Eureka

1920

The winter rainstorm passed quickly and bright hard sunlight urged buds into blossoms in the winter garden Madeline had loved so much. Eli shifted in his wheelchair and stared at the flowers through the large library window. His mind, as sharp as it ever was, raced back through time and he remembered the first time he saw her. San Francisco. She was wearing a pink dress with an enormously wide-brimmed hat and she was framed by ferns in the corner of the Garden Terrace restaurant. Thirty-two years old and she hadn’t looked a day over twenty, and when she smiled as they were introduced, he was immediately her captive.

His memory dissolved into another image. A young boy in tatters, with such an arrogant, cocky smile, standing beside Ben the first time Eli ever saw him. He saw that image reflected in the window but he seemed older and taller, no longer a teenager but a man in a uniform. Then he snapped out of his reverie and realized he was staring at a reflection.

“Hi, Mr. Eli,” the voice behind him said.

He wheeled his chair around and looked up at Brodie Culhane in Marine dress blues, medals-a Purple Heart, Silver Star, French Croix de Guerre-gleaming on his chest, eyes as bright as new coins, the smile as challenging as ever. He had grown into a handsome man, his face a bit lined by age and harsh experience. And he was leaning on an oak cane.

“Well, look at you, Thomas,” Eli said affectionately and held out his hand. Brodie clutched it eagerly. Eli’s hair, what little he had left, was white and his body looked ravaged, his legs mere twigs, but his face seemed as smooth and ageless as ever.

Brodie leaned over and put his arm around the old man.

“I knew you’d come home,” Eli said, embracing him, patting his back. “Sooner or later, I knew you’d come back to us.”

Brodie hooked a chair with the crook of his cane, pulled it to him, and sat down as Eli wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, then blew his nose.

“So, how’s the leg?”

“Another month and I can throw away the cane.”

“Look at you! I wish Maddy were here to see you. Not a day went by she didn’t mention you.”

“I’m sorry,” Brodie said. “I know how much you must miss her. I tried to write you from the hospital but, you know me, I never was much for writing.”

“How long were you laid up?”

“Eighteen months. They put my leg back together with glue and tape. I had to learn to walk again, but it’s almost good as new.”

“Did you stop at the bank and see Ben?”

“Not yet. Mr. Graham was on the train with me. He remembered me. Dropped me off here on his way home.”

“They have a taxi now, you know. Very sophisticated. My God, Ben will faint with excitement when he sees you.”

“How’s his pitching arm?”

“Not what it used to be. He coaches the high school team now.”

“Got a high school, huh?”

“It was time for a good school. We have twenty-two families living on the Hill now. There are a few families in Eureka who attend. And the kids from Milltown come over on the bus.”

“And Eureka has a sidewalk and paved streets. Never thought I’d live to see that day.”

“Well, Riker had to do something. You hardly see a horse and carriage anymore. All automobiles.”

“Is Cyclone still alive?” Brodie asked. “Last time I talked to Ben, he said the old boy was still kicking.”

“And still as handsome as ever, like his owner.”

“I wonder if he’ll remember me.”

“Animals have an amazing memory. It may take him a while but I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten.”

“He’s twenty-three now. And my godson is almost twenty. I can’t believe it.”

“Quite a young man. Fair college student but more interested in football and girls.”

“Ben says he’s not interested in banking.”

“He’ll be twenty this year,” Eli said, waving his hand. “He’s got plenty of time to make up his mind. He’s down in Los Angeles with Isabel. They’ll be back tomorrow. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming in today?”

“I like surprises. Isabel as beautiful as ever?”

Eli nodded. “Like Maddy, she gets prettier every day. She has a birthday coming up in a few months. Thirty-seven. I think she’d rather forget it.”

“And Buck?”

“Slowed down some but he’s fine. Tells everybody he’s sixty. Hell, he’s got to be at least seventy but nobody knows for sure.”

“Is that why I’m back here?”

“You’re back here because we miss you. And Ben needs you. We talked about that once, a long time ago.”

“I remember the conversation.”

“I’ve worried over that a lot. Was it I who drove you away?”

“Don’t think that. It was time for me to leave here, see what the rest of the world looked like.”

“Well, you certainly accomplished that.”

“Seen London, Paris, New York, Chicago. Been down South.”

“Everybody needs a home to come back to, Thomas.”

“My room over the stable still available?”

“I’ll build you a house.”

Brodie laughed. “What would I do with a house?”

“Get married. Have a family.”

“We’ll talk about that later. I hear Delilah came back to Grand View after the O’Dells were killed.”

Eli nodded. “She turned the place into a private club. Well, that’s what she calls it. It’s a high-dollar bordello. She has a small casino; excellent restaurant; beautiful, educated young women. Movie stars come up from Los Angeles. Businessmen from San Francisco and points east. They come in private train cars, Stutz Bearcats, yachts. She’s made her own fortune in addition to the one her father left her.”

“I found out about the O’Dells in the New York Times. They ran a list of all the victims when the Lusitania went down. I was reading down the column and all of a sudden there it was. Shamus and Katherine O’Dell, San Francisco.”

“I suppose Shamus had his good side, he just never showed it to me. And Kate was a fine lady. Loved him dearly, although I’ll never know why.”

“Water under the bridge, Mr. Eli.”

“It’s hard to forget the past when you live with it every day.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Prohibition starts in two weeks. Things are going to be tough around here. Social House is a private club so we’ll be alright. And they’ll never shut down Grand View. I know a couple of senators and at least one governor who’ve visited the place. The good news is, it may put Riker out of business. I’ve tried to buy him out since the night O’Dell left. The town is still as rotten as ever. It attracts rowdy crowds from fifty miles around.”

“Prohibition won’t hurt Riker. If anything, he’ll make more money. He’ll board over the windows and put up a front door with a peephole, just like they’re gonna do in New York and Chicago. Hell, the Feds’ll be too busy worrying about the big cities, they won’t be snooping around a little place like this.”

“That’s bad news,” Eli said. There was still anger in his tone after all the years.

They talked for several hours, about Eureka, about what Brodie’s job would be, about Ben, whose dream for the valley was more elaborate than Eli’s. About plans to form a county board, get a new prosecutor, clean up Eureka. No decent middle-class families would live there the way it was.

“You’ll be special deputy under Buck,” Eli said. “When he retires, you will become sheriff of the whole damn shebang.”

Twenty years and nothing had changed. Eli Gorman had a plan and Brodie Culhane was the last piece to fall into place.

The conversation finally wore Eli down, and Brodie and the nurse helped him to bed for his afternoon nap. Brodie strolled across the big backyard, past Maddy’s winter garden, and through the trees to the barn. The white horse lounged near the far end of the paddock, chewing on grass. His winter coat was matted and there were snarls in his mane, but he looked as strong as ever.

Brodie whistled to the horse. The white’s ears went up and he responded immediately, peering across the length of the paddock with curiosity. Brodie whistled again.

“C’mon, pretty boy,” he said softly. “I got something for you.”

He had brought two apples from the house.

Cyclone loped down the length of the paddock, approaching Brodie cautiously at first, sniffing the air, grumbling and snorting, his ears standing straight up. He’d come close and back up, come closer and back up.

“Look what I got,” Brodie said, and held up one of the apples.

Cyclone moved closer. Brodie held the apple between his hands and twisted it in two. The horse watched, his nose checking the air. Brodie rested half the apple in the palm of his hand and held it toward the horse. Cyclone snorted, bobbing his head up and down. He walked sideways, away from the apple, and leaned his long neck out, checking it. Brodie leaned through the fence and held it.

“C’mon, boy,” he said softly. “Pretty boy, come and get it.”

Finally he came close enough to roll back his lips and snatch the apple-half with his teeth. He munched it noisily and stepped closer, sniffing for more.

“Do you remember, pretty boy? Is it coming back?” He took the makings from his pocket and awkwardly began to roll a cigarette. A piece of shrapnel had injured his left hand and it was difficult. He finally prepared the paper and then the wind blew the tobacco off. “Damn,” he said, and started over. When he finished, the butt looked like a small pretzel but he got it lit and took a deep drag, all the while talking softly to Cyclone. He gave the other apple-half to him, and this time Cyclone came closer, let him pet his muzzle.

Brodie went into the barn, found a brush, and entered the paddock. The horse backed up, his eyes cautious and uncertain. Brodie broke the other apple in half, and this time Cyclone came over and got it. Brodie very slowly began to brush his side. The horse was still skittish, but he stood still as Brodie brushed his sides and then his mane and then finally stood close to him and petted his long nose.

“Wanna go for a ride?” Brodie asked gently. “You’ll have to wear a saddle. I got a bum leg, I don’t think I can handle you bareback.”

Cyclone grumbled but held fast. Brodie returned to the stable and came back with a blanket, bridle, and saddle. Every move was slow and easy. He put the blanket on Cyclone’s back first. The horse jumped a bit but Brodie soft-talked him, then eased the saddle over the horse’s back, reached under his belly and buckled the straps. So far so good. He put the bit in his mouth and laid the reins over Cyclone’s back, and the horse bolted. He trotted a dozen yards away and stopped, his ears twisting, his nose testing. Brodie held the last half of the apple in his palm. The horse slowly returned, this time bumping against him before taking it.

“Let’s give it a try, pal,” Brodie whispered. He leaned on the cane and got his right foot in the stirrup. The horse grumbled but stood fast. Brodie swung his injured leg carefully over the saddle and sat down.

Cyclone backed up, started to bolt again, and Brodie leaned over his neck. “Easy, pretty boy. It’s just you and me.” He kept talking, and walked Cyclone around the paddock a few times, then eased him into a trot. They circled the paddock a few times and Brodie steered him to the gate, reached down, and unlatched it. Cyclone walked slowly out of the paddock.

“Okay, son, let’s go for a ride.”

He rode around the barn, then down the path toward the ocean walk. The sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon, its reflection shimmering on the waves far out toward the entrance of the bay. The path was overgrown and unused, and Brodie walked the horse down it. Through the trees he saw the Hoffman house, and a moment later the greenhouse. He stopped and stared at it through the trees.

Even with memories of the war fresh in his mind, it had been the worst night of his life.

He went on, riding down to the wall around Grand View and then heading along it toward the road. From inside the house he heard music, strident military music, yet with a different kind of beat. He stopped and listened to the faint tune. There was something familiar about it. He rode down to the road and turned in front of the house.

Tall iron gates protected the house from intruders. A small guardhouse was situated on the far side of the gate but it appeared to be unmanned. Rows of tall hedges bracketed the road that led to the white-columned mansion a hundred yards away. Behind it, beyond and below the sheer cliffs, the ocean was serene. A Japanese gardener was meticulously snipping the grass around the gate. He saw Brodie and, smiling, he stood up and saluted.

“Speak English?” Brodie asked.

“Yes, suh, very good.”

“Miss Delilah is an old friend. I’m going to ride down to the house and say hello.”

“Need to call first,” the gardener said, pointing to the guardhouse.

Brodie eased Cyclone through the gate. “It’s a surprise,” he said. The gardener stood motionless as Brodie trotted down the paved road to the house. The music got louder as he reached the house and tied the horse to a fence post. He got his cane from the saddle pocket and went to the door. He could hear the music more distinctly now and realized it was a recording of “Memphis Blues” he had heard in Paris years ago. He rang the doorbell.

A minute passed, then the door opened and Noah stood there. He was wearing a blue jacket, tan cord pants, and immaculate knee-high leather boots. He stared curiously at Brodie for a long moment.

“What’s the matter, Noah, don’t you recognize an old friend?”

Curiosity melted into a smile.

“Mistah Brodie?” Hints of the Caribbean still haunted his accent. “Mon, look at you. Ain’t you the fancy one.”

“You’re not looking too bad yourself. May I come in?”

“Yes, suh. I’ll tell Miss Delilah you’re here. Mon, she is goin’ t’be some surprised.”

Brodie entered a wide, two-story foyer. A winding staircase faced him on the other side of the large room and led to a balcony on the second floor, with four hallways leading away from it. It was a pleasant room, with handsome stuffed chairs, antique tables, Tiffany lamps, vases of flowers, and two large davenports. In a stained-glass window over the doorway, a knight was challenging a dragon with his lance while a lovely damsel cowered nearby. High above the vaulted room, a crystal chandelier shed a comforting blanket of light down on the room. There were several closed doors leading away from the foyer. Brodie heard the laughter of young women behind one.

“Now aren’t you the dashing one,” a dusky voice said from above. Delilah stared down from the balcony, decked out in a dark green, floor-length dress and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with white roses. Her red hair was braided in a ponytail draped over her shoulder.

Brodie smiled up at her.

“Going to the opera?” he asked.

She looked at the cane.

“Can you make it up the stairs?”

“I’m a little lame, I’m not crippled,” he answered, and managed the broad stairway with little problem. She led him into her apartment and turned around.

“Does a girl get a kiss after twenty years?”

He started to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned her face to his, leaned hard against him, and kissed him fully on the lips, holding the kiss for half a minute before stepping back.

“I think you’re blushing,” she said. “Marines aren’t supposed to blush.”

“I haven’t been kissed like that for a long, long time.”

“How’re you doing, Brodie?”

“The leg’s almost healed. The rest of me’s whole.”

“Thank God for that.” She laughed.

“I wasn’t sure you were here,” he said, and pointed to a Victrola in the corner. The needle was scratching endlessly at the end of the record. “Actually, I was attracted by the music. Is that record by James Reese Europe and the Hell Fighters Band?”

“You’ve heard them?” she said, lifting the needle off the record.

“I saw them. In Paris. The French loved the band. Called it ‘Le Jazz Hot.’ Almost made me want to dance and I don’t know a step.”

“Well, you’ll have to come by. I’ve got all twenty-four of his records. We’ll play music and I’ll teach you the Charleston.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

“Have you seen Ben?”

“Not yet. I spent a couple of hours with Eli.”

“The stroke almost did him in but he’s handling it well.”

“How about you? I hear you’re the richest lady in California.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Just California?”

Brodie laughed and sat down on a settee. “You live here?”

“I run a tight ship here. Have to make sure my high-class clientele is happy. Three rooms are all I need. What are you drinking?”

“A little bourbon and some ice.”

“So you haven’t seen Ben or your young Eli or Isabel yet?”

He shook his head.

“Or Buck?”

“Nope.”

“Stick around. He comes every night at six to have a cup of coffee and look at the young girls.”

“How is he?”

“Not as quick as he used to be but tough as ever.”

“You know what they say, myths never die,” Brodie said.

She chuckled. “Nice to think so. Back to stay?” she asked.

“Why not?” Brodie answered ruefully.

“That’s the best news I’ve heard since Prohibition,” she said as she filled a pebbled glass half full with hundred-proof Kentucky bourbon, dropped two ice cubes in it, and poured herself a little Scotch. She raised her glass to him.

“Here’s to sin,” she said. “Without it, we’d both be up the creek.”

They touched glasses.

“So Prohibition doesn’t worry you?”

“Honey, it’s going to make my business much sweeter and your job a lot livelier.”

“I haven’t taken a job yet.”

“You will, Brodie. That’s why you came back. It’s what friendship and love are all about. And I haven’t used the word ‘love’ seriously in a very long time.”

“Eli says everybody has to have a home to come back to and he’s right. Eureka ain’t much but it’s all I got. I couldn’t stay in the Marines. I got a battlefield commission the night I was wounded. A year later they upped me to first lieutenant while I was in the hospital, and they made me a captain just before I was discharged. No future, nice pension.”

She sat down on a crimson davenport and leaned back on one elbow.

“Why did you leave, Brodie?”

He shrugged. “To see the world.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You want to know the truth? I was running away from what I just came back to.”

Brodie rode Cyclone back to the stable and gently took off the saddle and bridle. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Brodie said softly. “Be like old times.”

In the darkness, a cigar tip glowed. “Let’s hope so,” a voice said, and Ben Gorman stepped into the light.

“Give you a start, brother?” he asked. The two men rushed together, hugging and laughing like children. They walked briskly back to the house, both chattering away, cutting each other off with one story after another. Ben didn’t talk about the future. He didn’t have to.

A cool September afternoon nine months later.

Brodie Culhane parked his Ford under the trees behind the bank and turned off the ignition. He took out the makings and struggled to roll a cigarette. He focused on the job, folded the thin paper around his forefinger and sprinkled tobacco into the groove. Then he started to twist the paper with the thumb and forefinger of both hands. It was almost perfect and he smiled to himself, licked the glued edge of the paper, and twisted it shut. It wasn’t a work of art but it was better than smoking harsh store-bought cigarettes. As he lit it, he heard the back door of the Ford open and close.

“I hope that’s you, Slim,” Brodie said, blowing a smoke ring and not turning around.

“I get real nervous meetin’ before dark,” came a jittery voice from the floor of the backseat.

“Hell, you called me. What’s so urgent?”

Slim was a skinny little man who worked the desk at Riker’s Double Eagle Hotel. He picked up an extra five a week by keeping his ears open and passing information to Culhane.

“Sompin’s in the wind.”

“Like what?”

“Riker brought in four toughs from outta town today. They came in the hotel about four. All of ’em are heeled, I could tell when they came to get their keys.”

“How do you know they’re Riker’s people?”

“He made the reservations. Told me not to put ’em in the book and be quiet about it.”

“How’d they arrive?”

“Black Ford coupe.”

“What do they look like?”

“You know the type. They never blink. Leader seems to be a guy named McGurk. Has one of those purple splotches on his face.”

“How long they here for?”

“Riker didn’t say, but they ordered up a bottle and when I got to the door, I heard Riker mention Buck and Miss O’Dell.”

“What’d they say?”

“Ain’t sure, Cap’n. I just heard the names and somethin’ about a piece of the action.”

“Were they talking about Grand View?”

“That’s all I know. I can tell you this, Riker’s been jumpy as a cat all day. Like I been tellin’ you for a while, he wants some of that outta-town high-roller action up there. Then there’s all this talk about them on the Hill forming some kinda council and shuttin’ him down. And there’s those two times his boats got sunk out in the drink.”

“I don’t know anything about that. You think these guys are shooters?”

“All I know is I seen rods bulgin’ under their coats. I know when a bozo’s loaded. I’m supposed to tell Schuster when I see it, but I figure since it was Riker set ’em up, he knows if they’re carrying or not.”

“You off duty?”

“Just got off. I really got bad jitters meetin’ like this in broad daylight.”

Brodie took a five out of his pocket and draped his arm over the back of the front seat.

“Here’s an extra fin. Why don’t you go over, play a little poker, and keep an eye out for those four. I’m off tonight. Gonna eat dinner at Wendy’s, then maybe go up to Delilah’s. Call me if anything looks screwy to you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” The door opened and shut quietly.

Brodie drove the four blocks to the diner and went in. Wendy was barely in her twenties and had inherited the eatery from her father, who drank too much, ate too much, and a year earlier had dropped dead behind the counter one morning while fixing an order of ham and eggs.

She was a plain girl with ashen hair and a ready smile for her customers. She leaned across the counter as Brodie entered.

“Come to whisk me away to the Garden of Eden?” she said.

“I came for the meat loaf special,” Brodie said with a crooked grin. “If it’s real good, maybe I’ll whisk you away after I eat.”

“I’ll settle for that.”

“Where is everybody? The joint’s empty.”

“It’s early.” She reached under the counter and handed him the newspaper.

“Okay if I use the phone a minute?” Brodie asked.

“Anything for you,” she said, and put the telephone on the counter. Brodie got the operator and called the sheriff’s office. Andy Sloan, the assistant deputy, answered.

“Andy, it’s Brodie. Anything going on?”

“It’s quiet. I got a guy back in the lockup for beating up his old lady and that’s about it.”

“Is Bix there?”

Bix was the jailer. He had lost a leg at the Marne and hobbled around on a homemade crutch, a quiet man who made terrible coffee.

“Yeah.”

“Take a drive up on the Hill and nose around, then stop off at Delilah’s and hang out. I’ll stop by after I eat.”

“Something up?”

“Maybe. We got four heeled out-of-towners in a black Ford at the Double Eagle. I don’t think they’re lost.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“See you at Grand View in an hour or so.”

He hung up and took his usual booth in the corner of the place and read the paper. A few customers came in and sat at the counter. Brodie was finishing a piece of pie and washing it down with coffee when Wendy said, “Here comes trouble.”

Arnie Riker was a man who strutted when he walked, swinging his arms like a soldier on parade and swaying back and forth. He was crossing the street, followed by his blond bodyguard, Lars Schuster, a muscular ex-prizefighter with the mashed nose and cauliflower ears to prove it.

“Hell, they’re comin’ in,” Wendy groaned. “They never eat here.”

“I don’t think they’re coming in to eat.” Culhane picked up the paper and held it in front of him, staring over the top. “Just treat ’em like customers. If there’s a problem, let me handle it.”

Riker and Schuster entered the diner, sat at the counter across from Culhane. Brodie ignored them, stared at the sports page of the newspaper.

“What can I do you for?” Wendy asked as cheerily as she could.

“I hear you make a great cup a coffee. You make a great cup a coffee, Wendy?”

She went to the urn and drew two cups of coffee and put them in front of Riker and Schuster.

“You tell me,” she said, still smiling.

Schuster ignored the cup. Riker took a sip, rolled it around in his mouth, and swallowed it.

“Not bad,” he said. “Maybe I’ll stop in now and then-when I’m feelin’ blue. Coffee perks me up.”

“You feeling blue?”

“Yeah. Maybe you heard, I lost a fishing boat the other night. Lucky there was a Coast Guard boat nearby and they pulled my boys out.”

“That was lucky,” Wendy said. She was getting nervous.

“Or maybe it wasn’t luck.” He swung the counter seat around and stared at Culhane. “Maybe a boat full of Feds came aboard first and threw all my fish overboard and pulled the plug on the boat, and then the Coast Guard pulled up to make sure nobody got hurt.”

Culhane ignored him.

“It’s happened to me twice now. Always way out there,” he waved toward the ocean. “Never anywhere near shore, and they never make a case against me or any of my people. Don’t that seem odd to you?”

Wendy walked away to wait on a customer. Riker continued to stare at Culhane.

“I said, ‘Don’t that seem odd to you?’ ” he repeated.

Culhane laid the paper aside.

“Was that crack aimed at me?”

“It was a ‘what if’ kinda question. Like what if the big shots on the Hill wanted to dry me up without causing a big investigation here.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“You’re the law around here. You’re just waiting for Tallman to drop dead of old age.”

Culhane smiled. “Haven’t you heard, Riker, Buck’s gonna live forever. Maybe you ought to stop fishing at night.”

“Ain’t you the funny one.”

“What’re you crying to me for? I don’t have anything to do with the Feds. And I don’t know anybody in the Coast Guard.”

“Maybe your pal Bucky has friends in high places. Or Gorman. Or some of those other big shots on the Hill.”

“I wouldn’t know, Riker.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you believe me or not. But if I was you, I wouldn’t call me a liar.”

The blond muscleman started to get up.

“Where are you going?” Brodie said to him.

“Relax, Lars, we’re just talkin’ about ‘what if’ here. Ain’t that right, Culhane? For instance, what if I owned a piece of Grand View? Me and Delilah would be partners and maybe all this harassment would go away.”

“Maybe it would go away if you had a heart attack. Or ‘what if’ somebody stuck a. 45 up your ass and blew your brains out.”

“Hey there,” Schuster said and stood up.

From the corner of his eye, Brodie saw a black Ford wheel from behind the Double Eagle Hotel onto the main drag a block away and screech toward the Hill. Four men were in the car.

“What the hell…” Brodie said.

The phone rang and Wendy answered it.

“It’s for you, Brodie.”

He grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”

“It’s me. Don’t use my name.” Slim whispered on the other end of the line. “They just left here.”

“Thanks, Andy.” He hung up and headed for the door. The blond henchman jabbed a thick finger into Brodie’s chest.

“Mr. Riker’s still talking to you,” he growled. Brodie grabbed the finger, bent it back almost to the wrist, heard it crack. The gunsel bellowed. Brodie twisted the bodyguard’s arm up and backward, grabbed the back of his hair, and slammed his face into one of the stools. Blood squirted from both sides of his face. He made a gurgling noise, and Brodie lifted his head and slammed his face onto the stool again.

Riker, eyes bulging, was riveted to the spot. Brodie threw the limp hoodlum on the floor, reached under the gangster’s arm, and pulled a. 32 from his shoulder holster. He turned and aimed the pistol at Riker.

“I ain’t heeled,” Riker screamed, holding his hands high.

Brodie jammed the hoodlum’s. 32 under Riker’s chin and frisked him anyway, then grabbed a handful of his shirt.

“Where’s that bunch of yours going?” he demanded.

“I don’t know what you’re…” Riker stammered.

Lars groaned, raised himself up. Culhane kicked him in the jaw and he fell on his back.

“If that bastard ever touches me again, I’ll kill him on the spot,” he whispered in Riker’s face, and shoved him into a chair, which flipped backward. Sprawled on the floor, the gang leader trembled with fear as Brodie aimed the. 32 at him.

“What if I just put you out of everybody’s misery,” Culhane said. Then he pointed the gun toward the ceiling and emptied the bullets on the floor. He turned and dashed out the door.

Wisps of fog drifted past the sprawling Grand View mansion, leaving damp streaks on its ghostly white facade and dampening the hedges that led to the front door. The full moon was a hazy aura in the mist.

The black Chevrolet cabriolet pulled up to the tall iron gates, and a hard-looking man got out and walked to the postern, where a security guard stepped out on the other side of the gate.

“Do you have a card, sir,” he said in a flat, no-nonsense voice. The hard-looking man took a. 38-caliber pistol from under his arm and pointed it straight at the guard’s forehead.

“Will this do?” he hissed with a nasty smile.

The guard studied the gun and the face behind it, then walked over to the gate, unlocked it, and pulled one side open. The armed man stepped inside, stuck the gun in the guard’s back, led him back to the postern, and shoved him inside the small guardhouse.

“Sorry, pal,” he growled, and slashed the guard viciously across the jaw with his gun. The guard grunted and collapsed on the floor. The gunman pulled the telephone lines from the wall, walked back outside, and jumped on the running board of the Chevrolet.

“Okay,” he said, and the car inched down the long drive through the fog to the house. The gunman jumped off the running board and three other men piled out of the car behind him. The leader was Charly McGurk, a slick-looking little weasel wearing a gray fedora. There was a purple wine-stain birthmark on his right cheek. He put the gun back under his arm and they went to the giant double doors and he rang the bell. Inside, he could hear chimes gently stirring. A minute later, a burly chocolate-colored man with temples beginning to show a little gray opened the door. Noah’s eyes widened as the gunman put a hand on his chest and eased him backward. His cohorts followed him into the mansion.

They entered the wide, two-story foyer. McGurk looked up the winding staircase that faced them, then turned his attention to Andy Sloan, who sat at a table sipping coffee. Sloan jumped to

his feet as the four men entered, and his hand fell on the butt of a holstered. 38.

“Don’t do nothin’ stupid,” said McGurk. “Sit down.”

Culhane decided to take the old horse trail up the cliff to Grand View. It had been widened and there was a wall separating it from the drop to the rocks below. He started up the road, downshifted into low, and hugged the steep rise on his left.

Halfway up he ran into fog and slowed to a crawl, the transmission groaning as the Ford climbed toward the top.

At Grand View, three hooligans stood behind McGurk, their hands resting inside their suit jackets.

“We’re here to have a chat with the lady of the house.” He turned to Noah. “You-dinge-go get her.”

Noah’s jaws tightened. He looked at the deputy, who thought a moment before nodding. Noah went up the stairs, knocked on a door at the head of the steps. A moment later it opened and Delilah, handsome in a pale yellow evening gown, stepped out and glared down at the four men. She said something to Noah, who disappeared down one of the halls leading from the balcony.

“Who the hell are you?” she said sternly.

“You must be the O’Dell lady, all that red hair and all,” McGurk said with a sneer.

“So what.”

“So Mr. Riker wants to have a chat at the hotel. He sent us up to bring you down there.”

“What’s the matter, does he have a broken leg?”

McGurk rolled his tongue across yellow teeth.

“He said he wants to see you…”

She cut him off. “He wants to see me? Tell him he knows where I am and to come alone. Or maybe try a phone call, unless he’s forgotten how to talk, too.”

“Mr. Riker wants you to come along with us,” said McGurk in a harsh voice just above a whisper. “He wants to have a little friendlylike chat now.”

Buck Tallman stepped out behind her. His pure white hair flowed down over his shoulders. He was wearing a buckskin vest over a plain white shirt, and dark brown flared pants. A. 44 Peacemaker was hanging low on his hip and his badge glittered where it was pinned to the holster. His right hand hung loosely next to the six-gun.

“Well, well, if it ain’t Buffalo Bill hisself,” McGurk said, and chuckled. “You ain’t invited, old man.”

The tall lawman moved Delilah behind him and came down the stairs, his eyes glittering behind hooded lids. One of the gunmen walked to the middle of the room. The sheriff reached the foot of the staircase, strode resolutely forward, and stopped a foot from him. The other three goons divided up. McGurk near the door, another one next to Andy Sloan. The fourth thug sidled to the lawman’s right and lounged near a side door to the foyer. They had the room covered.

“He said…” the lead gunman started.

“Shut up,” the lawman said in a deep, gravelly voice. Then: “You oughta brush your teeth sometimes, your breath smells like a dead cat’s.”

As Culhane neared the top of Cliffside Road there was a shot, then another, and then Grand View exploded with gunfire.

For an instant, Brodie’s mind flashed back to a foxhole near the Somme, to a white horse racing through the fog, to lying in the hospital, where he had made the decision to come back to San Pietro. He flashed back to the fear he felt getting off the train, knowing he was really back in Eureka.

Now he knew that something terrible was waiting at the top of the Hill.

What he didn’t know was that the events of the next few minutes would change his life again, would be beyond his most terrifying nightmare, beyond fear of death or the fear of battle that lay behind him.

Another gunshot cleared his mind. He slammed on the gas and skidded around the curve, into the drive to Grand View. More gunfire. Brodie wheeled up the drive and skidded to a stop. An armed and wounded gunman staggered out the front door, reeled sideways along the row of hedges. Brodie saw the wine-stain birthmark on his cheek, jumped out of the Ford, using the open door as a shield.

“You there, McGurk, drop the gun,” Brodie yelled.

McGurk, still lurching along the hedge, turned and fired a shot that hit the windshield of Brodie’s car. It exploded, showering the inside of the car with shards of glass.

“I only ask once,” Brodie muttered as he laid his arm on the sill of the door window, aimed an Army. 45, and fired a single shot. It hit McGurk just above the left eye. His body arched into the air, the gun spun out of his hand, and he fell into the hedge with his arms spread out like he was singing an aria at the opera. He stayed there.

Brodie ran toward the door of the mansion. He didn’t bother to check McGurk, he knew he was dead. When he reached the door, he flattened himself against the wall, then whirled around the corner and dove into the house.

A moment later, a shot rang out. Then another. And another. Quick shots. Bang, bang… bang.

A second or two later, a woman’s scream split the dense night air like an axe splitting a log. And she kept screaming.

Although he didn’t know it then, Thomas Brodie Culhane would hear those screams for the rest of his life.