A Touch of Camelot (25 page)

Later, he opened his eyes to see her straddled above him, her head thrown back as she rode his slow strokes, and the sight inflamed his heart. He grasped her hips and thrust into her until she gasped and shuddered above him, climaxing mere seconds before he felt that elastic shock shoot through him and he forced himself at the last moment to withdraw from her.

When it was over, they lay for a long time, their limbs entangled as their hearts and breathing slowed. There were whispers and caresses in the dark, and when she finally fell asleep in his arms, Cole was reluctant to leave. He held her and listened to the church bells of Old Saint Mary's toll midnight as he closed his own eyes. He fell into a shallow, restless sleep, a sleep riddled with confused, overlapping dreams.

He dreamed of Gwin and Arthur and Fritz Landis. He dreamed of the blonde on board the Union Pacific Express, except in the dream, she didn't just look like Cynthia, she
was
Cynthia, and she was traveling with the Oriental assassin, who wasn't dead after all. None of the dreams made much sense, least of all the last one.

The last one, though, would be the one he would remember.

In the dream, he stood at the foot of Market Street in front of the ferry depot building. He stood in the same spot where they had earlier boarded a horsecar, but there was no horsecar now. In fact, there were no horsecars anywhere. Likewise, there were no vans or drays or passenger conveyances at all, which wasn't surprising considering there were also no people.

The depot was an empty shell. And outside, where Cole stood, where just this past afternoon there had been throngs of busy-footed travelers moving from pillar to post, there was no sign of life. All was quiet. A soft, noiseless sea breeze wafted through his hair. Signs were strung out above the arches that lined the length of the sprawling ferry building, points of destination: Yuma, Portland OR, St. Louis, San Jose, Sacramento, Los Angeles, Chicago...

Chicago
, he thought,
that must be why I’m here
.
I'm going back to Chicago.
He turned to face Market Street. It too was deserted.

Then he heard it.

"Ladies and gents, are you bothered by the rheumatism? Consumption? Night sweats? Cold feet? Are you haunted by headaches? Back pains? A sick and nervous stomach? I have in my hand the answer to your prayers!"

Cole turned around. Behind him there stood upon a makeshift stage a gentleman dressed all in white. His dark hair was swept back into a pompadour. He stood in relief against the broad side of a tall wagon upon which was painted in bright red calligraphic letters:
Professor Throckmorton's Restorative Cordial and Blood Renovator.

"Not only does this miraculous elixir offer a cure for all these afflictions, it's been proven, ladies and gents,
proven
, to do more, much, much more! But don't—"

"Excuse me!" Cole raised a hand to attract the showman's attention. "Sir? Excuse me?"

The man on stage raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He scanned his imaginary audience as if for a heckler, but when his gaze settled on Cole, he broke into a broad grin. "Are you speaking to me, young man? Will that be one bottle or two?"

"Who else would I be talking to? There's nobody else here."

The man seemed to ponder this before nodding. "Point well taken, young man. Now, tell me, what is it I can do for you today?"

Cole approached the stage. "Where is everybody?"

"Where?" The man scratched his head. "I'm not sure, but I expect they'd be wherever it is that you last left them."

"I didn't leave them anywhere. They were gone when I arrived." Cole narrowed his eyes. "Wait a minute. We've met before, haven't we?"

The man chuckled and approached the edge of the stage where he hunkered down and crooked a finger to urge Cole closer. "I can see that you know how to drive a hard bargain, son, so let me tell you what I'm going to do."

Cole interrupted. "I'm not buying any of your tonic, mister. It's a fraud. Just like you."

The man drew back, feigning hurt. "A fraud? How can you pass judgment on something if you haven’t tried it?"

Cole started to answer, but stopped. The man had a point. He took another tack. "What you're selling is nothing but dreams."

"Dreams!"
The word reverberated across the deserted depot. "Dreams most certainly! And entertainment, young man, entertainment. Wherever you go in this world, the people want a show." The man winked conspiratorially. "And that's just what I give them."

Cole's jaw dropped and he stumbled back from the stage. "You're Silas! You're Silas Pierce."

The man in white stood and clapped his hands."Eureka! A round of applause if you please. No wonder he works for a famous detective agency."

"But—but you're dead!"

Silas stopped applauding and emitted a long, regretful sigh. "Ah, yes. Unfortunate but true."

Cole's initial shock at realizing he was conversing with a dead man vanished as he realized that this was a perfect opportunity to learn the truth about the murders. "Do you know who killed you? Do you know why?"

Silas clasped his hands behind his back and peered up at the cloudless blue sky. "That's a very good question. If only I could remember."

"You've got to remember!"

Silas paced the stage, snapped his fingers, and turned back to Cole. He squatted down near the edge and motioned once again for him to come closer.

Cole complied. "Who killed you, Silas?"

Silas didn't answer at first. He held out one hand, empty, and then closed it.

"Why were you killed, Silas?"

Silas winked, flicked his wrist and uncurled his fingers. Upon his open palm rested a fat cigar. "Care for a stogie?" His blue eyes sparkled with devilment.

Cole frowned. "How'd you do that?"

"One of the few advantages of being dead, my dear boy."

"You smoke up in heaven?"

"In heaven?" Silas flicked a match and lit up, sending puffs of smoke swirling into the air. "Only after a banquet. Now, in hell, I hear they smoke quite a lot, don't you know."

 "I can see now where Gwin gets her sense of humor."

Silas stood. "Take care of Gwinnie and Arthur for me. They're your responsibility now."

"I know that, but it would help if you could answer my questions."

He waved his cigar through the air. "I'd dearly love to, but I can't right now. I'm in the middle of a show."

"But there's nobody here."

"Of course they're here. The crowds! The crowds!" Silas raised his arms along with his booming stage voice. "Look around you, Shepherd! Look around!"

And he was right. Suddenly there were people. People everywhere. The horsecars were back, the air was full of sounds—bells clanging, conductors calling, and hooves on cobblestones.

"Oh, my!" A bearded gentleman bumped into Cole, searching through his vest and coat pockets."What time is it? Where's my watch?"

Just over the man's shoulder, Cole glimpsed a boy. He wore a black duster over baggy denims. The brim of a navy blue engineer's cap was pulled low over his forehead, hiding the color of his hair, but Cole would recognize that cap anywhere. The kid weaved his way in and out through the dense, bustling crowd, clearly in a hurry to make the ferry.

"Arthur!" Cole pushed by the gentleman who had misplaced his watch.

At the sound of his name, Arthur threw a glance over his shoulder. When he spotted Cole, he broke into a run.

"Arthur! Stop!"

But the boy kept moving, zigzagging his way through milling adults and passing vehicles. Cole knew he was earning quite a few stares as he pushed through the crowd, but he was determined not to lose Arthur.

The boy burst through the edges of the crowd and disappeared around the corner of the ferry building. Cole followed, soon emerging on the other side, and where logic dictated there should be boats and docks and the San Francisco Bay, there were instead cattle pens—dozens of them—all empty. And beyond that, for as far as the eye could see, vast, flat, barren plains. Cole knew where he was. It was the prairie. It was Kansas. Home.

He didn't take time to consider this abrupt change in locale. He was fixated on Arthur, who was now scaling one of the fences. The engineer's cap vanished as he dropped down on the other side.

Cole reached the fence and pulled himself up over the top slat. The boy was streaking across the empty stockyard, nearing the fence at the far end. Cole landed on his feet and took off. Arthur reached the opposite fence and scrambled up over it just as Cole caught up to him.

"Arthur! Give it up!" He snagged the boy's pant leg.

Arthur didn't give it up. Instead, he back-kicked, narrowly missing Cole's face.
"Give it up now, and it'll go easier on you!"
Cole yanked hard and brought the boy down.

They collapsed together, Cole landing on his back, hugging the boy's middle.

Arthur struggled mightily, but Cole held fast, rolling them both over until the kid was pinned down beneath him. "Arthur, settle down! Listen to me! Arth—"

The name died on Cole's tongue. The kid's hat had fallen off in the scuffle, freeing a flood of russet-red curls. It wasn't Arthur, it was ...

"Gwin!"

Cole sat up in bed. He could still see her face, different in many ways from how she looked now, but close enough to make recognition, once realized, inescapable. "It was Gwin!"

The dam had broken. The memory flooded back. Could it be true? It had been how long ago? Eight years? Nine? He thought he was about sixteen the summer his father had taken him to visit his uncle in Abilene.

Gwin stirred awake next to him and touched his arm. "What's the matter? Cole?"

Cole grasped her wrists and straddled her hips to peer down at her face. He was trying to convince himself it wasn't true, but light from the street lamp outside revealed enough of the lines and shadows of her features to dash all hope.

"Hey, what's going on?" she asked.

"It was you!"

Gwin tried to pull free. "What are you talking about? Have you gone mad?"

"I remember now. It was you, Gwin."

"Stop talking nonsense and let me go."

"Abilene."

Gwin stopped fighting. Her eyes widened.

"You knew," Cole accused, reading her expression. If he had needed any more proof that he was correct, it was right there, written all over her guilty face.

She closed her eyes and mumbled, "Oh, no."

"You were a sneaky little thief."

These words stirred her to battle. Her eyes flew open again. "Well, you were a crazy, do-gooding lunatic!"

"My head hurt for days!"

"Served you right, you lecher."

Cole gaped at her, aghast. "Lecher?"

Gwin tried to wrest free from his hold. "You heard right. You know what I'm talking about."

Then, all at once, he did realize what she was talking about. "Sweet mercy, you were my first..." He looked down to her chest where the bed sheet barely hid her breasts. "No wonder I didn't recognize you. You've grown."

"Ooooh, let go of me!"

Cole wasn't ready to let her go. "You knew, Gwin, and you didn't tell me. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't remember right away, and when I finally figured it out, I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be mad."

Cole released her and rolled onto his back beside her. He covered his face with his hand. "When I first saw you in Caldwell, I had the feeling I'd met you somewhere before. I thought it was my imagination."

"I'm surprised you didn't remember it right away, unless, of course, you so enjoy chasing terrified children through the streets that you make a habit of it."

Cole's hand slid from his face and he looked at her. "Terrified child? I think your memory is faulty. You picked that man's pocket. I saw you."

"It wasn't even your watch. What did you care?"

"I was doing my civic duty."

"Civic duty?" Gwin snorted. "You were crazy."

"Oh, so you think it's acceptable to stand by and watch a crime being committed?"

"That's not the point."

"That is the point. Suppose some old lady is knocked down in the street and—"

"He wasn't an old lady! He was some filthy rich cattle broker."

Cole fixed his gaze on the ceiling. "You'll never change, you know that? Your type will rationalize anything."

Gwin bolted upright, clutching the sheet to cover herself. "And you! With you, everything's black or white, right or wrong, isn't it?"

She sounded, incredibly, on the verge of tears. Cole resisted the urge to look at her. Instead, he set his jaw stubbornly and climbed out of bed to retrieve his clothes. "Not everything, Gwin, but some things are. Some things just
are
."

"And me. My
type
. If you feel that way, what are you doing with me, Shepherd?"

Cole took a deep breath. "Good question. I don't know." He climbed into his trousers. "I really don't know."

It was then that they heard it, a cry from the hallway, muffled footsteps, and a frantic banging on the door. "Gwinnie! I saw his face! I dreamed of that man again. Gwinnie!"

Before either of them could react, the shoddy lock tore loose, the door burst open, and there was Arthur in his nightshirt, standing in the archway, his face streaked with tears and contorting into an expression of shock. "Gwinnie? Cole? What ...?"

Cole could only imagine the incriminating picture the boy was confronted with. His sister, naked except for a bed sheet. Cole, bare-chested and with his trousers half undone, and both of them looking guilty as hell. Arthur might have been a child, but he was a wizard at arithmetic. He could certainly add two and two.

For an agonizing moment, none of them moved or said a word. Then Arthur bolted, leaving the door open, the archway accusingly empty.

Chapter Twenty

Gwin was not in good spirits. One full day and night had passed since that awful scene in her room, and, still, Arthur was barely speaking to her. Yesterday, they'd had an awful argument, after which Arthur had spent the rest of the day skulking around the neighborhood alleyways, shooting at rats and tin cans with his slingshot. Cole had been gone most of that time, launching his investigation into Silas's death. This had left Gwin with a lot of time to ponder the truth of Cole's feelings toward her.