Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (19 page)

The truth was, I still didn’t know near enough. I hadn’t uncovered Palmolive’s ultimate plan, or what the Order’s future entailed. I had to remind myself he headed the Council of Five. His influence on America—the entire world, was enormous. How on earth did such a lunatic get elected to hold that high global position in the first place? I needed to move things along here … I needed to stop him.

But before anything else, I needed to find out exactly where the town’s high-voltage power source was located; it was either brought in from outside town, or there was some kind of generator here. Staggering around in the middle of the night, in the throes of withdrawal, was not the time to go on a search.

I was about to turn back toward the jail when I saw a distant horse and rider. There was something familiar about him. I expected him to proceed to the saloon, but such wasn’t the case. As he came closer I could see
h
e was actually a
she
, wearing the same fringed-leather jacket and chaps. It was blonde-headed Calamity Jane.
Now this should be interesting.

I took the opportunity to peruse her mind the last ten yards of her approach; and again, as she climbed down off her mount; then once again, as she tied her horse to a wooden railing.

Holy shit!
I dove left, simultaneously drawing my Colt and pulling the trigger. I didn’t have time to properly aim, so it was a wild shot—a Hail Mary shot. Unfortunately for me, I was a millisecond slower on the draw than she was, and I felt a stinging bite when a hot lead projectile seared the flesh on my upper back. Even in that instant, I was fairly sure it was only a flesh wound.
Christ!
She’d come here to kill me. No chit chat—no standing in the middle of the street, like respectable gunslingers did in the movies, to see who had the quicker draw. The bitch had walked right toward me and drew her gun!

I was on the ground, tasting the grit of dirt in my mouth and gasping for breath, having the wind knocked from my lungs. Even with all that, I kept the barrel of my Colt pointed in her direction. I eased my finger off the trigger. She was still on her feet but strangely bent backwards, her back lying over the hitching rail. Her arms were extended outward—almost Christ-like—her right hand forefinger still loosely on the gun’s trigger.

As I struggled to my feet, others clambered from nearby doorways, and a throng of cowboys rushed out through the saloon’s swinging doors. When I reached the now-obviously dead body of Calamity Jane, no less than fifteen others were standing right next to me. As if watching some kind of ridiculous ritual, one by one the men approached her, leaning over her strangely contorted form for a closer look, then stared back at me.

The bullet hole was precisely placed between her eyes, at the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were open and fixed. It was an amazing shot! I shrugged at all the open-jawed faces. “She drew down on me first.” I turned to show them what I knew was a bloody mess on my upper back.

There was a commotion at the back of the crowd. “Move out of the way … let me through!”

Billy the Kid emerged jacketless, his own gun drawn. He saw me first and then Calamity Jane. It occurred to me he’d warned me—told me—that when in doubt, draw first.
Did he order her to shoot me?
How come I hadn’t picked up on that earlier? Then I knew, that wasn’t how the game was played here. This place was a testing ground. Only the best would survive.

Billy the Kid, following the same look-see as the others, leaned over to peer into Jane’s unfocussed gaze, before turning back to study me. He smiled, then laughed out loud. Nervously, the others lightly chuckled at first, and then laughed uproariously right along with him.

Jude and Jordan approached down the raised wooden walkway. Both stopped and stared at the body for several moments, before Jude said, “You’re either the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet or one hell of a gunfighter.”

“Colman … you’re up at bat,” Jordan said, waving forward a skeletally slim man, standing off to my right. Easy guess … he was the undertaker. My guess, he was pushing seventy and, by his somewhat hunched posture, had arthritis or some other mobility-affecting ailment. Jordan and Jude eased her body from the wooden rail, each grabbing an arm. Half carrying, half dragging, they took Calamity Jane in the direction of the OK Corral where, I surmised, the undertaker’s establishment was located.

“Never had the opportunity to go up against Jane. She was rumored to be the fastest draw in Tombstone but evidently, she was not.” Billy the Kid holstered his gun and turned toward the others, and said, “Doc Holliday has proven himself quite proficient at aiming his pistol. I’d think twice before drawing down on him.” He headed toward the saloon, then turned back to me. “Get yourself cleaned up and I’ll buy you a whisky. Maybe see if you’re equally proficient at twisting the tiger’s tail.”

What he was referring to was the ancient game of Faro. It was, by far, the most popular card game of the Wild West played in any gambling house. Although not a direct relative of poker, it was somewhat similar. I’d played it once, when I was thirteen, but for the life of me now I couldn’t remember any of its rules. I nodded, and said, “I look forward to it.”

As Billy the Kid walked away, the others turned and followed after him. I stayed with him, mentally watching the images in his mind flash into my own. Then I felt what he felt … felt the pang of lust and desperate longing, and I saw her face.
What the hell?
… It was Heidi Goertz.

I found Room 27 at the top of the stairs in the hotel portion of the saloon. Standing next to the bed in the stillness … the stifling heat—I appraised the room, which was small and in disrepair. Faded floral wallpaper curled at seams and there were several round holes in the floorboards that looked to be about the diameter of .45 round. These authentic accommodations were a far contrast to those back at the lodge.

I gazed out the window at the street scene below. Listening, I could hear the distant, tinkling keys of the piano playing, the steady drone of boisterous, rowdy men’s voices, and the occasional piping of women’s laughter—sometimes screams. A large fly buzzed and skittered along the bottom of the windowpane—trapped and unaware of its inevitable fate.

A tap came at the door. In two long steps I opened it and found Lori standing there, holding a white porcelain basin half-filled with water, and a hand-towel draped over one forearm. She’d repaired her makeup and looked at me still with hesitant mistrust.

“Why don’t you take a step backward?”

I did as directed and let her pass by. She moved over to a tall dresser where she set down the basin. With her back to me, she said, “Take off your shirt and I’ll have a look at that wound.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, I can take care of—”

Facing me now, a wet towel in her hand and brows raised, she said, “That wasn’t a request … off with it.”

Easing the shirt off my shoulders, I flinched, letting the cotton fabric fall on the floor. I silently took a seat on the bed and faced away from her, bristling some when I felt the moist towel gently rub at my wound.

“It’s not too bad … probably could use a few stitches here and there, but you’ll be fine either way,” she said.

I spoke, keeping my voice a soft whisper, “Are there cameras … listening devices in here?”

She didn’t answer right away. I felt her scoot closer, sitting behind me on the bed. With her lips close to my ear, she whispered, “Yes, both—be careful what you say.”

I whispered back, “I’m going to get you out of this. I promise.”

I felt her wet-toweled hand hesitate above the wound, then lightly pat at it, before covering it with a gauze bandage. “No one can go up against him; you’ll get us both killed. Just stay out of it.” She stood and went over to the dresser. “You have another shirt in there?”

I turned to see her pointing in the direction of my suitcase, sitting upright by the side of the window. “I’ll put it on the bed for you. You don’t want to start bleeding again.”

She moved over to the suitcase, hefted it up, and placed it on the bed. I quickly moved in behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and pulled her close. I whispered into her ear, “I need to know where the town gets its power from … a power line … a generator … please, just tell me that much.”

She giggled and spun in my arms—her face inches from my own. She kissed me gently and again I felt the warmth of her body against mine. Her nipples, through thin cloth, were erect and pressing against my chest. Her words were so faint I could barely hear them. “There’s a small building across from the OK Corral. You enter it and it looks deserted.” She stopped and kissed me again, this time her eyes were open and hopeful. “There’s a trap door, always locked, and in-side are stairs leading below ground to a basement. That’s where they watch us—there’s equipment and monitors on the walls, and always a few men on duty. Palmolive spends a lot of time there late at night. I bring them their meals … and other things. Whatever they ask for.” Tears welled up in her eyes and she buried her face into my shoulder. She went on, “The building next door is the undertaker’s place … it’s creepy. There’s a door at the back, also always locked; inside is a room with, I think, electrical panels.”

She composed herself and gave a light-hearted laugh. “You’re a naughty boy, Doc Holliday.” Then playfully, and much louder, said, “I’m going to have to watch out for you.”

Lori pushed me away and made for the door. Opening it, she left without looking back.

* * *

I put my new Western-style shirt on as I stood before the mirror over the dresser. Snapping the buttons closed, for a brief moment I was startled at seeing my reflection—seeing someone else’s face stare back at me. The series of microinjections I’d recently sat through at SIFTR had dramatically altered my looks. In addition to experiencing several miserable, pain-filled hours, there were other, longer-term side effects from the surgery as well. Both Carmen and Baltimore warned me, and Pippa, too, about what was coming that first time we underwent a similar procedure, months earlier, for another mission. Apparently, altering one’s looks wreaks havoc on the person’s total physiological state, and fucks up our sense of identity. For me, I’d made it a point to avoid looking at my own reflection; avoid touching my face. But Pippa’s ordeal was even more impactful—I’d say devastating, in some respects. They altered her face, her breasts, even the contours of her body. When the mission was over, she’d lost touch with the person she really was. Part of her wanted to retain her new identity, yet the other part craved returning to her original looks and persona. Looking at myself now, the face of someone named Troy McAlister, I did what I’d found to be the most effective way of keeping my sanity: I stuck my tongue out and crossed my eyes. It’s always best to keep a sense of humor.

Before leaving the room I replaced the spent round in my Colt, then took several more minutes adding bullets into the loops around my gun belt. I grabbed up my Stetson, hanging from the bedpost, and left the room.

* * *

At the bottom of the stairs, I headed directly for the bar. I was keenly aware I was being measured by those sitting at the round tables and by others, too, their elbows propped up behind them on the bar top’s polished wood surface. Facing outward, toward the tables, some men were drinking whiskey from shot glasses, while others drank from large mugs filled with dark ale.

I dipped the brim of my hat in the direction of Butch Cassidy. He made room at the bar for me to join him, seeming genuinely pleased to see me. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he directed the barkeep to bring me a glass and bottle.

“Seems you’re adjusting quite well to life in Tombstone,” I said, bringing the small glass of whisky to my lips and throwing back the burning spirits.

“Hell, I’m a U.S. congressman, Mr. Holliday. A man of the people … a true people person.”

“That’s when you’re not robbing trains and banks and such,” I said, reminding him who he was supposed to be amongst the other cowboys, sitting and standing all around us.

“Of course. Speaking of which … that was quite a show you put on earlier. Had no idea you were so proficient with ancient firearms.”

“Maybe it was the company … Calamity Jane. You need to bring your A game against someone like her,” I said.

“From what I’ve heard she played for both teams—could beat most men around here in an arm-wrestle. But why she came after you like that … I don’t know. Maybe she thought you were some kind of threat?”

“Nah, didn’t even know her. But I imagine I’ll have a scar on my back to remind me of her for a few years to come.” I glanced over to Butch and saw, from his lazy-eyed, unfocused stare, that he was on his way to total inebriation. “Hey … you might want to get something to eat … take it easy on the hooch for a while.”

He awkwardly lifted the bulk of his belly off the bar and turned toward me, standing up somewhat straighter: “I’m as sober as when I walked in here, my friend. A man of my girth can hold more liquor …” He stopped mid-sentence, furrowed his brow, and said, “What the fuck was I just talking about?” He lowered himself down on the bar stool and took another pull on his drink.

I laughed and signaled a man over, wearing a stained apron. “Can we get this man something to eat?”

He raised his eyes toward Butch and made an exaggerated wide-eyed expression. “I’ll get him something.”

I turned around and saw a white-sleeved arm give a wave in my direction. “You going to be all right here, Butch?” He turned his eyes toward me and nodded. “Fine, my good man … go have fun.”

I grabbed up my glass and bottle and headed toward the table where Billy the Kid, Jude and Jordan were seated. There were five others standing, who looked to be playing. Seeing the faded-looking playing cards, I tried again to recall how to play Faro.

From beneath the table, Jude kicked a chair closer to me and said: “Sit,” without looking up. My eyes lingered on his scar for a moment before he glanced up at me. In his now self-conscious thoughts, I saw a rapid mental replay of how he’d gotten it—and what I saw surprised me.