuckled mirthlessly. “If I had a penny
for every man who’s ever said that—I’d still be running this boarding house. Where’d
you leave your wife? I don’t want you people asking me questions more than once.”

“She’s in our room,” said Jonathan. He wasn’t going to correct her about Fran not
being his wife. Eleanor had just admitted she wasn’t human; he wasn’t going to make
her cope with the idea of unmarried couples sharing a bed beneath her roof. Besides,
he wasn’t sure how he was going to cope with that either, once the time for sleep
arrived. “Come with me.”

* * *

Fran was cross-legged on the floor when he returned to the room, with Eleanor close
behind him. The mice were clustered in front of her in a semi-circle, apparently in
the middle of a report. They froze when the door opened. When she saw the mice, Eleanor
did the same.

“There are vermin in my home,” she announced, in the calm, overly measured tone of
a woman who was deciding how loudly it would be appropriate to scream.

“They’re with us,” said Fran. “Mice, y’all say hello to Mrs. Smith. This is her place
we’re staying at.”

“HAIL, MRS. SMITH, OWNER OF THE PLACE!” piped the mice obligingly.

Eleanor’s expression transformed from horror into simple disgust. “Oh,” she said.
“They’re
Aeslin
mice.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Jonathan, closing the door behind her as she finally stepped into
the room. “We’re sorry we didn’t mention them when we were checking in, but I’m sure
you can see where the topic would have been difficult to raise.”

“I don’t allow pets anyhow,” said Eleanor. She folded her arms, looking from Jonathan
to Fran. “You wanted to ask me about the wasps. So ask.”

“My question is the same as it was before: when did this behavior begin? Apraxis swarms
shouldn’t be moving this time of year, much less grouping together. There’s no recorded
reason for this behavior.”

“It started about three months ago,” said Eleanor. “There’d always been reports of
large insects in the canyons and the hills, but they mostly didn’t bother you if you
didn’t bother them. We had a few ranchers and prospectors go missing every year or
so.” She didn’t need to say the words “no great loss”; her tone conveyed it for her.
“Then the sightings started getting closer to town, and not long after that, folks
started to disappear.”

“And the more people vanished, the larger the swarms became,” ventured Jonathan.

“You’d think, but it was almost the opposite for a while. It was like they were takin’
people just to keep their numbers up. We kept finding these bits of broken wing in
the street. Something’s been killing them. Or was—it stopped a few weeks back. It
hasn’t been safe to walk out alone since then.”

“Thanks for stopping us from going out,” said Fran. “Or trying, anyway.”

“I can’t stop the suicidal from doing what they will,” said Eleanor. “Anyway, the
swarms started grouping together about then. I suppose it’s their way of defending
themselves.”

“No matter how good a predator is, it would have to be foolish to cross a swarm the
size of the one we saw tonight,” Jonathan agreed. “Did anyone new arrive about the
time the swarms changed their behavior?”

“New people come and go all the time around these parts,” said Eleanor.

“Anyone who stood out?” pressed Jonathan. “Maybe someone who asked questions that
made you uncomfortable, or seemed overly interested in the wasps?”

“You mean like the two of you?” asked Eleanor sweetly.

“How about somebody who didn’t stand out,” said Fran, saving Jonathan from the need
to come up with a response. “Was there anybody who showed up and did their best to
keep a low profile? Maybe tried to stay out of sight?”

“Yes,” said Eleanor. “Wait—no. Wait… I don’t know.” She blinked, looking perplexed.
“Why don’t I know? I know everything that goes on around here. I make it my business
to know. Why don’t I know?”

“Mrs. Smith, take a deep breath and think back to when the wasps began to change their
behavior,” said Jonathan. His voice was suddenly soothing. “What else changed around
then? Anything at all, no matter how small it might seem, could tell us where we need
to start looking.”

“Well, there was a good barley crop. We had the harvest festivals about then, put
out the usual offerings of offal and ground bone meal for the chupacabra and the black
dogs in the hills. Betty started taking music lessons. I had a lodger who ran out
without paying for his last two nights—”

“Wait,” said Fran. “Back up a bit. Why didn’t Betty start music lessons until this
past fall?”

“There was no music teacher,” said Eleanor automatically. Then she paused, blinking.
“But that can’t be right. Miss Heloise has been here for years.”

“Except for the part where she wasn’t here before this past fall,” said Jonathan.
He looked to Fran. “I suppose it’s time we go have a talk about music lessons, and
why someone decided to lock us in the train station.”

The mice cheered.

* * *

“Do dragon ladies have memory troubles?” asked Fran, as she and Jonathan walked down
the main street toward the music teacher’s house.

“Dragon princesses, and no,” said Jonathan. “They’re usually quite canny. They have
to be, if they want to survive without the dragons to protect them.”

“Never had a dragon to protect me,” said Fran. “I find a sufficient number of knives
handles the situation nicely.”

Jonathan smiled. “Yes, Fran, but you’re one of a kind.” He might have said more, had
they not found themselves standing at their destination.

Miss Heloise Tapper’s music studio was tucked into a storefront off the main street.
From the light in the window overhead, she lived and worked in the same place. Jonathan
produced a length of wire from inside his vest and bent over the lock. A moment later,
the latch opened with a click, and he nudged the door open with the toe of his boot.

“I love it when you break the law,” murmured Fran.

“Shh,” Jonathan replied, and stepped inside, moving as quietly as possible. Fran followed.
They automatically fanned out, putting a space of about three feet between their bodies.
Then they stopped, both frowning as they tried to make sense of the empty room around
them.

Finally, Fran asked, “Shouldn’t there be some kind of… I don’t know… music stuff here?”

“You’d think.” Jonathan touched his temple, looking perplexed. “This is very odd…”

“Sweetheart?” Heloise Tapper’s voice was followed by the appearance of Heloise herself
on the stairs. She was wearing a dressing gown, and looked ever-so-slightly rumpled,
like she’d just gotten out of bed. “Did you catch the intruder?”

Jonathan’s hand dropped away from his temple. His pistol was suddenly in his hand,
aimed at a wide-eyed Fran. “Yes, dear,” he replied. He scowled at Fran. “You’d best
be prepared to face constabulary justice, young woman.”

“Oh, swell, she’s a mind-scrambler. You couldn’t have said somethin’ about that?”
Fran’s own guns appeared in her hands, drawn almost too fast to follow. One was aimed
at Jonathan; the other at Heloise, who looked startled, and not a little angry.

“Young woman, you are being
rude
,” she snapped.

“Don’t reckon so, but I’ll take that under advisement,” said Fran. “What in tarnation
are
you
? Some kind of super-wasp? You’re prettier, but I don’t see as you’re any nicer. Now
get the hell out of Johnny’s head, or it’s not going to end well for anybody in this
room. Deep down, he knows that I’m the faster shot, no matter what you’ve done to
him.”

Heloise pressed a hand to her chest. “What makes you think
I’ve
done something?”

“Because he’s holding a gun on me, and that’s not something my Johnny’d do.”

“Ah.” Heloise dropped her hand, eyes narrowing. “Now the question is, why isn’t it
working on you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ’cause I’m too damn stubborn to be mind-scrambled.” Fran cocked
back the hammer of the pistol aimed at Heloise. “Let him go.”

“Make me,” Heloise snapped.

“Suit yourself,” said Fran, and fired. Jonathan pulled his own trigger half a heartbeat
later.

Fran’s bullet flew clean and true, catching Heloise in the breast. It should have
pierced her heart; it should have taken her down in an instant. Instead, the music
teacher screeched wordless fury before turning and running up the stairs. Jonathan’s
aim was a little less clean, perhaps because he didn’t actually want to kill Fran;
his bullet hit her right shoulder, knocking her back a step. She shouted, bringing
both guns to bear on him.

“Johnny, don’t you make me shoot you,” she half-begged. “I don’t want to shoot you.
You know that, don’t you?”

“You shot my wife,” he snarled.

“What is it about this town and you and fake wives?” demanded Fran. “She’s not your
fake wife, I am! You don’t have a wife, you idiot!”

There was a flicker of confusion in Jonathan’s eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about,” he said, shaking it off. “Heloise and I—”

“Johnny,
I love you
.”

Jonathan froze. “What?”

“You think I stuck around your house for the past three years because I was bored?
Any circus in this country’d be glad to have me, and your monster-hunting’s fun, but
it ain’t everything. I stayed for
you
. I love
you
. Don’t you let some cheap Snow White-lookin’ bitch make all that work be for nothing.”

“I…” Jonathan shook his head, like he was trying to get rid of something buzzing in
his ear. “I…”

“Aw, hell.” The buzzing wasn’t just in Jonathan’s ears: Fran could hear it too, and
it was getting closer. “Hate to stop there, but think you can shake off your delusions
long enough to play shooting gallery with me? I think we’re about to have company.”

And the Apraxis burst through the window, cutting off all further conversation.

* * *

It was the sort of battle better described than lived through. Jonathan and Fran wound
up backed against the wall, shooting down as many wasps as they could—Jonathan’s aim
was better, Fran fired faster, and the swarm was packed so tightly that neither had
the advantage—before the bullets ran out. Fran began flinging knives, while Jonathan
looked frantically for an escape route.

There was a single interior door. It might lead to a dead end. It was their only chance.

“This way!” he shouted, and grabbed her hand, hauling her behind him as he ran. For
her part, Fran was glad to go. The wasps were starting to get past her defenses, and
their stingers burned like pokers when they pierced her skin.

The door led into the shop’s small kitchen. Fran slammed it shut, listening to the
dull impacts of Apraxis wasps against the wood. “What the hell is going on in this
town? I do
not
approve!”

“No one does.” Jonathan stepped away from the door. “Fran, help me look for things
to burn.”

“Oh, so I’m Fran again, am I? Not the wife-shooter? Because I was—” Her words were
cut off by his mouth slamming down against hers, kissing her with all the intensity
of a decade of frustrated waiting. After a split-second of shock, she kissed him back,
just as fervently. Then she pulled away, slapped him across the face, and started
rummaging through Miss Tapper’s shelves.

“I suppose I deserved that,” said Jonathan, grinning a little, and followed her.

In a matter of minutes, they had piled every flammable thing they could find in front
of the door, liberally dousing them with lamp oil, kerosene, and cooking fat. “Johnny?”

“Yes?”

“We gonna die?”

“Oh, quite probably. Fran?”

“Yes?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Oh.” Fran blinked, and then smiled at him, radiant as the sun coming out. “Quite
probably. Now light that match, city boy, and let’s have us a bonfire.”

The flames were just starting to consume the door when Jonathan heaved a chair through
the kitchen window. He and Fran tumbled out into the street, landing in a heap amidst
the broken glass and dirt. They heard footsteps.

It was really no surprise when they looked up to see the town sheriff standing there,
gun drawn.

“I suppose we’re under arrest,” said Jonathan wearily.

“You suppose correct,” said the sheriff.

* * *

The town was small enough that there was only one jail cell, which they were allowed
to share after they swore, again, that they were married. Jonathan had managed to
beg a pair of tweezers and some gauze, insisting that it would be easier than waking
the doctor. Fran sat on the bench in front of him, shirt bunched around her shoulders,
wincing as he dug the tiny Apraxis eggs out of her flesh. The gunshot wound in her
shoulder was already wrapped in a thick layer of bandages.

“What’n the hell happened back there?” she asked, as quietly as she could.

“That Tapper woman—whatever she was—she scrambled my head,” Jonathan said. “I remembered
being with her for years. I remembered our
wedding
.”