A Dangerous Man (16 page)

Bill Longley sat in his dark hotel room, his chair pushed by the window. The boardwalk opposite was deserted. No sign of the woman, damn her.

He didn't regret shooting up the Negro street dance that time, but it began his association with Clotilde Wainright and her husband. That, Longley knew, was an ill-fated day.

Of course, no one blamed him for killing the blacks, except the Yankee law. But the white people understood all too well why he did it.

As old Colonel Thaddeus Walker, the Tiger of Kennesaw Mountain, told him, “By what God-given right do the sons and grandsons of slaves dance in the street while the South lies bleeding?”

Longley nodded to himself, remembering . . .

He and Johnson McKowen, as fine a man and as true a patriot as ever lived, were returning from a horse race down Lexington, Texas way when they saw a swarm of Negroes drinking and dancing in the street.

They were celebrating victory day, they said.

 

 

Longley's eyes glittered in the darkness. Yes, the blacks had been whooping it up over the defeat of the South, the deaths of so many fine men and the end of the Noble Cause.

“Such deviltry could not stand,” Longley whispered to himself. “I could not let it stand.”

 

 

He and McKowen rode their horses off a ways and then drew their revolvers.

“We'll make but one pass, so shoot to kill, Johnson,” Longley said.

The other man nodded and set spurs to his mount.

Guns blazing, hollering the grand old Rebel yell, the galloping horsemen crashed into the packed ranks of the celebrating crowd. Men and women went down under the blazing guns and blood stained the dusty street.

The Yankee law tried to play down the incident, saying it was the deed of desperadoes acting alone and did not reflect any hatred between black and white.

 

 

Longley closed his pale eyes. Two dead and three wounded, the authorities had said. That ridiculous figure made him smile. His Dance revolvers had claimed at least eight blacks, all head or belly shots, and McKowen had downed close to that number.

Longley figured in those few moments of hell-firing glory fifteen or sixteen Negroes had bitten the dust. They'd never celebrate their victory day again, damn them.

Shots hammering into the night roused him from his reverie. That was strange. The only man allowed to shoot a gun in Comanche Crossing was him.

He listened, his face intent, ready to catch any sound.

He heard nothing but the wind.

Sullivan?

No. Why would he shoot at anybody? The only outlaws in town were Longley and Booker. Sullivan didn't have the sand to brace either one.

Longley sat back in his chair and dismissed the gunshots from his mind. It was probably some scared housewife taking pots at a scavenging coyote.

He rose to his feet and stretched. Ah well, time he was in bed.

Someone tapped on the door.

Longley's gun came up fast. “Who's there?” He stood still, rigid as a steel rod.

“Clotilde.”

A jolt of surprise almost staggered him. “What do you want?”

“We must talk.”

“Who's with you?”

“Only Dr. Cheng.”

Longley turned the key in the lock, then stepped back, the big Dance up and ready.

“May we come in?” Lady Wainright asked. “Or are you planning to shoot us both?”

“Sit in the chair, Clotilde,” Longley said. “Cheng, get into the corner.” He stepped to the lamp.

“No, please, no light,” Clotilde said.

The bed creaked as Longley sat on the edge of the mattress.

The woman composed her slim hands on her lap and stared through the gloom at the gunman. Fat snowflakes rambled past the window. “I have a proposition. I very much hope you will take it.”

“I can guess what it is and the answer is no,” Longley said. “It's a dirty business and I got sick of it.”

“You didn't used to think that, Bill,” Clotilde said. “I mean, when you were happy to take my money.”

“The British hung your husband for it. Isn't that enough for you?”

“Anglo-Saxon barbarians. Arthur should have been made a Knight of the Garter, not executed.”

“The Chinese killed for the old man. Ain't that right, Cheng?” Longley smirked.

The Oriental's eyes were on fire. “You did your own share of killing in Louisiana,” Cheng said. “And you made money.”

“I killed only blacks and swamp Indians,” Longley pointed out righteously. “Their lives came cheap. Nobody cared about their loss.”

“Professor Joran Van Dorn is in Santa Fe,” Clotilde said, changing the subject abruptly.

Longley shook his head. “Never heard of him. Yet another of your fine doctor friends, Clotilde?”

“He's probably the most skilled surgeon in the country. His knowledge of the human anatomy is second to none.”

“And you've been supplying him with cadavers,” Longley said, figuring it out.

“Professor Van Dorn and others.” Clotilde's smile was cold enough to freeze the air around her. “Santa Fe has recently become quite a center for Boston and New York medical men.”

“Because of you and Cheng, huh? Comanche Crossing's resident Resurrectionists.”

“You choose to be flippant, Bill,” the woman said. “Please don't continue in that vein. Flippancy doesn't become you.”

Longley thought he heard Cheng growl, but he could not be certain.

“I would also like to remind you that I saved your life once,” Clotilde said. “Or Dr. Cheng did. He brought you back from the dead.”

“I was only half-hung, remember? I was still alive when he cut me down.”

“He brought you back from the dead, Bill. And please put that revolver down. It's making Dr. Cheng nervous and I don't want bad things to happen.”

Longley laid the Dance on the bedside table, the walnut handle facing him.

“What do you want from me, Clotilde? I never did find sleeping with you much of a pleasure, you know. A cold woman brings little comfort to a man.”

“And you always smelled like the grave, Bill. We were quite a pairing, were we not? Death and the Ice Queen,
n'est-ce pas?”

“I'll ask again, Clotilde, why are you here?” Longley was getting tired of the conversation.

“Professor Van Dorn needs a body, a young woman of child-bearing age, the younger, the better. Such women are hard to find and their bodies are usually jealously guarded by their relatives until enough time passes for corruption to take place.”

“There are no Resurrectionists in Boston?” Longley asked.

“Some, no doubt. But the law cracks down hard on doctors and body snatchers in that benighted town.” Clotilde leaned forward in her chair, her face bladed by hard shadows. “This icy weather helps keep cadavers in reasonable condition, but Professor Van Dorn wants the girl's body to be as fresh as possible. As soon as I have her, she'll be transported to Santa Fe by carriage.”

“That's a stupid arrangement,” Longley said. “Yeah, sure, put her in a carriage, but alive, then kill her in Santa Fe.”

“As ruthless as ever, Bill. It's one of your traits I've always admired,” Clotilde said.

Longley's brain ticked over. “How much?”

“Five hundred dollars for an unmarked cadaver.”

“That ain't much. Black, Indian, Mexican . . . make any difference?”

“No. The female anatomy is the same, no matter the race. But being pretty helps. The medical students like that.” Clotilde smiled again, narrow, pinched, humorless. “Can you do it, Bill? You've worked for a lot less than five hundred in the past.”

“I wasn't famous then. But give me a moment. I'm studying on it.”

“I don't want to know the details,” Clotilde said. “But your idea of taking the girl to Santa Fe and ending her existence there is an excellent one.”

“If I take the job, how much time do I have?” Longley asked, considering it.

“Professor Van Dorn, two other doctors, and several students are booked into the Excelsior Hotel near the San Miguel Mission. They will remain for a week. The hotel staff has already been bribed and they'll turn a blind eye. You understand?” Clotilde raised a pale, warning hand that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. “You will not be questioned as to the origin of the body, but it's best you do not volunteer any information. Just be sure you kill the girl before you drive into town.”

“I've done this before, Clotilde.” Longley stared hard at the woman. “What's in this for you?”

“I'm advancing medical science. What does the life of one girl matter, or two or ten, or how many you care to mention, when the study of her body may help ensure mankind's future? No sacrifice is too much to advance the knowledge of medical science.” She turned to Cheng who'd been intently listening. “Is that not so, Dr. Cheng?”

“It is indeed, my lady. The needs of the many must take precedence over the sacrifice of a nameless few. One day, they will make you a saint, Lady Wainright.”

“Hardly a saint, but perhaps a baroness. Well, Bill, will you take part in this endeavor?”

“Yeah, but on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I plan to rob the Comanche Crossing bank and everything else I can grab in this town. If I skip across the border into Louisiana until the heat dies down, I'd like to use your place on the Sabine.”

“Why of course you can,” Clotilde said. “I have an old caretaker living there, a Mrs. Guthrie. She keeps her mouth shut.”

“Yeah, I remember her,” Longley said. “She'll be no trouble.”

Clotilde rose to her feet. “Then it's settled.”

“Not quite. I want to take the girl to your place after I grab her.”

Looking troubled, Clotilde said, “Is there no other way?”

“Hell, I can't stash her in my hotel room.”

After she thought about that the woman nodded. “Very well. She won't be in my house for long. As soon as you've acquired the subject, you will head south for Las Vegas, then swing west to Santa Fe. That's the route my medical guests take. It's a two day journey, but Dr. Cheng will give you something to keep the girl sedated.”

“Two days? More like three and that's if the snow lets up. You ain't giving me much time, Clotilde,” Longley said.

“No, I'm not, am I? If you can't handle it, we can postpone the affair to another time. The three physicians will have wasted a trip, that's all.”

“I can do it. Me and Booker will have to push our plans ahead, that's all.”

“Then do what you have to do, Bill. But get it done.”

Buck Bowman took the opportunity to bend the doctor's ear about his recurring lower back problems as Tam Sullivan left the house and made his way to the boardwalk. The clock in the church bell tower struck midnight, but its hands claimed twelve-fifteen. Over the years, no one had been able to fix the clock though many had tried.

Despite his gloves, Sullivan's hands chilled in the cold wind and he shoved them deep into his pockets. He stepped along the walk, head bent against the oncoming snow, looking forward to his bed and a good night's sleep. Ahead of him, he saw two figures cross the street from the hotel. One of them, a woman, had hiked up her skirts to clear the churned up mud, the other was a small compact man wearing a heavy black coat.

Sullivan stepped into a storefront and stood in shadow, watching.

The woman's cape billowed in the wind as a huge dog appeared from an alley and trotted beside her. She patted the dog's anvil of a head as she and her male companion hurried on.

Sullivan recognized Clotilde Wainright by her tall, elegant form and fluent walk. The man with her was the Chinese man she called Cheng. What were they doing at this time of night and in a snowstorm?

There was only one answer—visiting Bill Longley.

Rubbing his chin with a gloved hand, Sullivan tried to fathom the why of the thing, but he had no answer.

Unless . . . Longley and Lady Wainright were somehow involved in the body snatching business. And was Cheng, no doubt trained in the use of a sword, responsible for the death of the undertaker and the terrible injuries to Ebenezer Posey?

It was a stretch, Sullivan knew.

Then he remembered the mud-stained carriages that often stood outside Clotilde's front door. Who were the passengers and where did they come from? Their purpose seemed to be much more than mere social calls to a beautiful woman.

Stepping out of the doorway, Sullivan was determined to find answers to the questions he'd asked himself. The savage attack on Posey had made things personal.

And Sullivan suddenly felt mad as hell. From past experience he knew that his anger was not a good omen . . . for somebody.

When he reached the hotel, he climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing, he drew his gun. Still not wearing spurs because of the mud, he walked on cat feet in the direction of Bill Longley's door.

A murmur of voices from within stopped him in his tracks.

He recognized Booker Tate's rough whisper and Longley's high-pitched, giggling laugh. Apparently, something about Clotilde Wainright's visit had amused him.

It had been Sullivan's intention to burst the door open, catch Longley in bed, and ask him at gunpoint what he knew about the missing bodies and the attack on Posey. It was not much of a plan to begin with, and probably a good way to get himself killed, but slamming open the door and wading into the fast guns of Longley and Tate while they were both wide-awake would be pushing his luck a tad too far.

Unwilling to trust the creaking floor any further, Sullivan backed off, walked down the stairs, and entered his own room. He turned the key in the lock and holstered his Colt. Bone tired, he unbuckled his gun belt and threw himself on the bed.

All he could do was wait and see what the morning would bring.