CHAPTER TWO
Five Years Ago
Tombstone, Arizona
Despite Tombstone's boast of an 'international' airport, Sullivan discovered there were no direct flights to a town of maybe 1400 people. Getting there involved a bone-jarring flight through rain storms as far as the Rockies, an almost-missed connecting flight from Phoenix to Tucson because Arizona ignores Daylight Saving Time, then renting a car for the remainder of the trip.
"Tombstone," he muttered when he signed for the rental.
The Avis clerk had brightened and handed him three or four brochures. "Going for Heldorado? You'll have a good time. Everyone dresses up like in the 1880s. Reinactors do the gunfight at OK Corral and all kinds of other skits. I hope you've got a room reserved. There aren't many motels and they fill up way in advance."
He'd left without considering that particular matter. But they were expecting him, so they must have arranged something.
"The town too tough to die," he muttered as he followed the signs leading from the airport to Interstate-10 and the two hour drive ahead of him. "Probably roll the sidewalks up when the sun goes down."
About all he knew about Tombstone was what he'd seen in the movies. Sometime in the early '90s, the movie Tombstone had been high on everyone's 'can't miss' list. He vaguely remembered seeing it. Waiting for his plane in Phoenix, he'd grabbed a book entitled Cochise County, Today and Yesterday, which gave a basic history of the town and the Earp-Clanton feud which led to the gunfight at OK Corral. He'd read it on the flight into Tucson.
Cochise County was named for an Apache war chief.
The town got its name when a soldier told prospector Ed Scheffelin he'd never find anything in the area but his tombstone (thanks in part to the depredations of Cochise and his warriors). Scheffelin named the first big silver strike The Tombstone.
Wyatt Earp, having tamed Dodge City, came to Tombstone to settle down and run a stage line, but ended up pinning on yet another tin star. His friend Doc Holliday came to fleece as many hard-working miners and cowboys as he could lure to his poker table.
Ike Clanton, Billy Clanton, Curly Bill and several dozen other rustlers came to Tombstone to sell the cattle they'd stolen and whoop it up with their ill-gotten gains. They also liked to rob the stage. It was much easier work than mining, and paid better.
Wyatt Earp and his brothers did not like the rustlers. The rustlers did not like the Earps. One afternoon the Earps decided enough was enough, marched down to the OK Corral, and put the Clanton Gang out of business permanently. Lawmen 3, Outlaws 0.
The silver mines played out, but the town too tough to die hung on by its fingernails until the book Wyatt Earp, Frontier Marshal was published in the 1930s. Then Wyatt Earp became a hero to millions and Tombstone became a tourist attraction, and beyond that, Tom Sullivan knew little and cared less.
He grumbled to himself the entire drive from Tucson. These last twenty-four miles consisted of a hilly two lane blacktop that twisted and turned like a dying snake. Thank God he wasn't driving it after dark. A deer could decide to play Dodge'm just as you rounded another blind curve, and Bambi would be venison. Or Rancher Jolly's prize bull would amble out onto the road for a siesta. Signs all along the way warned "Open Range" which meant if you hit the stupid thing, you bought it.
Would a man die of thirst if his car broke down on this road? Well, probably not with all this traffic. For a blink-and-you-miss-it town, Tombstone seemed to be drawing half the automobiles in the state. That Heldorado thing, he supposed, or the carnival that came to town once a year. He had to snigger when he thought of that. The county's biggest entertainment was the annual visit of a traveling show.
In the distance, he heard a long, drawn-out wailing that made the hair on the name of his neck stand up. A moment later he realized it was a train whistle, but unlike any he'd ever heard except on TV. Glancing toward the tracks, he saw a thick plume of oily-looking black smoke billowing above the terrain.
For Pete's sake, it was an old steam locomotive. It pulled a coal tender and a short string of what appeared to be wooden passenger cars. A bright red caboose trundled along at the rear. The locomotive produced another long, mournful wail as it chugged down the tracks.
For the briefest moment, Sullivan had the eerie sensation of having fallen through a gap in the fabric of time. If he looked down, he'd have the reins of a team of horses in his hand instead of a steering wheel. Then he realized the locomotive must be the tourist train he saw advertised when he passed through the tiny, grimy railroad town of Benson several miles back.
The roadway curved away from the river and the train disappeared from view. Then, at long last, he saw a scattering of buildings on a distant plateau. There it was, his home away from home for the next 90 days.
The first thing he noticed on the edge of town was a giant concrete - what else - tombstone, with the words WELCOME TO BOOT HILL painted on it. Boot Hill was cowboy lingo for cemetery. Well, he'd definitely have to pay that a visit, the very first chance he got.
It was only about three o'clock so someone should be manning the Marshal's Office. Marshal's Office. They really called it that? When he asked directions to the police station at the corner convenience store, the clerk had smiled and corrected his terminology before telling him to just keep on goin' up Fremont Street and watch for City Hall on his right. The Marshal's Office was right next door.
Shore enuf, right there beside a tall red and white structure with the words CITY HALL on a balustrade beneath its second story windows was a lean-to with yet another sign, a hand with a finger pointing at a gravel driveway, and the words MARSHAL'S OFFICE printed above it. To prove it, the three squad cars in the dinky parking lot all had big gold five-pointed stars on their doors, lettered:
TOMBSTONE MARSHAL'S OFFICE
To Protect and to Serve.
Although the sun was edging toward a range of mountains on the western horizon, the parking lot retained the heat it had absorbed all day. As Sullivan approached the door, each step scared up hoards of red-winged insects that flew a few inches then settled again. It took a moment to dredge up a childhood memory and identify the creatures as grasshoppers. They made good fish-bait if you could catch them. And if there was a lake to fish in, which there probably wasn't.
You knew you weren't in New York, Toto, when the door to the Marshal's Office was made of wood, not bullet-proof glass, contained no microphone to speak into, and no pass-through for your credentials and service weapon. An old time shopkeeper's bell tinkled when he opened the door.
"Hello," the woman at the desk said, "may I help you?"
From the headset she wore, she was both dispatcher and receptionist. Her name tag read "Mable Gutierrez". A communications console stood a chair-swivel away. A computer keyboard reposed next to the monitor on her desk. An NCIC terminal stood in the corner as if being punished for bad behavior. Wall-mounted bulletin boards held page after page of diverse information. An honest-to-God WANTED poster held center stage on one of them.
"Tom Sullivan," he said, passing her a business card. I'd like to see the marshal."
