Part 22 (1/2)

”I wish you could hear me,” I said. ”Because if you could, I'd tell you that you aren't forgotten, that even if we don't know your name, there are good people here who care about what happened to you. We're going to try to help you find some rest.”

27.

”I'm going with you,” I said.

”You can't. You've got the hearing in front of Judge Grout tomorrow,” Calder said, taking some kind of rifle down from an antelope-horned rack on the wall. We were in his quarters, behind the law offices of Frazier and Hunnicutt, across from the courthouse. The entire living s.p.a.ce was one room, really just a shack added to the back of the law office. It was filled with the usual kinds of trash that bachelors tend to acc.u.mulate: papers, dirty clothes, dishes that needed was.h.i.+ng. There was a potbelly stove in one corner and a rope bed opposite.

”If you don't show up,” Calder said, ”Grout is going to issue a warrant for your arrest and somebody like me is going to track you down and send you to Labette County to stand trial as Kate Bender.”

”Potete can fix that.”

”You don't understand,” Calder said. ”I might be gone for two or three weeks, and Potete can't fix anything if you're not there.”

I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. There wasn't room to sit, because every flat surface was piled with something-legal doc.u.ments, law books, dirty plates. Even the chairs had bundles of the Times and other newspapers on them.

”How do you live like this?”

”Sorry, I didn't know I was going to have guests.”

”Where are your books?”

”The law books are in the corner.”

”No, I mean literature.”

”I read newspapers.”

”But not Twain or d.i.c.kens.”

”I only read factual material.”

”There's more fiction in just one edition of the Kansas City Times than in all of Thackeray,” I said, aiming at sounding droll but grazing boorish, instead. ”Look at this mess! You can hardly walk from room to room.”

”I know where everything is.”

”Every man says that,” I said. ”You're going to burn this place down, come winter, when you light that stove. A single spark could set the whole mess on fire.”

”Worry about your own problems, Professor Wylde.”

”I am, and that's why I demand to come with you.”

”You're not in a position to demand anything.”

He began gathering cartridge boxes.

”Look, Jack,” I said. ”There's something I have to get back from the creature Vanderslice works for, this Malleus. He stole it from me, and if I don't get it back, then none of these other things matter.”

”Your aura,” Calder said. ”You already told me that at the drugstore.”

”Then why don't you believe me?”

”It sounds crazy.”

I made an incredulous sound in my throat. ”How much more proof do you need that this stuff is real?” I asked. ”What about the b.u.t.ton? I couldn't have just made that up.”

”That's different,” Calder said. ”That came to you in a vision or something. But this thing about your aura . . . I've never heard anything like that before. If everybody has an aura, then why have I never seen one?”

”Because you haven't looked,” I said. ”It takes some practice.”

”What color is mine, then?”

”Green,” I said.

”That's not my favorite color.”

”I know-your favorite color is blue.”

He gave me an odd look.

”I guessed that, because of your s.h.i.+rts. You're always wearing a blue s.h.i.+rt under that vest. But auras don't work like that. It's not based on your favorite color. It has to do with your mood and personality.”

”Even if that's true,” he said, ”there's no reason you should go with me. It's too dangerous. And with you along-well, I'd always be looking out for you and not concentrating on bringing in Vanderslice.”

”I can take care of myself. I have, for a long time.”

”Not like this,” he said. ”Below the Arkansas is no man's land. There's n.o.body to ask for help when you get in trouble, and the only thing you can count on is trouble.”

”All the more reason for me to go with you.”

He picked up the rifle and offered it, b.u.t.t-first.

”Tell me whether this is loaded or not,” he said.

”I don't like guns.”

”Take it,” he said, and shoved it in my hands.

I hated the feel of it.

”Gun help is the only kind of help I need,” he said. ”And you can't even tell me if it's loaded or not, much less how to use the d.a.m.ned thing.”