Giving Up the Ghost (13 page)

It was growing dark now, with flashes of pink and green in the northern sky, so I hurried along Seventh Street toward the Cottonwood River, and the mill. The mill was large, with an impressive dam and associated flumes and traps and races, or whatever they were called, and the mill wheel was turning. Inside, there was the whir of machinery and the slap of leather belts and the low growling sound of the stone. I took the path around the mill and followed the river bank to the north, and on a hill near the bridge where the Santa Fe spanned the river, I found Cottonwood Cemetery.

It was a well-tended cemetery, with an iron fence around it and headstones in neat rows. The gate was unlocked and I slipped inside, looking in the gloom for the grave of the telegraph operator. I found it, tucked into a far corner of the cemetery, a mound of bare earth marked by a narrow bit of wood that had
H. HOPKINS
lettered in an unsteady hand. There were other wooden markers, white crosses, mostly, representing the uncelebrated dead that kept Hopkins company in the paupers' section.

I sat beside the grave, close enough that I could reach out and touch the mound of dirt. Somewhere along the river valley an owl hooted, and it reminded me of the dream I'd had about the barn owl nest. But the owl that was doing the hooting here wasn't a barn owl, because the call of a barn owl was a blood-chilling screech. This bird, probably a barred owl, was giving the familiar “
Who-Who-Whooo.
”

“Ophelia Wylde,” I said.

Now, hidden deep beneath the shadows of the trees in the back of the cemetery, it was full dark. There was not a breath of air stirring, and I could hear some small animals—squirrels, perhaps—rustling in the leaves nearby. I could feel the cold creeping in from the surrounding fields, like a cat bent on mischief, and I shivered.

I rummaged in my satchel, found a taper, and stabbed it in the dirt over the grave. Then I took a match, struck it on the wooden marker, and lit the candle. After contemplating the shimmering flame for a moment—for who can resist staring?—I pressed the match into the damp earth and waited.

Overhead, the northern lights danced.

“Here we are, Lightning,” I said. “I know that's what your friends called you, and I hope you don't mind me doing so as well. I received your message, or at least Mackie did and translated it for me, and I would like to help. What can I do?”

I waited for a minute or so, with no reply.

“It's getting a bit chilly out here,” I said, “and it is very dark. Would it be possible that you could give me some sign that you're here?”

There was a hollow rap that seemed to come from the air, just above the grave.

“Good,” I said. “Lightning, who murdered you?”

A rhythmic burst of raps was the response.

“Slow down, please. Could you give me one tap for yes and two taps for no?”

Another burst of raps, in rapid succession, in similar rhythm.

“I cannot copy the code,” I said. “Can you speak to me directly?”

More taps.

It was what I had expected.

In my line of work, I had identified some rules that ghosts seemed to follow, unless they were really elementals or demons in disguise. Unfinished business was at the core of most hauntings, and ghosts often repeatedly delivered a message or performed some action that was associated with that business, but I had yet to encounter any that would answer direct questions. I had hoped the ghost of Hopkins might, considering the unusual conditions created by the rift in the luminiferous aether, be able to converse, but I was disappointed; he, too, appeared stuck in a kind of loop. My guess was that the raps, decoded, would mean, in Morse code, “I am murdered!”

“Thank you for your time,” I said, plucking up the candle. “And my apologies for disturbing you.”

I brushed the grass and dirt from my trousers, and by the light of the candle made my way out of the graveyard. Behind me, the owl repeated its lonely call.

The dining room at the Clifton Hotel was as bright as the graveyard had been dark. There were candles and kerosene lamps everywhere, and the white linen tablecloths and the polished silverware added to the brilliance.

“I can't remember the last time I was in this fine of a restaurant,” I said.

“Well, I know when I was,” Calder said. “Never.”

He was still pale and shaky, but claimed he was largely recovered from the mystery illness. After I had checked in on him and McCarty in room 312, Calder declared he had spent enough time in bed, and wanted to go downstairs with me. McCarty, however, was still too sick, but said he would try to join us later.

“Think of this as an adventure, Jack,” I said, glancing up from my menu. “Here we are, just the two of us, in the kind of place we could only dream about back in Dodge City.”

“There's nothing wrong with Beatty and Kelly's.”

“Nothing but the clientele, the food, and the service,” I said.

Before Calder could respond, a young woman with dark hair and storm gray eyes came to the table and interrupted. She had a white apron over her dark blue dress, just as the other women who worked there wore, and her hair was done up neatly beneath a cap.

“Good evening,” she said, speaking mostly to Calder. “Have you been to the Fred Harvey dining room before? No? Then you're in for a treat. We are running out of a few things, because the pantry hasn't been restocked since the trains stopped running, but I'm sure we can find you and your missus something good to eat.”

She had a slight Irish accent, and her smile was a bit too broad to be genuine. I wanted to shake her and tell her to speak to me as well as Calder, but I held my tongue for fear of offending her—and I wanted her to be comfortable talking to us.

“We're not married,” I said.

“Well, not yet,” she said.

I smiled.

“Are you married?” I asked.

“Heavens, no,” the girl said, blushing. “Do you think I'd be working here if I were married? Mr. Harvey wouldn't allow it.”

“Of course not,” I said. “What do you have left that's on the menu?”

“I can tell you what we have left that's not on the menu,” she said. “Vinegar pie. I make it myself, from an old family recipe, and the cook lets me share some now and again with my friends. And I can tell we're going to be friends.”

“How?” I asked.

“I just have that feeling,” she said. “And I come from a long line of seers. My mother had the second sight, and her mother before her. Yes, I know we're going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Not if the trains start running again,” I said.

“My name's Molly,” she said, again speaking to Jack. “Molly O'Grady. What's yours?”

Jack told her his name.

“You must be some kind of lawman, with the great big gun on your belt,” she said. “The hotel manager doesn't allow firearms, so you must be some kind of marshal or sheriff.”

“Something like that,” Calder said.

The girl offered her hand. Jack clasped it, and she stared into his eyes and held his hand just long enough to make me uncomfortable.

“And I'm Ophelia,” I said.

She touched my hand, but just for a moment. Her hand was dry and a bit scaly, like the skin of snake. Bu, it just could have been calluses from a life of hard work.

“The vinegar pie does sound good,” Calder said. “Save me a slice.”

“I already have.”

“What do you have left that is
on
the menu?” I asked.

“The roast beef,” she said. “That comes locally, as does the ham. But the oysters are all gone, I'm afraid, and so are the peaches.”

I ordered the roast beef and strong tea.

“Very good,” the girl said. “I'll make sure you get a special fine cut.”

“And for you, sir?”

“Just bring me some coffee,” he said. “And the pie.”

“Are you sure?” Molly asked. “Our chef, Mr. Robert Phillips, was the head man at the Palmer House in Chicago for years. He does wondrous things with roast beef.”

“The Palmer House,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It's famous.”

“Yes, I believe I've heard of it.”

I made a mental note to avoid meeting the chef. He probably wouldn't recognize me, but there was no reason to risk digging up the past. Chicago, and the Palmer House in particular, were a part of my life that I didn't want to be reminded of.

“Pardon me, sir, but do you have a jacket?” Molly asked.

“I have an overcoat upstairs,” Calder said, surprised. He was dressed in one of his many green shirts and a leather vest. “Why do you ask?”

“The dining room has a rule that gentlemen must wear jackets,” she said. “But not to worry. We have a supply of jackets we keep on hand for the situation. May I bring you one?”

“If you must,” Calder said.

“I would loan him mine,” I said, “but I'm afraid it would be a little tight around the shoulders.”

Molly nodded and said she would be right back.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“About the same as before,” Calder said.

“Go back to the room.”

“No,” he said.

“How can you think of eating pie as sick as you are?”

“Well, it is pie, after all,” he said. “Maybe it will help me feel better.”

“And maybe monkeys are going to make my bed every morning,” I said.

Then she was back, a cheap jacket over her arm. She helped Calder into it, then stepped back and gave him an admiring look.

“Fits like it was made for you,” she said.

“It itches,” Calder said.

“It's an alpaca jacket,” she said. “Mr. Harvey got a deal on them.”

Molly left again.

“You could just ask her,” Calder said.

“No, I want to watch her a little longer before I start asking her questions about Hopkins,” I said. Molly was at the sideboard, preparing our coffee and tea, elbow-to-elbow with a half dozen other girls. “As soon as she figures out our interest in her extends beyond dinner, it will make things much more difficult.”

“We don't have a lot of time, Ophelia,” Calder said. “You heard her say they were low on food. Things aren't going to get any better until we can find a way to free up the lines.”

Then Calder winced and put a hand to his stomach.

“Sure you're okay?”

“Fine,” he said.

She came back with the coffee and the tea—and the vinegar pie.

“Molly,” I said. “You have such a lovely voice. Did you grow up in Ireland?”

“Faith, no,” she said. “I was born in Boston, but my parents were from the home country. They spoke the language, but I picked up very little of it—just the accent. Everybody in my neighborhood back home sounds like this.”

“How long have you been out west?”

“Going on three months,” she said. “What a change it has been.”

I tested the tea, but it was too hot to drink.

“What brought you here?” I asked.

“Opportunity, of course,” she said. “I don't have to tell you how tough things have been since the Panic of '73. There just were no jobs in Boston for a hardworking Catholic girl, at least no jobs that a good Catholic would consider. So I came west.”

“To grow up with the country,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Just something Horace Greeley said. It's not important.”

I thought Calder was going to join the conversation, but he instead concentrated on his pie. He used the side of his fork to separate the tip, then tasted it.

“Delicious,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Molly said. “There's a secret ingredient.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“If I told you that, it wouldn't be a secret now, would it?”

Calder took another bite.

“Have you heard any news about how soon the main line would be open again?” Molly asked. “I hope the strike ends soon, because it is putting an awful lot of people in a bad way. I'm all for better wages, and I know the brakemen have an awful hard job to do, but they should think about what is best for everyone.”

“Strike?” I asked. “Is that what they're telling you about the shutdown?”

“Why, sure,” Molly said. “Mr. Delaney explained it all to us, about how the brakemen had gone on strike again, just like in the spring, and have shut everything down until they get more money. It's awful selfish of them, if you ask me.”

“What did Mr. Delaney say about the telegraphers?” I asked.

“That their lodge had decided to go on strike, to support the brakemen,” she said.

“And the lights in the sky?”

“He didn't say anything about that,” she said. “I know there's an awful lot of wild rumors flying around, about the spirits of the dead talking on the wires, but Mr. Delaney said those were just stories circulated by the brakemen to scare us. I sure enjoy talking to you, miss, but I'd better get back to work or I'm going to be in trouble.”

She walked away.

“She doesn't seem like she has the sense that God gave a goose,” Calder said.

“I'm not so sure,” I said. Then Calder got another one of those pained looks, and put a hand to his side.

“You're making an awful face,” I said. “Go upstairs.”

“Later.”

Ten minutes later, Molly was on her way across the floor with my plate of food, and I had just lifted my cup of tea to take the first sip, when Calder tumbled from the chair onto the floor. I rushed over and knelt beside him, and got him sitting up, but everybody in the room had turned to look.

“Drunk,” I heard someone mutter.

“Jack,” I said.

“Get me outside,” he said. “I need some air.”

Molly put the plate of food down on the mess that was now on the table, for Jack had half taken the tablecloth with him when he went down.

“What can I do?”

“Have someone fetch the doctor from room 312,” I said. “Hurry.”

I got Jack to his feet, and helped him across the dining room, and out the back door. Once outside, he fell to his hands and knees in the grass and vomited violently.

“For Pete's sake,” I said, brushing the hair from his damp forehead. “Why couldn't you admit how sick you really are?”

He couldn't answer me because he was retching again.

“Ophie,” McCarty called from the doorway.

“Over here,” I said.

McCarty shambled over, his medical bag in hand.

“Get me one of those lights from inside,” he said. I went back inside, snatched up the nearest kerosene lamp, and returned with it.

McCarty sat down on the grass next to Calder, felt his pulse, and then tilted his head back and peered into the whites of his eyes. I held the lamp so that McCarty could see what he was doing.

“What's your name?”

“You know damn well what my name is.”

“All right, what's
my
name?”

“Thomas McCarty,” Calder said.

“How are you feeling, Doc?” I asked.

“About like he does, except I've done my purging in the basin in the room.”

McCarty rummaged around in his bag, looking at various bottles of pills and liquids.

“What do you think it is?” I asked.

“Food poisoning,” McCarty said. “Influenza. Or a hundred other things. I'm sorry I was no help today, Ophie. Have you learned anything so far?”

“Precious little,” I said. “There's no sign that Hopkins was murdered. Everyone agrees he'd been sick for a while, with multiple concerns. It was his heart that seems to have killed him, but there were other problems. They said he was even going night blind.”

McCarty paused in the search of his medical bag.

“You're quite sure?”

“He was working the day shift because he couldn't see at night any longer,” I said. “The man I talked to was quite clear about that.”

McCarty closed his bag.

“Is there a pharmacy in town?”

“Yes,” I said. “There's a drugstore down by the post office.”

Young Delaney came to the door now, alerted by the hotel staff.

“How can I help?” he asked.

“Bring us some water,” I said. “And some whiskey.”

“Give me your ledger book,” McCarty said.

I retrieved a pencil and the ledger from my satchel, and handed it over. McCarty began making a list in his neat, detailed hand. When he was finished, he ripped the page out of the book and handed it to me.

“You go fetch that druggist straightaway,” McCarty said. “Give him this list. Here are the things he needs to bring with him. Where's that damn kid?”

Delaney came back with the water and the whiskey.

McCarty gave Calder the bottle of whiskey and told him to take a couple of slugs, for the pain. Then McCarty did the same.

“Now, drink as much water as you can.”

“It's going to make things worse,” he said. “The vomiting and the flux.”

“I know,” McCarty said.

“What's wrong?” I asked, suddenly afraid.

“Hopkins
was
murdered,” McCarty said. “Night blindness is a classic symptom of white arsenic poisoning. We can perform a field test to prove it, using the things the druggist brings, either on his corpse or if we have some of the dishes he ate from.”