Ice and Blood Page 4

  Tiberius looked away. He took a deep breath to control the nausea. “Who found him? Was it you, Landon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What time did you finish digging yesterday?”

  “Around sunset.”

  “Do you or any of your men guard the tunnel at night?”

  Oscar shook his head.

  “Did you see Henry Albers wandering around?”

  “Last time I saw Hank was at the Silver Moon after Wilson’s stage arrived.”

  “All right. Get your men out of here. Go get a drink. And for God’s sake keep this quiet.”

  Oscar nodded and hurried away from the crime scene.

  “What do you make of this?” Tiberius asked Doc Tucker.

  The doctor stood a few paces away, giving him his back. He didn’t answer.

  Tiberius harrumphed. “Hello? Would you mind?”

  Doc Tucker grumbled. He grabbed a pair of scratched spectacles hanging from his vest pocket and pushed Tiberius out of the way. He scrutinized the frozen cadaver from every angle, not squeamish as he looked at the carnage up close.

  He took a step back. “Butchery, plain and simple.”

  “No kidding. Anything else?”

  The doctor shrugged.

  Tiberius pressed his temple. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here. Even less with me. You better believe this is far from how I wanted my day to begin. But could you do your job for a goddamned second and help me out?”

  “My job? I’m not a coroner.”

  “Don’t push it. Now get to talkin’.”

  Doc Tucker fidgeted with his spectacles. “Henry’s been dead for a while. Some frostbite marks are severe, but if they occurred pre- or post-mortem is hard to tell. I wouldn’t say hypothermia’s the cause of death. There’s a lot of blood around the chest cavity, which means his heart was still pumping when—”

  “I get it.”

  “The brutality resembles an animal attack, a bear, or a maybe a big wolf. The raw strength to break a ribcage like that would be quite uncanny. On the other hand, the slash looks too controlled for a wild beast. There’re no traces of gnawing, and most of the attack happened around the chest area. There aren’t many scratches on his face, neck, arms, or waist. About the condition of the lower body, I cannot tell until he’s fully dug out of the snow.”

  Doc Tucker tapped his chin with the frame of his glasses. “One last thing, his heart’s missing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The rest of the viscera is still there, pretty much untouched. But no heart.”

  “What kind of wild beast rips the heart out and leaves the rest?”

  “None comes to mind.” Doc Tucker replied with indifference.

  Tiberius examined Henry’s grisly thorax. He cocked his head and squinted. He nabbed the spectacles from the doctor’s hand, using them to magnify the hollow where the heart should be. There was a small square of paper stuck within the gore. Tiberius pinched the corner of the paper. He slowly pulled it out and swiped the blood off its surface with his thumb. It was a fragment of an old photograph, a portrait of a muscular young man holding a sledgehammer. On the back of the photo he read a number: 18.

  “Are you done?” Doc Tucker grumbled.

  “I found something.”

  “Good for you. Can I go now?”

  Tiberius waved the doctor’s spectacles toward the tunnel’s exit. “Thank you for your time.”

  Doc Tucker nabbed the spectacles. He placed them back into his pocket with a grunt. “Good day.”

  The farewell relieved them both. The doctor’s sober disregard proved more hurtful than any of his drunken tantrums. Tiberius glanced one last time at Henry Albers’ mutilated corpse, trapped in the ice above a puddle of red snow. Since the fall, one question had loomed over him like a vulture over a carcass: would darkness spare Souls Well for another day? Maybe he’d subconsciously called the horror back to his town, unable to cast it off his mind.

  Tiberius walked the full length of the tunnel, following the slushy footprints on the ground. He knew one pair should belong to Henry and another to his killer, but they hid within too many boot marks left by Landon and his men. A few paces before the exit, he noticed a gray pile on the ground, like a smudge on a wedding dress. He crouched and tossed it a little: ashes, traces of burned paper, and speckles of tobacco.

  When Tiberius stepped out of the blue dimness of the frozen passage, he had to shield his eyes from the winter sun. He looked around. A handful of early wanderers saved Main Street from a complete feeling of desolation. The sullen and mysterious Indian locals knew only as The Chief sat bare-chested on the steps of the abandoned barbershop. He was sewing pieces of fur to the lining of the coat on his lap.

  “Mornin’,” Tiberius greeted. “Mind if I join?”

  The Chief scurried to his left. Tiberius sat by his side. He rolled himself a smoke, then rummaged through his pockets in search of a matchbox that wasn’t there.

  He whined in frustration. “Have a light?”

  “No light.”

  Tiberius pulled the cigarette from his lips. He leaned backwards. A group of stray clouds flew over the otherwise clear sky. “Do you believe in curses, Chief? Could someone hex a whole place for life?”

  The Chief stared at him with his deep, brown eyes. “Souls Well?”

  Tiberius nodded. “This town keeps going to hell and back. Makes one wonder.” He bobbed his head to the alleyway. “Someone slaughtered the carpenter. Or something. Doc Tucker thinks we might have a wild beast on the loose. Whatever it was, the attack is the most ruthless I’ve ever seen.”

  The Chief shook his head. “Animals are not ruthless. Only men.”

  “I see your point, Chief. And I don’t like it.” Tiberius stood up. He stretched. He sighed. “Mind staying around and keeping the curious at bay until I send someone to fetch Hank’s body?”

  The Chief nodded.

  Tiberius tipped his hat. “Much obliged.”

  More gray clouds came down the peaks of the western mountains. They brought their hovering shadows and a ghostly, chilling mist. The air freshened. Tiberius snuggled inside his duster. He flexed his fingers inside his gloves.

  No matter how hard he tried, that morning he couldn’t shake off the cold.

  8

  Tiberius pushed the double doors of the Silver Moon. Heads turned, pretending not to turn. The volume of the blabber wavered as he passed by. It settled into a mellow chatter behind his back. He walked to the bar without rushing, ignoring the murmurs, inhaling the smell of toast and fried bacon. This would be his only indulgence for the day.

  Jesse Valentine poured him a cup of black coffee. He added a shot of liquor to the steaming mix. “Guessed you’d need the spike.”

  Tiberius took a sip. “Who told you?”

  Jesse jerked his head to the men crammed together at the end of the counter. “Landon and his gang have been talking crazy since they got here. Is it true? About the carpenter?”

  “I reckon no one knows how to keep his mouth shut in this goddamned place,” Tiberius replied, elevating his voice. “Yeah, afraid ’tis true.”

  The bartender crossed himself. “Poor fellow. Wolves?”

  Tiberius spun his cup and stared at the swirling blackness of his drink. “Sure.”

  Ray Wilson came down the creaking stairs of the saloon. He skipped to the bar, a wide smile on his face. He jumped onto a stool and clapped Tiberius’ back. “Ain’t it a pretty winter morning?”

  Tiberius grunted. “Pretty as a picture. Where the heck’s that cheer coming from? I thought you’d be all crabby after last night.”

  Ray elbowed him with a wink. “Madame Valentine helped me put things into perspective. And healed my aching heart. If you know what I mean.”

  Jesse blushed. He busied himself drying the wooden counter with the rag hanging from his shoulder. Tiberius hid behind his coffee as he pinpointed the travelers around the room. Miss Gray enjoyed a warm drink in front of the fire. M
iss Sheppard and Reverend Conn breakfasted in the same faraway table they’d occupied when they first arrived at the Silver Moon. The Reverend wished a cheerful good morning to every person who passed by, louder to the women than to the men. Deputy Westshore sat by himself, tossing a plate of scrambled eggs with his fork.

  “How did your Ma arrange the travelers for the night, Jesse?” Tiberius asked.

  “She offered Miss Gray a room on the first floor, so she didn’t have to climb up and down the stairs.”

  “Fair enough. The Reverend?”

  “Room next door.”

  “And Miss Sheppard with him?”

  The bartender shook his head. “She refused to stay here. Miss Chipman offered to host her for the night.”

  “Ain’t Miss Chipman a peach. What about the deputy?”

  “He took a room upstairs.”

  Tiberius looked around. “Where’s that Bisby fellow? You know, the prisoner.”

  “I guess locked in their room.”

  “Their room?”

  “Westshore insisted in sharing with Bisby, even if the space was tight.”

  “He did, did he? What ’bout you, Ray? Madame can vouch for your whereabouts?”

  Ray lost his goofy smile. “Why would she need to vouch for anything? What’s going on, Tiberius?”

  “Long story short, Henry Albers got butchered last night. Soon after you and your passengers got to town.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Tiberius took a long sip of his coffee then placed the tin mug on the counter. “What do you think I mean?”

  Ray’s eyebrows arced into a sharp V. “This place’s always been a death sentence. I’ve nothing to do with that.” He jumped off his stool. “I should check on my horses.”

  He strode toward the door, ignoring Miss Sheppard when she tried to catch his attention.

  Tiberius turned back to the bartender. “Say, Jesse. You sleep down here by the bar, don’t you?”

  “I do.” He waved his hand to a tattered curtain hanging from the wall. “I’ve a cot right there. I only need to catch enough shuteye to get me going.”

  “Did you hear anyone wandering around during the night?”

  “I wouldn’t say so, Sheriff. And I’m a light sleeper.”

  Tiberius drummed on the counter. “Thanks for the Arbuckle’s.”

  He left the bar and joined deputy Westshore at his table, sitting on the empty chair in front of him. “Mornin’.”

  Willoughby looked up from his plate with a scowl. He promptly changed his expression to a twitchy smile when he realized who was talking. “Good morning, Sheriff.”

  “I sure hope Bisby doesn’t snore.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I heard you kept him in your own room.”

  Willoughby gazed back and forth between Tiberius and the staircase to the second floor. “Oh, yes, yes. I have to keep watch on this one at all times. You never know with the scoundrel.”

  “So who’s watching him while you chew?”

  “I took all the necessary precautions. He’s still handcuffed, and I locked the door behind me.”

  “Go fetch him. I wanna talk to him.”

  “I feel you don’t trust my judgment, Sheriff. I assure you—”

  Tiberius raised a finger. “I. Want. To. Talk. To. Him.” He emphasized every word. “Move it.”

  Willoughby skittered to the staircase, excusing himself with a flustered tip of the hat every time he bumped into a patron, and dashed up the stairs. Not even five minutes later, he returned, sheepish and waxen-faced. “Sheriff, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid… I mean, I don’t know how—”

  Tiberius clenched his fists. “Save your breath. He’s gone.”

  Willoughby nodded tensely, eyes on his plate of cold eggs to avoid the sheriff’s glower.

  Tiberius stood up. “Look at me, kid.” He circled the table, nearing the young deputy. “Thanks to you, I have a fresh corpse in my hands and a criminal on the loose.”

  “What c-corpse?” Willoughby stammered, still looking down.

  “Henry Albers, the town’s carpenter.” Tiberius slammed the table with his rigid fist. “I told you to look at me.”

  Willoughby jumped back. He locked his quavering blue eyes on Tiberius’. “Why would Pleasant kill some carpenter?”

  “Not some carpenter. Our carpenter. About the why, you tell me. He’s your prisoner. Or is he?”

  Willoughby widened his eyes so much, his face gained the likeness of a salamander. “I… He…”

  A gust of wind slapped the back of Tiberius’ neck. He turned his face to the saloon’s entrance.

  “Who was it?” Ray Wilson bellowed in front of the open door. “I’ll raid every single stable to find out, so help me God!”

  Tiberius sighed. “What now, Wilson?”

  “Someone stole one of my horses, that’s what!”

  An anarchic ruckus of neighs, screeching wheels, and cursing voices came from the outside. Drinkers left their tables, bunching together by the windows. They rapid-fired question after question.

  “Is that the baker?”

  “What the heck’s he doing?”

  “Ain’t that his chap?”

  Tiberius moved away from the deputy without breaking eye contact. “Get comfortable, Westshore. We’re having a long chat after I find out what’s going down in the street.”

  Willoughby nodded, crumpling onto a chair. Ray Wilson stepped aside to let Tiberius through the door. Madame Valentine watched the street from her porch. Her girls flanked her, snuggling close together under their shawls of many colors. Tiberius followed their curious gazes to the cart swaying back and forth in the middle the road. It held a mountain of sacks of grain, old furniture, and several clattering crates packed in a rush. Two pairs of chickens cackled inside two tiny cages. The brown cow tied to the cart’s back mooed in distress, trying to break free of the noose around her neck. The horse tied to the wagon’s front whinnied and pawed the ground, unable to cut through the multitude blocking its path.

  Silas Rowland occupied the driver’s seat. He waved a rifle to the crowd as one would a fly catcher, braying insults and threats. His son sat by his side, eyes down in an expression of both confusion and utter embarrassment.

  “Let us through!” Silas shouted. No one budged.

  Oscar Landon stepped to the front of the human barricade. “Be reasonable, Silas. That old cart won’t survive the trip. If you’re caught in a snowstorm, the only place you’re going is straight to your late wife and son.”

  “I’ll go wherever I goddamned want whenever I goddamned please.”

  Oscar pointed to the sacks of grain and the caged chickens. “Fine. Do as you want. But the grain and livestock stays.”

  “That’s my property, Landon.”

  “Sure is. But the town needs it more.”

  Silas cocked his rifle. “I’m not staying in Souls Well for a second longer. Move. I’ll shoot my way through if I have to.”

  Miss Sheppard elbowed her way to the cart, flapping her arms like an excited magpie. “Take us with you, kind sir. Sheriff Tibbetts is detaining a man of God against his will. We need to reach Silverton with the utmost urgency.”

  Her shrieking voice didn’t sound much different from the horse’s neighs, yet it alarmed the animal even more. The swarm closed in around the cart.

  Tiberius leaned over the wooden balustrade of the Silver Moon. “No one’s going anywhere.”

  He climbed down the steps of the porch in no rush. People grew silent. Even the chickens seemed to cluck with less intent as he made his way to the cart.

  He looked straight at Miss Sheppard. “That goes for you too, miss.”

  She sneered and trampled through the crowd, back to the saloon.

  Tiberius knocked on the side of the cart. “What’s this ’bout, Silas?”

  The man lowered his rifle. He placed it on his lap. “I should be free to come and go as I please, Sheriff.”

  “Tr
ue. But I’m afraid I agree with Landon. That old wagon won’t outrun the next storm. I don’t think you’d even reach Gray Gorge before getting stuck in the snow. Best-case scenario, you end up back here with cold feet and a runny nose. Worse, you find your resting place down the road.”

  “I’m ready to take my chances.”

  Tiberius motioned his head toward Bennett. “Your son doesn’t seem too thrilled to leave.”

  “The boy’ll do as he’s told.”

  Bennett sprang to his feet so fast the whole cart careened. “I’m not a boy!”

  He jumped off the wagon and ran away up Main Street’s road. His father called after him but stayed in his seat. Tiberius strode after the kid. He noticed deputy Westshore watching them from up ahead, his back against an empty water tank.

  “Why’s that damned idiot standing there?” Tiberius muttered. He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Come on, Bennett. That’s enough. Get back here!”

  Bennett ignored him. He ran faster, just as the sound of a galloping horse took over the street. A rider appeared behind a far corner. As he darted down Main Street, he pulled one foot off the stirrup and slid on his saddle, holding the reins in one hand. He extended his free arm toward the road. Westshore ran back. When the rider dashed by him, the deputy sprang toward the horse with an open palm. The rider caught him on the fly, pulling him up onto the back of his mount without losing any speed.

  “Bennett! Move away!” Tiberius shouted.

  The kid kept going, shaking his head in deaf anger. The horse cut its distance. When Bennett glanced up, the hastening beast was but a few feet away. Bennett froze as if the soles of his boots had glued to the ground. Tiberius jumped forward. Time slowed down, as it always does when someone’s fate is on the line.

  Tiberius shielded Bennett with his body. His duster floated around them like a protective halo. He pushed the boy to the curb, taking his place in the deadly trajectory of the speeding stallion. He recognized the scarred face of the rider as he came closer: Pleasant Bisby. Pleasant waved his arm frantically, urging him to move. Tiberius drew his gun and rooted both feet to the ground.

  The horse was only two feet away. One.