Slip-sliding, I make it to cover as a man rides out across thebluff.
“Is that you, Craddock?” he asks.
Tom returns his double-barreled shotgun to the holster on hissaddle. “It’s me.”
“Where’s Hester?” Noah Kelly asks. There’s a metallic click, asthough he’s just slid the hammer of his revolver out of the cocked position. “Iwas on my way home from a late night call when I saw you two riding for thefoothills. Didn’t want to wake her parents so I followed you instead.”
“Hester’s here,” Tom replies. “She’s all right.”
The saddle creaks as Noah Kelly dismounts. “I’d like to verifythat fact, if you don’t mind. And even if you do, for that matter.”
I’ll come out, Tom. We aren’t doing anything wrong. He’llsee that and go.
I leave my hiding place, and Kelly moves toward me, takes myarm. He flicks the hem of my tucked-up skirt. “Have you no shame, Hester? Iwould have expected more restraint from you than this. Exposing your leg like acommon doxy.”
“A doxy?” Tom repeats. “How dare you?”
And that’s all it takes. They are fighting again.
Stop it. Right now. Stop it.
Tom doesn’t respond, so intent is he on maiming Kelly. And viceversa.
Perhaps a well-aimed snowball will get their attention. Iquickly make a pile of hard, packed balls. I listen to Kelly curse, finding thelocation of his head, and take aim a bit lower. There’s a surprised yelp, andthen Tom laughs. I throw at him, too. In fact, I pelt them both repeatedly,until Kelly calls a truce.
“Quite an arm there, Hester,” he says. “Your aim is uncanny.”
Did you have to throw so hard, love?
You wouldn’t stop!
Neither would he.
I have one last snowball in my hand, and Kelly asks to borrowit. “To counter the swelling in my jaw.” He laughs ruefully and takespossession of the orb. “You’re rather beautiful when you’re in a temper. Ishould provoke you more often.”
This comment prompts another solid punch from Tom, and thedoctor stumbles.
Last one, Hettie. And he asked for it.
“Let’s call this a draw, Craddock,” Kelly says, spitting intothe snow. “You’re a grand scrapper, but I’ve broken some fingers and your faceis bleeding a stream.” He takes a few steps and sits down. “Now that rustylamp’s a romantic touch. Adds atmosphere. But it’s awfully cold for a tryst.Wasn’t there a shed or silo somewhere closer?”
I am gripping Tom’s hand, keeping him from making another fist.Tell Kelly the truth—about the knife throwing and why we’re here.
“Burlap sacks?” Kelly drawls. “For the life of me, I have no ideawhat those are for…”
Does it really matter what he thinks?
After a moment, I nod. Yes, it does.
Tom exhales and hands me the knives. “Show him yourself.”
Keeping one, I put the other two on the ground by my right boot,instead of returning them to the case on my thigh. I’d rather not have Kellysee me fumble under my skirt for the weapons. He’d only think me improper andinept. I concentrate on the stones and their burlap targets.
“Stay where you are, Dr. Kelly,” Tom says. “If you value yourlife.”
The knife flies from my fingers, whistling through the air,driving into the bag twenty feet in front of me. I don’t need anyone to say it’sperfect, I already know.
Tom whispers, “Stone number six, Hettie.”
I swing about and release the weapon—clean and deadly. Thethird stone is next, and I hit that target just as well. Tom fetches the knivesfor me, and I continue on. Ten, four, seven. Not one wasted throw in the entirelot.
Kelly claps and whistles through his teeth. “You’re remarkable,Hester. Absolutely amazing.”
I smile and wipe the sweat from my forehead, trying to catch mybreath. Concerned I’ll catch a chill once I cool down, the doctor goes to hishorse to get a blanket from the saddlebag. “And maybe a flask,” he says. “Formedicinal purposes.”
Tom unhooks the leather case from my leg, puts the knives away,and pulls down the side of my skirt. A picture erupts inside my head, relatedto the Halloween vision. The killer walks up the mountain path, arguing withFreckles as usual, but in this rendition I am positioned at his side. So closeit makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. I look down at Freckles as he slapsher when she says that his wife is as good as dead. She trips, falls, and losesconsciousness. The killer checks to see if she is alive. A bluish vein pulsesat her neck and her mouth is slightly open. How young Freckles looks insleep—innocent and rather pretty, without the bitter lines around her mouth orthe hateful tone of voice.
Would she have looked soft like this if her life had beeneasier? Was the harshness the world saw only a defense?
Sympathy grows in my heart, but I haven’t long to examine theemotion. Mr. Murder picks her up and throws her away like so much trash.Standing on the cliff edge, he watches her hit the rocks below. Her screamsecho in my head as he turns toward the path down the mountain, lighting apartially-smoked cigar. Mr. Murder takes a few puffs and the smoke wafts aroundhis face. He notices a smudge on one of his cufflinks and rubs it on hisjacket. What’s that engraved on the cufflink? Are they initials? Before thekiller lowers his arm, I identify three letters. D...T…P
Then the vision changes. I stand in the center of a wastelandwith Sir Death. Freckles is at His side. She watches me with hard, glitteringeyes and looks rather triumphant. As triumphant as one can appear while wearinga blood-stained gingham blouse and sporting terrific injuries after falling offa cliff.
Inky robes swirling about Him, the Reaper floats a few inchesoff the ground. He smells of marble, moss and damp soil. It isn’t unpleasant,just a bit intimidating when one considers why He smells that way. The spiritworld has many of His kind. They are immortal and legion in number, identicalin appearance, purpose, and thought. All are called Sir Death, or the Reaper,and I have worked with this particular entity as long as I’ve been Veritas ofStonehenge. He supervises other Visionaries as well, covering the whole RockyMountain Sovereignty.
It’s difficult to look into that
