Infamous (32 page)

She faltered when she saw him, but then squared her shoulders and kept coming, head held high.

“I don’t need your help,” she said as she got within speaking range.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m great,” she said, but she was obviously lying. She looked exhausted. As if, like him, she hadn’t slept since they’d parted.

He’d worked some crazy magic in order to get in a shower and a shave, and to rustle up clean clothes so he didn’t look like crazy sleeps-in-his-truck man. He’d even talked the technicians in the hair and makeup tent into giving him a haircut. Nothing too radical, just a trim.

He’d looked in that mirror and seen his familiar weather-beaten face looking back at him. His healthy, solid, filled-out, grown man’s face.

He’d seen himself looking thin and ill, during all those months at war when he’d had near-continuous diarrhea from the crap water that the troops had been given. He’d looked even worse in the hospital after Hor al-Hammar, after he’d nearly been killed. And then during and right after rehab, he’d had the street-worn, hard-edged, big-boned skinniness of a man who’d spent months drinking every dollar he could beg, steal, or borrow.

He’d seen himself, too, in the mirrors in the bathrooms at the shelters, in the grip of the worst of his wild-eyed addiction.

So, yeah, he knew what crazy looked like, and it wasn’t looking back at him.

Not today, anyway.

But Alison wouldn’t even look at him, gazing past him at the ruins of her trailer, obviously intending to breeze right by.

“Alison,” he said, stepping forward, which made her stop short. And, God, now she looked as if she were ready to run, should he try to reach for her. So he backed away immediately, apologizing. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“No, you know what?” she said. “I
do
have a question for you. About the story you told me last night. One of the stories you told me, anyway. It’s been bothering me. You said Quinn was the only person inside the Red Rock Saloon—that the Kellys were all waiting outside, to ambush your … Gallagher. The Kid. But the gun battle happened inside. I’ve
seen the bullet marks in the walls. So don’t you dare try to tell me it went down in the street.”

Okay, this was good. She was talking to him, even though hostility was radiating off of her in waves, and was thick in her voice.

A.J. nodded. “No, you’re right,” he said, “it took place inside the saloon. The barkeep broke up the poker game at the designated time, you know, after Quinn and the Kellys were in position. But Jamie didn’t leave the table. Instead he told the barkeep to go on out and give a shout and invite Bo Kelly inside so Jamie could buy him a drink.”

“That’s not really what happened.” Jamie got out of the truck. He’d been sitting inside, slightly removed, but close enough to offer support. “That’s an old family embellishment—the bit about me offering to buy Bo a drink?”

“I’m sorry,” A.J. told Alison, “I was wrong.”

He paraphrased Jamie’s words as the ghost told him, “It makes for a good story, but truth is, I lost big that night and barely had enough to get into the next night’s game. In fact, I was in the middle of a losing streak that lasted for another two weeks, which is one of the reasons it took so long for me and Mel to leave town. We couldn’t go without proper provisions. And I also had to, uh, win back my horse. Which was embarrassing, so I kind of didn’t mention it before this. But that morning? I did invite Bo Kelly in to talk, figuring the drinks would be on the house, since no barkeep in his right mind would stick around for
that
meet-and-greet. The rest, kid, is as you know it.”

“Jamie sent a message out via one of the girls who worked upstairs,” A.J. told Alison. “He told Bo that he wasn’t the kind of man who held a grudge, and that whatever deal that gang had going with Quinn,
he
could make them a better offer.

“See, Jamie knew that Bo Kelly was unhappy with how things were shaking down between himself and Quinn, and sure enough, Bo and two of his men came into the saloon—staying close to the edges of the building, so that the marshal didn’t see them come inside from his second-floor window.

“Jamie went behind the bar, which not only gave him protection from the balcony above, but also access to the liquor. Which he started serving the Kellys, rather liberally. He told Bo that he was gunning for the wrong man. That Quinn was the one squeezing them for a too-substantial cut of their hard-earned pay each week. Jamie told them if they got rid of Quinn, he’d see to it that Bo Kelly got elected sheriff. He and his boys could run the town—earn the money Quinn was making, without any bloodshed or peril.”

“The people of Jubilation would
not
have elected Bo Kelly sheriff,” Alison countered.

“Yeah, but Bo didn’t know that,” A.J. said. “And Jamie was pretty good at making people believe the impossible.” He still was.

Although look at him. He was standing here, talking to Alison. He wouldn’t have believed
that
was possible just a few short minutes ago.

It was true, her body language was angry and tight. Impenetrable. But they were talking. That was good, right?

“Bo called the rest of his boys in,” A.J. continued, “and they all stood there arguing and drinking, which of course got loud. Quinn came out of his room and realized his plan was deteriorating before his eyes. So he stood on the balcony, looking down into the saloon, and he ordered Bo to kill Jamie.

“Bo refused. In fact, he drew on Quinn, but missed. Quinn shot Bo and
didn’t
miss—”

“Lucky shot,” Jamie murmured.

“And just like that, Bo Kelly was dead,” A.J. told Alison. “All hell broke loose, with half the Kellys aiming for Quinn, and the other half shooting at Jamie. It wasn’t long before it was just Quinn and Jamie left. But before Jamie could rid Melody of her marital problems for good, Quinn’s deputies arrived, having heard the gunshots. Jamie slipped out the back door, and Quinn—wounded in the leg—was an instant hero and credited with single-handedly wiping out the Kelly Gang.”

“So Jamie was behind the bar,” Alison said. “And Quinn was on the balcony. That actually explains …” She shook
her head. “Thank you. You never finished the story, and … I was curious. That’s all.” She turned to walk away.

“Wait,” he said. “I know you don’t need my help, but—”

“Don’t need it, don’t want it,” she said. “Don’t want to see you, don’t want to talk to you.”

“You’re kind of talking to me right now,” A.J. pointed out.

“No,” she said. “I’m done talking to you. I want you to stay away from me
—far
away. Do you understand? Because if you don’t, I
will
get security involved, and they’ll help you to understand.”

Beside him, Jamie whistled through his teeth. “She’s still furious. Which is good, kid. You want there to be passion.”

“I just thought you might, at least, want to borrow my truck.” A.J. held out the keys, offering them to her, dangling the ring on the end of his finger so she could take them without touching him. “It’ll make it easier to move your books.”

“No, thank you,” she said, crossing her arms.

“It’s also going to be hot in the trailer,” he tried, because at least she wasn’t walking away. “But I’m used to that kind of heat. I’d be happy to go in there—”

“No,” she said, no
thank you
this time.

“See, I thought maybe we could, you know, get someone to work in the middle, between me and you. Like a chain. They could take the boxes from me and pass them to you so you could put them in the truck.…”

She just stood there, shaking her head, looking anywhere but at him.

“That way, you don’t have to see me or talk to me,” he pointed out as he attempted a smile.

“Look, A.J.,” Alison said, “I can’t help you.” She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze, but only for a fraction of a second. “Go back to Alaska. Listen to your mother and go see a doctor.”

He cleared his throat. “I appreciate your—”

She cut him off. “I need you to leave me alone.”

“Kid,” Jamie murmured. “I know I’ve been advocating that old
never surrender
approach, but I think it’s time to give her some space.”

But A.J. couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just turn and drive away. “Alison,” he said again, his heart in his throat. “Come on. You’re telling me that you’re not even remotely curious? You don’t want to see if I can’t do it again—the reading thing—with a different book. You get to pick it, or, God, okay, you can get a pad and a pen and write something, and I’ll be twenty yards away. We can do it outside, wherever you choose. I’ll be blindfolded and I’ll still be able to tell you what you just wrote, because Jamie will read it to me.”

“No,” she said, backing away. “I don’t want to. I won’t. I’m going to go get boxes. If you’re here when I get back? I
am
calling security. So don’t be here. Go home, A.J. Just go.
Home.”

And with that, she turned and rapidly walked away.

“Kid,” Jamie said again, his voice gentle. “You haven’t slept, and she clearly hasn’t either. Why don’t you back on down and get some rest? Tomorrow’s another day.”

A.J. nodded. “Yeah,” he said, and he got into his truck and drove away.

I’m always astonished at people’s fascination with the gunfight at the Red Rock Saloon.

I mean, here was Alison, in the middle of all of this emotional pain, unable to keep from asking A.J. about it.

Of course, maybe she really just wanted an excuse to stand there with him, even just for a few minutes, and she couldn’t figure out any other way to do it.

But the thing is, she saw talking about the shoot-out as a legitimate excuse.

It was that infamous and legendary.

It’s become the classic tale of good versus evil in the history of the American West. It’s the age-old fable of the loner versus the pack, one lawman standing up to the gang of ferocious criminals and coming out the victor.

Except that the lawman wasn’t alone, and most of those criminals were well on their way to becoming soused. I was serving those drinks fast and furious, folks. They weren’t good marksmen to start with, and add a little alcohol … It’s a recipe for success if, like me, you’re on the other side.

But I also want you to take into consideration that the so-called good guys, Silas Quinn and myself—and I’m sure I’m risking eternal damnation for lumping myself into the same category as that bastard Quinn—were 1) up on the second-floor balcony, which offered a great deal of cover to hide behind, or 2) behind a bar that was built to withstand a hail of bullets.

Meanwhile, the Kelly Gang, a bit sodden and, if not quite staggering around then at least pretty damn close, were smack-dab in the middle of the saloon.

Like ducks in a shooting gallery, my friends.

I’d also like to point out, for the official record, that I saw Jed Kelly shoot and kill his first cousin, Johnny Johnson, before he turned and hightailed it out of there with his kid brother Nathaniel who, records show, no one even knew was at the saloon that day.

So when the smoke first cleared, there were two men dead—Bo Kelly, killed by a lucky shot from Quinn’s gun, and Johnson. I’d shot three of the other Kelly boys—Zeke and Abe Kelly, and Frank Porter. I was careful only to wing ’em. I find killing a stupid man distasteful. But those three fools weren’t even smart enough to crawl to cover. And they died for it, because Silas Quinn apparently had no qualms about shooting a wounded man. He gutshot them all, the bastard, probably because a man’s belly is the easiest place to hit.

According to the legend, and to those dime store novels, Quinn and the Kellys were shooting it up inside the Red Rock Saloon for most of the day.

In truth, the entire gunplay took maybe two minutes, maybe a little less.

And I spent at least one and a half of those minutes trying to kill Quinn.

I would’ve felt no distaste in sighting that sombitch’s head and squeezing the trigger. I have no problem killing a mean man.

But just as Quinn found it difficult to draw a bead on me, I found him likewise elusive.

In fact, I spent most of my ammunition, but only managed to hit Quinn in the leg.

Then, right when I was getting ready to rush that staircase for a second time, and find and finish him up on the second floor, his deputies arrived.

But still, I didn’t quit trying.

“Quinn’s had it out with the Kellys,” I told them. “He’s upstairs—the marshal is—and one of the gang is up there, too, gone after him. He’s wounded and dangerous, so shoot to kill, boys, shoot to kill.”

See, I was hoping they’d do the dirty work for me and shoot Quinn, thinking he was a Kelly.

But no luck.

They didn’t shoot Quinn. Instead, they brought him downstairs and called in the doctor to look at his leg.

While I went out the back door.

Melody Quinn had saved my life that night, but unfortunately, try as I might, I hadn’t been able to return the favor.

It was just before midnight when Alison got the call from Henry Logan himself, and the day went from bad to worse.

“I’m sorry to bother you this late, Carter, but I know you’re friends with Darcy, you know, Hugh? Little red-haired Hugh.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Is he with you?”

She turned on the light on her bedside table. “I haven’t seen him since he left this morning. I turned in early—”

“Do me a favor,” the director said, “and see if he’s maybe camping on your couch. I know he’s done that before.”

“Yeah, but never when I didn’t invite him,” Alison pointed out. Still, she got out of bed and slipped on her robe and went into her living room. It was empty. She looked through the other rooms. She was definitely alone.

Unless, of course, A.J.’s ghost was with her.

“He’s not here,” Alison reported. “What’s going on?”

“Apparently he never came back from his location-scouting run,” Henry told her. “And he’s not answering his phone.”

“No,” Alison said. “He must’ve. Come back. I saw Sandra at dinner. She went with him.”

“No, she didn’t,” Henry said. “He went out alone. Look, I know you were originally going with him. Did you talk about where he was heading? Because we’re going to call the state police and organize search teams. If we wait until morning … Once the sun comes up … If he’s injured, he’s already been out there too long.”