Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (31 page)

“That’s a pretty good story,” the sheriff said.

“But you do not believe it,” Andre said.

“Well, sir, I find myself wanting to hear the rest of it.”

Andre was surprised. He’d imbued a hint of his will in the telling, enough to make most men, even those he didn’t maintain eye contact with, fall in line. The deputy’s reactions were proof of that. He expected Joseph to be immune, but the sheriff had resisted, as well, which Andre found curious.

“Where would you like me to begin?”

“Tillamook,” said Joseph.

“That sounds about right,” the sheriff concurred.

“I see. You think I had something to do with that?”

“I think when my deputy tells me I gotta meet some important fella just up from the scene of a massacre, right after we have our own troubles … well, I think maybe I need to know more about this man.”

“Perhaps you need to hear from a different voice,” Naira began. Andre cut her off with a look. They would play the sheriff straight. Naira didn’t like it, but she kept her words (and gaze) to herself.

“I am tracking a man,” Andre said. “Two men, actually, but only one is dangerous.” It was a lie, but Andre had no intention of explaining how a book he’d lost twenty years ago made Henry much more dangerous than the Hanged Man. “Both were in Tillamook last Friday night and I am certain they came here directly after.”

“We did have us a pair of unexpected visitors last night. Caused a ruckus up at the boneyard ’fore this other ruckus happened. I’m thinkin’ they may be connected.”

“A safe assumption,” Andre said. “Did anyone witness this, um, ruckus?”

“Caretaker,” said Collins. “Recognized one of ’em as a local went missing last week.”

“Henry Macke,” Andre said without hesitation.

“Yup,” said the sheriff. “Now, you mind telling me who he was riding with, ’cause I’m having a hard time reconciling that part of the story.”

Andre considered his words carefully before asking, “How long have you been in Astoria, Sheriff?”

“Long enough.”

“And you find it difficult to believe the man you seek may in fact be the Hanged Man of legend.”

Joseph had thus far avoided bringing up the dead man’s name. He’d been afraid to after seeing the creatures behind bars, afraid what the truth might bring. He was not the only one.

“We killed that son of a bitch years ago,” said the sheriff. “Got us a sign up on Main Street to commemorate it. And I seem to recall his body being burned.”

“It was not,” Andre said. “As I believe Mr. Wylde’s father-in-law will confirm.”

The look on the sheriff’s face changed. Gone was the defiance, replaced by a dawning realization that some of the things he’d been led to believe might not be true.

“He’s gone,” the sheriff said.

Andre looked at Joseph. “Gone where?”

“To Portland. He lives with us now.”

Andre connected that piece of information to those he already knew.

“He left recently?”

Joseph nodded. “Last week. There was an incident in the local cemetery. He took a shovel to a few of the plots. Said he was trying to find something, but when I asked him what, he couldn’t remember.”

Or was made to forget,
Andre thought. But if that was the case, how had Henry found the Hanged Man? Had Kleberg told him? Could he have? And how had the man left town so easily? Such a departure meant Andre’s own magic had failed … or been broken.

“I need to see the burial site,” Andre said.

The sheriff shared a look with his deputies. “Which one?”

“All of them.”

*   *   *

Andre put his ear to the ground and listened. Even through six feet of earth, it didn’t take long for the sound to reach his ears.

“I can hear them.”

“Hear who?” asked the sheriff, sure he wouldn’t like the answer. He and his deputies stood behind Andre, well back from the grave at which he was kneeling. Joseph stood beside the headstone, his gaze seemingly elsewhere, or so thought the sheriff. It was difficult to tell what the one-eyed man was looking at in the day’s waning light.

“Bodies of the dead,” Andre said, standing up. “They are awake.”

Deputies Collins and Kendle drew their weapons and began scanning the cemetery.

“Like them others in town?”

“Yes, but you may lower your weapons, gentlemen. These poor creatures remain firmly planted in the ground.”

Joseph placed a hand on the grave marker. He could feel them through the stone, clawing at wood and dirt, moaning, hungry. The image fixed in his head all too clearly.

“They’re in pain,” Joseph said, almost under his breath. Andre heard him.

“What they feel does not matter. They are an abomination and they must be put down.”

Collins holstered his weapon. “I miss something? If they ain’t come up outta the ground, what’s there to put down?”

Andre looked at Naira, who was just returning from a quick survey of the graveyard.

“One hundred and one markers,” she said. “Six open graves, six empty coffins. Twenty-three recently disturbed with no signs of escape, and one … escape in progress.”

Naira led the group to a grave on the far side of the cemetery where the head and arms of a woman protruded from freshly dug ground. As the group approached, the zombie twisted around, revealing a dirty young face that might once have been beautiful. The creature bared its teeth and began clawing against the dirt.

“My god, that’s Gretchen Vail,” said Barker. “She died only a few weeks ago.”

“She’s stronger,” Joseph said. “The muscles have yet to deteriorate.”

“Yes,” Andre agreed. “It also appears this grave was one of those disturbed, suggesting the coffin may have been compromised.”

The sheriff drew his pistol and shot the zombie in the top of the head. Its jaws snapped shut once more and then it slumped face-first into the dirt.

“That leaves ninety-four that will have to be checked and destroyed if necessary,” Andre said. “You understand what needs to be done?”

The sheriff nodded unenthusiastically. “You want us to dig up every g’damn grave so we can put a bullet in the head of anything we find moving.”

“Yes. I am sorry, but if this is not stopped here and now, it will find a way to spread.”

“Like plague?” Joseph asked.

“In a manner,” said Andre. “A plague born of man a long time ago in a place very far from here. Born of words, foul deeds, and dark intentions. Spread through contact with the infected.”

“I get that,” said the sheriff. “All the biting and such. But if these dead folks is trying to dig themselves
outta
their graves, how’d they come in contact with anyone in the first place?”

This was a question Andre had only just answered for himself. He’d heard of such things—of such evil—but to stand in its presence was chilling, even for a man who rarely felt the cold.

“A carrier,” he said. “One who is … diseased, but not like them. This creature has control of his faculties, his actions, his mind. Merely his presence is enough to transform the dead into what we have seen here.”

“You’re talking about the Hanged Man,” Joseph said.

“I am. Dead for eleven years, but not destroyed. He was buried in a plot just beyond the borders of this cemetery, beneath the cold, unmarked earth. There was no funeral pyre, Joseph. That was merely a bit of theater created to bring satisfaction to the masses.”

“It was a lie.”

“Not a lie,” Andre said. “A different kind of truth. Simply burying the man would not have been enough for many who suffered his reign of violence. The Hanged Man had to be destroyed completely and visibly. Fire is very visible.”

Collins snorted. “I’d say turning a man to ash is more than just visible.”

Andre sighed. Explaining the presence of the undead was hard enough with the proof clawing its way up through the ground. Digging into the depths of the Hanged Man’s black heart and the dark power that kept it beating was complicated and would raise more questions than Andre was prepared to answer.

“Fire is not always a destructive force,” he said. “Sometimes it can be a cleansing agent, a rebirth for those who are prepared.”

“Resurrection.”

“Yes. And while burning the Hanged Man would have destroyed his physical form, he ultimately would have found a way to return stronger than before. To truly arrest such power one has to take away that which makes it strong.”

“Belief,” Joseph said.

Andre nodded.

The sheriff furrowed his brow, but it was Collins who asked the obvious.

“Belief in what?”

“Faith, magic, and his own abilities,” Andre said, which was accurate, albeit simplified. “If you kill the man—”

“He stops believing,” Joseph finished.

“Yes, but in the case of the Hanged Man, it also meant the fear of those he terrorized. His strength came not only from within but also from those who believed he might do them harm. His death would allay such fears, but only time would erase them.”

Joseph thought of a long walk in the dark and a baby crying. He doubted such memories would ever leave him.

“Why keep it a secret?” Deputy Barker asked.

“Burying his body in an unmarked grave left no altar for his power.”

The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “
You
buried him?”

“No. But I attended the funeral.”

“The marshal,” Joseph said.

Andre nodded. “Other than myself, he was the only man who should know the location of the Hanged Man’s grave. It was never meant to be disturbed.”

“But someone did disturb it,” said Joseph. “Someone dug him up and turned him into one of these creatures.”

“No, the Hanged Man has become something much worse. He knows who he is and has set upon a path to regain his power. Those who stand in his way are in grave danger.”

There was no name attached to the threat, but Joseph heard one just the same.

The sheriff stared at the corpse half buried in the soil. The body had long since stopped moving, but it still made his skin crawl. It was several seconds before he realized he was scratching his leg above the knee.

“Is there a cure?”

“If the process is arrested in time, yes,” said Andre. “I carry medicines with me that will arrest the effects.”

The sheriff shook his head, almost smiling. “How much will that cost me?”

“Not a penny, Sheriff. It is an herbal concoction, one for which I will gladly share the recipe should you require more after our departure.”

“And that’s it?”

“No,” Andre said, once more searching for the words that required the least amount of explanation. “I would also prescribe a passage be read nightly for seven days.”

“A prayer?”

Andre smiled. “If you like.”

The sheriff ran a hand through what little hair remained on his head. “’Fraid I ain’t much good at talking to God.”

“This is a different kind of prayer,” Andre said, failing to mention it was also for a different kind of god.

*   *   *

Over the next hour, the sheriff and his deputies dispatched the inhabitants of fourteen of the twenty-three recently disturbed graves. The rest remained deep enough or weak enough not to require immediate attention. The sheriff hadn’t decided whether it would be better to enlist a few dozen townsfolk for the remaining cleanup or to try to keep the task quiet so as to protect the psyche of the community. Realizing the job would fall to them alone without help, the deputies assured the sheriff the town could take it.

Joseph went to the marshal’s house, not surprised to find the lock on the front door smashed. There was no obvious damage inside, but a stench in the air left little doubt as to who had been there. He soon found the crumpled photograph in the attic, and although Joseph couldn’t see the family smiling up at him, the handwritten title on the back told him everything he needed to know.

Andre and Naira were waiting for him when he came downstairs.

“He was here.”

“Looking for Marshal Kleberg,” Andre said. “Perhaps more.”

Joseph didn’t have to guess. “The gun.”

Andre nodded. “You know of its power.”

“I know the myth.”

“It is more than a myth, Mr. Wylde. The weapon is cursed; it makes him a killer.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing the marshal took it with him.”

“He has it?”

“He’s going to put on a public demonstration in a day or two as part of the Portland Rain Festival.”

For the first time since meeting Andre Labeau, Joseph felt a shift in the man’s demeanor. He was afraid. Naira felt it, too.

“He’ll hear it,” she said. “It will call to him.”

Joseph thought he, too, might recognize the sound of the gun, but still found the choice of words unusual.

“He must not have it,” Andre said. “The marshal knows this.”

“That’s why he stayed, isn’t it?” Joseph said. “To watch over the body, make sure nobody found it or the gun. He thought he was protecting us … but he forgot. He dug up all those graves looking for the Hanged Man.”

“It’s unfortunate he didn’t find him,” Naira said.

Joseph nodded. There was more to it, but how much he wasn’t sure.

“You said he’ll try to regain his power. How so?”

“There are ways he can be made more powerful, more alive. The closer he comes to living, the more dangerous he becomes.” Andre hesitated for a moment. “He will come for your father-in-law, Mr. Wylde, and for his weapon.”

Joseph didn’t need to be told. He knew the truth of it—all of it.

“Won’t just be the marshal, Mr. Labeau. If the man is clear about who he was, the one person on this earth he’ll want to kill above all others is me.”

*   *   *

Early the next morning, Andre and Naira paid visits to three homes where they found five people in need of special attention. Andre gave each the same elixir and prayer, along with a mental push to ensure that all followed through with the treatment. A known sixth victim proved more elusive. It was almost noon before the pair rode east en route to Portland.

Joseph was already gone, having hitched a ride on an empty ore vessel heading upriver. The last thing he did before leaving town was to send a message to Kate. The telegraph operator asked several times for clarification, but each time Joseph assured him the words he’d read back were correct.