Behind His Blue Eyes (27 page)

“It's the lunar cycle,” he blurted out, excitement surging through him. “That's what drives him. Like any predator, he hunts during the full moon.”

“Bollocks.” Ash sat back with a sigh. “We had a killer like this in India. A Punjabi soldier who said evil spirits made him rape and kill women in the villages. Verra brutal.”

“Was anything taken from the victims?” Ethan asked, wondering if the habit of keeping mementos of their kills was something only Eunice and the Heartbreak Creek killer did.

“I dinna ken. The local tribesmen took care of it.”

Tait swirled the whiskey in his glass. “We must be missing something.”

“Aye. The killer. And we're no' getting any closer to catching the bluidy bastard sitting in here sucking down my whiskey. Come along, Rafe. Time to change the sentries.”

“Hold on,” Ethan said as they started to rise. “There's one more thing we need to consider.”

They sank back down, but impatience showed in their faces. Ethan felt it, too. Six capable, intelligent men, including a skilled Cheyenne tracker, against one sloppy killer. This should have ended months ago.

“Of the five murders—assuming the prospector was first and there are no other bodies waiting to be found—only the last four involved a railroad worker. So why the prospector? What's different about him?”

“He's local,” Tait said. “If the killer is local, too, it's probable that they knew each other.”

“And what was missing from his body?” Ash asked.

“If you believe his partner, Weems,” Brodie said, “a fair-sized nugget.”

“Which probably means he had found a strike of some kind. So who would benefit most from his death?”

“His partner. But Weems was the one who reported him missing.”

“
After
animals had dug him up and Thomas found his body in the rock slide.”

Brodie sat back, a look of surprise on his face. “You think Weems killed him?”

Ethan shrugged. “Why not?”

“Then why kill the other four?”

“Maybe to deflect suspicion from himself. Think about it, Sheriff. If you'd found the prospector's body first, who would you have suspected? His partner, Weems. But now, after four more deaths, all seemingly related to the railroad, he's hardly a suspect.”

“We need to think like a prospector,” Rafe Jessup suggested.

All faces turned toward him. The Scotsman's wrangler might not speak often, but when he did, his words made sense.

“You've struck gold. You don't want to share, so you kill your partner. Then a surveyor comes snooping around, so you kill him, too. You try to make the deaths look accidental so no one else comes snooping around. But suddenly there's a bridge line going through and workers are wandering all over your canyon. The only way you know to keep them from stumbling onto your find is to do something to scare them off.”

“He tried vandalism and fire,” Brodie said. “When that didn't work, he turned to murder.”

“Makes sense,” Tait allowed. “We need to talk to Weems again.”

“Even if he's not the killer, he might know of other prospectors in the area.”

“There's something else,” Ethan said. “The murders are getting more brutal each time. I think the killer is starting to enjoy it, and no longer cares whether his victim is with the railroad or not.”

“So?”

“So now anyone could be his next target.”

“Hell.”

The Scotsman gave Ethan a studied look. “When did you say you were getting wed, lad?”

“June eighteenth. Why?” But he was already counting in his head.

The wizard with numbers got there first. “Let's hope he's no' after you, then. Since the next full moon is the third of June.”

Twenty-seven

H
itching the bulky weight of the bedding higher on his shoulder, Ezra Weems carefully worked his way over the rocks and rubble strewn along the dark passage. In the confined space, sound was distorted. Sight was narrowed to the small circle of light cast by the lantern hanging from his other hand, and his shuffling steps became the whispered voices of the shadows dancing ahead of him along the rocky corridor.

He wasn't afraid. The voices didn't bother him anymore. He liked the dark. The closeness. The way light flashed on ribbons of water trickling down the walls and made them glisten like veins of ore.

But he knew there was no silver here. Or gold. Only bones and memories.

The deeper he went, the colder it became. The air grew damp and smelled faintly of piss and animal droppings and decay. He reminded himself to bring more blankets. He didn't want her taking sick and dying before it was time.

His foot rolled on a loose stone. He stumbled, and the chain hanging from the crook of his arm clanked against the rocks, startling him. He paused to listen as the echoes bounced along the stone walls. Would her screams last long enough to reach the entrance, or make it out of the airhole? If they did, would they give him away?

He laughed. Give him away to who? No one knew of these old tunnels. He had hidden the entrance too well, and the air-hole was hidden under a bush. Besides, trespassers rarely came this far into the canyon, and if they did, he took care of them. He wasn't stupid. Which is why when the railroader came looking for her—which he knew he would—she'd be so deep underground he would never hear her. No one would know what had happened to her until he hung her up during the full moon.

Jiggety jig.

Two turns left, a dogleg right, then the third opening past the airhole. He was as familiar with this maze of tunnels as he was with the veins on the back of his hand, and knew this was the perfect place to put her. Deep and dark. Even if she somehow slipped her collar, she would never find her way out without a lantern. And he would make certain there were no lanterns within reach of her chain.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig.

Stepping through the opening, he let the bedding slide from his shoulder and set down the lantern. He stood for a moment, listening to the silence, imagining her in the dark, hearing nothing but her own breathing and waiting for the sound of his footsteps. Would she hope it was her railroader come to save her? If he told her he would trade her for him, would she save herself? Or stay here in the cold, dead, dark until her mind snapped?

He'd seen it happen before. It never took long.

Whistling through the stubs of his teeth, he bent and slipped the chain through the eyebolt anchored in the rock, then snapped the lock closed. He checked the collar on the other end of the chain and the lock that would secure it to her neck. Satisfied, he straightened.

The cow's in the barn and here comes the pig.

By his calculations it was four days until the next full moon. If everything went as planned, he would grab her tonight or in the morning, bring her back here and have at least four full days with her before it was time to kill her.

He would make that time last. Build up the anticipation. Get her accustomed to him before he took her. And when he finally did, he would wait until the last second before he used the knife, so that when he thrust inside her, he would feel her body convulse as the blood drained away and the light left her eyes.

It would be the best yet.

Jiggety jig.

* * *

Ethan was being decidedly difficult, Audra thought, watching him across the dining table. He had dodged every attempt she'd made to engage him in a repeat performance of that delicious almost-audition, and today, he wouldn't even sit beside her at the group's regular Sunday-after-services dinner at the hotel.

It was as if he didn't trust her.

Catching his eye, she winked and bit off the end of a green bean, then with slow deliberation, licked away every drop of butter sauce.

He froze, fork hanging in midair, his gaze pinned to her lips.

She watched that tiny muscle in his strong jaw tighten and release as she slowly chewed. “Mmm, these beans are delicious,” she murmured, sliding another into her mouth.

“It's Sunday,” Lucinda whispered beside her. “Show the man some mercy.”

Audra dabbed the napkin at her lips, then turned to her friend with a bland smile. “I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.”

Green eyes twinkled with amusement. “I'm sure you do. Behave.”

Before Audra could respond, Edwina leaned forward to see around her husband, who was glaring at the next table where Joe Bill had built a snowman with mashed potatoes and was catapulting peas into it with his spoon. “Have you time for a fitting this afternoon, Audra? I've basted the overskirt, but need to make certain it drapes correctly before I finish it.”

Audra hesitated. Father had had another rough night, so he and the Abrahams had foregone services and dinner today. “If Winnie doesn't send word that she needs me, I'll try. But tomorrow is print day, and Mr. Bonet has asked me to check the typeset. Shall I come by after we finish?”

Edwina nodded. “If it would be easier, we could meet here at the hotel. It shouldn't take long. Lucinda, can we borrow your office?”

“Of course. With Tait off working on the Wallaces' new house, Maddie and I are spending the afternoon together. Come by anytime. We'll have tea.”

Audra glanced at Ethan, who was no longer watching, but was engaged in deep conversation with the other men. “Ethan will be out there, too. I'll tell him to meet me here rather than the
Herald
office.” Seeing Lucinda's questioning look, she added, “He insists on walking me everywhere I go.”

Edwina nodded. “Declan, too. I wish they would hurry and catch the killer, so we can get back to our normal lives.”

“I thought we weren't going to ruin dinner by talking about him,” Lucinda reminded her.

“Tell them that.” Edwina tipped her head toward the men.

“That leaves us four days until he hunts again on the next full moon,” Tait was saying. “Has Redstone found that prospector, Weems, yet?”

Brodie shook his head. “The man comes and goes as he pleases. Thomas is still looking.” Turning to Ethan, he added, “But he did come across some recent diggings in a draw behind the burned Prendergast cabin. Not sure who they belong to, or if anyone is still working that area. But you know how protective those prospectors are. They hate anyone coming around their claims.”

Audra looked at him in surprise. “You think that's why the cabin was set afire? To protect some prospector's mine?”

Brodie shrugged. “Four people and a dog moving into a cabin less than a mile away? Possible. Especially with your father's habit of wandering off.”

Audra felt a shiver of unease.

Ethan gave her a reassuring smile. “You're safe at the Arlan place, Audra. All the locks have been repaired and the guns are loaded and ready. Between me and Curtis and Phe, no one can get in unannounced.”

Tait smiled at her. “Those shooting lessons are going well, then?”

Before Audra could answer, Ethan cut in. “I wouldn't say ‘well.' But at least now she keeps her eyes open half the time.”

Audra narrowed those eyes at him.

He grinned back.

“Handling a gun is rather more complicated than you men make out,” Lucinda said, defending her. “Remember, Tait? When I tried to shoot Smythe with my new pepperbox pistol and forgot to load it?”

Audra gaped. “You tried to shoot a man?”

“In the groin, no less. What a mess that would have been.”

Ethan paled.

Lucinda laughed. “Don't worry, Ethan. He deserved it. But I never left my pistol unloaded after that. And a good thing, too. Later, when I went after his cohort, I was able to shoot him twice before Tait stopped me.”

“In the groin?” Ethan choked out.

“Arm and leg, I think. I was rather distraught at the time and was shaking too much to aim well.”

Audra looked at her in amazement. Serene, unflappable Lucinda? A shootist? What had the man done to break through her controlled reserve?

Not to be left out, Edwina leaned forward again. “I killed a vicious Indian with a shovel.”

“You didn't kill him, Ed,” her husband gently corrected. “It was the seventy-foot fall from the platform that killed him.”

“Well, I knocked him off.” She made a face. “Talk about a mess.”

Appetite gone, Audra set down her fork. She looked at the beautiful faces around her and wondered what other dark secrets might rest behind those bright smiles. She felt she scarcely knew them, even though she now considered these ladies her best friends. Her own secrets seemed rather tame in comparison.

“I daresay I've never killed anyone.” Maddie neatly folded her napkin, set it beside her plate, and smiled at Audra. “But I did shoot a man in the stomach right before Ash and his dog finished him off.”

Sweet, gentle Maddie, too?

“Looking back,” Lucinda said with a chuckle, “it was almost funny in a macabre sort of way. That poor lawman didn't know who to charge—Maddie or Ash or his dog, Tricks.”

“He deserved it, too,” Edwina put in. “He broke poor Maddie's nose.”

“And shot at Ash.” Maddie, Countess of Kirkwell and model of decorum, patted her husband's arm. “Naturally, I couldn't allow him to try again.”

“Of course not,” Lucinda agreed.

“And did I thank you properly for that, love?” the earl asked his wife.

She met his rakish smile with one of her own. “Several times, milord.”

Stunned, Audra sat back. These ladies definitely had some explaining to do. They couldn't calmly mention over Sunday dinner that they had shot people, then let it go at that. As their friend, she deserved some sort of explanation. Especially when she could see by the hint of regret in their eyes that these events were not as casual as they made them seem.

“The point is, lass,” Maddie's husband went on, “you do what you must to protect yourself and those you love. It isna pleasant, but 'tis necessary if you want to live. So mind your lessons. Keep your gun loaded and your cartridges dry.”

Ethan pushed his plate aside, his expression bleak. “Hopefully it won't come to that. Not with me and Curtis looking out for her.” Signaling an end to the subject, he turned to Tait. “Do you have an extra sledge? If we expect to fit the beams in the Wallaces' foundation this afternoon, we'd best head out there now.”

* * *

As soon as the men left, Audra went to the newspaper office, where she found Mr. Bonet studying several papers at his desk. He scarcely acknowledged her arrival, which told her she was in trouble again. The man was as rigid as a headmaster in a Catholic school, ruling with glares and stares and pointed silences. Despite his fine words when she had told him of her impending marriage, he had been quite aloof since then, and his disapproval seemed more marked every day.

They worked in stony silence. He continued to read his correspondence, while she checked typeset as quickly as she could so she could return to the hotel for her fitting. To keep abreast of the news, he wrote regularly to several Eastern reporters and subscribed to a number of periodicals and newspapers. Audra admired his dedication, but thought today was too fine to spend cooped up inside reading or setting type.

As she worked, she let her mind wander. In less than three weeks she would be a married woman. A wife. Forever after, she would be Audra Hardesty. She liked the sound of that. Mrs. Ethan Hardesty. She liked that even more.

Smiling, she wondered if Ethan was thinking about her—if Lucinda and Edwina were waiting for her to come for her fitting—why Bonet wasn't helping her so they could finish sooner. Time seemed to creep by.

Beyond the front window, the street remained deserted—since this was Sunday and all the shops were closed—and the bright afternoon was beginning to fade. She hoped Winnie had taken Father outside to enjoy the beautiful day. He liked watching the birds flit through the trees.

The sun was slipping behind the high canyon wall when Mr. Bonet finally set aside his papers. She was aware of him studying her, one ink-stained finger impatiently tapping the arm of his chair. But as she was unable to think of a reason why he should be cross with her, she refused to be baited into asking him what was wrong, and continued checking the typeset for errors—a difficult undertaking when one's mind wandered, since they read backward when set into the slots.

“Miss Pearsall,” he finally said. “Are you acquainted with a man named Richard Villars?”

She startled, then collected herself and continued studying the letters. “I am. Why do you ask?”

“I've been in correspondence with him.”

“Have you?” She faced him, her fingers gripping her skirts. “About what?”

“Your father.”

She waited, dread building, knowing he had more to say.

Abruptly, he rose and moved to look out the front window, hands clasped behind his back. “Percival Prendergast Pearsall. An unusual name. And vaguely familiar. I remembered you were from Baltimore, and checked with the newspaper there. Which led me to the Baltimore Society of Learned Historians. Which led me to Richard Villars.” Turning, he gave her a tight smile, his face so flushed his freckles scarcely showed. “Another suitor, perhaps?”

“I'd rather not discuss it, Mr. Bonet.”

His flush deepened. “Of course.” He paced from the window to the desk, then slowly around the bulky printing press. “Still, you can imagine my surprise when he wrote that your father was supposed to be studying ancient Indian ruins in New Mexico, rather than here, in Heartbreak Creek.”

“We altered our plans.”

“Did you? I wonder why?”