Charlie hesitated in the parlor doorway. Martha gave him a beaming smile where she stood talking to Clarissa Foxland, wife of a prominent Austin attorney. The other guests were enjoying the drink and conversation.
Another smashing of thunder startled the room, and left people laughing self-consciously.
Martha’s first husband had been a blockade runner—a man intimately familiar with the coves and bars in the Laguna Madre and along the Texas Gulf Coast. She had been widowed two years ago when her husband had finally run afoul of a Federal steam packet and gone down with his ship.
After a whirlwind courtship, Charlie provided her with companionship and the promise of a man in her life. One who was politically ambitious and willing to work with the powers rising in Texas. He in turn derived a measure of respectability from her name and standing, not to mention her not inconsiderable wealth. And one thing Phil was indeed correct about, the new Mrs. Martha Deveroux was still a woman in her physical prime. Charlie had explored the delights of her full body several times since their engagement. Martha, after two years of enforced celibacy, was a woman of considerable appetite. And from the looks she kept casting his way, she was just waiting for the last guest to leave before sating her hunger.
Again thunder shook the house, and the frame rattled from a particularly vicious gust.
Five hardened Texas Rangers. He’s either dead or captive. And even if they missed him, he couldn’t know I turned him in.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to lock the back door and check the windows.
He gave Martha a reassuring wink and walked down the hall. The kitchen was dimly illuminated by a single lamp. A big pot stood steaming on the stove should anyone want coffee or tea, and a tray of pastries rested on the counter. No less than five were missing, and Charlie wondered which of the guests had sneaked back to pilfer them when he wasn’t looking.
The dining room was dark, and in the dim light, the rear door behind the stairway where deliveries were made was firmly closed. Charlie reached down, flipping the lock, and glanced out at the small backyard and alley. At that moment a white flash of lightning cast the almond tree in the backyard in a stark light, its shadow falling across the toolshed and carriage house out back.
Nothing and no one there.
He reached down and checked the door, the knob feeling cold and wet.
As he turned, lightning flashed again, and Charlie had the briefest glimpse. A second flash confirmed it. The floor was wet.
He turned, running his thumb along the door as rain beat against it.
“Nope,” a soft voice called from the dark shadows under the stairs. “Door don’t leak. Reckon that come off’n my slicker, Charlie.”
He froze, breath choked in his lungs. It took him several tries to rasp out, “Billy? That you?”
A shadow moved under the stairs, a form emerging from the darkness. “Looks like a right fine wedding, Charlie. And this, why, it’s a daisy of a place. Beats hell outta the bush where we first met. Now, how you reckon you come to all this good fortune?”
“Don’t you go jumping to any conclusions.” Charlie’s heart had started to beat again. “Now, listen. I got another job for you. Best one yet. You know Anabelle’s? You go there. I’ll see you tomorrow at around noon. But for the moment, I gotta get back to my—”
“Reckon your friend Phil … wasn’t that his name? Reckon he’s wrong about them five he sent to San Marco.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Charlie, I’ll be dad-swamped if’n those boys was tough old ex-Rangers. Hell, Danny hisself kilt two.” Billy paused, head tilting, and Charlie heard the patter of water draining from the brim of Billy’s hat. “’Course, that last ol’ boy. He might turn out tough in the end. And tough he’ll be if he lives after being shot in the guts like he was.”
“Billy, I…”
Lightning flashed through the rain-streaked window, illuminating Billy’s pale face, sparkling with water drops that beaded on his cheeks and nose. The eyes were a weird pale blue.
Just in that white flash, Charlie saw the wet Remington where it stuck out of Billy’s slicker.
“Billy, don’t do this. There’s money to be made. I just need time to…”
Between the lightning’s white glare and the yellow-red muzzle flash the back room was almost day-bright. The pistol’s bang barely preceded the deafening crack of thunder.
The feeling was as if someone had punched Charlie hard in the solar plexus. He bent over, struggling for breath. Backed into the wall. Breath still wouldn’t come.
“Aren’t you one cool scoundrel, Charlie? Figgered to collect the reward fer that Yankee captain? Why, you made money all the way around on that deal. Took your share of the payoff, then figured to snag the reward, too.”
“They know you,” Charlie finally managed to gasp. “They’ll get you now.”
“Reckon not,” Billy whispered as Charlie slid down the wainscoting. Billy leaned down, water dripping.
Charlie blinked in the dim light, hearing loud laughter from the parlor. God, wouldn’t someone come? Hadn’t they heard the shot?
Lightning flashed through the back-door window again. Gleamed off the long Bowie held low in Billy’s hand.
The sting drove into Charlie’s belly, then rose, fiery hot to his mule-kicked gut. A low squeal passed his lips, driven by his sudden fear. Then came the warm rush of urine between his legs. After wiping the blade on Charlie’s pants, Billy stood.
Charlie heard the lock click, felt the door open, and close. For a long moment he sprawled there, warm fluids and guts spilling over his hands.
And then the world faded into a soft gray and vanished.
67
December 15, 1865
The sign proclaimed the place to be the REBELL SALUNE; the proprietor’s spelling turned out to be every bit as atrocious as the vile alcohol he sold by the tin cup. Word was that it was little better than Indian whiskey: ten gallons of pure grain alcohol to
