The Two Devils (18 page)

We went through a few towns. In each case, I asked a few folks if they knew anything about Venus? “Never heard of it,” was all I got back.

But, I had the map and just followed it.

Then, we came upon a badly overgrown road with a small handwritten sign that said Venus. It didn't seem very promising, but I knew of no other way to get to my deluxe room. There was not a soul on the road. Grass was growing on it. One would have thought nobody ever came this way.

"I'll bet there's another, newer road somewhere.” Paul snorted a few times. We rounded a bend in the road and came upon the town. After the gold rush, many towns sprang up overnight. Many of them were abandoned just as quickly. A rapidly decaying town of falling down buildings lay before us.

"Paul, looks like Miles has been flimflammed."

My horse just snorted a few times.

The Venus Saloon was still basically intact. One of its two large front windows was unbroken. I poked my head inside. A slightly warped bar took up most of the room. A faded painting of a naked lady hung crooked on the wall. Next door, stood the Hotel Venus. A dusty front desk sat off near the front door. Next to that, a rickety staircase went up to the rooms. A parlor was off to the side. One lone rocking chair was by the window.

I chanced the stairs and ventured to the second floor. The hotel was rather sparse in furniture. None of the seven rooms had any. I selected room three, then got my gear and took it upstairs. I parked my rifle and saddlebags near the door and unrolled my bedroll beneath the window. It was late. I was getting tired. The next town was some ways off.

My horse was snacking on some vegetation that was growing next to the buildings. A small creek ran behind the hotel. So, I figured Paul could keep himself occupied, and I decided to get some rest.

I slept for a while, then something woke me. I figured it was around midnight. I fumbled my way down the fragile stairs, but I couldn't find anything amiss. So, I made my way back to room three and went back to sleep.

The next morning, Paul greeted me at the base of the stairway. He seemed ready to go. I drug my gear down and was loading up Paul when I realized I was missing something. My prized rifle was nowhere to be found. I raced back upstairs, and the room was still quite empty. I searched everywhere I could think of to no avail.

"Paul. We're not going home. The coupon was for two nights and we're staying.” My horse did not seem pleased. “I've got to find that rifle."

An entire day of searching the town yielded nothing. I found no evidence at all of what had happened to my rifle. The little rundown town would not give up its secret. As the day came to an end, I found myself in the old saloon. There was a candle behind the bar. I lit it up and placed it on the counter. The room filled with a faint yellow glow. I was wishing I'd found something beside a candle.

After a few minutes had gone by, I found myself gazing out the window. The town was bathed in the harsh bluish light of the full moon. My horse was down the street, eating something that grew alongside a wall.

That whoosh sound people make when they blow out a candle is something I should not have heard in a deserted town, but that was the last thing I heard before the lights went out in the saloon.

Then I heard another noise; the hammer of a rifle was being cocked by somebody right behind me. Rather than waste time looking over my shoulder to see who it was, I simply jumped right through the window of the Venus saloon. Fortunately, I landed in the dirt without falling on any shards of glass. I rolled over, then jumped to my feet. The nearest source of cover was a wall that was all that remained of some café. I dove over it just as a bullet tore a chunk out of the fading blue stucco. I crashed to the ground, then tried to figure out who my enemy was. All I could see was the muzzle flash as somebody fired another round into the wall in front of me. I was pretty sure I now knew where my rifle was. What I didn't know was who was shooting at me—or why.

My first thought was of another Ah Puch assassin. But the previous ones I'd tangled with all came complete with their own weapons. This character had stolen mine. I still had my revolver, which I held ready to fire. Both the revolver and the rifle used the same ammunition. The problem was, I had no target to shoot at. Then, I almost wished I could remain ignorant.

My rifle moved out into the street—just my rifle. There was nobody attached to it. The rifle aimed at me, then fired. Another chunk of wall exploded. I returned fire. I guess that was part of the plan.

Nothing happened.

The rifle still sort of hovered there in front of the saloon. After I'd shot off two rounds, there was the faint glow of someone holding my rifle. It was like there was suddenly a man there, yet I could see right through him.

He was of average height and features, with a pencil-thin moustache and cold, dark eyes—the sort of eyes that look right through you.

I fired again. Bullets were not having any effect on this fellow, understandably since this ghost was already dead. I hated the notion of being killed with my own rifle. But that seemed rather likely as my rifle drifted farther into the street, floating in my direction. Behind the wall was nothing but open space, and my horse was on the other side of the town, behind my assailant.

Then I remembered something. God and Nick had both wanted me not to keep the titanium bullets. God Himself had taken back six of them and sent the Angel of Death to fetch the rest of the box. Death, being more interested in my liquor, had taken the box, but not noticed some remaining bullets that were loose in the drawer. I now had them tucked into the slots of my gun belt. Though I kept worrying about them, I had never been able to dispose of them. I slid one of them into the chamber, then made sure I'd aligned the cylinder correctly.

My ghostly assailant was now only about twenty feet away from the wall. He stopped and pointed the rifle at my head. I think I saw him grin at me. I pointed my revolver at where his midsection should be. He gave me a look, a strange look like he wanted me to fire so he could taunt me just a moment longer. I obliged him.

There was the muzzle flash and the roar of the shot. Then, it was like nothing happened for just a second or two. Finally, the ghost's features started to change. He looked like the surface of a pond that had been disrupted by a wave. He shriveled up and vanished. My rifle fell to the earth and landed with a dull thud. The ghost was gone.

The town was silent again, absolutely silent. I climbed back over the wall and picked up my rifle. I was surprised he had not killed me with it. I certainly would not have missed—not that rifle at such a modest distance.

For a moment, I even wondered if there was nothing special about the rifle and that I was simply a naturally good shot. I suppose ghosts don't get in much target practice.

Paul marched up the main street. He looked at me and at the rifle.

"Yes, Paul, we can go now.” And we rode straight through to San Francisco. We had to wait a few minutes for the first ferry in Richmond, then we rode back to the rooming house. I put Paul up, then headed for my place of employment.

The Captain was already there, even though it was early. So was the fellow with the misshapen head. I had been tricked with a free trip to some deserted crap hole. Both men were snickering as I entered the shop.

"Good morning,” I greeted them as cheerfully as possible.

The man with the odd head said, “Mornin’ Miles."

"Mornin’ Miles,” the Captain repeated.

I got my scissors ready and prepared for another day of barbering.

Both of these men kept watching my every move.

The Captain couldn't stand it. After two minutes, he asked me, “Well, Miles, how was the Hotel Venus? Did you enjoy yourself?"

I doubted they knew anything about rifle-stealing ghosts. And, sending me off to some deserted hotel for two days must certainly have given them plenty of amusement. “Splendid, simply splendid,” I declared.

They both looked at me skeptically. The man with the odd-shaped head headed off, and the Captain started sweeping the shop, which was normally my job. Nothing else was ever said about the Town of Venus again.

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Ever since I'd moved in, there had been a ‘For Sale’ sign in the front yard of the house next door to my rooming house. One day, though, the ‘For Sale’ sign was gone and two burly movers brought box after box into the house.

I watched them as I ate my flapjacks. The window from our dining room gave an unobstructed view of the side of the other house, which was where the wagon was parked.

"Don't you think that's a bit odd,” Mrs. Wilson asked.

"What?” I replied.

"All those boxes for just one man."

I had not even thought of that. “No kids or anything?"

"Not even a wife,” she said. “That's the second wagon."

I asked, “Where's he from?"

She picked up my plate. “I don't know.” She started for the kitchen.

"Most odd.” She may have been right on that, but I had to get to work. As I walked by the house, I noticed our new neighbor.

He wore black clothing from head-to-toe. He had dark, almost black eyes and matching hair and beard. He sort of looked right through me, then ventured inside the house.

My morning was uneventful. The Captain rattled on about the editorial in the
Examiner
that argued one of our county supervisors was a crook while I cut hair on the few unsuspecting men who ventured through our door.

Around noon, to my surprise, a woman entered our establishment and placed herself in my chair. She had rather short blonde hair, around ear length and at the collar in back.

I had not before seen a woman with hair like this. “To what do I owe this visit?” I asked.

"I'm Molly Madison.” She looked at the copy of the
Examiner
. I write for that very paper.

"I don't read the women's page,” the Captain said, “on account I'm not a woman."

That brought a look of pure ice from her pretty green eyes. “I do not write for that section. I cover crime."

"Preposterous,” the Captain replied. “Women don't write about crime."

She opened the paper and pointed at a byline of M. J. Madison. “That, my good fellow, is one of mine."

"Are you going to cut my hair or stare at me?” she asked, changing her attention to me.

"Perhaps, a little of both,” I said. I picked up my scissors. “Why here? They have beauty salons just down the street."

"Barbershops are cheaper. I live on a reporter's salary. I have parted company with my previous barber. You will have to do. Though, I was told there's one place down here in the Pacific District that used to have some guy who's so bad he'll cut a person's ear off. I hope that isn't you."

"Probably not,” I replied as I combed her shining hair.

"How reassuring."

"What brings you around here?” the Captain asked her.

"Well,” she replied, “There was a murder last night. Quite strange. The blood was completely drained from the victim."

"Heck, Miles does that at least once a week when he's giving his shaves,” the Captain responded, at my expense.

She seemed to shrug off his wit. “You don't understand, she did not lie in a pool of blood. The blood is gone, as in vanished."

"Maybe it evaporated,” the Captain said.

"I think that unlikely."

I don't know how, but I managed to give her a rather good haircut. Even the Captain seemed impressed.

At around four, the Captain said, “Well, another day and no one killed.

What say we head on home?"

I didn't argue. It was pork chop night. I always looked forward to that. A plate of pork chops and a saucer of applesauce were soon in front of me. As usual, they were delicious. I even loitered in the parlor and listened to one of the other lodgers mangle tunes on the piano. Eventually, I turned in and quickly drifted off to sleep. And I slept well, at least for a few hours.

I'm not certain what time it was, but I woke up at some point in the night. The lights were on in the house next door. I reasoned there must have been lamps burning in every room, save one. Extravagant for one occupant, I thought. As I gazed over at the house, I noticed I wasn't the only one interested in these goings on. My horse was standing next to the house, looking inside the window.

As fast as I could, I got my drawers on and ventured outside. “Paul, you need to stay in your yard,” I whispered.

We were not alone. “Get your thieving horse out of here!” my neighbor screamed. He was dressed in black and standing in the yard.

"Look, he just liked your grass.” I tugged on Paul. “Come on, boy."

My horse slowly complied. I thought it odd that the one dark room had a bowl sitting on the sill of the open window. And, that bowl sort of looked like a bowl of blood. It was dark, I reasoned, and it could have been something else. I put my horse in the little barn, as if that ever did any good. “Please don't bother that man. He could shoot you, or something.” I returned to bed.

My horse was still where he should be when I awoke the following morning. I hoped he followed my advice.

I spent the next day at the barbershop. Nothing unusual happened. At the end of the day, I sauntered back home. I'd been home, perhaps, thirty minutes, when Mrs. Wilson knocked on the door of my room.

"Mr. O'Malley, there's a lady to see you,” she announced.

"A lady to see me?” That seemed interesting. The lady turned out to be Molly Madison. I took her into the parlor.

"Pardon my intrusion, Mr. O'Malley, but I really need to speak with you."

"How did you know where I lived?"

"The Captain told me."

"Well, what can I do for you?” I asked, still baffled at why she was there.

"There's been another murder, right out on the beach. A teenage girl was found dead by a man fishing the surf for striped bass. There was barely a drop of blood in her body.” She looked at me, expectantly.

"What does this have to do with me?” I asked.