The Six Messiahs

chapter 10

Apparently the rabbi had taken ill somewhere between Phoenix and Wickenburg; a porter had come into the car about half an hour after the old man had gone off to stretch his legs and quietly asked Eileen to accompany him. She returned a few minutes later asking for a flask of liquor—Bendigo wasn't about to give his up—then exited the car again with one borrowed from a stagehand and her makeup case; God forbid a woman should ever leave that behind.

When they left the train at the Wickenburg Station, Eileen insisted on tending personally to Rabbi Stern, warning off other members of the company by telling them that whatever he'd come down with might carry dire threat of contagion; more than enough warning to keep a bunch of superstitious actors at a healthy distance. Bendigo watched Eileen and a tall, thin man in an ill-fitting formal black suit help Rabbi Stern down the steps of the cargo car, where he'd been resting since his "episode."

Stern walked slowly, stiff-legged, doubled-over, leaning on their arms for support, still wearing his hat and half-covered with a blanket even in the brutal noonday heat; his long white beard poked over the blanket, but not much else of him was visible. Eileen and the tall volunteer passenger—he was a doctor who happened to be on board the train, according to Eileen, although if he was a doctor, where was his bag?—guided the rabbi inside the station where he rested in seclusion on a cot in the ticket office. Something about the doctor and the suit he was wearing felt familiar, but Bendigo's mind moved on to administrative concerns before anything could surface.

Sets and costumes were loaded off the train and onto the prairie schooners Rymer had hired from a local livery for the last leg of their journey—some sixty miles of rough road; they were scheduled to spend a night on the way at a charming little way station by the name of Skull Canyon. Eileen handily won the argument with Bendigo for allowing Rabbi Stern to continue on with them: Yes, Jacob was fit enough to travel and no, if Bendigo refused to let him go, then she'd be staying behind in Wickenburg as well and if that meant she missed their performances in the New Village or the Happy Hamlet or whatever this place was called, then that was the price Rymer should be prepared to pay. Her understudy was a dim-witted ninny who. would never make it through an entire show without a nervous fit, and as near as they were to the end of the tour Rymer wouldn't dream of laying out the cash required to replace his leading lady.

Actresses! Everything a melodrama! A bizarre infatuation striking as relentlessly as yellow fever or desert disaster, or whatever mysterious disease this rabbi suffered from. Never again, vowed Rymer, would he place himself at the mercy of the female disposition. Certainly not after he had returned and conquered Broadway.... Wait: a brainstorm!

Why shouldn't he find some ravishing young boy to play Ophelia; yes! It's not as if Shakespeare hadn't done it in his day; all the great female roles were originally written for boys to play. That was it; a revival of the grand tradition! And why stop there? Why couldn't a man play Gertrude as well, and every other female part? Why not do away with these bothersome strumpets once and for all? Nothing but trouble anyway, and the critics would surely stand and applaud his reverence for the classics!

Brilliant idea, Bendigo: You see? Even this cloud hides a silver lining.

But Eileen went on to impose one more intolerable condition: a private wagon to transport Rabbi Stern. He had to be quarantined, she argued logically: No other symptoms had appeared among the Players yet, thank God, but did Bendigo want to take the chance of infecting his entire troupe? Fine,

Rymer agreed to the wagon, thinking: I'll be rid of you soon enough, you meddlesome harlot.

So, following at an agreeable distance, the hospital schooner brought up the rear of their five-wagon mule train as it rolled out of Wickenburg; the Rabbi and Eileen in back, doing her best Florence Nightingale. Once they were out of town, the tall, thin doctor—who happened to be headed for The New City as well; who was in fact driving their wagon—peeked through the ratted burlap curtain at the nurse and her patient.

"Sorry about the bumps,""li^ said, "but I don't think you can attribute it to my driving, however incompetent it might be. A little asphalt they could use in Arizona."

"You're doing fine, Jacob," said Eileen.

"What about my suit? Did any of your colleagues recognize it?"

"I took pieces from three different costumes we aren't even using in this production; if anyone noticed, they would have mentioned it by now."

"I hope nobody else comes down with anything," said Jacob. "If I'm supposed to be a doctor, I'm afraid they'll find my knowledge of medicine to be slightly deficient."

"If anyone asks, we'll tell them I misunderstood; you're actually a horse doctor."

"Good; at least the horses can't contradict me. But please God don't let any of them get sick: I won't even known which end to look into."

She moved back in the wagon, removed Jacob's round hat from the ailing man's head, and wiped his forehead with a damp cloth; he looked up at her with his dull strange eyes.

"Thank you," said Kanazuchi.

"That beard doesn't chafe too much, does it?" she asked. "Afraid I used a bit too much spirit glue to fix it on but we couldn't have it melting in the heat and have any hope of carrying the whole thing off, could we?"

Kanazuchi shook his head. His hand found Grass Cutter lying under the long black coat at his side and he closed his eyes, letting the bumps and jolts of the wagon carry him toward meditation. He needed sleep now; the wound cleaned and freshly dressed, no sign of infection. The dry desert heat felt comforting. He trusted the wisdom of the body to take care of the rest.

Eileen watched the Japanese until he drifted into sleep, still trying to digest everything he and Jacob had told her: stolen books, haunting dreams about a tower in the desert, disturbingly similar to the one that rumors said was being built in the town they were headed for. As he slept, she moved across the wagon, settling just behind Jacob on the driver's seat.

He rattled the reins and called out to his charges, "You are the most excellent mules, you're driving very straight now in a very satisfactory way. I can't tell you how pleased I am with you."

"How are you getting along?" she asked.

"Splendidly! Driving is a very simple procedure; you pull the reins to the left, they go to the left; pull to the right, they go right," said Jacob; then he leaned back toward her. "You're the first person I've ever confessed it to, but I have always had a secret desire to be a cowboy."

"Your secret's safe with me," she said.

Jacob ran a hand over his smoothly shaven face, looking fifteen years younger shorn of the Old Testament whiskers Eileen had then diligently pasted onto Kanazuchi. "I haven't been without a beard since I was a boy. Sixteen years old; part of my religious requirements, you know. We're not supposed to touch a razor to our skin; they say it's too reminiscent of pagan bloodletting rituals."

"Thank heaven you didn't cut yourself shaving."

"Thank heaven I didn't try shaving while bumping around in these feckukteh wagons; I'd look like one of those revolving poles outside a barber shop."

"You look very handsome, Jacob. You'll probably have women chasing you all over the desert."

"Really?" he said, stopping to consider the idea. "What a strange experience that would be. Tell me, how is our patient?"

"Resting comfortably."

"Good. What a marvelous sensation: to feel the air on my skin again. I feel as naked as a newborn baby. To be honest, if I were to look in a mirror I would hardly know whose face this is."

Yours, she thought. Only yours, you dear sweet man.

The mules slackened their pace, looking for guidance from the reins.

"Oy there, giddyup, I think that's tjie appropriate expression, isn't it? Giddyup, meine schene kleine chamers. Oy there!"

The special express train carrying Buckskin Frank and his volunteer avengers did not reach Wickenburg until just after sunset. Procedural details of commandeering a train after Frank found blood on the tracks had delayed them in Phoenix for four precious hours. Drawn by the announcement of a five-thousand-dollar reward, the posse had snowballed to include nearly forty men by now, picking up self-righteous crusaders like dog hair on a dust mop as they rolled through Arizona, and a plague of journalists had attached themselves as well. The result: A simple task like questioning the Wickenburg Station personnel turned into a Tower of Babel; every volunteer and reporter taking it upon himself to conduct his own investigation until Frank had to fire his Henry semiautomatic carbine into the air to shut them up.

As it turned out, no one at the station had seen a Chinaman get off the noon mail run with the Penultimate Players, but the train was still standing in the yard and, even though somebody had tried to clean up the traces, Frank found a fair amount of blood had spilled out onto the floor of the cargo car. Enough evidence to move on; and more than enough to fire up this pack of amateur headhunters into wanting to make a night ride to Skull Canyon, where the troupe of actors was scheduled to bunk in.

Following Frank's advice, the posse did not wire ahead to the Skull Canyon telegraph office for fear of tipping anyone off: Easy enough to convince his fellow pursuers that was the prudent move; if Chop-Chop—a Phoenix newspaper had hung that headline-grabbing nickname on the marauding Chinaman and it was catching on fast—was this close at hand, the posse naturally wanted the glory of his capture to rain down only on themselves. After posing for a flurry of self-aggrandizing photographs, weighed down with so many weapons and bandoliers they might be mistaken for Pancho Villa's army, the posse repaired to Wickenburg's only saloon for some serious drinking.

Figured these actors would be the ones to harbor a murdering fugitive, the talk in McKinney's Cantina soon developed. Two peas in a pod. Can't trust theatrical people—that much was common knowledge, if not sense—ever since John Wilkes Booth shot the President, an event nearly every one of these armchair lawmen was old enough to remember. Actors were liars by profession, 'specially the traveling kind: whorin', thievin' rascals. Lock up your daughters and hide the silverware. Ought to be a law, and so on.

In plenty of places out west there were such laws, Sheriff Tommy Butterfield pointed out in his bland, pedantic, meandering way; upon their arrival, actors are required to notify local law enforcement of their comings and goings. Not in Arizona, mind you, but plenty of other places.

Well what in damnation are we paying our elected representatives for if not to protect us from the likes of these roving bands of actor-desperadoes, some paragon of well-heeled civic virtue piped in, and furious debate was joined pitting leading citizen against elected official. The whiskey that had started to trickle on the train flowed like the Colorado and any hope of the posse riding on that night faded faster than the dying twilight.

Buckskin Frank, who was not in a drinking mood by choice and never in an arguing one by nature, realized a squall had started inside that could take hours to blow over; so as the storm raged, he slipped quietly out the door.

A night ride with this bunch of knuckleheads was a dumb idea anyway, realized Frank: They'd probably trot themselves right off the top of a mesa in parade formation. Nor was Frank looking forward to making the trek with them during the day, when this high country turned hot as the hinges of hell. The only activity these big bellies had ever shown any talent for was sucking the money out of poor folks' pockets. Hunting down criminals in the wilderness didn't even qualify as a hobby.

Frank lit a smoke, looked around, and realized with a jolt he was alone for the first time since they had unlocked the door of his cell. Empty streets; the whole town busy jawing in the saloon. The posse had carried their horses up from Phoenix on the train; his roan was morning fresh and saddled up in a stable less than fifty yards from where he was standing. A wild thrill ran through him: Maybe he should light out for Mexico right now.

Molly's voice came into his head: Get a grip on your bishop, Frankie boy; there's a hundred angles could go haywire between here and the border. That's exactly the bull-brained sort of shortsighted scheming that has plagued you all your life. If these bumblers come after you with all that firepower, you'll have more holes than a harmonica. Ask yourself, darlin': What's the smart card to play?

Frank knew his only sure ticket to stay on this side of a prison wall was a dead Chinaman, and if that Chinaman was in Skull Canyon and already winged and dangerous he stood a hundred percent better chance of taking the man out by going in after him alone than as part of this traveling freak show. One clean shot was all he'd need. And if he turned out to be the wrong Chinaman, there'd be a lot fewer questions asked if he came back with a body instead of a suspect. Nobody'd be the wiser.

Once Frank made up his mind about something, he wasn't one for square dancing around. He could make that ride tonight in his sleep. Sky was clear, there'd be a moon later; he might even reach their camp before those actors cleared out of Skull Canyon in the morning.

Before riding off, he nailed a note to the stable wall:

GONE AHEAD TO SCOUT.

MEET ME AT SKULL CANYON TOMORROW.

WILL WIRE ANY CHANGE IN PLAN.

YOURS TRULY,

BUCKSKIN FRANK

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Major Pepperman insisted on driving Doyle and Innes all over Chicago after they disembarked at Union Station. The Major had been born and raised in the city; he swelled up with a native son's pride as soon he set foot in his hometown, and by God if he couldn't get a rise out of these diffident tea bags by showing off the highlights of his metropolis, then he had lost his touch as one of America's preeminent impresarios.

His emphasis, once again, tended to dwell predominantly on size. There was Marshall Field's Department Store: thirteen acres of floor space! The Reliance Building: fifteen skyscraping stories of shimmering glass! Wrigley's gum factory: most popular gum in the world! ("Here, have a stick of Juicy Fruit! The hit of the World's Fair!") By the time they reached their hotel ("The Palmer House: biggest hotel between New York and San Francisco!"), the Major's well-intentioned but increasingly desperate enthusiasm had numbed the brothers' minds to a frazzle.

As they had arranged on the train, Sparks, Stern, and Presto took rooms at a smaller hotel around the corner from Doyle's and secured the Gerona Zohar in the hotel safe. In the moments they spent alone before parting at the station, no reference was made by either Sparks or Doyle to their conversation the night before; Doyle experienced gnawing discomfort about both the damning content of Jack's confession and what he felt to be the inadequacy of his own coldhearted response. What could he do to break this impasse? Sparks, still shamed, barely met his eye.

During the day, while the Doyles executed the responsibilities of Arthur's tour, the other three men paid a visit to the temple of Rabbi Isaac Abraham Brachman, the results of which they relayed to the brothers that evening in front of the fire in Arthur's suite at the Palmer House. Lionel and Presto did the talking; Jack sat apart, silent, unresponsive.

Rabbi Brachman had received no further word from Jacob Stern. Nor could he draw any clues from Jacob's behavior during his visit that threw light on his subsequent whereabouts. He had seemed very much himself: cheerful, a trifle distracted, more attuned to the abstract than the physical. Terribly concerned, as all the scholars were, over the theft of the Tikkunei Zohar, about which Brachman could offer no encouraging news, either. The matter had been referred to the police, who were at best dutiful, if not indifferent, to the loss of such a rarefied item: If it had been a draft horse or a vintage cuckoo clock, it might have stirred them to action, but the value of an obscure religious manuscript, and a non-Christian one at that, seemed to elude their grasp.

Facts were spare: The Tikkunei Zohar had simply disappeared; there one night, studied by Brachman, locked in a cabinet in the temple library; the next morning gone. No physical clues; no breaking and entering; the lock picked cleanly.

Thoroughly professional job. They chose not to burden Rabbi Brachman, a frail, wispy man of seventy-five, with any information about the possible involvement of the Hanseatic League or the other missing holy books. And Brachman took great comfort in hearing that the Gerona Zohar still rested safely in their possession.

More disappointment: The Rabbi could not recall a tall, raggedy evangelist preacher who had attended the Parliament of Religions. Over four hundred clergy from around the world had taken part and a year had passed; nearly impossible for a man of his age and failing memory to pick one face out of the crowd. He would be more than willing to comb through his records to see what he could find; that would take a day or so.

Not until Presto asked Brachman if he had received any unusual visitors in the days leading up to the robbery did any startling information emerge. No one before the robbery, he told them, but strange you should mention it: A collector of rare religious manuscripts had been to see him that very morning. A German businessman, Gentile, blond, tall, good-looking: come to express his sympathy about the theft of the Tikkunei Zohar. After some related idle conversation, the man mentioned he had recently purchased a rare religious book in New York; if he brought it to him, would the Rabbi be able to authenticate that the manuscript was indeed genuine?

Although the man seemed the soul of unobtrusive friendliness, solid instinct advised Rabbi Brachman to hold his tongue. How had this fellow heard about the theft of the Tikkunei Zohar? Only a few people outside of their temple had been told; it had not even been publicized.

No, he was sorry but his eyesight was failing, said Brachman. To be of any help in a matter requiring such rigorous examination would be quite impossible. He had a friend who might be of assistance but the man was away on a trip at the moment. They spoke awhile longer, quite innocently, before the man departed, leaving his card with Brachman; if the friend returned soon, would the Rabbi be good enough to let him know?

Presto magically produced an identical copy of the business card he had shown to them in New York: Frederick Schwarz-kirk, the same Chicago-based collector whose path had crossed Presto's before.

The Zohar ruse had worked, said Doyle; the man had the false book, but he also had his suspicions. If the information on his card was correct, Mr. Schwarzkirk's office lay within walking distance of the Palmer House. That would be their next stop, one consequence of which did not occur to them, as it seemed to offer no significance at the time:

Traveling there by the more direct route would take them directly past the Water Tower on Chicago Avenue.

All day the Voices in his head told Dante Scruggs this would be the night his luck would turn. The Indian bitch had spent nearly a week staked out in front of the damn Water Tower, dawn to dusk, hightailing it back to her boarding house before dark. Hadn't looked for any work; hadn't even stopped in a single store, and that just wasn't natural in a woman. All she did at the Tower was stand and stare at people as they walked past, drifting every hour from one side of the building to the other, always staying with the crowds, never leaving him a single opening to make his move. There were times when Dante began to wonder if she sensed that he was tracking her: Indians were crafty that way, like animals.

Frustration began to boil up inside him like steam in a locomotive; had he picked himself out some sort of wrong-headed freak? If the bitch was crazy, that cut the edge off his interest; she wasn't prime. Maybe the time had come to reconsider his original investment. But the Voices that morning sounded so confident; something was in the wind and he couldn't ever remember a time when the Voices steered him wrong.

Sure enough: Night came on and when the lamplighters made their rounds, she stayed put in front of the Tower. He had no way of knowing the Indian heard voices she depended on, too—voices of her ancestors—and tonight they had advised her to wait this one time until after dark. As the streets and sidewalks emptied, she planted herself under a gaslight near the Tower entrance. Seven-thirty came and went, then eight. Getting on toward Green River Time: Dante Scruggs watched from across the street, out of her sight, his anticipation and excitement slowly mounting, hands deep in the pockets of his pants; one on his Johnson, the other on his knife.

And once again, intent as he was on his prey, Dante remained unaware that he in turn was being observed: a tall, blond man this time, wearing an expensive suit, sat in a carriage on the far side of the street, eyes trained on Dante Scruggs.

Nine o'clock rang out on the city's choir of church bells. As the last peal faded, the woman seemed to have reached some kind of limit; her shoulders drooped with disappointment and she started slowly walking away. Dante perked up: This might be it. Just one more sign ...

A man walking across the street dropped a newspaper. There it was; the Voices had spoken.

Dante unscrewed the cap on the bottle of chloroform in his pocket and shook some out into his handkerchief, put the cap back on the bottle, shoved the handkerchief and his hand down into the outside pocket of his coat, and stepped out to cross the street. If she followed her usual path back to the boarding house, the first left turn would take her down an empty side street lined with warehouses where the gaslights were few and far between, and one of them hadn't worked in the three days since Dante pinched off its supply line. The mouth of a dark alley intersected the street a few steps away. That was the spot he'd picked out to take her: under the dead lamp.

Yes; she made the turn. He picked up speed, twenty yards back, his soft-soled shoes making no sound, closing slowly at a pace that would put him on her at the exact moment she entered the dark circle; no last-second rush to warn her off. Her head down, feet scuffling along, paying no mind. Perfect. Electricity zinged through the bones and wires of Dante's hands, fists clenching in his pockets, warming to the task. Ten yards now. These were the moments he lived for; sometimes better than the work itself. How could any man ever feel more alive than he did right now?

The squaw did not turn and never heard him coming. As she took that step into the dark, he lifted the handkerchief from his pocket, and as he reached her he brought the hand up around her mouth, his left locked onto the back of her head, grabbing the hair, clamping the handkerchief down so her first big surprised breath brought in the full impact of the fumes.

Instant, violent reaction: Her elbow shot back into his mid-section, a foot stomped down, raking his shin, smashing his instep. He was used to the meat struggling at first, but Jesus, this one thrashed like a wildcat. A handful of sharp nails ripped across his face, just missing his eye; a knee that he barely sidestepped shot out at his balls. Dante paid no attention to his own pain, but the bitches never fought like this; some of them so paralyzed with fright when he jumped, they melted into his hands. That first shot of fear running through them was practically his favorite feature of the work; he could smell it through their skin, drink it right out of their eyes. Shit; this one didn't even look scared. One thing in her eyes: hate. The bitch was ruining everything.

Somehow as they wrestled he managed to keep the handkerchief in place, clamped over her nose and mouth while he held her away at arm's length, waiting for the drug to bite through her resistance. Her teeth snapped at him, boots barked at his ankles; no weakening but she couldn't hold her breath much longer. She was trying to reach down to her leg.

Then her hands shot down onto his forearms; nails scooping in like knives, drawing blood. Dante bit his tongue to keep from howling; that pain registered. She tried to lift his hands off her head; Christ, he'd never known any woman to be this strong, nearly his match, maybe more. Actually prying his hands loose; Where in bejesus was the drug? He couldn't chance letting go to reach for his knife; she was too dangerous. Hot liquid ran into his good eye, blurring his vision: Shit, his own blood; she'd cut his face. Damn this troublesome bitch; once he finished ringing up the bill for this, there was gonna be hell to pay.

There: her hands beginning to lose their grip. Her eyes blinked rapidly, then rolled back up under the lids. Operating on stubborn instinct, she still resisted, kicking and scratching, but the strength flowed out of her fast until her body wilted; he caught her around the waist with one hand but kept the handkerchief tight to her face as a precaution as he lowered her gently to the ground. Her fists relaxed as she went completely limp, and he finally felt safe enough to take the handkerchief away. She sprawled at his feet, his now, still and ready. He knelt down beside the Indian and ran his hands over her, probing what she had. Hard around the belly. Thumbed her nipples. Ran his fingers over her breasts, her firm hips, between her legs. The meat was a little thin for his taste but would do just fine....

Jesus, she had a knife strapped to the inside of her thigh: That's what she'd been reaching for; probably knew how to use it, too.

All right, that tore it; the courtship was officially over: Dante slapped her hard and had to restrain himself from kicking in the side of her skull as she lay there, his injuries minor but the Voices stinging with outrage.

Try to pull a knife on us, will you bitch?

Dante wiped the blood off his forehead, caught a whiff of the chloroform on the handkerchief, tossed it impatiently aside. This one was about to find out what making us this mad would cost her. He picked the body up under the arms and started to drag it into the shadowy alleyway and the door to the abandoned warehouse. He had scouted the area for weeks; no one ever wandered down here after nightfall. Plenty of privacy and absolute darkness, that's how he liked to work, and the warehouse was where he had planned to take this meat to the Green River, his valise already stowed inside waiting with his candles and his tools, and he already dreaming up even more elaborate punishments than usual for her foolish crimes. He might even go against his customary procedure; once he'd tacked her down and gagged her, he might just wait until she woke up before he went to work. Let her watch. Maybe he could even find a looking glass.

The body felt slight, feathery; he couldn't figure where she stored all that strength. Didn't matter: Meat, that was all she was now. He was an artist who worked in meat and this was his new canvas. His stimulation growing again after their little set-to at the thought of the fun to come.

Playtime; everyone come out and play. The Voices happy, caressing, pleased with his accomplishment.

"Hey! You there!"

Dante looked up. Shit! People running toward him, not fifty yards off: men, shadows tall against the buildings, at least three of them, maybe more. He scurried the meat into the cover of the alley, quickly running through his options.

"You! Stop there!"

He didn't need the Voices to make this decision; he dropped the body and ran as fast as he could. Whoever these men were, they hadn't seen him clearly; hard to give up a kill, all that legwork, but there would be other days and fresher meat, better than this. Heard footsteps enter the alley behind him as he turned into the street; at least one, maybe two men following, but he knew every building on every block, every doorway, window, twist and turn, part of his painstaking preparation: They'd never catch him now.

He turned two more corners, ran through an empty shotgun flat, dropped into another alley, pulled into the shadows of a doorway, and paused against the brick, motionless and alert; the knife appeared in his hand, broad and glistening. If anyone followed him there, they'd be smiling with their necks. He heard footsteps running past the alley, voices calling out to each other, doubling back, then receding. He waited ten minutes more than he needed to, then sheathed the knife; the way clear to home from here. They'd missed him.

What was that? Unmistakable: the hammer of a Colt revolver cocking right next to his head; the sharp poke of its barrel against his temple.

"Don't move, Mr. Scruggs," said a smooth voice in his ear. "I don't wish to shoot you after all the effort we've put into meeting you. Consider me your friend. Do you understand?"

The voice had an accent; what was it? German?

"Uh-huh."

"Good. You may turn your head now."

The voice definitely German; he'd commanded soldiers in his outfit, immigrants, sounded just like this fella. Dante glanced at the man with his good eye as he turned; he looked young, about his own age, tall, thick blond hair. Bright blue eyes. Big through the shoulders. Sharp looking; good suit. Was this one of the men who'd been after him? Dante didn't think so; this dude wasn't even breathing hard.

"What do you want, mister?" asked Dante finally.

Still holding the Colt to him, the man slid the nose of the barrel along Dante's forehead, down to his blank eye socket, where it rested. Slight smile on his lips. "You may call me Frederick."

"What do you want, Frederick?"

"Why, I want to help you, Mr. Scruggs."

"Help me? How's that?"

"Let me begin by saying I am an admirer of your work: I want to help you do your work."

"What do you know about it?"

"We have had our eye on you for some time now, Mr. Scruggs. And we have been most interested watching you advance in your ... career."

"You have?"

"Oh yes. We take a great interest in the sort of work you do. And I must tell you, we like what we see. We like it very much."

"If you help me, like you say ... what do you get out of it?"

"That is a fair question, Mr. Scruggs, and it has a simple answer: I will help you ... because I want you to help me."

"How can I help you?"

"In ways you cannot possibly imagine. Why don't you come with me now, so we can ... talk it over."

Something dark and insinuating and frightfully amused in Frederick's light eyes. The Voices weighed in: We like this one. Dante surprised: Unusual for Them to trust anybody he'd ever met so quickly. But he couldn't argue the point.

He liked him, too.

Doyle had been the first to cry out when they saw a man dragging a body into the alley ahead, and he was the first to reach her. Lionel Stern lit matches to give him some light and Doyle worked furiously to revive the woman in the plain gingham dress while Jack and Innes gave chase to her attacker. Presto pulled a rapier from his walking stick and searched the area; he lifted a bloodstained, chloroform-soaked handkerchief lying nearby and they realized she had nearly succumbed to its potent vapor. When he found the carpetbag in an adjacent warehouse, loaded down with rope, cutting tools, and crude surgical instruments, they realized with a shudder how near the woman had come to meeting an unspeakable end.

By the time the others returned, empty-handed, the woman's breathing had deepened and her pulse stabilized, but she remained unconscious and not entirely out of danger. Doyle could sense Jack preparing to argue that this should not interfere with their business, but before he could speak, Doyle insisted that they transport the woman to safe quarters at once.

Jack offered no protest and Doyle realized that now he had received his confession, Sparks was reluctant to openly oppose him: Doyle held a trump card on Jack now, but he would have to use it judiciously.

Presto hailed a carriage; minutes later they took the rear entrance of the Palmer House, the four men surrounding Doyle as he carried the woman to an empty service elevator. As they exited the car and made their way down the hall to Doyle's suite, Major Pepperman had the misfortune to appear around the corner, his habitually eager expression changing to dismay.

"Thought I'd see if you're up for a nightcap," he said, faltering rapidly. "Brought a couple of newspaper men, waiting downstairs in the bar...."

"Sorry, old man," said Doyle, smiling as he swept by him, the limp female body in his arms. "Some other time."

Innes unlocked the door. Doyle carried her inside and the others quickly followed; an unsavory-looking group at best. One of them dark as a Negro, dressed like a dandy; another wore a fearsome scowl and a scar worthy of a pirate. The door closed in Pepperman's collapsing face, his mind already composing the scandalous headline (HOLMES CREATOR CAUGHT IN LOVE NEST!) and personal ruination that would be sure to follow.

Doyle had been up to something untoward from the moment he arrived in America, Pepperman decided; the evasiveness, his impregnable reticence and persistent requests for privacy; why, the clues had been there from the beginning. What were Doyle and those men doing with that woman in his room? The Major was no genius but he could still add two and two together: The man was a secret deviant!

Waiting for the elevator, the Major lowered his shaggy head and banged it morosely against the wall. He had put up his own money to fund this tour, and until he realized some returns, he would have to do everything in his power to protect his expenditure; no one must learn of Doyle's loathsome habits, whatever they might be. Promoting a famous author—an English one, practically reeking respectability—had seemed such a safe investment at the time. Why hadn't he stuck to the circus?

Doyle laid the woman down on a sofa and afforded the men their first clear look at her: about thirty years of age, dark skin and hair, strong bones and features, not beautiful by any means, but arresting and handsome, a face hewn with resilience and fortitude.

"An American Indian," said Jack, as both he and Presto stared at her with something mysteriously close to recognition.

"Do you know this woman?" Doyle asked them observantly.

Jack shook his head uncertainly.

"How could I possibly?" said Presto. "Unless she's been to London and how likely is that? And yet, all the same, she does look familiar to me."

Doyle cracked open a vial of smelling salts under her nose; she jerked her head away, her eyes fluttered open. She stared in alarm as she saw the five male faces staring down at her. Doyle calmly reassured her and introduced the others, explaining how they'd found her in the street and where she was now, the sort of aftereffects she could expect from exposure to the drug. She listened attentively, her enormous self-possession reforming as she tried to patch the gaps in her memory: The image of her attacker's empty blue eye came back, staring into her, lifeless as a marble.

She said little, drinking water, surprised that she felt no impulse to bolt, but she did not sense danger from these men. Quite the contrary: By then she had picked out Jack and Presto and returned their inquiring gazes with equal curiosity.

"What is your name, miss?" asked Doyle.

She looked at his face before answering. "My name is Mary Williams."

"Have we met before, Miss Williams?" asked Presto.

The three of them, linked somehow. Did they know it was the dream?

"Yes," she said.

"Why do you suppose that is?"

She knew the answer; reluctant to voice it yet.

"Where are you from, Miss Williams?" asked Doyle.

She told them.

"You are American Indian, then."

"Yes; Lakota."

"Really?" said Innes, brightening. "How ripping."

Doyle gestured; Innes backed off.

"Had you ever seen this man who attacked you before?" Doyle asked.

"He has followed me since I got to Chicago."

"Do you know his name?" asked Jack.

"No. I know nothing about him," she said.

"Why didn't you go to the police?" asked Doyle.

"He had done nothing to me."

"Still, they might have helped—"

"I know how to protect myself."

The obvious answer hung in the air; she responded to it. ' 'Tonight I made a mistake; my mind thinking of other things. It was the only moment he could have hurt me."

"The only one he needed," said Jack.

"If he comes again, I will kill him." Her tone left no reason to doubt her.

"Still, you are very lucky to be alive, Miss Williams," said Presto.

He showed her the contents of the carpetbag he'd found in the warehouse. She stared at the instruments of disfigurement without reaction. What she saw did not surprise her—nothing about that blue, blank-eyed nightmare would have—but she agreed that yes, she had been fortunate.

"If I may ask, under the circumstances, what were you doing out there tonight alone?" asked Doyle.

"Waiting for someone. They did not arrive. In my disappointment, I was not paying attention. That is how he caught me.

"Waiting for whom?" asked Doyle.

She looked back and forth between Jack and Presto. "I believe that I have been waiting for these two gentlemen."

The two seemed to receive this bombshell in stride; Doyle, Stern, and Innes looked shocked.

"You believe so?" asked Doyle. "On what basis? ..."

"Let her speak," said Jack.

Walks Alone waited; yes, it felt safe to tell them.

"I have seen you in a dream," she said, looking right at Jack.

"Good night," whispered Innes.

"You know I am telling the truth. Both of you do," she said calmly, including Presto. "You know the dream."

Jack and Presto glanced at each other warily.

"Tell us," said Presto, testing her.

"A dark tower, in the desert. Tunnels beneath the earth; an altar or temple underground. Six figures gather; I am there. And so are both of you."

"Yes," said Jack.

"A black devil rising from the earth; a man. And he looks something like you," she said, nodding to Jack.

"Right. Scotch for me," said Doyle, moving to the bar.

"I'll join you," said Lionel Stern.

"Make mine double," said Innes to Doyle as he poured.

"You have had this dream," she said. "You have seen the tower."

Both Presto and Jack agreed.

"It started three months ago," she said. "Slowly at first; now it comes almost every night."

Jack nodded. Doyle watched him from across the room. Fire in his eyes again, feverish and disturbed, but still a sign of life.

"Two or three times a week," said Presto. "Wakes me in a cold sweat."

"Do you know what it means?" asked Jack.

"No," she said hesitantly; why frighten them with my interpretations?

Fortified with drink, Doyle moved back to them, unfolded Jacob's drawing from his pocket, and held it for her to see. "The tower in your dream; does it look anything like this?"

"Yes; this is the same."

Doyle looked back at Lionel Stem, who drained his drink and poured himself another with trembling hands.

"It also looks like one they have here in the city," she said.

"The tower is here? In Chicago?" asked Doyle.

"No; the one in the dream is like this but larger, built of black stone."

"What tower are you talking about?" asked Doyle.

"They call it the Water Tower. That's where I've been waiting for you. That's what the dream told me to do."

"The dream told you to wait for us?" asked Presto.

She nodded solemnly.

"Can you take us there?" said Jack, pressing forward.

"Yes; it's near where you found me; where you would have found me if I had waited a little longer."

"Let's go," said Jack, heading for the door.

"Miss Williams, you've been through a great deal; I strongly advise you to rest before—" said Doyle.

"No," she said with enormous authority as she rose to heR feet.

On their way to the taxi stand, the odd sextet marched past the bar in the lobby of the Palmer House; Major Pepperman sat at a table near the door, force-feeding two reporters from Milwaukee stories about Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle's manly appeal.

"Say, isn't that him now?" asked one of the reporters, catching a glimpse of the man exiting the hotel.

"Couldn't have been," said Pepperman quickly. "Doyle's been asleep for hours."

"I think that was him," said the reporter.

"Not possible," said Pepperman, through clenched, smiling teeth.

When the two cabs stopped in front of the Water Tower, Doyle asked the drivers to wait as they climbed out for a look. Starkly lit by dramatically positioned gaslights, the Tower looked like a fairy tale castle rising from the darkness. Both Jack and Presto agreed it bore great similarity to the one from their dreams; Doyle took out Jacob Stern's drawing and they found many exact points of comparison as well.

"That explains the sketch," said Doyle, to Lionel Stern. "Your father must have seen this while attending the Parliament of Religions."

And yet Jack, Presto, and Mary Williams felt something wasn't right. The Water Tower was and wasn't the same; it seemed perhaps a model or template for the tower in the dream: one taller, darker, more ominous and forbidding. And there was no mistaking central Chicago for a desert. Their discovery delivered less than it seemed to promise, compounding the mystery and dampening their spirits.

What to make of the intersecting of their dreams? wondered Doyle. He had once investigated a case of three mediums in scattered parts of the world simultaneously picking up different pieces of the same spirit message, but each had received the information during trance states, not sleep, and it involved only a, simple written message, not complicated imagery woven together with an apparently identical narrative.

From what they had learned, it seemed likely Jacob Stern had be,en party to the dream sharing. Why had these four been singled out to receive this particular message? Mary Williams seemed a likely candidate to possess the gift; Jack had never exhibited signs of mediumship, although his brother had occult powers and Jack's dabbling with drugs could have brought them on. But Presto bore no resemblance to the classic medium's profile: He was a lawyer, for God's sake, how much more earthbound could a man be?

The other common thread: The men each had some connection to a holy book of central importance to their religion or culture; Mary Williams had no involvement with such a book but she came from a people without a written language.

None of which answered the crucial questions: What was the meaning and purpose of the dream? What did it have to do with the missing books?

I may not have been given the dream, thought Doyle, but this much I can do: I must find the answer to those questions so they can finish whatever task this dream has called them to perform... .

Doyle turned to look at Sparks, standing apart from the others, staring silently up at the tower.

And unless I can find a way to bring Jack back to himself, he realized, they'll never make it.

A few blocks west of the Water Tower, as Doyle and the others studied its enigmatic facade, Frederick Schwarzkirk escorted Dante Scruggs into his fifth-floor office; the printing on the front door spelled only his name and a single word: COLLECTOR. At this late hour, Frederick's office was the only one in the building that showed any signs of life.

Inside the dimly lit suite, a swirl of activity: half a dozen men boxing up books and papers, carting them out to the hall. The men dressed in black and wearing gloves. The front room had been cleared except for a massive oaken desk in its center; on the desk a telegraph key and trailing from it a strip of paper bearing the dots and dashes of a received message.

"I have just returned from business overseas," said Frederick. ' 'And as you can see, Mr. Scruggs, I am in the process of relocating my operation."

Dante nodded, smiled, and said nothing. As they rode over in the carriage, he had decided the fewer questions he asked Frederick the better; the man gave off an aura of confidence .ind power that made Dante feel dumb as a stump, but at the same time affectionately well cared for, like a favorite dog. And the Voices kept telling him not to worry; he could relax and trust that this man would carry him to safety. Dante felt as warm and snug in Frederick's company as a snake in a sleeping bag.

Frederick made no attempt to introduce Dante to the other men and left him momentarily alone to direct some of the work in the inner office, barking out sharp instructions in German. As one of the men passed carrying a box out to the hall, his sleeves rolled up, Dante noticed a strange tattoo on the inside crook of the man's left arm: a broken circle with three jagged lines darting through its borders.

Dante hopped agreeably out of the way to allow two more men through, pushing a stack of boxes on a rolling dolly. His movement put him close to the desk and the strip of telegraph paper, and he couldn't resist leaning over to take a peek at its hieroglyphs—he had worked as a telegraph operator during two of his army years. He could just make out the phrase BRING THE BOOK IMMEDIATELY when he heard a floorboard creak as Frederick reentered. Dante leaned away from the desk, looked down and studied his shoes, trying to convey a generalized innocence. Frederick walked past him and took a seat behind the desk.

"Naughty boy," said Federick, wagging a playful finger at him.

Dante giggled and smiled sheepishly, unable to conceal his guilt.

"You are a naughty boy, aren't you, Mr. Scruggs?"

"Yes, sir."

"Naughty boys sometimes get punished," said Frederick, picking up the telegraph strip and scanning it quickly between his slender fingers.

Dante felt confused and thickheaded, but he didn't seem to mind it much; there was no fear involved. When he finished reading the strip, Frederick set a match to it and dropped the burning strand on the floor. He toggled on the telegraph and tapped out a message; listening carefully, Dante heard him spell the words A GLORIOUS DAY before Frederick began to speak over the clack of the key, disrupting his concentration.

"You enjoyed being in the army, did you not, Mr. Scruggs?"

"Oh yeah. More than anything."

"Enjoyed that pride of authority," he said, with that same teasing smile; how could the man talk and send Morse code at the same time?

"Uh-huh."

"A sense of power."

"Yeah."

"Being a part of something larger than yourself; a sense of meaning in your life."

"Yeah, I liked that."

"A loyal soldier. Your every waking moment devoted to a purpose that served a design far greater than your ability to comprehend. Shoulder to shoulder with other men of like mind, marching forward, dedicated to serving the same high ideals."

"Huh?" This was getting a little rich for him.

Frederick laughed and smiled like a loving father. "You'd like to be a soldier in an army again, wouldn't you, Mr. Scruggs?"

"I guess so." Dante wasn't so sure.

"Not one ruled by a distant, unenlightened government, overrun with fat, incompetent commanders; corrupted cowards afraid of their own shadows. An entirely different sort of army, Mr. Scruggs, where you truly felt you belonged. Where instead of being punished for the unique qualities that make you who you are, you are rewarded for them. An army that would allow you, no, encourage you to continue your... personal work. You would like that, wouldn't you, Mr. Scruggs?"

Dante's eyes narrowed; a shudder of excitement ran to his groin as the sense of the man's tone, if not the words, got through to him. "Yeah. Yes, sir, I'd like that a lot."

"We recruit from all over the world," said Frederick. "Not many men meet our exacting standards. But after months of close observation, I can say with some confidence that you ... measure up."

"How'd you find me in the first place?"

"We have eyes and ears in many places. If it is meant to be, the right person will catch our attention. He is observed, studied, as you have been. If he's found worthy, we move to the stage where you find yourself now."

Dante swallowed; he felt small, filled with wonder, as if an angel had reached down and touched him.

Frederick finished tapping out his message. He leaned down, ripped the telegraph wires out of the wall, and handed the key to Dante. "Put that in a box for me, would you please, Mr. Scruggs?"

"Sure, Frederick."

Dante looked around; there were no boxes left in the room.

"Uh..."

"In there," said Frederick, pointing to the inner office, clearing a stack of papers from the drawers without looking up at him.

Dante nodded and carried the telegraph key through the door; he was immediately grabbed by a dozen grasping hands, lifted off the floor, and spread-eagled on his back across a desk. Dim light filtered through a slatted blind; Dante could barely make out their faces; no, they were wearing masks. Black masks; only their eyes showing through slits. A gloved hand smothered his mouth. Adrenaline pumped through his body; he struggled fiercely but couldn't move an inch, helplessly pinned.

Cows in the slaughterhouse, that's where his mind went; heads stuck through the rack, waiting for the sledge to cave in their skulls. What was that smell? Something pungent in the air; hot, sulfurous, like burning coals.

Frederick's face appeared above him; no smile now, fierce and purposeful. He reached down and pulled the knife from the sheath in Dante's pocket. The other men's hands were rolling up his sleeves, taking his pants down to his ankles. Squeals of terror came out of him; his bladder emptied involuntarily.

Frederick looked at the knife, read the manufacturer's trademark near the hilt. "Green River, Wyoming. How pleasing. The Green River knife is one of the best in the world. If this was a violin it would be a Stradivarius."

What the hell was he talking about? What did he want? What were they gonna do to him? Dante's eyes danced wildly around the room. Where were the Voices? Why couldn't somebody help him?

Frederick slit the buttons off Dante's union suit, spread it open, and ran the knife lightly over his privates.

"Have you even for a moment considered what the experience must be like for the women you've killed, Mr. Scruggs? What they must feel as you go about your work? The abject terror? Fear of dying? The pain as you make your first cuts? I have seen the bits and pieces of them you saved in your apartment; you are very fastidious about the parts you keep, aren't you? That interests me: One collector to another, what makes you choose? What draws you to keep one piece, discard another? The look, the feel? Is it the shape or the texture? The function of the part? Perhaps you don't know or haven't thought it through; yes, I think so. It's just magic, isn't it? The flesh is there, it speaks to you and you simply have to have it. I suspect this is how it's always been: When it speaks, you are bound to listen and obey."

Dante whimpered and moaned.

"Relax; isn't that what you always tell your girls in the beginning?"

He nicked him lightly with the blade; Dante felt a trickle of blood run down and pool between his thighs. Frederick leaned over next to his ear and spoke to him seductively, almost in a whisper. "Every pleasure has its price; every sin its reward. The rites of initiation are ancient and mysterious, as unknowable to us as the face of God. And yet we still obey them, because that is how the entrance into our brotherhood has always been achieved. You are baptized and reborn in the water of your own blood and fear. In no other way can you become useful to us; in only this way can you become more useful than you ever imagined. Be aware that death can always reach you; disobedience is not tolerated. Violence can be visited upon you with the speed of an idea. Your thoughts are no longer your own. Your mind and spirit belong to a higher power. Servitude has always been your goal, and now it becomes your reality. Trust that your life has brought you to this place in time, because that is what you wished for and all that it requires of you now is recognition and absolute surrender."

Frederick slammed the knife down into the table between Dante's legs, nicking his flesh again and starting a stronger flow of blood. "Be one of us and live forever."

Now a blinding pain seared into his left arm; Dante's eyes moved there, half-blinded with tears; smoke curled up from where the branding iron had left its mark on the bicep; as it lifted, he saw the burn; the burning circle broken by three jagged lines.

Dante fainted.