The Bone Orchard (5 page)

Ezra dined alone. It was a good thing too, because he had no appetite. He pushed his steak around on the plate, brooding. He didn’t know if it meant he was losing his mind, but he’d spent the last day with a ghost and now he missed him. He almost wished Jennings had been given one last night, so Ambrose could have had that time as well.

The things Ezra wanted to ask Ambrose, the tales Ambrose could have told him of his life. What good would that have done, though? He’d only have gotten to know Ambrose well enough to truly pine over him.

He set his fork down and cradled his face in both hands, finally willing to admit that he was in mourning. He hadn’t known Ambrose in life, but now it felt bleak without him.

When at last he looked up, dragging his fingers over his face, a man was sitting across from him. Ezra blinked at him, his fingers still covering his mouth.

“Ambrose?”

Ambrose grinned lopsidedly. “You should eat that. You’re going to miss the way a good steak tastes.”

Ezra peered at the meat he’d been abusing with his fork, then back up at Ambrose. “How are you here? I’d thought you’d . . . gone.”

Ambrose shrugged and glanced around the dining room. It was mostly empty. “No one in the saloon would light my cigarillo.”

Ezra’s heart stuttered, torn between elation that Ambrose was still here, and sadness because he seemed to be
stuck
here. “Oh dear.”

“Indeed.” Ambrose’s grin grew wider. He stuck his finger in the uncut portion of Ezra’s steak, then licked it as if he might be able to taste the meat. He sighed and shook his head at his finger. “Disappointing.”

Ezra had to hold his linen napkin over his face to keep from laughing out loud.

“I should have died eating a steak. So. What now? You heading back east?”

Ezra placed his napkin on the table and nodded. “I was, since the deed is done. But . . . you’re stuck here.”

“I reckon so.”

“What will you do?”

Ambrose lowered his head, sighing heavily. “Practice opening doors. That’s about all I can do.”

Ezra stared at him, his stomach churning, his heart hurting. “I’ll stay with you. Until you learn, I mean.”

Ambrose’s head shot up. His pale blue eyes were so beautiful, but there was so much sadness in them. “The living shouldn’t wait for the dead, Ezra.”

“Yes, well. The dead shouldn’t be sticking his finger in my dinner, either, but here we are.”

Ambrose rested his chin on his hands, pursing his lips. “I wonder if I could kiss you.”

Ezra dropped his elbow on the table and missed the edge, lurching forward before righting himself. “Pardon me?” he squeaked.

“I would very much like to.”

Ezra could do nothing but stare. When he finally managed to speak, his words came out a choked whisper. “I would very much like you to try.”

A smile spread across Ambrose’s handsome face. “Best to try that upstairs, or you’ll really look the fool.”

Ezra could barely contain his grin as they exited the dining room. He held the door to his room open for Ambrose, fighting back the butterflies in his stomach and the nervous little flip-flops of his heart. He liked Ambrose. Really liked him. Ghost or not, he was real and that was all that mattered to Ezra.

Ambrose turned to him, a wistful expression gracing his face. He removed his hat, holding it in both hands and lowering his head. He struck Ezra as bashful suddenly. Ezra’s nerves dissipated, and he stepped closer, reaching for the hat. His fingers wafted through the brim like smoke.

“Well that’s troubling,” Ezra murmured.

Ambrose glanced up, then tossed the hat onto the end of the bed. Dust rose from it when it flopped. Ezra met his gaze, wondering what the heat of his body would have felt like, the warmth of his touch. When they both turned to the bed again, the hat was gone.

Ambrose grunted. “It’s probably down at the bar, trying to get itself lit.”

Ezra took Ambrose’s face in both hands even as the man was laughing at his own joke. He kissed him before he could think twice on it.

He felt the chill of Ambrose’s hands at his waist. Ambrose’s lips were like ice against his, and still it was thrilling. But they pulled apart before that quicksand feeling could start, and when Ezra sighed, his cold breath fogged the air.

“Interesting.” Ambrose cleared his throat, wiping at his lips. “Burns a might.”

Ezra held his fingers to his lips. “Frozen,” he said, laughing. Ambrose laughed with him. “We’ll do that again in a moment, as soon as I can feel my mouth.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Ezra turned to answer it, motioning for Ambrose not to disappear on him. When he opened the door, two constables were standing there, looking grim.

Ezra’s heart sank. “What’s happened?”

“Judge Spicer’s been murdered.”

“What?”

“Beaten to death. We were hoping you’d come with us to look at the scene.”

Ezra glanced between them in confusion, then over his shoulder at Ambrose. The marshal was scowling at the two constables, but he nodded when he met Ezra’s eyes.

“Of course,” Ezra said, reaching for his frock coat. He followed the constables out, making certain the doors lingered open long enough for Ambrose to slip through them. As they headed down the sidewalk, Ezra lowered his voice to a murmur. “Why could they possibly need a Pinkerton from back east to look at a scene that’s local jurisdiction?”

“Only reasonable explanation is Jennings.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s why I’m still here,” Ambrose growled. “Because Jennings is too.”

Ambrose followed Ezra and the constables, working hard to keep up amid the bustling streets, dodging wagons that didn’t see him, horses who reared when he got too close, even walking through a man who then shivered. Ambrose grew violently ill for a few seconds as the man went on his way, before regaining himself and hurrying after the others.

Ezra seemed to remember to look for him every so often. Ambrose was grateful. He didn’t want to wind up back at the saloon, trying to light his damn cigarillo while Ezra was out here doing worthwhile things.

They reached the Palace Hotel and were shown to the top floor, where Judge Spicer had taken rooms for the duration of the trial. The door was ajar, a large ring of the hotel’s keys left hanging in the lock. A constable and two US Marshals stood guard over the room.

Ambrose trailed along after Ezra. He missed being able to nod to people in passing and have them nod back. He missed the air of respect that came when someone saw his nickel badge and tipped a cap to him. He missed being alive.

He was still here, though, so he intended to make the most of it.

“Why have I been brought here?” Ezra finally asked when the constables directed him toward the body.

“With Marshal Shaw gone, you’re the only lawman in three territories who’s seen Boone Jennings’s work, Inspector,” one of the men told him. His mustache dropped down past his chin, and it gave him a melancholy air when he frowned.

“Boone Jennings is dead,” Ezra reminded him.

“Yes he is. But after we seen what happened here today, we reckon he had a partner.”

Ezra’s eyes strayed to Ambrose. Ambrose shook his head. Boone Jennings had never employed a partner in any of his endeavors. He’d used people, of course, for robberies and charlatan work. But he’d never inspired the type of loyalty it would take for someone to want to avenge his death. In fact, Ambrose suspected he’d rarely left people alive after they served his purposes. He wasn’t the type.

“Let’s see the judge, then,” Ezra said. Ambrose hurried to follow him before any doors could close in his face.

Judge Henry Spicer was still in his bed. They would have to take the constables on their word that it was indeed Spicer, because his face was no longer recognizable. He was still in his nightclothes, the quilt over him undisturbed.

“He heard no one approach,” Ezra observed.

“Yeah, ’cause it was a ghost,” Ambrose said.

Ezra cleared his throat, like he’d been about to respond but caught himself. “Do we know what implement was used?”

The man closest to the bed pointed to a bloody shoehorn on the floor. Ambrose moved closer and scowled when he tried to poke it; his finger simply sank through it without disturbing it or the blood that covered it. “Weapon of opportunity,” he told Ezra. “That is the way Jennings likes to do it. He uses anything nearby, then leaves it behind when he goes. Unless it’s valuable, in which case he takes it and sells it.”

Ambrose hefted himself back to his feet. The knee that had given him so many troubles during his life no longer hurt. He was as spry as a billy goat. Too bad being transparent was the trade-off for no more pain.

“How did he pick it up?” Ezra asked quietly.

Ambrose shrugged.

“It ain’t all that heavy,” the constable answered with a frown. “It’s just a shoehorn. Took a lot of force to do what he did with it, though. Probably a man we’re looking for and not a woman.”

A blush rose to Ezra’s cheeks, and he gave the constable a game nod and smile. “Yes, of course.”

Ambrose chuckled. “You forget, don’t you?”

Ezra glared at him but didn’t answer out loud.

“Jennings also liked to take a small token of remembrance,” Ambrose told him. “Things he could keep to remind himself of his victims, small items that could fit in a saddlebag. You need to tell them to take a look-see if anything’s missing.”

Ezra repeated what Ambrose had related to him, and the two constables shared a glance. “We did notice his pocket watch was missing. He never went anywhere without it, but it’s not here nowhere.”

Ezra nodded grimly and met Ambrose’s eyes.

“This was him. Jennings. He’s back.”

“Inspector?” the mustachioed constable finally asked. “Did Jennings ever work with a partner?”

Ezra looked conflicted for a few moments before nodding slowly. “He did.” He was lying blatantly, but it was certainly better than trying to tell the constables that Jennings was a spirit back for revenge. “If this is . . . someone avenging his death, then the other members of the trial must be warned and protected. The lawyers, the jury, witnesses. Everyone.”

The constable gave a curt nod and turned to the two US Marshals at the door. “Let’s go ring the bell, boys.”

Ezra was left alone in the room. Ambrose drew closer to him, eyes still on the judge’s body.

“What bell are they talking about?” Ezra asked, his voice still a whisper just in case anyone was within earshot. “Is that a colloquialism I’m not familiar with?”

Ambrose nodded grimly. “Twenty years ago, vigilantes cleaned up this town, made it safe for respectable folks.”

“Vigilantes?”

Ambrose grinned. “Let’s just say trials ain’t an everyday thing out here.”

“I see.”

“They’d ring the bell when it was time to assemble. Got to where that bell ringing struck fear into even the hardest of men.”

“So they’re forming a mob?” Ezra hissed, his eyes growing wider behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “What are they going to track down, a ghost?”

“My guess is it’s more a warning now than a call to action. No matter, though, we need to be ready for anything. Including a lynch mob hunting down innocent people.”

“This keeps getting worse and worse.”

Ambrose let his gaze linger on Ezra’s horrified face. “You’re on that list too, you know. Only witness to testify.”

“I am aware, yes.” Ezra gave Ambrose a tight smile. “But I have you to watch my back. How did Jennings pick up that shoehorn? You can’t even grasp a door handle without losing your temper first.”

“Maybe it’s ’cause I’m calm most times. Jennings had the temperament of a bull with a band around his balls. Angry all the time. Might give him the advantage.”

“Thank you for the disturbing imagery,” Ezra said with a wrinkle of his nose. “Who will he go for next? It seems he started at the top; will he work his way down?”

Ambrose looked again at the judge’s body, sighing. “He’s not that thinky. He acted on opportunity and that was it, unless he got wind of someone having something he wanted. He probably went for the judge ’cause he knew where he was.”

“All right, so the more important question then, I suppose, is how do we find him?”