Ice and Blood Page 3

  “How goes it, Owen? Tired of chasing beasts yet?”

  Owen puffed a ring of smoke. He smiled with yellowed teeth. “Never.”

  Ray Wilson arrived minutes later. He threw his hat onto the counter. “Have you heard, O’Leary? I’m in the coal business now.”

  Owen nodded. “Sorry about your ride.”

  The bartender poured them a shot of whiskey each. Ray gulped his and asked for a refill. He pointed to the pelts hanging from the trapper’s belt. Some of them still dripped blood. “Fur business still on the rise?”

  “Luck of the Irish.”

  “Have some to spare?”

  “Are you an Irishman?”

  “I sure drink like one.”

  Owen cackled, breathing out short puffs of smoke. He clapped Ray’s back so hard he jerked forward. “You’re a hoot, Wilson. You should visit more often.”

  The driver raised his glass. “Bring a brand-new carriage for some son of a gun to torch, why don’t I. If this goddamned place hasn’t burned to the ground by then.” He bit his tongue. “Sorry, Tiberius. I was just kidding.”

  Tiberius sipped his drink, pretending not to hear.

  Ray cleared his throat, flustered. “Say, I almost forgot. You got mail.” He picked a letter from his pocket and waved it in front of the trapper’s face.

  Owen raised one of his thick eyebrows. “Who’s it from?”

  “How the hell should I know? Do you want it or not?”

  Owen blew smoke on Ray’s face then nabbed the letter from his hand. He ripped the crease of the envelope with his finger and read the message inside, just once. He held both letter and envelope on top of a candle, set them ablaze, and used the flame to rekindle his pipe, dropping the rest into a spittoon. The paper folded on itself and turned into cinders.

  Tiberius jerked his head to the smoking ashes. “Bad news?”

  “No, just old. Everything takes too long to arrive in the winter.”

  The trapper stood up and stretched. He yawned like a bear ready to sleep until spring. “I think tonight I need a warm rest indoors. G’ night, lads.”

  He stomped across the room, his already-imposing physique enlarged by the furs wrapped all around his body. He stopped in front of the rear hallway and turned back to the bar. “Valentine! Send one of the girls to tuck me in, will you?”

  Jesse Valentine nodded in acknowledgement.

  Tiberius scouted the crowd until he spotted Doc Tucker, half-hidden behind a wooden beam. He tipped his hat. “Take it easy, Ray.”

  Most of the dining crowd lingered around the Silver Moon, remembering it was still cold and lonely outside and unwilling to face it just yet. Tiberius navigated the different clusters of people, agreeable but without engaging in conversation. He stopped in front of the doctor’s table. Doc Tucker kept his gaze down. A mug of cold coffee filled to its brink rested under his nose.

  Tiberius leaned in. “You didn’t touch your coffee. It’ll do you good.”

  Doc Tucker glared at him. He hit the mug with the back of his hand. It spilled all over the table.

  Tiberius took a step back. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “What if I have? People lose their marbles for way less than what I’ve been through.” Doc Tucker slammed the tabletop, splashing the puddle of coffee.

  All the conversations around the Silver Moon shrank to a veil of whispers. Tiberius sensed the judgmental stares of the townsfolk on the back of his neck like flying daggers. No one saw Doctor Everett Tucker as a desperate man crying for help but as an ugly reminder of who they could all become. How convenient it was to put all of Souls Well’s misery onto one drowning man. How easy to discuss the reason behind a shipwreck while standing on dry ground.

  Tiberius reached for the doctor’s wrist. “You’re making things worse.”

  He moved away. “Why? Because they’re watching? I couldn’t care less. I hate them. This town. And everything in it.”

  Doc Tucker jumped to his feet, bellowing like a bull when it sees red. “And you… I hate you most of all.” He flipped the table. His tin mug flew. Cold coffee splashed the neighboring drinkers and Tiberius’ face.

  Tiberius wiped it off. “That’s enough. You’re coming with—”

  Doc Tucker sprang over the fallen table. He pushed Tiberius to the ground, throwing a cloud of drunken punches. “You miserable liar. You’re no friend of mine.”

  Tiberius swayed his head left and right to avoid the attacks. “What the hell’s got into you? Stop!”

  The doctor’s fists flew by his cheek. Tiberius grabbed his shoulders and rolled. They spun together until he found himself on top. He dug his knees into the doctor’s calves. He pushed his arms down, pinning him to the floor.

  Doc Tucker squirmed. “Get off me! You’re no friend of mine.”

  “I heard you the first time. Now calm down. Don’t make me knock you out again.”

  The doctor tightened his lips. His writhing slowly turned into a soft shiver, then stopped. His eyes gleamed with such sorrow Tiberius found himself unable to hold his gaze.

  Tiberius stood up. He dusted off his clothes and pulled Doc Tucker to his feet, twisting an arm behind his back. “I’m doing this for your own good. Walk.”

  Doc Tucker dragged his feet, head down. Each of his whimpers clenched Tiberius’ heart, but the sheriff guided the doctor toward the exit with the same severity he’d grant any other bar brawler.

  The crowd let them through in respectful silence, but the saloon’s chatter and laughter resumed as soon as the two men had crossed the threshold. Outside, snow fell in big clumps. Tiberius and Doc Tucker’s boots crunched the icy road as they left the Silver Moon behind. They passed the charred skeleton of Ray Wilson’s stage. Their breath left a trail of white mist that swirled in the wind like the souls of the dead.

  Doc Tucker mumbled inebriated, unintelligible words all the way to the sheriff’s quarters, but remained calm. Tiberius relaxed his grip to unlock his door. He pushed the doctor inside. Moonlight hardly made it into the room. It sneaked through the cracks of the boarded window and the barred vent of the cell. Everything looked unwelcoming, and cold, and grim. Tiberius wished, as he often did, that cell could remain unoccupied for one more night. Just one more.

  The iron door of the jail screeched. Tiberius let the doctor go. Doc Tucker walked inside, threw himself face up onto the moldy cot, and covered his brow with his arm. The doctor twisted and turned, grumbling in the dark.

  Tiberius waited until he quieted then took off his duster and covered the dozing man. He closed that cold door as quietly as its rusty hinges would let him. He tapped the black key hanging from his belt but left the cell unlocked.

  Upstairs, he found his own cold bed and tried to sleep.

  6

  Tiberius lay on his bed staring at the rafters. He pictured the intricate cobwebs hanging in the dark ceiling and felt lonelier knowing them without a host. Winter made him miss the spiders with the same fondness anyone would miss a house pet. He sat up, stretched his back, and jumped out of bed after a minute of listening to his sleepless breath.

  A small flame twinkled inside the stove in the corner, casting the striped shadow of the grating on the floor. It didn’t offer much heat, yet Tiberius was sweating. He unbuttoned the chest of his long johns and pulled the top over his waist. He threw the last pair of pinecones in the kindling basket to the dying fire. They soon crackled and blazed. Their scent freshened the stagnant air of the bedroom. It wrapped him in a pleasant haze. Tiberius sat back on his mattress. He recalled the wild beauty of the fire devouring the stagecoach, how its gleam brightened the street as night took over Souls Well. And he drifted away...

  There was…

  Blackness, just blackness. And dampness. And fear.

  Every path, open. Nowhere to run.

  Whiteness, just whiteness. And cold. And grief.

  Eyes watching in the snowstorm. Eyes watching in the ever-changing shadows.

  Eyes that belonged to nobody.
To everybody. To her.

  And the dread, the paralyzing dread, of knowing the end, or an end, was soon to come.

  Tiberius woke with a gasp. He touched his body, his sheets, the wall, until everything became familiar again. He leaped off his bed and strode to the old washstand by the window. A faint sunbeam bounced off the water in the basin. He splashed his face. His pulse throbbed in his temples. He placed both hands on the slab of the washstand and dunked his whole head.

  Chilling water dripped down his bangs and chin as he raised his face. He stared at his reflection on the cracked mirror above the basin. His skin had little color. A red stain ran down his left nostril. The blood sparkled as if carrying speckles of glittery dust. Tiberius wiped it off with his fingers and dried it with a raggedy towel. He then tossed it without looking at the bloodstain.

  He opened the shutters. The gray light of dawn washed the shadows out of the room. Snow piled up high on the windowsill, blocking half of his view of Main Street. His long johns were soaked in water and sweat. He took them off, kicking them to the corner. He grabbed a fresh pair from the pine chest where he kept most of his clothes in a crumpled mess. He also dug for a pair of socks. His shirt and corduroys hung from a hook by the door. The belt carrying his gun rested over the back of a broken chair. Tiberius found one of his boots by the bed, its twin under it. Everything was so cold to the touch, he felt no warmer fully dressed than naked.

  He left his bedroom and descended the stairs to his office on the lower level. Doc Tucker’s bloodied gaze followed him as he walked past the cell. The doctor had deep circles around his eyes and cracked lips. Tiberius swept aside the ashes inside the fireplace using the tip of his boot. He rearranged the old logs and added new ones from a wicker basket, placing pinecones in between the cracks. He tapped the mantel until he heard the rattle of the matchbox.

  “Are you letting me out or what?” Doc Tucker croaked.

  Tiberius placed a lit match below the kindling. He walked to his coat rack and picked up a pouch from the pocket of an old leather jacket. He sat down on the edge of his desk.

  “It’s open,” he said. He gathered rolling paper and tobacco from the pouch and readied a smoke.

  Doc Tucker pushed the door of the cell, puzzled. He stepped out, darting to the warmth of the hearth. “Why put me in there and not lock the goddamned door?”

  Tiberius shrugged. He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He threw the matchbox on top of his desk. “Things got out of control last night.”

  “Things?” the doctor echoed without facing him.

  “You.” Tiberius took a puff. “Do you remember anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “How ’bout jumping me like a rabid dog?”

  “No. So that’s why I woke up here.”

  Tiberius exhaled and followed the smoke floating over his head. “Yes and no. I also had to make sure you did nothing stupid.”

  Doc Tucker turned with a deep frown. “What the heck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The fire.”

  “What fire?”

  Tiberius leaned in. “Ray Wilson’s stagecoach burned to a crisp. Right in front of the stables. I had to drag you away from the flames.”

  “I remember none of that.”

  Tiberius tapped the ash off his cigarette above a half-empty mug. “It sure seemed you wanted to get toasted.”

  Doc Tucker turned away. “Why would I want such a thing?”

  “You tell me.”

  Silence. Tiberius took his time to finish his smoke. He left his desk and stood by the doctor’s side. He threw the cigarette stub into the fire. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Am I free to go, Sheriff?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “You answer me this first. Why did you keep my son away from me?”

  “You know why.”

  “Alchemy. Raising the dead.” Doc Tucker uttered bitterly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever believe any of it. Truth is, I’m not sure I even care.”

  “Listen. If you don’t quit the corn juice, spring will find you six feet underground. Is that what you want?”

  Doc Tucker looked away. “Have you ever heard of the term ‘phantom limb?’ It’s a syndrome some people experience after an amputation.”

  He stretched his arms, studying them as if seeing them for the first time.

  “Your mind cannot grasp how a part of your body is no longer there. For some it feels just like an itch. But for most it translates into waves of harrowing pain.”

  “Doc—”

  Doc Tucker raised his palm to request silence. “First, when you call for your child or go to his room to check on him, you blame it on habit. You’re unaware of your actions. But that mental blindfold fades with time. And as soon as the nothingness becomes clear…”

  The doctor took a deep breath.

  “You know no one will answer when you call his name. You know no one will be waiting on the other side of the door. Yet you keep calling and visiting an empty room. Because you deserve the torment. Because you crave it.”

  The firewood now blazed, but the doctor trembled like a lamb lost in the woods.

  “The guilt always cuts to the bone. The wondering. The sense of defeat. They stay with you forever. Even if you pretend otherwise.”

  Doc Tucker leaned both hands on the mantel shelf. “Phantom limb,” he whispered.

  “There’s nothing you could’ve done,” Tiberius said.

  “Maybe so. I’ll never know.”

  “Jonathan died a hero.”

  “And I live a drunken coward.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Together they watched the wood turn into incandescent embers.

  Doc Tucker locked his tired eyes on the sheriff’s. “You’re the man who saved the town. For that I’m grateful. You’re also the man who took my last chance of asking my son for forgiveness. For that I’ll always despise you.”

  The wind whistled through the cracks of the boarded-up window. Tiberius went back to his desk. “You’re free to go.”

  Doc Tucker opened the front door. Oscar Landon stood on the other side, hat in hand. Snow covered his shoulders and his brown hair and beard.

  “You need to come with me, Sheriff,” Oscar stuttered.

  Doc Tucker bowed his head. “I’ll leave you to your duties. Good day.”

  “Actually…” Landon shivered. “I think you should come too, Doctor Tucker.”

  Tiberius grabbed his duster from the cell, where the doctor had left it, folded on top of the narrow cot. He tightened his belt and made sure his gun was safe in its holster.

  Good morning, Souls Well.

  7

  Snow mounded in every corner of Main Street. Left and right, the townsfolk unblocked the entrances to their houses and stores. They ignored the rows of uninhabited buildings in between. Those slowly withered under layer after layer of hoarfrost. Only the scraping of the snow shovels traversed the quiet street. Only the misty breath of the shoveling men hinted at life in a place that seemed half-dead. Tiberius buttoned up his duster. He put his hands in his pockets. He couldn’t shake off the cold.

  Oscar Landon turned into the long alleyway between the boarding house with hardly any boarders and the barbershop without a barber. Tiberius followed, glancing over his shoulder. Doc Tucker kept his distance but showed no intention of slipping away.

  The alley connected Main Street with its parallel, Silverado. The snowfall had blocked it off until Landon and his men began their tunneling. Their work around town had eased transit but had also transformed Souls Well into a labyrinth that dove in and out of the snow, a prairie dog’s village that changed after every blizzard. White hillocks turned into archways. Backstreets turned into underpasses. Any path could be open one day and lead to a dead end the next. Tiberius hated that the map he knew by heart had ceased to exist.

  Icicles hung from the top of the frosty entrance to the passage, some so long they scratched Tiberius�
�� hat as he went through. Tiberius tensed every time he had to walk one of the snow tunnels. Any tunnel. Even when they were so short he could see the exit from its entrance. And in this case, he could not. His breath quickened. His sight blurred. His knees locked in place. It felt like crossing the maw of a giant serpent.

  “Sheriff?” Oscar called. “Everything all right?”

  Tiberius breathed in. “Fine.” He quickened his march though his legs remained stiff.

  Whispers echoed along the white tunnel. Landon’s men gave way as they walked past them, backing against the cold walls. They all shared the same colorless faces and glassy eyes. The first half of the passage was smooth, its ceiling rounded almost to a dome. The construction became cruder as they ventured deeper, less human-built and more like a critter’s den. A string of flickering oil lamps took over the sunlight as they reached the end.

  Oscar Landon stopped in his tracks.

  “What is it?” Tiberius asked.

  Landon pointed to the red marks on the floor. Tiberius followed the slithering trail to a wall of snow splattered with frosted blood. A corpse sprouted from the wall, trapped from the waist down, both arms raised, pleading. Hands swollen and clenched like claws. Fingertips bludgeoned and blackened.

  The vitrified, blue eyes of the dead man matched the color of the frostbite patching his brow, cheeks, and bald head. The open wounds ranged from red to purple to aquamarine to deep blue, with black around the ears and the tip of the nose. Solid snot ran down his nostrils, sticking to the auburn beard above the blue-gray lips. The mouth was wide open, almost inhumanly so, contorted and paralyzed in the middle of a scream. It took Tiberius a second to recognize the man captured in that hellish exhibit of frozen violence. It was Henry Albers, the carpenter.

  Tiberius’ gaze moved down Henry’s ulcerated neck. A gruesome gash sliced his chest, sternum to belly button. Ragged flesh and skin opened around the gore like the petals of a carnation. His ribcage was as cracked as the top of a poached egg. His bloody entrails, on full display.