Post by California gal on Feb 13, 2009 15:12:57 GMT -8
Originally posted June 2007
Dedicated to ChallengersPet, even though this story doesn’t concentrate on her pet, Artie. She’s the one who got me into this! My first WWW fiction.
The characters mostly belong to someone else. (A couple are mine.) Thanks for letting me play with them.
“James, you are dead wrong on this one.”
James West stared at the unyielding expression of his partner and felt the warming tide of anger rising within him. “Damn it, who made you God, Artie?”
A little surprise washed over Artemus Gordon’s countenance. “Jim, it’s plain as the nose on your face. You’ve made a mistake…”
“So the genius declares!” West sneered. “I am quite aware that you are way ahead of me in brain power, Gordon, but that doesn’t mean you are always right.” Jim West glared at the man seated on the sofa in colonel’s anteroom.
Gordon got to his feet slowly, concern showing now as he extended a pleading, open hand. “Simmer down, Jim. Look, we’re both tired. This vacation coming up is going to do us a lot of good. Let’s not let…”
Jim West raised a clenched fist. “You’re not always right, Artemus! Damn it, I’m getting tired of being patronized!”
“I’m not…”
“Did you hear me?” The fury in him was an inferno now, a wild ferocity he could not seem to control. Seeing the distress on his partner’s face served only to stoke the fire. Why did it always have to be Artie who was the all-knowing one? “I’M TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED!”
The gun seemed to leap out of the holster at his side into his hand. Horror replaced concern on Gordon’s face. “Jim…?”
Three shots reverberated in the room. The first one hit Gordon in the middle of the chest, hurling him back onto the sofa.
“Jim…” he gasped.
The second two shots finished it. Jim West heard the other door open, heard the cry of horror and alarm, but he did not move, staring at the man slumped back over the couch now, at the front of the brocade vest now stained crimson with gore. The eyes were still open, gaping at him in accusation.
“My God, West,” Colonel Richmond grabbed the gun from his hand. “What have you done?”
James West sat up abruptly, aware of the perspiration pouring from his forehead blending with the tears coursing down his cheeks. It was only a dream. He knew that. It had to be. A nightmare. A hellish nightmare that…
Oh God. Oh no!
He looked around. The nightmare was continuing, only now was much too real. The bars of his cell made it so. The rough cot with its straw mattress on which he was laying made it so. The stone floor, cold and dank under his bare feet as he swung them down off the cot, made it so. And above all, the stack of newspapers alongside the cot confirmed it all.
WEST CONFESSES! blared the issue laying on top. James West did not need to look at the others. He knew the others by heart. He had stared and stared at those screaming, screeching banners, edition by edition, trying to make them go away, to vanish into the netherworld of dreams and nightmares from which he could awaken to leave them all behind. But that never happened.
Artemus Gordon Slain!
James West Arrested for Murder!
West Confesses!
James West Sentenced to Hang!
President Grant Commutes West’s Sentence to Life!
That last one caused almost more anguish than the first. Jim had begged the warden to allow him to write a letter to the president, a request that was refused. “President Grant washes his hands of you,” Warden Parrott responded grimly. “He felt he owed you your life for all you have accomplished for him and for the country. But he wants nothing more to do with you now.”
A sound caused Jim to look up. Changing of the guard. The entire time, all the months, he had spent in this cell, a guard had been seated directly opposite the bars, morning, noon, and night. “Suicide watch,” Warden Parrott informed him. The guards were changed every four hours, twenty-four hours a day. He was not allowed to have or even handle a razor, and his shoes and their accompanying laces had been taken away.
The trousers of his coarse, drab grayish prison costume had a string in the waist to keep them up. That tie-string was checked regularly to make sure he had not attempted to remove it. They feared he might attempt to take his own life, and damn it, they could be right! They could have at least given him the brogans without the laces. Being barefoot was somehow degrading. Then again, perhaps that was what he deserved.
The guard’s presence might not have been so bad, primarily because he had been otherwise alone in this cell block, except that none of the guards ever spoke to him. He had tried to talk to them early on, but each one sat there like a statue, staring at him. Staring at him with unblinking eyes—or so it seemed. The eyes of Artemus Gordon. The faces, the bodies of the men changed, but the eyes were always the same. Brown, wide, staring, accusing.
Jim scrubbed his shirt sleeve over his face, wiping away some of the moisture. When were these nightmares going to end? How many times am I going to have to relive that horrendous moment? It was always exactly the same, beginning at the instant when Artie coolly informed him of his purported error, ending with the colonel jerking the pistol out of his hands.
Worse, he could not even remember what the argument had been about. They had asked him in the judge’s chambers when he had waived his right to a jury trial and agreed to accept the judge’s sentence. They had asked him, and he just shook his head. He could not remember. Maybe that was saddest of all. How could he not remember what had caused him to take his dearest friend’s life? His brother. More than a brother.
He knew that a doctor who specialized in brains and behavior—an alienist, so called—had testified that James West’s mental capacity had been affected, apparently before that horrible day. Jim tried and tried to recall previous instances where he had experienced such uncontrollable rage but could not. Odd that he could not even recall the doctor’s face, though the name was… Jim thought hard… Pickle? No, Mickle. Not a name he had ever heard of, he was certain. Then again, he had not had much contact with alienists. The doctor said that was another symptom. “He’s insane, or on the verge of insanity,” the physician pronounced solemnly. The voice droned on to relate how the years of facing death and uncertainty during West’s career as a Secret Service agent had taken its toll. “Mr. West snapped. It’s as simple as that.”
How could it be that simple? Jim shook his head physically, then looked at the new guard seated on the bench against the wall outside the bars. This sentry was a burly man with a heavy dark beard… and staring brown eyes. Jim had attempted to match gazes with those guards from time to time during the early days, and found he could not, only partially because the guard’s eyes never blinked. Meeting “Artie’s eyes” for more than a few seconds was more than James West could endure. Except for the fact that he had heard murmured exchanges of conversation between the changing guards, he might think they were automatons of some sort.
With a deep and noisy sigh, he lay back down, putting one arm under his head as a pillow, to stare at the ceiling. Couldn’t they have at least given him a cell with a window? As it was, the sole illumination was emitted from lanterns affixed to sconces on the opposite wall, above the guard station. Lanterns that burned, night and day. Whenever night and day occurred. Jim knew he had pretty much lost track of time. Time seemed completely irrelevant now anyway.
Not even the meal service helped, because the meals were monotonous once-a-day amalgams of the same thing: usually a piece of some sort of overdone meat, accompanied by a few tasteless boiled potatoes and a tin cup of coffee. Occasionally soggy vegetables were included. He had not complained about receiving only one meal each day, partly because of the poor quality of the victuals, but also because he simply had no appetite. All he ever consumed most days was the strong, pretty decent coffee that came with the tray. Eating was merely something he did to break the monotony of the long, dreary hours.
If only I could contact Grant. If only I could let my president know that I prefer death to this… this lifetime… years… an eternity… in this cell. If I have not lost my mind already, the life sentence will surely do it. The cell, the silent guards staring at me with accusing brown eyes, the persistent dream, the fragmentary memories… Why can’t I remember the entire situation?
The only thing that appeared certain was that Artemus Gordon was dead. Death and taxes. Taxes that would be paying for the incarceration of James West for… how many years? He was a young man yet. In good physical condition at the beginning of this sentence. That would deteriorate on the diet and lack of exercise. What would happen, Jim mused silently, if I refused to eat?
I’ve never been a man to contemplate suicide as an option. No matter what the situation I found myself in… and some were pretty terrifying… I always looked for the way out. I never considered giving up, surrendering. This is different, however. A lifetime of remembering that I murdered a man I loved as more than a friend, a man I knew loved me. My brother Artemus. I murdered him. How? Why?
In some sense, learning those reasons were a good motive to remain alive. How was he to find out those reasons, however? Since being locked in this cell so many months ago, his only contact had been with the guards who watched him and brought food, and a couple of times with the rotund, bald warden. Parrott had not been around for weeks.
Weeks. Months now since that cell door slammed on him, after the sentencing. What had happened during those weeks? Jim held a hand out in front of his face. Was it only the dim, yellowing lantern light that caused his skin to seem to retain the sun-golden shade earned after so many long treks on Blackjack? Shouldn’t he be acquiring a prison pallor by now? Too bad he did not have a mirror to view his face.
He sat up again, and picked up the stack of newspapers, leafing through them, trying to concentrate on the dates of each edition, not the glaring, blaring headlines. He had read all the articles through once. That was enough. The first paper, the one with the news of the crime, was dated six months prior to the last, which proclaimed Grant’s humane amnesty. What the president believed what humane amnesty.
It must be a symptom of the insanity, he determined, dropping the papers to the floor and laying down again. His memory had been affected. Almost like selective memory, he decided. He recalled pretty clearly the moment of the murder, up to Richmond grabbing the gun, just as it repeated in his dream. Then everything seemed to segue to a over to the judge’s chambers. Only bits and pieces of each subsequent incident were clear. Had Richmond been in the judge’s chambers? What about Jeremy? He simply could not recall any contact with fellow agent Jeremy Pike during the entire ordeal. Could well be that Jeremy avoided him. Hell, I’d avoid myself if I could! Why had Jeremy not at least come by to give him hell?
He heard footsteps then, and a guard bearing a tray appeared in front of the bars. Must be a special cadre of guards assigned to him, Jim mused, because the same half dozen or so rotated as sentry, or to bring the tray. Did none of them ever take time off?
The guard on the bench stood up and picked up the rifle that leaned against the wall next to him. Wordlessly, he pointed the weapon toward the cell. Jim did not move from the cot as the guard with the tray produced keys, opened the cell door, placed the tray on the floor inside, closed the door, locked it, then turned and left. The sentry sat down.
What would happen if I didn’t eat that food? Jim lay still. He was not hungry, in fact, had had little appetite since day one. He had eaten, more as an exercise in doing something. A request for books to read had been denied. Only the newspapers had been provided. The newspapers containing the terrible story that he would prefer to forget. Maybe he would try to stir things up and find out what happened if he did not touch the food. Perhaps that would at least cause someone to talk to him! If I’m not insane already, I will be, in this virtual solitary confinement.
Warden Parrott had told him what he already assumed, that he had been placed in a special cell block because the prison was filled with men he and Artemus had captured. Maybe he could ask to waive his right to this “protection.” Maybe he would get lucky and one of those former adversaries would successfully gain vengeance.
“Heard anything from Jim?”
Artemus Gordon looked up from the menu he had been perusing as Colonel Richmond took the chair opposite him at a white-linen-covered table in the hotel’s grand dining room. “Nope. And I’m taking that as good news.”
Richmond accepted the carte that the waiter hurriedly brought him. “How so?”
“He must be having one hell of a good time,” Gordon grinned. “After all, he’s all alone in San Francisco. We know how many beautiful women reside in San Francisco. Jim West’s presence always seems to be a magnet for the most alluring.”
The colonel smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself at drawing the women.”
“Thank you, sir. But I’m minor league compared to my pal. No, I think he arrived and immediately came in contact with some lovely lady who is consuming his time… day and night.”
“He usually at least sends you a telegram saying he arrived safely.”
Artie chuckled. “Yes, but as he’s told me so many times, I’m not his mama! I’m actually glad, colonel. Jim needs time away, including away from me. I love the man, but even married folks need distance at times.”
“Don’t I know that,” the Secret Service officer responded ruefully, shaking his head. “What’s the special today?”
“We’re in Kansas City, Colonel Richmond,” Gordon reminded with a sly grin.
Richmond laughed. “Steak it is. I thought Pike was going to join us tonight.”
“Yes. He’ll be along, I’m sure. I left him at the siding finishing that report. No food, I told him, until that’s done.”
“You’re a harsh taskmaster, Mr. Gordon.”
“Someone has to be. Ah, there he is.” Gordon looked toward the restaurant’s entrance, where he saw a somewhat frazzled-appearing fellow agent Jeremy Pike speaking to the headwaiter, who pointed in the direction of their table. “Hmm, wonder if something’s wrong?”
Richmond twisted slightly in his chair to gain a view of the approaching man. “He does look disturbed, doesn’t he? Damn, can’t we have one peaceful meal?”
The grim-faced Pike handed Artie a folded piece of yellow paper as he pulled out the third chair at the table. “This was delivered to the train.”
“What is it?” Richmond demanded, seeing the expression on Gordon’s face turn from mild curiosity to dismay as he read. Without comment, Artie handed the paper over. Richmond read aloud. “To James West, Kansas City. Sir, your reservation is being held. Please advise whether you plan to use the room. A fee may be charged for late cancellation. Your obedient servant, Henri Marseilles, manager, Buena Vista Hotel, San Francisco.” The colonel raised his eyes. “What the devil? This sounds as though West never arrived!”
“I sent a wire asking for confirmation of that,” Pike said briskly, “but I decided I’d better deliver this to you instead of waiting for a response.”
Gordon reached over and took the missive back, inspecting it. “Appears to be a genuine Western Union telegram.”
“The boy who delivered it looked genuine too,” Jeremy said. “They would not have had our private code. I know Jim didn’t use it when he made the reservations, sending from a Western Union office. What do you suppose happened?”
“Knowing West,” Richmond sighed audibly, “anything. Hell, he might have met one of those beautiful women Artemus and I were just discussing and took a side trip to… to who knows where!”
“He would have told me,” Gordon said softly. “He would have sent me word. I don’t like this at all. It’s been almost three days since he departed Kansas City.” Three days in which anything could have happened, and three days that were a head start for anyone who might have intended harm to the stellar agent.
“All right,” the colonel said, getting to his feet. “Let’s get on it. We need to check the railroad people and see what they know. If Jim West debarked somewhere between Kansas City and San Francisco, surely it was witnessed.”
A cold lump formed in Artemus Gordon’s stomach as he too stood up. “I hope so. I sure as hell hope so.”
“Tee-hee-hee!”
The childish giggle seemed to reverberate among the pieces of machinery and glassware in the expansive and cluttered laboratory. The man it emanated from turned and did a little jig on the small platform on which he was standing. He then put a hand over his mouth and attempted to compose himself under the withering stare from the other man in the room.
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Crania. Sometimes I simply cannot control myself.” The giggle threatened again, and he choked it back. He did not want to annoy his companion. Not yet.
“I suppose I understand,” Dr. Wilfred Crania replied, turning his attention back to the task at hand. “Dr. Loveless, you must remember. We are not finished yet.” He carefully fastened a thin wire to a point on the bowl-shaped contraption on the table in front of him, tying a minute knot.
“Oh, indeed I comprehend that well.” Miguelito Loveless scampered down the steps to the floor of the laboratory. “It’s just that… well, this device that allows me to witness James West in all his misery is marvelous. I’m pleased that I thought of it. Even though sound, hearing his sighs and sobs, would be the crowning touch, I am delighted to be able to view him at all without his knowledge. I only wish I could be there in person, to watch him, and to allow him to see me watching him.”
The man with the bulbous forehead lifted his gaze again. “Dr. Loveless, you know that would defeat the purpose.” The voice and expression were those of an instructor speaking to a particularly dense student. Crania was highly annoyed that Loveless was taking credit for the invention’s idea. He had, nevertheless, learned that to protest such a claim would be useless. Dealing with Loveless’s incredible vanity was perhaps the most difficult task he had encountered in this so-called “partnership.” Best to just ignore it, along with the little man’s endless criticisms and complaints.
“Yes, yes, yes.” Loveless hated having to rely on another in this process, but the fact was, Crania had knowledge and procedures that he himself had not acquired. Not yet. “I know. I know. If West saw me, he would suspect the ruse. It’s going so well… he was weeping again when he awakened. His eyes are… haunted… as he remembers… thinks he remembers… the murder. How long do you think the entire process will take now?”
Crania sighed audibly. The little man had asked this question almost hourly it seemed. “I don't know, doctor. My previous experiments have involved men of much less mental fortitude than Mr. West. He has an iron will, as you undoubtedly know.”
“And I’m going to break that will,” Loveless growled, shaking a fist at no one in particular. “I’m going to see him a groveling, sniveling madman before we are finished. His perceived guilt will destroy him. It’s the one thing that can. I know that. And then I’ll hand him over to his beloved friend and watch Gordon deteriorate as well. Can you imagine Gordon’s reaction? I can! Wonderful to contemplate. Wonderful!” He now scrubbed his hands together, anticipating the scene in his mind. “I’ll have to devise a manner in which to watch the reunion. If only it could be recorded for posterity.”
“Give me time, and I might manage that,” Crania snapped. “But for now, arranging the vision-transporting machine consumed much too much of my time. Time I could have been devoting to driving your Mr. West mad.”
“And we’re well on that road,” Loveless chortled, looking back toward the eyepiece on the board above the platform somewhat longingly. He had watched every movement his prisoner had made over the last several hours, unable to draw himself away. The system of mirrors and some other unknown mechanism relayed the scene to the laboratory, on the floor above the cell area, to be displayed on a small glass screen. It worked far better than a simple peephole in the ceiling of the cell, which might have been too noticeable to the inmate, especially one with the abilities of James West. A mere pinprick was all that was needed for Crania’s apparatus. I’m going to have to learn his secret, Loveless determined. The secret of the vision transportation machine, and many others, including how Crania was planting the nightmare in West’s brain, over and over.
“We need some more memories,” Loveless pronounced, hoisting himself up onto a stool near Crania’s workstation.
“And what did you have in mind?” Crania asked dryly. “Did West massacre an entire schoolyard full of children?” He was rapidly wishing he had never gotten involved with the crazy, obsessed little man. It all had seemed like a superb opportunity to test and advance some of his theories and procedures, as well as to have this magnificent laboratory built and stocked to work in. Loveless, however, was never satisfied. He did not seem to realize what had been accomplished in just four days. James West was teetering on the edge of madness.
Loveless gasped. “Children! No, no! But there must be something. I want him writhing in agony, Crania. Not physical pain, you understand. Nevertheless, he has to regret every moment he spent foiling my plans. Aha! I think I have it!” His big eyes lit up with joy.
“Yes?”
“Imagine. Just imagine, how James West would feel if he learned that I, the great Dr. Miguelito Loveless, have been acclaimed as the savior of mankind, the rescuer of the entire world. That everything he had done to stop me over the years has been wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong!” Loveless clapped his hands to congratulate himself for the inspiration.
“And to accomplish that? I’ve warned you, doctor, we cannot overload his memory. The relevant bits and pieces I’ve placed in his brain are sufficient, particularly because he now undoubtedly feels that his mind is defective. Something is preventing his mind from working as it should. He does not comprehend why he cannot remember everything. In other words, he is losing his senses and going insane.”
“Nothing so complicated,” Loveless said smugly. “I shall merely need the printing press again.”
Crania frowned. “Now, be careful. Use subtlety. Even West, in his state, could spot a fraud.”
Loveless sniffed haughtily. “You need not worry, Dr. Crania. Subtlety is my middle name.”
“James, you are dead wrong on this one.”
James West stared at the unyielding expression of his partner and felt the warming tide of anger rising within him. “Damn it, who made you God, Artie?”
A little surprise washed over Artemus Gordon’s countenance. “Jim, it’s plain as the nose on your face. You’ve made a mistake…”
“So the genius declares!” West sneered. “I am quite aware that you are way ahead of me in brain power, Gordon, but that doesn’t mean you are always right.” Jim West glared at the man seated on the sofa in colonel’s anteroom.
Gordon got to his feet slowly, concern showing now as he extended a pleading, open hand. “Simmer down, Jim. Look, we’re both tired. This vacation coming up is going to do us a lot of good. Let’s not let…”
Jim West raised a clenched fist. “You’re not always right, Artemus! Damn it, I’m getting tired of being patronized!”
“I’m not…”
“Did you hear me?” The fury in him was an inferno now, a wild ferocity he could not seem to control. Seeing the distress on his partner’s face served only to stoke the fire. Why did it always have to be Artie who was the all-knowing one? “I’M TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED!”
The gun seemed to leap out of the holster at his side into his hand. Horror replaced concern on Gordon’s face. “Jim…?”
Three shots reverberated in the room. The first one hit Gordon in the middle of the chest, hurling him back onto the sofa.
“Jim…” he gasped.
The second two shots finished it. Jim West heard the other door open, heard the cry of horror and alarm, but he did not move, staring at the man slumped back over the couch now, at the front of the brocade vest now stained crimson with gore. The eyes were still open, gaping at him in accusation.
“My God, West,” Colonel Richmond grabbed the gun from his hand. “What have you done?”
James West roused to the now familiar sense of loss and misery. At least no tears this time, but his shirt and hair were damp with perspiration. The nightmare was draining. He awakened feeling exhausted, as though he had not slept at all, as the dream occurred every time he slept. Would he ever have a peaceful night of sleep again? Did he deserve one?
Sitting up, he looked at the implacable guard. The thin one now. Lord, had they all been chosen because of their stoicism, or because they all possessed the deep brown eyes? Had someone decided that if he was not going to hang, he at least would endure a living death, with constant reminders of his crime?
The newspapers were where he had left them, only the top copy had changed. Instead of the “West Confesses,” headline, the one with “James West Sentenced to Hang” was now visible. Someone had come in while he slept. The tray, however, with the now cold food, was still on the floor. He had not eaten the last two meals. The first one had been taken away. Not this one. Odd that he did not feel any hungrier than he did after not eating for two days. Of course, the food served was not exactly conducive to hunger cravings. Last night he had only drained the cup of strong coffee.
And then slept like a log.
Jim rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. This was strange. Why had not this occurred to him previously? He had been in this cell for months. He could not recollect shaving himself, nor anyone else performing the task for him, during that entire time. Yet his beard growth was that of only a few days. Was someone creeping in to trim it while he slept?
He sat with his arms resting on his knees, head bowed. A posture of penitence. A glance up revealed that the guard did not move, simply watched him. After a long minute, on a whim, Jim got up and stepped over to the bars.
“Hey,” he said. The sentry merely stared. “What do you think my chances would be of getting some chocolate cake?” Had he seen a slight flicker in that implacable gaze? “Man, I love chocolate cake. How about you? What’s your favorite?” The silent stare continued. Jim West heaved a great, noisy sigh, leaned his forehead against the cool bars. “Artie’s favorite was strawberry shortcake. Always talked about his Great Aunt Maude’s strawberry shortcake. Now he’s dead. He’s dead!”
Jim lifted his head, his face contorted in grief. “How did I do that? What is wrong with me? My best friend! Have you ever hurt your best friend? Killed him?”
Again, he wondered if he saw something in the brown eyes. But the guard did not move, his facial expression unchanging. West turned and threw himself on the cot, burying his face in the straw ticking. He made sounds and hoped it passed for sobbing. Twice he peeked toward the guard. The second time, the man was leaning forward slightly. Maybe he’s not so impervious after all.
After a few moments, he quieted and hoped the sentry thought he had fallen asleep. He had not, Jim realized, been doing a lot of thinking about his situation. To be honest with himself, he had been spending most of his waking moments wallowing in grief and guilt. The dreams and the newspapers aided and abetted those emotions. What would happen if he threw the newspapers out of the cell? If he refused to eat? Would anyone care?
Artemus Gordon pulled the wall map down and stared at it a long moment before turning to face the half dozen men gathered in the parlor car. One was Jeremy Pike, the others were additional agents that Colonel Richmond had assigned. Armed with the information amassed over the first thirty-six hours after learning of his agent’s disappearance, Richmond was certain that a full-scale operation was necessary. He would provide more men if Gordon requested. In the meanwhile, his best men were in the special train hurtling westward across the plains.
“Here’s the story so far,” Artie said. “Jim left Kansas City four days ago. We know he got on the westbound Kansas & Pacific car. Jeremy and I saw him off. We’ve been able to contact and talk to the conductor and porters on that particular train. These men remembered Jim, knew who he was. Fame has some value, it seems. In any case, the porter in his car, in particular, was disappointed when Mr. West left the car during a stop in Salina, so he watched Jim through the window.
“Seems a telegram was delivered to Jim at that stop. The conductor handed it to him, and said that Mr. West appeared a bit disturbed by the contents. He got up, grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment, and told the conductor that he would be leaving the train, would not continue on to San Francisco at this time. That was the morning of the second day. As you may know, Jim had attempted to book a private compartment on that particular train, but they were all sold out due to a large wedding party traveling west. That might have been fortuitous because he was then in a position to be observed and his activities noticed.
“In any case, the porter watched Jim’s progress when he left the train. The porter said Jim met two men off to one side of the platform and—in the porter’s opinion—was not particularly happy about it. ‘Something in the way his shoulders moved,’ the porter stated. He has made a hobby, it seems, of watching passengers and trying to guess their emotions, reasons for traveling, relationships to others, simply by noting their body language and facial expression. Sharp fellow.
“He gave us an excellent description of the two men Jim met, but thus far we have not been able to identify them. They were not agents, of that much we’re certain. That may have been something Jim belatedly realized. We’ve been unable to discover an actual telegram that was received in Salina to be delivered to James West on the train, so it appears that was a fake to draw him off the train.
“The porter stated that Jim left the platform with the two men, walking in between them while carrying his bag. One of the men put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. They disappeared around a building, and that was the last he was seen. We have not been able to find a witness to say whether they went into town, mounted horses, got into a carriage…. They simply vanished at this particular point, though currently two agents are in Salina attempting to locate someone who may have seen him later.”
“So he was snatched.” Husky, florid-faced Bill Maher chomped down on his unlit cigar, his expression mirroring the anger on the countenances of his companions.
“So it would seem,” Artemus responded in a voice far more mild than he felt. He knew the importance of retaining his equanimity at this point. Panic was not going to help. Nor did self-blame. “The question is more by whom than why. We can guess the why. Also, where did they take him?”
“And is he alive?” Jeremy growled in a low voice.
“We have to go on the premise that he is,” Artie said stolidly. He had already had too many nightmarish thoughts about that. Jim West had enemies. Many, many enemies. Men who wanted him dead. Some who would enjoy watching him suffer a long and lingering death.
I should have given in and gone with him. Jim had asked him several times if he would. Had even appeared a trifle annoyed when Artie staunchly refused. We needed time off. I knew that. But if I had been with him… What? Would the kidnapping have not taken place? Or would both of them now be in the hands of… whoever?
“What’s the plan?” George Murdoch’s always morose face was even more morose on this day.
Artemus Gordon sighed. “I don't know if we can even formulate a plan just yet. We obviously need to start at Salina. Perhaps by the time we arrive there, the other agents will have more information for us. Whether or not, we just have to start looking. Try to find some… some clue. Some sign. Unless we have further information, we’ll be literally blindfolded. All we can do is fan out and keep asking questions. They cannot have vanished without someone seeing them, somewhere.” Could they? Artie had seen many strange things over his career as a Secret Service agent. The brilliant, but mad, men they had encountered had come up with all manner of ingenious inventions. Please, God, no invisibility machine! We have to find Jim. Alive and well. Please!
“We’ll arrive in Salina early tomorrow morning. At that time, I’ll give you your assignments. Get a good night’s sleep. It might be the last one you’ll have in a while.” If only I could take my own advice!
“James, you are dead wrong on this one.”
James West stared at the unyielding expression of his partner and felt the warming tide of anger rising within him. “Damn it, who made you God, Artie?”
A little surprise washed over Artemus Gordon’s countenance. “Jim, it’s plain as the nose on your face. You’ve made a mistake…”
“So the genius declares!” West sneered. “I am quite aware that you are way ahead of me in brain power, Gordon, but that doesn’t mean you are always right.” Jim West glared at the man seated on the sofa in colonel’s anteroom.
Gordon got to his feet slowly, concern showing now as he extended a pleading, open hand. “Simmer down, Jim. Look, we’re both tired. This vacation coming up is going to do us a lot of good. Let’s not let…”
Jim West raised a clenched fist. “You’re not always right, Artemus! Damn it, I’m getting tired of being patronized!”
“I’m not…”
“Did you hear me?” The fury in him was an inferno now, a wild ferocity he could not seem to control. Seeing the distress on his partner’s face served only to stoke the fire. Why did it always have to be Artie who was the all-knowing one? “I’M TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED!”
The gun seemed to leap out of the holster at his side into his hand. Horror replaced concern on Gordon’s face. “Jim…?”
Three shots reverberated in the room. The first one hit Gordon in the middle of the chest, hurling him back onto the sofa.
“Jim…” he gasped.
The second two shots finished it. Jim West heard the other door open, heard the cry of horror and alarm, but he did not move, staring at the man slumped back over the couch now, at the front of the brocade vest now stained crimson with gore. The eyes were still open, gaping at him in accusation.
“My God, West,” Colonel Richmond grabbed the gun from his hand. “What have you done?”
James West kept his eyes closed for a long while, forcing himself to consider the dream… nightmare… moment by moment. Why had they been in Richmond’s office? He could not come up with that answer. The vacation part was right. He and Artemus had been given two weeks’ leave. Jim’s immediate idea had been to spend it in the wonderful, cosmopolitan city of San Francisco. Artemus thought that was a splendid idea, but refused to accompany him.
“You go, Jim, and have a superb time. For me, I think I’d prefer to just stay here in Kansas City, do some reading, perhaps visit a few museums, take in some lectures.”
Jim had been skeptical. Artemus, of course, knew that Jim West did not always appreciate the same cerebral pastimes that Artemus Gordon did. Jim could not grasp, nonetheless, how spending two weeks at those pursuits could be considered a vacation. He tried several times and in several different ways to convince his partner to accompany him, even to mentioning a couple of women whom Artie had met and seemed to like—and vice-versa—who resided in the Pacific Coast city.
So had that instigated the argument? How could something so trivial have exploded into the hot fury that had caused James West to draw out the gun, let alone pull the trigger… three times? No, the argument had to have been over something else. But what? Jim could not really think of another instance where he had become angry because Artie’s superior knowledge overcame his own. He deferred to Artemus often, because he knew that his partner was more often right in matters of information, esoteric or utile, just as Artie generally bowed to his own tactical knowledge and ability to read people.
But what was the reason? Why could he not remember it? Why did the dream always begin at one spot and end at another, with no variations? He stared at the rough, stained ceiling above him, willing the answer to appear to him. What could have possibly come between him and Artemus Gordon? After so many years together, they had known each other so very well…
With a sigh, Jim sat up. The redheaded guard was on the bench now. Brown eyes instead of green on this redhead. Brown, staring eyes. Artie’s accusing eyes. Closing his own for a moment, Jim remembered the moment in the nightmare. The moment when the first bullet slammed into Artemus’s chest. He seemed to feel the stabbing pain in his own soul.
No sense. Nothing made sense. He could not recall ever having a dream, or nightmare, previously that was so crystal clear in his mind after awakening. The usual pattern seemed to be that the more he tried to remember, the more it faded away. Only if he spoke to someone about it almost right away did it stick in his memory. This one was not only crystal clear, but reiterated itself perfectly night after night.
Jim looked down at the stack of newspapers. Again, the order had been changed while he slept, with the “Artemus Gordon Murdered” headline on top. The previous tray was gone as well. Why would the sentry change the newspapers? To remind him of the events? As if he needed a reminder. Between the dream and the flashes of memory about…
He frowned, staring at the grim-faced guard, but not really seeing him. He forced himself now to think of the judge’s chambers. He could almost see the judge’s face, but not clearly. Same with the prosecuting attorney and the alienist who had given expert testimony. They had been there, he knew what had been said, but could not actually hear the words of either the judge or the attorney. Only those clinical words in the droning voice of the alienist. One would think that the intoning voice of the judge pronouncing his fate—hanging at that time—would have been implanted in his brain just as the nightmare was.
Did I have a defense attorney?
Jim tried and tried to picture the room, the men present. Like the dream, the incident seemed to start at one point, end at another. He could not go beyond those points in either direction. No memory of standing up with the cold chains weighing on his arms. Jim West had been present at other such hearings, both in the courtroom and in a judge’s private room. The prisoner was always chained. The prisoner always stood to hear the sentence pronounced, the chains clanking softly. Those sounds always remained in Jim’s memory for a long while when they applied to someone else’s sentence. Why not his own?
I’ve been indulging in self pity, he decided, turning to go back to the cot again, sitting down with his elbows on his knees, staring now at the newspaper, but once more not really seeing it. Self-indulgence seemed to be an apt description of the agony he had been experiencing, thinking of his own pain and grief and almost nothing else. The repeated nightmare was a constant reminder of the horrific deed he had committed, however, never giving him an opportunity to forget, even if he wanted to do so. All he had been able to think about was the murder, Artie’s death, and his own hand in it. Very little time had been spent these past months reflecting on other incidents, other portions of the whole situation.
Is that how it’s supposed to be? Was he supposed to be so caught up in his guilt and grief that nothing else mattered? Putting the newspapers here, so that they were the only information, the only reading material he had. Was that someone’s idea of his punishment? If so, it was successful. The anguish he experienced every time Artie’s stricken face appeared in his thoughts…. But whose diabolically clever vengeance was behind it?
Grant? Artemus Gordon had been a particular favorite of Ulysses S. Grant. Jim had long been aware of that, but that awareness had never bothered him in particular. He knew that the general, and president, was cognizant of James West’s value and talents, and held them in esteem. Grant knew the best way to use each man, and often had. No, this sort of penalty was not something President Grant would do, or condone, if he knew about it. He had commuted the sentence from hanging. That was the kind of man Grant was. He had thought he was doing the right thing for a man who had served him so long and faithfully.
These events had happened. How could he be remembering them if they had not actually occurred? But why not the entire sequence of events? Why was the memory not in his mind of the events which happened moments after Richmond grabbed his gun? He could not remember being arrested, being taken to a police station, or anywhere else, to be arraigned. No long sessions of questioning until the judge’s chambers.
The jump from the moment of the murder to the session in the judge’s chambers indicated that for whatever reason he was blocking everything else from his memory. That was strange. If I was going to block anything, wouldn’t it be the murder itself? Or was that simply too momentous to forget? Even if he wanted to.
From the judge’s chamber, he had no recollection of being transported to this prison. In fact, Jim realized he had no notion of where this prison was located. Was it Leavenworth? San Quentin? Another federal penitentiary? He tried to remember if he had heard of a Warden Parrott previously and if so, which prison he presided over. The name meant nothing to him.
What did all these lapses in his memory indicate? The alienist stated he was losing his mind. Was that true? Had he literally lost chunks of his memory? Other events were perfectly clear. He could remember things that happened as a boy, the Christmas he received the shiny red sled he had wanted so earnestly, how he had enlisted in the Union Army and became a member of Grant’s staff. In particular, he remembered the day he first met Artemus Gordon. Seemed that only the events that occurred after the murder were fragmented. Maybe that was normal after such a traumatic occurrence.
Nevertheless, why could he not remember someone as important as his own attorney? He must have had one. Even while pleading guilty, he would have had an attorney to advise him. No judge worth his salt was going to allow the accused to make statements without a lawyer present. Yet he could not recall a single conversation with an attorney of any sort, defense or prosecution.
Is my mind that far gone?
Miguelito Loveless paced the stone floor of the laboratory, his face taut with anger as he threw black looks toward the man with the large forehead who was calmly working on the upside-down bowl. That’s what it looked like anyway. A metal bowl used to serve salad or potatoes. Dr. Loveless hated to have to rely on another person, but that was the case here. That “salad bowl” was supposedly what was going to do the trick. The coup de grace, the nasake-no ichigeki, that would send James West hurtling over the edge into the abyss of total insanity.
He halted by the work bench and glared at the other man. “Dr. Crania, this is simply unconscionable. It is taking too long! Your methods do not appear to be working!”
Crania barely glanced up. He was becoming inured to the little man’s outbursts. Seemed all Loveless did was complain. Well, if he was so brilliant, so perfect, why had he needed Dr. Wilfred Crania’s assistance?
“It’s working, doctor. West is absorbing it all, and it’s preying on his consciousness. This phase of seeming acceptance is quite reasonable.”
“Not to me!” Loveless retorted. “I just watched him awaken calmly. He had the dream, I know that. I saw his face while he slept.” Miguelito paused, frowned. “When are you going to tell me how you accomplished this… this imprinting? How did you put the nightmare and the memories into his head?”
“All in good time, Dr. Loveless. All in good time. Once West is certifiably mad, we’ll have plenty of time to discuss it.” Crania only hoped that when Loveless learned how simple the procedure had been he would not lose that infamous temper and do bodily harm. Crania knew he was going to have to be very careful when he related the method. He was quite certain the good doctor was familiar with mesmerism. He had only taken it a step further.
“That’s just it! Time is running out. I’ve had reports that Gordon and other agents are in Salina and scouring the area. Gordon is a smart man… not nearly so intelligent as I am, of course… but he will figure it out eventually. People will tell him about these ruins. He may ignore them, or he may even take a look and decide it’s the wrong place. Sooner or later, however, he’ll be back.”
Crania made some notes on a journal page as he tested the strength of the connection of the wire he had just attached to the “bowl.” “This device will render time pointless. When Gordon finds his partner, James West will be beyond assistance.”
“Then let’s use it. Now!”
Dr. Crania barely prevented himself from rolling his eyes in exasperation. He retained a benign expression on his brow-dominated face, and spoke in a calm voice. “I will need to make tests. Perhaps by tomorrow if I can complete the wiring today.” Without interruption, he wanted to add. “Understand, Dr. Loveless, that the device as it is would not necessarily render a man insane so much as destroy all thinking processes, and turn him into an idiot…”
Loveless threw his hands in the air. “What do I care? James West as a blithering, salivating idiot is almost as good as a madman!”
“You didn’t let me finish, doctor. It could destroy the brain cells and make him a pathetic idiot, or it could kill him.”
“Oh.” Loveless stopped moving for a moment. “Oh, I see.” Killing James West was not the plan. Artemus Gordon would suffer if his friend died, but the suffering would be relatively short-lived. The scheme was for Gordon to have to witness his mad—or moronic—friend suffering a living death. Day in and day out, year in and year out. Artemus would endure what James West was suffering now. His pain was yet to come.
“Then we must accelerate the current process,” Loveless declared. “Put West to sleep more often so that the dream recurs more frequently.”
“Perhaps,” Crania mused, nodding. “I have not tried that. If, as you say, West awakened calmly, he may be attempting some reasoning as well as acceptance. A more frequent recurrence of the nightmare would not allow time for reasoning. I must consult my notes. I presume you have given up on the idea of the newspaper.”
“I most certainly have not!” Loveless sniffed. “In fact, I believe I’m going ahead with it. Just one more thing to prey on West’s mind, the fact that he persecuted a brilliant and oh-so-innocent man.”
Crania was shaking his head. “I must persuade you, doctor, that it is not a good idea. It could backfire.”
“Nonsense!” What did this scientist who spent his entire life inside a laboratory know about human nature? He himself, Dr. Miguelito Loveless, had made a career of studying human nature. He knew James West as well as he knew himself. West had a conscience. That very conscience was causing his anguish just now, driving him toward a complete breakdown of all his faculties. Knowing that he had committed another “atrocity” against an innocent man, himself, the great Dr. Loveless, would only weigh West’s mind down further, adding the stones, so to speak, that could well throw him completely off balance. Perhaps the “salad bowl” would not be needed. He rubbed his substantial chin. “I think first though, I’ll have ‘Warden Parrott’ pay him a visit. That might shake things up in West’s pea-sized brain!”
Artemus Gordon leaned both hands on the desk and stared at the map spread out there, barely conscious of the other two men in the car with him. Where are you, Jim? Where are you? The map of this county had been provided by the local sheriff. Artie had made some marks on it to signify certain landmarks, as well as to indicate locations where witnesses reportedly espied the three men. Biggest problem was that the trio had been supposedly spotted all over the county!
“What next?” Jeremy asked quietly.
Gordon straightened now, supporting his elbow in one hand while his chin rested in the other hand as he looked around at Pike, Bill Maher, and George Murdoch. The rest of the agents were still out asking questions and re-asking them. “On this map, it appears that the majority of the sightings were made in the eastern part of the county, although the one that reported seeing them over here—the schoolteacher’s report—is very credible.” Artie reached out and tapped the map on the portion west of Salina. “She was able to describe the traveling bag Jim was carrying, something no one else has accomplished.”
“But then why did so many see them in the opposite area?” Bill asked, then answered his own question before anyone else could. “Because they… whoever has Jim… set up some decoys.”
“I was just going to say that,” Jeremy stated. “If she saw him still carrying the bag, it really makes more sense that she, and the others who report spying them in that area, are more accurate.”
“Yes,” Artie concurred. “But Saline County is nearly sixty square miles in area. It’s also rather sparse in vegetation as well as population at this point. The railroad coming through has changed that to some extent, but there are still vast expanses where nothing but rolling prairie is visible.”
George, who had been morosely silent, leaned forward suddenly, putting a finger on a spot near the western boundary of the county. “The ruins of an old mill are right about here. The creek dried up and the place was abandoned.” He looked a little sheepishly as he felt the gazes of the others on him. “I was a federal marshal for a year or so after the war, and spent some time traveling through this area.”
Jeremy shook his head. “I’m pretty sure that’s the place I checked out. Big two-level stone building, half falling down. Deserted.”
“We have no way of knowing if Jim is even in this county,” Artie said unhappily. “Even in the state.”
“Or the country,” Bill growled.
The four men fell silent, staring at the map, each with his own thoughts. They had all worked with James West at some point, Artie knew, to a greater or lesser extent. He also knew they admired and liked the handsome, versatile agent. Jim West would have given his life for any of them. He was that sort of man. Is. Is that sort of man. I can’t let myself think otherwise. Jim is alive. Somewhere, he is alive and waiting for me to help him. Why was I so stubborn about this vacation? I should be with him!
“What next?” Pike iterated his earlier query.
Artemus looked at Jeremy Pike’s grim face, knowing the expression matched his own. “I guess we just keep at it. Jeremy, let’s you and I go look at this mill again. Even if no one is there now, it sounds like a place someone might use for a stopping place. They took Jim off the train midmorning. At some point, they’d need to rest, maybe feed themselves.”
“I didn’t see any signs of a recent campfire, or horses, but then again, I maybe did not look closely enough. I was in a hurry.” Jeremy smiled briefly. All of them were anxious, struggling to be patient and efficient in their search. It was not easy, especially not knowing if they had time, or if time had expired.
The Night of the Twisted Mind
[/center]Dedicated to ChallengersPet, even though this story doesn’t concentrate on her pet, Artie. She’s the one who got me into this! My first WWW fiction.
The characters mostly belong to someone else. (A couple are mine.) Thanks for letting me play with them.
*W*W*W*W*
“James, you are dead wrong on this one.”
James West stared at the unyielding expression of his partner and felt the warming tide of anger rising within him. “Damn it, who made you God, Artie?”
A little surprise washed over Artemus Gordon’s countenance. “Jim, it’s plain as the nose on your face. You’ve made a mistake…”
“So the genius declares!” West sneered. “I am quite aware that you are way ahead of me in brain power, Gordon, but that doesn’t mean you are always right.” Jim West glared at the man seated on the sofa in colonel’s anteroom.
Gordon got to his feet slowly, concern showing now as he extended a pleading, open hand. “Simmer down, Jim. Look, we’re both tired. This vacation coming up is going to do us a lot of good. Let’s not let…”
Jim West raised a clenched fist. “You’re not always right, Artemus! Damn it, I’m getting tired of being patronized!”
“I’m not…”
“Did you hear me?” The fury in him was an inferno now, a wild ferocity he could not seem to control. Seeing the distress on his partner’s face served only to stoke the fire. Why did it always have to be Artie who was the all-knowing one? “I’M TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED!”
The gun seemed to leap out of the holster at his side into his hand. Horror replaced concern on Gordon’s face. “Jim…?”
Three shots reverberated in the room. The first one hit Gordon in the middle of the chest, hurling him back onto the sofa.
“Jim…” he gasped.
The second two shots finished it. Jim West heard the other door open, heard the cry of horror and alarm, but he did not move, staring at the man slumped back over the couch now, at the front of the brocade vest now stained crimson with gore. The eyes were still open, gaping at him in accusation.
“My God, West,” Colonel Richmond grabbed the gun from his hand. “What have you done?”
James West sat up abruptly, aware of the perspiration pouring from his forehead blending with the tears coursing down his cheeks. It was only a dream. He knew that. It had to be. A nightmare. A hellish nightmare that…
Oh God. Oh no!
He looked around. The nightmare was continuing, only now was much too real. The bars of his cell made it so. The rough cot with its straw mattress on which he was laying made it so. The stone floor, cold and dank under his bare feet as he swung them down off the cot, made it so. And above all, the stack of newspapers alongside the cot confirmed it all.
WEST CONFESSES! blared the issue laying on top. James West did not need to look at the others. He knew the others by heart. He had stared and stared at those screaming, screeching banners, edition by edition, trying to make them go away, to vanish into the netherworld of dreams and nightmares from which he could awaken to leave them all behind. But that never happened.
Artemus Gordon Slain!
James West Arrested for Murder!
West Confesses!
James West Sentenced to Hang!
President Grant Commutes West’s Sentence to Life!
That last one caused almost more anguish than the first. Jim had begged the warden to allow him to write a letter to the president, a request that was refused. “President Grant washes his hands of you,” Warden Parrott responded grimly. “He felt he owed you your life for all you have accomplished for him and for the country. But he wants nothing more to do with you now.”
A sound caused Jim to look up. Changing of the guard. The entire time, all the months, he had spent in this cell, a guard had been seated directly opposite the bars, morning, noon, and night. “Suicide watch,” Warden Parrott informed him. The guards were changed every four hours, twenty-four hours a day. He was not allowed to have or even handle a razor, and his shoes and their accompanying laces had been taken away.
The trousers of his coarse, drab grayish prison costume had a string in the waist to keep them up. That tie-string was checked regularly to make sure he had not attempted to remove it. They feared he might attempt to take his own life, and damn it, they could be right! They could have at least given him the brogans without the laces. Being barefoot was somehow degrading. Then again, perhaps that was what he deserved.
The guard’s presence might not have been so bad, primarily because he had been otherwise alone in this cell block, except that none of the guards ever spoke to him. He had tried to talk to them early on, but each one sat there like a statue, staring at him. Staring at him with unblinking eyes—or so it seemed. The eyes of Artemus Gordon. The faces, the bodies of the men changed, but the eyes were always the same. Brown, wide, staring, accusing.
Jim scrubbed his shirt sleeve over his face, wiping away some of the moisture. When were these nightmares going to end? How many times am I going to have to relive that horrendous moment? It was always exactly the same, beginning at the instant when Artie coolly informed him of his purported error, ending with the colonel jerking the pistol out of his hands.
Worse, he could not even remember what the argument had been about. They had asked him in the judge’s chambers when he had waived his right to a jury trial and agreed to accept the judge’s sentence. They had asked him, and he just shook his head. He could not remember. Maybe that was saddest of all. How could he not remember what had caused him to take his dearest friend’s life? His brother. More than a brother.
He knew that a doctor who specialized in brains and behavior—an alienist, so called—had testified that James West’s mental capacity had been affected, apparently before that horrible day. Jim tried and tried to recall previous instances where he had experienced such uncontrollable rage but could not. Odd that he could not even recall the doctor’s face, though the name was… Jim thought hard… Pickle? No, Mickle. Not a name he had ever heard of, he was certain. Then again, he had not had much contact with alienists. The doctor said that was another symptom. “He’s insane, or on the verge of insanity,” the physician pronounced solemnly. The voice droned on to relate how the years of facing death and uncertainty during West’s career as a Secret Service agent had taken its toll. “Mr. West snapped. It’s as simple as that.”
How could it be that simple? Jim shook his head physically, then looked at the new guard seated on the bench against the wall outside the bars. This sentry was a burly man with a heavy dark beard… and staring brown eyes. Jim had attempted to match gazes with those guards from time to time during the early days, and found he could not, only partially because the guard’s eyes never blinked. Meeting “Artie’s eyes” for more than a few seconds was more than James West could endure. Except for the fact that he had heard murmured exchanges of conversation between the changing guards, he might think they were automatons of some sort.
With a deep and noisy sigh, he lay back down, putting one arm under his head as a pillow, to stare at the ceiling. Couldn’t they have at least given him a cell with a window? As it was, the sole illumination was emitted from lanterns affixed to sconces on the opposite wall, above the guard station. Lanterns that burned, night and day. Whenever night and day occurred. Jim knew he had pretty much lost track of time. Time seemed completely irrelevant now anyway.
Not even the meal service helped, because the meals were monotonous once-a-day amalgams of the same thing: usually a piece of some sort of overdone meat, accompanied by a few tasteless boiled potatoes and a tin cup of coffee. Occasionally soggy vegetables were included. He had not complained about receiving only one meal each day, partly because of the poor quality of the victuals, but also because he simply had no appetite. All he ever consumed most days was the strong, pretty decent coffee that came with the tray. Eating was merely something he did to break the monotony of the long, dreary hours.
If only I could contact Grant. If only I could let my president know that I prefer death to this… this lifetime… years… an eternity… in this cell. If I have not lost my mind already, the life sentence will surely do it. The cell, the silent guards staring at me with accusing brown eyes, the persistent dream, the fragmentary memories… Why can’t I remember the entire situation?
The only thing that appeared certain was that Artemus Gordon was dead. Death and taxes. Taxes that would be paying for the incarceration of James West for… how many years? He was a young man yet. In good physical condition at the beginning of this sentence. That would deteriorate on the diet and lack of exercise. What would happen, Jim mused silently, if I refused to eat?
I’ve never been a man to contemplate suicide as an option. No matter what the situation I found myself in… and some were pretty terrifying… I always looked for the way out. I never considered giving up, surrendering. This is different, however. A lifetime of remembering that I murdered a man I loved as more than a friend, a man I knew loved me. My brother Artemus. I murdered him. How? Why?
In some sense, learning those reasons were a good motive to remain alive. How was he to find out those reasons, however? Since being locked in this cell so many months ago, his only contact had been with the guards who watched him and brought food, and a couple of times with the rotund, bald warden. Parrott had not been around for weeks.
Weeks. Months now since that cell door slammed on him, after the sentencing. What had happened during those weeks? Jim held a hand out in front of his face. Was it only the dim, yellowing lantern light that caused his skin to seem to retain the sun-golden shade earned after so many long treks on Blackjack? Shouldn’t he be acquiring a prison pallor by now? Too bad he did not have a mirror to view his face.
He sat up again, and picked up the stack of newspapers, leafing through them, trying to concentrate on the dates of each edition, not the glaring, blaring headlines. He had read all the articles through once. That was enough. The first paper, the one with the news of the crime, was dated six months prior to the last, which proclaimed Grant’s humane amnesty. What the president believed what humane amnesty.
It must be a symptom of the insanity, he determined, dropping the papers to the floor and laying down again. His memory had been affected. Almost like selective memory, he decided. He recalled pretty clearly the moment of the murder, up to Richmond grabbing the gun, just as it repeated in his dream. Then everything seemed to segue to a over to the judge’s chambers. Only bits and pieces of each subsequent incident were clear. Had Richmond been in the judge’s chambers? What about Jeremy? He simply could not recall any contact with fellow agent Jeremy Pike during the entire ordeal. Could well be that Jeremy avoided him. Hell, I’d avoid myself if I could! Why had Jeremy not at least come by to give him hell?
He heard footsteps then, and a guard bearing a tray appeared in front of the bars. Must be a special cadre of guards assigned to him, Jim mused, because the same half dozen or so rotated as sentry, or to bring the tray. Did none of them ever take time off?
The guard on the bench stood up and picked up the rifle that leaned against the wall next to him. Wordlessly, he pointed the weapon toward the cell. Jim did not move from the cot as the guard with the tray produced keys, opened the cell door, placed the tray on the floor inside, closed the door, locked it, then turned and left. The sentry sat down.
What would happen if I didn’t eat that food? Jim lay still. He was not hungry, in fact, had had little appetite since day one. He had eaten, more as an exercise in doing something. A request for books to read had been denied. Only the newspapers had been provided. The newspapers containing the terrible story that he would prefer to forget. Maybe he would try to stir things up and find out what happened if he did not touch the food. Perhaps that would at least cause someone to talk to him! If I’m not insane already, I will be, in this virtual solitary confinement.
Warden Parrott had told him what he already assumed, that he had been placed in a special cell block because the prison was filled with men he and Artemus had captured. Maybe he could ask to waive his right to this “protection.” Maybe he would get lucky and one of those former adversaries would successfully gain vengeance.
*W*W*W*W*
“Heard anything from Jim?”
Artemus Gordon looked up from the menu he had been perusing as Colonel Richmond took the chair opposite him at a white-linen-covered table in the hotel’s grand dining room. “Nope. And I’m taking that as good news.”
Richmond accepted the carte that the waiter hurriedly brought him. “How so?”
“He must be having one hell of a good time,” Gordon grinned. “After all, he’s all alone in San Francisco. We know how many beautiful women reside in San Francisco. Jim West’s presence always seems to be a magnet for the most alluring.”
The colonel smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself at drawing the women.”
“Thank you, sir. But I’m minor league compared to my pal. No, I think he arrived and immediately came in contact with some lovely lady who is consuming his time… day and night.”
“He usually at least sends you a telegram saying he arrived safely.”
Artie chuckled. “Yes, but as he’s told me so many times, I’m not his mama! I’m actually glad, colonel. Jim needs time away, including away from me. I love the man, but even married folks need distance at times.”
“Don’t I know that,” the Secret Service officer responded ruefully, shaking his head. “What’s the special today?”
“We’re in Kansas City, Colonel Richmond,” Gordon reminded with a sly grin.
Richmond laughed. “Steak it is. I thought Pike was going to join us tonight.”
“Yes. He’ll be along, I’m sure. I left him at the siding finishing that report. No food, I told him, until that’s done.”
“You’re a harsh taskmaster, Mr. Gordon.”
“Someone has to be. Ah, there he is.” Gordon looked toward the restaurant’s entrance, where he saw a somewhat frazzled-appearing fellow agent Jeremy Pike speaking to the headwaiter, who pointed in the direction of their table. “Hmm, wonder if something’s wrong?”
Richmond twisted slightly in his chair to gain a view of the approaching man. “He does look disturbed, doesn’t he? Damn, can’t we have one peaceful meal?”
The grim-faced Pike handed Artie a folded piece of yellow paper as he pulled out the third chair at the table. “This was delivered to the train.”
“What is it?” Richmond demanded, seeing the expression on Gordon’s face turn from mild curiosity to dismay as he read. Without comment, Artie handed the paper over. Richmond read aloud. “To James West, Kansas City. Sir, your reservation is being held. Please advise whether you plan to use the room. A fee may be charged for late cancellation. Your obedient servant, Henri Marseilles, manager, Buena Vista Hotel, San Francisco.” The colonel raised his eyes. “What the devil? This sounds as though West never arrived!”
“I sent a wire asking for confirmation of that,” Pike said briskly, “but I decided I’d better deliver this to you instead of waiting for a response.”
Gordon reached over and took the missive back, inspecting it. “Appears to be a genuine Western Union telegram.”
“The boy who delivered it looked genuine too,” Jeremy said. “They would not have had our private code. I know Jim didn’t use it when he made the reservations, sending from a Western Union office. What do you suppose happened?”
“Knowing West,” Richmond sighed audibly, “anything. Hell, he might have met one of those beautiful women Artemus and I were just discussing and took a side trip to… to who knows where!”
“He would have told me,” Gordon said softly. “He would have sent me word. I don’t like this at all. It’s been almost three days since he departed Kansas City.” Three days in which anything could have happened, and three days that were a head start for anyone who might have intended harm to the stellar agent.
“All right,” the colonel said, getting to his feet. “Let’s get on it. We need to check the railroad people and see what they know. If Jim West debarked somewhere between Kansas City and San Francisco, surely it was witnessed.”
A cold lump formed in Artemus Gordon’s stomach as he too stood up. “I hope so. I sure as hell hope so.”
*W*W*W*W*
“Tee-hee-hee!”
The childish giggle seemed to reverberate among the pieces of machinery and glassware in the expansive and cluttered laboratory. The man it emanated from turned and did a little jig on the small platform on which he was standing. He then put a hand over his mouth and attempted to compose himself under the withering stare from the other man in the room.
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Crania. Sometimes I simply cannot control myself.” The giggle threatened again, and he choked it back. He did not want to annoy his companion. Not yet.
“I suppose I understand,” Dr. Wilfred Crania replied, turning his attention back to the task at hand. “Dr. Loveless, you must remember. We are not finished yet.” He carefully fastened a thin wire to a point on the bowl-shaped contraption on the table in front of him, tying a minute knot.
“Oh, indeed I comprehend that well.” Miguelito Loveless scampered down the steps to the floor of the laboratory. “It’s just that… well, this device that allows me to witness James West in all his misery is marvelous. I’m pleased that I thought of it. Even though sound, hearing his sighs and sobs, would be the crowning touch, I am delighted to be able to view him at all without his knowledge. I only wish I could be there in person, to watch him, and to allow him to see me watching him.”
The man with the bulbous forehead lifted his gaze again. “Dr. Loveless, you know that would defeat the purpose.” The voice and expression were those of an instructor speaking to a particularly dense student. Crania was highly annoyed that Loveless was taking credit for the invention’s idea. He had, nevertheless, learned that to protest such a claim would be useless. Dealing with Loveless’s incredible vanity was perhaps the most difficult task he had encountered in this so-called “partnership.” Best to just ignore it, along with the little man’s endless criticisms and complaints.
“Yes, yes, yes.” Loveless hated having to rely on another in this process, but the fact was, Crania had knowledge and procedures that he himself had not acquired. Not yet. “I know. I know. If West saw me, he would suspect the ruse. It’s going so well… he was weeping again when he awakened. His eyes are… haunted… as he remembers… thinks he remembers… the murder. How long do you think the entire process will take now?”
Crania sighed audibly. The little man had asked this question almost hourly it seemed. “I don't know, doctor. My previous experiments have involved men of much less mental fortitude than Mr. West. He has an iron will, as you undoubtedly know.”
“And I’m going to break that will,” Loveless growled, shaking a fist at no one in particular. “I’m going to see him a groveling, sniveling madman before we are finished. His perceived guilt will destroy him. It’s the one thing that can. I know that. And then I’ll hand him over to his beloved friend and watch Gordon deteriorate as well. Can you imagine Gordon’s reaction? I can! Wonderful to contemplate. Wonderful!” He now scrubbed his hands together, anticipating the scene in his mind. “I’ll have to devise a manner in which to watch the reunion. If only it could be recorded for posterity.”
“Give me time, and I might manage that,” Crania snapped. “But for now, arranging the vision-transporting machine consumed much too much of my time. Time I could have been devoting to driving your Mr. West mad.”
“And we’re well on that road,” Loveless chortled, looking back toward the eyepiece on the board above the platform somewhat longingly. He had watched every movement his prisoner had made over the last several hours, unable to draw himself away. The system of mirrors and some other unknown mechanism relayed the scene to the laboratory, on the floor above the cell area, to be displayed on a small glass screen. It worked far better than a simple peephole in the ceiling of the cell, which might have been too noticeable to the inmate, especially one with the abilities of James West. A mere pinprick was all that was needed for Crania’s apparatus. I’m going to have to learn his secret, Loveless determined. The secret of the vision transportation machine, and many others, including how Crania was planting the nightmare in West’s brain, over and over.
“We need some more memories,” Loveless pronounced, hoisting himself up onto a stool near Crania’s workstation.
“And what did you have in mind?” Crania asked dryly. “Did West massacre an entire schoolyard full of children?” He was rapidly wishing he had never gotten involved with the crazy, obsessed little man. It all had seemed like a superb opportunity to test and advance some of his theories and procedures, as well as to have this magnificent laboratory built and stocked to work in. Loveless, however, was never satisfied. He did not seem to realize what had been accomplished in just four days. James West was teetering on the edge of madness.
Loveless gasped. “Children! No, no! But there must be something. I want him writhing in agony, Crania. Not physical pain, you understand. Nevertheless, he has to regret every moment he spent foiling my plans. Aha! I think I have it!” His big eyes lit up with joy.
“Yes?”
“Imagine. Just imagine, how James West would feel if he learned that I, the great Dr. Miguelito Loveless, have been acclaimed as the savior of mankind, the rescuer of the entire world. That everything he had done to stop me over the years has been wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong!” Loveless clapped his hands to congratulate himself for the inspiration.
“And to accomplish that? I’ve warned you, doctor, we cannot overload his memory. The relevant bits and pieces I’ve placed in his brain are sufficient, particularly because he now undoubtedly feels that his mind is defective. Something is preventing his mind from working as it should. He does not comprehend why he cannot remember everything. In other words, he is losing his senses and going insane.”
“Nothing so complicated,” Loveless said smugly. “I shall merely need the printing press again.”
Crania frowned. “Now, be careful. Use subtlety. Even West, in his state, could spot a fraud.”
Loveless sniffed haughtily. “You need not worry, Dr. Crania. Subtlety is my middle name.”
*W*W*W*W*
“James, you are dead wrong on this one.”
James West stared at the unyielding expression of his partner and felt the warming tide of anger rising within him. “Damn it, who made you God, Artie?”
A little surprise washed over Artemus Gordon’s countenance. “Jim, it’s plain as the nose on your face. You’ve made a mistake…”
“So the genius declares!” West sneered. “I am quite aware that you are way ahead of me in brain power, Gordon, but that doesn’t mean you are always right.” Jim West glared at the man seated on the sofa in colonel’s anteroom.
Gordon got to his feet slowly, concern showing now as he extended a pleading, open hand. “Simmer down, Jim. Look, we’re both tired. This vacation coming up is going to do us a lot of good. Let’s not let…”
Jim West raised a clenched fist. “You’re not always right, Artemus! Damn it, I’m getting tired of being patronized!”
“I’m not…”
“Did you hear me?” The fury in him was an inferno now, a wild ferocity he could not seem to control. Seeing the distress on his partner’s face served only to stoke the fire. Why did it always have to be Artie who was the all-knowing one? “I’M TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED!”
The gun seemed to leap out of the holster at his side into his hand. Horror replaced concern on Gordon’s face. “Jim…?”
Three shots reverberated in the room. The first one hit Gordon in the middle of the chest, hurling him back onto the sofa.
“Jim…” he gasped.
The second two shots finished it. Jim West heard the other door open, heard the cry of horror and alarm, but he did not move, staring at the man slumped back over the couch now, at the front of the brocade vest now stained crimson with gore. The eyes were still open, gaping at him in accusation.
“My God, West,” Colonel Richmond grabbed the gun from his hand. “What have you done?”
James West roused to the now familiar sense of loss and misery. At least no tears this time, but his shirt and hair were damp with perspiration. The nightmare was draining. He awakened feeling exhausted, as though he had not slept at all, as the dream occurred every time he slept. Would he ever have a peaceful night of sleep again? Did he deserve one?
Sitting up, he looked at the implacable guard. The thin one now. Lord, had they all been chosen because of their stoicism, or because they all possessed the deep brown eyes? Had someone decided that if he was not going to hang, he at least would endure a living death, with constant reminders of his crime?
The newspapers were where he had left them, only the top copy had changed. Instead of the “West Confesses,” headline, the one with “James West Sentenced to Hang” was now visible. Someone had come in while he slept. The tray, however, with the now cold food, was still on the floor. He had not eaten the last two meals. The first one had been taken away. Not this one. Odd that he did not feel any hungrier than he did after not eating for two days. Of course, the food served was not exactly conducive to hunger cravings. Last night he had only drained the cup of strong coffee.
And then slept like a log.
Jim rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. This was strange. Why had not this occurred to him previously? He had been in this cell for months. He could not recollect shaving himself, nor anyone else performing the task for him, during that entire time. Yet his beard growth was that of only a few days. Was someone creeping in to trim it while he slept?
He sat with his arms resting on his knees, head bowed. A posture of penitence. A glance up revealed that the guard did not move, simply watched him. After a long minute, on a whim, Jim got up and stepped over to the bars.
“Hey,” he said. The sentry merely stared. “What do you think my chances would be of getting some chocolate cake?” Had he seen a slight flicker in that implacable gaze? “Man, I love chocolate cake. How about you? What’s your favorite?” The silent stare continued. Jim West heaved a great, noisy sigh, leaned his forehead against the cool bars. “Artie’s favorite was strawberry shortcake. Always talked about his Great Aunt Maude’s strawberry shortcake. Now he’s dead. He’s dead!”
Jim lifted his head, his face contorted in grief. “How did I do that? What is wrong with me? My best friend! Have you ever hurt your best friend? Killed him?”
Again, he wondered if he saw something in the brown eyes. But the guard did not move, his facial expression unchanging. West turned and threw himself on the cot, burying his face in the straw ticking. He made sounds and hoped it passed for sobbing. Twice he peeked toward the guard. The second time, the man was leaning forward slightly. Maybe he’s not so impervious after all.
After a few moments, he quieted and hoped the sentry thought he had fallen asleep. He had not, Jim realized, been doing a lot of thinking about his situation. To be honest with himself, he had been spending most of his waking moments wallowing in grief and guilt. The dreams and the newspapers aided and abetted those emotions. What would happen if he threw the newspapers out of the cell? If he refused to eat? Would anyone care?
*W*W*W*W*
Artemus Gordon pulled the wall map down and stared at it a long moment before turning to face the half dozen men gathered in the parlor car. One was Jeremy Pike, the others were additional agents that Colonel Richmond had assigned. Armed with the information amassed over the first thirty-six hours after learning of his agent’s disappearance, Richmond was certain that a full-scale operation was necessary. He would provide more men if Gordon requested. In the meanwhile, his best men were in the special train hurtling westward across the plains.
“Here’s the story so far,” Artie said. “Jim left Kansas City four days ago. We know he got on the westbound Kansas & Pacific car. Jeremy and I saw him off. We’ve been able to contact and talk to the conductor and porters on that particular train. These men remembered Jim, knew who he was. Fame has some value, it seems. In any case, the porter in his car, in particular, was disappointed when Mr. West left the car during a stop in Salina, so he watched Jim through the window.
“Seems a telegram was delivered to Jim at that stop. The conductor handed it to him, and said that Mr. West appeared a bit disturbed by the contents. He got up, grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment, and told the conductor that he would be leaving the train, would not continue on to San Francisco at this time. That was the morning of the second day. As you may know, Jim had attempted to book a private compartment on that particular train, but they were all sold out due to a large wedding party traveling west. That might have been fortuitous because he was then in a position to be observed and his activities noticed.
“In any case, the porter watched Jim’s progress when he left the train. The porter said Jim met two men off to one side of the platform and—in the porter’s opinion—was not particularly happy about it. ‘Something in the way his shoulders moved,’ the porter stated. He has made a hobby, it seems, of watching passengers and trying to guess their emotions, reasons for traveling, relationships to others, simply by noting their body language and facial expression. Sharp fellow.
“He gave us an excellent description of the two men Jim met, but thus far we have not been able to identify them. They were not agents, of that much we’re certain. That may have been something Jim belatedly realized. We’ve been unable to discover an actual telegram that was received in Salina to be delivered to James West on the train, so it appears that was a fake to draw him off the train.
“The porter stated that Jim left the platform with the two men, walking in between them while carrying his bag. One of the men put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. They disappeared around a building, and that was the last he was seen. We have not been able to find a witness to say whether they went into town, mounted horses, got into a carriage…. They simply vanished at this particular point, though currently two agents are in Salina attempting to locate someone who may have seen him later.”
“So he was snatched.” Husky, florid-faced Bill Maher chomped down on his unlit cigar, his expression mirroring the anger on the countenances of his companions.
“So it would seem,” Artemus responded in a voice far more mild than he felt. He knew the importance of retaining his equanimity at this point. Panic was not going to help. Nor did self-blame. “The question is more by whom than why. We can guess the why. Also, where did they take him?”
“And is he alive?” Jeremy growled in a low voice.
“We have to go on the premise that he is,” Artie said stolidly. He had already had too many nightmarish thoughts about that. Jim West had enemies. Many, many enemies. Men who wanted him dead. Some who would enjoy watching him suffer a long and lingering death.
I should have given in and gone with him. Jim had asked him several times if he would. Had even appeared a trifle annoyed when Artie staunchly refused. We needed time off. I knew that. But if I had been with him… What? Would the kidnapping have not taken place? Or would both of them now be in the hands of… whoever?
“What’s the plan?” George Murdoch’s always morose face was even more morose on this day.
Artemus Gordon sighed. “I don't know if we can even formulate a plan just yet. We obviously need to start at Salina. Perhaps by the time we arrive there, the other agents will have more information for us. Whether or not, we just have to start looking. Try to find some… some clue. Some sign. Unless we have further information, we’ll be literally blindfolded. All we can do is fan out and keep asking questions. They cannot have vanished without someone seeing them, somewhere.” Could they? Artie had seen many strange things over his career as a Secret Service agent. The brilliant, but mad, men they had encountered had come up with all manner of ingenious inventions. Please, God, no invisibility machine! We have to find Jim. Alive and well. Please!
“We’ll arrive in Salina early tomorrow morning. At that time, I’ll give you your assignments. Get a good night’s sleep. It might be the last one you’ll have in a while.” If only I could take my own advice!
*W*W*W*W*
“James, you are dead wrong on this one.”
James West stared at the unyielding expression of his partner and felt the warming tide of anger rising within him. “Damn it, who made you God, Artie?”
A little surprise washed over Artemus Gordon’s countenance. “Jim, it’s plain as the nose on your face. You’ve made a mistake…”
“So the genius declares!” West sneered. “I am quite aware that you are way ahead of me in brain power, Gordon, but that doesn’t mean you are always right.” Jim West glared at the man seated on the sofa in colonel’s anteroom.
Gordon got to his feet slowly, concern showing now as he extended a pleading, open hand. “Simmer down, Jim. Look, we’re both tired. This vacation coming up is going to do us a lot of good. Let’s not let…”
Jim West raised a clenched fist. “You’re not always right, Artemus! Damn it, I’m getting tired of being patronized!”
“I’m not…”
“Did you hear me?” The fury in him was an inferno now, a wild ferocity he could not seem to control. Seeing the distress on his partner’s face served only to stoke the fire. Why did it always have to be Artie who was the all-knowing one? “I’M TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED!”
The gun seemed to leap out of the holster at his side into his hand. Horror replaced concern on Gordon’s face. “Jim…?”
Three shots reverberated in the room. The first one hit Gordon in the middle of the chest, hurling him back onto the sofa.
“Jim…” he gasped.
The second two shots finished it. Jim West heard the other door open, heard the cry of horror and alarm, but he did not move, staring at the man slumped back over the couch now, at the front of the brocade vest now stained crimson with gore. The eyes were still open, gaping at him in accusation.
“My God, West,” Colonel Richmond grabbed the gun from his hand. “What have you done?”
James West kept his eyes closed for a long while, forcing himself to consider the dream… nightmare… moment by moment. Why had they been in Richmond’s office? He could not come up with that answer. The vacation part was right. He and Artemus had been given two weeks’ leave. Jim’s immediate idea had been to spend it in the wonderful, cosmopolitan city of San Francisco. Artemus thought that was a splendid idea, but refused to accompany him.
“You go, Jim, and have a superb time. For me, I think I’d prefer to just stay here in Kansas City, do some reading, perhaps visit a few museums, take in some lectures.”
Jim had been skeptical. Artemus, of course, knew that Jim West did not always appreciate the same cerebral pastimes that Artemus Gordon did. Jim could not grasp, nonetheless, how spending two weeks at those pursuits could be considered a vacation. He tried several times and in several different ways to convince his partner to accompany him, even to mentioning a couple of women whom Artie had met and seemed to like—and vice-versa—who resided in the Pacific Coast city.
So had that instigated the argument? How could something so trivial have exploded into the hot fury that had caused James West to draw out the gun, let alone pull the trigger… three times? No, the argument had to have been over something else. But what? Jim could not really think of another instance where he had become angry because Artie’s superior knowledge overcame his own. He deferred to Artemus often, because he knew that his partner was more often right in matters of information, esoteric or utile, just as Artie generally bowed to his own tactical knowledge and ability to read people.
But what was the reason? Why could he not remember it? Why did the dream always begin at one spot and end at another, with no variations? He stared at the rough, stained ceiling above him, willing the answer to appear to him. What could have possibly come between him and Artemus Gordon? After so many years together, they had known each other so very well…
With a sigh, Jim sat up. The redheaded guard was on the bench now. Brown eyes instead of green on this redhead. Brown, staring eyes. Artie’s accusing eyes. Closing his own for a moment, Jim remembered the moment in the nightmare. The moment when the first bullet slammed into Artemus’s chest. He seemed to feel the stabbing pain in his own soul.
No sense. Nothing made sense. He could not recall ever having a dream, or nightmare, previously that was so crystal clear in his mind after awakening. The usual pattern seemed to be that the more he tried to remember, the more it faded away. Only if he spoke to someone about it almost right away did it stick in his memory. This one was not only crystal clear, but reiterated itself perfectly night after night.
Jim looked down at the stack of newspapers. Again, the order had been changed while he slept, with the “Artemus Gordon Murdered” headline on top. The previous tray was gone as well. Why would the sentry change the newspapers? To remind him of the events? As if he needed a reminder. Between the dream and the flashes of memory about…
He frowned, staring at the grim-faced guard, but not really seeing him. He forced himself now to think of the judge’s chambers. He could almost see the judge’s face, but not clearly. Same with the prosecuting attorney and the alienist who had given expert testimony. They had been there, he knew what had been said, but could not actually hear the words of either the judge or the attorney. Only those clinical words in the droning voice of the alienist. One would think that the intoning voice of the judge pronouncing his fate—hanging at that time—would have been implanted in his brain just as the nightmare was.
Did I have a defense attorney?
Jim tried and tried to picture the room, the men present. Like the dream, the incident seemed to start at one point, end at another. He could not go beyond those points in either direction. No memory of standing up with the cold chains weighing on his arms. Jim West had been present at other such hearings, both in the courtroom and in a judge’s private room. The prisoner was always chained. The prisoner always stood to hear the sentence pronounced, the chains clanking softly. Those sounds always remained in Jim’s memory for a long while when they applied to someone else’s sentence. Why not his own?
I’ve been indulging in self pity, he decided, turning to go back to the cot again, sitting down with his elbows on his knees, staring now at the newspaper, but once more not really seeing it. Self-indulgence seemed to be an apt description of the agony he had been experiencing, thinking of his own pain and grief and almost nothing else. The repeated nightmare was a constant reminder of the horrific deed he had committed, however, never giving him an opportunity to forget, even if he wanted to do so. All he had been able to think about was the murder, Artie’s death, and his own hand in it. Very little time had been spent these past months reflecting on other incidents, other portions of the whole situation.
Is that how it’s supposed to be? Was he supposed to be so caught up in his guilt and grief that nothing else mattered? Putting the newspapers here, so that they were the only information, the only reading material he had. Was that someone’s idea of his punishment? If so, it was successful. The anguish he experienced every time Artie’s stricken face appeared in his thoughts…. But whose diabolically clever vengeance was behind it?
Grant? Artemus Gordon had been a particular favorite of Ulysses S. Grant. Jim had long been aware of that, but that awareness had never bothered him in particular. He knew that the general, and president, was cognizant of James West’s value and talents, and held them in esteem. Grant knew the best way to use each man, and often had. No, this sort of penalty was not something President Grant would do, or condone, if he knew about it. He had commuted the sentence from hanging. That was the kind of man Grant was. He had thought he was doing the right thing for a man who had served him so long and faithfully.
These events had happened. How could he be remembering them if they had not actually occurred? But why not the entire sequence of events? Why was the memory not in his mind of the events which happened moments after Richmond grabbed his gun? He could not remember being arrested, being taken to a police station, or anywhere else, to be arraigned. No long sessions of questioning until the judge’s chambers.
The jump from the moment of the murder to the session in the judge’s chambers indicated that for whatever reason he was blocking everything else from his memory. That was strange. If I was going to block anything, wouldn’t it be the murder itself? Or was that simply too momentous to forget? Even if he wanted to.
From the judge’s chamber, he had no recollection of being transported to this prison. In fact, Jim realized he had no notion of where this prison was located. Was it Leavenworth? San Quentin? Another federal penitentiary? He tried to remember if he had heard of a Warden Parrott previously and if so, which prison he presided over. The name meant nothing to him.
What did all these lapses in his memory indicate? The alienist stated he was losing his mind. Was that true? Had he literally lost chunks of his memory? Other events were perfectly clear. He could remember things that happened as a boy, the Christmas he received the shiny red sled he had wanted so earnestly, how he had enlisted in the Union Army and became a member of Grant’s staff. In particular, he remembered the day he first met Artemus Gordon. Seemed that only the events that occurred after the murder were fragmented. Maybe that was normal after such a traumatic occurrence.
Nevertheless, why could he not remember someone as important as his own attorney? He must have had one. Even while pleading guilty, he would have had an attorney to advise him. No judge worth his salt was going to allow the accused to make statements without a lawyer present. Yet he could not recall a single conversation with an attorney of any sort, defense or prosecution.
Is my mind that far gone?
*W*W*W*W*
Miguelito Loveless paced the stone floor of the laboratory, his face taut with anger as he threw black looks toward the man with the large forehead who was calmly working on the upside-down bowl. That’s what it looked like anyway. A metal bowl used to serve salad or potatoes. Dr. Loveless hated to have to rely on another person, but that was the case here. That “salad bowl” was supposedly what was going to do the trick. The coup de grace, the nasake-no ichigeki, that would send James West hurtling over the edge into the abyss of total insanity.
He halted by the work bench and glared at the other man. “Dr. Crania, this is simply unconscionable. It is taking too long! Your methods do not appear to be working!”
Crania barely glanced up. He was becoming inured to the little man’s outbursts. Seemed all Loveless did was complain. Well, if he was so brilliant, so perfect, why had he needed Dr. Wilfred Crania’s assistance?
“It’s working, doctor. West is absorbing it all, and it’s preying on his consciousness. This phase of seeming acceptance is quite reasonable.”
“Not to me!” Loveless retorted. “I just watched him awaken calmly. He had the dream, I know that. I saw his face while he slept.” Miguelito paused, frowned. “When are you going to tell me how you accomplished this… this imprinting? How did you put the nightmare and the memories into his head?”
“All in good time, Dr. Loveless. All in good time. Once West is certifiably mad, we’ll have plenty of time to discuss it.” Crania only hoped that when Loveless learned how simple the procedure had been he would not lose that infamous temper and do bodily harm. Crania knew he was going to have to be very careful when he related the method. He was quite certain the good doctor was familiar with mesmerism. He had only taken it a step further.
“That’s just it! Time is running out. I’ve had reports that Gordon and other agents are in Salina and scouring the area. Gordon is a smart man… not nearly so intelligent as I am, of course… but he will figure it out eventually. People will tell him about these ruins. He may ignore them, or he may even take a look and decide it’s the wrong place. Sooner or later, however, he’ll be back.”
Crania made some notes on a journal page as he tested the strength of the connection of the wire he had just attached to the “bowl.” “This device will render time pointless. When Gordon finds his partner, James West will be beyond assistance.”
“Then let’s use it. Now!”
Dr. Crania barely prevented himself from rolling his eyes in exasperation. He retained a benign expression on his brow-dominated face, and spoke in a calm voice. “I will need to make tests. Perhaps by tomorrow if I can complete the wiring today.” Without interruption, he wanted to add. “Understand, Dr. Loveless, that the device as it is would not necessarily render a man insane so much as destroy all thinking processes, and turn him into an idiot…”
Loveless threw his hands in the air. “What do I care? James West as a blithering, salivating idiot is almost as good as a madman!”
“You didn’t let me finish, doctor. It could destroy the brain cells and make him a pathetic idiot, or it could kill him.”
“Oh.” Loveless stopped moving for a moment. “Oh, I see.” Killing James West was not the plan. Artemus Gordon would suffer if his friend died, but the suffering would be relatively short-lived. The scheme was for Gordon to have to witness his mad—or moronic—friend suffering a living death. Day in and day out, year in and year out. Artemus would endure what James West was suffering now. His pain was yet to come.
“Then we must accelerate the current process,” Loveless declared. “Put West to sleep more often so that the dream recurs more frequently.”
“Perhaps,” Crania mused, nodding. “I have not tried that. If, as you say, West awakened calmly, he may be attempting some reasoning as well as acceptance. A more frequent recurrence of the nightmare would not allow time for reasoning. I must consult my notes. I presume you have given up on the idea of the newspaper.”
“I most certainly have not!” Loveless sniffed. “In fact, I believe I’m going ahead with it. Just one more thing to prey on West’s mind, the fact that he persecuted a brilliant and oh-so-innocent man.”
Crania was shaking his head. “I must persuade you, doctor, that it is not a good idea. It could backfire.”
“Nonsense!” What did this scientist who spent his entire life inside a laboratory know about human nature? He himself, Dr. Miguelito Loveless, had made a career of studying human nature. He knew James West as well as he knew himself. West had a conscience. That very conscience was causing his anguish just now, driving him toward a complete breakdown of all his faculties. Knowing that he had committed another “atrocity” against an innocent man, himself, the great Dr. Loveless, would only weigh West’s mind down further, adding the stones, so to speak, that could well throw him completely off balance. Perhaps the “salad bowl” would not be needed. He rubbed his substantial chin. “I think first though, I’ll have ‘Warden Parrott’ pay him a visit. That might shake things up in West’s pea-sized brain!”
*W*W*W*W*
Artemus Gordon leaned both hands on the desk and stared at the map spread out there, barely conscious of the other two men in the car with him. Where are you, Jim? Where are you? The map of this county had been provided by the local sheriff. Artie had made some marks on it to signify certain landmarks, as well as to indicate locations where witnesses reportedly espied the three men. Biggest problem was that the trio had been supposedly spotted all over the county!
“What next?” Jeremy asked quietly.
Gordon straightened now, supporting his elbow in one hand while his chin rested in the other hand as he looked around at Pike, Bill Maher, and George Murdoch. The rest of the agents were still out asking questions and re-asking them. “On this map, it appears that the majority of the sightings were made in the eastern part of the county, although the one that reported seeing them over here—the schoolteacher’s report—is very credible.” Artie reached out and tapped the map on the portion west of Salina. “She was able to describe the traveling bag Jim was carrying, something no one else has accomplished.”
“But then why did so many see them in the opposite area?” Bill asked, then answered his own question before anyone else could. “Because they… whoever has Jim… set up some decoys.”
“I was just going to say that,” Jeremy stated. “If she saw him still carrying the bag, it really makes more sense that she, and the others who report spying them in that area, are more accurate.”
“Yes,” Artie concurred. “But Saline County is nearly sixty square miles in area. It’s also rather sparse in vegetation as well as population at this point. The railroad coming through has changed that to some extent, but there are still vast expanses where nothing but rolling prairie is visible.”
George, who had been morosely silent, leaned forward suddenly, putting a finger on a spot near the western boundary of the county. “The ruins of an old mill are right about here. The creek dried up and the place was abandoned.” He looked a little sheepishly as he felt the gazes of the others on him. “I was a federal marshal for a year or so after the war, and spent some time traveling through this area.”
Jeremy shook his head. “I’m pretty sure that’s the place I checked out. Big two-level stone building, half falling down. Deserted.”
“We have no way of knowing if Jim is even in this county,” Artie said unhappily. “Even in the state.”
“Or the country,” Bill growled.
The four men fell silent, staring at the map, each with his own thoughts. They had all worked with James West at some point, Artie knew, to a greater or lesser extent. He also knew they admired and liked the handsome, versatile agent. Jim West would have given his life for any of them. He was that sort of man. Is. Is that sort of man. I can’t let myself think otherwise. Jim is alive. Somewhere, he is alive and waiting for me to help him. Why was I so stubborn about this vacation? I should be with him!
“What next?” Pike iterated his earlier query.
Artemus looked at Jeremy Pike’s grim face, knowing the expression matched his own. “I guess we just keep at it. Jeremy, let’s you and I go look at this mill again. Even if no one is there now, it sounds like a place someone might use for a stopping place. They took Jim off the train midmorning. At some point, they’d need to rest, maybe feed themselves.”
“I didn’t see any signs of a recent campfire, or horses, but then again, I maybe did not look closely enough. I was in a hurry.” Jeremy smiled briefly. All of them were anxious, struggling to be patient and efficient in their search. It was not easy, especially not knowing if they had time, or if time had expired.
*W*W*W*W*