All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By (46 page)

Early Boy wheezed from effort, from the pain in his side as they climbed together down the embankment. He had his revolver in one hand, the small flashlight in the other. The light had only limited effectiveness. Jackson sensed the nearby presence of the hard-flowing, swollen river, recalling its treachery, the sudden whirlpools.

Despite the dark and the rain, Early Boy seemed to know where he was going. For Jackson it was a prolonged, slogging, panic-filled nightmare, tangled masses of branches and swirling waters from which there might be no escape if he lost his footing and went under, to be swept beneath submerged dead trees. Every grasping vine that fell across his body reminded him of the fate he'd so recently and narrowly avoided. He sobbed aloud, but the sounds were lost in the downpour. When he faltered Early Boy was quick to lend a hand, to urge and prod, demand that he keep going.

At last they came to more solid ground, approaching the
Stephen Mulrooney
from a different angle. The old steamboat was lit by the wavering glow of a hundred lighted candles in the peristyle of the oum'phor. They surged toward the dryness beneath the roof, curl of smoke from the coals in the pit, candlelight, the illusion of warmth.

Early Boy cocked his revolver, looking slowly around. He approached the buried fire, the forge of the Ogous, and touched the iron bar, the
okou-bha-sah
, half buried in the live coals. He jerked his hand back. It wasn't red hot, but it was hot enough to sear the skin.

"Tyrone!" he called.

"Here."

They both looked up. Tyrone emerged from the pilothouse of the steamboat, walked to the railing around the Texas deck, leaned on it and stared down at them. He was nearly naked, his body decorated with elaborately drawn, beaded white lines. It was an impressive, eerie show by the bar sinister.

"Even', Beau," he said.

"Good even', nigger," Early Boy said with quiet malice.

Tyrone shook his head slowly. "That's the way your brother Clipper would talk. But I did expect better of you." He looked at Jackson. "You still don't look so good, Dr. Holley."

"I've had a rather trying time of it tonight," Jackson said hoarsely. "Where's Nhora?"

"Just won't give up, will you? Don't you know by now she's not good for you?"

"Come down, nigger," Early Boy demanded.

"Might as well," Tyrone said with a slight, elegant, disdainful shrug. He came down a curved broken staircase to the boiler deck, a one-man parade, body glistening, swaying, his nostrils and eyes dilated with excitement. Rain poured down all around them; the air beneath the peristyle was sultry, becoming ominously sweet.

"I'll just have a look on the boat—"

"Stay put," Early Boy said tensely, his revolver trained on the advancing Tyrone. "Don't you smell it?"

"The perfume of Erzulie. My God—"

"I know, I know. Anything comes, you light out and stay low." He shifted his attention to Tyrone. "Nigger," he said, his voice cracking like a whip.

Tyrone stopped, smiling, but he still swayed and throbbed to a spectral rhythm which they didn't yet feel.

"Suh," he said, formal in bearing, cynically deferential. "Let it be known, I have always thought the best of you. I respect you, Beau, for what you tried to do for my people. For having the courage to leave Dasharoons, in shame and rage. You shouldn't have come back, Beau. But I'll allow you to leave again."

"About Clipper. How'd you do it?"

"He was eager to be corrupted. Ai-da Wédo obliged. With a suggestion or two from me."

"Thought so," Early Boy said, and without appearing to aim he fired the revolver. The bandaged little finger on Tyrone's left hand disappeared in a burst of blood. Tyrone whirled around, clasping the shot hand, mouth open in astonishment. Early Boy cocked the double-action revolver again, coolly raising his sights. Tyrone screamed piercingly. In one smooth motion he pulled the
okou-bha-sah
from the pit of coals and lunged. Early Boy shot him very near the heart but missed the breastbone and so failed to knock him down. The pointed iron ran through Early Boy's belly and emerged sizzling to strike the ground as Early Boy was slammed backward by Tyrone's weight. For several moments he lay motionless, pinioned, Tyrone leaning over the hot iron that was frying his hands, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. Then Early Boy raised the revolver under Tyrone's chin and blew most of his face off.

"Doc," he gasped, beginning to writhe. "Doc, Jesus, get it out of me!"

Jackson leaped over the splayed ghastly body of Tyrone, seized the hot iron, feeling no pain in his anxiety. He planted a foot on Early Boy's chest and heaved, hurling the
okou-bha-sah
away as it came out of Early Boy with a quick sucking sound. He knelt and clawed the poncho aside and saw the location of the wound, and knew it was bad. Not hopeless, but very bad. He would need expert surgery within the hour in order to survive.

Jackson broke open his medical bag for a syringe and morphine. Early Boy was crying from the agony, clutching at his belly as if he were trying to rip himself open. Jackson got the needle into him and depressed the plunger.

"In a minute you won't feel a thing," he assured the desperate man.

There was faint, suggestive laughter in the air. He thought he heard his name whispered. He looked up in horror, holding Early Boy tightly to keep him from doing violence to himself during the spasms.

"What's—matter, doc?" Early Boy whispered, as soon as the morphine began to work.

"She's coming. I've got to get you out of here, but she's coming!"

"Doc, listen. How am I?"

"You've got a chance."

"How much of a—chance?"

"I don't know, it's beyond my skill. But if I get you to a hospital—"

"What about Champ? Tell me, doc. How much chance has he got, with—the Ai-da Wédo?"

Out of the corner of one eye Jackson saw the surreal, shimmering light.

"Nothing—stops her, right? Except the fetish. Doc, come on, doc, snap out of it or you're a goner for sure!"

"I
hear
her!"

"Can you make one of them things?"

"I—I think so. But it's no use. It wouldn't be powerful enough, without—"

Early Boy's hand was on his arm, fingers digging in as a spasm of pain was partially suppressed by the morphine. "Without the bones. Okay, then. You're—all set." He grinned wearily, and raised a hand to tap his forehead. "Take what you need. Make it powerful, doc. Get rid of her forever."

Laughter, mocking them both. Daring Jackson.

"I can't. Don't you understand, if I get you to a hospital, then you may live. But if I perform crude surgery here and now, then it's the same as murder!"

"I don't feel lucky anymore, doc. I know how bad I am inside. So it's all the same to me. If I go—here, or in a hospital."

The level brilliance of her eyes. The infatuated, flickering tongue.

"
Jackson
."

"Carry me—out in the rain. Where she can't get at you. And get the job
done
, doc!"

When Jackson didn't respond Early Boy gritted his teeth and made an effort to rise. Jackson caught him as he fainted, stood bewildered with Early Boy in his arms.

Hearing the laughter, seeing the flowing, lightsome coils.

He closed his eyes and staggered, medical bag in hand, with Early Boy, carried him out of the peristyle and into driving rain. Laid him on the ground. Sat hunched over him, blinking, clutching his medical bag against his body.

Then, slowly, he opened the bag and took out an ampule of sodium pentothal.

Her sharp hiss of disapproval sounded louder than the rain. She hovered just below the roof of the sheltering peristyle, posturing seductively.

Trembling, Jackson injected Early Boy with enough sodium pentothal to insure that he would never feel another moment's pain, nor wake again.

N
hora awoke in sweltering darkness on the floor of the railroad car, body numb from the shock of passage, and she began to cry with near-hysterical relief before she was well awake, as if she understood that she had been badly used for the last time.

Rain beat on the roof of the car, as it had for hours. She felt a desperate need for the cleansing rain and got to her feet, naked but uncaring, left the car and walked aimlessly along the unlighted platform, arms crossed on her breasts, before venturing into the cold downpour.

In the dark, walking with her head up, mouth open to drink the rain, she stumbled and fell over the body of the dead stallion, striking her head painfully against the slick clay ground.

Lights drilled through her head. She looked up, dazed, rose to her feet, saw a car racing out of the rain toward her. She threw up her hands to ward it off.

The car stopped in time. She stood with her back arched, hands high, blinded. The car just sat there. She edged toward it, timid, then a little afraid, finally conscious of her blazing, wet nakedness.

A car door slammed and he came running toward her. He was as wet as she. His arms went around her. He had a bloody odor; vanishing quickly as the rain washed down.

"Jackson—Jackson!"

He was silent, shuddering, holding her with an almost violent need. She sought to kiss him. Something pricked her in the left buttock, and her eyes widened in surprise. She looked around, and down, and saw the syringe in his hand just as he withdrew it and tossed it aside.

"What—?"

"Don't worry," he said, but something in his eyes frightened her and she struggled instinctively. Too late, as her knees buckled and she slipped slowly down to meet the warm rising tide of the drug, allowed herself to be engulfed without making a sound.

I
n Nhora's room Jackson went through drawers and closets, making blind selections, throwing whatever came to hand in the large suitcase he had opened on the bed.

Hackaliah, in trousers and undershirt, appeared in the doorway, blinking, nodding, shocked.

"It's three in the mornin', Dr. Holley. What this all about?" He stared at Jackson's wrecked suit, the mud in his hair.

Jackson slammed the suitcase shut and turned. "Put this in the boot of the car while I bathe and change."

"Miss Nhora goin' someplace?"

"I'm taking her to a hospital. She's very ill. Critical. We must hurry. Do as I say."

"Dr. Holley, you all right?"

"Certainly. Are you referring to the way I look? I had—problems with the car. Had to change a tire. Nhora's sleeping in the seat. Be sure you don't disturb her."

"Yas, suh," Hackaliah said, coming for the suitcase. Jackson brushed by him without further word and ran to his own room.

In the foyer Hackaliah pulled on a slicker and trudged outside with Nhora's case. Something about the slack tilt of her sleeping head made him uneasy. He went around to look in on her. She was naked. He withdrew, and attempted to open the trunk of the car. It was locked. He took the suitcase back up to the veranda to wait for Jackson.

Presently Jackson rushed out of the house with his own luggage. He was clean and presentable again, but the feverish look in his eyes was, if anything, more intense.

"Oh, yes, the key, I'm sorry—here, I'll unlock it for you."

The trunk lid popped up. Jackson gestured for Nhora's case to go in first. Hackaliah was about to oblige, but as he swung the case up he saw the gleam of Boss's saber and hesitated.

"Go on, go on, didn't I tell you we were in a hurry?"

"Dr. Holley, where you be in case we needs you?"

"I don't know yet. I'll call. Don't worry. Everything's under control." He piled his own luggage in on top of Nhora's, slammed the trunk lid down.

"What about—?"

"Champ? You needn't worry there, either: plenty of liquids and bed rest, I'll—I'll see him soon. Tell him that."

He went quickly around to the front and got in, drove off leaving Hackaliah standing in the rain.

A
t first the
Stephen Mulooney
had burned slowly, very slowly, but as the candle-fed flames ate into the dry, termite-riddled hull and beams it very nearly exploded, consuming most of the velvet-shrouded body of Early Boy Hodges. Not even the hard rain falling could put out the conflagration. Eventually the old wreck burned to the waterline.

The roof of the peristyle failed to catch fire; Tyrone lay where he had fallen, gaining ripeness, untouched by cleansing flame and ash.

Even before dawn, and despite the rain, the rats had begun to visit.

I
n the Boss-room, Hackaliah said, "Don't like to wake you when you's sleepin' so good."

"She's slipped through our fingers?"

"I just didn't know how to stop him."

"Gone which way?"

"I don't know, suh." He waited, sipping hot coffee, frying to stay alert, knowing there would be no more sleep, for any of them, until it was finally over.

"Hackaliah, I think we better call the sheriff."