Part 39 (2/2)

He remembered what Grigsby had said in the dining car. When Oscar had asked if all the murdered women had been prost.i.tutes. ”All but one. And maybe she was working on the side. Or maybe he thought she was. I got the feelin', readin' about her, that maybe she was a little loose. Maybe that was enough for him.”

Maybe that was enough for him.

Red hair. All the women had red hair.

All the men traveling with the tour had seen her last night; all of them knew that Elizabeth McCourt Doe had red hair.

And, thanks to O'Conner, all of them knew that she was staying in room 303 of the Clarendon.

He set the oil lamp carefully on the dresser, and then he ran from the room.

”Oscar?”

The creature was down from the carriage, standing in the slush at the entrance to the Palace, calling out Wilde's name. It stood close enough for him to see the color of its hair, a deep dark red in the moonlight, the color of blood.

The snow crunched beneath him as he came up behind it, and the creature turned.

He brought the gun down, hard, against the side of its head. It flinched, tried to bring up an arm to protect itself, and he brought the gun down again.

Grigsby was drunk and he was no longer a United States marshal.

The drunkenness wouldn't have happened at all (so he had told himself several times, back when he was still capable of telling himself anything) if he hadn't learned that he was no longer a United States marshal. He'd been doing d.a.m.ned well-not a single drink all day, not even a heart-starter in the morning. He'd been stone cold sober when he talked to that little weasel, Vail, and confirmed O'Conner's story. He'd been stone cold sober for the entire train trip from Manitou Springs. When the train pulled in to Leadville, he'd been feeling so proud of himself that he nearly stopped to celebrate in the saloon beside the station. He'd caught himself in time.

The telegram had been waiting for him at the Clarendon. Mort, the Denver telegraph operator, had addressed it to U.S. Marshal Robert Grigsby-even though Mort had known that no such a person existed anymore.

SHELDON RECEIVED WIRE TODAY CONFIRMING RECALL STOP WIRE ME IF QUESTIONS STOP SORRY MORT.

Only Mort had known where to reach Grigsby, and Mort had been cagey enough to word the message in such a way that the operator here in Leadville wouldn't figure it out. No one here in town, and probably only a few people in Denver, knew that he was out of a job.

But Grigsby knew. He folded the telegram neatly into quarters and slipped it into his left back pocket, thinking, as he did, that this thin sc.r.a.p of paper was far too fragile, far too flimsy, to carry the weight it carried. A few words penciled across its front, and a life was ended. A career was finished. Twelve years of work went spinning into the gutter. He paid the desk clerk for his room and then he walked over to the bar and ordered a drink.

That had been the first. Since then, over the past three hours, he had downed at least a quart of whiskey. After the first five or six drinks, he had stopped telling himself that the drunkenness was a considered, reasonable response to bad news. He drank, he realized, because he was a drunk. Other people were lawyers, bakers, candlestick makers. Farmers. Mine owners. Poets. United States Marshals. He was a drunk.

With the knowledge had come a kind of liberation, a sense of pressure lifted, tension eased. He was a drunk, he had always been a drunk, he would always be a drunk. So what if he wasn't marshal anymore. Who gave a s.h.i.+t. No one in Denver. No one here in Leadville. Not him. He still had his other ident.i.ty, his true ident.i.ty. That he would always have. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day, or maybe next week, he'd go back to Denver, sell the house, and then take off for Texas. Lots of good whiskey down in Texas. Good place for a drunk.

He had been in Hyman's Saloon, next door to the Opera House, for an hour. (An hour and a half?) His legs were wobbly and his mouth was numb and slack, and he knew, dimly, that it was time to go. He bought a bottle from the barkeep and staggered off.

Shuffling along the wooden planking of the sidewalk with a flat-footed lurch, the bottle tucked under his arm, he smiled blearily when he saw people watching him from the corners of their eyes, taking care to step well around him as they pa.s.sed. Citizens. The good citizens of Colorado. The good citizens he had sworn to protect, back when he had been a U.S. marshal.

a.s.sholes, all of them. Petty, money-grubbing a.s.sholes. What did they know? Nothing, was what.

Mathilde. Maybe he should go see Mathilde.

No. Not like this. Tomorrow, after he sobered up. Plenty of time tomorrow. Plenty of time now for everything.

As he was reeling into the entrance of the Clarendon, some large bulky shape exploded from within and slammed into him. He stumbled backward and the whiskey bottle went slowly sailing from beneath his arm, lazily spun in the air once, then somehow sped up just before it smacked against the sidewalk. It shattered, whiskey splas.h.i.+ng everywhere.

Grigsby wheeled around, his big hands coming up to destroy. ”a.s.shole! Sonovab.i.t.c.h!”

Wilde grabbed him by the front of his jacket. ”Grigsby! He has her! The killer! The madman! He has Elizabeth!”

Grigsby tried to focus. Clumsily he grabbed Wilde's wrists, tried to wrench the hands away, discovered that he couldn't. Sonavab.i.t.c.h was strong for a lulu-belle.

Wilde was shaking him. ”d.a.m.n it, Grigsby! Don't you understand! Mrs. Doe! He wrote a note, he pretended he was me! The Ice Palace! He's there with her!”

”Mrs. Doe?” said Grigsby. His mind was clearing, and he was beginning to understand that he didn't want it to clear because when it did he would learn something horrible. About the killer. About himself. ”The killer?”

Wilde's mouth curled with contempt and he pushed Grigsby away. ”Drunk!” He looked quickly around him, turned back to Grigsby. ”Your gun! Give me your gun!”

Grigsby had never handed his gun over to anyone. Now he didn't, even for an instant, consider refusing. He fumbled at the hammer strap, finally slipped it free, fumbled the gun from its holster. Holding the weapon by the barrel, its b.u.t.t wavering, he forced his loose lips to move around the words: ”You know how ... use it?”

Wilde snapped it away, shoved it into his waistband. ”You point it and you pull the b.l.o.o.d.y trigger.”

He spun away and Grigsby called out, ”Wait!”

Wilde looked back.

Grigsby pointed to the horses tethered to the hitching rail in front of the hotel. ”Horse. Take a horse.”

Wilde nodded, sprang from the sidewalk, ripped loose a set of reins, and then awkwardly but swiftly scrambled up into the saddle. The horse reared, forelegs clawing at the air, but Wilde leaned forward, knees clenched against its flanks, and kept his seat. He jerked the reins to the right, and the horse came down and then bolted off in a gallop, kicking up black clods of mud behind it.

Weaving, Grigsby tottered to the hitching rail. He put his shaking hand atop it and lowered his head.

f.u.c.king useless old man. f.u.c.king useless old drunk.

You swore to yourself you'd get this b.a.s.t.a.r.d, stop him before he killed again, and then when it comes to the crunch you're blind stinking drunk, s...o...b..ring with booze and self-pity, can't ride a f.u.c.king horse, can't even f.u.c.king walk.

Useless.

End it, old man. Pack it in. Put a bullet in your head and get it over with.

Something grabbed at his arm, wrenched him around.

”Bob. What's going on?”

Doc Holliday. The fingers of his hand digging into Grigsby's upper arm.

Grigsby shook his head, trying to shake away the cotton.

”Bob, where's Wilde going?”

Grigsby sc.r.a.ped his tongue against his teeth. He brought his glance into focus, found Holliday's cold, gla.s.sy eyes. ”The killer. At the Ice Palace. Mrs. Doe.”

Holliday's fingers squeezed. ”Get to the police, Bob. Tell them.”

And then he was gone.

<script>