Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (18 page)

Billy threw back what was left in his glass and headed in my direction. As I noticed the patrons giving him a wide berth, it occurred to me that Billy the Kid might be highly experienced using the Colt he wore high up on his hip.

“You’ve got a new prisoner in the jail, Sheriff. Best you hear his side of the story before coming to any decision.”

Decision?
I followed Billy outside and quickly caught up to him. I was in his mind—observing his thoughts and the images playing there. He was a man who saw things either one way or another: Polarized—go or no go, advantageous or detrimental, kill or be killed. And there were strong emotions there, almost child-like, filled with resentment and suspicion—sometimes both. As Butch Cassidy now made his way across the street, carrying two armfuls of purchases from the Guns and Ammo store, I thought,
they are going to eat him alive here.

Billy the Kid slowed and watched Butch too. His mind turned dark. He looked forward to shooting the man—actually relishing the thought of it.

“Here we go … the jailhouse.”

It was a nondescript, single-story clapboard structure, painted white. In small letters above the door hung a board with the single, hand-lettered word: JAIL.

Upon entering the jail, I knew that things in here were just as authentic as everything else I’d experienced, everywhere in town. It was the pungent smell that took ahold of my senses first—shit and piss and bad body odor. Two iron-barred jail cells took up the back half of the room, while two old wooden desks were positioned close to the door, where we now stood. And that was about it for the jailhouse. My eyes were drawn to the wood-planked floor, heavily stained with dark patches of God only knew what—probably blood.

Something moved within one of the cells. A man, wearing a neatly trimmed beard, sat up on a cot and looked back at me. He coughed and sniffled and slowly rose to his feet. I wondered if he was another performing actor or a true prisoner. He wasn’t much older than me and seemed physically fit. I answered my own question by peering into his mind. He definitely was for real. He did not want to be there.

“Help me. Please … help me. I’m not supposed to be here. This is all a big mistake.”

His voice was scratchy and full of desperation. He looked as if he’d been working in a coal mine: Black soot covered his clothes, and his face and hands were black-streaked.

“This is Mr. Ringo,” Billy said.

“As in Johnny Ringo?”

“The very same.”

Even I knew of this outlaw, one of the Cochise County Cowboys in old frontier Tombstone. He was also a reputed enemy of Doc Holliday … Although history writes that Ringo, exhausted from a relentless posse chase for the maiming of Virgil Earp and killing of Morgan Earp, he had committed suicide—but many believe it was, in fact, Doc Holliday that put that final bullet into the side of the gunslinger’s head.

“What’s he accused of?”

“Starting a fire.”

“I had my reasons!” the man behind the bars said indignantly.

Billy drew his pistol and approached the bars. “Shut the hell up or we’ll forgo using the rope. It’s up to you, Ringo.”

The man stared back at Billy the Kid, then me, in utter astonishment. What I found interesting was that he actually had set fire to the barn in an attempt to escape a gunfight. Two horses died in the process. I had somewhat less sympathy for him. That was three dead horses just that day.
Kill each other … but leave the damn horses alone.

Billy the Kid said, “Probably hangs tomorrow … just waiting for the county constable to arrive.”

“And who is that?”

“You may have met her. She goes by the name Calamity Jane. The two of you will determine his fate. But I warn you, going soft on horse killers won’t make you popular in these parts.”

I nodded and took a seat on the corner of the nearest desk.
Of course …
Calamity Jane.
C
ould this day get any more bizarre?

Having tapped in this morning, I had until later tonight, or the following morning, at the latest, before I’d need to tap in again. I looked around the jail, hoping to see some indication of an electrical power source connection—such as a wall outlet. No such luck. This could present a real problem for me. I thought about returning to the lodge, but that was miles back and there was the not-so-insignificant danger from patrolling, highly proficient men, armed with automatic weapons. I had no idea what I was going to do.

Before leaving the jailhouse, Billy the Kid handed me several keys. The first was a large, flat-looking key with the words Tombstone Steel Works engraved on its end. “This is the skeleton key to both cells. Try not to lose it.” He fished through his pockets and brought forth a smaller key, the number 27 engraved on it. “This key is for your hotel room, located above the saloon. You’ll find your suitcase there—transferred over from the lodge.”

Billy stepped toward the doorway, hesitated, turning back toward Johnny Ringo, and sniffed the air. “I’d say there’s a full bucket that needs dumping … there’s an outhouse out back.” He hesitated again. “In a perfect world, Doc, you’d be the peacekeeper around here; or, at the very least, an arbitrator for peace. But not today—now you’re the champion of swift justice. This isn’t Mayberry and you aren’t fucking Andy Griffith. If you want to live out the week … hell, the day, be ready to draw first and aim to kill.”

I watched him leave, still seated on the corner of the desk.

“One thing he was right about,” Ringo said, standing behind the cell’s bars, “this bucket’s heaped to the brim.”

* * *

I don’t know what they’d been feeding Ringo, or if he simply had digestive problems, but the whole bucket-emptying task went far beyond anything I was prepared for. As far as I was concerned or cared, Ringo could shit on the floor from here on in. That messy ordeal was a one-time-only assist.

Returning from the outhouse, I held the bucket at arm’s length. I ordered Ringo to move to the back of his cell, place his hands behind his head, his fingers intertwined—like he’d done several minutes earlier. I unlocked and swung open the heavy, iron-barred door and tossed in the bucket, then closed and relocked the door.

Ringo brought his arms down. “You know this is bullshit. It’s crazy. Palmolive is crazy.”

“Who are you really?” I asked. He seemed reluctant to answer, instead rubbing the stubble on his neck.

“Look, it makes no difference to me. If you don’t want to tell me—”

“I’m Bobby Roper … a government lobbyist.”

I continued to stare at him. I already knew about his connection to Washington, picking up on it the first time I entered his cell. He was borderline corrupt. Perhaps they all were—but in his case, it bothered him. He allowed himself to become tempted by the large sums of money at play, thus becoming a pawn of the Order and Palmolive. He’d come here wanting to move up the ladder.

“So what happened?”

He shrugged. “What he said was partially true. I did try to escape, out through the back of the barn at the OK Corral. I’d earlier told Palmolive … Billy the Kid … I no longer wanted to be part of the Order. That I’d face the music back home; even go to prison, if that’s what it took. Within an hour, I was called out—told that Jude was waiting for me in the middle of the street. I’d already witnessed what that lunatic could do with his six-shooter. He must spend hours a day practicing. He’s ridiculously fast and obviously enjoys killing. I don’t know who they were, but he’s killed several others already … out there on the street.”

“How’d you end up in the barn?”

“I came out of the saloon and saw Jude. I panicked and hopped on the closest horse, then rode off in the opposite direction. But three men, holding automatic weapons, were waiting at the end of the street. I turned into the barn and … shit … I panicked. Honest, I didn’t mean to kill those horses.”

I continued to study him. “I can’t make you any promises, I have my own problems. But if I can, I’ll help get you out of here. But when the time comes, I’ll expect you to have my back. Run off in the opposite direction, I’ll have no problem shooting you myself.”

“Fair enough.”

“One more thing. This town … is there any electricity here?”

“Huh?”

“Did they run any electric power lines into this town?”

“No … it’s fucking 1881 here. It’s oil lamps and potbelly stoves. Just look around.”

The door flew open and a woman, carrying a tray with covered platters, bustled in. “Oh … you must be the new sheriff!”

She was one of the saloon girls. Her ample breasts were on the verge of springing free of her snug-fitting bodice. Heavily made up, with rouged cheeks, ample amounts of mascara, and bright red lipstick, her face looked almost mask-like to me. I’d first thought she was wearing a wig—with piled-high, unnatural-looking red-dyed curls, but it was her own hair. Her heavy dousing of perfume immediately impacted all my senses.

“I have your lunch too.” She set the tray down on the other desk and began uncovering the platters. “You can hand over the prisoner in there his meal. I don’t go anywhere near the prisoners.” I noticed her black net stockings were torn on one of her upper thighs. Just then, she glanced over her shoulder at me—she thought I was looking at her derriere. She smiled, still playing the part of the raunchy saloon girl, but somehow her flirtatious act didn’t reach her eyes. She looked tired and … something else, too.

I let out a long breath and said, “Listen, you don’t have to waste your energies on me.”

Apparently, that touched a nerve. She stopped futzing with the food platters and moved in closer to me. Up close, I could almost see the real her, beneath the cosmetic mask she wore. She was actually younger than I’d first thought—maybe twenty-five. And beneath all the clown-face makeup, she was actually pretty.

She moved in, using her hips to spread my knees apart—undoubtedly, a well-practiced maneuver, done hundreds of times before. One hand moved to my upper thigh, the other brought up to stroke my face. I caught her wrist, forcing her own palm back in toward her; a simple Aikido hold that caused instant pain and allowed for me to direct her body away.

“Hey, let go … that hurts!”

Releasing her hand, she immediately swung her other hand in an attempt to slap my face. I caught that hand too, and held it firmly. I kept my voice low, but left no doubt to its sincerity. “Touch me again and I’ll snap your wrist like a twig. I’m not one of your patrons, so drop the whole saloon whore act.”

She pulled her arm away and I saw the pain in her eyes that went far beyond what she’d felt in her wrist. She rubbed at it with her other hand and silently fumed—her eyes boring into me.

“Let me guess, you were sent here to deliver more than our meals.”

She pursed her red lips and shook her head. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me, so why don’t you keep your big mouth shut.”

But I knew her better than she thought. She was a prisoner here, just like everyone else. Her case was even worse than the black-grimed figure standing behind bars. She had a little boy and the Order threatened to hurt him—maim him. The more I probed her thoughts, the more I uncovered: Her husband’s heavy gambling had gotten her embroiled in this mess. He was long dead, but she was still paying off his outstanding debt. Although she’d managed to stave-off harm to her son, she’d been forced to do things—many awful things—she’d never envisioned herself capable of. She existed in a never-ending, living, hell.

I said, “I can help you. I know what they have hanging over you.” I expected relief, perhaps even gratitude. Instead, fear and tears filled her eyes. Her eyes flashed to something above me—something up and off to the right. She gently leaned forward, whispering so quietly I could barely hear her words.

“They’re watching. Oh God … please don’t push me away … my son.”

I didn’t resist as her arms came around my neck and I felt the warmth of her body, her breasts, moving against me. Her lips touched my ear. “Cameras are all over. There’s one where the wall meets the ceiling, right above you.”

A part of me was irritated, but another part of me wasn’t surprised, even in the least. But the
smartest
part of me was thrilled. Where there were hidden cameras, there was electricity. I just had to discover where.

Both her hands rose to my face and she kissed me. Not the kiss of a saloon whore, but a kiss from a scared, desperate woman.

I followed her outside where we could speak more privately. “What’s your name?”

“Everyone here calls me Juniper … or June.”

I knew that wasn’t her real name, which was Lori. Holding on to the empty tray, she seemed hesitant to talk—somewhat embarrassed—since she no longer could hide behind her saloon-girl persona.

She looked around, squinting against the midday sun. There were faint tear tracks on her cheeks and she’d need to reapply makeup. I gave her that mental suggestion, and she immediately became more self-conscious.

“I need to go … you know … to get back there.”

“Watch yourself, Lori.” I spoke her real name before I could stop myself. By the startled look on her face, I knew I’d made a grave mistake.

“Who the hell are you? How do you know who …”

“I’m not your enemy here, I promise you that.”

She spun on her heels and hurried off, the fragrance of her perfume lingering in her wake. As I watched her progress toward the saloon’s doors, her hips began to sway more noticeably, and then, suddenly, the vulnerability I’d witnessed mere moments before was gone. She waved in the direction of an elderly man, dressed up as a dime-store cowboy, standing across the dusty street. He whistled at her and she laughed, saying something back that I couldn’t quite make out.

I returned to the jail and gave Ringo his meal and ate mine, pondering what was next.

The number of lives forced under Palmolive’s control was probably staggering—like Lori, Ringo, and Butch Cassidy, and the large cast of play actors trapped in this crazy, counterfeit, town. I thought of Carmen—she was probably freaking out about now, realizing I wouldn’t be returning to the lodge any time soon. Would she attempt to reach me—come here on her own? Doing so could very well get her killed. And then I thought of Pippa and my heart constricted in my chest. Where was she now? Was she alive? Maybe I should go get Carmen and get the hell out of here. Then I remembered what Bridgett and Baltimore told me, about the shirt I was wearing:
“Unsnap both top collar buttons and a distress signal is immediately generated. It’s your way of telling us to send in the cavalry.”
Baltimore then added: “
Be damn certain you’re ready to do that, because it will be the end of the mission.”