Dead Reckoning (22 page)

Sister Catherine didn’t want to hear he couldn’t.

* * *

Sister Catherine led Jett to the front door, and indicated a ring of ornate brass keys hanging on a nail beside it.
“Here are the Keys to Heaven,” she said, pointing. “Even though Brother Shepherd has said any may freely enter His Holy Tabernacle, it would be wrong of me to encourage you to use them.” Despite her words, she took them down and handed them to Jett. There were almost a dozen of them, and Jett knew there was only one lock. She guessed maybe some of them opened things down in the cellar.

“I guess I’ll just … you … you want to come along?” Jett asked hoarsely.

Sister Catherine shook her head, smiling gently. “I have no need to peer into mysteries not meant for me. I’ll see my son again before tomorrow’s sunrise. That’s all I care about.”

* * *

I forgot my bonnet
, Jett realized as she stepped outside. It didn’t matter. Riding back to Alsop bareheaded wouldn’t kill her.

She was two steps across the compound before she realized she should have asked to take a lantern with her, and three more when it occurred to her she was holding a large ring of keys in plain sight. She wrapped a fold of her skirts around them and hoped no one would see her (though if anyone but Sister Catherine saw her, she was in trouble just to start with). This
had been supposed to be a
secret
reconnaissance. She’d been supposed to get in to the secret bunkhouse without anyone seeing her, grab anything written down, sneak back to Nightingale, and ride hell-for-leather back to Alsop. And that plan had gone south the moment Sister Catherine found her.

Well, I’ve got matches and a candle. I guess I could set the whole place to blazes and hope that settles things
.

And get out of Jerusalem’s Wall before anyone smelled smoke.

It was a relief to reach the bunkhouse again, even though she’d have to go back to the house afterward to return the keys. If she didn’t, Brother Shepherd would know somebody had been in his “inner prayer house.” Jett was pretty sure that wouldn’t end well.

Just as before, she closed the door behind her, then pulled out the candle stub and lit it. She stuck it to the floor beside the locked doors once again. Her heart was beating fast as she tried the first key.

The first key wouldn’t even go into the lock. The second one wouldn’t either. By the time she got to the third key, Jett had a horrible suspicion. She quickly fanned out all the keys on the ring and measured them against each other, then tried two more to be sure.

None of the keys on the ring Sister Catherine gave her would fit this lock.

It’s a trap. Oh holy mother, it’s a trap. These aren’t keys—to Heaven or anywhere else. They’re
bait!

Anyone unhappy with Jerusalem’s Wall would want to get into the “inner prayer room”—whether to loot it or to find proof Brother Shepherd was a fraud. His tarradiddle about people who entered his inner prayer house “without a pure heart” being struck dead was just a useful excuse for them vanishing.

Jett knelt in place for almost a minute, panting as if she’d been running. Her only hope was to get the keys back into the house before anyone else saw they’d been gone and tell Catherine she’d … reconsidered.

You have to. You run off now, and Sister Catherine’s going to tell everybody in that ranch house you were struck dead by an angel. And there’s one person at least who won’t believe it.

She had to assume someone here could track her back to Alsop. All Shepherd would have to do was burn the town to flush them out—or kill them. By the time Jett got there to warn Gibbons and White Fox, there wouldn’t be enough time to cover their tracks, let alone get far enough away they couldn’t be spotted.

You have to take those keys back to the house and tell Sister Catherine you lost your nerve. She’ll believe that
.

She pushed herself to her feet. Only when she was halfway to the door did she realize she’d left the
candle burning. It was hard to go back and snuff it out. It was even harder to open the bunkhouse door, and Jett nearly forgot to bolt it again.

Jett glanced toward the sky as she stepped out into the sun. Her stomach knotted. It was almost noon.

Hurry!
she told herself.

Head down, keys clutched in her fist, she crossed the compound as quickly as she dared.

“Hold up, girl!” a man called out. Jett stopped. She had to. Any female who belonged here would. She shoved the keys into a fold of her skirts and turned, then drew a quick sharp breath.

It was Brother Raymond. He was red-faced and sweating and kept pulling his hat off to fan himself and putting it back on as he hurried toward her. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

“Ahhh … the kitchen!” Jett said desperately. It was plain to see that Brother Raymond didn’t connect the female he was bullying with Jett Galatin, gunslinger. That was a piece of luck. Unfortunately, her ability to tell a convincing story seemed to have vanished.

Brother Raymond’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Kitchen’s that way,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the house. “All there is where you were coming from is—What are you hiding there?”

He grabbed at her arm. Jett jerked free, but the
movement had brought the keys into sight. Brother Raymond grabbed them, then grabbed her wrist. “Spying, were you?” he demanded.

“Let me go!” Jett gasped, trying to twist free.

But Brother Raymond was already shouting for help.

The draperies had been closed before Jett was brought to Brother Shepherd’s study (again). The only light came from the lamp on the desk. She sat on a chair facing the desk. Her wrists were handcuffed behind her back. The cuffs were chained to one of the chair rungs with a second chain, and it was padlocked. The key to the padlock was lying in the center of the desktop. Even if she could get out of the cuffs, the chain went around her waist, too, so she’d still be chained to the chair unless she could get the key and get at the padlock. (It was a good heavy oak chair, too. She probably couldn’t smash it.)

She couldn’t even try, because she wasn’t alone.

“What’s your name, girl? Your
real
name. Don’t be afraid.”

Brother Shepherd’s hands were folded on the desktop. He was smiling, doing his best to look kindly, but Jett could see the wolf under the fleece.

“I reckon I’d be less afraid if I wasn’t chained up like a lockbox,” Jett answered sharply.

“What did you come here to steal?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard her. “We’re a small and humble congregation of good Christian men and women. We have nothing of value.”

Jett couldn’t keep herself from glancing around the library in disbelief. Just one of the gold crosses on the wall behind him was the price of a blood horse.

Brother Shepherd’s smile faded, as if she’d mocked him aloud. His expression sharpened. “Sister Catherine said this was where she found you. Was any of the story you told her true?”

“I don’t know—” Jett began. She broke off as Brother Shepherd got to his feet and strode quickly around the desk. He took her chin in his hand and forced it upward, peering at her intently. She struggled to shake him off, but his grip was too strong.

“You’ve been here before,” he said, releasing her. “You were dressed as a boy.”

She hoped the galvanizing shock of fear that hit
her didn’t show in her face. She struggled to keep it hidden.

He looked shocked at the thought—and impressed, too, which was the last thing she wanted. “I don’t—” she said, trying to buy some time.

“Oh, don’t bother lying,” Brother Shepherd said, waving her words away. “It was you. You called yourself Jett Gallatin. You told Sister Agatha you were looking for your brother. But you weren’t. You’d come to spy—or to steal. Do you even
have
a brother, I wonder?”

“You go to blazes!” Jett snapped, letting anger take away her fear. “T’ain’t none of your business!”

“And where’s your horse? A magnificent animal, I do admit. He must be somewhere nearby. I’ll send some of my faithful followers to look for him. After all, you aren’t going to be needing him any longer.”

“You think I’m going to
join
you?” Jett blurted in disbelief. She wasn’t worried for Nightingale—Brother Shepherd’s “faithful followers” were going to return with broken limbs and smashed skulls if they tried laying a finger on the stallion. But—

Brother Shepherd smiled unpleasantly. “Of course I do. The army of the blessed resurrected is always eager to welcome a new member.” His smile widened as a shudder passed over her. “But I see you take my meaning. You’d already been to Alsop when you came here.
Don’t bother to lie. You saw the power I can command.” He leaned back on the edge of his desk and looked smug.

“Wouldn’t call it much of a power, Mister Shepherd. I saw everything you could throw at Alsop two nights running and got off scot-free,” she taunted. Right now, words were her only weapons. If she could make him mad enough, maybe he’d get careless. Or leave. Something she could use to escape before he sent her soul to Hell and raised up her body as a walking corpse.

“So that’s your game! You want my discovery!” He pushed himself to his feet and began to pace back and forth in front of the draperies. “Do you think you can use it yourself? Whatever your plan, you’ve already failed!”

“Well then, I don’t reckon you’ve got anything to worry about,” she said tranquilly. She’d been afraid when Brother Raymond caught her, but now the calm Jett felt before every gunfight had descended on her, the same calm she felt each time she stared down someone’s gun-barrel at her own death.

“And yet—and yet—Yet it is for the conquerors to show mercy to the fallen.” He stopped pacing and folded his arms across his chest. “Before you die, I’ll show you what you came to steal.”

He walked back to the desk and pulled out a small gold key he wore on a long chain around his neck. He used it to unlock the desk and brought out an Army
Colt. She thought he might unlock her chains next, but instead he set the pistol on the desk beside the key and walked over to the draperies. He pushed them open, and then the curtains behind them, and unlatched and opened the French doors. The hot wind spilling into the room made the lamp flame dance and gutter.

Shepherd came back to the desk and picked up the pistol. He thrust it through his waistband, then picked up the key and walked behind her. Jett held absolutely still as he fumbled at her restraints. She heard the soft thump as the padlock dropped to the carpet. The slithery feeling of the chain around her waist coming free made her shudder.

“Stand up, Miss Gallatin,” Shepherd said. “I’m going to give you your heart’s desire.”

“Only if you shoot yourself with that thing,” she snapped as she got to her feet.

Shepherd struck her between her shoulder blades hard enough to make her stagger and fall facedown across the desk. Just as she gathered herself to knock the burning lamp to the carpet—the kerosene-soaked wool would go up like a torch—Shepherd grabbed the chain of her handcuffs and used it to haul her to her feet.

“Now, now, my dear girl, there’s no need to act the termagant with me. I’m only the groomsman, come to conduct you to your bridal couch,” Shepherd said. He
pulled upward on the chain until her arms were bent painfully behind her back. She started to struggle until she felt the cold metal of his pistol against her neck.

Shepherd pushed her toward the open doors. She’d thought of screaming and trying to get away as she was marched through the house: all Shepherd could have done was tell his followers to ignore her. Or shoot her. But they were going around the outside of the building.

The air was baking hot and utterly still. Heat radiated from the adobe wall, and the shards of broken roof-tiles—the usual substitute for gravel or for crushed shells—crunched under their boots. They reached the front of the house and began the long walk across the compound. There were a few windows on this side. Anybody riding up to the front wouldn’t see anything amiss—at least in the main house. But somehow Jett didn’t get the feeling the Fellowship spent much time looking out the windows.

I know I wanted to find out what was in that basement, but being frog-marched there at gunpoint by a crazy Yankee wasn’t what I had in mind.

She could probably outrun Shepherd even with her hands manacled behind her back, and he’d have to let go of her sooner or later. But nobody could outrun a bullet. He wouldn’t even need to be a good shot to hit her before she got ten steps. She hoped she’d get her
chance when they reached the bunkhouse—it only took one hand to get the bar off the door, but to free a hand he’d either have to put away his gun or let go of her. But to her disappointment, the door was already unbarred and ajar.

Shepherd hustled her inside. He closed the door behind him, and Jett saw there was a lantern lit and waiting beside the cellar doors.

“Walk to the back wall and get down on your knees facing it,” Shepherd said, releasing his grip on the handcuff chain. Jett hesitated until she heard the click of the Colt’s hammer being pulled back. “I don’t care whether you enter glory with a hole in you or just as God made you. While I’d enjoy showing you my work, I don’t insist on it.”

Jett moved quickly to the rear wall. It was hard to get down on her knees with her hands behind her back, but Shepherd wasn’t taking any chances that she’d rush him while he was unlocking the doors.
He thinks I’m some typical nervous female. Maybe I can use that. How? Think!
She leaned her forehead against the wall and listened to the sounds coming from behind her. The chain locking the cellar doors rattled through the handles and the doors thumped open. She caught the scent of damp earth—and beneath it, the stink of dead flesh.

“Get up. Jett, Jayleen, whatever your name is,” Shepherd said.

“I can’t move with my hands behind me like this,” she said. She’d heard him cock his pistol before. Had he eased the hammer back down? Or would the next thing she knew be the impact of a bullet in her back?

She heard him cock the Colt again.