Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (20 page)

I sat and watched the game of Faro unfold at a fast pace. Everything looked authentic for the game’s time period with one exception: Everyone was using modern-day US $100 bills—apparently the only currency allowed here. Billy the Kid slapped a stack of bills down in front of me and said, “That was some fine shooting earlier … out on the street. Bank pays out dividends for that sort of thing here.”

Almost immediately, the rules of the game started coming back to me. Faro was a fairly simple game—one played during the Civil War—also in gambling towns all around the Old West. Billy the Kid played banker, of course, and distributor of the cards, which slid out from a box or shoe—a spring-loaded contraption—that allowed only the top card to be visible, before it could be slid out onto the table. On the table were thirteen permanent face-up cards. Suits in this game were ignored. The cards’ numerical value was everything—depending on where the player placed his chips—either on the cards directly, or between them, in a variety of ways. A player then places his bet. In this game you don’t play against the other players, you play against the bank—the dealer: The dealer unveils the cards in sets of two—a win card and a lose card. What the banker’s next card shows—whether a win card or a lose card—and where the other players placed their bet and whether the face up card they’ve placed their chips on is numerically high or low, will determine if they win or lose the round. The game pretty much pays out even money, with only a slight two percent edge going to the bank. What I didn’t like about Faro was how little actual skill was involved to play it. It was a game of chance and the man standing next to you could win the next round just as easily as you could.

An olive-skinned man suddenly stood and left the table in an apparent huff. I shuffled my chair over to the left, taking his spot at the table. The round finished and Billy the Kid said, “Remove your bets or place new bets.”

Sitting directly to Billy’s left was Jordan, who wasn’t actually playing but tracking each card being played with an abacus-looking device. With every exposed card released from the card shoe, he slid another little bead over. I remembered doing that when I’d played as a kid … it allowed the players, and those betting, or just standing around, to keep track of what cards were played—allowing them to better guess which cards were still inside the deck.

I handed Jordan five one hundred-dollar bills, and he gave me back an equal number of small, navy blue chips. I placed my bets around the table and put what was then called a copper, a penny, on top of several chips, to reverse certain bets.

Billy the Kid watched me with amusement. “You’ve played before?”

“Once … but it’s coming back to me,” I said.

He exposed the next win card and the men around the table either groaned or cheered, depending on how they had bet. I won and let my chips ride where they were. I noticed Billy had significantly more chips than anyone else—ten times as many. I assumed it was simply because he was the banker, but when I peered into his mind I discovered the truth, and smiled. He was cheating. The box contraption-thing was somehow rigged. It actually was a working relic from the Civil War era—and perfectly operational. He knew, through some hidden mechanical tell, what the next hidden card would be. And what he knew, I knew.

Over the next hour I amassed a sizable chunk of chips. The stacks in front of Billy the Kid were only slightly higher than my own. The crowd of onlookers around us had grown, to the point most of the other tables in the saloon were empty. Even the bar was only sparsely occupied. Side betting had increased to a point of frenzy, something Billy the Kid, Jordan, and Jude weren’t pleased about.

“So … Billy,” I said.

His eyes found me and then went back to tracking the progress of the game.

I continued. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Billy the Kid thumbed off another card, exposing the jack beneath it. There was a mix of cheers and groans from the other players.

“I was surprised when I got the … um … invitation. You know … to come here,” I said.

His response was an almost imperceptible shrug. It occurred to me that I hadn’t witnessed anyone else talking business here. If Jude’s glare was any indication of the inappropriateness of such chatter, I’d just made a monumental faux pas.
Screw him.
Clear in my mind was my reason for being here—I needed intel. Intel about the Order—including what was brewing with those subterranean passageways. And why the sudden activity in the buildup of military assets, of key Order personnel, such as those being vetted here, in this mock Old West era town. And where was Pippa being held and what condition was she in? The truth was, Billy the Kid didn’t need to answer me directly—he just needed to think along the right lines for me to connect the dots.

“I know why I’m motivated to … um … have your organization support my company. But what is it about my particular business … or me, for that matter, that is of interest to—”

The knife came so fast I didn’t have time to react to it. One moment my left hand was resting casually upon the tabletop near my pile of chips—and the next, an eight-inch blade was driven down between my thumb and forefinger. The handle of the knife, black as onyx, continued to vibrate. The hush in the saloon gave way to low murmurs and then to louder, out-and-out, comments. Someone behind me laughed nervously. I dipped my hat in Jude’s direction. “Looks like you dropped something, Jude. Or is this a gift for me? That’s it, isn’t it? This is a welcome to Tombstone gift. I don’t know what to say … but thanks, compadre.”

Jude’s tight smile momentarily faltered. I used my nearly impaled hand to extricate the knife from the table and examined it more closely, holding it in the fingers of both hands.

Jude held out a palm with brows raised. “Give it back … and mind you manners on what’s discussed here, Mr. Holliday. Remember the rules. That’s your first and only warning.”

Billy the Kid sat quietly, watching in bemused interest.

Holding the knife by the blade, I stood and made as if I were going to hand the knife back across the table to Jude. But with a rapid flick of my wrist, I sent the knife straight upward where it imbedded itself, blade first, into the ceiling directly above Jude’s head. I said, “Oops …”

“Enough! Are we playing cards here, or what?” Billy asked. “Everyone place or remove your bets.” The card game continued.

All those antics weren’t a total waste. Within those few seconds I mentally picked up on several visual impressions where Palmolive’s plans became momentarily exposed: A nondescript brick, county municipal-type building; a huge lake … no … a reservoir; and a military base nestled somewhere below ground. Images that, at the very least, would be a starting point for later consideration. But as interesting as all those things were, what I most wanted to see was where Pippa had been taken—her condition. So I inserted my own image of Pippa into his mind. Nothing, but his thoughts jumped to another woman and from that point on I had trouble staying present in Billy the Kid’s mind. He was way beyond fixated on Heidi Goertz. Each time I peered into his thoughts, I’d see her damn face, laughing at something he’d once said to her, or talking to or scolding someone nearby her. He watched her every movement, totally captivated by her charms. More often than not, he was recalling their most recent intimate moments; moments where they were either naked in bed, or sneaking off for an illicit encounter behind their respective spouses’ backs. When his thoughts turned to their trysts, I vacated his mind as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, few of my questions were being answered, with one startling exception—something about the WZZ—Heidi and Leon Goertz’s Neo-Nazi organization. Something was at play here. WZZ had grown more powerful than ever, and Heidi was becoming a real power-player now within the Order. I didn’t see how both could be possible and figured I’d misconstrued the images I saw inside Billy’s head. Perhaps in his mind … his love, or lust, or both, for that horrid woman was giving her more prominence in the Order’s realm than she actually held.

I’d had enough of the game and made that fact known, after winning another round, by saying, “That does it for me, gents.”

I stood up, hearing the crowd groan and complain. Billy the Kid, getting more and more irritated at my winnings, unable to figure out how I’d won so often, knew that I, like him, had been cheating. In fact, I’d watched as his imagination ran wild—he considered drawing his six-shooter and shooting me in the heart—then announcing I’d been cheating and that he’d simply done everyone a favor. I almost let the game go on too long and felt lucky now to walk away still breathing.

I said, gesturing to the large stack of blue chips in front of me, “Disperse them amongst yourselves. It was never my money to play anyway.” I made my way through the dispersing throng and wasn’t completely surprised to find Butch Cassidy where I’d left him at the bar. Three stacked plates, shoved to the side, held a smattering of what looked liked gnawed-on barbecued ribs. I signaled the barkeep and, pointing at his plates, said, “Some of those … and another bottle.”

“You like to live dangerously, my friend.”

I noticed Butch was speaking with far better annunciation than he had earlier. I wouldn’t call him sober, but he was at least coherent. “Let me ask you something … Butch.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you here?” Before he could answer, I added, “I’m speaking to the congressman, now, not Butch Cassidy.”

“Dangerous asking questions like that around here,” he answered, reaching for a half-empty bottle of whisky. “I imagine it’s for the same reason you’re here, or the rest of the idiots playing cowboy in this hell hole. Power. The word’s come down … things are changing. The landscape will be permanently altered, here in the great U.S. of A, as well as in the rest of the world. Either hitch yourself to the new wagon, or find yourself run over by it later.”

“There ya go … rules being ignored again,” I heard a familiar voice say, two paces behind me. The piano playing abruptly stopped, and the saloon quieted down to hushed murmurs. I saw their reflection in the mirror on the wall, on the other side of the bar: Behind me stood, side-by-side, Billy the Kid, Jordan and Jude. They stood with their legs apart, their hands hovering inches from the butts of their Colts.
Shit!
I glanced over to Butch and saw his typically rosy cheeks drained of color. He looked terrified. I was about to peer into their minds, hoping to find some way out of this mess, but Butch was already reaching into the air—his hands up, as he spun around. “I’m sorry, Billy … please—”

Those were the last words to escape from the congressman’s lips. The threesome drew their weapons—lightning fast—and fired simultaneously. It sounded like a single gunshot. Looking over my shoulder, I saw smoke rising from three gun barrels. Butch, a trickle of blood already seeping from the corner of his open lips, had an expanding patch of scarlet on his chest where his heart was located. He toppled forward—dead before he hit the floor.

I raised my hands—my own breathing ceased—my mind a total blank.

Billy the Kid smiled: “He was warned once before. You can put your hands down, Sheriff.” The three gunmen grinned. Billy was the first to holster his weapon, quickly followed by the other two. All eyes were now on me. I saw Lori in the middle of the room, sitting on a man’s lap, her arms casually resting on his shoulders. Her eyes were locked on mine, showing genuine concern.

Billy gestured with his chin—at the now-familiar, skeletally thin mortician standing three feet abreast of me—at the bar. “Mr. Colman, seems you’re having a fortuitous run of business today.”

As Colman moved to collect Butch, I held up a palm in his direction. “No … don’t touch him. I’ve got this.”

Butch, a bear of a man when alive, was now a heavy, unwieldy, corpse. Seeing me struggling to lift him, Billy the Kid smacked Jordan’s upper arm. “Don’t just stand there, help the sheriff.”

I glared again at the approaching mortician, letting him know to keep the hell back. With Jordan now at my side, we dragged Butch’s bulk toward the entrance. A glance over my shoulder confirmed that the pallid-faced mortician was indeed following, shuffling along several strides behind us—like a vulture barely biding its time. We pushed through the swinging doors and were met by a chilly, early evening breeze. I caught a final glimpse of the sun as it slid behind a colorless nearby hilltop. The street was deserted, except for a young man across the street in the process of lighting an oil lamp—one of several he’d already lit next to small storefronts along the darkening street.

Butch Cassidy’s bulk was nothing compared to the weight of guilt I was feeling. For God’s sake, all the poor man had done was answer the question I’d put to him.

“He wasn’t long for this world, anyway, Doc,” Jordan said, as though reading my mind. He sounded out of breath, struggling under the weight of supporting Butch’s other thick arm. “His destiny was pretty much already set … even before he set foot in Tombstone.”

“Then why even bring him here? Why not just leave him be?”

The answer came to me mentally, before he answered: Butch knew too much and he’d started to gossip about the Order organization to non-members. There was too much at stake. Big events were about to occur, in days forthcoming, and the Order couldn’t jeopardize their coming to fruition by a loose-lipped congressman, causing them undue trouble. No, he’d now joined others, those similarly destined to an early, unfortunate demise—planned to occur in some kind of mass-accident soon.

“Butch just wasn’t a good fit here,” Jordan said, as if he’d thought better of providing me with a more in-depth explanation.

I contemplated putting an end to all this shit, calling it quits; stop the killing in this miserable place. I reached up to my open collar with my free hand and felt the two, still-clasped, snaps there. Separating the two small snaps was the only thing standing in the way of rallying the SIFTR agency’s, albeit limited, forces, and closing this place down. But then what? Take Palmolive and his minions into custody? How long would SIFTR survive after that? With the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security also under the influence of the Order, it would be an inevitable bloodbath. My thoughts turned to Pippa. If she wasn’t already dead, hasty actions on my part here would ultimately seal her fate as well. I wasn’t ready to make that call—I’d have to play things out here to their shadowy end.