He pulled over to the curb and got out of the car. A dealer and an addict.
That’s where Blick could start.
Ghost Town
THIS WAS TRULY A GHOST TOWN, Eve thought, as her gaze traveled over the barren streets and wood buildings, some of which were still standing and others that had fallen down. She could almost feel the lonely abandonment that was echoing through the town.
But the saloon was still standing. So maybe Zander had been telling the truth about being here and putting the extra weapon and phone under the bar in the saloon.
“You’re very quiet,” Doane said mockingly as he stopped the truck and turned off the ignition. “Don’t you like your new home away from home? I was considering bringing you to this place first, but I decided the coin factory was safer, and it was easier to convert to my purpose.”
“Yes, I imagine it would be difficult to install those gas vents in the ceiling of that saloon over there,” she said dryly. “But it appears to be in one piece. Is that where you’re taking me?”
“We may end up there, but I’ve decided that old barbershop down the street will better suit your purpose.” He jumped out of the driver’s seat and came around to the passenger seat. “Get out.”
She jumped out of the truck onto the muddy street. The rain had stopped, but the cold mud was covering her shoes, and water was running rivulets down the dirt street. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still damp and chill as it touched her wet body. She was still soaked to the skin. When they’d stopped at the coin factory, Doane had not permitted her to change or even grab the few remaining garments that she’d left there when she’d escaped. The only things he’d taken from the factory were some of her tools and equipment, then he bundled her into the truck to bring her here. After handcuffing her to the steering wheel, he’d run back to the factory on some business of his own and not come back for a good twenty minutes. Then he’d driven down the mountain, slipping and sliding most of the way, even in this truck.
She stood there gazing at the ancient ruin of a town. People full of hope had once lived here and built their dreams. Now there was only desolation and loneliness.
A wolf howled in the foothills.
“I told you that the wolves would be after your Kevin,” Eve said maliciously. “He can’t get away from them. They’re even following him down to this shambles of a town.”
“Shut up about those wolves.”
The idea of wolves devouring his beloved Kevin evidently bothered him. It was something to store and remember. “Barbershop?” Her gaze wandered down the street until she spotted a small wooden structure with a red, white, and blue barber pole that was hanging from a broken metal arm and looked slightly drunken. “It’s very small.”
“You don’t need anything bigger.” He grabbed the huge sack of equipment he’d taken from the coin factory. Then his hand was grasping her elbow and half pushing her down the street. “You’re sculpting a skull, and you’re no Michelangelo.”
It wouldn’t hurt to try to change his mind. “The saloon would probably still be better. It would free me to move around the reconstruction and I’d have more room to—”
“No.” Doane said. “I’m not letting you more than a few feet away from me until you’ve finished that reconstruction. I don’t want you to have room.” He pushed the door of the barbershop open and shoved her inside.
Dust everywhere. Two ancient-looking barber chairs with cracked-leather seats. A broken mirror facing the chairs. “I can’t work in conditions like this.”
“You can and will.” He opened the sack and pulled out the dais he’d taken off the worktable at the factory. He placed it on the seat of one of the barber chairs, then took off his backpack and pulled out the skull. He gently placed it on the dais. “Repair the damage you’ve done. Then finish him, Eve.”
“I don’t have enough light.”
He pulled out a flashlight, and the dimness in the barbershop suddenly disappeared. He leveled his gun at her. “Finish him.”
She hesitated, staring at him. She was cold, wet, exhausted, and discouraged. Why not refuse and let it end? Why was it worth going on with a battle she wasn’t sure she wanted to win?
“I can see what you’re thinking. I’m not going to let you do this to us, Eve. I’ve got to give Kevin what he needs, what he wants.” His lips tightened. “And if you make me kill you, then I’ll go after everyone you love. I warned you about that. You’ll be responsible.”
“I won’t be responsible. I won’t accept your sins, Doane.”
But his words had reminded her that the battle was worth winning. If not for her, then for Joe and Jane.
And Bonnie.
Perhaps even for Zander, who could not be as evil as Kevin and Doane and might have furnished her with a path to freedom if she could get to that saloon.
So finish the damn reconstruction and try to get there as soon as possible.
“I’ll finish him,” she said curtly. “But I’m shaking, and my hands aren’t steady. You were so eager to punish me that you didn’t think about that when you jerked me down here without letting me dry off and change. Take off your jacket and give me your shirt.”
“What?”
“My pants will still be wet, but the tails of your shirt will cover me almost to my knees.” She kicked off her shoes. The floor was cool, but at least it wasn’t as bad as feeling as if her feet were encased in ice from the mud. “Do it if you want me to be able to work.”
He didn’t move for a moment. Then he cursed as he shrugged out of his coat and began unbuttoning his shirt. “You deserved freezing your ass.”
“We don’t all get what we deserve, or you’d be in hell with your son.” She took the flannel shirt he handed her, took off her own wet cotton shirt, and slipped on his shirt. It was warm from his body, but she received no comfort from it. She tried to block out the thought that he had been wearing it, the scent of him, the warmth that was coming from Doane and surrounding her.
It wasn’t what she’d felt when Zander had put his vest around her, she thought suddenly. There had been no rejection with Zander. She still could not be certain whether or not he was an enemy. But she had accepted what he had given.
Given. That was the difference. He might be an enemy or a reluctant ally, but he had given to her.
And she was taking from Doane even though the thought made her ill.
But she had to survive. She would survive.
So take whatever she needed and get on with it.
She braced herself and turned to face the skull on the dais.
You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you, Kevin?
“Go on,” Doane said impatiently. “Start it.”
Kill you. Kill her.
Oh, yes, you’ve been waiting. But you won’t kill me, and you won’t destroy my Bonnie. I’ll give you a little victory here, but you’re going to stay in hell, and your father will be following you soon.
A huge wave of nausea hit her.
She fought it off.
Is that all you’ve got? I’m used to it now. Pretty soon, I won’t notice it at all.
“Get to work.” Doane was frowning. “Kevin is getting angry.”
“As if I cared.” Eve picked up a spatula and began to smooth the left side of Kevin’s cheek. “He’s dead, and he has no power any longer. He’s getting weaker all the time.”
“No!”
“And so are you, Doane.”
“Am I?”
There was an odd note in his voice that caused her to stop. She turned to look at him.
Evil.
Strong, twisted, and full of fury.
And strangely alien.
Kevin. Not Doane. Kevin.
She inhaled sharply.
Then that impression faded, vanished.
And it was again Doane, vicious, also evil, but not alien. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Doane said. “I have the gun. I have the power. I’m not weak, Eve.”
> Not when Kevin was that close, slipping over boundaries he shouldn’t have been able to breach. That moment had frightened her. Doane was possibly changing, taking on Kevin’s evil as well as his own.
“Evil isn’t power.” She turned back to the reconstruction. “You’re both weak, Doane. You’ll find that out soon. Now leave me alone so that I can finish this reconstruction. I want to be done with him.”
“You’ll never be done with him, Eve.”
“Oh, but I will. I’ll be done with both of you.”
Work.
Hands smoothing, repairing, healing what should never be healed.
Give Doane what he wanted, then take what she wanted.
Find a way to get to that saloon.
Highway 145
Southern Colorado
“DID YOU FIND ANOTHER TOWN?” Margaret asked as she glanced at Kendra in the passenger seat. Kendra’s fingers were flying over her phone’s touch screen. “I admit I’m getting a little discouraged. We’ve already hit three gold-rush towns, and all we’ve come up with are souvenir mugs and guys trying to teach us how to mine gold.”
“And you bought a mug at every place we stopped.”
“I like souvenir mugs. They’re usually funny or pretty and remind me of where I’ve been. Most memories are good, and during the bad times, you pull out one of those mugs and drink to the good times.” She made a face. “But I may be stockpiling a few too many gold-rush mugs if we don’t get more productive.”
“Patience.” Kendra studied the screen. “There are old gold-rush towns all over this area, and it looks like several of them had their own coinages.”
Margaret’s brows rose. “That popular? They could make real money?”
“Yes, according to what I’m reading here, anyone could set up their own coin factory. Private banks could do it. As long as the coins were made of real gold, it was legal tender. It was only after the early 1860s that currency had to be made in the official U.S. mints.”
“So what’s the plan? Are we going to visit every gold-rush town and antique dealer in Colorado?”
“I’m hoping that Venable and his resources at the CIA will be able to track down this specific model of coin press and narrow the field a bit. But there are a couple more old gold-rush towns nearby that are still standing and open to tourists. Since we have a pretty good idea that Doane was in this area recently, we might as well hit them, too.”
“Okay, maybe they’ll have different mugs for my collection. How far is the nearest one?”
“About fifty yards.”
“What?”
Kendra pointed ahead to a wooden sign on the right reading DRAKEBURY SPRINGS. “Turn here.”
They followed a winding road that curved up to a parking lot packed with tour buses, SUVs, and RVs. It was a scene of bustling activity, contrasting with the almost desolate highway on which they had been traveling.
“It’s like Disneyland up here,” Kendra said, as they passed a fleet of parents pushing strollers. They parked and walked to a small kiosk, where they paid a donation and were given maps of the town, which was essentially a single street two blocks long.
They walked down a dirt road and passed two costumed actors pretending to be drunk prospectors. The men had attracted a crowd as each actor tried to outdo the other with their painful renditions of the song “In the Good Old Summertime.”
“These buildings don’t look very old,” Margaret said, eyeing a general store where a woman in pioneer attire was selling cotton candy.
“They’re not old. None of them are. I don’t think any of these were built more than fifteen years ago.”
“So what’s the point?”
“The point? To make money, to draw tourists to hotels and restaurants nearby. The whole thing looks like a reconstruction. We may be wasting our time.”
Margaret was studying the map. “The bank is up ahead and on the left.”
A few minutes later, they were entering the one-story structure. There were two counters with balance scales. A chalkboard behind the counters listed the bank’s current assets—circa 1857—and the buying price for gold.
Kendra shook her head. “Pretty sparse. Even if they once did make coins here, the equipment hasn’t been here for a long time.”
They moved down to the end of Main Street, where the town ended in a picnic area, several food vendors, and a tiny souvenir shop.
A white-bearded man in his late sixties was working behind the counter of the souvenir shop. He looked up and smiled at Kendra and Margaret as they stepped inside. “Welcome. I’m Bill Johnson. Looking for T-shirts?”
Kendra shook her head.
“Shot glasses? Mugs? Bumper stickers? I just got some beer can cozies you might like.”
“Nice color.” Margaret took a yellow T-shirt from the table and slid it on over her own. She modeled the shirt, which read: STRIKE IT RICH AT DRAKEBURY SPRINGS. “I’ll take this one.”
The man smiled. “Looks good on you. That will be twenty dollars.”
“Fifteen.” Margaret smiled at him. “Or I’ll pay twenty, and you can throw in that mug on the shelf over there.”
He frowned. “That’s nerve, little lady.”
“You obviously have an overstock. I’m taking it off your hands.”
He suddenly chuckled. “I do have an overstock. Twenty.” He reached up and took down a mug and gave it to her. “No credit cards.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t use the credit card I have for this.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.
Because it was Jane MacGuire’s credit card, Kendra thought. She remembered Margaret had told her she wouldn’t use it for anything that wasn’t important.
He turned to Kendra. “What about you, young lady? You look like you could use a Drakebury Springs sun visor.”
“Actually, we’ve just come here for information.”
He glanced at Margaret and made a face. “And to steal from a poor tradesman who’s only trying to earn a living.”
“And had a big overstock,” Margaret murmured.
He chuckled again.
It was clear Johnson liked Margaret and would have continued to banter with her. Kendra tried to get them back on track. “Information.”
Johnson nodded. “You’ve come to the right person. My daughter wrote the book on this town. Literally.” He motioned toward a paperback book displayed on the countertop. It was a thin book, obviously self-published, with the title DRAKEBURY SPRINGS: HISTORY AND LEGEND. The author’s name was Susan Johnson, with a young woman’s picture rather immodestly placed on the front cover. “She was always crazy about gold mines and ghost towns from the time she was a kid. Always writing and drawing pictures. She’s a great artist, but when she was in college, she wrote this book.” He held it up and smiled proudly. “You can send it to her and have her sign it for you if you’d like.”
“How much?”
“One for twenty, two for thirty.”
Margaret opened her mouth to protest, and Johnson glared at her.
She changed her mind and gave him a sunny smile. “That’s very inexpensive for a book that gives us a look at history. She must have worked very hard on it. By all means, let’s buy it, Kendra.”
“I was about to do that. I’ll take one.” Kendra paid him and picked up the book. “So are any of these buildings original?”
“Afraid not. The town is only a mock-up of a gold-rush town that went bust up in the mountains. Some of the stockholders of our company had ancestors who had businesses in that town and decided to capitalize on the Old West tourist craze. They built it as close to authentic to the family records as they could make it. But if you look at the photos in the book, you’ll see it’s a pretty good re-creation.”
She glanced casually at the photos, then stopped. “What’s this photo?”
“Oh, that’s the original town. It’s only a ghost town now. Pretty dismal, isn’t it? And sad. It was in a valley surrounded by mountains tha
t were supposed to be full of gold. The town was thriving, and everyone thought it would go on forever. But that area was mined out pretty quickly, so the town was abandoned. Too bad it all went bust because those mountain mines were in a beautiful spot. My daughter and some of her artist friends painted a mural showing the view from up there. You can see it on the side of this building, facing the picnic tables.”
“Oh, we’ll have to take a look at it on the way out. Would you know anything about old coin factories around here?”
“Well, there was a coinery somewhere up in the mountains near the original town, but by the time the miners moved on, they were taking their gold to Jeffreysboro.”
“Jeffreysboro. Is the coin factory still there?”
He thought for a moment. “No, it was dismantled after the Civil War.”
“Then where might we go to find an original coin press?”
“Well, I know there’s one on display at the Denver Mint, but aside from that, I really can’t say. Kind of out of my area of expertise, you know?”
Kendra nodded. “Sure. Have a good day.”
“You come back now.” He was looking at Margaret. “I can always use a little challenge to spark my day.”
She grinned and waved her mug at him as she left the store with Kendra.
“Not much help there,” Kendra said. “Waste of time. We’d better either look up some antique dealers who specialize in coin presses or move on to the next town.”
“Yeah, kind of interesting though.” Margaret looked down at her mug. “And not quite a waste, I got a nice mug out of it. Pretty scenery with the trees and those—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Holy smoke.”
Kendra’s gaze flew to her face. “What?”
“My very pretty mug.” She was staring at the mug with fascination. “It’s only a little slice of a picture … but what does this look like to you?”
“I could tell you if you’d give it to me.”
“Sorry. It just shocked me.” She handed Kendra the mug. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Kendra was staring at the picture on the mug—mountains, trees … “Oh, my God.”