Touched by Angels (26 page)

He had been told not to go near the window under any circumstances, but couldn’t resist the temptation.

He could see the brim of Quint’s hat; not that he could concentrate very hard.

The room smelt of the dead.

He kept thinking a rotting hand would touch his neck, and every so often, he flinched round, thinking something had moved.

He forced himself to look at the suitcase instead.

It stood in the middle of the empty street, alone.

He watched as Quint peeped round.

***

Quint swallowed hard, unsure whether she could see him or not, though he knew it was a trap. He saw how tempting it would be to simply run, grab it, keep on running, and risk her picking him off from wherever she was hiding.

He nearly did, until he remembered what Brady had told him of the tin cans and how she’d demolished five in six from ten paces.

He regarded his other surroundings, the terraced wood and brick buildings that lined either side of the street and the boarded sidewalk before them, with crumbling rails for tethering horses.

An old wagon, with
Acme Guns and Saddlery
painted on the side, stood outside a ladies’ dressmaker, with the faded title
Lesley’s Dress Emporium
over the shattered window. From inside, he saw the pointed yellow eyes of a cat, as it watched from amongst rubbish that had blown there.

There was a chapel at the far end, with closed doors at the front and about forty feet above, a single bell in a belfry. The building had once been white, but was now faded, with yard long strips peeling here and there.

A sign next to the door read,
Find salvation, not in the bottle or the gun, but in the house of the good Lord
.

He drew back, out of sight, irritated.
Where was she?

He looked from window to window, rooftop to rooftop, and even beneath some sections of the sidewalk. They were elevated by as much as two feet above the ground, though he found it hard to believe she would dare venture there, because of snakes and spiders.

Directly ahead of him was the town barber. The name of the business,
H Pettigrew Tonsorialist & Dentist
was painted in swooping high letters on the large front window, one of the few not broken. The front door, partly glazed, was closed too, which meant she was unlikely to be hiding inside, as she couldn’t shoot through any of it without attracting attention and ruining her aim.

He braced himself and ran full pelt towards it, half-expecting the crack of a pistol shot. Nothing happened.

He bounded up onto the sidewalk and kicked the door open in mid-flight. It swung back on its hinges, knocking over a hat-stand.

He quickly closed it, knowing he would be hard to see through the glass, because of the reflection, and was struck instantly by the stale smell as he looked at four chairs with their backs to him. Three were a faded maroon colour, the leather cracked and fissured with age and damp, but the fourth was a washed out black. This was the dentist’s chair, a little like the one he had been strapped into by his wrists and elbows, when he was nine, to have a rotten tooth yanked out with pliers.

He released the hammer on his gun and listened hard, his eyes now on the suitcase again, this time in the reflection of one of the mirrors.

Somebody’s nerve had to give.

Sixty-six

Half a mile away, Billy Tweed opened his eyes and groaned as he held his aching jaw. A silver spike of pain waxed and waned in the centre of his skull.

He pushed himself up and spat out a mouthful of blood. He wiped his lips on his sleeve, as he remembered what had happened, as anger filled him. He had really liked, trusted and respected Sam Sullivan, and couldn’t believe that, like Quint, he too had stabbed him in the back.

He saw something in the corner of his eye. He plucked the note from his shirt pocket and read it at a snail’s pace, remembering that Sam had scribbled it before knocking him out.

Boy, by the time you read this note, you will be many miles away. You have a lot of growing up to do, and a lot more to learn. I’m sure that one day, you’ll make something of your life, but you’ll never do it from a pine box. You already know the world is an unforgiving place. That is why I had to bushwhack you. It was for your own good. Trust me one last time, and meet me back at the railway station at noon tomorrow.

Sam

Sinking back against the slats of the seat, Billy crunched the note up and tossed it to the floor, thinking hard, but relieved too, knowing that perhaps he could trust him after all… though if he got himself killed…

***

In Holly Springs, long minutes had passed and still nothing had happened.

Robert was still watching.

He could see the suitcase remained where it was, with dust devils dancing around, while tall weeds in the street and on the sidewalks rustled and twisted in the wind. He heard the wind whistling and thrumming through cracks and holes in the buildings too, and down the alleyways in between.

The cat meowed as it darted down one of them, while a crow cawed from atop the chapel.

No sound was spookier though, than the next one Robert heard. The bell in the chapel was tolling.

***

Sam had heard it too, and ducked back. He was watching from the same place Quint had stood, at the end of the waiting room. He was hidden as best he could be, but still felt conspicuous. He knew it had to be her and peered around once more, as Robert and Quint watched from the shadows.

***

Quint walked to the door and stood watching the suitcase again, as the ringing continued.

If it
was
her pulling the rope, he knew she would never hit him, except by fluke, as the chapel was at least two hundred yards away. He opened the door and swallowed hard, as he walked onto the sidewalk. His hand flexed over his gun. His heart thudded as he stepped onto the street.

He started walking. The bell continued to toll, even as his hand closed around the grip.

He picked up the suitcase and carried on walking, knowing in his heart of hearts that something was terribly wrong, but unable for the life of him to put his finger on it.

Then a shot came from nowhere. The bullet hit the clasp of the case and bits of metal and fabric flew off. With the shot came the cry of birds and the tolling stopped abruptly.

The case flipped open, and although he’d half expected it, his heart still sank when not a single jewel or bank note fell out.

It wasn’t empty though. There was a roll of paper.

As he stooped to pick it up, he wondered how had she managed to ring the bell and prove such outstanding marksmanship from so great a distance.

The mystery was solved when a man stepped out from behind the waiting room, pointing a Remington.

He was vaguely familiar, as was his voice. “Clever dame,” he said. “Knows character at a glance.”

Quint laughed, though his grin froze as another voice to his side said, “Yes, and a very careful one too.”

Quint glanced in the direction of the barber’s, to see her pointing her gun from the hip, while her hair flowed in the wind.

***

She was just as shocked as Quint by this stranger’s sudden appearance, but said to Quint, as she stepped off the sidewalk, “You could have had half the money for helping me, like the gallant gentleman I thought you were.”

He had been looking at the open case, dejectedly, but when he looked up, she could see the question burning in his eyes.

He had to know.

“It’s all in a safe,” she told him. “Every last penny. A long, long way from here, where you’ll
never
get it.”

Sam dissolved into more laughter, while Quint threw the case down and kicked a nearby rock. It bounced off the side the
Acme Guns and Saddlery
wagon.

His right hand moved towards his gun, while his left squeezed the roll of paper.

There was a click as Lil cocked her gun. His hand moved away, fingers twitching.

“Unroll it and read,” she told him. “Aloud, if you please.”

He hesitated, squeezing the paper even harder. She pointed her gun straight at his head. He let go of all but the top, which he held between finger and thumb, and it unfurled like a university diploma.

His eyes widened, as he gazed at a fair likeness of himself.

Then he began to read, his voice faltering and tight with both anger and humiliation.

“Wanted by the White Star Line… for the theft from persons aboard RMS
Titanic
…”

His teeth were gritted and he closed his eyes against the sting of sweat.

“And your name,” she told him. “Your
real
name.”

Their eyes met over the top of the poster and it seemed an age before he said, “My real name is not printed here.”

She took a step back.

“It says Quinton Jack,” she protested. “A corruption of Jackson Quint, to throw would-be investigators off the scent.”

“That’s as may be, but there’s only one man who knows my real name.”

He turned towards Sam for the first time, as he dropped the poster. It fluttered away in the wind.

Puzzlement spread across Sam’s face, though he noticed that Quint’s eyes had fixed on his gun.

Then horror rolled through him, as he realised what he was seeing. Chromed steel. Ebony grip. One of only three ever made. His voice was a strangled whisper.

“My God! You’re Ross McKenna.”

He suddenly felt giddy, thinking he was looking at a ghost. The man with many names lift his shirt. There was a white pit several inches from his navel.

“But how…?” Sam whispered, his eyes bugging as he looked at the scar.

“Nuns saved me. Took me to a mission in Albuquerque. Dug the slug out. Put some stuff in the hole. Sewed it up. Prayed over me. Brought me back from the brink… just. Thank God for God, eh? Far as you were concerned, I was dead.”

He laughed with irony. “But now, as you see, I’m here. I’m hale. I want my
cut
, and…” His grin faded. “I want your life.”

Sam swallowed hard, aware for the first time that he wasn’t getting any younger.

Lil watched as Quint’s eyes were tormenting him as a cat would a mouse.

It was on her to shoot the swine dead.

Nobody would ever know, but did she want her boy to see, and could she square it with all she had taught him, particularly having saved Bob from the noose, when she could so easily have let
him
die.

She remembered reminding Robert of the sixth commandment, when he had accidentally killed the landlord…

At last, she said tiredly, “Just keep on walking Quint, McKenna… whoever you are… unless you want to die a second time!”

Quint dithered, as his hand floated over his gun once more.

He
was
quick, as many had found to their cost… but there were two of them and she had proved her dexterity. He lowered his twitchy hand.

“Best do as she says,” Sam told him, trying to hide his relief, “But lay your piece on the ground first…”

Quint’s teeth were gritted with fury now. He drew his gun with finger and thumb, acutely aware of the fact they needed only the slightest excuse to kill him and carefully laid it in the dust. Then, shaking with rage, he started walking.

Sam picked up his gun and tucked it into his belt.

They both watched until he had disappeared behind the chapel, before walking towards the railroad.

It wouldn’t take them long to flag down a passing train.

What she didn’t expect, and nor did Sam, was the gunshot that echoed down the street seconds later.

They turned to see Quint clasping his hand to his upper belly and dropping another revolver; clearly a spare he’d had concealed on his person the whole time.

Quint’s face was a mad grimace of pain, surprise too, as blood flowered quickly across his shirt.

He tottered from side to side, before crashing to his knees.

Then, just as he grabbed his gun, and aimed wildly to his side, another shot rang out, and a pink spurt came out the other side of his head.

As he toppled face first into the dust, dead, Billy Tweed stepped out from what was once the saloon.

Sam knew he must have pulled the emergency cord on the train.

He muttered, “Sweet Jesus,” and grinned, as he imagined how furious the other passengers must have been for it to happen a second time.

“Know him?” Lil asked.

“Yeah, I know him.”

Billy was grinning as he neared them, and Sam could see the gun he carried was the one he had kept under the counter in the shop, in case of trouble.

It had never been fired until now.

“Few lessons to learn yourself,” Billy said, throwing the piece away. “Like never turning your back when you think you’re safe.”

“I guess so,” Sam told him.

They embraced for a long time, and Sam felt a tear wind its way down his cheek. After he had introduced Billy to Lil, he said, looking in Quint’s direction, “I guess we oughta bury him.”

“It’s only right,” said a fresh voice.

They turned to see Robert.

“My son,” Lil explained, thinking once more about her husband, who

presumably still languished in Pentonville Prison, smashing up rocks.

They were not so very different, she supposed, him and Quint, as she cuddled the boy. It was just that one had a gun and the other hadn’t.

She looked down into Quint’s half-open eyes and wondered if she could see a spark of goodness there. The same way she had often tried to find that spark in Bob’s eyes.

She glanced up, hearing loud cawing. Two carrion crows were already circling above. Good
or
bad, they didn’t care.

“There might be a proper yard behind the chapel,” Lil said. “The ground should be consecrated.”

“What does that mean?” Billy asked.

“Blessed,” she said. “No man is so wayward he should be denied it.”

She fashioned a crude cross, while Billy, Sam and Robert dug a grave with shovels they had found.