Shadow on the Sun (11 page)

He knocked once more and said, “Professor Dodge?”

There was no answer. “Are you in there?” he asked loudly.

Silence. He grunted in frustration and started to turn away.

“Who is it?” he heard Dodge ask from inside the room, his voice tight and barely audible.

“Billjohn Finley,” he answered.

“Who?” The question sounded faintly.

“Finley.” He grimaced with irritation. “The Indian agent.”

Silence again. Now what? Finley wondered. Was the man going to let him in or not?

“What do you want?” Dodge asked. There was no mistaking it now; what he heard was the voice of a frightened man.

“I'd like to talk with you,” Finley said, trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice.

“What about?” Dodge demanded.

For Christ's sake, Finley thought. What the hell is wrong with the man?

Then he thought of everything that had happened since yesterday. If Dodge was part of it, it was not surprising that he'd sound disturbed.

“I want to talk to you about that man,” Finley said, somehow knowing that Dodge would know exactly what he meant.

Silence. What was Dodge doing? he wondered. And was he actually going to open the door?

“Are you alone?” Dodge's thin voice drifted through the door.

“Yes,” Finley answered.

Another few seconds passed. Then Finley heard the door being unlocked. It didn't open. “Come in,” Dodge said.

Finley opened the door and stopped short.

Dodge was pointing a derringer at his chest.

Finley's hands flew up, palms spread. “For God's sake,” he said.

The professor lowered the derringer. “Come in, come in,” he said. As Finley did, Dodge shut the door quickly and relocked it. That lock wouldn't do much good if that man chose to break the door open, Finley thought.

Then he was looking at Dodge's face, knowing in an instant that the professor was very much a part of the strange events which had taken place. The small man's expression, while not as exaggerated by shock, very much reminded him of the look on Little Owl's face. The look on Al Corcoran's face.

The look of a man confronted by total, overpowering terror.

F
inley
glanced toward the bed. Dodge had thrown two suitcases across the mattress and begun to pack them—if flinging articles of clothing into them with clumsy haste could be defined as packing. More evidence, he thought. Not that he needed it now. Dodge's appearance and manner made it more than apparent that he was getting ready to flee.

“Leaving?” he asked.

The professor's Adam's apple bobbed convulsively. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I think you know what I want,” Finley told him.

“I have no idea—”

“I want to know who that man is,” Finley broke in. “I want to know why he wants to see you. Why he asked about the Night Doctor. I want to know why Braided Feather and his braves rode all the way in from Pinal Spring to see him. I want you to tell me what's going on, Professor.”

“I have no idea—” Dodge started again.

“I think you do,” Finley interrupted angrily. “The man asked for you in the Sidewinder Saloon. Then he came here and asked for you. He—”

“I don't know who he is!” Dodge cried. He turned away abruptly. “Now if you'll please go, I have packing to do.”

“I don't think you can run away from him,” Finley told him quietly. “Four men are dead already and—”

He broke off at the look of stunned dismay on Dodge's face. “What?” the professor murmured.

“Four men have been killed,” Finley said. “One of them was frightened to death. The other three were torn apart by God knows what. Now, I know—”

He broke off a second time as Dodge began to shake, making faint whimpering sounds in his throat as he stared at Finley.

The agent felt a burst of pity for the little man. “For God's sake, Professor,” he said.
“What is going on?”

He couldn't tell at first what Dodge was saying, his voice was so weak and trembling. Then he heard the words, repeated and repeated. “I can't, I can't, I can't.”

“Why?” Finley stared at him, feeling as though he were involved in some bewildering nightmare.

He drew back a little involuntarily as Dodge moved toward him. He felt the small man's shaking hand clutch at his arm. “Please,” Dodge said. “
Please.
Take me into custody.”

“What?”

“Arrest me. Lock me in the jail,” Dodge begged.

“Professor, I'm the local Indian agent, I'm not the—”

“Take me to Fort Apache then,” Dodge interrupted. His eyes were brimming tears now. “Hand me over to the cavalry.”

“Professor, you are going to have to tell me what is going on.”

“I
can't
!” Dodge cried in agony. “There isn't time! I have to be protected or—”

He stopped abruptly.

“Or?” Finley said.

“Please take me with you,” Dodge said. “When I'm safe, I'll tell you what it is, I promise you.”

“It would help if you told me now, Profess—”

“No! It wouldn't! There isn't time!” The little man was weeping now. Finley felt the sense of dark alarm within him growing. Who in God's name was that man that he could cause such blind terror in everyone he encountered?

 

As he
led the professor out through the front door of the hotel, he started in surprise as Dodge jerked back with a hiss, pulling his arm free and shrinking back into the doorway.

“What is it?” Finley asked.

Dodge couldn't speak. He made a faint noise of dread as he stared out at the street. Finley looked in that direction and winced.

Across the street, the man was just dismounting from one of the Corcoran horses. But they had galloped off, Finley thought in confusion. How did the man . . . ?

“What are we going to do?” Dodge whispered, terrified.

Finley drew in a deep, restoring breath. He wasn't going to let this thing completely spook him, he resolved. He simply wasn't.

“We are going to walk to my office, Professor,” he said as calmly as he could. “Then we are going to the stable, get two horses, and ride out of town to Fort Apache.”

He wondered if Dodge had heard a single word he'd said. The little man could not remove his stricken gaze from the man across
the street. Finley looked in that direction. The man was just sitting down in the chair again to watch the hotel.

“Come on,” Finley said, taking hold of Dodge's arm.

“No.”
The little man hitched back in blind alarm.

Finley grimaced with anger. “Professor, I'm going down to my office now. Come with me or stay here alone.”

Dodge looked at him in a sudden panic. “Don't leave me,” he begged.

“Then come with me,” Finley said. “I'm not going to stay.”

He stepped off, glancing back. Dodge hadn't budged. He was still gaping at the man across the street. Again, Finley looked in that direction. An icy shiver ran up his back.

The man was looking toward the hotel doorway. Could he see Dodge? Finley wondered.

He looked back at Dodge, who still stood frozen just inside the hotel doorway.

“Professor,” he said, “the street is filled with people. The man isn't going to go after you with all these people around.”

He glanced around. There weren't that many, he saw. He wasn't going to tell Dodge that, however. “Come on,” he said, “I'm going now.”

“Wait,” Dodge pleaded pathetically.

He came out slowly, pretending that he didn't know the man was across the street. Finley glanced aside, stiffening as he saw the man rise suddenly. Jesus, was he going to approach Dodge anyway?

He grabbed the professor's arm and started leading him toward the office.

“Just walk smoothly,” he said. He had to force himself not to glance across the street. Not that he'd know what to do if the man was crossing toward them. Confront him? Run?

“Is he coming for us?” Dodge asked in a faint voice.

Finley almost glanced aside despite his resolution not to do it. He clenched his teeth and looked ahead determinedly. “Just walk,” he said.

He could feel the rigid tension in Dodge's arm as they moved down the street, their boots thumping on the plank walk. Finley couldn't help himself from glancing at the window of Chasen's Dry Goods. He saw the man reflected, still across the street, watching them. What did that mean? he wondered. That he'd changed his mind about seeing Dodge? That he wouldn't accost Dodge unless the professor was alone? He couldn't help wondering what the man thought of him for leading Dodge along the street.

He had his answer when they reached the office. As he opened the door and ushered Dodge inside, he could not prevent himself from looking toward the man.

He shivered as he saw that the man had moved along the opposite side of the street. Already, he was standing almost directly across from the office.

The look he directed at Finley chilled the agent's blood.

It was a look of murderous hostility.

Swallowing with effort, Finley went inside and shut the door with a cowed sense that there was probably no door that could shut away the man if the man chose to enter.

As he turned toward the office, he was startled to see Boutelle across the floor from him, standing with Barney Gans, who ran a small horse ranch somewhere in the vicinity of Pinal Spring.

From the look of him, Barney had been riding hard, his long coat splattered with mud, streaks and specks of it across his face and hat, on his hands.

“What's going on?” Finley asked.

Boutelle glanced questioningly at Dodge.

“This is Professor Dodge,” Finley told him. “I'm taking him to Fort Apache.”

“Good.” Boutelle's voice was grim. “I'll go with you.”

Now what? Finley thought.

“Tell Mr. Finley,” Boutelle said to Gans.

“It's the Injuns, Mr. Finley,” Barney said. “Braided Feather's band. They left their camp and took off for the mountains.”

Oh, Christ, Finley thought. He wasn't prepared for this. “You're sure?” was all he could think to say.

“Yes, sir. I was bringin' in some strays and saw them movin' off.”

“Are you satisfied now?” Boutelle demanded. “Is this enough? Can we tell Colonel Bishop that—”

“Listen—” Finley interrupted, then broke off instantly and turned to Dodge. “Can you tell us something to explain this?” he asked. “Mr. Boutelle is convinced that Braided Feather's band is behind all this. I think you know differently. Now will you please tell Mr. Boutelle what's actually going on?”

Dodge gulped. “I can't,” he murmured. “I have to leave.”

“Professor,
we have got to know
,” Finley said irritably. “Mr. Boutelle—”

“Mr. Boutelle is convinced that this is one more dereliction on the part of the Apaches,” Boutelle broke in. “One more indication of their utter contempt for the agreement they signed only yesterday!”

Finley grabbed Dodge's arm. “Damn it,” he said. “Tell us who that man is and why he wants to talk to you, and to the Night Doctor.”

Dodge began to shake, tears rising in his eyes again. “I can't,” he said. Boutelle looked at him, wondering how Dodge fitted into any of this. He was convinced it was the Apaches. Still . . .

“Barney, thank you for riding in and telling us this,” Finley said to Gans. “I'm going to find Braided Feather and his people and ask them what this is all about.”

“You don't think—” Barney began.

“You're going to
talk
to the Apaches?” Boutelle said incredulously. “You're still not going to call in the troops to—”

“Barney, I'll be in touch with you later.” Finley said, cutting off Boutelle. “Thank you again.”

“That's okay, Mr. Finley,” Barney said.

When he'd gone, Finley turned back to Boutelle. The young man's face was set into a grim expression. I cannot believe how much has gone wrong in the past twenty-four hours, Finley thought. He glanced at the wall clock. Jesus. It hadn't even been twenty-four hours yet.

Bracing himself, he spoke to Boutelle.

“You don't know everything that's going on here,” he said. He threw a resentful glance at Dodge. “And it doesn't look as if you're going to right away—any more than I am.”

He gestured brusquely toward the bench by the door. “Wait there,” he told Dodge. Despite the small man's continuing dread, Finley was losing patience with him. Dodge might conceivably solve this problem with a simple explanation. He couldn't imagine what that explanation might be, but if it was there, Dodge damn well owed it to them.

“I know what you believe, Mr. Boutelle,” he said. “I know it makes sense to you. But I'm convinced there's more involved here than a broken treaty.”

“
A broken treaty
?” Boutelle said coldly. “Have you already forgotten about those two butchered men?”

“No, I haven't forgotten about them,” Finley said, noticing the frightened look Dodge was giving Boutelle. He almost told Boutelle
about Al Corcoran, then decided against it; there simply wasn't time.

“I'm going after Braided Feather,” he continued. “I have to hear his side of the story before I can decide what to do. I'm sorry, but that's the way it's got to be for now.”

Boutelle stared at him in silence. Finley heard the wall clock ticking and saw, from the left side of his vision, the brass pendulum arcing back and forth.

“I see,” Boutelle finally replied.

Finley turned away and moved to the cupboard to get his saddlebags and supplies.

“I'll go rent a horse,” Boutelle said.

Finley turned in surprise. Boutelle was heading for the door.