Hell's Marshal (2 page)

Control returned to him bit-by-bit, and he rose to his feet. He thought about running, but one look at Hul’s iridescent body told him he would shock Frank into submission at the first sign of flight. So Frank faced the door and took a deep breath before entering the chamber.

The judges sat at a long, wooden table, shrouded in darkness except for the flickering orange light of a fire behind them. They looked as frightening as they had the last time he’d seen them. Even seated, they were taller than Frank, looming shadows whose presence made the dark, cavernous room feel like there was no space for anyone or anything else. On the left sat Bill Hickok, his hat tilted to the left over the tangled brown ropes of his hair, his long moustache moving of its own accord, a living thing stuck under his hawkish nose. His eyes stared a cold blue. On the right, Morgan Earp’s moustache looked fairly normal, except for the fact that it ended in flames that flickered and jumped. A six shooter gleamed black on the table before him, and his glowing green eyes locked on Frank.

And in the middle, red eyes burning into Frank’s, sat Marshal John Webber, who Frank had shot and left for the wolves outside Fort Dodge. One of four unjust kills in Frank’s long career of killing. Webber hummed with rage, his oily goatee turned down around his perpetual snarl of a mouth. His hate for Frank oozed from every pore.

“Let it go,” Frank muttered, wishing he had his six-shooter on his hip. “If you’d been a better marshal, you’d have gone up instead of down.”

Pain erupted in Frank’s temples, driving him to his knees again. Even though his head felt like it might burst, he refused to let them hear him scream.

“Frank Butcher.” Their voices came as one, each layered atop the other, like some ghastly chorus of death. “You must learn respect. Now, rise.”

The pain winked out, leaving Frank to wobble to his feet.

“We require something of you, Frank Butcher.” Earp spoke alone this time, something Frank had never heard before. “We need someone with your skills. There’s been an escape.”

Frank paused. “An escape from where?”

The three conferred, a chorus of faint hisses, making Frank’s stomach do a flip. When they finished, Hickok spoke alone.

“An escape from Hell.” He brushed back a grungy lock of hair as if it were elegant, and fidgeted with his suit coat. “A soul has broken free and now roams the mortal world.”

“How’s that possible?”

More hissing, then Webber’s crimson glare turned Frank’s knees weak, his gut twisting at the sound of the marshal’s pinched voice.

“We sent this soul to do our bidding in the underworld. Instead, he took possession of a mortal body and now he wreaks havoc in the living realm.”

Frank scratched the stubble on his chin. “I thought Hell’s Boss-man enjoyed havoc.”

“He doesn’t know about this,” Hickok whispered. Frank wasn’t sure whispering hid anything from the guy who ran Hell. “We sent this soul abroad on our own. We must keep his escape a secret from The Prince.”

Frank detected the slightest tremble in Hickok’s voice and tucked it in the saddlebags of his mind for later use. While the judges ruled the underworld, they answered to higher powers.

“So, how does this involve me?”

“You will bring him back to Hell,” Earp said, like Frank didn’t have a choice. “Quietly.”

Frank crossed his arms over his chest. “And why would I do that?”

“Do not try our patience,” Webber said, his eyes flaring. He grinned, showing fangs where they hadn’t been before. “We can double or triple your suffering.”

Frank laughed in their faces. “You think increasing my punishment will make me do what you want? Gimme your worst, then, boys. Make me suffer like no one’s ever suffered before.”

This time, the judges’ hissing conversation carried a hesitant note of uncertainty. Doubt.

“Perhaps we misjudged you,” said Hickok, his voice more eloquent than the other two. “If you do this for us, we will grant you absolution. We will cleanse your soul of all its sin and send you somewhere you can forget the past. Your agony will end.”

“You don’t learn real fast, do you?” Frank snapped. “I want to suffer, I need to. I killed my father, and my own son! I deserve—”

“Silence!” the judges bellowed as one. “It is not your place to decide what you deserve. We passed judgment on you and found you forgiven, but you rejected our authority. You should not be here, Frank Butcher!”

Webber leaned forward, his red eyes burning. “Now, you’re going to do what we command you or we’ll reduce the time you spend in The Pit. We’ll be sure you sit in your cell for the rest of time.”

Frank started to object, but Webber raised a finger in front of his face. “And I will take away every sharp object you can use to hurt yourself, so all you can do is sit there and remember the people you killed. Especially your boy.”

He had Frank cornered like a wild colt in a stall, and Frank knew it.

“Who am I looking for, then?”

Webber leaned back and studied Frank from under the brim of his hat. His eyes lost some of their heat.

“We need you to bring back this particular soul,” he explained.

An image of a man’s face materialized in the air in front of Frank, making him jump back a step. He ignored the hissed snicker from Webber and studied the ethereal face before him. A square jaw tapered to a pointed chin, with thin lips that sneered with the arrogance of self-righteousness. Cruel, blue eyes stared out cold under slicked-back hair the color of sand. Frank recognized the killer in an instant.

“You let Jesse James escape from Hell? No wonder you don’t want The Boss-man to know. James was a cold-blooded killer.”

All three fixed him with withering glares.

“We know his sins.” Hickok said. “We condemned him to Hell for them. Can you bring him back?”

“That depends on what bringing a soul back to Hell entails, I reckon.”

The face of Jesse James faded from sight.

“First, you will need to find him,” Earp said. “We think he’s set on causing trouble in Clay County, Missouri, but we last detected him in Colorado.”

“Don’t recall him doing any heists in the Colorado territory,” Frank said. “You sure he’s there?”

“Positive.” Earp’s long moustache twitched, imp-like flames dancing as he spoke. “Near a place called Creede.”

“How do I find him?”

“He won’t look like himself,” Webber said. “He has taken possession of a body in the living world. Look for someone acting oddly. Speaking in tongues, hurting people. He could be anyone.”

“Sounds like a demon,” Frank said.

“He’s not a demon,” Hickok said, “but the signs are similar.”

“I see. So, what next?”

“The soul cannot pass from the living world straight to Hell,” Earp said. “It must pass through the underworld. His underworld, created from his nightmares. We’ll take it from there.”

Frank remembered his own underworld, where he had to face his own sins again, do battle with his own inner demons. It was that way for all who passed through—everyone faced a nightmare world built from the dark shadows of their hearts and minds, and if they managed to correct their errors, they were forgiven.

No one but Frank had ever chosen eternal damnation over absolution.

“And how do I send him there?”

“You must drive the spirit from its living host,” all three said at once. “You can do this through use of certain religious practices, but it is not easy and requires a holy man. Since you’re a denizen of Hell, no priest will help you.”

“All right, so exorcism is out. How else?”

“You must kill the body, then use talismans we give you to send the spirit to the underworld. If you fail to send it across, it will simply possess another body.”

Bill Hickok spoke alone. “He may use people from the world of the living to do his dirty work. They’ll be his puppets as long as he needs them. Harm as few as possible to keep things quiet.”

Frank stood, fists at his sides, taking slow, deep breaths. He hated being backed into a corner, but they’d done it nonetheless. He locked eyes with Webber.

“Why me? Out of all the souls you got down here, why pick me?”

Webber never looked away, the corners of his mouth turning up and his eyes smoldering.

“We have a history, you and me.”

So, it was personal. Frank could understand that, at least.

“One condition. If I do this, you increase my time in the pit so it’s what I deserve.”

The judges conferred, hissing.

“Agreed,” they said as one.

Frank nodded. “If I’m gonna be Hell’s Marshal, shouldn’t I get a badge?”

Webber grinned and a bolt of lightning shot down from the ceiling, crashing into Frank’s chest. His body went rigid, and a searing agony blazed on his chest. Fire arced through his body, making his muscles contract until he felt his bones straining not to snap. He tried to scream, but couldn’t open his mouth even an inch.

The acrid stink of burning flesh filled his nostrils as the skin on his chest sizzled and cooked like bacon over a fire.

An instant later, the lightning disappeared and Frank collapsed to the floor. When he finally mustered the strength to lift his head, a marshal’s badge had been burned in swollen, pink flesh where the lightning had touched him. In the center of the six-pointed star, a skull stared out, flames dancing in the hollows of its eyes. The words “Hell’s Marshal” circled it all. The judges faded from sight, snickering as they disappeared.

“Send Jesse James back to us, Marshal Butcher,” echoed their voices. “Dead or dead.”

CHAPTER THREE

Frank looked around the tiny chamber where Damon and Hul had left him. Nothing. Just four gray walls, a gray floor, and the swirling pinks, purples, and grays of the underworld sky, starless and bleak. He stretched out his arms and touched his fingertips to the walls on either side of him, both too tall and smooth to climb out. Not that he wanted to run around the desert of his personal underworld. He’d seen it once and didn’t want to ever again.

No, he’d be better off in the tiny room until someone came along.

As if reading his thoughts, the wall in front of him dissolved from sight and Frank stood in a long, narrow chamber with closed cabinets lining either wall. At the far end, a man in a white coat leaned over a tall table, his back to Frank and his head bowed so Frank could only see the halo of white hair around a shiny bald spot the size of an apple. The man waved Frank forward with an age-spotted hand, not even looking up from his work.

“Come here, Mr. Butcher.” His voice buzzed like lightning trapped in a bottle. “I need to issue your gear to you before you head on out. And give you your team, too.”

Frank walked forward, placing himself just off center from the old man, hoping to get a look at his face. But all he saw was a scruffy black stubble on his jawline.

“I work alone,” he told the man.

The old man chuckled but didn’t look up from his work.

Frank took one step closer and stood looking down at his own body, spread out in death’s repose. His eyes stared at the sky, cold and blue like ice, and the thin, pink line of a scar ran down his cheek. A forest of stubble stood on the harsh angle of his jaw, while blood and grime caked his straw-colored hair.

A circle of blood stained the white cotton shirt in which they’d buried him.

“What are you doing to my body?” Frank asked.

“This isn’t your body,” the old man said. “Your real body’s been rotting in the ground in Tombstone for two years now. Extensive damage. This is an underworld representation of how it used to look.”

“For what?” Frank narrowed his eyes at the old man’s hunched back.

“I’m making a pattern, so it’ll know how to rebuild itself when you possess it again.”

As he turned around, Frank reached for the six-gun he didn’t have.

The old man had the face of a fly, with giant, shimmering eyes of blue, green, and silver. The stubble on his jawline covered much of his face, consisting of thick, black hairs. And his mouth was made up of long, rigid mandibles, suitable for shoveling slop or rotten things inside.

He offered a hand—a normal, human hand. “Name’s Thaddeus Slater. But most folks call me Buzzy.”

Frank shook his hand, unable to take his eyes off the hideous face before him.

“It isn’t polite to stare,” Buzzy said, not turning away.

“Sorry,” Frank said. “Just…”

“Yeah, I’m ugly as Hell. Literally.”

Uncomfortable, Frank changed the subject. “So, I’m using my old body in the living world?”

Buzzy nodded. “Your…prey used a living body, but you can’t do that. Judges’ orders. So you’ll be placed back in your old, rotting corpse. Your body won’t really be alive, at least not as you know the word. We call it ‘reanimated’ instead. It’ll rebuild itself in a few days, faster with rest, but you’ll have to keep covered up or out of sight until it does. You think I’m ugly, try looking at someone who’s been dead two years.”

Frank shrugged. “I ain’t goin’ there to dance with the ladies.”

“You don’t want to stand out. People see a corpse walking the streets, word’s likely to get around. Giving Mr. James advance notice won’t help your odds.”