Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (24 page)

Startled, she heard a noise ahead that sounded like the distant snapping of a tree branch. She brought her steady jog down to a slow, cautious walk. The ground was covered in a cushion of pine needles, thankfully masking her footfalls. Her dress, though, with its stiff petticoat under layers of material, made a pronounced rustling sound that was anything but stealthy. Again, she cursed herself for not changing. Coming to a full stop, she waited and listened. Immediately, the chilly air enveloped her—the chattering of her teeth was joined in cadence with her body’s acute shivering.

Movement! Something dark was moving directly in front of her. Lori’s muscles tensed—ready to run for her life—her eyes widening when she realized what she was seeing: A patrol of five … no six armed men, dressed in black. They were moving quietly, perpendicular to the direction she was heading. She heard the soft murmurs of voices—then someone chuckled. They were no more than twenty paces ahead of her.
That’s right … just keep going
,
assholes.
Relief washed over her as the team of armed killers slowly proceeded onward. She stood perfectly still, knowing all it would take was one man to turn his head and catch a glimpse of her bright scarlet dress—so completely out of place in the middle of nowhere.

Lori took one tentative step forward and then another, then stopped. The rustling of her skirt seemed as loud to her as a jet engine compared to the cold night stillness. She opted to give it a few more minutes, letting more distance expand between her and the patrol.

Oh God no
—she heard scuffling and fast footsteps. Then, running feet and elevated, excited, voices.
They must be coming back for me!
Lori squinted into the darkness, trying to get some indication the direction they would be coming.

Multiple gunshots cracked and echoed into the night around her. Lori spun, paralyzed by fear—wanting to run, but not certain which direction would lead to safety. She heard someone excitedly call out
Ringo!
Or,
it’s Ringo
. The only Ringo she knew of was Johnny Ringo, sitting in a jail cell several miles back. Had he escaped? She hoped he had and that he’d keep them occupied all night long.

Gunshots continued to ring out but seemed farther away now. Lori listened and determined the security team was definitely heading away from her. She let out a long breath, spotted Pikes Peak right where it should be, and ran toward it.

* * *

Johnny Ringo ran flat out for fifteen minutes straight—running like he’d never run in his life. As far as he knew, his wife and little girl were back at the lodge, still waiting for him. Tomorrow, Mandy would receive the devastating news that her husband of eight years was killed in a freak accident; some kind of silver mine cave-in. Nope, that was not going to happen.

After what he estimated to be about two miles—crossing the field into the foothills, then climbing higher into the mountains and tree line—he saw no sign of the armed patrols. He wondered if they called it quits after a certain point at night? Maybe start up again at first light. With luck now, it would be clear sailing all the way to the lodge.

Ringo thought of the pretty girl, June, whose real name was Lori. She’d been good to him. He could see she didn’t want to be here, either—was just as much a prisoner as himself. He kept an eye out for her and had every intention of keeping his promise to help her, if he spotted her. But he wasn’t going out of his way to do that; wasn’t about to get caught in the process.

Ringo, feeling encouraged, jumped over a toppled tree trunk with renewed enthusiasm. Unfortunately, he didn’t quite clear it with his right boot and landed awkwardly on his left foot. There was the unmistakable crack of his tibia fracturing. He’d heard that same cracking sound twenty years earlier, after jumping off old man Cowley’s tin-roofed chicken shed. Same bone … different leg. The sound preceded a searing, agonizing burst of pain. Johnny Ringo let loose a combination of howls and cries that carried for several miles. Lying on the ground holding his damaged leg in both hands, and doing his best not to move an inch, or chance bringing on additional, racking, pain, Ringo could do little as the approaching team of men descended upon him.

A substantial section of a nearby tree trunk exploded into dust, along with the simultaneous sounds of automatic weapon fire. Ringo felt the first three rounds enter his body. The fourth one killed him.

In the early dawn hours I awoke to some kind of commotion below on Main Street. It took me a moment to realize where I was. I recognized the faded, yellowed wallpaper covering the wall on the far side of the bed. I was in my room above the saloon, still wearing yesterday’s increasingly ripe, smelly clothes. Listening, I heard the sounds of horses and squeaky rigging, probably an old wagon, and the raised voices of more than a few rowdy men.

My thoughts first flashed to Lori, then over to Ringo, with dread. Did they make it safely out of town or had Palmolive’s security team gunned them down like stray dogs? My hatred for Billy the Kid—
Palmolive
—was elevating to new heights. I mentally vowed to put an end to that lunatic soon. I sat up, suddenly remembering what was to happen this morning—Billy the Kid’s scheduled field trip out to the silver mine. I wasn’t officially invited, still I needed to get up there. Then I noticed something beneath the door.
A piece of paper?
I scrambled out of bed and snatched-up the envelope. It was addressed from Billy the Kid. I tore it open and smiled …
better late than never.
It was a last-minute invitation, probably delivered earlier this morning. It looked like I’d be going to the Silver Mine after all.

I needed coffee to get my brain working. Short term, I needed to figure out how to throw a wrench in Billy’s plans to thin out the herd of potential candidates into the Order. Beyond that, stopping what was appearing more and more like a nationwide cataclysmic attack on the rise was paramount. In any event, I’d come to the conclusion that no matter what happened, I was calling it quits on the mission. Whether that meant simply riding out of town to join Carmen back at the lodge, or going so far as to unsnap my collar snaps, thereby bringing in the cavalry, was still up in the air.

* * *

Ten minutes later, spruced up and wearing a clean shirt, the pinned-on sheriff’s star on my chest, my black Stetson on my head, and my holstered Colt worn low on my right hip, I descended the stairs to an empty saloon. Tempted to follow the smell of hot coffee into the kitchen, I reluctantly veered right toward the saloon entrance and stepped through its swinging doors to a flurry of activity outside. There were almost a hundred men preparing for the big hayride out to the mine.

“Morning, Doc,” one of the ever-present Faro gamblers said, atop his horse.

“Hey Doc!” the barkeep said, a broad smile on his face as he loaded the back of a flatbed wagon with supplies.

“Get enough beauty sleep in there, Doc?” another cowboy joked, whose face I didn’t recognize.

I tipped my hat to each and saw Jude on horseback, riding down the street from the corral, with two saddled horses tethered behind him; one was the gray, Gunner, I’d ridden into town on.

“Go ahead and grab your horse, Sheriff,” Jude said, maneuvering Gunner closer to me.

I took the reins and walked the horse away from the other one I recognized as the chestnut, Ticker. To my surprise, Billy the Kid appeared next to me and grabbed the reins of his horse too.

“Morning,” I said.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” he answered, with a pinched expression that only emphasized his bird-like demeanor. In the early morning sunlight, even more noticeable now, were the scores of tiny black moles distributed spottily over his face and down his neck. At first glance, they appeared to me like immobile black gnats.

Billy’s horse, Ticker, began acting up, resisting the direction Billy the Kid wanted to lead him. He yanked hard on the horse’s reins, violently jerking Ticker’s head sideways. Instinctively, my hand moved to the grip of my six-shooter. I tried to think of a reason not to put a bullet in the back of the sadistic fucker’s head right then. Leaving Heidi and Leon Goertz solely in charge of the Order—not to forget Pippa’s still unknown predicament—was reason enough to hold off, as tempting as the desire was.

“You may want to find Butch’s horse. That pinto, Potts, is a good horse … easier to manage,” I said, adding, “Butch certainly won’t be needing him.”

Billy the Kid glared at me. “No. This is my horse and it’ll stay that way until I decide otherwise.”

The chestnut whinnied, both nostrils flaring, as he began walking backwards, tugging against the reins tightly held in Billy’s outstretched hands. I stayed present in Billy the Kid’s mind, ready to intervene. I wasn’t going to stand by while another horse was mercilessly euthanized.

The surrounding crowd suddenly quieted, watching with fascination as the situation quickly spiraled out of control.

Digging in with his heels, Jude spurred his own horse forward, getting in between Billy and his now completely riled-up chestnut. “I got this, sir,” he said, grabbing the tautly-held reins away from his boss, and bringing the horse back under control.

Looking into his mind, I saw that Billy the Kid was furious and contemplated shooting both the horse and Jude for humiliating him in front of everyone.

The abrupt sound of an approaching helicopter, bizarre and out of place in this 1880s-era environment, pulled Billy the Kid’s attention away from the tussle with his horse. Again, I saw Heidi Goertz’s face spring into Billy the Kid’s mind.
Shit
. I now knew what Billy knew: The leader of the WZZ—the newly appointed co-leader of the Order—was inbound on that very helicopter. Both horse and Jude now forgotten, Billy couldn’t be more excited.
Shit
.

The little man looked up, and spotting the helicopter coming in fast over the horizon, spun toward Jude.

“Just hold the fucking horse still while I mount up. Can you at least do that much?” Billy the Kid climbed up onto the saddle and wrenched the reins away from Jude. “Get that pinto … Potts … saddled up for Ms. Goertz. Have her join us up at the mine when she’s ready.”

* * *

Our excursion, close to one hundred of us, I figured, to the silver mine took nearly two hours. Mounted on Gunner, I was three horses back from Billy the Kid, riding on Ticker, who was leading the long procession. He periodically turned in his saddle, sometimes standing upright in the stirrups, to check on the progress of the caravan following behind him.

Jude brought up the rear, behind the two supply wagons, bumping unevenly along on what was more of a wide trail than a road. Earlier, I’d witnessed the bartender load food supplies onto one of the wagons; the other wagon had a canvas sheet strapped over its contents. I first wondered if it carried the remains of Butch Cassidy, Calamity Jane, and six or seven others, kept stored at the undertaker’s. But no, they must have carted those remains up the mountain earlier—well out of view of curious onlookers.

“So what’s your story, Doc?”

I turned to see a man about my age coax his horse up next to mine. He touched the brim of his hat. “I’m Clancy …” He stopped, then began again, “I’m Sundance. We haven’t officially met yet.”

I’d seen him numerous times since I’d arrived, typically within earshot of Billy the Kid. I figured he was either an employee, or a confidant of some sort—maybe even a bodyguard. With a peek into his thoughts, I saw that he was all the above. He looked nothing like the sandy-haired actor Robert Redford, who played the folklore Sundance character in the movie. This Sundance had dark eyes, short black hair and a stocky build. Not only was he one of the few knowing what today was really about, he’d spent much of the previous afternoon and evening preparing this site.

I’ve peered into the minds of thousands of people since I’d acquired this ability. Each mind unique—not only the way in which information is processed, but also the way the information is stored. Emotions play a large part in what the mind’s imagery draws on. Strong emotions, positive or negative, sometimes produce too intense a scene to look at for more than a moment or two, such as deadly car wrecks or the violent vestiges of a recent battlefield. You want to look but you need to turn away from them just as quickly. There is never an imagery shortage with emotional people. I don’t read minds, per se, in the same manner most people would assume. It’s not like scanning a computer’s hard drive and picking and choosing information. It doesn’t work that way. No … I interpret imagery clips: Most are like three- or four-second video loops, where things, people, or events currently of importance to the person are replayed over and over. It can be disconcerting to view—especially when it obviously is a self-destructive, sometimes manic preoccupation I’m scanning. I spend as little time as possible in such minds. It is all too easy to get sucked into the drama—making his or her issues my own.

Sundance was a very emotional person, although looking at him, you’d think the opposite. His mind was a kaleidoscope of vivid images and color and conflicting thoughts. This tough guy, whose background was similar to my own—armed forces, then special ops, that eventually led to a career in one of the world’s clandestine organizations. For me, it was SIFTR; for him, I guessed, CIA.

Sundance and I talked about the game of Faro, the lack of showers at the hotel, and the saloon girls. But he was only half-invested in the conversation. He had several repetitive mental loops reeling on constant replay. First, was an emotional goodbye—of him standing on the threshold of his Maryland suburban home; his two small tearful boys—their arms tightly wrapped around his legs—not wanting him to leave on another extended mission. Another loop, more recent, involved the firing of his six-shooter, nearby in the Colorado Mountains. It was a woman—a saloon girl. I recognized her—she’d taken a long drag on a cigarette and in its soft glow her attractive face was illuminated. Last night, she’d sat next to Lori in the near dark, outside the saloon’s kitchen. Sundance had a relationship with her—was apparently in love with her. Sorting through the imagery was difficult, but from what I could piece together, Billy the Kid, informed by Jude of Sundance’s relationship, ordered Sundance to kill her. She was a loose end and would not be allowed to leave Tombstone, in any case. So he’d put a bullet in her head late last night. Suffering, sleep deprived, and on the verge of unraveling, he was talking now about inconsequential things. Of even more importance, the man despised Billy the Kid as much as I did.