The Bone Orchard (14 page)

Ambrose nodded. “How?”

“We herd them.”

Ambrose scowled. “Heard them say what?”

“No, not heard them.
Herd
them. We wrangle them to a place we know we can protect them. Somewhere nice and open.”

“Somewhere they can’t get squished by a piano.”

“Or electrocuted by a faulty cable.”

“Or strangled when their ties get stuck in a fan.”

They both sighed heavily. “Where is that, though? And how do we get them there?”

“The journal. It’s the only thing they have.”

Ambrose nodded even as he turned away from Ezra and headed for the window. He peered out, barely moving the curtain. “Sun’s setting. We’re out of time.”

“You want me to
what
?” Digger asked.

“Come on, man,” Owen needled, “I’ve seen you get past tighter security than this.”

Ezra and Ambrose stood back, both of them crossing their arms and scowling in disapproval.

“
This
is their plan?” Ambrose asked. “Break into a museum about jails? Why don’t we just float on over to Alcatraz, see what can try to kill ’em over there?”

“Just be alert. We tried to give them direction, they didn’t take it. This is what we’re left with.”

“Bunch a dumbasses.”

“That colloquialism is truly fitting from you. I’m glad you picked it up.”

“Yeah, well, it seemed appropriate.”

After a few more words, Owen managed to convince Digger to pick the lock on the museum’s employee entrance and then bypass the security box inside. When Ezra had been alive, breaking in somewhere had required a swift kick to the door in the dark of night. Now it was far more complicated to be where you weren’t supposed to be.

He and Ambrose reluctantly followed the boys inside. The building was located just a block from where the gallows had once stood, on the remnants of the old jail. The curators had collected bits and pieces of history to display, telling the tales of lawmen and outlaws of old. There was even a small section on Ambrose and his epic chase of Boone Jennings, plus a little sidenote on Ezra’s strange murder after the trial.

That was where the men headed.

“Why didn’t we do this shit during the day, man?” Digger asked. His flashlight played over the various instruments displayed behind glass cases.

“I figured the quiet, at night, would be better,” Owen answered.

“It’s creepy up in here, dog.”

Doc stopped in front of a case displaying an array of weapons, mostly shivs, that had been confiscated from prisoners at Alcatraz over the years. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Some of these are clever.”

Ambrose snorted. “Not going to think so when one’s sticking out of your eye.”

Ezra jabbed him in the ribs.

From somewhere in the maze of displays came a bang, like something had been knocked over. Ambrose went for his gun, an instinct he would never be able to break even though the only thing that gun could probably shoot now was him.

Owen and the others went into defensive stances of their own, with Owen and Nick crouching out ahead, and Digger and Doc both turning to cover their rear. The sound echoed through the museum, then all fell silent once more.

“Here we go,” Ambrose whispered.

“I’ll stick with the boys,” Ezra said. “You go get your nightly revenge.”

Ambrose gave him a crooked grin and a brief kiss, and then sprinted off down the hall.

“Stop touching me, dude,” Owen hissed as he took to his feet again.

“I didn’t touch you,” Nick grunted.

“Well, someone’s touching me.”

Doc turned his flashlight on Owen, shining it at his chest. “Maybe it’s your ghost.”

“Hey, if you think a ghost killed your uncle, do you really think we should be here?” Digger asked. “I mean, I know I’m a badass motherfucker, but I can’t blow up a ghost.”

“I never said I thought a ghost killed Ezra.”

“Yeah,” Doc said. “You did.”

“We all die someday,” Nick muttered as he moved off into the darkness.

“Yeah, but I’d rather my obituary didn’t lead with ‘He broke into a jail museum and then died,’” Digger grumbled as he trailed after.

“At least it would read ‘with his friends,’” Doc added.

“If I wanted to die with you jokers, I would have done it in Afghanistan!”

Nick and Owen both stopped and wheeled on Doc and Digger. “Will you at least pretend that you care we’re doing something illegal here?” Nick hissed.

Doc and Digger muttered apologies, and they carried on.

Ezra was growing more and more tense as he trailed behind them. He’d expected to hear the sounds of battle by now. Ambrose rarely let Jennings slip away from him without so much as a peep.

When they stepped into the main display hall of the museum and the boys’ flashlights played around the walls, Ezra’s breath left him in a rush. It had been turned into a replica of a street from the 1870s, complete with hitching posts, wax horses, and dirt road. Ezra hesitated briefly, then walked toward the rope strung along the wooden sidewalk to keep people from stepping in the dirt. His stomach tumbled. It still felt so familiar to him, even though he’d spent far more years dead than alive.

“Ezra!”

Ezra flinched and stumbled away from the rope, looking around wildly. It wasn’t Ambrose calling him, though. Owen had ducked under the rope and was standing in the middle of the dirt road, his hands cupped around his mouth. Ezra gaped at him.

“Dude, they might have actual security guards in this place,” Nick hissed from where he and the others remained on the sidewalk.

Doc laughed. “Yeah, and if Nick gets arrested one more time, I mean . . .”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up!”

Ezra tore his attention away from the bickering and looked back at Owen, frowning hard. He was still standing in the middle of the road, straining his eyes in the darkness. Ezra swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat and ducked under the rope. His boots hit the dirt and a puff of dust rose around them.

Owen’s eyes were drawn to the movement.

“What was that?” Nick asked, voice hushed.

Ezra remained still, eyes on the road under his feet. When he glanced up, Owen was staring at him. Or sort of at him. Ezra took another step, moving toward the center of the street. Owen’s sharp eyes followed the footprints he was leaving behind in the dust.

“Are you guys seeing this?” Owen asked, his voice faltering.

“Uh . . . hey Johns, can you get . . . can you come here please?” Doc called. “Closer to . . . Away from the . . . I want to go now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nick whispered, and they all stood rooted to the spot, watching the foot trail Ezra left behind.

When Ezra stopped moving, he was just yards away, facing his nephew. Owen hadn’t moved. Ezra pointed the toe of his boot and scratched out a word in the dirt: “Leave.”

Owen read it, then glanced up, his eyes seeking a man they couldn’t see. “Ezra Johns?” he whispered.

Ezra considered lying, cutting off his hope so he’d retreat. But he got the feeling this wasn’t a man who retreated easily, and he didn’t want to lie. This was his kin, here a century later to find him. He fought back tears as he scratched out his answer above the first word: “Yes.”

“I have your journal,” Owen murmured. He spoke as if he didn’t want his friends to overhear him. “I think I know what happened here. Am I right?”

Ezra underlined the word “yes” in the dust. He looked into Owen’s eyes, seeing his father there, and his brother. Even a little of himself. He cleared his throat, then violently underlined the other word.

“Are we in danger here?” Owen asked.

Ezra drew an arrow to “yes,” and then another to “leave.”

“Please leave,” he said under his breath.

“Johns, what the fuck are you doing?” Digger called. “You don’t chat with ghosts, you fucking run like Scooby-Doo, man!”

“It’s okay,” Owen told them.

“Scooby-Doo!”

“Not okay,” Nick cried.

“Okay, okay,” Owen said. He gave the dirt one last look, then glanced around as if desperately trying to see Ezra. “Okay, I’m ready to go.”

He took one step backward, and that’s when they all seemed to notice the noise: a rattling high in the rafters of the museum’s ceiling. Ezra squinted into the darkness, and saw a shadow slinking through the metal beams.

“Oh God, no,” Ezra gasped.

“Ezra!” Ambrose cried from the doorway on the other side of the great hall. He had his gun out, and he fired several shots at the inhuman shadow in the rafters. “Get your spurs on!”

Ezra mustered all the emotion he could, terror and love and sadness and mourning, and then ran hard at Owen, ramming him from the side and knocking the man off his feet. They rolled in the dust, stopping just as a large light and speaker box plummeted from the ceiling. It landed where Ezra’s words had been written, hard enough to crack the concrete below the dirt.

Instead of running like he’d expect anyone to do, the other three men hopped the rope and surrounded Owen, helping him to his feet and putting their bodies between him and everything they couldn’t see.

“What the hell just happened?” Digger shouted.

“Something pushed me,” Owen said, his voice hoarse.

“No shit. You never move that fast on your own.” Nick started herding the other three toward the sidewalk, walking with his back to them so he was facing the wreck of speakers and broken lights in the street. He had his gun out.

“He said to leave, that we were in danger.”

“Who said?” Digger asked.

“Ezra. It was him,” Owen said as his friends dragged him toward the door.

“We’ll send him a thank you note, dude; we’re getting the fuck out of here,” Doc said.

Ezra stood, not bothering to brush the dust from himself. He met Owen’s eyes, and this time Owen was looking directly at him. He could
see
him. Ezra raised his hand, and Owen gave him a small nod before the others dragged him into a darkened hall toward exit.

“Damn it!” Ambrose shouted, followed by more gunfire.

Ezra turned to see him standing in the middle of the road, firing into the ceiling just like miners high on opium used to shoot at the moon.

“Ambrose,” Ezra called.

Ambrose fired again, and in the echo of the shot, Jennings’s evil cackling filtered down to them.

“Ambrose!” Ezra shouted again. “Why do you shoot at him, you know you can’t hurt him!”

“Because it makes me feel better!” Ambrose said with another two shots. His gun clicked on empty, and he began to reload, cussing up a storm.

The rafters banged and rattled, and in the darkness near the end of the road, a shadow dropped into sight.

“Nice save, Inspector Johns,” Jennings called out. “Tomorrow night, perhaps.” He saluted them, then turned and slunk away.

Ambrose made to give chase, but Ezra grabbed him. “Let it go,” he murmured.

“But—”

Ezra wrapped his arm around Ambrose’s waist and kissed him. “We’ve got plenty of time to chase that demon.”

Ambrose gave him a confused frown, but when Ezra didn’t release him, his tense muscles relaxed and a slow smile spread across his face. He glanced around the room, raising an eyebrow. “I remember a road like this.”

Ezra laughed. “I thought you might.”

Ambrose grabbed him and kissed him hard. “Let’s go find that nephew of yours, make sure he don’t join us before his time,” he growled. “Then maybe we can see about coming back here . . . reliving some old times.”

Ezra tightened his arm around Ambrose, his fingers digging into his solid body, melting with the warmth. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Read more tales from the

My Haunted Blender’s Gay Love Affair
anthology.