Of Grave Concern (8 page)

14

The district judge was a man who looked as if he had been turned out by the same machines that made barbed wire. He was a hard man with a hard name, silver hair as coarse as a scrub brush, and his features looked sharp enough to draw blood.

Judge Grout cleared his throat, balanced his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, and looked over the papers spread before him on the bench. After some long minutes, he glanced up, first to Michael Sutton, who was sitting at a desk on the right side of the courtroom, and then to Bartholomew Potete, whose bearlike form was jammed into a chair at the table on the right side of the room, where I sat. Potete smelled like he had spent the night in a barrel of whiskey.

“Mister Sutton,” Judge Grout said. He removed the glasses and tapped the paper in front of him. “According to this, you believe this woman before me is the infamous Kate Bender.”

Sutton came to his feet, buttoning his jacket over his vest.

“That's correct, Your Honor.”

“And you have detained her since yesterday morning?”

“That's when I took her into custody, yes.”

“She spent the night in the county jail?”

“If it please, Your Honor,” Potete said. He grasped the edge of the table and hauled himself up. “My colleague Michael Sutton delivered my client to the city jail, and to keep her from having to spend the night in proximity to a rangy bunch of Texas cowboys sleeping off a night of fun, Police Judge Frost released her on my promise that she would appear before district court. She passed the night safely at the Dodge House.”

“You are drunk, Mister Potete.”

“No, Your Honor. I have an ear complaint that has impaired my balance, I'm afraid. I apologize for, ah, any inconvenience my slight list to starboard may cause the court. In front of you also is my writ of habeas corpus.”

“You claim the charges are without foundation?”

“They are as lacking in foundation as the privy that was tipped Election Day behind the Long Branch Saloon, and they smell about as bad.”

“That will be enough humor, Mister Potete.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.”

“Who is this woman, then?” the judge asked, reclining back in his leather chair. “And why is she dressed so strangely? Is that the custom now, in the East, for women to dress as men? And is she in mourning?”

“While my client's manner of dress is not in question here, we will be happy to respond to all of the court's questions, provided that County Attorney Sutton provides sufficient evidence for detaining my client.”

“Very well,” Grout said. “Mister Sutton?”

“Your Honor has a copy of the warrant for the arrest of one Kate Bender, as issued by Governor Thomas Osborn on May 17, 1873,” Sutton said. “If you read the description, you will find that it fits this woman like a glove. Also, I heard a familiar address her at the depot as ‘Katie'—a name she denied when questioned. In all, she acted in a very suspicious manner, and used all of her cunning in an attempt to get back on the train. Her behavior was so suspicious, in fact, that her detention would have been warranted even without the force of the document. It was obvious that this woman was up to no good.”

“So you're saying that we can detain citizens attempting to board public transportation solely on the basis of odd or eccentric behavior?”

“Of course, Your Honor. It is a matter of public safety.”

“She
is
strangely dressed,” the judge seconded.

“If I may,” Potete said. “My client was in a hurry to get back on board the train to resume her trip to Colorado, where she has pressing business.”

“Exactly what is your client's business?”

Grout placed his forearms on the bench and leaned forward.

“Religion, Your Honor.”

“Go on.”

“I fail to see how this is relevant to—” Sutton objected.

“I will determine the relevance,” Grout interrupted. “Explain.”

Potete closed his eyes and swayed a bit; then his eyes snapped back open.

“Her name is The Reverend Professor Ophelia Wylde and she is a noted Spiritualist and trance medium,” Potete said. “In fact, she is making the most of her unexpected stay in Dodge City by performing at the opera house tonight.”

“Just what will she perform?”

“An educational program that incorporates a literary survey of spiritual themes, to be followed by modern feats of clairvoyance, magnetic healing, and perhaps communication with the dead.”

“But only if the spirits are willing,” I said.

“Please,” Potete said, placing his sweaty paw on my shoulder, “you are to speak only when addressed.”

“No, I'd like to hear what The Reverend Professor Wylde has to say,” Grout said. “I recall reading in the papers at the time of the ghastly murders that the monster Kate Bender claimed similar powers.”

Potete pulled me to my feet.

“Well?” Grout asked. “Speak up!”

“I do not know what this Bender woman claimed,” I said. “All I know is what I myself am able to prove through demonstration—that communication with the spirit world is possible.”

“So you are a necromancer?”

“No, Your Honor,” I said. “Necromancers talk to the dead for only one purpose, and that is to divine the future for personal gain. I talk to the dead to comfort those who grieve.”

Judge Grout ran a hand over his forehead. He had lost someone close to him, and not all that long ago, because I could see the sparkle of tears in the corners of his eyes. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow—and eyes.

“This is all very irregular,” he declared.

“I have to agree, Your Honor. My gift is an unusual one.”

“But why is it necessary for you to dress like a man to employ these other powers?”

“It is not at all necessary,” I said. “My powers have nothing to do with the way I dress. The reason I dress like a man is to protest the way women are treated in this country. We cannot vote, serve on a jury, or if we're married, we are required to surrender all of our property to our husbands—”

Grout held up his hand.

“If you'd like to vote, you can move to Wyoming Territory,” he said. “For the last eight years up there, they've allowed women to vote, God help them. Here in Kansas, we denied suffrage for both blacks and women once and for all in 1867, and I do not intend to reopen dead arguments.”

“I apologize, Your Honor. I am a woman of strong conviction.”

“Your sex usually are,” Grout said, frowning. “Tell me, why do you look so haggard if you spent the night at the Dodge House?”

“I got little sleep for worry about the hearing this morning.”

“There's some wisdom, at last,” Grout said.

He took a pocket watch from his vest, popped open the lid, and thoughtfully studied it.

“Time,” he said, finally. “Time is the one thing that we cannot navigate or recover. We can restore money to an individual, or even help him regain health through proper treatment. But once spent, time is gone. And if only we could travel back in time, just four years, then it would be an easy matter to settle this question that Mister Sutton, perhaps foolishly, has raised. But what a grave mistake it would be, Miss Wylde, if I let you go and you are indeed a murderess.”

“I am not,” I said.

“Where are you from, young lady?”

“Chicago.”

“Were you traveling with anyone who knows you?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Do you have a relative or friend you could telegraph for some proof . . . a photograph accompanied by an affidavit from a friend or relative, perhaps, or a marriage license?”

“My husband is dead,” I said. “The war.”

The judge nodded sympathetically.

“I grew up in Memphis, but my family has all passed over now,” I said. “That is why I am traveling alone. There's no one left, really. The only one I can think of is a business associate of my family, a Mister Sylvestre in Chicago. But I don't know how to reach him.”

“Could you try?”

“I will attempt a telegraph, but I cannot guarantee it will be answered.”

The judge turned to the county attorney.

“Mister Sutton, what would you have me do?”

“Order her return to Labette County to stand trial.”

“This arrest warrant offers a rather sizeable reward for the capture of Kate Bender,” the judge said. “Five hundred dollars. That wouldn't be influencing your request, would it?”

“Your Honor,” Sutton said, feigning indignation. “I serve justice.”

“I'm sure,” Grout said dismissively. “How about you, Mister Potete?”

“This innocent widow has been all but kidnapped,” Potete said. “She must be released immediately and allowed to continue on her journey west. If she were Kate Bender—or any criminal, for that matter—she had ample opportunity to escape since her release from the city jail yesterday.”

The judge snapped shut the pocket watch.

“Here is my ruling,” he said. “Mister Sutton, you have four days from today to produce a witness from Labette County who knew Kate Bender personally and can testify as to whether this is or is not the wanted woman. Mister Potete, your client may remain free on her own recognizance during that period, as long as she agrees not to leave town.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Potete said.

“Would that be four business days, Your Honor?” Sutton asked.

“Four days is four days,” Grout said. “That means Monday! Nine o'clock!”

Fils de salope,
I said to myself.
Sonuvabitch, a weekend in prairie purgatory.

“Ophelia Wylde,” the judge said. “I don't think this will create too great a hardship on you, seeing as how you have already arranged to conduct some business at the opera house tonight. Do behave yourself. I don't want to see you in my court before the weekend is up.”

“Understood, Your Honor,” I said.

“And Miss Wylde,” he added, “out of respect for the court—find a dress.”

15

The opera house was so packed when I walked onto the stage that night, they were standing in the aisles. If the piece in the
Times
didn't arouse their curiosity enough to part with eight bits to see me, then the rumor that I might really
be
Kate Bender closed the deal.

Even though I had done the routine many times before, from Baton Rouge to St. Louis to Louisville to Chicago, my stomach still turned to ice water just before I was to go onstage. I paced in the wings, thinking about all the things that could go wrong and what I would do if they did.

“It's time,” Potete said.

“Let them wait a few minutes longer,” I said.

The hall sounded like feeding time at the Lincoln Park Zoo. Literally. One of the cowboys was screeching like an ape and another was crowing like a rooster, and there was an entire chorus of bird-calls.

“If we make them wait much longer, they'll start tearing the place apart,” Potete said. He pulled a pint bottle of amber hooch from his jacket pocket and pulled the cork. He started to take a drink. Then he decided he'd better offer it to me first.

“I don't imbibe before shows,” I said.

Potete shrugged.

“Oh, what the hell,” I said, and grabbed the bottle. I took three good swallows. My throat didn't start to burn until after the third one. When it did, however, it was like I had swallowed lit kerosene—and I could feel it trickle all the way down to my stomach and start thawing that ice water.

“Good Lord,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand while passing the bottle back. “What is that?”

“Mezcal,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “I'm ready.”

With the curtain still down, I walked out behind it, onto the center of the stage, clasped my hands in front of me, and nodded. The curtain rose slowly, and as it did, the crowd grew quiet, all except for the rooster. Mostly, the audience was made of cowhands, mixed with a handful of soldiers and townsfolk. The only things they saw on the stage, besides myself, were a small desk, upon which a taper in a brass holder and a silver bell had been placed. The footlights were blazing, and I stood there for a full minute, staring out calmly above the heads of the crowd, not focusing on anybody in particular. But I could see Jack Calder leaning against the doorway of the opera house, arms folded, watching.

“Our session,” I said, walking over to the table, “will last only as long as this candle burns. To continue the magnetic demonstration beyond that time might fatally tax the health of the medium.”

I took a match from my pocket, lit the candle, and rang the bell three times. This was nonsense, but meant to establish a churchlike atmosphere. Then I turned back to the crowd.

“Brothers and sisters,” I began.

“Is you a brother or is you a sister?” somebody shouted.

“I am your sister in love,” I said.

“The two-dollar kind of love or the ten bucks for all night?” This from somebody else.

“Do you have a sister?” I shot back.

“Well . . . yeah.”

“And do you cherish her?”

The cowboy cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said weakly.

“I'm sorry. I didn't hear you.”

The rooster calls ceased.

“Yes.”

“Of course, you do,” I said. “Stand up, cowboy. What is your name?”

“Oh, no—”

The man behind him kicked his chair violently.

“The lady asked you to stand up, Red.”

“All right,” Red hissed, rising.

“Take off your hat,” another man said.

Red removed his hat and held it with both hands meekly over his belt buckle.

“What's your name?” I asked pleasantly.

“My friends call me ‘Red.'”

“What does your sister call you?”

Even though I could not see the color in his face in the darkened theater, I could feel him blush.

“It's all right, Red. You're among friends. What does your sister call you?”

“My given name is Clarence,” he said, amid scattered laughter. “Clarence Hilburn. But when Suzie was learning to talk, she had a hard time saying ‘Clarence.' All she could say was ‘Arence,' and that stuck.”

“Where is she?”

“Back in Illinois,” he said.

“And you think fondly of her?”

“Why, I think Suzie is the light of the world,” he said. “I haven't seen her in three years, though. I would give just about anything to spend an afternoon with her, she is so fine and good.”

“But you feel her love even at this great distance?”

“Yes,” he said.

“This is the kind of love that I speak of,” I said. “Thank you, Clarence, you may take your seat.”

I walked down, center stage, paused, and made a tent of my fingers and pressed them to my chin in thought.

“It is in the spirit of love—this mystical and holy bond that binds brother and sister, parent and child, husband and wife—that we have gathered together here tonight to explore. I cannot guarantee that we will be successful, but I promise to give it my all. Our success depends upon our combined mental and spiritual energies. Keep an open mind. Even a single negative thought could have disastrous consequences. But I have a good feeling about tonight and am optimistic about our chances.”

Merde!
What a hypocrite I had become.

“Let us continue, then,” I said. “And remember—should strange visions appear before you on this stage, do not be afraid. And please refrain from pulling your pistols. Bullets have no effect on ghosts, and I am not yet ready to pass myself into spirit.”

“She's talking about you, Bertrum!”

Laughter.

I put a finger to my lips.

“We need silence, please. Thank you.”

I took a moment, then cocked my head, as if listening to unseen counsel.

“The envelopes, then,” I said. “Slips of paper and pencils were passed amongst you earlier, and you were asked to write a question that you longed for the spirits to answer. Please seal the billets in the envelopes provided, and pass them forward.”

A few dozen envelopes were passed forward.

“Could someone collect them?”

An old man in front motioned for the others to pass the envelopes to him. He was about to hand the stack up to me on the stage when Timothy, my polite tramp, appeared a few yards away, waving an envelope. His clothes, including his red scarf, were now clean, but his face was still badly bruised. The old man waited until Timothy handed him his envelope, put it on top of the others, and then handed them all up to me.

I placed the envelopes on the desk.

When I reached over to take an envelope, it seemed to the crowd that I was taking the top one. Actually, I took the one from the bottom—a move similar to that used in cards.

I was about to open the envelope, when there were two sharp raps from the table.

“No?” I asked.

Another rap.

“All right,” I said. “The spirits say they can receive the question without opening the envelopes. This is unusual, but we will try it.”

I held the envelope high over my head.

“What is . . . No,
when
will . . .”

I dropped the envelope.

“This is just too hard,” I said, raising my face toward the rafters. “Please. No, I understand. All right, I'll try just once.”

I clutched the envelope to my breast, closed my eyes, and swallowed hard. Then, in a clear voice, I said, “‘Where has my dear mother gone?'”

I opened the envelope and nodded in confirmation.

“Who wrote that? Raise your hand, please.”

Timothy timidly placed his hand in the air.

“Sir,” I said. “The spirits have a message for you.”

He worked his way forward through the crowd, nearly to the edge of the stage. I approached the footlights and knelt, so that I would be at his eye level. I gave him my most beatific smile.

“Brother,” I said. “Your dearest mother, Mary Margaret, has been in Summerland these past three years since passing over. She wants you to know that she is safe, that pain is only a memory, and that she attends unseen to your welfare.”

Timothy's face positively radiated joy.

“She urges you to live,” I said. “Live!”

He nodded, his eyes brimming with tears.

I gave him a wink. He had played his part well.

Then I stood, smoothed my vest, walked back to the table, and took the next envelope. I held it over my heart for a moment, while gazing out at the crowd. I spotted Judge Grout, hunched in a seat toward the back. His chin was cupped in his hand and he was listening as intently as if he were trying a case.

“‘When will Martha come back to me?'” I announced.

I opened the envelope and gave a knowing nod.

“Who asks the spirits this?”

No hands went up.

“Come now, someone asked this question.”

A man in a shopkeeper's apron far in the back raised a pale hand. I pointed, and all heads swiveled to look at him.

“This is your question, sir?”

He nodded.

“Sir, I hesitate to give you the answer the spirits have imparted. Are you prepared to learn the truth?”

“Yes,” he said, almost a whisper.

“Your beloved Martha will return to you only when you quit your drinking,” I said. “The choice is yours. That is all the spirits have to say.”

The shopkeeper's chin dropped to his chest.

“Oh, this is a fraud!” a cowboy, with a carefully tended chinstrap beard and auburn curls down to his shoulders, declared. He was sitting in the front row, slouched in the chair. His arms were crossed defiantly. “These two must be in on it.”

“How could they?” the old man who had collected the envelopes asked. “They were sealed and passed directly from our hands to hers. There was never the possibility of fraud.”

“It's a trick,” the cowboy said.

“How?” the old man asked.

“I don't know. . . .”

I smiled at the doubting cowboy.

“Believe, brother,” I said. “Just believe.”

I took the next envelope, and then I frowned.

“Who wants to know if he will regain the use of his right arm?”

A left hand went up in the balcony.

“I'm sorry, the spirits are silent. I advise you to find a doctor you trust, study the Good Book, and put your faith in Jesus Christ.”

I took up the next envelope, clasped it to my heart, and stared at Judge Grout. The table rapped sharply, three times. Pause. Then three more urgent raps.

“The spirits are signaling a particularly important question,” I said. “They tell me the individual who submits this question wishes to remain anonymous, so I will not ask him to hold up his hand or otherwise identify himself after the spirits have answered the question.”

“Then how will we know it's a real question?” It was the doubting cowboy again.

“I guess you won't,” I said. “Now, please, I need silence—and faith—in order to commune with the spirits.”

I swallowed hard.

“The question . . . ,” I said. “Oh, my. The question is from a father who wants to know if he is to blame for the death of his little boy.”

I opened the envelope.

“That's all,” I said. “There are no names or other information on the slip of paper. But the spirits know.”

I stared at Judge Grout.

“The spirits say that this poor man has tortured himself for too long for the death of his son. Too long has this man, a respected and learned man, believed that he failed his precious eight-year-old son, Thomas, who contracted scarlet fever and passed over three winters ago.”

“She's talking about Judge Grout,” someone whispered.

I shook my head and put a finger to my lips.

“This loving child was buried elsewhere, the spirits tell me. Ohio? Perhaps. Or Illinois? No matter. What is important, the spirits say, is that this loving father should know he was not to blame. It was all part of Providence's plan that this angel of a boy would leave this earth so soon, and that Tommy sends happy greetings from the other side.”

I paused.

Judge Grout was slumped in his chair. A cowboy reached out and put a hand beneath his arm to keep him from going all the way to the floor.

“There is one other thing,” I said. “Tommy wants his father to know that there is no death—that father and mother and son will all be reunited one joyous day in Summerland.”

Tears rolled down the judge's face.

Three cowboys offered bandanas.

Cheers and applause rocked the hall.

Jack Calder walked out.

I went on telepathically reading questions and giving miraculous answers from the other side. The doubting cowboy was right, of course; it was all a trick, an old con known as “the One Ahead.” There was no tampering of the questions. Only, Timothy had been my confederate, and the envelope he gave to the old man to pass up contained a slip of paper that said nothing.

With a practiced hand, I had drawn my first envelope from the bottom of the stack, which turned out to be from the shopkeeper about his errant wife. From then on, I was always one question ahead, but appeared to have known the contents of each before they were opened. I had made up the story (and the question) about the dead mother and Potete had instructed Timothy to respond enthusiastically to whatever I had to say. Then, when I opened the envelope to confirm the message, I was really reading the next question, the one about the bad right arm. And so forth, down through the stack of envelopes.