She reaches out her hand, intent on grabbing the door handle, but it stops just shy. Hovers. The sun catches the jewels dotting the bracelets on her wrist, casting an array of bright flecks throughout the interior, dancing along the ceiling, across the dashboard, and sliding down the door panel. But all else is still. Constance Clootie cranes her neck and closes her eyes once more, her features strained, as if she's listening to something. The two men in the car exchange a look, unsure of what's happening, unsure of what will come, but they know better than to give voice to their confusion. They've seen the consequences many times before.
"Goddammit!" she bites out suddenly, her jaw clenching. Her motions are sharp, violent, and she throws the gearshift into drive in a blur of inhuman speed. The Lincoln lurches forward, snow crunching once more beneath its tread as they pull away from the property on which they'd come to call.
A hawk cries out from its perch high atop the last skull along the split-rail fence - a scream, a warning, and it shatters any remaining vestige of tranquility in the far reaches of the county. As the car passes, the hawk's head turns, blood-red eyes blinking languidly in the late morning sun. Watching.
Constance snarls but continues forward. A few hundred yards further the road curves sharply to the left, and it's here that she stops, around the bend and out of sight, concealed by unruly pines and wild undergrowth, killing the engine and plunging the countryside into silence once more.
"Stay," she says, and the men remain seated, eyes forward, unmoving. Ever obedient.
She creeps back toward the property a few paces, her high heels finding uneasy purchase amidst the snow and pine needles, pausing only when she has a clear line of sight. There she waits. The dull whine of an engine sounds in the distance like the first rumble of thunder, a harbinger of an approaching storm.
The maroon Ford truck that appears on the road pulls confidently into the shop's drive, blithely ignoring the posted warning signs dotting the landscape. When it stops, an older man steps down from the driver's seat and heads toward the building's entrance. From her post, she can hear him as he calls out.
"Mattie!"
He approaches the door, his steps slowing, hesitating before going inside. "Mattie?" she hears once more, but that will be the last time he calls out.
Behind the trees, the silence stretches. Constance Clootie waits, unblinking, anxious for any indication as to what's inside. Who's inside.
She doesn't have to wait long.
The man comes stumbling backward out of the door like he's seen a ghost, and he's back at his truck in a flash, digging through his center console with wild abandon. It isn't until he's leaning against the door, his hand held to his face that she realizes he's grabbed hold of a phone.
"911? Yeah, I'm out at the Blacksmith's shop, and I think...I think something bad's happened."
There's more, but she doesn't hear it. The anger simmering in her veins - anger at being delayed, anger at being so close she can practically taste it - begins to boil over. A growl rumbles deep in her throat, and her fists shake, the silver bangles around her wrist clattering in protest while the air around her crackles with electricity.
With a turn of her wrist, the engine cuts off abruptly, leaving Nicole sitting in her cruiser in silence. The sun shines brightly overhead, its rays reflecting haphazardly off the hood of the car. Nicole squints in an effort to read the clock on the dashboard - 11:58 a.m. It feels far earlier than that.
"Shift work is a bitch," she mutters around a yawn, the words stretched and muted and utterly without bite.
A quick shake, a roll of the neck and she's out of the car, heading inside to start another work day. Up ahead the door opens, another deputy shuffling out, his uniform a little haggard, a little wrinkled, and - c'mon, man, you're making this too easy - powdered sugar on his chest.
"Hey, city girl," he quips, his smile tired but friendly.
"Hey, Cooper. Did you manage to actually eat any of that donut or were you just going to save it all for later?" she responds without breaking stride, grinning widely as she passes by and steps through the open door.
Behind her, she hears a muttered "Oh son of a bi-" before the door cuts him off, and she walks toward the bullpen, her chuckles echoing brightly in the tiled hall.
When she hears herself, hears the easiness of her laugh, feels the pull of the smile on her cheek, there's a warmth that settles into her limbs that's unfamiliar but entirely welcome. In a few weeks, she'll hit a milestone - her six month anniversary in Purgatory. Six months since she left the city, watching the skyscrapers and neon fading slowly away in her rearview mirror. Six months since she rolled into Purgatory, a place far enough off the path, far enough away that she could start over, small enough she could make a real difference. In many ways she's just as much an outsider as she was on day one when she showed up in a truck loaded down with all of her worldly belongings, but she's made some inroads. It's a slow process, establishing herself in a new job, earning the respect of her peers, making friends. Especially in a place like Purgatory, where everyone grew up together and newcomers come along once in a blue moon. It doesn't help that the boys' club is alive and well here, and some of the guys aren't real keen on letting her in. But for each of those, there's someone like Cooper, easygoing and friendly, and more than willing to let Nicole's solid work pick up his slack.
It's not the first time she's been the new kid, not her first rodeo. She's more than equal to the challenge.
But that doesn't mean it's a cakewalk. So moments like this, moments of camaraderie, moments where she's not the odd one out - they're treasured, something to store away for the nights she's alone in her apartment, passing the hours watching Netflix and carrying on one-sided conversations with her cat.
Crossing the threshold into the bullpen, she spies Linda, the aging admin, sitting up front, diligently filing her nails.
"Mornin', Linda," she offers.
Without looking up, Linda responds in kind, "Hi, darlin'." The filing continues.
Nedley is behind his desk in his office, his head cocked to the side, the phone cradled between his ear and his neck while he calmly jots out a few notes. When she walks toward her desk just this side of his office, the movement catches his attention, and he gives her a brief nod when he catches her eye.
The stetson comes off and takes its place of pride on the corner of her desk, the same spot as always, before Nicole turns her attention to the most important item of the day: coffee. Police work doesn't happen without coffee. Hell, nothing happens without it. Out of habit, she looks to the center of her workstation for her to-go cup of coffee, only to find the spot cold and empty. Dammit. Why today?
There's been a concerted - albeit difficult - effort lately on her part to save a little cash by skipping the morning cup of coffee at the diner (and the inevitable breakfast that comes with it) and just drinking from the communal pot at the station. A shudder runs through her at the memory of the sludge masquerading as coffee she poured from the carafe during last night's shift. There's a fine art to it, she's learning. Catch it at the right time of day, and it's drinkable. Coop is notorious for needing the extra cup to get him through his overnights, so there's probably a healthy dose left from his last pot, maybe an hour old at this point if she's lucky. She turns toward the hall and narrows her eyes in the direction of the break room, as if she can somehow gauge the coffee situation through two walls and twenty feet of intervening space. With a shrug of her shoulders, eyes still on the doorway leading to the coffee - her coffee - she's halfway out of her department-issued coat before she realizes her name is being spoken.
"Haught." Nedley comes to a stop a couple feet away from her desk, his hands playing absentmindedly with a slip of paper he tore from the pad on his desk, the edge torn and uneven.
"Yes, sir?"
"Just got a call from dispatch. Hayes Ashcraft is out at the blacksmith's place out on County Road 63. Claims there are signs of a struggle." He pauses, considering his words. "Probably nothing," he continues, moving forward to hand the note over to Nicole, "but go ahead and check it out."
"Yes, sir. I'm on it." With a nod, the sheriff turns, trudging back to his office without a second glance. He's not a man of many words, Sheriff Nedley, but there's enough weight in his terse instructions to pique her interest. Moving quickly, she re-situates her coat about her shoulders and settles her hat back atop her head, one of Purgatory's finest taking shape in reverse. But in patting her pockets, making sure she's got all of her gear, she pauses, her hands hovering mid-air. A longing look, a soft whine gathering in her throat (although she'll deny it if anyone dares call her on it), and a decision is made.
No way in hell would she respond to a call without her gun, without being properly prepared, and it's not much of a stretch - not really - to consider caffeine an integral part of her duty gear. Grabbing her insulated mug from the top right drawer of her desk, she mutters a quick prayer to the coffee gods and makes a detour on the way out of the building, hoping against hope Coop left some for her.
Apparently, the blacksmith's place is in BFE. Two wrong turns, an extra call to dispatch for directions, and thirty minutes later, Nicole pulls her cruiser in alongside the waiting pick-up truck outside the shop, her ears red with embarrassment at the delay. Six months with the department and she's never patrolled out here, never come anywhere even close to this lonely stretch, out of sight, tucked out of the way like it doesn't want to be found.
When she steps out of the car, her boots hitting the snow with a crunch, she comes face to face with the skull of a bull, its bones bleached and ghostly, almost luminescent in the bright midday sun.
And it's not alone. Looking slowly from one side to another, she takes in what passes for decoration out here - a handful of skulls, great hunks of metal sticking out of the dirt (although whether they're junk piles or some sort of avant-garde sculptures she can't quite decide), and a couple of "No Trespassing" signs hung with delicate care atop the rusty barbed wire running alongside the drive.
Okaaaay.
She's suddenly feeling a little better about having never been to this particular stretch of the county.
An older gentleman, his hair beginning to gray at the temples, gets out of the nearby truck and walks over to greet her, his hand extended, worry lines marring his face.
"Mr. Ashcraft?" she guesses, reaching out to shake the proffered hand.
"Hayes, please. Thanks for coming, Officer."
"Tell me what happened," she prompts, slipping into the professional routine like a second skin, her tone calm, her voice measured yet authoritative, and her notepad ready in hand.
"Yeah, I uh...I dropped by to pick up some new shoes for my horses and a few other things Mattie's been repairing for the ranch, but when I hollered for her, she didn't answer. So I...I went in, just to make sure she was alright, you know? She's out here by herself, so I thought...I don't know…" He worries at his lip before continuing. "I thought something might have happened."
"So she was expecting you?"
"Right, yes, she knew I'd be by today. But when I walked in, well…" His jaw sets. "You'll see. I didn't go far. I thought it was best to call y'all in instead."
"Alright," she responds, tucking away her notepad in the breast pocket of her coat, "if you could just sit tight for me for a moment, I'm going to take a look around real quick. I'll be back out in a few minutes, Mr. Ashcraft."
He nods before taking a few steps back, rubbing absentmindedly at his neck where it's exposed to the chill of the day.
Nicole turns to survey the exterior. No smoke. No lights. Definitely looks like no one's home. There's a rhythmic crunching behind her, the sound of nervous pacing. Guess he's too antsy to just get back in his truck. What the hell spooked him so bad?
Tuning it out, she steps gingerly around the sculptures (?!), and heads toward the doorway. No sign of forced entry. With a less than gentle nudge of her gloved hands, the door gives way, sliding sideways on a well-used track, and she steps into the darkness beyond, releasing the strap on her holster and drawing her gun while she lets her eyes adjust. The gun is more a precaution than an expectation, standard protocol for clearing a building. Never know what lurks around the corner.
Especially in Purgatory.
The building is cold, hardly warmer than the outside, her breath pluming before her face like smoke. A wisp, a moment, and it fades into the dim interior, only to form again with each exhalation. There's a lingering smell, a mix of smoke from the coal and something heavier, metallic. It catches in her throat, sits sharply on her tongue.
When her eyes fully adjust, she realizes the floor beneath her feet is hard-packed dirt, nothing more. There's a trace of lingering snow by the door, likely dragged in by Ashcraft, but otherwise the ground is too hard to hold much of a record of any other visitors. Reaching back, she eases the door closed behind her. It slides home with a surly groan. Well, mostly home. Stepping carefully, mindful of the placement of each boot - just in case - Nicole continues into the building's interior.
All about her, drawers are pulled open, their contents strewn about haphazardly. It's mildly disconcerting. Call me crazy but I don't think it's supposed to look like this. To say it's disheveled is an understatement. Saying a small, localized tornado ripped through and tossed everything here and yonder feels closer to accurate. No more than ten feet inside the doorway is a veritable mountain of metal, a heap of odds and ends, sharp and jagged and all kinds of dangerous.
And...blood? Blood. That's definitely blood.
Her fingers tighten infinitesimally around the grip of her Beretta.
Stepping around it - for now - the deputy ventures further into the disquieting stillness of the shop, needing to complete her circuit of the layout, to verify it is in fact as abandoned as it feels. Priorities. She picks her way past sleeping forges and silent anvils, past pieces of worked iron, the remains of a half-finished project, its bones left exposed, a skeleton rising half-formed from the pit. More cabinets hang open around her, their contents exposed to her strange gaze. After a few more feet, the narrow walk widens abruptly and dead-ends in what looks like a small living area. A narrow room lies ahead, empty save for a single bed. Another door leads to a small restroom, empty again. No one home. There's a different note to the air in this part of the building, the overtones of smoke and iron underpinned with something softer, almost pleasant. Maybe herbal? Floral?
There's a rocking chair to her left, nondescript, the kind that looks like it came from grandma's house, but it's what's around its base that catches the deputy's eye. It's ringed in white, a circle, broken again and again, the white substance kicked and shuffled around so much the effect is marred.
Nicole crouches, and putting the fingertip of her free hand in between her teeth, she bites down and pulls back, sliding out of the glove in one fell swoop, leaving her hand bare, exposed in the chill of the shop. Reaching forward, she grabs a pinch of white, and slowly, so slowly, she rubs the granules between her outstretched fingertips, analyzing, calculating.
Is...is this salt? What the hell?
A shiver runs through her body, a response wholly unrelated to the cold. Not that Nicole realizes the difference. Not yet. The last of the salt falls to the floor like snowflakes.
And it is cold. Her ingress has brought her past three, four forges of various sizes. When they're all up and running she'd expect it to feel more like a Texas August in here. But there's no smoke, no fire. Not even the glow of an ember to be found in any of them. Instead, they sit cold and lifeless as corpses. It's unnatural. That word pops into her head unexpectedly, crowding out all others once it appears. But it fits with unnerving perfection. This is...wrong. All wrong. And it permeates the atmosphere. The shop is preternaturally quiet. No hushed crackle of coal, no hiss of hot iron meeting water, not even the dull grumble of a generator.
There's nothing. Nothing but silence, and it's deafening, a roar in her ears.
With the threat of immediate danger seemingly cleared, the deputy stows her weapon, sliding it smoothly back into the leather holster on her hip, but she leaves the retention strap undone...just in case. From her coat pocket, she withdraws her cell phone, opens up the camera.
Flash.
The chair.
Flash.
The salt.
Flash.
The open drawers, the disarray, she snaps several quick photos, a preliminary effort to preserve the crime scene. Possible crime scene. With slow, careful steps, the deputy makes her way back down the narrow path towards the entrance, her progress halted by the occasional flash of her phone.
Her steps slow when she reaches the scrap heap near the door, discarded on the floor like the blacksmith's version of 52-card pick-up, or another postmodern art piece, a companion to the ones out front.
Flash.
When she crouches, the blood spots come into sharp focus, appearing dark, almost black in the low light where it's dried into the dirt. But on the metal, reflecting dully in the reedy light of the dingy windows, the scattered drops are deep red, a statement, a shout in the room's otherwise muted palette.
I need to talk to Nedley.
She stands, a twinge of anxiety spurring her into movement, and she closes the distance to the door in a second. Her swiftness stirs the stagnant air, a swirl of dirt and charcoal dust spins in her wake. Something to her left twitches, rustles in the sudden breeze. It's a photograph, old and yellowed, tacked to the wall just beyond the reach of the track of the door.
A man and child - a little girl. Is this the blacksmith?
Although the pair is all smiles, there's something bittersweet in the photograph, and she finds herself feeling like an interloper intruding on a private moment. She looks away, her eyes sliding in the direction of the door. And then they stop.
There's something there on the wall, couched in shadows, barely discernible in the low light, more suggestion than substance. It takes only a moment for Nicole to unlatch the flashlight from her duty belt and click it on, illuminating - is this a drawing? She cocks her head and studies, catalogs every detail she can discern.
Someone has drawn what appears to be an inverted capital T, its arms a little longer than normal, and at the tip of each arm a letter - W on the left, E on the right. In the upper right quadrant the artist has scribbled a word, or perhaps it's two. Was two, maybe. The script is cramped and sloppy, but if she squints her eyes enough, holds her head at just the right angle, the first word could possibly be construed as "Devil" or perhaps "Devil's," but the second word is a lost cause, the charcoal smudged, a dark streak obscuring the harried script. E? F? P? Dammit...what's this supposed to be?
The charcoal itself is dark and vibrant, slashes of mars black against burnt umber, no sign of dirt atop the strokes, and Nicole jumps to a conclusion before she can stop herself:
This is recent.
Flash.
What in the hell is this?
Her brow furrows, and she tenses, unable to shake the vague unease creeping along her back.
It isn't until a gust of wind whistles through the small crack in the door that she jolts out of it, straightening like a wire. A few more photos and she forces herself to step away, back towards the entrance. Putting her hand on the cold metal handle, she pulls, watching with rapt attention as the door swallows the drawing whole in its movement along its track. Gone. Hidden.
The door open, the dim space fills with early afternoon sun, and Nicole scrunches up her eyes in discomfort, turning her head to the side, waiting for the shock of the sunlight to abate.
Mr. Ashcraft is nearby, pacing anxiously near his truck, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers.
"Give me just a sec. Gotta call this in."
Nedley's his usual stoic self when she reports back her findings, a trait she's grown to find comforting and frustrating in equal measures.
"That's why I sent you instead of Gomez," he explains. "You've had more crime scene training than anyone else in the department. Take care of it, and get me a report when you get back."
He's right. And frankly, that's terrifying. Rural counties don't typically have a dedicated crime scene unit, not like the city. There's no money for it. What meager resources they've got are better spent on vehicle maintenance, investing in a fleet that can stand up to all of the miles, the patrols in far-flung corners of their districts. The state crime lab will assist when needed. Eventually. But it'd better be damn convincing to get them all the way out here. Out of the academy for a year, and the rookie is suddenly the expert. No pressure, Nicole. At least Purgatory doesn't get the same kind of crime scenes they had in the city.
Well...they didn't used to.
A checklist begins to take shape, her mind racing, a plan of action forming:
1. Interview the witness and cut him loose.
2. Get the kit from the trunk and process the scene, get blood sample for the state lab.
She reaches for the travel mug in her console, tips it back when it meets her lips. One lone drip of coffee dribbles out, cruel and mocking in its solitude. Jaw clenched, she amends her checklist:
3. Cry about lack of coffee.
Her soft whine dies in the wind when she exits the car, and her professional mask is firmly in place by the time she reaches Mr. Ashcraft to begin his interview.
Nearby a hawk watches the proceedings from its perch, feathers ruffling in the brisk wind.
The steam is rich and smokey and feels like a soft bed after a long day. Resting her elbows on the bar top, Waverly wraps her hands protectively around the mug and holds it still in mid-air just beneath her nose. She stays like that, her eyes closed, her breaths deep and even. Entranced.
A loud slam startles her, and her mug jostles alarmingly in her hands, coffee splashing gracelessly over the rim.
"I've called your name a half dozen times, girl," Gus says, exasperation evident. "Were you asleep standing up?" Waverly has the decency to look chagrined, offering an awkward laugh in lieu of an apology, and Gus walks off, a towel slung over her shoulder, shaking her head.
Waverly stands tall...for about a minute, but then she's leaning once more, sinking into the bar top to continue meditating on the virtues of coffee and awaiting the onset of happy hour.
Shorty's is slow today. The lunch rush had passed in a blur, and for that she was grateful. After that the crowd had thinned, her daytime patrons filtering out and headed into the world to do something productive with their Saturdays, leaving the bar all but deserted. She played hostess when needed, making small talk and slinging beer for the one or two folks who have trickled in in the couple of hours since then, but for the most part, it's been quiet.
During the stretches when she's alone, though, she had pulled Curtis' journal out of her bag under the bar. It would be easy to assume she's just relaxing, reading a good book and sipping coffee to pass the time, but her reading is ravenous, a focus borne of caffeine and curiosity.
It's during her third read-through that she nearly spilled her coffee on it, her movements alternating between clumsy and jittery, the reality of the practically sleepless night making itself known. At that point, the journal had returned to the bag for safe-keeping. But although she's no longer turning its pages, reading its words first-hand, she continues to analyze its passages in her mind. Some are gibberish, and she grimaces when she thinks how drunk Curtis might have been during the writing of those particular pages. Other passages are almost scientific in their construction, detailed and thorough. There are passages on Earp family history and the curse, personal stories that she had never managed to find in all of her own research, something that both amazes her and lights a jealous fire inside. And then there are the others, dark and terrible pages containing words she dares not believe. These are the ones that stick in her mind like tar, and she finds herself returning to them again and again, turning them over and over trying to reconcile these with her favorite uncle in the world.
Glancing up over her coffee, she checks the time on the giant Budweiser clock on the wall across from her.
"Ten more minutes," she mutters to no one in particular. Sighing, she sets the mug down and switches gears, thinking over her pre-evening bar checklist: cut limes, clean glasses, check kegs. She's already done them all, but with happy hour starting shortly and the supper-time rush following on its heels, it's time to turn the brain off and get back to work, a sentiment that sits increasingly uncomfortably with her.
She stifles a yawn just as the bar door creaks open, and she manages to paste a saccharine smile on her face just in time to greet her newly arrived customer.
The afternoon is well into its downhill slide by the time the police cruiser departs. Already the sky darkens at its farthest edges, twilight gathering, waiting in the wings for the right cue.
In her car around the corner, Constance Clootie fumes.
Early in the afternoon, she had been animated - vocal, even - but as the stakeout had dragged on, her energy had morphed, turned inward, a tempest simmering just under the surface. In the front seat, she had grown still. Statuesque. Her eyes closed, her lips move in a susurrant whisper. To the man in the back seat, it sounds melodic. Perhaps prayerful.
She spends her afternoon issuing curse after curse, unrepeatable things, her lips shaping each word with cold precision. The business that delayed her trip out here, the cowboy, the police, anyone who has gotten in her way - no one escapes the thoroughness of her rage.
So much time wasted.
When the Lincoln finally pulls into the blacksmith's drive, she steps out, unfolding her limbs like a cat waking from a nap. Her goons follow suit. One walks ahead, sliding the shop's door open along its track while the other stands behind, silent.
The blacksmith's workshop is cold when Constance Clootie prowls in, her heels thudding dully on the dirt floor. She pauses inside the door and closes her eyes.
When her breath reaches her lungs, she holds it, letting it marinate, studying it like a fine wine. Her hands tremble slightly, but the tremor is lost against the fur of her coat.
She can feel the residue of the magic the blacksmith used. But it's faint, a wisp on the air.
Encouraged, she continues forward, sauntering straight past the ridiculous mess all around toward the back like she's being pulled along on a rope. Upon seeing the chair, sitting empty in a pathetically broken ring of salt, a laugh crosses her lips, dark and ruthless.
"You set up a welcoming committee but didn't even stick around?" she teases, addressing herself to the empty chair. "Tsk tsk, so ill-mannered."
The magic is stronger here, and it feels different. Electric, like the air itself is charged. It prickles against her skin, the hair on the back of her neck standing as if lightning is about to strike. Closing her eyes, she tries again, inhaling sharply and waiting for it to hit.
But the strike never comes.
The realization that the hours spent outside may have allowed the trace to dissipate to critical levels has her snarling in frustration, hackles raised in her fur coat. But - there's something. She cocks her head to the side, searching. Instead of a punch, there's a tickle. It's gossamer, soft and wispy, swirling slowly with the coal dust in the air. Where she had wanted a shout, the world has given her a whisper.
It's faint, but it is there. Her boy has been here. She had known this morning that she wouldn't find him inside, but she had stayed anyway.
This is the closest she's been in a century.
And now that she's got the trail, she can feel it, however slight it may be, she can feel it. But there's something else there, too. Another scent, another flavor of magic alongside the one she knows so well.
More. She needs more.
And she has an idea of where to start.
Her coat whips, slashing and stirring the heavy air in the shop as she turns and stalks through the open door, her eyes alight and her jaw set.
High above the hawk circles once, twice more before breaking its pattern and heading south.
