Dead Reckoning (25 page)

Shepherd ignored her remark and walked away.

No matter how hard she struggled, Jett couldn’t pull free of the collar. She hadn’t heard a padlock
click, and she didn’t hear one rattle as she struggled. It was probably held shut by a simple latch. She’d left the cuffs loose when she put them on, and whatever they were hooked over was something she could pull against.
So if I can get my hands free, maybe I can get loose again.

At least Shepherd was ignoring her right now. As he walked around the room lighting lamps, the shadows receded until Jett could see clearly. There was a barred door—like a jailhouse door—off to her right. It was set flush to the wall, and all she could see behind it was shadows. She didn’t want to think about what Shepherd might be keeping in that cell.

As she worked doggedly at pulling her hands free, she studied the room. It was as large as she’d guessed. Shepherd only had five bullets left, and she didn’t think he was carrying more. If she could make him empty his gun, it would come down to a brawl. She was pretty sure she could win it. If she had her hands free.

The opposite wall held shelves filled with jars and boxes. It had a worktable in front of it.
Why, I bet that table could seat thirty for supper and not leave them to bump elbows,
she thought in disbelief. It was covered with a litter of bottles and tubing and jars and looked like the fancified cousin of the mess Gibbons had made of the Alsop saloon.

“But as I was saying—before you so rudely interrupted me,” Shepherd said, replacing the last chimney on the last lamp, “if you place your hopes in my failure to enlist willing followers in my crusade, you underestimate my genius. I’ve always known I must be able to count upon my acolytes’ unthinking devotion. Which means I must indicate that I can both punish and reward, as did the Biblical Patriarchs of old.”

He walked back to the mortuary slab and yanked the sheet from the body. It was a child. A boy. He was thin and frail, and dressed for burial in his Sunday suit.

“That’s Sister Catherine’s boy, Davey,” Jett said hoarsely.

She’d stopped struggling with the cuffs the moment Shepherd turned his attention to her again, but she knew now she could get them off if she had a little peace and privacy. If he meant to leave her like this, he was in for a surprise when he came back.

“How insightful of you, Miss Gallatin,” Shepherd said. “You guess my methods already. Dear loyal Sister Catherine. She never realized I had no intention of curing her boy—as if anyone could cure consumption. And yet, I will
reward
her by raising him up into eternal sinless life—”

“She’ll never believe that!” Jett said. “He’s dead! Anyone can see it!”

“Oh, I beg to differ. He will smell of the flowers of Paradise instead of the stink of the grave, and seeing that, what grief-crazed mother would prefer to believe her beloved son was dead? A pity that he’s been chosen for a great Heavenly task and so is called away—but a great honor, as well. But rest assured: I shall give her his words of love and devotion myself.”

“There isn’t any word vile enough for what you are,” Jett said. Of course Sister Catherine would believe everything Shepherd told her. She’d seen David die.

“Visionaries are scorned by the common herd,” Shepherd said airily, tossing the shroud casually over the body again. “But just as I reward my faithful, you—I am very much afraid—are going to become an example of my wrath.”

Shepherd walked to his workbench, hunted around for a moment, then picked up a tiny syringe. He removed the stopper from a bottle filled with dark liquid and filled the syringe. Jett began to struggle with the handcuffs again, not caring now if Shepherd saw her.
I don’t know what’s in that, but I’m damned if I’m opening my mouth so he can dose me!
One of her hands slipped halfway through its cuff, then stuck fast.
Just a few more seconds,
she prayed silently.
That’s all I need—

“A
hypodermic syringe
can be used to introduce a concentrated dose of my Elixir directly into the body,”
Shepherd announced. “It’s far more efficient that way. As you’re about to discover.”

Jett didn’t know what a “hypodermic syringe” was, but it didn’t sound good.

As Shepherd walked toward her, she saw there was a needle on the syringe’s end, and she redoubled her efforts to escape. Suddenly her right hand slipped free. The chain clattered over whatever her cuffs were hung on, then caught fast. She kicked out at him and tried to hit him, hauling against the remaining cuff with all her strength. He evaded her blows easily and grabbed her arm. Jett screamed in panic and outrage as Shepherd stuck the needle into her flesh just above her elbow. Her mouth went dry and tasted of metal. A burning pain spread through her arm, and she broke out in a cold sweat. When Shepherd released her arm it flopped to her side. She couldn’t raise it—not to smack that smug smirk off his face, not to wipe the sweat from her eyes. The floor seemed to shift and slide beneath her feet. Her knees buckled, and she began to gasp for air. Now the only thing holding her upright was the collar around her throat. Her whole weight was hanging from it, and it was choking her …

From somewhere that seemed very far away, she heard Shepherd’s voice.

“The beauty of my Elixir is that it can be administered either before or after death. But ‘before’ is so much more entertaining.”

* * *

Nightingale finally permitted White Fox to lead him down to the livery stable. Gibbons returned to the saloon to pace, her mind working furiously. She refused to believe Jett was dead. Certainly Brother Shepherd was no stranger to murder, but how would he react to someone simply trying to break into his secret lair?
He will decide she is a common thief
, Gibbons told herself determinedly.
Jett is in trouble, probably captured, but I must believe Brother Shepherd means to question her. And that means she is still alive.

Would Jett tell him anything? Betray what she knew, admit she wasn’t working alone?

Not likely
, Gibbons decided. She knew something of Jett’s history by now. Jett considered herself the citizen of a conquered nation. If the destruction of her home couldn’t break her, one lunatic preacher never would.
Or at least
—Gibbons amended to herself—
not in less than a day.

White Fox returned from settling Nightingale in the stables. He looked utterly grim. “I should have gone with her,” he said.

“Then I would be faced with the need to rescue
both
of you,” Gibbons answered sharply. “At least this way we’re free to plan.” She frowned. “But without the information she went to find, I am not certain just how we’re going to rescue her.” She knew she didn’t need to go into detail. They’d both seen the “zombie army” Brother Shepherd could command. Even if she pushed the Auto-Tachypode to its top speed, Jerusalem’s Wall was hours away. And reaching Jerusalem’s Wall was only the first step. They’d have to find Jett and free her. If they succeeded, Shepherd would know his secret was out—and that would be bad enough. It would be worse if they were delayed at Jerusalem’s Wall until after sundown.

White Fox regarded her silently for a moment. “As I was saying before Nightingale arrived, Doctor Singer—”

Gibbons stopped to glare at him. “I assume there is some obscure and inscrutable reason to tell me this story
now
, Mister Fox,” she said wrathfully. “But I cannot imagine what it could be. So why don’t you just tell me what you want me to know?”

“The gentleman who summoned Doctor Singer to attend his wife assumed she was ill, yet the truth was far simpler. In just that way, you wish to know how these “zombies” are created, because you believe knowing that will tell you how to lay them to rest. But I think you might well be hunting the wrong hare. You already know how to kill them. Salt.”

“I know it put down
one
of them, Mister Fox,” Gibbons replied, her irritation growing. “But Mister Finlay wasn’t one of the ordinary run of zombies—if one can even imagine such a thing! I can’t assume the same method will do for all of them, because—”

“But you
do
know that, Gibbons,” White Fox persisted. “You have not just the answer, but its proof. Remember what Jett told us about the meal she was served?”

He didn’t say anything more. Her eyes narrowed and she dredged the fragment of information out of her memory. Suddenly her eyes widened in realization. “There was
no salt
in it, not in any of it.”

White Fox nodded. “That must be deliberate. If Brother Shepherd has, as you think, engineered a scientific method of creating walking dead, the absence of salt—”

“Tells us he
knows
salt will put them down!” she almost shouted. “By heaven, I would bet that there is not one grain of salt anywhere on that property! Tarnation! I
have
been hunting the wrong hare! I need to determine a way to get salt into a great number of the creatures at once—and as quickly as possible!”

She went to her makeshift desk and began feverishly sketching and scribbling. There was no time for fear. She had work to do.

Hours later, her sketches had become a weapon.
Gibbons could only thank Providence (and her own determination to be prepared for anything) for the fact that she carried a length of fire hose in her supplies. Normally she filled the Auto-Tachypode’s boiler with buckets. But water sources weren’t always conveniently situated. She kept the hose stored under the wagon to save space, but now she’d need to have it instantly ready for use. She rummaged out another hose-clamp. In her first test, the hose had immediately torn free of the pipe end when it was pressurized, though White Fox had clearly gotten the valve wrenched down as tightly as it would go.

“The only way we are going to fly to Jett’s rescue is if we can get this thing working properly! Otherwise we will surely fall beside her, which is not, I think, what she would wish! Hand me that screwdriver, please, and come lean on this wrench!” Gibbons said. “You are much stronger than I am.”

Gibbons stepped back. White Fox moved quickly to obey. He hadn’t made a single protest all this time, though Gibbons knew he doubted Jett was still alive. It might be that this rescue attempt was a forlorn hope—and possibly foolhardy was well. There were only two of them. And if Nightingale had come tearing back here without Jett …

Then Jett was almost certainly already dead. Or worse, one of the zombies by now. The sensible thing
to do would be to point the Auto-Tachypode north and not stop until they reached the walls of Fort San Antonio. They could say Brother Shepherd was building a militia, that he planned to take over this part of Texas, that he had an arsenal and was going to make himself into a little tin-crown king. That would get the Army to come on the double, and Gibbons could make sure she was there, and handy with answers, when they discovered just what sort of force Brother Shepherd had under his command. The best thing, the most intelligent thing, the most logical course of action was to carry a warning to others.

“Bother logic!” Gibbons snarled aloud as she screwed down the final fitting on her device. “Help me get this into the back of the Auto-Tachypode!” she commanded. “We’re going after Jett.”

* * *

The first thing Jett realized was how cold she felt. For a moment she thought Nightingale must have thrown her, because she was lying against something hard and every muscle ached. Then memory returned. Shepherd. The zombies. The “inner prayer house.” She floundered upright, gritting her teeth at the surge of nausea and pain. But at least her hands were free.

She had a muddled memory of Shepherd removing the collar and the remaining handcuff bracelet, then
walking her over into the cell. Was he gone? He’d left the lamps lit. She crawled over to the cell door and used the bars to drag herself to her feet. She tried the door, but of course it was locked. Still getting her bearings, she held her breath, listening intently for any sign she wasn’t alone. Nothing. Still holding on to the bars for support, she turned around to look at the interior of her prison.

David’s body was lying on the floor at the back of the cell.

The sight of him galvanized her to full alertness.
“He died two days ago—but our Blessed Founder has promised to raise him up on the third day.”
Sister Catherine’s words echoed through her mind.

Today was the third day.

David was going to rise as a zombie
tonight
.

It had been around noon when Shepherd brought her down here. What time was it now? How close was it to sunset? What did Shepherd have to do to raise up a zombie besides dose somebody with that swamp water of his? He’d injected
her
with it—

If that poison’s going to kill me, I’m going to make sure he goes first
, Jett vowed grimly. She had to get out of here. How? The walls and the back were solid rock, and the bars went all the way up into more rock.

The keys! Gibbons gave me half the keys in Alsop!

Had the jailhouse key been one of them? Had
Shepherd taken her reticule? She patted herself down quickly. No. She still had it. She dredged up her skirts and wrenched the neck of the bag open to pull out a fistful of keys. She sorted quickly through them to find the likeliest-looking one. She might be able to pick a lock, but she couldn’t pick one blind and working backward.

Was this the jailhouse key? It looked like it. She groped around the lock plate to make sure it had a regular keyhole, then clutched the key in her fingers and reached through the bars until she was at the best angle she could manage. She closed her eyes so she could concentrate. Her fingertips ached with the strain, but if she dropped the key she might be dropping her only means of escape.

There. It was in the keyhole.

She tried to twist it, but it wouldn’t turn. She had to get a better grip, and to do that, she had to let go of it. The moment she did, the key fell from the lock and bounced away.

She could see it. It was caught in the raised fringe at the edge of the carpet. Was it out of reach? She got quickly down on her knees, then stretched out full-length, straining to reach as far as she could through the bars. Her fingertips just brushed the teeth of the key. She scrabbled frantically and brought it under her fingers.