Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (42 page)

Joseph caught his wife’s arm before she could step away.

“Mr. Labeau, correct me if I’m wrong, but the Hanged Man and this weapon are connected, yes? That’s how he found us. He can sense when it’s nearby?”

Andre nodded. “It speaks to him. Or, more accurately, the curse placed on it does, and he must heed its call.”

“Then it could be used against him.”

Kate stared at her husband. He’d been waiting for this moment, waiting for her to accept Andre’s words so he could offer his own. If it came down to it, he would chase after the man. He’d done it before.

“You’re going to keep it?”

“Just until we’re sure he’s dead.”

Kate shook her head. “He’s gone, Joseph.”

“If he is, then I’ll take the hammer to it myself … I promise.”

Kate looked from her husband to the faces of her children, rapt and eager. Memories that had danced around in the back of her mind all day slipped forward to remind her of what happened to men who challenged the Hanged Man—to men and their families.

“It can’t stay here, Joseph.”

Joseph reached out to his wife and was glad when her hand closed around his.

“It’ll be gone by morning.”

The marshal grunted. “You gonna bury it in the yard?”

“No,” Joseph said. “I have another place in mind.”

*   *   *

The front door was boarded, but the key was for an entrance on the side of the three-story building, which opened without protest. Joseph entered first, followed closely by Andre and Naira. Kate came last, pulling the door closed behind her.

“Make sure your feet are dry,” Joseph said, wiping his boots with one of several rags strewn on the floor. “We need to keep as much of the water outside as possible.”

The air inside was warm and uncomfortably dry compared to the humidity of the flooded streets. It felt as though something had sucked the moisture from the room, which Joseph suspected was not far from the truth.

“Interesting,” Naira said, running her hand along the spines of several books hanging from a clothesline. A dozen more lines crisscrossed the room, holding hundreds of books. “I’ve never seen books displayed in such a fashion.”

“We had some water damage in our storeroom.”

Kate laughed sharply. “Some?”

“A lot,” Joseph added. “The mayor was generous enough to donate this space so we could salvage our overstock.”

“They do seem dry,” Naira said, flipping through one of the tomes. “Mostly.”

Joseph ducked under a line and through a doorway into a much larger space. A row of tall, covered windows along the front wall let in just enough light to reveal the room and its contents. Elaborate, ceiling-high pillars stood half constructed along each of the main walls, a long, unfinished countertop shoved against one of them. The floor, cut stone rather than wood, echoed underfoot despite a layer of dust and debris. Numerous oversize crates sat stacked in the back corner, well away from a long, canvas-wrapped pillar laid lengthwise in the center of the room. An arrangement of lumber remnants kept the storm totem three feet above ground level at all times.

Andre was drawn to the mystery, finding it too curious to ignore.

“The totem you spoke of,” he said, placing a hand on the canvas. “Still warm to the touch.”

“Yes,” Joseph said, loosening the restraining boards on one side of a crate nearly as tall as himself. “It has some very curious properties. I would be interested in your assessment when you have the time.”

“Certainly.”

“Just don’t get it wet,” Kate added. “Please.”

Joseph slid the crate face away to reveal a large bank safe stored within. He studied the steel box only briefly before placing one hand on the dial at its center, the other, fingertips only, on the door. Slowly, he twisted the dial to the left, stopping after a three-quarters turn.

“This building was going to be a bank,” he said, turned the dial back to the right. “But the financiers backed out before it was finished. They did, however, leave behind this very nice safe, which according to the manufacturer is nigh impregnable.” Joseph slowed to a stop and then rotated the dial to the left once more, freezing after only a few clicks. He turned the handle and the enormous door swung open easily.

Andre raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have the combination.”

“Right,” Joseph said, then held out his hand. “If you please.”

Andre opened the pouch at his side, drawing forth the Hanged Man’s pistol wrapped in cloth, which he passed forward. Joseph set the gun on the center shelf of the otherwise empty safe and shut the door, spinning the dial around twice. He pulled on the handle, but the door didn’t budge. Satisfied, he took a step back and let his focus settle. Six inches of steel now surrounded the dead man’s weapon on all sides, but Joseph could still see the revolver clearly through the door.

“Do you think me a fool, Mr. Labeau?”

“I do not.”

“You see, Kate? Not a fool.”

Kate shook her head. “I never said you were a fool, Joseph, merely foolish.”

“Is there a difference?”

Kate glanced at both Joseph and Andre before giving her answer.

“We’ll see.”

Both men were silent for a time. Joseph felt Andre’s heart thumping beside him and took comfort in the slow, steady rhythm. He could not discern the man’s partner until the sneaky young woman revealed herself at his side.

“You now believe the Hanged Man lives.”

“I do.”

Naira looked to Andre, who was slower with his response.

“Henry Macke is still in possession of the book. With it he can keep the dead man in this world.”

“Does he have a choice?” Kate asked.

Andre looked up, ready with his answer, but instead found another he hoped would prove true.

“Every man, even a cursed one, has a choice.”

EPILOGUE

Four miles south of the Morrison Street Bridge, a stand of birch trees rose from the Willamette, splitting the river in two. Surging floodwaters had swallowed much of the island, leaving behind a mass of floating wreckage to strangle the trees. In the shallows of the eastern fork, the river slowed to a crawl as more debris found its way to shore. It was here that a young man came to wait at the water’s edge.

Henry wasn’t familiar with local currents or flood plains, but he knew exactly where the body would wash up, battered and unconscious—a dead man to all but Henry’s eyes. He still couldn’t bring himself to think of the Hanged Man as alive, but the true death would not come so easily—not while his corporeal presence haunted this world.

Henry grabbed the Hanged Man’s collar and dragged him as far as he could up the sand-and-gravel embankment before rolling him onto his back. His skin was pale and shriveled. The frame that had once been menacing was now crooked, the shoulders uneven, legs bent backward and likely broken. He wouldn’t walk without help.

(
help him
)

Henry frowned.

“Did you get it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

The Hanged Man stared into the sky, not saying a word.

Henry checked the holster on the dead man’s hip. Empty.

“No, I thought not.”

Henry twisted the left leg forward sharply, tilting the foot upright as he reset the ankle. The sound of bone scraping against bone brought the taste of bile to his tongue.

“Going to have to fix you up myself,” Henry said, drawing the belt from the Hanged Man’s waist. Carefully, he looped it under the left arm and over the chest, pulling the leather strap taunt behind the dead man’s neck.

“I have words that will mend broken bones, possibly dead ones.”

Henry yanked the belt, jerking the shoulder back into place with a sickening crunch. He then tested the arm, pulling it forward and twisting it until satisfied. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.
For how long?

Henry dropped the arm and stared at the broken body, clearly seeing the trials that lay ahead.

“Damn fool, they beat you!”

The words were so bold—so true—that it took Henry a moment to realize he’d spoken them aloud. But he had. And there were more. He would have to listen.

“Ain’t the man you used to be, are you? The Scourge of the West? Not you, not anymore. The sooner you figure that out, the better off we’ll be.”

That was a lie. The body was more vulnerable, but the man was every bit as dangerous as he had been in life, perhaps more so. Henry knew this. Perhaps the Hanged Man did not.

“You’re no good to me all busted up. Keep fighting and you’ll break something that can’t be healed, not with words or a strap of leather.” Henry hesitated, considering his words carefully despite the lack of an audience to hear them. “Still, there might be ways to make you strong again, more resilient.”

(
alive
)

Henry shuddered. “Possibly. It’s complicated.”

(
you can’t read them
)

Henry shook his head. “No, I can read the words, I just don’t understand all of ’em.” Henry dug the book from his pocket and began flipping through the pages. “Everything else makes sense, but this passage … it’s only a few pages, but I can’t unwind it. I know the answer must be here, it has to be, but—”

“She doesn’t want you to understand.”

Henry looked up from the book. The Hanged Man remained on his back, neither alive nor dead but definitely unconscious. He had not spoken the words, though Henry was sure he’d heard them aloud—a voice so close, it could have been his own.

Henry turned his gaze to the sky. The air was cool, but the clouds had departed, allowing the sun to shine unmolested. A crow circled overhead, content to observe from afar. It let loose a single
caw,
then turned southeast and disappeared beyond the trees.

This was the direction they would travel. Henry was sure of it, although he couldn’t say why.

(
home
)

“Time to get on your feet again,” he said, flipping pages until he came to a passage he knew quite well. “Got a long ride ahead of us. I’ll be damned if I’m going to drag you around by the collar.”

Henry ran his hand across the pages, feeling the ink beneath his fingertips. Warmth coursed through his body, igniting a cold fire in his heart that reminded Henry of who he now was.

“Listen up, partner,” he said and started to read.

Also by Rob DeBorde

Fish on a First-Name Basis

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rob DeBorde’s first book,
Fish on a First-Name Basis
(St. Martin’s Press), reads suspiciously like an indispensible seafood guide with nary a zombie in sight. Fortunately, his forays into film, television, animation, and video games have been chock-full of supernatural beasties (particularly
Deep Fried, Live!
). DeBorde lives downriver form Portland, Oregon.
Portlandtown
is his first novel. Visit his Web site at
www.reobdeborde.com
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

PORTLANDTOWN
. Copyright © 2012 by Rob DeBorde. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover design by Ervin Serrano

Cover illustration by Torstein Nordstrand

ISBN 978-1-250-00664-6 (paperback)

ISBN 9781250018601 (e-book)

First Edition: October 2012