Fistful of Feet (14 page)

   What the hell was he going to do?

   Bluford wasn’t just concerned about himself. He really did feel bad about Lily. She was a sweet girl even if she was just a whore. She didn’t deserve to die like that. But she was dead and he couldn’t help her.

   He quietly got dressed and then stood by the door listening. He didn’t hear a thing. The man who coughed must’ve fallen asleep. Bluford opened the door slowly and looked out. He didn’t see anyone so he stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind him.

   Bluford felt guilty leaving the corpse there but knew there was no other option. After taking a few steps down the hallway, he stopped dead in his tracks.

   There was a person at the foot of the stairs.

   It was too dark to see who it was. At first he thought it was Stacklee but realized that it couldn’t be. Stacklee was a big guy and the person standing there was smaller. They were wearing a long coat and a hat that did a good job of casting a shadow over their face.

   It looked like they were watching him. Then the figure turned and walked out of the back door.

   Bluford stood and waited for what seemed like forever. He didn’t know if he should just go back into the room and wait until morning. Obviously someone saw him. But what if they didn’t see his face? After all, he couldn’t see theirs. So maybe he did have a chance to get away.

   Moving quietly, he made his way down the stairs and out the front door. He was amazed that he managed to get out so easily but didn’t know where he should go next. It might be suspicious if he went up to his hotel room now. There had to be another place to stay at least until he thought it was safe.

   Bluford walked down the street until he was as far away from the brothel as he thought best. He saw the church down the road and was glad to see that it appeared empty.

   Once he reached it, he peered into a basement window. There were jars strewn everywhere along with piles of dark rags. He smashed the window and climbed inside. He sat down on one of the piles of rags and closed his eyes, falling asleep in minutes.

   This time, however, it wasn’t a sweet sleep. It was a restless one.

* * *

   It had been a successful night.

   The killer sat at a desk, using a razor to cut words out of newspapers and a bible. The words were arranged to spell out phrases that brought back vicious memories of childhood abuse and the witnessing of a brutal murder: mother slashing father’s throat in a fit of rage. Father had not brought home enough gold so mother was not pleased. She found out about the whore he had been visiting. So mother made him lick the whore’s filthy boots before she murdered them both.

   From the window, the killer could see the Indians outside of town. Those goddamn heathens. The killer wished to see the redskin men torn apart by coyotes, burned alive while their penises were slowly cut from their bodies, and hung from houses like decorations. And the redskin women. They should be raped. Their breasts should be punctured with the stingers of scorpions. Their orifices should be filled with sand and teeth. They should be drowned in rivers of phlegm.

   Thoughts of Lily’s murder resurfaced. She had been frightened almost to death when the black-gloved hands covered her mouth and the razor glistened in the moonlight.

   The killer made her sniff her own shoes before the blade destroyed her. Yes, it had been a successful night.

   And tomorrow would be even better.

PART TWO

Something to Do With Death

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

   Betty jumped at the sound of screaming. She had just been sitting and having her morning coffee when it happened.

   Stacklee came through her door, rambling on about how Lily had been murdered and about how it was all his fault. She told him to calm down but he was too upset to stop. Finally she got him to sit down and drink some whiskey to calm his nerves while one of the girls fetched Sheriff Doyle.

   When Doyle arrived, Stacklee was drunk enough to be quiet but sober enough to know that he might be under suspicion being that he was a black man working in a whorehouse full of white whores. To his surprise, it looked like the sheriff didn’t even take that into consideration.

   “Betty, did you see who went up with Lily last night?” Doyle said.

   “Yeah, it was some guy from out of town. Came in on the stagecoach.” Betty looked to Stacklee. “You talked to him, didn’t you? You catch his name?”

   The sheriff interrupted. “Doesn’t matter what he said his name was. He probably didn’t tell you his real one. Was this the same asshole who got into a ruckus with Nix and his boys?”

   “No,” Betty said. “It wasn’t the same man. But like I told you, Stacklee talked to the guy who went with Lily.”

   Stacklee picked up the whiskey but thought better of it and put the bottle down. “I talked to him but he didn’t seem the violent type. He was just smooth son of a bitch dressed like an Englishman.”

   “Well, this smooth son of a bitch cut up a whore real bad. You saw her. I almost puked up my breakfast after seeing what he done to her. Maybe Lily threatened his manhood or something and so he cut her up like a hog. I don’t care why. All I care about is getting my hands on the bastard.”

   Betty said, “Couldn’t it be one of those Indians out there?”

   “No, if an Indian does something like that, they don’t get sneaky about it. I don’t think it was any of them. I think it was a white man.”

   “Did you check the hotel, sheriff?”

   “If that guy is staying there, I doubt he’s fool enough to be there now but I’ll check anyway. Seems like your establishment is attracting the wrong sort of men. I wouldn’t be surprised if the mayor closed you down.”

   “The mayor could go fuck himself,” Betty said. She picked up the whiskey bottle and took a swig.

   Sheriff Doyle started towards the door. He resisted the urge to put his hand on Stacklee’s shoulder. It was a shame seeing the man fall apart like that. It was obvious that he cared about those girls.

   Once outside, Sheriff Doyle walked across the street to the hotel. Just as he was about to go in, he saw Mayor Douglas coming his way.

   He said, “Mayor?”

   “Sheriff?”

   “We have a bit of a problem. Girl was murdered last night at Betty’s.”

   The mayor stopped, looking obviously annoyed. “So? Take care of it.”

   “I plan to. Just thought you’d want to know about it. She was cut up real bad. Looked like an Indian got to her,” Doyle said.

   “So it’s an Indian did it?”

   Sheriff Doyle shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

   “Well, take care of it,” the mayor said, walking away. The sheriff didn’t know it but the mayor had bigger things on his mind like the black envelope he had received the previous day and the red tattoos that were consuming his flesh.

   Once the mayor was out of earshot, Sheriff Doyle said, “What the fuck is wrong with him?” He walked into the hotel and prayed that the killer would just be sitting there waiting to be arrested. God, why couldn’t it be that easy?

   Betty’s voice cried out from behind him. “Sheriff!”

   Doyle turned around and saw the woman waving a jar in the air. He walked over to her. “What the hell now?”

   “I just found this bottle under Lily’s bed. It’s from Tom Duma’s store and one of my girls said she heard him arguing with Lily last week.” Betty was shivering now. Not from the cold but from the implications.

   Doyle said, “So, I’m guessing you think it’s Tom Duma?”

   “Maybe. It could be.”

   “I’ve known him for a long time. I’ve had dinner at his house. It’s hard to believe he’d be capable of this.”

   “But it could be him, right?” Betty said. “Right?”

   Doyle shook his head. “Goddamnit,”

   He walked away in the direction of the General Store. It was easier when he thought it was an outsider. It was difficult to accept that one of the town’s own businessmen is behind the murder.

   When he walked into the store, Tom Duma was rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. He cracked a smile when he saw Doyle. “Hi there, sheriff.”

   “Tom, we need to talk.”

   “Oh? What about?”

   “About where you were last night.”

   The smile on Tom’s face faded. “Why?”

   “Make this easy on the both of us. Were you sleeping at home last night?” he said. “The entire night?”

   “Just what in the hell are you getting at? This have something to do with the ruckus over at Betty’s? You know I don’t visit the whores.”

   Sheriff Doyle put his hand on his pistol. “Just answer the question, Tom.”

   “I will not stand here and let you treat me like a criminal.”

   Doyle cocked his head. “Tom, how long we know each other?”

   “I don’t know. A few years.”

   “So we know each other fairly well. But I’m only going to ask you one more time.”

   Tom Duma grinded his teeth and stared at the floor. “I have things to do, sheriff,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you left my store.”

   Doyle shook his head. He took two steps forward and grabbed Tom’s arm, flinging him to the floor. Then he took him by the collar and dragged him outside. “You have to learn to cooperate, Tom. I don’t have time for bullshit.”

   At first, Tom Duma kicked and screamed as he was being dragged across the street to the jail. Then he quickly stopped and decided that it would be in his best interest to shut his goddamn mouth and let things work naturally.

   “In you go,” the sheriff said, as he opened the door to the cell and pushed Tom into it. “You want, I’ll let your wife know where you are.”

   “No need,” Tom said. “I saw her watching from the window. She knows exactly where I am.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

   When Mary woke up, she saw Timothy Horn lying on the floor, covered in squid-guts and semen.

   The night had been a dreamlike orgy of smelly wet sex and Timothy’s nonsensical babbling. Mary didn’t understand most of what he had said. He had talked about a furry, black toad that was the size of a man and how it was behind the assassination of President Lincoln and all other political killings. Mary simply nodded and feigned interest as he went on about how the toad fashioned bullets out of black goo.

   After giving his lecture, Timothy forced her to the floor several times and made her lick the squid-stained wood. Then he let Mary fall asleep only to wake her minutes later with more babbling and more disgusting requests.

   Finally he fell asleep and Mary was able to get some shuteye only to awake at dawn at the first sound of commotion in the brothel.

   So as she sat there looking down at the crazy son of a bitch on the floor, Mary fantasized about getting up, putting on her fancy boots, and stepping on his throat until she felt the floor through the sole of her boot.

   Instead of doing that, however, she found herself staring at the squid-parts that were now scattered around the room. It was strange how they seemed to glow in the sunlight.

   Timothy let out a low rumble of snores and then Mary put her head on the pillow, still staring at the fishy mess and still wondering just how she could go about killing Timothy Horn.

* * *

   Bluford was surprised that he was able to sleep through the night in the church basement. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the ceiling. At first he thought about trying to catch the next stagecoach but knew that he’d probably be caught before he made it to the next stop. Then he entertained the idea of trekking through the desert on his own but realized that he was the last person to be fit for survival in such a harsh environment.

   So Bluford decided on going to the hotel to get his things and taking it from there. He crawled out of the basement window and started running until he reached the alley next to the hotel. When he got up to his room, Bluford opened the door and saw a very drunk Stacklee sitting on the bed.

   Shit.

   “Oh,” Bluford said. He knew he was dead meat. Stacklee must have found out about the body, gotten drunk, and was now planning to beat the shit out of Bluford.

   Stacklee stood up.

   Bluford put his hands up. “I know what you’re thinking but you have to believe me. I didn’t kill that girl!”

   “Didn’t think you did.”

   Bluford squinted. “What?”

   “I’m usually pretty good at knowing what a man’s capable of and you didn’t look like a man who would cut up a girl like that,” Stacklee said. Tears filled his eyes. “Not saying I’m entirely sure. Could be you’re crazy but to tell you the truth, I have a suspicion it’s someone else.”

   “Who? Who would do that?”

   “Timothy Horn, the mayor’s nephew. But I don’t know for sure,” Stacklee said. “Where’ve you been?”

   “The church basement.”

   He was interrupted by the door being kicked open and Sheriff Doyle pointing a gun at him.

   “Hands up, asshole,” Doyle said, watching as Bluford complied. “Stacklee, I’m surprised to see you here. You helping him escape? You know very well this here might be the killer. Hell, he could’ve killed you for Christ’s sake.”

   Stacklee said, “I don’t think he’s the one, sheriff, but if you feel you have to take him in, well, then I guess that’s what you have to do.”

   “I locked Tom Duma up, too, Stack,” he said. “I’ll get to the bottom of it and if your friend here didn’t do it, well, then you two will be playing marbles in no time.”

   Doyle hoped he could solve the crime with no problems. He reckoned it was one of the two men he was locking up or perhaps a drifter who was long gone. Either way, he wanted to be done with it.

   So he brought Bluford to the jail and put him in with Tom Duma. Doyle looked at both men and thought that maybe they’d both hang themselves. Yeah, that’d make his job a hell of a lot easier.

* * *

   Despite Bluford’s career path, he had never actually been in jail before. He was that good of a con man. So it was hard for him to grasp the concept that he might be hanged in the morning.