Beyond the Pale -Part 32
Jan. 20th, 2006 03:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
secret_historyHola and welcome back, faithful readers! There will be two posts tonight, and one tomorrow. I am getting close to the end of this story arc, which I'm going to rename because I don't like the title I currently have.
There you go: gripping insight into the writer's mind.
I know that my loyal fans (all two of you! ^_^) have been waiting with bated breath for these new instalments, so I shall delay no longer. Tally ho!
“What do you mean, you found him? Is he all right?” Victoria hurried to catch up with the Marshal who was heading toward a nearby alley with long, easy strides.
“He’s alive, if that’s what you want to know,” Monroe sounded grim. “I don’t know for how long, though. Looks like whoever got to Buchanan got to him as well but didn’t finish the job.”
“Jesus.”
“You can say that again. Doc Mallard sure picked a fine time to go off on holidays without warning anyone.”
“If it’s a holiday he went on...”
“Over here.”
Monroe dropped to a crouch where the shadows of two buildings intersected behind a pile of lumber and pointed. Coming up behind him, Vicky caught sight of the prostrate form of her erstwhile colleague, collapsed halfway over the lumber, his legs trailing in the mud on the ground. Shakes was filthy, and reeked of sweat and alcohol, his hair plastered to his head by either sweat or the morning dew. His eyes were rolled up in his head, and his mouth hung open, his breathing wheezing and rattling feebly in his chest as though someone or something was choking him. Her eyes went involuntarily to the ragged puncture wound near his throat, where a thin dribble of blood had congealed. He still wore his pistol in its holster, and one hand was clenched around a stout piece of wood, as though he’d held onto it for purchase, or perhaps had tried to use it to fend off his attacker.
“We need to get him out of here,” she said, although she knew it was unnecessary. “We can put him on the spare cot above the jail until we know what’s going on.”
When they had settled Shakes in, with the help of a few of Otto’s patrons, Shakes not being a small man by any measure, Monroe stood by the newest victim’s bed, looking grim. He looked at Vicky, then back at Shakes, but said nothing, scratching thoughtfully at his chin with the nail of his thumb.
Itching for something to do, Vicky headed back into the small office they shared and put a pot of coffee on the small wood stove they kept inside for warmth and the occasional bit of food. She’d made all of Buchanan’s meals there, a duty she now almost regretted never having to perform again. Buchanan would have most likely been hanged, anyway, she reasoned with herself. No reason to go regretting his death, no matter how gruesome. It wasn’t just regret, though, it was... she wasn’t quite sure what it was. Mostly what she felt was anger: anger at the people who’d decided to take justice into their own hands, and most of all anger that something like this should happen just under her nose without her having been able to do a damned thing about it.
“Does he have his keys on him?” she called out to the Marshal.
“No. I couldn’t find them,” came the answer.
That didn’t really clear things up, though. Shakes might have left his keys in his room before going drinking. He was a boozer, but he still paid enough attention to his job that it wasn’t unreasonable to suppose that he would have been more careful with the office keys.
Then there was that whole funny business with Otto that she couldn’t put out of her mind. Something else was going on, here, that much was obvious. The question was, what? She hated feeling this obtuse. It was probably right in front of her, except that she couldn’t see it. She lifted the coffee pot off the stove and held it up as Monroe came back into the room.
“Coffee, Marshal?”
Monroe made an affirmative gesture, and sat down on the corner of the desk while she poured out two mugs and handed one to him.
“Why do I get the feeling we’re spinning our wheels on this?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Vicky answered anyway. “That’s because we are. I think there’s more to this than we think, though, Marshal. Did you notice how nervous Otto was when we were in the saloon today? I think he knows a lot more about what’s going on that he let on, and he let on a fair bit while I was talking to him.” That got Monroe’s attention. She quickly filled him in on what the saloon keeper had told her, and watched while he mulled it over. Monroe was not a quick thinker, but he was thorough where she was fast, and that usually made them a good team.
“What the hell’s a nose ferret?” he asked finally.
She shrugged. “Damned if I know. All I know is that, whatever it is, it’s got Otto scared witless, and it might have something to do with our having two unexplained attacks on our hands. Murder I can understand, as long as I can see why it was done. Except this time, it doesn’t make sense.”
Monroe stood up. “All right. I figure we ought to go check up on the Mayor. After all, that Radu is staying with him, right? We can check him out at the same time.”
“All right,” Vicky tried to hide the doubt in her voice. She wasn’t thrilled at the idea of venturing into unknown territory without a bit more information to go on, but she had to admit that she had no better idea.
The Mayor’s new house was a good forty-minute ride away from town, and so they saddled up quickly and set out as fast as they could, unwilling to waste any more time than necessary. They hadn’t even reached the halfway point when Vicky noticed storm clouds gathering quickly above them. She groaned.
“Great. Just what we need: a summer storm coming out of nowhere. Why can’t Colorado have normal weather?”
Monroe laughed at her. “Come on, Vicky, it’s just a little rain. It’s not going to kill you. Besides, you named your horse Lightning: I thought that meant you liked storms.”
“No, that means my horse runs fast,” she rejoined testily. She didn’t add that a little rain might well kill her. If the Marshal didn’t remember, she wasn’t about to remind him that she flirted with death on a regular basis. Instead she pulled out her duster from her saddlebags and threaded her arms through the sleeves, pulling it close around her.
Ten minutes later the skies opened and a torrential downpour began to fall, drenching them thoroughly. Glad that she at least had a minimal amount of protection from the elements in the form of her duster, Vicky urged Lightning to a fast trot, feeling the cold starting to seep into her bones. The Mayor’s residence was only a short ride away, and she was anxious to get there before she drowned standing up. Monroe matched her pace, their horses’ hooves churning up a muddy wake behind them.
They dismounted near the door of a small stable, and Monroe handed his reins over to Vicky, who tethered both horses to a post before following her employer to the front door of the large house. It was an impressive piece of architecture by boomtown standards, with a gabled roof and large windows, standing three stories high, an unheard-of luxury in Silver Springs.
“I’ll go talk to the Mayor by myself, if you don’t mind,” Monroe said as he rapped peremptorily on the door with the heavy brass knocker put there for that very purpose. “I’d like you to find out what you can about the other people who’re living here: we’ll get more information that way.”
Before she could answer, the door opened abruptly before them, revealing a tall, strikingly handsome woman in a dark red dress, standing well back from the doorstep. She would have been considered a beauty just about anywhere, Vicky thought, unsure whether she was envious or just simply awestruck. The woman had large black eyes fringed with thick lashes, a full mouth and high cheekbones, and long, lustrous hair the colour of ebony that contrasted starkly with the paleness of her skin.
“What is it that you require?” she asked in a throaty voice, betraying a thick accent that Victoria couldn’t place. Her tone implied that they were an unwelcome intrusion.
Monroe doffed his hat, sending a spray of rainwater onto the polished wooden floor. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I don’t believe we’ve ever been formally introduced: I’m Winslow Monroe, Marshal of Silver Springs. This is my deputy, Miss James. I’m here to see the Mayor.”
The woman’s expression softened a fraction. “Of course, of course, the Marshal,” she smiled thinly, revealing the smallest glint of white teeth behind very red lips. “It is very good to meet you, finally. I am Yelena, Robert’s cousin. I am afraid that Robert is resting right now. Perhaps you could come back later?”
Monroe shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is important, and it’s been a long, wet ride to come out here. Would you let us in, please?”
The woman frowned almost imperceptibly. “Very well. Come with me.”
*****
There you go: gripping insight into the writer's mind.
I know that my loyal fans (all two of you! ^_^) have been waiting with bated breath for these new instalments, so I shall delay no longer. Tally ho!
“What do you mean, you found him? Is he all right?” Victoria hurried to catch up with the Marshal who was heading toward a nearby alley with long, easy strides.
“He’s alive, if that’s what you want to know,” Monroe sounded grim. “I don’t know for how long, though. Looks like whoever got to Buchanan got to him as well but didn’t finish the job.”
“Jesus.”
“You can say that again. Doc Mallard sure picked a fine time to go off on holidays without warning anyone.”
“If it’s a holiday he went on...”
“Over here.”
Monroe dropped to a crouch where the shadows of two buildings intersected behind a pile of lumber and pointed. Coming up behind him, Vicky caught sight of the prostrate form of her erstwhile colleague, collapsed halfway over the lumber, his legs trailing in the mud on the ground. Shakes was filthy, and reeked of sweat and alcohol, his hair plastered to his head by either sweat or the morning dew. His eyes were rolled up in his head, and his mouth hung open, his breathing wheezing and rattling feebly in his chest as though someone or something was choking him. Her eyes went involuntarily to the ragged puncture wound near his throat, where a thin dribble of blood had congealed. He still wore his pistol in its holster, and one hand was clenched around a stout piece of wood, as though he’d held onto it for purchase, or perhaps had tried to use it to fend off his attacker.
“We need to get him out of here,” she said, although she knew it was unnecessary. “We can put him on the spare cot above the jail until we know what’s going on.”
When they had settled Shakes in, with the help of a few of Otto’s patrons, Shakes not being a small man by any measure, Monroe stood by the newest victim’s bed, looking grim. He looked at Vicky, then back at Shakes, but said nothing, scratching thoughtfully at his chin with the nail of his thumb.
Itching for something to do, Vicky headed back into the small office they shared and put a pot of coffee on the small wood stove they kept inside for warmth and the occasional bit of food. She’d made all of Buchanan’s meals there, a duty she now almost regretted never having to perform again. Buchanan would have most likely been hanged, anyway, she reasoned with herself. No reason to go regretting his death, no matter how gruesome. It wasn’t just regret, though, it was... she wasn’t quite sure what it was. Mostly what she felt was anger: anger at the people who’d decided to take justice into their own hands, and most of all anger that something like this should happen just under her nose without her having been able to do a damned thing about it.
“Does he have his keys on him?” she called out to the Marshal.
“No. I couldn’t find them,” came the answer.
That didn’t really clear things up, though. Shakes might have left his keys in his room before going drinking. He was a boozer, but he still paid enough attention to his job that it wasn’t unreasonable to suppose that he would have been more careful with the office keys.
Then there was that whole funny business with Otto that she couldn’t put out of her mind. Something else was going on, here, that much was obvious. The question was, what? She hated feeling this obtuse. It was probably right in front of her, except that she couldn’t see it. She lifted the coffee pot off the stove and held it up as Monroe came back into the room.
“Coffee, Marshal?”
Monroe made an affirmative gesture, and sat down on the corner of the desk while she poured out two mugs and handed one to him.
“Why do I get the feeling we’re spinning our wheels on this?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Vicky answered anyway. “That’s because we are. I think there’s more to this than we think, though, Marshal. Did you notice how nervous Otto was when we were in the saloon today? I think he knows a lot more about what’s going on that he let on, and he let on a fair bit while I was talking to him.” That got Monroe’s attention. She quickly filled him in on what the saloon keeper had told her, and watched while he mulled it over. Monroe was not a quick thinker, but he was thorough where she was fast, and that usually made them a good team.
“What the hell’s a nose ferret?” he asked finally.
She shrugged. “Damned if I know. All I know is that, whatever it is, it’s got Otto scared witless, and it might have something to do with our having two unexplained attacks on our hands. Murder I can understand, as long as I can see why it was done. Except this time, it doesn’t make sense.”
Monroe stood up. “All right. I figure we ought to go check up on the Mayor. After all, that Radu is staying with him, right? We can check him out at the same time.”
“All right,” Vicky tried to hide the doubt in her voice. She wasn’t thrilled at the idea of venturing into unknown territory without a bit more information to go on, but she had to admit that she had no better idea.
The Mayor’s new house was a good forty-minute ride away from town, and so they saddled up quickly and set out as fast as they could, unwilling to waste any more time than necessary. They hadn’t even reached the halfway point when Vicky noticed storm clouds gathering quickly above them. She groaned.
“Great. Just what we need: a summer storm coming out of nowhere. Why can’t Colorado have normal weather?”
Monroe laughed at her. “Come on, Vicky, it’s just a little rain. It’s not going to kill you. Besides, you named your horse Lightning: I thought that meant you liked storms.”
“No, that means my horse runs fast,” she rejoined testily. She didn’t add that a little rain might well kill her. If the Marshal didn’t remember, she wasn’t about to remind him that she flirted with death on a regular basis. Instead she pulled out her duster from her saddlebags and threaded her arms through the sleeves, pulling it close around her.
Ten minutes later the skies opened and a torrential downpour began to fall, drenching them thoroughly. Glad that she at least had a minimal amount of protection from the elements in the form of her duster, Vicky urged Lightning to a fast trot, feeling the cold starting to seep into her bones. The Mayor’s residence was only a short ride away, and she was anxious to get there before she drowned standing up. Monroe matched her pace, their horses’ hooves churning up a muddy wake behind them.
They dismounted near the door of a small stable, and Monroe handed his reins over to Vicky, who tethered both horses to a post before following her employer to the front door of the large house. It was an impressive piece of architecture by boomtown standards, with a gabled roof and large windows, standing three stories high, an unheard-of luxury in Silver Springs.
“I’ll go talk to the Mayor by myself, if you don’t mind,” Monroe said as he rapped peremptorily on the door with the heavy brass knocker put there for that very purpose. “I’d like you to find out what you can about the other people who’re living here: we’ll get more information that way.”
Before she could answer, the door opened abruptly before them, revealing a tall, strikingly handsome woman in a dark red dress, standing well back from the doorstep. She would have been considered a beauty just about anywhere, Vicky thought, unsure whether she was envious or just simply awestruck. The woman had large black eyes fringed with thick lashes, a full mouth and high cheekbones, and long, lustrous hair the colour of ebony that contrasted starkly with the paleness of her skin.
“What is it that you require?” she asked in a throaty voice, betraying a thick accent that Victoria couldn’t place. Her tone implied that they were an unwelcome intrusion.
Monroe doffed his hat, sending a spray of rainwater onto the polished wooden floor. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I don’t believe we’ve ever been formally introduced: I’m Winslow Monroe, Marshal of Silver Springs. This is my deputy, Miss James. I’m here to see the Mayor.”
The woman’s expression softened a fraction. “Of course, of course, the Marshal,” she smiled thinly, revealing the smallest glint of white teeth behind very red lips. “It is very good to meet you, finally. I am Yelena, Robert’s cousin. I am afraid that Robert is resting right now. Perhaps you could come back later?”
Monroe shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is important, and it’s been a long, wet ride to come out here. Would you let us in, please?”
The woman frowned almost imperceptibly. “Very well. Come with me.”
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no subject
Date: 2006-05-12 11:36 am (UTC)Followed by the second use of "erstwhile" in as many instalments. (I only looked that word up for the first time earlier this week.)
White teeth? In the West? UH-oh...
t!