Ghostwalkers (15 page)

“It's the end of the world,” whispered Brother Joe. “This is the Beast come to conquer. God, bless us sinners and shelter us with your mercy.”

If Grey expected—or hoped—that Looks Away or Jenny would refute the monk's words, he was mistaken.

Blue lightning struck a telegraph pole on the far side of the street and it exploded into a swarm of splinters. The wires broke apart and drooped in defeat to the muddy ground. Grey and the others cried out and shrank back as jagged splinters thudded into the mud and rattled against the windows like a hail of arrows. One of the panes cracked but did not break. Even so, Grey spread his arms and pushed Jenny and Brother Joe backward. Looks Away flinched away as another azure bolt hit the stump of the telegraph pole and set it alight. The blue flame burned like a torch despite the heavy rain.

“This is madness,” breathed Grey.

“Madness,” agreed Looks Away.

Outside the storm raged.

It went on and on and on as darkness closed its fingers around the town of Paradise Falls and tightened everything inside a big, black fist.

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

After a while the lightning and thunder began to ease, but the rain continued to hammer down. The
thump
of frogs and snakes had dwindled and stopped after the initial cascade. Now it was only rain.

The four of them had long since retreated to the subjective safety of Jenny's kitchen and sat huddled around the table. As the storm eased, their focus shifted from the wrath of a perverse nature and more toward the others in the room. The men became increasingly aware of their state of undress, while Grey in particular remained distracted by Jenny Pearl's lack of attire. With disheveled hair and a curtain for modesty she looked like some fairy princess from an old story. Even in the weird blue light of the storm she was beautiful.

It seemed to take her longer, however, to begin feeling self-conscious. She was clearly not overly concerned about modesty. Not that she flaunted herself, that was clear enough. It was just that she seemed to be a practical woman. Very grounded, and Grey admired that as much as her looks.

However she did finally turn away from the windows and pluck at the folds of cloth she'd wrapped around herself. “I'm going to get dressed,” she said. “There's wood in the kitchen. Looksie, why don't you make a fire in the stove and set some water to boiling. Once that's going I'm sure you men can figure out how to dry your clothes. When I'm decent I'll see about eggs or soup. Maybe a steak, if it hasn't spoiled. And Brother Joe—you'd better get some hot coffee into you.”

“I-I'm o-o-o-k-k-kay,” said Brother Joe, but his teeth chattered the words into a stutter.

The hard look on Jenny's face softened. “Don't be silly. You're turning blue. If you don't get something hot into you, you'll catch your death.”

“I'm f-f-fine,” he insisted.

“You're not. You've got no meat on you to keep you warm, you skinny old thing.” Jenny chewed her lip in thought, then nodded to herself. “Look … my dad's things are still in a trunk in his room upstairs. You boys can sort through and find something to wear. He was of a size, so his stuff will be big on everyone except Mr. Torrance.”

“Call me Grey. And, thank you kindly.”

She nodded, appraising him. “Come along then. This storm's not going anywhere for a while and it's getting cold in here.”

With that she turned and headed up the stairs into the shadows of the second floor.

Grey lingered, glancing at Looks Away.

“That,” he said quietly, “is some woman.”

“Indeed she is.”

“What happened to her pa?”

Brother Joe said, “The D-Devil t-t-took him.”

Grey looked to the Sioux for explanation.

“Bob Pearl was a good man. Everyone called him Lucky Bob. He was a real bull of a man, a sterling chap. Tough as leather, but fair-minded and honest as the day is long. He did a lot for the people of Paradise Falls, and after a while it seemed like he was the backbone of the whole town. He hated Nolan Chesterfield and hated Aleksander Deray even more, which is saying something because men like Lucky Bob Pearl seldom give in to hate. He had a big heart, as the poets say.”

“What happened?” Grey repeated.

“What happened is that he decided he'd had enough of what was going on, and he went out to see Aleksander Deray about setting things straight,” said Looks Away. “He wanted to appeal to him to be more fair with the water leases. However he never made it to Deray's place. Or, at least that's what Deray told people. Lucky Bob's horse was found in a pit near the edge of the drop-off. It was dead, its bones nearly picked clean. I saw the body. The horse's right front pastern was broken. The evidence
suggested
that Bob was riding along the edge and the horse stepped wrong, broke its leg, and fell into the pit. It was a long fall and there were plenty of rocks. Our fine Deputy Perkins concluded that when the horse fell, Bob Pearl pitched over the edge of the drop-off and went down into the salt water.”

“His body wash up?”

Brother Joe shook his head and repeated, “The Devil took h-him.”

“Devil or not,” said Looks Away, “Lucky Bob's body never washed up.” He paused. “Around here the sea doesn't willingly give up its dead.”

Grey thought about that, remembering the churning water and jagged rocks. And the things that moved beneath those troubled waves. He shuddered.

Then he cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Our horses are out there somewhere.”

Looks Away almost smiled. “I daresay they are. And while I value horseflesh as much as the next bloke—and maybe doubly so since I am, after all, Sioux—if you are primed to suggest that we venture out in that rain to corral them, then—.”

“Don't!” said the monk without a trace of stutter.

“Not even a little chance of that, friend,” said Grey. “I was remarking on it is all. I was not and am not planning on putting one foot out that door until this storm stops.”

He almost added,
If it stops.

“Bloody glad to hear it,” said Looks Away. “I—.”

From above came a stern call. “Are you coming or do I have to carry this son of a bitching case all by myself?”

Grey grinned. “Yeah. Quite a woman.” He started toward the stairs then paused. “Looks Away—?”

“Yes?” the Sioux asked.

“I think we both know that you haven't been entirely straight with me about what's going on here.”

“I haven't lied to you.”

“That's not the same thing and you know it.”

Looks Away said nothing, which was answer enough.

“When we get settled,” said Grey, “we are going to have a full and frank discussion about this. About
all
of it, you hear me? Am I getting through to you on this?”

“You are,” said the Sioux. “And … we will. I think it's high time for that conversation.”

They exchanged a single nod, and then Grey climbed the stairs as the storm's intensity spun up again. It raged and the house creaked and Grey's heart hammered.

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“In here,” called Jenny Pearl, and Grey followed the sound of her voice down a darkened hall. It was a two-story house with a tin roof, and the rain made an awful din above his head. There were wrought iron sconces on the walls but the candles were unlit and cold. The darkened hall conjured an old memory in his mind, and he wasn't sure if it was real or something belonging to a dream.

In the memory, a much younger Grey—a boy still too young to shave—crept along a corridor like this but longer, with dusty wood paneling and the framed faces of dead relatives scowling at him from the walls. Unseen mice squeaked behind the wainscoting and their voices sounded like sly laughter. A dead cockroach lay on its back, one leg continuing to kick as if death's grip on it was tenuous. Cobwebs trembled in the corners as he reached the end of the hall and turned to follow a second and longer one. There were doors on either side. Shut and bolted. Always in his dreams those doors were locked against him. And even now, walking along Jenny Pearl's hall, he passed closed doors and felt deliberately shut out by them. Or … was something else shut in?

That was the secret of those old dreams. That was the thing that gnawed at him. At the self who walked through those halls. At the dreaming boy in his bed who sweated and writhed as his young limbs aped the movements of walking where he did not want to walk. And at the man he was now. Big, strong, experienced, armed, ruthless, tough by any standard. And all three of them, all three aspects of himself, were afraid. Even the gunslinger. Even the killer he was now.

Strength, he had learned through hard lessons, did not free you from fear. A life spent in combat and in small acts of violence, only proved to you how much hurt was there, how much danger. Bullets run out, muscles fail, stamina flees, and even the strongest warrior can find himself on his knees, weaponless and unable to raise his arms as his enemies close in around him.

And yet that sure knowledge, the understanding of his own mortality and his physical limits, were not the things that truly frightened him now. Here, in this strange town, with a storm raging outside that could never be called “natural,” with dead men who walked and ghosts who followed him, Grey Torrance feared the things he did not understand. He was not afraid of dying. No, he'd danced with Death's cold daughter too many times to fear that. No, he was afraid of what might happen to his soul if death did not shut out all the lights and close all the doors. What then?

What then?

Grey saw a matchbox on the dresser, removed a Lucifer match, and popped it alight with his thumbnail. He forced his fingers not to tremble. He lit both candles and was relieved by the warm yellow glow. The shadows retreated to the far corners and clustered up near the high ceiling. Not gone. Waiting.

Always waiting.

The thought, as absurd as it was, sent a small chill down his spine.

Outside the thunder roared. The wind shrieked in demon voices.

The last door along the hall was ajar and light spilled out onto the floor. Grey tapped a knuckle against the frame.

“You decent?” he called.

He heard a short laugh. “I'm dressed, Mr. Torrance, but I'll never make claims about being decent.”

Smiling, Grey opened the door.

Jenny stood on the far side of the room. The curtain and a mound of sopping frilly whites lay in a heap and she now wore a simple dress that hung straight enough to let him know there weren't too many slips and layers of bloomers beneath. She was buttoning the front and he caught a glimpse of soft cleavage. From her small curl of a smile it was clear she both knew he'd seen it, and that it was intended.

Watch this one,
he warned himself. Grey was not afraid of facing any man with gun, blades, or fists, but he had been brought low by women more times than he could count. Samson and Achilles weren't the only men with weak spots.

Jenny nodded to the corner to Grey's left. “That's the trunk. I kept my pa's clothes.”

“Can't let them go?” Grey suggested.

She shrugged. “He went missing but I never had a body to bury. It's stupid, but I … I suppose I keep hoping.… Well, you know.”

“I do,” he said. “And you have my condolences and my best wishes that he's out there somewhere. I guess it's fair to say that these days anything is possible.”

She nodded and bent to scoop up her clothes. He knew, though, that she was hiding the flecks of tears that sparkled on her lashes.

“He must have been a good man,” said Grey.

Without looking she asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Hard to imagine a bad man being loved that much.”

Jenny did not answer. She picked up the clothes and dumped them in a canvas-lined wooden washing bin. Grey busied himself with the chest. The lid was unlocked and inside the bin were five pairs of jeans, several shirts—most of them neatly mended—under drawers, socks, gloves, scarves, two light canvas jackets, and one Sunday go-to-meeting black suit. It occurred to him that if Mr. Pearl came home alive he'd need the farm clothes; if they found him dead they'd bury him in his church clothes. It was a sad thought.

He selected a pair of jeans and held them up, expected them to come up short, but after studying himself in the mirror he realized that he might have to roll the cuffs.

“How tall was your dad?”

“Six feet and four inches in his stocking feet. We used to make a joke of it and sometimes called him ‘Seventy-six.'”

Grey unfolded one of the shirts. The man must have been a bull. Narrow at the hip but broad in the shoulders, with long arms and thick wrists. Grey figured they'd fit just fine.

“Thank you for the loan of these,” he said. “I'll take good care of them.”

She turned. “Pa was a good man. A decent man. He used be known as Lucky Bob. Survived the war down South, survived the Indian Wars and some of the Rail Wars. Lived through the Great Quake without a scratch. When things went bad out here, people looked to him. You could, you know. Look to him, I mean. He was that kind of man. Even when everything else was going all to hell, Lucky Bob kept his head and saw to others. When we lost the first of the wells, he was the one who organized the people here in town to share their water and help each other with their crops and herds. Even if he hadn't been my father I would have loved him and trusted him.”

Jenny crossed to a small writing desk on which there were several photographs in hard-carved wooden frames. She removed one and stood looking down at it, her face softened by memories. Her breasts lifted and fell as she drew in a deep breath and exhaled it in a sigh. Then she turned and held the frame out to Grey, who took it.

“This is your pa?”