Arte's world burst into flames the moment the explosion rocked the night. And even as Sheriff Cord struggled to restrain him from trying to save Jim where he could not be saved, Arte could barely hear his shouted words.
There were only two sounds audible to his ringing ears—the explosion, echoing again and again as the ghastly scene replayed itself incessantly before his mind's eye, and his heart pounding louder and louder. Somewhere he was vaguely aware that he was shouting right back at the sheriff, something along the lines of "Let me go! Jim needs me! He might still be alive!" But as he pushed the other man away at last and ran forward again, his pace inexplicably slowed to a halt.
He was staring into the furiously taunting blaze, the red, yellow, and orange hues sneering at him, mocking him, as they began to lower and die out in the chill desert air. There was no sign of Jim. How could there be? He had been caught right in the center of the blast. There wouldn't be any of him left to be found.
Arte's knees abruptly gave out. He crashed down in front of the quieting inferno, his visage blank. This had been Jim's death sentence, the desert, now his grave. He had survived so many attempts on his life, so many experiences that would have killed lesser men. But this time his luck had simply run out.
Arte had felt that something was going to go wrong. Why hadn't he felt it more strongly? Why hadn't he known? Why couldn't he have done something? Why had he been forced to stand here and just helplessly watch as his best friend was blown to smithereens?
Everything had been so cacophonous moments ago. Now it was so quiet, too quiet—as though even the wilderness was sobered by what had just happened. The only sounds were those of the visitors. The sheriff was talking to him again, and the frightened horses were whinnying—Jim's had probably run altogether—and off in the distance another horse was whinnying.
Arte looked up with a start. He spun about, just barely able to see a figure on horseback over near the rocks on the opposite side of the stretch of dust. The unknown person was trying to control and calm his horse, which seemed to be in no mood to listen.
Who was that? Why hadn't he come over to see what was wrong and whether he could help? He seemed instead to be attempting to steer his horse away from the scene. Why would he leave, unless . . .
Arte was on his feet in an instant, fueled by his outrage and heartache and grief. In seemingly one motion he was back on his own horse and snapping the reins with a cry. The beast bolted, galloping in the direction Arte wanted. The stranger, realizing he had been spotted, was off in a flash on his own horse.
"You there! Stop!" Arte screamed.
There was no reply, other than the pounding of their horses' hooves across the desert floor.
Arte clutched the reins in one hand while taking out his gun and firing into the air. It did not affect the other rider, save for increasing his beast's speed. But Arte was beginning to gain on him and they both knew it.
"The next bullet will be aimed at your back if you don't stop," Arte threatened.
Undaunted, the man hunched forward, urging his horse on.
Arte clenched his teeth. It was so tempting to follow through on what he had said. He was not a violent man by nature, but Jim was dead, and his possible killer was fleeing into the night. Arte was not about to let him get away.
Jim would probably take a flying leap and tackle the rider right off his horse. Arte almost felt like trying it. But instead he came alongside, glaring at the stranger in the near-darkness. If he could pull ahead, he could cut his new nemesis off before this went any further.
He reached out, grabbing for the other's reins. The second horse jerked, its owner pulling the reins as far away from Arte as he could. But it gave Arte the opening he had wanted. His horse dove out ahead, right into their opponents' path. The animal whinnied and bucked, this time throwing the rider altogether. The man yelped, crashing into the sparse desert plants.
Arte jumped down and was on him in an instant. He straddled the bruised stranger, pointing the gun at his face. "Alright, now you and I are going to have a little talk," he snarled. "Did you have anything to do with that explosion back there?"
"No, I didn't," the other man spat. "I was leaving town when I saw you and those others gathered at that rock. That's when the explosion happened. I was minding my own business, not setting up your friend to be killed."
"Oh sure, your own business," Arte retorted. "You were minding it so well you didn't even try to come over and find out what had happened."
"It was obvious, wasn't it?"
Arte did not answer. Something had suddenly occurred to him. He backed off and stood, keeping hold of his prisoner's arm with one hand. Still pointing the gun with the other, he dragged the other man to his feet. "Come on," he growled, heading in the direction of the horses.
"I don't have much choice," was the muttered response.
"Good," Arte retorted. Daring to let go, but continuing to threateningly hold the gun, he grabbed for the lantern hanging from his saddlebag. As he turned the knob, filling the small area with light, his eyes first widened, then narrowed.
"Coley Rodman," he breathed. "On the run from the law ever since Jim and I captured you and your gang at the fort." His patience snapped. "And you're standing here trying to tell me you had nothing to do with this?!"
"I'm telling you the truth, Gordon," Coley shot back. "I was in town, getting supplies. I left because I . . . because someone thought he recognized me. I didn't want to call attention to myself. I didn't blow up James West. I had no reason to!"
"What if someone hired you to do it?" Arte demanded. "Such as whoever's been messing with the desert here and burning down homes in Justice?"
"I'm a robber and a thief, not a hired gun," Coley insisted. "Check your records, Gordon. I don't go around deliberately killing people for profit!"
"Oh, scum like you will do anything," Arte said bitterly. "Look at you, on the run for years because you wouldn't settle down and take your punishment for your crimes."
"Most people like to live."
"And you made sure some people didn't." Arte set the lantern down and again grabbed for Rodman. "Such as Jim?"
"No!" Coley snatched Arte's wrist, gripping it tightly. "This is a pointless conversation; we're going around in circles. You're not calm enough to discuss things rationally."
"Rationally?!" Arte echoed. "After all you've done, you expect me to feel that it isn't rational to think that you could have had something to do with this?"
"Yes." Coley glowered at Arte in the glow of the lantern. "Take me back into town. The people in the saloon saw me. There was an old drunk who thought I was Little Pinto come back to life. And he told me that you and West and the sheriff had already left for the hills. I wouldn't have had time to get out here ahead of you and set some bomb!"
Arte frowned, allowing those words to sink in. Rodman was insistent on his guiltlessness in this matter, which was to be expected. But he was providing detailed, possible evidence for backing it up, too.
"Alright," Arte said at last. "Alright, I will take you into town, and we'll try to find this drunk. And then you know there's a warrant out for your arrest. I should turn you over to Sheriff Cord."
"Should?" Coley raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying you won't?"
"I'm thinking I'd rather keep hold of you myself until we clear up this business of whether or not you had anything to do with Jim's death," Arte said. "Even if you didn't set the bomb, maybe you know who did."
"I don't," Coley growled. He paused, considering Arte's words. "But if I agree to help you out, is there any chance you might be able to set me up with a better deal for my future?"
Arte frowned. "You might get a lightened sentence," he admitted grudgingly.
"Such as life in prison instead of outright hanging?" Coley sneered.
"I don't know, Rodman. You're wasting time." Arte went for the bag again. "I've got some rope in here. Get on your horse and I'll tie your hands together."
"That's not necessary. Where would I run? Anyway, Gordon, right now I'm just as anxious as you are to prove that West didn't die by my hands in any way." Coley narrowed his eyes. "And whether or not you believe me, that's the truth."
Arte paused. "I'm not taking any chances."
Still glowering, Coley climbed on his horse. He flinched as Arte tied his wrists. "I should've taken my chances with that annoying deputy," he grumbled.
"Yes, I guess you should have," Arte said.
He was just finishing with the rope as Sheriff Cord rode up. "That was some fancy ridin' you were doing, Mr. Gordon," he gasped. "And what have we here? The no-good varmint who did this?"
Arte sighed. "This is Coley Rodman, Sheriff," he introduced. "He claims he's innocent and that he can prove it."
"Coley Rodman?!" Sheriff Cord leaned in for a better look, even as Coley glared right back. "Why, he's one of the worst there is. Surely you don't believe whatever he tells you!"
"I have to look into it anyway," Arte said. "I've tangled with Rodman before, Sheriff. He's a low-down, sadistic ne'er-do-well and an all-around rotten person. But . . ." He looked to his captive, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. "I might believe that he didn't do this."
"Well, thank you," Coley said dryly.
"Not that it makes much difference from a legal standpoint, whether he did or didn't," Sheriff Cord said. "He's already racked up enough charges to get a hanging."
Coley gripped the saddle horn. For a brief moment, something flickered through his eyes that almost looked like fear. But then it was gone and he was cold and defiant again.
"It makes a difference to me," Arte said as he took the lantern and remounted. "I won't give up until I know who did this."
Los Angeles, California, circa 2009Ray Norman was dead.
First and foremost, that was what Dr. Alice Portman cared about.
In second place was the reason why he was dead.
Ray Norman had been a treacherous and cold-hearted blackmailer with a cunning mind. Twice he had devised schemes to anonymously hire a shady private detective, bug people's rooms at the golf clubs he owned, and then blackmail the guests on whatever evidence was dug up from the tapes. While trying to collect his most recent pay-off, a desperate blackmail victim had shot him dead in the park.
He had been lying in the county morgue until an hour ago. Now, thanks to Dr. Portman's men, he was resting on a metal slab in her secret laboratory.
She approached him with interest, her green eyes flickering behind her glasses. "Poor Mr. Norman," she said, and her deep voice was without true sympathy or kindness. "You were too greedy, weren't you. The money you had was never enough to satisfy your need. And you never cared who was hurt as you sought to add to your nest egg."
She stood over him from the top of the slab, laying her hands on his bare shoulders. They were cool and clammy, but still felt strong. And with a little science, there would be new strength and life in them yet.
"You're a despicable person," Portman continued her musing as she hooked up wires and monitors and then turned her attention to her console. "If you had lived, you would be in prison now.
"Well, you're going to live again, and then I'll see what kind of prison I can craft for you."
She pulled the switch. The body jerked and writhed violently, choked with electricity and other power. Portman adjusted a dial, increasing the flow, and kept a close watch on both the monitors and the as-of-now artificially alive body.
She did not necessarily believe or disbelieve in the existence of a spirit. If such a thing were real, it would be called back into the body once Portman restarted the heart. And if not, well, whatever was there would still be jumpstarted into animating the body once more. Either way, Portman would have what she wanted—Ray Norman, living and breathing again, just as though he had never died.
Without warning the form gasped and the eyes flew open. Ray Norman flew upright on the slab, a hand going to his throbbing head.
Portman felt a thrill of pride. He was not the first man she had brought back from the dead; that honor went to Captain Michael Caldwell, someone who had required infinitely more repair work before she had even been able to attempt the revival. Captain Caldwell was still in her care, relearning how to walk, talk, and handle other normal functions. Ray Norman, it seemed, would not need any such lessons. And he was not paralyzed from the bullet, which was a plus.
She shut off the machines, save for the monitors. These she left on to study her subject's heart rate and brainwaves. He was blinking now, trying to focus. He was bewildered.
"Good evening, Mr. Norman," Portman said as she walked out in front of him.
"What?" He squinted at her. "Who are you? What . . . what happened to me?" Suddenly he gasped in pain. "My back . . ."
"Yes, your back. Well, nevermind about that; it will heal before long." She took up a nearby clipboard. "Do you remember what happened to you at all?"
He looked away, staring at the sheet that was covering the lower half of his body. "I was . . . I was in the park," he remembered. "There was a gunshot. . . ." He sank back onto the table, weak and dizzy. "I was shot, wasn't I?"
"That's right. You were shot, Mr. Norman . . . and killed. My men brought you here and I restored you to life."
He went rigid. "Killed?! No! No, that's impossible!" He tried to rise again, gripping the edge of the slab. "This is a trick. No one comes back from being dead. I suppose you're hoping to get me into your debt with your wild stories of playing Dr. Frankenstein. Well, it won't work." His eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous. "If you really helped me after I was shot, then I thank you. And I'll find some kind of appropriate monetary reward for you. But I won't be fooled by tales of nonsense."
"Is this nonsense?" She dropped the early morning paper onto his lap. He took it, holding it up to the light. If not for the wound in his back, he would have flown upright again upon reading the headline.
"'Businessman Ray Norman Shot Dead In Park Over Blackmail Pay-Off,'" he read in stunned horror. There was even an accompanying photograph of the paramedics bending over a lifeless body.
"It's an official city paper, Mr. Norman," Portman said. "Do you believe me now?"
He read the article over once, then twice, before letting the newspaper drop to the sheet. "It could be faked," he protested.
"But it wasn't, I can assure you," Portman said.
"It's not possible," he whispered. "It just isn't." He looked over at her. "And why would you choose to revive me? I've never met you."
"No, but I've been studying your career with great interest, Mr. Norman." Portman walked deliberately across the room, her high heels clicking on the hard floor. "I know all about how your blackmail operation worked, including what you heard and who you blackmailed. I know you were completely unrepentant, caring for nothing other than your own greed."
She stopped and turned back. "I want to know, Mr. Norman, how strong the human mind and will are. I want to know if I can break even one such as you."
He was staring at her in utter disbelief and shock. "That's why you supposedly brought me back to life?!" he cried.
"Yes," she told him matter-of-factly. "And if you want to repay a debt, Mr. Norman, you can do it simply by allowing me to perform my tests on your mind. If you are as strong-willed as you seem, you have nothing to fear."
"This is outrageous!" He tore off the monitoring wires and threw the sheet aside, struggling to swing his legs over the side of the slab and stand. "I won't stay here and be tortured like this. I'll get my lawyer. Then you'll have a suit so big you won't know how to deal with it!"
Portman did nothing to stop him. Instead she watched and waited in expectance as her patient fought his way to his feet. He only managed two steps before his legs crumpled and he collapsed. Portman walked out to stand over him, again draping his lower body with the sheet.
"You managed to get up," she remarked. "You have more drive than some of my other subjects."
"Other?!" Again he stared up at her, loathing his current position. "There's more?!"
"Yes, quite. But you needn't concern yourself with them. Your only concern should be you, as it's always been.
"Arnold, Roscoe."
Two thugs emerged from the shadows, their cruel expressions chiseled from stone. Portman crossed her arms in satisfaction as Ray rocked back.
"Take Mr. Norman to be dressed," she instructed. "Then allow him to rest a while before the first test begins."
Ray tried to scramble away from her men, his heart gathering speed in his fear and horror. "No!" he cried. "I won't go with them. I'm getting out of here. I . . ."
They hauled him to his feet, one on each side. Portman watched in approval.
"You won't be going anywhere, Mr. Norman, except to your room. And from there, who knows." She adjusted her glasses. "I'll enjoy seeing whether I can shatter you."
Justice, Nevada, circa 1874The red-haired woman grasped the handles of the periscope in delight, watching as the men and their horses slowly trouped back over the desert sands. They were nearly at the spot now, the place where Jim West had met his fate. One of the men—Artemus, no doubt—dismounted to retrieve the lone horse that had stayed behind.
The beautiful black gelding had run far away in the face of the explosion. Now, however, it had returned, and was tapping a hoof near the rock, as though aware that its master had been there and now was gone.
Arte approached it softly, reaching for the reins. "Come here, Boy," he said, so low that the underground spy could barely hear. "Jim's not here now. He's . . ." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "He's gone."
The horse whinnied low and sad. Stubbornly it lingered, but as Arte prodded again, tugging on the reins, it finally consented. It walked with him back to the others.
The woman leaned back. "Miklos, they are on their way," she declared.
A tall, strong man smiled, pleased, and made a gesture of bringing his hands together and then throwing them wide, as if to illustrate an explosion.
"Yes, Miklos, they all believe James West is no more, that there is no body to be found." The woman looked to a slab across the technologically advanced room, where a familiar form was lying perfectly still. "They have no idea that he is here, with us."
A short man standing nearby struck a match on his teeth and watched excitedly as the flame burned. "I made a good explosion, yes?"
The woman smiled. "Yes, Cyril, very good. We will be gone before long, on to our next stop."
"And you will help find Miss Posey again, as you promised?"
"Of course. But first, our experiments must be complete." The woman glanced in another direction, facing several drawers in the wall. "It's a shame that our lightning destroyed so many buildings trying to get it right, but at last we have had success with you! Now we can use the exact same procedure to begin bringing back your colleagues."
"Yes, yes." Cyril looked to the drawers as well. "There will be four more experiments then?"
Miklos held up five fingers.
Cyril blinked. "But who is the fifth? There is Brutus, Gallito, Little Pinto, Sergei . . ." He trailed off with a grimace. Sergei had been the instrument of Cyril's death, tricked into believing that Cyril was the traitor in their organization. Cyril was not sure he wanted to be around when Sergei was revived. At least, not until it could be explained to him that they had been pitted against each other.
"There is also Snakes," the woman prompted. "I believe he was the first to die, wasn't he?"
Cyril stiffened. "Snakes? No! He tried to kill Miss Posey!"
"I'm just as fascinated with him as I am with all of the rest of you," was the reply. "However, we can't revive him or any of the others here. It would draw too much attention to make another storm now. And we can't risk Mr. West being discovered yet."
"What are you going to do with him?" Cyril wondered.
"Nevermind that now," she said. "I know that you and the others must surely want your revenge on him, but for now he must be kept alive and untouched."
"That isn't any fun," Cyril pouted.
"Oh, but look at it this way, Cyril. There are few things that will hurt Mr. West as much as waking to discover that his best friend thinks him dead. And that there is nothing he can do to correct the misconception. Perhaps, even, that it would put Mr. Gordon's life in danger for him to know the truth."
Cyril considered that. "This is true," he admitted. "But now Mr. Gordon is with someone else. What about that man, the one who looks like Pinto?"
"I don't think we'll need to worry about him," was the reply. "If he and Mr. Gordon get too close to the truth, we may have to blame him for some of Pinto's actions."
Cyril grinned. "Then he is our fall guy."
"Yes, exactly."
Cyril struck another match. "Alright then," he said. "We will do things your way . . . Dr. Faustina."
