Devils night, p.4
Devil's Night, page 4
Douglas knew the ugliness of life just as well as Marian did. Marian understood his motives—to feed his family, to right certain injustices without doing more harm than good. He might not approve of Marian’s true mission today. But Douglas knew all that she desired him to know.
“We’ve got fifteen minutes till they reach the choke point,” she said.
Douglas nodded, his hat still over his eyes.
Marian backed up, snaking along the ground, until she reached the cover of the trees. She got up, shaking the layer of beige dust from her clothes.
She’d hidden her change of costume behind a rock formation. Today, as on most days, she wore a man’s vest, wool coat, and duck canvas trousers. She stripped off these beloved items until she wore only her drawers. On went the corset, cinching her waist. It was tighter than she remembered. The dress was calico, just a touch of ruffling at the neck and sleeves. Lead shot was sewn into the fraying hem to keep it down. Buttons trailed from her throat down to the seam at the top of her hips. She hated the thing, what it represented. It wasn’t really her. Not anymore.
She thought of the dress that her mother used to wear—pale blue satin that bore indelible stains, white lace gloves that had turned a dingy yellow. There was always something dark red on the gloves’ fingers, though Marian couldn’t tell if it was lip rouge or dried blood. Probably both. White had dusted her mother’s front from the flour she used as face powder. Marian had scrubbed those clothes on Sundays, wishing that her mother would show a small measure of pride. What’s the point? her mother had asked once. The dress will be just as filthy by the end of Monday. You think the men care?
Marian tucked her dark brown locks into a bonnet. Last, she reached for her weapons. She slid her tiny derringer into the top of her boot.
But when she reached for the knife she’d set down just moments ago, it was gone. Someone had been here—snuck up on her while she’d been dressing.
Marian drew the derringer from her boot. “Douglas, did you take my knife?”
But when she leaned out from behind the rock, it wasn’t Douglas she saw.
Tim stood there with her knife balanced on his palm. He stared sheepishly at the ground. “I’m sorry, Miss Marian. I didn’t saw noth—” The words dissolved into a fit of coughing.
“‘I didn’t see,’” she corrected. The derringer went back inside her boot.
She didn’t like that Tim had gotten so close without her knowing. In the past, he’d made his amorous feelings clear. She’d tried to dissuade him, gently but firmly. But she doubted he’d actually been spying; he didn’t have the wits to lie.
Consumption gave Tim a weak constitution, though he was also a crack shot with an iron. His devotion made him loyal to her. But Marian didn’t trust any man entirely.
Marian held out her hand. “Give me my knife.”
“But—” He coughed again, clearing his throat. “It needn’t be you, Miss Marian. I don’t wish to see you hurt.”
Douglas was watching from his lookout spot, frowning.
She came closer to Tim. “And should I be subject to your whims?”
“I don’t reckon so.”
Which wasn’t quite an answer. Tim handed her the knife. Without hesitating, she sliced the sharp tip across her palm.
Bart Adams spurred the horses onward. They were supposed to have arrived in Eden an hour ago.
They’d been wrapping up certain of Fitzhammer’s assets in other mining towns. Quite a few investments had gone belly-up in recent months. It was time to gather up what was left and plan for the future. But, as usual, Bart’s employer had been distracted by something fragile and beautiful. Fitzhammer had insisted on meeting a railroad heiress for breakfast before they left Ouray. Fitz thought he could convince the girl to invest in Eden, though the town had been a hopeless cause since the price of silver crashed. But Bart’s employer was a proud man, and stubborn besides. He hated to admit a wrong.
The truth was this: Eden was nearly bust already. Nobody counted people in mining towns. They counted saloons and dance halls, and Eden had just a handful of the former, none remaining of the latter. Bart had his own loose ends to tie up in that town—urgent problems that demanded his attention—but he was eager to put Eden behind him as soon as Fitz agreed.
Bart glanced at the angle of the sun to judge the time, though he could’ve checked his watch. He hated being late. He liked to think himself clever and well-prepared. Ready for any problem that might arise.
So it came as quite a shock when he glanced back at the road, and a woman suddenly appeared.
She stumbled out a hundred yards ahead, holding the scraps of a torn shawl around her shoulders. Bright red blood was smeared across her face, which made Bart cringe in disgust.
Bart didn’t recognize her as one of the few females still living in Eden. But folks passed through often enough. One never knew.
He eyed the hillsides, keeping on his guard. His Spencer repeating rifle was tucked near his feet within easy reach.
She trotted unsteadily toward them, holding out a hand. “Help me! Please!” Her bonnet was askew, dark ribbons of thick hair tumbling out. She was younger than he’d thought at first. Maybe nineteen, twenty.
“What is it?” Fitzhammer called from the coach, lifting the leather flap to look.
“Not sure. A girl, seems to be.”
The girl kept coming closer. Her waist was tiny beneath her dress. Her lips were full, swollen from being struck. His skin crawled as he looked at the blood. Bart didn’t well abide the sight of blood.
Then her shawl shifted, and he saw her dress—ripped open at the side. The beige of her undergarments was visible beneath. His disgust lessened a bit, replaced by interest.
“Seems she may’ve been attacked,” Bart added.
“Stop, then,” Fitzhammer said. “Let me speak to her.”
Old Fitz did like to play the hero.
He slowed the horses. “You a’right, miss?” Bart asked cautiously. “Something happen?”
She pointed behind her in the direction of Eden. “There’s been a brawl in the street, sir! You got to help, please.”
“A brawl?” Fitzhammer said. The door to the coach swung open, and the man himself stepped out, just donning his traveling hat. He was past sixty, though Fitz didn’t like to own up to his exact age.
Bart was nearing forty. In the past, some said he favored Fitzhammer, almost as a son favored a father. They had a similar height and clean-shaven chins. Though Bart considered himself the more attractive, especially these days. True, he wasn’t as dashing as he’d been growing up in New Orleans. Back then he fancied himself a card player and thought there were riches to be made hustling poker. Nearly getting shot at the table taught him pretty quick. Working for an important man like Fitzhammer was a better long-term plan, and less likely to cut short his life.
Fitzhammer held out his hand to the girl. “Now, tell me exactly what the trouble is.”
Fitz took her hand, drawing her closer to the coach. There was something familiar about her. Perhaps she just fit the type that usually caught Fitzhammer’s eye—the dark hair, the pouting mouth and pale skin.
“They was fightin’ and one grabbed me,” the injured girl was saying. “I nearly didn’t escape. Frightened me somethin’ terrible. We have to go and fetch help.” She clutched at Fitzhammer’s elbow.
“Nonsense,” Fitzhammer said, glancing at the smears of dust her fingers left on his coat. “My man here is well armed. He’ll take care of the ruffians.”
Easy for you to say, old man, Bart thought. “How many of them was there?”
“Two. One of ‘em the man I come to town with, but I don’t like him much. He’s the one what hit me.”
There was something about her mannerisms that didn’t sit right with Bart. He couldn’t quite say. She was doing an awful lot of talking for a young girl with a split lip. And she kept that bonnet pulled so low across her eyes.
Again, he craned his neck, gazing at the hillsides. Was there a spot of movement? A shape that didn’t belong?
“Now, now,” Fitzhammer said. “We’ll get this sorted, don’t you fear. Why don’t you come along with us?”
Bart started walking toward the coach door, where his employer was already helping the girl inside. As she sat down, she looked at Bart from beneath her bonnet. That single flash of her dark, devilish eyes was enough.
Holy Hades. It was her. The last time Bart saw her, she’d sworn she would kill him and Fitzhammer both.
Bart went for his revolver. “Boss, it’s that bitch. It’s Marian!”
Fitzhammer’s eyes went round at the name. Bart had his Colt .44 Peacemaker cocked and aimed in less than a moment, but Marian was now pointing a silver derringer at Fitz’s forehead. She grinned, and her teeth were painted red with blood.
“Hello, Bart. It’s been quite a long time.”
Chapter Seven
2019
Penny made sure that June was settled for the night. Then Anvi called her a ride to Ashton. They’d hired a local company called Alpenglow Guides to handle transportation; Alpenglow had already been ferrying Anvi and June around. Once the festival started, Alpenglow’s drivers would pilot the shuttles bringing ticket holders along the difficult road to Eden.
Penny put on the small leather backpack that she used as a purse. It held her clothes for the overnight trip. She stepped out of the trailer. Linden joined her.
The night was cool, the moon a crescent hanging over the peaks. Something hooted, and brush rustled. Penny had remembered how cold it could get up here at night, even in July. She’d warned them all to bring layers and heavy blankets. Still, she shivered in her sweatshirt, wishing she’d brought along her down coat. At least she could breathe out here. The trailer had felt extremely close with the four of them in it, though the website said it supposedly slept ten.
It would be good to get some space from the others tonight, even if that meant descending into her parents’ oppressive domain.
“I’m worried about June,” Linden said.
“June? Why?”
“Because she jumped at the Devil’s Fest idea, yet she freaked out at the first sign of something weird.”
Penny glanced at the trailer. “June said earlier today that she’s been preoccupied, though she said it’s not about the festival. She seems like a private person.”
“So she might just be stressed.” Linden chewed her lip. “I’ll see if she wants to talk tomorrow. Last thing we need is an upset client.”
June hadn’t seemed upset, really. But if she was already feeling tense, then the dark atmosphere of Eden—and its equally dramatic history—probably wouldn’t help.
“Maybe we shouldn’t let her wander around Eden alone,” Penny suggested. “Especially at sunrise and sunset. Do you think?” Even that was probably more caution than necessary. But it wouldn’t hurt.
“Works for me.” Linden crossed her arms over her sweater and balanced on one foot, the other leg notched in a tree pose. “Why didn’t you tell me that stuff about your dad and his book?”
Penny turned her face to the night sky. “I didn’t want you and Tripp to think this is all about my story.”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
Did Linden mean “me,” your best friend? Or “me,” your boss?
Penny grimaced, though Linden couldn’t see her expression in the dark. “There’s something so ridiculous about all this. My outlaw ancestor, my dad’s melodramatic book. He called me a ‘spiritual medium.’ Like I should have a hotline advertised on late night TV.”
Like many compelling tales, her dad’s book was one part truth and ten parts exaggeration. In other words, marketing.
“See, your mistake is thinking that other families are so different.” Linden wrapped an arm around Penny’s shoulders, sharing the warmth between them. “Everybody I know is embarrassed by their parents. No matter their circumstances. Though your case is…unusual.”
“But you know what I mean.”
Linden had gone to all the right schools. She’d mentioned a prestigious elementary school that required letters of reference to get in. The Hao family lived in Bel Air, a fifteen-minute drive from UCLA, though of course Linden had lived in her own apartment in Westwood during college instead of their mansion.
“You’re unique and adorable, and I love that about you,” Linden said.
Just what Penny had expected. Linden did not understand.
“But Tripp expects me to know everything that’s going on,” Linden continued. “He doesn’t want there to be any surprises, you know? Tripp’s got a ton of money riding on this. SunBev has even more at stake. We have to get it right.”
Penny’s cheeks were burning. Actually, her entire body was overheating. She’d forgotten about the cold.
“You can count on me. Everything’s going to be perfect.”
“Of course it will. I’ll see you in the morning.” Linden gave her another squeeze.
Penny walked toward the parking lot, hoping her ride would appear soon. She had to get her head straight so she could focus on her job—not ghosts, not her parents, not her past.
Then she heard footsteps behind her. She spun.
Matthew stopped short, holding his keys in one hand and a messenger bag in the other.
They both spoke at once. “What are you—”
Jinx, Penny thought, which she would’ve said if it were years ago and they were still kids.
“Waiting for my ride,” she said. “My mother has summoned me.”
“Ah.” He jangled his keys on his palm. “I was working on my plans for your hotel party. Trying to catch up since we’re already behind.”
She crossed her arms, turning away. Not another lecture already.
“Come on,” he said, heading toward a truck. “I’ll drive you.”
“That’s really not—”
“I’m sure we can be ‘civil’ for fifteen minutes.”
Penny looked toward the road, willing her driver from Alpenglow to roar in and save her. But there was no sign.
Matthew’s engine revved to life.
She reached for the passenger door handle on Matthew’s truck. He was facing the windshield, not even looking at her. His hair was pale, bluish in the low light and the glow from the dashboard.
She climbed up and slid into the seat, copying Matthew’s expression—eyes forward, face impassive. The cab smelled just the way she remembered, like pine needles, laundry detergent, and the spicy-scented deodorant that Matthew had always worn.
They pulled away. Penny sent off a quick text, cancelling the ride she’d requested from Alpenglow Guides.
She glanced at him. His profile she knew by heart. The angle of his nose, the curve at his lower lip, both highlighted against the darkness. There were so many things she could say right now. Things she probably shouldn’t say for the sake of Devil’s Fest. But then the words started coming.
“Did you know before today that I was involved with this project?” she asked. “That we’d be working together?”
“Does that bother you?”
“I have no opinion. I was just curious.”
His eyes cut over to her, shining in the dimness. He had such expressive eyes. Penny had always been able to read exactly what he was thinking in them. Right now they said, I’m calling bullshit.
“Okay, fine. I was more than curious.” But that’s all I’m saying, she thought, and you just have to deal with it.
“Your hair’s natural again,” he said. “I always liked it best that way.”
She’d colored it every few months in high school. Black, platinum, dark brown. Even pink with purple ends, which her mother had loved.
“Been like this for years. I stopped dying it in college.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Already a ghost sighting today,” he said.
“That’s why we’re holding the festival in Eden—people love ghost stories.”
He shook his head. It was barely a movement. More a flinch, really. But it was enough.
“You don’t approve of what I’m doing here,” she said. “Devil’s Fest. This energy drink thing.”
“We all gotta make a buck.”
She leaned her elbow on the passenger door and looked out the window. The dark landscape flew past, silhouettes of trees.
“I was surprised, though,” he said. “Considering your history with Eden. Of all the people who’d be planning an event like this, making money off a bunch of murders, I never thought it would be you.”
She sighed and turned back to him. There was something fragile about his features. Heavy eyelids, like he was always sleepy or thinking deeply. When they were young, the other kids had made fun of him for it. Most of the time he laughed it off. But on those few rare occasions, the hurt had shown so plainly on his face.
“Look, let’s just agree to keep this professional, keep our past out of it, and it’ll all go smoothly.”
His mouth quirked. “Our past? What are you referring to, exactly?”
She settled back in the seat. The truck bumped up and down. “Go to hell, Matthew,” she murmured, wishing that the wind would carry her words away. That he wouldn’t hear in her voice how much she still felt for him.
“Your Devil’s Fest is in less than a week,” he deadpanned. “I’d say we’re all going to hell.”
Chapter Eight
They parked in front of the Ashton Valley Inn. Penny grabbed her pack, got out and slammed the door.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said over her shoulder.
“My pleasure,” Matthew called back.
He was a funny guy now, apparently. Jokes and sarcasm. He’d definitely changed in the last six years.
She jogged up the steps. The door opened onto a familiar scene: green carpets, burgundy drapes, striped wallpaper. The inn had once been the stately home of Judge Beau MacKenzie, one of Ashton’s founders. He was also the man who discovered the bodies after the Devil’s Night Massacre in Eden.
