Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (13 page)

“Come this way.”

We all turned in unison toward a young black man, dressed in stained trousers and a torn, long-sleeved, linen shirt. “I’ll be
showin’
you your rooms.”

The first thing that occurred to me was this had to be the worst show of political incorrectness I’d ever witnessed. The handsome young fellow appeared to be a servant of some kind.

“I’m Matt. I’ll be
fetchin
’ your bags and things later. Please come along.” He smiled and hurried toward the main entrance of the dude ranch resort. I held back and let the others go first, while watching the last passengers exit the other coach. Two women, dressed in long dresses and bonnets, emerged first. Then came a tall man, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and a bowler hat, followed by a smaller man, dressed similarly to myself. He was pale, and moved with quick, bird-like, movements. Rudy Palmolive.

* * *

Even from the back of the group, I could smell Matt’s sour body odor. If authenticity was what the Morning Hawk people were striving for, they were right on target. He told the Bass family to wait in the expansive entranceway, and gestured for Carmen and me to follow him upstairs.

Everything was made of roughly hewn, light-colored timber logs—walls, stair treads, and banisters—which certainly provided a rustic Western ambiance. At the top of the staircase, Matt made a left turn, ushering us past three closed doors. He stopped at the end of the corridor and opened a far door, motioning for us to go inside.

Carmen smiled and nodded at Matt, and I did the same. Once inside, we found ourselves in a sunny room that overlooked the front drive, and provided a spectacular view toward the mountains.

Matt too moved inside and walked over to another door. Opening it, he said, “Here’s the toilet. You’ve got a tub, shower, and two sinks in there.” He then pointed to a row of closet doors. “You can put your clothes and stuff in there. Supper’s at 4:00, in the main dining hall. No hats in the dining hall. Hats worn at supper upset Mr. Wayne.”

I was only partially listening to Matt. My attention was on two wall-mounted lanterns on either side of the king-sized brass bed. They seemed to be old-fashioned, oil-type lamps. I pointed to one of them. “Oil lamps?”

He looked confused at first, then said, “Oh … yeah … no electricity here. More realistic.”

I nodded appreciatively. That news could definitely pose a problem for me.

I reached into my pocket and brought out a few bills. Matt held up his palms: “Oh no—no one’s allowed to take a gratuity. It’s not allowed here.” He left, closing the door behind him.

Carmen moved over to the bed, sat down, and gave it a few good bounces. “Comfy!” she remarked, and gave me a toothy sideways glance. “Which side of the bed do you want?”

There was a knock at the door and I hurried to open it. Two men that I recognized from the brawl out front were holding our suitcases. One of them had my holstered six-shooter hung over his shoulder.

“I’m Jude. This is Jordan. Matt tell you about supper?”

“Yes,” I said, noticing Jude had a pretty nasty scar running down the left side of his face. Both men were rugged—as genuine-looking as two legend cowboys as I could imagine. They were shorter than average and walked somewhat bowlegged. Jordan, the friendlier-looking of the two, had large white teeth. One, an incisor, was slightly off-color—a false tooth.

“Um … is there any electricity here? You know, to use my electric shaver?”

Jordan shook his head. “No need to shave here, if you don’t want to.”

“Fine. Is there electricity …”

“No, man … this isn’t the Hyatt. Have to get used to it.” He put my suitcase in the closet as Jordan placed Carmen’s on a folding luggage rack in the corner. Jordan handed my holstered gun over. “Let me know if you need me to show you how to use it.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m okay.”

We took turns using the shower. When I emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my waist, Carmen was already dressed in fresh clothes and sitting on the bed. Although I didn’t know her particularly well, I could tell something was up and needling her.

“Funny how we both took nice hot showers yet the place has no electricity. That must be some campfire they have … boiling water somewhere,” I said.

She tilted her head and inspected the toe of one extended boot—but said nothing.

“Okay, what is it? What’s bothering you, Carmen?”

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

“I know that.”

“I’m also not oblivious to your … quirks.”

I had to smile at that. “I have quirks?”

“Did you know that SIFTR dorms have 24/7 surveillance? Cameras that see perfectly fine in the dark?”

I proceeded to pick through my suitcase, keeping my expression neutral. “That sounds a little stalker-ish. Did you enjoy watching me sleep?”

“Knock it off, Chandler. You and I both know you spent a significant amount of time on the floor, your head up against an electrical outlet. And there’s been other weirdness—all dealing with high-voltage, which I’ll not go into now—culminating in your most recent obsession with electricity at this ranch.”

I straightened, holding on to the clothes I’d selected from the suitcase. “Mind if I get dressed before we talk—”

“Whatever. Go,” she said, gesturing toward the bathroom.

I smiled and headed toward the door, all the while probing her mind for what she’d really figured out. What I found was disturbing. She’d had suspicions about me for some time now, ever since the Baden-Baden mission. Apparently, too many aspects were left unexplained in my field report; there were too may coincidences and suspected outright lies. She was right: I did use my mind-reading powers to intrude mentally into others’ thoughts, implanting suggestions favorable to myself numerous times. While getting dressed, I weighed what I should do next: Tell her everything—try to convince her not to share the information with her superiors and SIFTR—or come up with some quick elaborate explanation. Could I manage that? I knew I could make up stories with the best of them, but Carmen was no fool.

I opened the bathroom door, finding her right where I’d left her. She raised her brows.

“I’ll agree to tell you … tell you everything, if you agree to keep it to yourself. Not tell Baltimore or Calloway. No one.”

She looked at me and chewed the inside of her lip, coming to some kind of determination. “Agreed, unless you’re some kind of crazy freak who needs professional help.” She was quite nervous, inclined to the point of calling off the mission.

I sat down next to her on the bed. “We’re going to be late for supper … maybe—”

She cut me off. “Rob!”

“You know I was in a car wreck and nearly died. It put me in the hospital.”

“Yes, I know the whole story. It wasn’t an accident … it was Harland Platt; he staged the whole hit on you.”

“Well, what you don’t know, only Pippa knows, is that I was changed—physiologically—in that wreck. Had something to do with a high-voltage line hanging over my head for so many hours. Um … I came away from all that with the ability to read minds. Not only that—with some I can actually influence their thoughts.”

Carmen continued to study me with a furrowed brow. “You’re full of shit. Why can’t you just answer my question, without making up such a stupid … ridiculous … story?”

I returned her stare with mild amusement. “Fine. You’re going to make me jump through hoops, so here goes: Think of something—it doesn’t matter what.”

I waited then said, “No, I don’t snore.”

The smile on her face evaporated. “Think of something else.”

She wanted to know if I routinely read her mind. “No, not to say I never have, but I don’t make a practice of breaching the minds of people I care about.” That response wasn’t entirely true. Pippa could attest to that.

“That’s amazing! I mean totally, F-ing, amazing!” She scratched her nose, then scratched it again.

I smiled at her.

She looked at her hand. “You didn’t just make me …”

“I did. But here’s the thing: There’s a flip side to all this.”

“You periodically need to be near something with high-voltage, right?”

“That’s right. No less than ten minutes, every twenty-four hours. The higher the voltage, the better.”

“What happens if you … you know, don’t—”

“I call it tapping in. If I don’t tap in within twenty-four hours, I go into withdrawals, which are as bad, or worse, than a heroine addict’s. It isn’t pretty. I also lose my mind-reading abilities.”

She shook her head. “So how long before you need to … do your tapping in?”

“I have about four hours before I’ll start feeling the negative effects. So is my secret safe? Can you keep this to yourself?”

She nodded. “No worries there. You’d be little more than a lab rat for them the rest of your life. That and other things.” She cut herself off. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

I stood, grabbed up my gun and holster, and secured it around my hips. I gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

* * *

We found the great room on the first floor by following the sounds of people talking and laughing and chairs being dragged across hardwood floors. In one corner stood a rock fireplace, large enough for five men to stand upright in. Forty feet above us was a massive timber beam, running the length of the expansive room. Across from the fireplace, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a setting sun, off to the west. Before us, six long plank tables with bench seats on either side were arranged. Husbands and wives, and a scattering of kids, were taking seats. Dressed all in black, John Wayne stood near the fireplace on an old wooden milk crate, waiting for something.

I felt an elbow in my ribs and turned to see Carmen staring off to our right. Rudy Palmolive, his wife, and their two sons were just getting seated midway down one of the long tables. Carmen moved quickly so she could grab seats on the bench opposite them. I followed, sitting down in the seat she patted.

Once down, I began probing Palmolive’s mind. Immediately, I knew he was a man of remarkable intelligence. He was in the process of sizing up everyone around him: assessing and cataloging their characteristics, strengths and weaknesses. He kept an inner running monologue going on, too. Strangely, it was a voice not his own.
Wait!
It was a deep and accented voice, like James Earl Jones—like Darth Vader’s voice.
Really
w
eird.

Carmen was talking to me.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked her.

She smiled, “I said, this is Carolina McCarty.”

I stood and reached across the wide table, taking ahold of the delicate hand of the woman sitting next to Rudy Palmolive. Her dark hair had long, natural-flowing waves. She was petite and had a face that literally took my breath away. She smiled, looking somewhat embarrassed. One peek into her mind told me she thought this dude ranch vacation thing was stupid. She also had no choice in the matter. Like most other things in her life, it made her feel a captive. She was miserable. Her eyes flashed toward her husband. He didn’t like her touching other men or looking at other men.

Carmen said, “I’m Claire and this is Doc … Doc Holliday.”

I was still standing when Palmolive looked up at me, as if seeing me for the first time. He was aware who I was—Troy McAlister, the wealthy entrepreneur. I’d forgotten about my altered appearance.

“Ah … Mr. Holliday, I’m Henry McCarty, better known as Billy the Kid.” He seemed to take pleasure playing that notoriously ruthless gunslinger. His two young sons stopped what they were doing and looked up at their father. Younger versions of the stern-looking man, both were small, had dark beady eyes, and a preponderance of small black moles dotting their faces, just like their dad.

One of the sons pointed an outstretched finger at me. “I know who you are … you’re Wyatt Earp’s friend.” The other boy added, “You were at the O.K. Corral … in Tombstone.”

“Very good! You both seem to know the Old West gunfighters.”

“There’s very little they don’t know about the Old West, Mr. Holliday. May I call you Doc? You can call me Billy.”

This was getting stupider by the minute. “Sure, why not?”

Preparing to sit back down, Billy the Kid’s son said, “Are you as fast as they say you are? Do you think you could beat my dad? Billy the Kid’s fast—he’s the fastest …”

I drew my gun, twirled it twice, just like Baltimore and I’d practiced for almost three days straight, and just as quickly holstered it again. I was impressed with myself for not dropping the thing and making a complete fool of myself. I sat back down next to the proud-looking Mrs. Holliday.

“Wowie!” said the boys simultaneously. They looked up at their father expectantly, but his eyes remained on me, the smile on his face wavering. Reading his thoughts, I inwardly heard the same deep unmistakable voice—
Keep it up, asshole … maybe I’ll shove that gun …

With that, I pulled out of his mind. At least I’d gotten his attention. It was a start. I hadn’t forgotten why we were here … not for a second. He was my connection to finding Pippa—not to mention bringing down the WZZ and, perhaps, the Order too.

“Listen up, everyone. Grub’s on the way … be leaving the kitchen in a minute. We’re having chili with black bean and Angus steak. There’s also Mrs. Wayne’s home-baked cornbread; hot, right outta the oven.” John Wayne looked around the room, hands on hips, trying to embody the Duke’s infamous off-kilter stance.

I glanced in Mrs. Palmolive’s direction and saw her stifle a yawn.

John Wayne continued, “Tomorrow is a big day. Moms, you’ll be taking your young ones down to the stables. Everyone gets a horse to call their own during their stay here. Right after breakfast, we’re forming a posse. Seems there’s been a jailbreak. John Wesley Hardin, notorious gunfighter, is on the run and we need to catch him. I want horses saddled and moms and their kids ready to move out by nine a.m.”

Carmen leaned into me and whispered, “I really hate horses. Maybe I can pass on this whole posse thing?”