Prairie Gothic (23 page)

“There's no place like home.” She favored him with a smile. “I come back to visit sometimes, only then I have to deal with the wicked witch.”

“Witch?” Mad Dog liked Dorothy. Considering how odd most people found his own world view, he tended to be tolerant of others. He'd never argued with her claim to be that Dorothy. She couldn't be, of course. That Dorothy was the product of L. Frank Baum's imagination, a fairy tale that had been embarrassing Kansans for over a century.

Patience wasn't normally a problem for Mad Dog, but this was an unusual day. Someone had tried to shoot him. He'd found a cache of old bones on the Irons/Hornbaker property, the burial place of an unborn Cheyenne baby, and other folk. Another baby had died because someone had been molesting a little girl. All that, and the Heathers were missing.

“Don't be silly, Dorothy. You're not in Oz. There are no witches.”

She sniffed and stiffened her spine. “I expected better from you, Mr. Wizard. Surely our county's resident Cheyenne shaman, of all people, isn't going to tell me he doesn't believe in witches?”

She had him there.

***

“I want you should show me.”

Judah had caught them by surprise. He could tell from their expressions. More than that, they didn't understand what he wanted. He could tell that too.

There was a strange iron box lying in the collapsed haystack along with the Heathers. If his mind hadn't been so thoroughly on something else, he would have gone over and joined their investigation of the thing.

They were sure pretty. He'd noticed that at school. But they never had anything to do with him. Hardly anyone did, even his teammates on the Buffalo Springs Bisons. He was the strongest football player in the league, stronger even than Levi. Girls were supposed to like football players, only he didn't think they cared much for linemen. If Coach would let him play quarterback maybe girls would like him better. Pretty girls, like the Heathers.

They looked a lot alike. He couldn't tell them apart, but he didn't care.

“Come on,” he urged. “Show me.”

All that accomplished was to get them back on their feet. One of them raised a sharp hoe and pointed it at him. The other one looked around desperately for a minute, maybe for the scythe that was mostly hidden under a broken bale of hay. Neither offered to show him anything, or seemed to know what he meant.

He had a secret stash up here, stuffed behind a cross brace that supported the arching beams above. He kept the girls covered with his rifle as he went to it. They watched him, wide eyed. They really were scared. That excited him even more.

He was having a little trouble controlling his breathing when he reached in and got his bundle. He couldn't really cover them with the gun while he did it because he had to pull himself up with one hand and then reach behind the board with the other. It was awkward, but he managed to get back down without dropping anything and they hadn't taken advantage of him and made a break for it.

He took the rubber band off and thumbed through the stack until he found the example he wanted. It was an ad for a perfume that couldn't be bought in Benteen County. He knew, because he'd looked on the shelves over at the Dillon's one time.

A young woman stood between the pillars of an arch. Stone steps ascended in an intricate pattern of light and shadows behind her. Her hands were balled into fists that rested on her hips and there was an aggressive look in her eyes that reminded him of Gran. He didn't let himself think about that part. Instead, he concentrated on the fact that she wasn't wearing anything but the perfume.

He straightened it out and held it so the girls could see. He pointed toward the appropriate places. “Show me,” he repeated. He had to stop and catch his breath. “Show me your naughty parts.”

***

On the bright side, Wynn Some wasn't cold anymore. Of course there was a lead lining to his silver cloud. Black Death was still on his trail.

In retrospect, he knew he shouldn't have stopped after he vaulted that fence to taunt the Brahma from hell. He should have been satisfied at being alive, not so pumped by his success that he had to strut around like some whacked-out football player doing a post-touchdown end-zone dance. It should have occurred to him that if he could clear the fence that easily, the bull could do the same.

Since then, he'd learned a lot about what bulls were capable of. They weren't sure footed on ice. Of course, he wasn't either. One of his worst moments had been lying face-to-face with a ton of thrashing muscle that wanted to kill him. He got lucky when the bull twisted, bumping him to a spot where he found traction.

He'd also learned that massive weight and sharp hooves were a disadvantage when climbing snowdrifts. As a result, that was where Wynn had been spending most of his time. There was a row of evergreens on the south side of the road across from the Irons place. Their downwind side had accumulated quite a range of drifts, all the way from waist to head high. They were tough enough for him to climb, and impossible for Black Death. Unfortunately, Brahma bulls were accustomed to dealing with problems of that nature by ignoring them. Through, instead of over, seemed to be this fellow's motto. Luckily for Wynn, through took longer.

His problem was that the row of evergreens petered out well short of infinity. Short, in fact, of the east end of the Irons' yard. About three more drifts, and a change of tactics would be called for. None occurred to him. The Irons' farm offered lots of outbuildings where he might hide, but there were people with guns over there. Ahead, or to the south, lay a wind-swept field without any drifts to slow the bull. Behind was the bull himself, following on Wynn's heels with the kind of loyalty he'd always hoped to inspire from one of his bird dogs. So, when he tumbled off the final drift, it was to a near absence of options. His only chance seemed some promising drifts that might slow the monster over in the Irons' yard. There wasn't a Hornbaker to be seen.

Wynn waded the ditch. Facing into the storm, the wind was sharp enough to open a wound, and cold enough to freeze it shut. He fancied he heard another wind behind him, the bellows-hot breath of the beast pursuing him. He was too scared to look, and too blinded from facing into the snow to see much anyway.

That's why he was so surprised when he glimpsed the monster charging from his side. He couldn't understand how the thing had turned itself such an improbable shade of yellow, either. It butted him with a single steel horn and he stopped worrying about anything.

***

“Be damned!” the chairman exclaimed. “Road's been plowed.”

He pulled into the side of the intersection. Indeed, the road leading west toward the Irons farm bore fresh tracks, and evidence they had been left by a bright yellow vehicle preceded by a blade designed to move snow, and the occasional Cadillac, from its way.

“Figures,” the sheriff said. “Everything keeps pointing to Tommie's place.”

“I bet Zeke Hornbaker was driving that plow,” Judy said.

The sheriff nodded. “I thought I recognized him.”

“You really think the kids are there?” Judy's voice was an odd blend of doubt, fear, and hope.

“Let's find out,” the sheriff said.

The chairman put the Caddy back in gear just in time to get out of the way of the green Blazer that grazed the same corner the snowplow had clipped. The Chevy went sideways as its rear wheels lost traction. It swiveled to face them. A familiar bald head peered from the driver's seat and nodded, then all four wheels grabbed hold and the SUV threw a spray of snow and gravel, aimed itself west again, and departed in haste.

“That was your brother in Tommie Irons' truck,” the chairman said.

“Party's getting crowded,” the sheriff observed. “We better join it.”

The Cadillac did a nice imitation of the Blazer.

“You aren't gonna believe this,” Mrs. Kraus' voice squeaked from the sheriff's pocket, “but I just found an envelope with fifty thousand in cash, and a passport and some other IDs with his picture, but somebody else's name, in Zeke Hornbaker's office.”

The sheriff fumbled the walkie-talkie out of his pocket. “Whose name?”

“It don't make no sense,” she rasped. “Shows him as Tommie Irons. And listen, there's some stuff about swastikas I remembered that you need to hear.”

***

“No.”

Judah hadn't expected that. He couldn't remember ever refusing a direct order. It was unthinkable. He couldn't imagine what would happen if he tried it with Gran.

The one who said it was just a little shorter than the other one. He could see some small differences in the two. This one's cheekbones were more pronounced and she had paler eyes. He wondered if there would be differences elsewhere.

“You got to,” he said. “I got the gun.” He showed it to them in case they'd forgotten.

“You know who I am?” she said. He didn't like this one much. “You know who my dad is? He's the sheriff, that's who. You can't believe what he'll do to you if you lay a finger on either of us.”

Sheriff English scared Judah, but Sheriff English wasn't here. Neither was most of his own family. Simon had taken the truck to town to help Gran. That meant just he and Levi were on the farm. If things went the way he wanted, nobody would ever know about this. Maybe he didn't need for both of them to show him their naughty parts. He worked the bolt to be sure there was a bullet in the chamber, then remembered he couldn't shoot the talkative one. She was supposed to freeze to death, unmarked. Simon had decreed it.

Working the bolt had an effect. They got even bigger eyed and more frightened than before. The little one didn't back off though. Not even when he poked the barrel at her to show he meant business, even if he supposed he really didn't. Instead, she swung the hoe at him. He took it away from her, snapped the handle, and tossed it in the far corner.

“OK. I'll show you mine,” the other one said. She reached up and undid a couple of buttons on her jacket. Then she shivered provocatively. “But not here. It's too cold. If you want me to take my clothes off, you've got to take us some place warm.”

The uppity one looked surprised, but she didn't object. In fact, her face relaxed a little. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too, maybe, if we were somewhere warm enough.”

That didn't fit the freezing-to-death plan, but the plan was no longer at the top of Judah's priorities. Blood that might have fed his brain was coursing elsewhere.

“We can go to the forge,” he said. “I know how to light it.”

“Show us the way, big guy,” the tall one said. “Light my fire.”

Judah practically ran across the hayloft. His was already lit.

***

The road had been plowed, but the plow had been at least a foot above its surface. There were tire tracks to follow too, but the tracks were rapidly filling and drifts re-establishing themselves. Mad Dog found it hard to believe, but the storm was getting worse. He could barely make out the trail he was following. It disappeared into a swirling froth of frozen foam just yards in front of the Chevy's bumper.

“They'll be expecting us,” Dorothy said. “Or someone, anyway. And they'll be armed. I think we best go in the back way.”

“There's something evil there,” Mad Dog told her. He wasn't sure he knew how to explain or if she could understand, but he had to try. “That was my brother and his wife back there at the corner. They'll be along any minute. I plan to see they don't get hurt.”

“Can't do that if you're dead. They'll have guns and they'll be watching the road. That's where they'll be expecting us, so it's where we shouldn't come from. Do you have a gun?”

“No. I don't believe in them.”

“Oh, they're real enough. Trust me on that one, Mr. Wizard. They have racks of them on the farm, everything from .22s to Kalashnikovs.”

He'd been about to explain that he meant he didn't believe in using guns to solve disputes. He had a petition in the Saab to require gun owners be licensed like drivers. No signatures on it yet, except his own. He'd been ready to launch into one of his pet political arguments until the reality of what she said registered.

“Kalashnikovs?”

“Yeah, AK 47s.”

He would have looked away from the road to check the expression on her face and be sure she wasn't joking, only seeing the road at all was becoming a problem.

“Why would they have AK 47s, and how would you know?”

“They were for some little war.” Her voice turned smaller, less confident. “And I live here sometimes.”

“Dorothy. You live at the Sunshine Towers.”

“Before that,” she whispered. “Sometimes, when I wasn't in Oz, I was an Irons.”

***

The air bags were impotent this time. They made better draperies than balloons when the bumper of the Cadillac encountered the rear quarter panel of the Blazer. The impact was harder than the one with the snowplow, but, like condoms, air bags were only intended for a single use.

It could have been worse. Visibility was so bad that they hadn't been going very fast. And both vehicles were on snow, a non-stick surface on which each could bounce away with a minimum of resistance. Still, it put Judy back on the floor behind the front seats and bounced the sheriff's head off the seat rest again. He saw double for a moment, but since he could hardly see anything outside, it didn't really matter.

“What was that?” the sheriff asked. His voice sounded far away even to himself.

“Tommie Irons' Blazer.” The chairman wasn't the least shaken by the accident. He'd seen it coming, though not soon enough to get his foot on the brakes. Still, he had the steering wheel in a death's grip already and the impact hadn't thrown him around the way it had his passengers.

“Mad Dog still in it?” The sheriff could barely recognize the outlines of a pair of Blazers out there. He couldn't tell if anyone was behind the windows.