The Night of the Lazarus

[LuckyLadybug]

Well, I finally got me some inspiration for this! It's the story that's meant to come before the time travel one I've been posting scenes for. Originally I thought this story wouldn't work the way I've determined to do it, but I decided today that it would work after all. So ... this is going to be one wild ride. I'm excited.

The Wild Wild West
The Night of the Lazarus
By Lucky_Ladybug

Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! This is an idea I’ve had for a long time now, and it’s intended to branch into another story at its conclusion. I involve characters from several episodes, mainly The Poisonous Posey, The Big Blast, and The Sudden Plague. I honestly find Coley Rodman, from the latter episode, to be one of the most fascinating antagonists the show ever had (aside from Dr. Loveless, of course). He’s an outlaw, and not a very nice fellow, and yet he refused to go along with the mad scientist’s plans to eradicate the populations of entire cities and towns, despite the looting possibilities dead towns would present. I honestly believe he still has good in him.


Chapter One

Somewhere in the Western United States, circa 1874[/center]

In later years, Arte was never sure how it had happened. For that matter, he wasn’t sure how it was happening at the very time it was happening.

It all started normal enough, with a message coming through on the telegraph one fine Spring day. Arte jotted it down while Jim thoughtfully wandered about the train car, gazing into the distance at nothing in particular.

It was usually Arte who transcribed their messages, if he was around. Jim was comfortable with it, but Arte was much more so. To Arte, technology was an exciting thing, as second nature to him as acting. Jim found it useful and sometimes intriguing, but he was not thoroughly fascinated by it as Arte was.

There were not many things that thoroughly fascinated Jim, and even less of those that he would display a visible interest in. He kept most of that locked inside.

Arte was one of the few people who knew a lot about what Jim was like beyond the deadpan mask. After working together for so many years, he had come to know Jim’s thoughts and moods, even to be able to exchange information via silent glances and covert signals. And likewise for Jim, in many ways Arte was an open book.

They had started out working mainly as comrades, being more formal and distant with each other. But over time their relationship had developed into a deep and lasting friendship. Arte could not be closer to a biological brother than he was to Jim. Jim felt likewise.

At last the communication ended. Arte set down the pen, and Jim came back to attention so easily that it was obvious he had been alert as always, despite indications to the contrary.

“What’s the news?” he asked.

Arte looked at the message he had scratched out. “It says we’re to investigate some strange reports out near Justice, Nevada,” he said.

Jim paused, not pleased. It was not one of his favorite places, mainly due to the unpleasant run-ins they’d had with the sheriff there. “What kind of strange reports?” he asked.

“It doesn’t say much,” Arte said, shaking his head. “Just that some nut has been setting off fires in town and the surrounding area.”

“As long as Justice isn’t having Law and Order Week, we should be fine,” Jim grunted.

“And as long as we don’t get caught in one of those fires,” Arte was quick to add.

“True,” Jim said with a vague nod.

****

The sheriff of Justice was surprised to see Jim and Arte, but having become aware of their identities as Secret Service agents following Lucrece Posey’s arrest several years back, their second meeting was nowhere as awkward as their first.

“Well, it’s good to see the U.S. government is right on top of things,” he greeted as they arrived in town. He held out a hand to shake. “A fine thing, sending the both of you.”

Jim shook his hand. “Sheriff.”

Arte observed. “Since we’ve had prior experience here in Justice, and know the area, Colonel Richmond thought it would make the most sense to send us,” he stated. “Hello, Sheriff!” He shook the man’s hand once it was free. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Aside from half the town being burned down?” Sheriff Cord frowned. “There’s been something odd and almost unholy going on just outside of town. Funny lights at night, weird noises . . .” He sighed. “And nobody can figure out what the devil is going on.”

“Have you tried to investigate?” Jim queried.

“Well, of course I have!” Sheriff Cord grumped. “I know my way around this badge of honor I wear. The problem is, I can’t ever find the source of the lights or the sounds! They just up and cut out before I ever have a chance to get to them.”

“That is strange,” Arte mused. “Almost as though someone knows you’re looking.”

“And I’m sure as anything that they do,” Sheriff Cord said. “This whole thing is probably a plot to scare people away so they won’t want to settle here.”

“Do you know of anyone who’d want to do that?” Jim asked.

“Not off-hand, no. Justice is a perfect place to live!” Sheriff Cord’s eyes narrowed. “The only kind who wouldn’t wanna settle here are the varmints and scum we wanna keep out anyway.”

“Alright,” Arte said. “Well, we’ll look around the area and stay alert for anything out of the ordinary. Does it happen every night?”

“Nope. Come to think of it . . .” Sheriff Cord paused. “It only really happens during a lightning storm.”

“But your area doesn’t get many of those,” Jim protested.

“I know. Leastwise, it’s not supposed to.” Sheriff Cord frowned. “Lately, it’s been happening more than it ever did before.”

“Bizarre weather patterns,” Arte said. “This wasn’t mentioned in the official report.”

“Well . . . I kept it out,” Sheriff Cord admitted. “I didn’t want it to look like I was plum crazy to a good man like President Grant. But everyone here can testify to the lightning storms!”

“How often does it seem to happen?” Jim wanted to know.

“Oh . . . once a week, at least,” Sheriff Cord said. “It’s been that way for the last month and half or so.”

“Six or seven times?” Arte gasped.

“That sounds about right,” Sheriff Cord nodded.

“And how often have things been burning down?” Arte persisted.

The sheriff gazed off into the distance as he considered the question. “Well . . . there was Bessie Smith’s home last Thursday, and the tailor’s shop before that, and . . .” He counted on his fingers. “All in all, it’s been going on once a week too.”

“I see,” Arte murmured.

Jim glanced at him, then back to Sheriff Cord. “We’d like to ride out to the desert and have a look around, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Mind? That’s what you’re out here for, to look around and figure out what’s gone wrong,” Sheriff Cord said. “I’ll ride out with you and show you a spot where it sounds like some of these noises could be coming from. I’ll just go pick up my horse and we’ll be all set.”

“Fine, fine,” Arte nodded.

They walked out of the jail and let the sheriff go on ahead of them to the horses. Jim turned to face his longtime partner and friend. “Well, Arte?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “Do you have any idea what could be going on here?”

“Not yet,” Arte said. “But it seems strange that everything happens together, including the fires.”

“It could be lightning striking the buildings,” Jim mused, “but it’s unlikely it would keep happening every time.”

“Exactly,” Arte said.

“So, do you think someone could be controlling the lightning?” Jim wondered.

“It sounds insane, I know,” Arte sighed. “But we’ve been seeing so many odd things. Would that really be any worse?”

“Actually, it’s probably mild compared to most of what we’ve seen,” Jim remarked.

“I know what you mean.” As they reached the hitching post, Arte stopped walking and placed his hands on his hips. “Is there anything we haven’t seen?”

“Who can say, Arte?” Jim shrugged. He climbed onto his waiting gelding. “They’re coming up with new things all the time.”

Sheriff Cord, already mounted, steered his horse to face them. “What are you two standin’ around jawin’ for?” he frowned. “We have to get going.”

“We’re coming now, Sheriff,” Jim said.

Arte watched the two of them start down the street as he untied his horse from the post. He couldn’t say why, but there was a very ill feeling building in his stomach. He had felt it before, usually when they were on a case that turned out to be particularly dangerous or deadly.

This outlandish scenario could certainly fit the bill. He hated to think what might be in store for them this time.

Quickly mounting as well, he hurried after Jim.

****

Even the saloon in Justice, Nevada could be rambunctious.

The man in the corner booth glowered as a wild drunk practically flew past, after being belted by another wild drunk. He pulled his dark hat farther down, shadowing his face.

He had not wanted to come to Justice. But he had been weak and ill and badly in need of supplies, and with Justice being the only nearby town, he had been forced to stop.

He had been on the run for several years now, after escaping custody of the guards at a prison transport. Some of his gang had escaped with him, but they had scattered in various directions on their leader’s orders. He had believed they would have a better chance remaining alive and free if they separated. So far, for him at least, that had been true.

Since that time he had pulled jobs now and then, but generally only when he had to. He had money stashed away in several places, just for times such as this, and preferred to rely on it when he could. Some of it he had been able to locate and recover. Other locations had been as yet out of his reach. And someone else had found one of his deposits; it had been empty when he had arrived.

It could have been taken by almost anyone, from a down-on-his-luck slob to one of his own gang members. He was annoyed and even angry at the thought, but he wasn’t about to go tracking down every one of his old allies to find out which one it might have been. He wanted to find out someday, but that was not the most important thing in his life right now.

“What’s going on here?! Stop! Stop it!”

He glanced up as the horrified bartender ran out to stop the two drunks. Yes, that was probably the most action a crummy place like Justice had seen in some time. Of course it had to happen while he was there. If that high-handed sheriff got called in, he was liable to drag everyone in there down to the station, whether they had participated in the roughhousing or not.

He finished his drink in one gulp and got up, quietly walking around the side of the table closest to the wall. Continuing on that path, he stuck next to the back wall as he made his way to the nearest door.

“Hey! Leavin’ al . . . already?”

He started as another, more cheery drunk suddenly got in his path. “What’s it to you?” he frowned.

The sloshed man shrugged, swaying back and forth as he smiled at the stranger. “Nothin’. I just thought you’d want to stay and join in the fun. The sheriff’s taking those two Secret Service agents to see the rocks outside of town. He won’t be back for hours!”

The wanted man stiffened. “What Secret Service agents?”

“Oh . . . I dunno their names. They were here before, once. They’re gonna look into the weird fires we’ve been having around here.”

“Do you know if they’re looking for anyone?”

“Nope, don’t think so.” The drunk wavered. “So? How ’bout it?”

“No.” The outlaw tried to slip around him.

“Hey, don’t I know you?” The barfly pointed a shaking finger. “You look kind of familiar.”

“You must be mistaken,” was the curt reply. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“The sheriff’s office!” the drunk burst out. “That’s where I’ve seen you, on a poster in the sheriff’s office. You’ve got the name of some kinda bean or horse or somethin’.”

“What?!” The criminal stared. “You’re mistaken. You’ve had too much to drink.”

He cast a tense glance around the bar. No one was looking their way; they were too occupied watching the bartender try to control the hyperactive drunks.

The feel of a finger poking him in the chest made him look back with a snap. “Pinto!” the drunk slurred. “Little Pinto. That’s your name.”

The sober man pushed him back with a gloved hand. “Little Pinto is dead.” As the staggering fellow collapsed into a chair like a sack of potatoes, the outlaw briskly walked past and towards the door at last.

“You look just like him, if you’re not him!” the drunk hollered at his back. “Little Pinto! One of that Posey lady’s crooks. He was killed right here in town, you know. The whole gang was, ’cept Posey herself and one guy. You’ve gotta be Little Pinto, come back from the dead!”

Several people were turning to look now, but the man still had his hat pulled low as he hurried past. And, knowing very well that Little Pinto was indeed dead, they paid little heed to him. The man at the table was so drunk he wouldn’t recognize his own mother.

The outlaw could hear the patrons talking and scoffing behind him. Notwithstanding their disbelief, he dove around the side of the building and into the alley. He needed to get out of here.

It was not the first time he had been mistaken for a man who had easily passed as his double while alive. And after the people talked among themselves for a while, someone would hit on the realization of who the stranger actually was. Then he would be in trouble.

Being on the run was not much of a life. But if he were caught, he knew he was likely to die. And he preferred his current predicament to that fate.

“It’s true that Little Pinto is dead,” he muttered under his breath. “But Coley Rodman is alive and well. And he intends to stay that way.”

****

It was nearly dark by the time Coley rode his horse out of town. And much to his displeasure, the sheriff’s deputy had been unknowingly blocking the way Coley had wanted to go. Not wanting to ride past him, Coley had determined instead that his chances were better among the hills and rocks. He knew the approximate spot where the strange activity had been taking place. That was where the sheriff and those agents would be. And he knew how to stay far away from it and out of their view. The cover of night would be an asset to him right now.

Nevertheless, even as he kept to his side of the desert and wove in and out from between the rocks, he could make out the figures moving in the starless night. One of them, probably the sheriff, was in the lead. He pointed ahead to the same rock mountains that Coley had determined were the probable source of all the oddities. Dismounting, one of the other figures moved ahead for a better look.

Suddenly the night sky was ablaze with color and sound. The ground rumbled and shook as the tremendous explosion rocked the area. Frightened, Coley’s horse reared and whinnied, waving its front legs in the air. Coley gritted his teeth and pulled on the reins, stunned but not about to let his surprise affect his actions.

“Whoa!” he ordered. “Settle down!”

But the horse would have none of it. And as it danced and pranced, an agonized, disbelieving voice cut through the night.

“Jim! JIM!”

The third figure dismounted, running ahead to the inferno. The sheriff was right on his heels, yelling that there was nothing to be done, for him to come away before he was killed too.

Coley stared, still gripping his horse’s reins. That voice was familiar. He knew it all too well, despite not having heard it in a while. And Jim. . . . Putting those two things together, and the knowledge that the men were Secret Service agents, Coley could come up with only one answer.

“Jim West?” he breathed. “He was caught in that explosion?”

It was Artemus Gordon trying to all but dive into the flames. And it was Sheriff Cord tackling him from behind and dragging him to the sand and dirt, to keep him from making such a futile, foolish effort.

They were the only two people present, aside from Coley.

Jim West was nowhere to be found.

[LuckyLadybug]

[Notes copied from the original copy at fanfiction.net]

Notes: So we’ve met three of the main protagonists in chapter 1. In this one, we meet the other: Ray Norman. He is a oneshot character from the season 2 Cannon episode Hear No Evil, and he’s played by the wonderful Wesley Lau. His story probably won’t coincide with the Wild Wild West characters’ until either the end of this story or the beginning of the one branching off from it, but I wanted to get him established well before that. Also, Dr. Portman is my character, but she won’t play a part in anything other than Ray’s scenes. Hopefully I’ll be able to make Dr. Faustina, the mad scientist from The Night of the Big Blast, sound different from Portman in her speech pattern.

Chapter Two

Arte’s world burst into flames the moment the explosion rocked the night. And even as Sheriff Cord struggled to restrain him from trying to save Jim where he could not be saved, Arte could barely hear his shouted words.

There were only two sounds audible to his ringing ears—the explosion, echoing again and again as the ghastly scene replayed itself incessantly before his mind’s eye, and his heart pounding louder and louder. Somewhere he was vaguely aware that he was shouting right back at the sheriff, something along the lines of “Let me go! Jim needs me! He might still be alive!” But as he pushed the other man away at last and ran forward again, his pace inexplicably slowed to a halt.

He was staring into the furiously taunting blaze, the red, yellow, and orange hues sneering at him, mocking him, as they began to lower and die out in the chill desert air. There was no sign of Jim. How could there be? He had been caught right in the center of the blast. There wouldn’t be any of him left to be found.

Arte’s knees abruptly gave out. He crashed down in front of the quieting inferno, his visage blank. This had been Jim’s death sentence, the desert, now his grave. He had survived so many attempts on his life, so many experiences that would have killed lesser men. But this time his luck had simply run out.

Arte had felt that something was going to go wrong. Why hadn’t he felt it more strongly? Why hadn’t he known? Why couldn’t he have done something? Why had he been forced to stand here and just helplessly watch as his best friend was blown to smithereens?

Everything had been so cacophonous moments ago. Now it was so quiet, too quiet—as though even the wilderness was sobered by what had just happened. The only sounds were those of the visitors. The sheriff was talking to him again, and the frightened horses were whinnying—Jim’s had probably run altogether—and off in the distance another horse was whinnying.

Arte looked up with a start. He spun about, just barely able to see a figure on horseback over near the rocks on the opposite side of the stretch of dust. The unknown person was trying to control and calm his horse, which seemed to be in no mood to listen.

Who was that? Why hadn’t he come over to see what was wrong and whether he could help? He seemed instead to be attempting to steer his horse away from the scene. Why would he leave, unless . . .

Arte was on his feet in an instant, fueled by his outrage and heartache and grief. In seemingly one motion he was back on his own horse and snapping the reins with a cry. The beast bolted, galloping in the direction Arte wanted. The stranger, realizing he had been spotted, was off in a flash on his own horse.

“You there! Stop!” Arte screamed.

There was no reply, other than the pounding of their horses’ hooves across the desert floor.

Arte clutched the reins in one hand while taking out his gun and firing into the air. It did not affect the other rider, save for increasing his beast’s speed. But Arte was beginning to gain on him and they both knew it.

“The next bullet will be aimed at your back if you don’t stop,” Arte threatened.

Undaunted, the man hunched forward, urging his horse on.

Arte clenched his teeth. It was so tempting to follow through on what he had said. He was not a violent man by nature, but Jim was dead, and his possible killer was fleeing into the night. Arte was not about to let him get away.

Jim would probably take a flying leap and tackle the rider right off his horse. Arte almost felt like trying it. But instead he came alongside, glaring at the stranger in the near-darkness. If he could pull ahead, he could cut his new nemesis off before this went any further.

He reached out, grabbing for the other’s reins. The second horse jerked, its owner pulling the reins as far away from Arte as he could. But it gave Arte the opening he had wanted. His horse dove out ahead, right into their opponents’ path. The animal whinnied and bucked, this time throwing the rider altogether. The man yelped, crashing into the sparse desert plants.

Arte jumped down and was on him in an instant. He straddled the bruised stranger, pointing the gun at his face. “Alright, now you and I are going to have a little talk,” he snarled. “Did you have anything to do with that explosion back there?”

“No, I didn’t,” the other man spat. “I was leaving town when I saw you and those others gathered at that rock. That’s when the explosion happened. I was minding my own business, not setting up your friend to be killed.”

“Oh sure, your own business,” Arte retorted. “You were minding it so well you didn’t even try to come over and find out what had happened.”

“It was obvious, wasn’t it?”

Arte did not answer. Something had suddenly occurred to him. He backed off and stood, keeping hold of his prisoner’s arm with one hand. Still pointing the gun with the other, he dragged the other man to his feet. “Come on,” he growled, heading in the direction of the horses.

“I don’t have much choice,” was the muttered response.

“Good,” Arte retorted. Daring to let go, but continuing to threateningly hold the gun, he grabbed for the lantern hanging from his saddlebag. As he turned the knob, filling the small area with light, his eyes first widened, then narrowed.

“Coley Rodman,” he breathed. “On the run from the law ever since Jim and I captured you and your gang at the fort.” His patience snapped. “And you’re standing here trying to tell me you had nothing to do with this?!”

“I’m telling you the truth, Gordon,” Coley shot back. “I was in town, getting supplies. I left because I . . . because someone thought he recognized me. I didn’t want to call attention to myself. I didn’t blow up James West. I had no reason to!”

“What if someone hired you to do it?” Arte demanded. “Such as whoever’s been messing with the desert here and burning down homes in Justice?”

“I’m a robber and a thief, not a hired gun,” Coley insisted. “Check your records, Gordon. I don’t go around deliberately killing people for profit!”

“Oh, scum like you will do anything,” Arte said bitterly. “Look at you, on the run for years because you wouldn’t settle down and take your punishment for your crimes.”

“Most people like to live.”

“And you made sure some people didn’t.” Arte set the lantern down and again grabbed for Rodman. “Such as Jim?”

“No!” Coley snatched Arte’s wrist, gripping it tightly. “This is a pointless conversation; we’re going around in circles. You’re not calm enough to discuss things rationally.”

“Rationally?!” Arte echoed. “After all you’ve done, you expect me to feel that it isn’t rational to think that you could have had something to do with this?”

“Yes.” Coley glowered at Arte in the glow of the lantern. “Take me back into town. The people in the saloon saw me. There was an old drunk who thought I was Little Pinto come back to life. And he told me that you and West and the sheriff had already left for the hills. I wouldn’t have had time to get out here ahead of you and set some bomb!”

Arte frowned, allowing those words to sink in. Rodman was insistent on his guiltlessness in this matter, which was to be expected. But he was providing detailed, possible evidence for backing it up, too.

“Alright,” Arte said at last. “Alright, I will take you into town, and we’ll try to find this drunk. And then you know there’s a warrant out for your arrest. I should turn you over to Sheriff Cord.”

“Should?” Coley raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you won’t?”

“I’m thinking I’d rather keep hold of you myself until we clear up this business of whether or not you had anything to do with Jim’s death,” Arte said. “Even if you didn’t set the bomb, maybe you know who did.”

“I don’t,” Coley growled. He paused, considering Arte’s words. “But if I agree to help you out, is there any chance you might be able to set me up with a better deal for my future?”

Arte frowned. “You might get a lightened sentence,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Such as life in prison instead of outright hanging?” Coley sneered.

“I don’t know, Rodman. You’re wasting time.” Arte went for the bag again. “I’ve got some rope in here. Get on your horse and I’ll tie your hands together.”

“That’s not necessary. Where would I run? Anyway, Gordon, right now I’m just as anxious as you are to prove that West didn’t die by my hands in any way.” Coley narrowed his eyes. “And whether or not you believe me, that’s the truth.”

Arte paused. “I’m not taking any chances.”

Still glowering, Coley climbed on his horse. He flinched as Arte tied his wrists. “I should’ve taken my chances with that annoying deputy,” he grumbled.

“Yes, I guess you should have,” Arte said.

He was just finishing with the rope as Sheriff Cord rode up. “That was some fancy ridin’ you were doing, Mr. Gordon,” he gasped. “And what have we here? The no-good varmint who did this?”

Arte sighed. “This is Coley Rodman, Sheriff,” he introduced. “He claims he’s innocent and that he can prove it.”

“Coley Rodman?!” Sheriff Cord leaned in for a better look, even as Coley glared right back. “Why, he’s one of the worst there is. Surely you don’t believe whatever he tells you!”

“I have to look into it anyway,” Arte said. “I’ve tangled with Rodman before, Sheriff. He’s a low-down, sadistic ne’er-do-well and an all-around rotten person. But . . .” He looked to his captive, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. “I might believe that he didn’t do this.”

“Well, thank you,” Coley said dryly.

“Not that it makes much difference from a legal standpoint, whether he did or didn’t,” Sheriff Cord said. “He’s already racked up enough charges to get a hanging.”

Coley gripped the saddle horn. For a brief moment, something flickered through his eyes that almost looked like fear. But then it was gone and he was cold and defiant again.

“It makes a difference to me,” Arte said as he took the lantern and remounted. “I won’t give up until I know who did this.”

Los Angeles, California, circa 2009

Ray Norman was dead.

First and foremost, that was what Dr. Alice Portman cared about.

In second place was the reason why he was dead.

Ray Norman had been a treacherous and cold-hearted blackmailer with a cunning mind. Twice he had devised schemes to anonymously hire a shady private detective, bug people’s rooms at the golf clubs he owned, and then blackmail the guests on whatever evidence was dug up from the tapes. While trying to collect his most recent pay-off, a desperate blackmail victim had shot him dead in the park.

He had been lying in the county morgue until an hour ago. Now, thanks to Dr. Portman’s men, he was resting on a metal slab in her secret laboratory.

She approached him with interest, her green eyes flickering behind her glasses. “Poor Mr. Norman,” she said, and her deep voice was without true sympathy or kindness. “You were too greedy, weren’t you. The money you had was never enough to satisfy your need. And you never cared who was hurt as you sought to add to your nest egg.”

She stood over him from the top of the slab, laying her hands on his bare shoulders. They were cool and clammy, but still felt strong. And with a little science, there would be new strength and life in them yet.

“You’re a despicable person,” Portman continued her musing as she hooked up wires and monitors and then turned her attention to her console. “If you had lived, you would be in prison now.

“Well, you’re going to live again, and then I’ll see what kind of prison I can craft for you.”

She pulled the switch. The body jerked and writhed violently, choked with electricity and other power. Portman adjusted a dial, increasing the flow, and kept a close watch on both the monitors and the as-of-now artificially alive body.

She did not necessarily believe or disbelieve in the existence of a spirit. If such a thing were real, it would be called back into the body once Portman restarted the heart. And if not, well, whatever was there would still be jumpstarted into animating the body once more. Either way, Portman would have what she wanted—Ray Norman, living and breathing again, just as though he had never died.

Without warning the form gasped and the eyes flew open. Ray Norman flew upright on the slab, a hand going to his throbbing head.

Portman felt a thrill of pride. He was not the first man she had brought back from the dead; that honor went to Captain Michael Caldwell, someone who had required infinitely more repair work before she had even been able to attempt the revival. Captain Caldwell was still in her care, relearning how to walk, talk, and handle other normal functions. Ray Norman, it seemed, would not need any such lessons. And he was not paralyzed from the bullet, which was a plus.

She shut off the machines, save for the monitors. These she left on to study her subject’s heart rate and brainwaves. He was blinking now, trying to focus. He was bewildered.

“Good evening, Mr. Norman,” Portman said as she walked out in front of him.

“What?” He squinted at her. “Who are you? What . . . what happened to me?” Suddenly he gasped in pain. “My back . . .”

“Yes, your back. Well, nevermind about that; it will heal before long.” She took up a nearby clipboard. “Do you remember what happened to you at all?”

He looked away, staring at the sheet that was covering the lower half of his body. “I was . . . I was in the park,” he remembered. “There was a gunshot. . . .” He sank back onto the table, weak and dizzy. “I was shot, wasn’t I?”

“That’s right. You were shot, Mr. Norman . . . and killed. My men brought you here and I restored you to life.”

He went rigid. “Killed?! No! No, that’s impossible!” He tried to rise again, gripping the edge of the slab. “This is a trick. No one comes back from being dead. I suppose you’re hoping to get me into your debt with your wild stories of playing Dr. Frankenstein. Well, it won’t work.” His eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous. “If you really helped me after I was shot, then I thank you. And I’ll find some kind of appropriate monetary reward for you. But I won’t be fooled by tales of nonsense.”

“Is this nonsense?” She dropped the early morning paper onto his lap. He took it, holding it up to the light. If not for the wound in his back, he would have flown upright again upon reading the headline.

“‘Businessman Ray Norman Shot Dead In Park Over Blackmail Pay-Off,’” he read in stunned horror. There was even an accompanying photograph of the paramedics bending over a lifeless body.

“It’s an official city paper, Mr. Norman,” Portman said. “Do you believe me now?”

He read the article over once, then twice, before letting the newspaper drop to the sheet. “It could be faked,” he protested.

“But it wasn’t, I can assure you,” Portman said.

“It’s not possible,” he whispered. “It just isn’t.” He looked over at her. “And why would you choose to revive me? I’ve never met you.”

“No, but I’ve been studying your career with great interest, Mr. Norman.” Portman walked deliberately across the room, her high heels clicking on the hard floor. “I know all about how your blackmail operation worked, including what you heard and who you blackmailed. I know you were completely unrepentant, caring for nothing other than your own greed.”

She stopped and turned back. “I want to know, Mr. Norman, how strong the human mind and will are. I want to know if I can break even one such as you.”

He was staring at her in utter disbelief and shock. “That’s why you supposedly brought me back to life?!” he cried.

“Yes,” she told him matter-of-factly. “And if you want to repay a debt, Mr. Norman, you can do it simply by allowing me to perform my tests on your mind. If you are as strong-willed as you seem, you have nothing to fear.”

“This is outrageous!” He tore off the monitoring wires and threw the sheet aside, struggling to swing his legs over the side of the slab and stand. “I won’t stay here and be tortured like this. I’ll get my lawyer. Then you’ll have a suit so big you won’t know how to deal with it!”

Portman did nothing to stop him. Instead she watched and waited in expectance as her patient fought his way to his feet. He only managed two steps before his legs crumpled and he collapsed. Portman walked out to stand over him, again draping his lower body with the sheet.

“You managed to get up,” she remarked. “You have more drive than some of my other subjects.”

“Other?!” Again he stared up at her, loathing his current position. “There’s more?!”

“Yes, quite. But you needn’t concern yourself with them. Your only concern should be you, as it’s always been.

“Arnold, Roscoe.”

Two thugs emerged from the shadows, their cruel expressions chiseled from stone. Portman crossed her arms in satisfaction as Ray rocked back.

“Take Mr. Norman to be dressed,” she instructed. “Then allow him to rest a while before the first test begins.”

Ray tried to scramble away from her men, his heart gathering speed in his fear and horror. “No!” he cried. “I won’t go with them. I’m getting out of here. I . . .”

They hauled him to his feet, one on each side. Portman watched in approval.

“You won’t be going anywhere, Mr. Norman, except to your room. And from there, who knows.” She adjusted her glasses. “I’ll enjoy seeing whether I can shatter you.”

Justice, Nevada, circa 1874

The red-haired woman grasped the handles of the periscope in delight, watching as the men and their horses slowly trouped back over the desert sands. They were nearly at the spot now, the place where Jim West had met his fate. One of the men—Artemus, no doubt—dismounted to retrieve the lone horse that had stayed behind.

The beautiful black gelding had run far away in the face of the explosion. Now, however, it had returned, and was tapping a hoof near the rock, as though aware that its master had been there and now was gone.

Arte approached it softly, reaching for the reins. “Come here, Boy,” he said, so low that the underground spy could barely hear. “Jim’s not here now. He’s . . .” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “He’s gone.”

The horse whinnied low and sad. Stubbornly it lingered, but as Arte prodded again, tugging on the reins, it finally consented. It walked with him back to the others.

The woman leaned back. “Miklos, they are on their way,” she declared.

A tall, strong man smiled, pleased, and made a gesture of bringing his hands together and then throwing them wide, as if to illustrate an explosion.

“Yes, Miklos, they all believe James West is no more, that there is no body to be found.” The woman looked to a slab across the technologically advanced room, where a familiar form was lying perfectly still. “They have no idea that he is here, with us.”

A short man standing nearby struck a match on his teeth and watched excitedly as the flame burned. “I made a good explosion, yes?”

The woman smiled. “Yes, Cyril, very good. We will be gone before long, on to our next stop.”

“And you will help find Miss Posey again, as you promised?”

“Of course. But first, our experiments must be complete.” The woman glanced in another direction, facing several drawers in the wall. “It’s a shame that our lightning destroyed so many buildings trying to get it right, but at last we have had success with you! Now we can use the exact same procedure to begin bringing back your colleagues.”

“Yes, yes.” Cyril looked to the drawers as well. “There will be four more experiments then?”

Miklos held up five fingers.

Cyril blinked. “But who is the fifth? There is Brutus, Gallito, Little Pinto, Sergei . . .” He trailed off with a grimace. Sergei had been the instrument of Cyril’s death, tricked into believing that Cyril was the traitor in their organization. Cyril was not sure he wanted to be around when Sergei was revived. At least, not until it could be explained to him that they had been pitted against each other.

“There is also Snakes,” the woman prompted. “I believe he was the first to die, wasn’t he?”

Cyril stiffened. “Snakes? No! He tried to kill Miss Posey!”

“I’m just as fascinated with him as I am with all of the rest of you,” was the reply. “However, we can’t revive him or any of the others here. It would draw too much attention to make another storm now. And we can’t risk Mr. West being discovered yet.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Cyril wondered.

“Nevermind that now,” she said. “I know that you and the others must surely want your revenge on him, but for now he must be kept alive and untouched.”

“That isn’t any fun,” Cyril pouted.

“Oh, but look at it this way, Cyril. There are few things that will hurt Mr. West as much as waking to discover that his best friend thinks him dead. And that there is nothing he can do to correct the misconception. Perhaps, even, that it would put Mr. Gordon’s life in danger for him to know the truth.”

Cyril considered that. “This is true,” he admitted. “But now Mr. Gordon is with someone else. What about that man, the one who looks like Pinto?”

“I don’t think we’ll need to worry about him,” was the reply. “If he and Mr. Gordon get too close to the truth, we may have to blame him for some of Pinto’s actions.”

Cyril grinned. “Then he is our fall guy.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Cyril struck another match. “Alright then,” he said. “We will do things your way . . . Dr. Faustina.”

[LuckyLadybug]

Chapter Three

Arte drew back the curtain in the second-story hotel room, staring out in the general direction of the now-hated rock. Gradually, his other fist clenched at his side.

Jim was lying out there now—what was left of him. And here was Arte, safe and warm in town, and with a potential murder suspect.

He had dragged Coley Rodman back to the saloon, as promised, and had looked for the drunk or anyone else who could identify him. It had taken a while, but eventually they had gotten the confirmation that Coley had hoped for. He had told the truth about his whereabouts during the time the law enforcement group had been on their way to the desert.

Coley had wanted that to be the end of it, but Arte was not convinced. It seemed too coincidental, for an infamous criminal—a past enemy, to boot—to just happen to be near the spot where Jim was killed. He could have been involved, even if not as the person who had actually set the bomb.

But on the other hand, Coley was no fool. If he had been involved and had been there to observe the explosion, why hadn’t he taken greater pains to stay out of sight amid the other rocks? Instead, it had been more as though he had been traveling on his horse, as he had said, and the bomb had just suddenly gone off without him doing anything to it.

Arte frowned. He did not like Rodman. That was no secret, especially after the encounter that had resulted in Arte being tied to a slab and sadistically threatened by him. But . . . was it at all possible that he was letting his feelings cloud his judgment, at least in part? Was it possible that in this case, Rodman truly was innocent?

Arte glanced to the second bed in the room. The desk clerk had not wanted to rent them a room, fearing the repercussions from all sides if he allowed a character like Coley Rodman to stay. He had also feared that Coley would try to escape and end up on a shooting rampage in town. But Arte had persuaded him, insisting that Coley was a federal prisoner and would not be allowed to get away.

Coley was on his side now, turned away from Arte and apparently asleep. His hands, still tied in front of him, were held near the pillow. Arte had not felt he could dare loosen the bonds. However, once he found where his handcuffs had mysteriously disappeared to, he intended to replace the rope with them. Coley would still be a prisoner, but the handcuffs would be more humane.

Arte had to admit, he cringed to think what the rope would do after a few hours. Maybe, he thought, he should take it off. He wasn’t planning to sleep, after all, so he would be able to stand guard in case Rodman tried to escape.

However, even if he believed he would not sleep, there was always the chance that he would somehow doze off anyway. And if Rodman was not bound, he might attempt flight in spite of what he had said about wanting to prove his innocence. Arte had to take all possible precautions against that, even if it meant Rodman might sustain a possible, painful rope burn.

Still . . . could Arte be projecting his horror and hurt over Jim’s death on Coley? Arte deeply frowned at the thought. Maybe Arte wanted it to be Coley, so that his search would be over and he could know that he would be able to bring the killer to justice. Rodman was long overdue for some of that, anyway.

“I didn’t do it, Gordon. And I don’t know who did.”

Arte jumped a mile as Coley’s voice cut through the night. Coley was still facing away from him.

“I thought you were asleep,” Arte muttered uncomfortably.

“It’s a little hard to sleep like this.” Coley indicated his hands. “Haven’t I proven myself a good boy so far?”

“Yes, but I still don’t trust you,” Arte replied dryly. “Especially if there’s a chance you could find some sick ferrets and bacon out here.”

There was a brief silence. “Oh, so that’s what this is about.”

“Yes, that’s what this is about, at least in part. Frankly, Rodman, I just don’t like your guts.”

Coley chuckled under his breath. “I never expected you to. Considering your position and mine, we’re sort of natural enemies, aren’t we?”

“Exactly. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t feel like letting your hands go free, won’t you?”

Arte could see Coley shrug in the dark. “If you plan on keeping me around a while, the time might come where you’ll be forced to trust me to save your life.”

“Heaven forbid,” Arte declared. “I’d be just as good as dead.”

“You might be surprised.”

“And why is that?” Arte was not sure why he was permitting this conversation to continue. Maybe because talking to someone, anyone, was better than letting himself be alone with his thoughts right now. He wanted to focus on anything other than the fact Jim was gone.

“As I said, I don’t just allow everyone around me to die. I only kill if it’s in my best interest. And if you were to die around now, Gordon, I’d be the prime suspect. That would not be in my best interest.”

“You’ll end up hanging anyway,” Arte retorted. “You’ve seen to that.”

“You’re supposed to arrange differently, if I help you.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to see how helpful you can be.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Coley rolled onto his back. “Meanwhile, can you tell me what I’m supposed to do if I find myself in need of using my hands?”

Arte straightened, slowly taking off his hat. “Well, Rodman, I guess you’ll just have to trust me,” he declared. “And if you behave yourself, maybe I’ll let you have your hands free, at least in the daytime.”

“Glory be.”

“I don’t suppose you saw a pair of handcuffs lying in the desert somewhere?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Darn!” Arte sank onto the other bed.

Coley turned to face him in the rising moonlight. “Do you have any intention of going to sleep?”

“Right now, no,” Arte sighed.

“Then maybe we should discuss the case. I want to get out of this mess as soon as possible.”

Arte propped himself up on the headboard with an elbow. “There are some other questions I have for you,” he said. “Alright, Rodman. Did you ever see any of the strange activities that have been going on in the desert the last few weeks?”

“Yes,” Coley replied. “I saw a lightning storm form in the sky. And I saw a bolt of lightning strike one of the buildings in town.”

“So it was lightning,” Arte whispered in amazement.

“The storm seemed to be the strongest above that mountain you were at tonight.”

“And did you ever see any people out and about?”

“No. At least, not other than the sheriff and his deputy.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be them,” Arte mused to himself. “They’re too upright.”

“Staunchly, almost maddeningly so,” Coley said.

“They’ve kept crime out of town,” Arte defended. He was not about to say that he and Jim had both found Sheriff Cord too rigid for comfort.

“Do you believe that going by the book is always the best way?” Coley returned. “That didn’t seem to be West’s policy.”

“Nevermind,” Arte snapped. “Now, about the mountain. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Not offhand. It looked like an ordinary mountain that just happened to have a thundercloud over it.”

“Well, that’s not much help,” Arte muttered. “When it’s morning, we’ll go out there and look it over. Maybe whoever set off that bomb was trying to destroy something incriminating and Jim . . . just got in the way.” His voice caught in his throat.

“As opposed to it being a deliberate assassination?”

“Yes.” Arte refused to meet Coley’s gaze now. Discussing what had happened tonight only made it real again. Arte had been trying not to think about it, to half-pretend it was a horrible, unreal nightmare and that he would wake up back on the Wanderer with Jim watching over him.

He had been sent a warning in a dream about the old Day house and the dangers that lurked there. He had believed it was nonsense at first, although he had still been very shaken upon awakening. When they had encountered the real Day house and it had been just like Arte’s dream, Arte and Jim had managed to warp the events so that they did not happen the same way and Sheriff Whitney did not die.

Why couldn’t this be another warning dream? Why couldn’t he wake up and find Jim alive and well and still have a chance to save him?

“Gordon?”

He started. Coley sounded slightly irritated. He had been trying to talk to Arte for several minutes without success.

Arte tried to pull himself together. “Oh. What is it, Rodman?”

“You should make a list of all the criminals you know of who specialize in fire or bombs,” Coley said. “It might be someone you already know.”

“I should,” Arte acknowledged with a nod. “I will.”

He could not push the truth away any longer. He had to force himself to focus on the fact that Jim was dead. And then he had to throw all of his energy into piecing together the identity of the murderer.

If he wasn’t right here.

Los Angeles, California, circa 2009

Ray Norman continued to struggle and protest as he was dragged down the endless corridor by Dr. Portman’s henchmen. His heart, stilled for several hours, was thumping furiously.

“Stop manhandling me!” he cried. “I’m not making idle threats about that lawyer. I’ll prefer charges against your boss. And don’t think any of you will be off the hook, either! I won’t stand for this!”

“I don’t think you’ll be standing at all,” one of the thugs sneered. Another one opened a door, revealing a fully furnished bedroom. Clothes had been spread out on the bed, all in Ray’s size.

Without warning he was thrust forward into the room, where he crashed onto the carpeted but still hard floor. Pain shot through him with a vengeance.

“Stay here until the doctor calls for you,” one of the strongmen ordered. “Try to get yourself presentable, if you can. Not that it makes much difference to the doc.” Cruelly laughing, he slammed the door shut.

Ray fumed. Pressing on the floor with both palms, he tried to force himself to rise. Instead his arms wobbled and he fell back to the carpet. Several succeeding tries resulted in the same ending.

He sank into the carpet in resignation. For the time being, at least, he was unable to make himself get up. He was weak all over and his back was throbbing. And Portman’s tale of what had happened to him was seriously disconcerting.

“Is it true?” he whispered to the vacant room. “Was I . . . could I have been . . . dead?”

He shuddered. Death was nothing more than a blank void, if that was what had happened to him. The bullet had hit him and he had fallen out of all time and awareness.

Only . . . there were odd flashes of memory he could not quite place. It almost seemed that he recalled getting up, looking himself over and finding that he was untouched . . . and then seeing himself lying on the grass in front of him.

“No,” he choked out. “No, that didn’t happen. I wasn’t dead.”

His eyes narrowed. He had made a lot of money to supplement his income with his elaborate blackmail schemes. He was cold and hard and shameless, ready to do whatever was necessary to ensure success. And now he was letting himself be shaken by something that had surely been a hallucination in his illness?

Yes, that was all it was. That newspaper was a fraud. It had to be. No one could be brought back from the dead.

He reached up, gripping the edge of the bed. With all of his strength he hauled himself up and grabbed for the clothes. He would dress himself and be ready when the doctor wanted him. He would present himself before her with dignity and determination and again threaten her with legal action. That had always been enough to scare his other enemies off. There was no reason why it shouldn’t work with Portman too.

Dressing himself was harder than he had thought. His vision blurred further the longer he stood. He fell more than once. Twice he was unable to get back up until he lay on the floor for an undeterminable amount of time. Once he knocked his head on the woodwork going down and was fairly sure he had managed to render himself senseless, as he remembered the strike and then suddenly found himself on the floor, without knowledge of how he had got there. By the time he finally managed to slip into the suit coat, he was exhausted and dizzy and at the point of collapse. He sank onto the bed and into the pillow with a groan.

“Congratulations, Mr. Norman.”

He went rigid at the sound of Portman’s voice, piped into the room courtesy of a speaker. “You’ve been watching me all this time?!” he cried. “You sick voyeur! When I get out of here, I’ll . . .”

“It’s all in the interest of science, Mr. Norman. My men are correct; it makes little other difference to me.”

“I don’t care. You are going to let me out of here now, if you don’t want to be slapped with the biggest abduction suit in history!”

“I don’t care about that. You see, you never will get out of here until I can break you. First and foremost, that is what I want to see.”

“You’ll have a long wait. I can’t be broken, Doctor . . . whatever your name is.”

“Yes, you’ve lived so long with the seedier side of your personality having full range over your actions that you’ve lost all kindness and concern for anyone other than yourself. Or at least, that’s what you’ve made yourself believe.”

“You think it’s not true?”

“I don’t know. I’ve met very few people who truly care for no one other than themselves. And I’ve met even fewer that I can’t shatter nevertheless. I have to doubt that you truly know yourself, Mr. Norman.”

“Well, you certainly don’t know me,” Ray retorted.

“Yes, but that’s what I aim to change. Everyone has at least one thing they’re unnaturally terrified of. I’ll discover what that thing is for you and exploit it. You’ll wish for sweet death to simply come and claim you before I’m through.”

“You won’t find anything,” Ray answered haughtily.

“On the contrary, Mr. Norman. I believe I already know at least one thing that distresses you.”

Without warning the lights went off in the room, plunging Ray into complete darkness. “What is this?” he scoffed. “Do you think I have such a childish fear as the dark? Well, you’re wrong.”

The sound of a gunshot echoed off the walls. Ray went stiff. “Who’s here?!” he demanded. “You missed me! You can’t even see where I am!”

“Did he miss you, Mr. Norman?”

Portman’s calm and assured voice sent a chill up Ray’s spine. Suddenly his back was hurting again. In fact, it was worse than mere hurt. It was on fire, the same feeling he had experienced as he had died.

Dizziness and disbelief swept over Ray at the same time. “No,” he rasped. “No, it can’t be happening again. You wouldn’t kill me after going to all the trouble of bringing me back. You wouldn’t!”

The pain was too much. Ray fell forward, crashing to the floor.

Portman smirked to herself as she turned the lights back on via her console in the hidden room overlooking Ray’s prison.

“You held on for a while instead of losing consciousness immediately,” she mused. “Your denial is strong. You can’t accept that you were clinically dead tonight. But your body still responded to the belief that you were shot and killed again. Brutus, remove the dart.”

The henchman stepped out of the corner of the room and bent down, carefully pulling out the small object that had landed near the wound in Ray’s back.

“The influence of that quick-acting drug didn’t hurt,” Portman mused. “But eventually you will be run so ragged that you will collapse in supposed death as a conditioned response, minus the aid of any mind-altering substances.

“You will die a thousand deaths, Ray Norman. And I will send you to Hell a thousand times, until you bring Hell back with you and can never leave it.”

Behind the glasses, her green eyes glimmered in wretched anticipation.

Somewhere in the Western United States, circa 1874

Consciousness seeped gradually into his senses as it returned. He felt the fire on his face, all over his whole body. He remembered Arte’s screams of horror and panic and disbelief. He was falling again, down, down . . . crashing onto something smooth and hard. And someone was waiting, all too eager to send him into oblivion.

His eyes flew open. The fire was real. A lit match was being dangled dangerously close to his cheek. Out of instinct he reached up, snatching the wrist and holding it away from him. But as his vision returned further, he stiffened. “It can’t be,” he whispered.

A dead man was grinning down at him. “Mr. West! You are joining us at last.”

“Cyril the Firebug.” Jim kept staring. There were few things that could make him visibly shocked, but this was one of them. “You’re dead.”

Cyril cackled. “Does that make you dead too, Mr. West?”

He did not even seem to notice as the flame ate the bottom of the match, burning his fingers.

Jim sat up with a jerk. “Don’t you feel that?!” he gasped.

Cyril glanced down and blew out the fire from the tip of the match. “It is a pleasant tickle,” he said. “Have you ever seen anything as beautiful as a fire? All of the colors, exploding, mixing . . . !” He stepped back, gesturing wildly in the air.

“I can think of a few things I’d consider more beautiful,” Jim deadpanned.

“Women, no doubt!” Cyril humphed. “Women are nice, yes, but they cheat you and leave you! Fire . . .” An unsettling awe came into his eyes. “Fire is always there. You have only to strike a match . . .” He did so. “. . . And fire is with you. No matter how many women come and go.”

“Unfortunately, you can’t have a conversation with fire,” Jim said.

“Talk, talk, what is talk? Fire has its own voice, a divine, strong voice! Listen to it, Mr. West. You can hear it if you try.” He held the match Jim’s way.

Jim’s stomach turned. He had always known Cyril wasn’t quite all there, but this was honestly disturbing him.

“Yes, that’s very nice,” he said, even as he tried to inch away from the flame before it caught hold of his hair. “But speaking of talking fire. Did you arrange that little show with the bomb? The one that almost ended my life?”

Cyril nodded in eagerness. “Yes! It was such a glorious explosion.”

“I fell through a trapdoor,” Jim recalled. “That’s how I survived. But does Arte know?”

“Mr. Gordon believes the fire consumed your body, Mr. West,” Cyril told him.

“That’s right,” came another familiar voice.

Jim looked to the approaching person with a start. “Dr. Faustina,” he breathed. “Of course. That’s why Cyril is alive; you got hold of his body.”

“You are right, Mr. West!” Faustina’s eyes gleamed with pride. “And haven’t Miklos and I done a magnificent job?! He is alive and well and has retained every one of his Earthly memories!”

“That’s magnificent, alright,” Jim grunted. “Except for the part about tampering with things that should really be left alone. Bringing back the dead never goes well.”

“You read too many gothic novels, Mr. West. I am not Dr. Frankenstein, creating horrible monsters out of pieces and parts of corpses. I am simply restoring the dead as they were when they were alive. And I have chosen you to be our honored guest and witness each and every future resurrection!”

“I’m honored indeed,” Jim said. The horror was building within him as each moment passed. “But why me?”

Faustina sighed. “Well, actually we meant it to be Mr. Gordon. Knowing his scientific mind, we felt he would greatly appreciate what we are doing here. And we hoped that he would then return to Washington and tell the President of our marvelous experiments.

“But we should have known that you would go out ahead and be the one to fall into our trap. And, as Cyril tells you, Mr. Gordon believes you are dead.”

Anger sparked in Jim’s eyes. “So you expect me to stand by and watch you revive other people, then try to secure funding for you from Washington.”

“Yes, Mr. West!” Faustina nodded. “With a reliable firsthand account such as yours, President Grant will have to see how beneficial our research can be to humanity!”

“Are all of your subjects as . . . illustrious as Cyril here?” Jim returned.

“His colleagues,” Faustina said.

“Don’t you think the President would be more willing to listen if you brought back decent people instead of the scum of mankind?”

“I couldn’t resist the challenge,” Faustina protested. “Miklos and I arrived in Justice when you and Mr. Gordon were departing. We found the bodies of Lucrece Posey’s gang and took them for a new series of experiments.”

Jim crossed his arms. “It’s been an awfully long time since these men died. And yet Cyril hasn’t . . . if you’ll pardon me, decayed at all.”

“Of course not!” Faustina was growing more excited. “Miklos discovered a new way of preservation. We have been keeping all of the bodies in cold storage. As you can see, Cyril has returned from the great beyond with no ill after-effects!”

“Yes, I see.” Jim took a few small steps around the room. “And I can’t deny what you’ve done is impressive. But what’s to stop me from refusing to help you and leaving right now?”

Miklos appeared behind him, silently glowering. Faustina just smiled. “If you leave, Mr. West, Mr. Gordon’s life is forfeit. I have left another of our experiments behind in Justice to watch over him. If you escape, I will send word to him in a coded message to kill Mr. Gordon and bring us the body. And I won’t perform my special techniques on him to restore him to life.”

“I have no way of knowing you’re telling the truth,” Jim retorted. “And wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘behind in Justice’? Where are we?”

“We packed and left while you were still asleep from the drug,” Faustina replied. “I can assure you, Mr. West, you are nowhere near Mr. Gordon now. Miklos will be happy to escort you to the top and allow you to see for yourself.”

A cold chill ran into Jim’s veins. She was telling the truth. He was unfortunately certain of it.

He looked from the mad scientist to the stern Miklos to the wildly grinning Cyril. He could easily take them on, but if he was in the middle of nowhere he would have no idea where to go to find Arte.

“. . . Who did you send to watch him?” he asked at last.

“We had time for one more revival after we got settled here,” Faustina smiled. “I chose the man who would concern you the most if he were at large and stalking Artemus Gordon.”

“Pinto,” Jim realized.

“Yes, Mr. West!” Faustina looked pleased with herself. “Little Pinto, the fascinating man who was making a study of inflicting pain. He is watching over Mr. Gordon and his companion even as we speak!”

Jim’s hopes sank. Arte was in serious danger. “. . . Wait a minute. What companion?” he demanded. “Sheriff Cord?”

“Oh my, no. And here is where the irony is especially delicious. The man with Mr. Gordon is Coley Rodman.”

Jim rocked back in shock. “What’s he doing with Artemus?!”

“It’s a long, unimportant story. You only need to know that Mr. Rodman is Mr. Gordon’s prisoner. But it would be so easy for Little Pinto to kill Mr. Rodman and assume his place. Do you understand, Mr. West?”

Jim clenched his teeth. “Yes, I understand.”

This story was too wild to be fiction. As much as he hated this, it looked as though he would have to play along for at least a short while, long enough to figure out exactly where he was and how to get back to Justice.

Arte’s life depended on it.

I’m sorry, Arte, he said in his heart. Forgive me; you’ll have to think I’m dead a while longer. If we get out of this, I’ll tell you why it had to be this way.

[LuckyLadybug]

Chapter Four

The machines whirred to life, powered and enhanced by the electricity of the fierce storm. He stood by as a wandering spirit, intensely intrigued. He knew the experiment worked; he had witnessed it with Cyril. Now it was his turn.

He had detested his existence as a mere spirit, unable to interact with the living—particularly Lucrece Posey. He was not even sure why he had lingered on Earth instead of passing to the Hell he imagined was waiting for him. Unless, of course, he had been stranded in the worst Hell possible for him. Some people felt that the true Hell was personal to each person, rather than a physical pit of fire and brimstone. And maybe it was true. He had pondered on it but had never found any concrete answers.

He had tried time and again to reverse his status, attempting repeatedly to re-enter his body, but some unseen force had always blocked him. As the treatments did their work tonight, he tried again, reaching out a tentative hand to his body’s shoulder. It phased through the preserved flesh, instead of being repelled as before. The way was open. He dove in, amid the sparks and crackles of Dr. Faustina’s machines.

He did not hear them at first; his body was still unconscious when he entered. But then sensations slowly began to return. He could feel. He could hear. And when he opened his eyes, he could see.

Cyril was grinning down at him. “You are alive now too!”

And his lips curled in a twisted smirk. “I’ve been gone too long.” He sat up, pulling the wires away. “But now, Little Pinto’s back in town.”

He always stalked his prey before striking.

He was a man of few words. He did not need them, after all—not while he was observing and thinking and plotting.

That was his assignment for now, similar to many he had been sent on for Miss Posey. Someday soon he was determined to follow her instructions once more, instead of this mad scientist’s, but for now he would bide his time and wait. He was patient; Lucrece Posey’s criminal empire would rise again. And when it did, he would be by her side, just as he should be.

The town of Justice entertained him. The sheriff was insufferable, but that was part of the charm. He was so convinced that he and his stuffed-shirt deputy could run Justice like a taut ship and thereby keep out all the criminal life. Instead, in spite of their efforts, Miss Posey’s entire gang had slipped past them and operated out of the town morgue for some time. And now, once again in spite of their efforts, the gang was coming back together.

Artemus Gordon had stayed awake most of the night, only falling asleep near dawn. He was just starting to wake up now, and he blinked in confusion at the sun, as if unable to believe that he had slumbered.

Coley Rodman had been sleeping as well, but by now he was awake and on his side, watching Artemus in vague impatience. He wanted the rope off of his wrists. He had tried more than once to get it off during the night and morning, but to no avail. There was nothing sharp enough in the room for him to use.

Pinto smirked to himself from his vantage point. Rodman was a mystery, an enigma Pinto had always wanted to encounter.

It was curious, how much he looked like Pinto but was actually quite different. On the one hand, he was very capable at devising creative methods of torment. Case in point, Artemus and the afore-mentioned sick ferrets and bacon. But on the other hand, Pinto was not at all sure that Rodman would have really carried out such a gruesome scheme. He had delighted in the psyching out, in taunting and threatening to release the ferrets after rubbing Artemus with bacon, but considering what else Pinto knew of Rodman, he could easily believe that was as far as it would have gone.

The other facts were, Rodman killed as little as possible. He had always tried to ensure the safety of not only his gang, but the people in the looted towns. Oh, he shot it out if he had to, and he had killed or ordered the killing of certain people who had been an active danger to him and the gang during jobs, but he did not take the same thrill and pleasure in executions as Pinto did.

He had been very pleased when they had stumbled across a mad scientist who had invented a germ that did nothing other than paralyze for 48 hours. The scientist had allowed them to use the germ on the towns they looted, and it had provided for quick and bloodless thefts.

There had been other rumors circulating following the scientist’s death in a gunfight with Rodman. One of Rodman’s gang members, also on the lam from the law for the past years, had said he was sure it was Dr. Kirby’s plans to annihilate towns instead of paralyzing them that had made Rodman decide they had to break ties with the man. It was the sort of thing Rodman would never feel right about being party to, no matter how easy it would make the looting.

That gang member, Lafe, was a good-natured sort. And it had been obvious to Pinto that Lafe idolized Rodman. He could have exaggerated, but Pinto doubted it. At least, he was fairly certain it was not an exaggeration by much. It fit with other sources.

Pinto had met Lafe and had heard those stories before Pinto’s death at the hands of Jim West. He could believe them easy enough. But he wanted to get Rodman alone somewhere and ask him. And, since Rodman was unlikely to reveal any such answers of his own free will, Pinto would probably have to torture it out of him.

The thought was a delight. Pinto had pondered on and considered the ideal setting and method of torment both before and after his death. Naturally he had not thought he would get the chance to enact it once he was dead—not until Rodman also crossed over—but now this Dr. Faustina had brought him back to the world of the living and given him that chance.

Dr. Faustina interested Pinto as well, albeit not in the same way. It was curious, how he wanted to torture people and she wanted to bring them back from the dead. It was an interesting art, and Pinto idly wanted to know how it had been done, but he wondered how the knowledge would really benefit one such as he. That was something he would have to think about for a while.

Artemus was waking up more now. And, seeing it, Rodman was perking up. The two would be conversing, most likely.

Pinto set his sadistic thoughts aside and turned his full attention to the scene before him.

****

“It’s about time you were awake.”

Arte shook his head, still trying to get the cobwebs out of his mind. He had been afraid of the sorts of dreams he would have upon finally falling asleep, but if he had experienced any, he could not remember a one. His mind was a complete blank. He could not even recollect what he had been doing prior to falling asleep. Something about a case. . . .

“Jim?” he mumbled in response to the voice. It sounded so different. . . .

“No.”

Arte stiffened. Now the rest of his sleepiness was falling away and everything was flooding back. Of course it wasn’t Jim. Jim was gone. And in his place, Arte had a treacherous outlaw for a companion. It wasn’t a good trade by any stretch of the imagination.

“It’s almost noon. Would it be too much to ask for you to cut this rope?” Coley held up his wrists.

Arte sighed, pushing his aching body upright. “You didn’t try to get out while I was asleep?”

“I wouldn’t get very far like this. But I’ll tell you up front that I tried to find a way to cut the rope myself.”

Arte squinted at it. Even from here, he could see the evidence of that—several broken strands futilely sticking out at all angles. And he could see Rodman’s raw, red skin where the ropes had been rubbing.

He sighed. “It’s against my better judgment,” he said. “Whether or not you had anything to do with Jim’s death, you’re a snake, Rodman.”

“Get a pair of handcuffs from that sheriff, if you’re so determined to have me restrained,” Coley persisted. “I won’t be able to help you much if my wrists are too swollen and sore to move fast.”

“I frankly don’t know if you’ll help me much in any case,” Arte retorted. “You shouldn’t have been trying to get the rope off. Your skin looks worse now than it would if you’d left it alone. If I try to put handcuffs on you after this, they’ll probably be uncomfortable and painful too.”

“Then maybe you should have got some from the sheriff last night,” Coley said without skipping a beat.

Arte looked away. He should have, he knew. He had not even thought about it; he had been too upset. And now, even though he had calmed down, the cold, cruel ache had numbly settled in his stomach.

It seemed too impossible that Jim was dead. Arte wanted with all his heart to refuse to believe it, despite the fact that he had stood right there and watched it happen. It felt so surreal, so unreal, that it seemed it just had to be a horrible dream and nothing more.

At last he stood, heaving a frustrated, resigned sigh. “Alright, Rodman.” He took a knife out of his pocket. “I’ll cut the rope. You see, I’m hungry. And after all, you can’t very well eat with your hands tied and I have no intention of trying to feed you. But if you try to turn tail and run, I’ll bury this knife in your back.”

“I told you, Gordon—I want to prove that I didn’t have anything to do with West’s death. I won’t run.”

“Yes, yes.” Tiredly, Arte started to cross the space between them and met Coley halfway. He reached down, holding Coley’s hands steady while slicing through the rope with the knife. As the bonds fell away, Coley relaxed.

“Thank you.” He rubbed gingerly at the sore marks adorning his wrists.

Arte paused. “Do I need to have my ears checked or did you really just say ‘Thank you’?” He replaced the knife in its sheath.

“I wanted that rope off pretty badly. Don’t imagine it’ll become a habit.”

“Oh, I won’t. Mainly because I have no intention of doing you any more favors until this entire mess is settled.”

“Fair enough.”

****

Breakfast, or lunch, or whatever it was at this hour, was conducted mostly in silence. Coley seemed to be in no mood to talk, just to eat. And Arte was perfectly alright with that. He wanted to get this bizarre alliance over with as soon as possible.

That would mean Jim’s killer or killers would be brought to justice.

And what would it mean for Arte? He frowned.

It would not bring Jim back, of course. And returning to the Wanderer, whenever he did so, was going to leave him with a cold, cruel ache. Everything there would remind him of Jim.

Jim had been the seasoned Secret Service agent, already right at home when Arte had come onboard. It was hard for Arte to imagine Jim being truly content in any line of work other than what he’d had.

But Arte, well . . . he was a thespian and a scientist. Would he really have the heart to stay in the Secret Service now that he had grown so close to Jim and Jim was gone? Maybe, once this mission was over, it would be better to just get out. He could return to the stage and tinker with gadgets on the side.

It was too soon to make such decisions. Arte would push them aside for now, but take them out again when the case was over.

Coley looked up as he finished eating. “Do you want to go out to the rock now?”

Arte started back to the present. “What? Oh.” He tried to push away the chill that had begun to form at Coley’s query. “Yes. We should.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?”

Arte pushed aside his plate. “Rodman, it really doesn’t matter whether I feel like doing it or not.” An edge had crept into his voice. “It has to be done.”

Coley quirked an eyebrow but did not otherwise acknowledge Arte’s tone. “Alright then.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Let’s go.”

Arte followed him out of the hotel’s dining room, his footsteps heavier the farther he went. He did not want to go back to Jim’s final resting place, not now, not ever. But he wanted to find any possible clues to the murderer. And he was on an official case. He had to go.

Neither of them noticed the man at the corner table, watching them from behind a newspaper. As they left, their shadow quietly got up, setting the paper aside. He pulled his hat down as he strode towards the nearest exit.

****

Jim stood on top of the hill, overlooking the wilderness that seemed to stretch on as far as he could see. Sage and other desert flora were the only living things spread across the expanse of land, save for whatever small lizards and insects might be concealed from his point of view.

And save for himself and Miklos, who was standing by to make certain that Jim did not attempt a break.

Where was Justice from here? They could not be that far away, if Pinto had left from here to return to Justice in time to spy on Arte before Arte would have a chance to go anywhere else. And he surely must have taken a horse. But there were no visible horse tracks in any direction. That was to be expected, with the wind picking up as it was, but it was frustrating.

“Isn’t the wind unusually strong?” he asked as his hair blew in all directions.

Miklos smirked and pointed at the hill upon which they were standing. Or more specifically, at the trapdoor in the hill.

“I see. It isn’t a natural wind, then.”

Miklos nodded.

Jim cast his gaze to the sky. Now he could see the dark clouds gathering overhead. From the amount of heavy pouches hanging from the underside of the largest cloud, there was going to be a large-scale thunderstorm any moment.

Miklos gestured back to the trapdoor in the hill, indicating for them to go down. Jim went without protest. He did not particularly want to be the highest point when the lightning started. Miklos followed him down, pulling the door cover after them.

In the room below, Dr. Faustina was hard at work with her console. Strapped and wired to the nearby slab was a body Jim recognized as that of Sergei, the always-hungry Russian. Cyril was nowhere to be found.

“Did you see the storm, Mr. West?” Faustina exclaimed.

“Yes, I did, actually,” said Jim as he stepped closer. “It makes sense that you’d have a weather machine. You need lightning, of which the desert is in short supply.”

Faustina nodded with excitement. “And this location is so much better than our first. There are no buildings for the lightning to accidentally strike here.”

“And no nosy people to come prowling about,” Jim added.

“Yes, that too,” Faustina agreed.

“Of course, you picked your first location with a purpose in mind.” Jim laid one hand on top of his other. “That of drawing the attention of someone to witness your experiments.”

“And it worked, didn’t it, Mr. West?” Faustina finished adjusting the dials and levers and hurried away from the console. “Come! We must get behind the screen.”

With Miklos bringing up the rear, Jim followed Faustina into an alcove with a window that looked out on the room. “I don’t see Cyril anywhere,” he said idly. “You didn’t send him away with Pinto, did you?”

Faustina glanced at him over her shoulder, occupied. “Oh no, Cyril is here. He’s just . . . keeping himself scarce for now. You understand.”

Jim looked through the screen at the body, which was starting to jerk from the entering electric force. “Because of Sergei. Yes, I understand.”

He fell silent, transfixed in spite of himself. He had seen one of these revivals before, when he and Arte had watched that of the dead man transformed into an Arte double. It had amazed and disturbed him then, as it was now. When Sergei flew upright, his eyes snapping open, Jim rocked back.

“What is going on?” Sergei demanded. He looked around in confusion. “Where is Miss Posey? And what is there to eat?”

A trace of a smirk flickered on Jim’s lips in spite of himself. Yes, Sergei was most certainly his old self.

Faustina stepped out from behind the screen. “Hello,” she greeted. “I am Dr. Faustina. Do you know how you came to be here?”

“No,” Sergei frowned, looking to her.

“You had a bad fall from a horse,” Faustina calmly explained. “I brought you here and revived you with my treatments.”

Sergei’s eyes widened in shock. “I was dead?”

“Yes, sadly. But all is well now. I will take you to Miss Posey when I have revived the rest of your comrades. As for nourishment, there is plenty of good food in the kitchen. Miklos will bring you something.”

“Thank you,” Sergei replied, still looking a bit dazed and confused. “I am in your debt.”

“Oh no. If all works as it should, I shall be in your debt,” Faustina smiled mysteriously. “Is there any particular food you prefer?”

“Anything,” Sergei said. “All food is good.”

Miklos quietly departed.

Jim stayed where he was. Should he test Sergei’s reaction to him now or wait until later? It wasn’t as though Sergei would have any information Jim could get from him. But . . . if he launched himself at Jim in a fit of rage, Jim could test how strong he was so soon after reviving. Faustina had doctored her fakes of Jim and Arte in the past to make them superhuman, but Jim did not know if she would have done the same thing here.

And he could not help worrying about Arte all the more if he were to encounter a super-charged Pinto.

He walked out from behind the screen. “I want to congratulate you on your return to life,” he deadpanned.

Sergei tensed. “What are you doing here?!” He groped for a weapon, but there was nothing close at hand.

“Mr. West is our guest, Sergei,” Faustina explained. “He is going to report on the success of these experiments with you and your colleagues.”

Sergei just scowled. “Why?”

“So that hopefully the government will recognize at last how important funding my research could be,” Faustina said. “We have already brought back Cyril and Pinto.”

“Cyril?” Sergei looked around, his eyes flashing. “He is fink!”

“No, Sergei, Cyril was never the traitor in your organization,” Faustina tried to assure him. “You were tricked by Mr. Gordon.”

Sergei stiffened. “This is true?” He jumped down from the slab, approaching Jim in determination. “Tell me!”

“You would trust me to tell you the truth?” Jim returned.

“I killed Cyril!” Sergei exclaimed. “I thought he was fink. And if he was guiltless and loyal all along . . . !” He threw up his hands, beginning to pace the floor. “I must find him and apologize!”

“Oh, I’m sure that once he knows you’re not out to kill him again, he’ll come out,” Jim said.

And it was going to be one bizarre reunion. The last few minutes had already felt unreal, without that added to it.

Jim’s thoughts turned to Arte, as they repeatedly had ever since he had awakened. How was he doing? Was he aware that he was being watched? And how was he getting along with Coley Rodman?

He already knew that Arte would be devastated over Jim’s “death”. The sound of Arte’s anguished cry was still in his ears. And although neither of them liked Coley Rodman, Arte had a much deeper-seated dislike of him than did Jim. He still cringed at times when he saw ferrets.

Jim was not even sure which was the bigger danger at the moment—Coley or Pinto. But he was definitely certain that either way, Arte would have his hands full.

****

The desert scenery was beautiful in the daytime, but Arte could scarcely feel enthusiasm or fascination over it. This was such a sharp contrast to the first time they had run across Justice, riding their horses in, Arte extolling the virtues of the wide-open spaces. . . .

They had met Sheriff Cord shortly afterwards, thus beginning their sometimes-rocky association with the local law enforcement, as well as their encounter with Lucrece Posey and her gang. Only Posey herself and Ascot Sam had made it out alive. And Jim and Arte were lucky to have made it out alive too.

Why had Jim not been granted the same luck this time?

He came to attention as Coley stopped near the dreaded spot and began to dismount. “Wait a minute!” Arte called sharply.

Coley looked over, frowning. “What’s your problem now, Gordon?” he asked.

Arte brought his horse to a stop as well and climbed down. “I’ll go first,” he said. But he gripped the reins, his throat and stomach clenching. He wouldn’t even know when he was walking on dirt and when he was walking on . . .

Oh, it was too horrible to think about. He turned away, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“You’re thinking I’ll somehow desecrate the place where West was blown up,” Coley spoke up. “Is that it?”

“No, that isn’t . . .” But Arte trailed off. Actually, he supposed that was it. He did not want Coley to go first. But he did not want to go at all. Still, it had to be done.

He took his hand away from his face, frowning at the outlaw. “Rodman, if you’re really as intelligent as you seem to be, how in the world did you end up in your line of work?”

Coley was not impressed. “Are we here to discuss my life story or solve a murder?” he countered.

“Nevermind, nevermind.” Arte waved a dismissive hand and stepped away from the horses. Drawing a deep breath, he advanced on the rock.

Jim. . . . I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop this. I couldn’t save you.

He would not wish that he had been the one to die instead. That would put Jim in the same agony Arte was going through now. He just wished that he could turn back the clock and stop it from being either of them.

The sight of a scrap of singed blue cloth stopped him cold. He bent down, scooping it up in his trembling hands. He had known there would most likely be remnants. This was surely not the only one he would encounter.

Could he really do this right now? Maybe Rodman was right to be skeptical. Maybe it was too soon.

No, he had to proceed. He owed it to Jim. And he would never be at peace until he brought the murderers to justice.

He slipped the cloth in his pocket and slowly walked forward, the desert sand and dirt crunching under his boots.

“Gordon.”

He stiffened at Rodman’s sudden, hissed voice. “What is it now?” he demanded. “Did you find something?”

“I know you won’t be receptive to this, but I need my gun.”

“What?!” Arte spun to face him. “You’re darn right I’m not receptive! If you think I’ll let you have any kind of weapon . . .”

“Right now I don’t think you have much choice, unless you’re not as intelligent as you seem to be.” Coley was not looking at him. Instead, his attention was focused on the surrounding hills and rocks. “We’re being watched. If I’m not mistaken, we’re about to be attacked by a gang of bandits. I’ve counted at least four independent, moving shadows up there.”

Arte squinted ahead. Rodman was not lying; he could see flashes of the forms too. But he was not convinced. “How do I know that’s not your gang up there, trying to liberate you?”

“I haven’t seen any of my gang since we broke out of that prison transport,” Coley retorted.

“Maybe they’ve caught up with you here and want to get back together,” Arte said.

Coley glowered. “We don’t have time for this.”

And suddenly he broke away, running back towards Arte’s horse. Arte immediately drew his gun, poised to run after him—or to shoot, if he had to. “Rodman!” he yelled.

Coley reached the bewildered animal and tore open Arte’s saddlebag, soon grabbing hold of his own gun. Seconds later, a bullet whizzed over his shoulder.

Arte looked up with a start at the gunfire. Four men on horseback were galloping down the mountain towards them, weapons bared. Their horses, frightened, scattered. Coley barely got out of the way of his fleeing mount in time. He fell to the ground, still clutching his gun.

Arte snapped to, firing at the nearest attacker. The gunfire was swiftly returned. Near him, Coley was firing as well.

Bullets peppered the desert floor and rock walls. With nowhere to run for cover, Arte and Coley were forced to press themselves against the ground as much as possible, returning lead only when the barrage let up enough that they could rise for a shot or two.

It was over within two minutes. Two of the assailants lay dead on the ground. The remaining two panicked, digging in their spurs and sending their horses flying over the desert sands.

Arte frowned, staring after them. They could have taken him and Rodman. Why were they leaving?

Slowly he rose, his gaze still fixed on them. “Rodman!” he called. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Coley grunted. He got up, going directly to the nearest body. He prodded it with his boot, turning it over. “. . . This man isn’t dressed like a desert bandit,” he said in surprise.

Arte jerked around for a better look. “Neither is this one,” he gasped, kneeling next to the other corpse. “They’re both dressed too neat and clean. They’ve been in a town recently. And there’s fresh money in this man’s pocket.”

“In this one’s, too.” Coley took the cash out, slipping it into his own pocket. “What do you make of it, Gordon?”

Arte regarded the forms in thoughtfulness. “In all honesty, I think they were deliberately coming after us, but not to rob us. As a matter of fact, they may have been paid to do it. And they may have been hoping to scare or wound us, but not kill us. Those other two could have gunned us down, but didn’t even try when their companions fell.”

He straightened. “Maybe there’s something here we’re not supposed to find. Let’s give this rock a closer look. Oh, and by the way.” He came to stand in front of Rodman. “That money is currently evidence.” He held out his hand.

Coley gave him a smoldering look. But he forked the bills over, slapping them into Arte’s palm.

Arte snatched the wad away, placing it in his pocket. “Thank you.” He smiled very deliberately at his unusual comrade.

Coley turned, stalking towards the rock. Arte trailed after him, his senses alert. The desert was quiet now, but was it devoid of other people?

Jim . . . what was behind this?

Why were you really killed?

Now, all the more, he was determined to find the answers.

[LuckyLadybug]

Notes: This whole story is a lot of fun for me, but I'll admit to being especially fond of this one so far.

Chapter Five

Los Angeles, California, circa 2009

Ray groaned as consciousness began to return. Without really knowing what he was doing, he ran a hand over the smooth, hard floor.

His eyes snapped open. “I’m dead,” he whispered. “No, wait . . . I couldn’t be. But . . .”

He sat up shakily. He was not in the carpeted room from before. Now it was a sparsely furnished cell. He could see the shadows of the bars on the walls.

His back was still throbbing. He shuddered, slumping against the cot to his right side. “Where am I?” he mumbled.

“Why, you’re in prison, of course, Mr. Norman. Blackmailers go to prison.”

He looked up with a start at Portman’s matter-of-fact voice. “I can’t be in prison. I didn’t even have a trial!”

“How can they try a dead man?”

Ray stiffened. Placing his hand on the thin mattress, he pushed himself to his feet and limped forward to the bars. He gripped the cold metal in his hands, shaking the door in desperation. It was, of course, locked.

“They can’t put a dead man in prison, either,” he retorted.

“This is a very special prison, Mr. Norman.”

Suddenly the bars were hot. Ray cried out, jerking his hands away. Flames were leaping just outside, climbing higher and higher. He backed up, trying to shield his eyes and face.

“This is where dead blackmailers go. This is Hell itself!”

Ray backed up against the opposite wall as the fire reached through the bars for him. He trembled, his eyes wide and filled with fright.

“This isn’t real!” he declared. “It can’t be!”

An ember landed on his arm, quickly beginning to burn through the cloth and to his flesh. He yelped in pain, grabbing for the pillow to extinguish the blaze.

“Is that real enough for you, Mr. Norman?”

Ray swatted the flame down, his eyes wild. Even after it was gone he continued to hit his arm with the pillow, desperate, refusing to burn. At last he let the plush object slip from his fingers and fall back to the cot. Gingerly he reached out, peeling back the remnants of the sleeve to study his arm.

The sight of the burned and melted flesh was too much. He stared, unbelieving, horrified.

“You haven’t paid enough attention to your surroundings, Mr. Norman.”

He looked up with a jerk. The fire had come through the bars, surrounding him, consuming everything in its path. He screamed, falling to the floor and curling into a ball. There was no way out.

“Blackmailers burn in Hell. That is what will happen to you, again and again, as you relive your original death in the park.”

Alice Portman leaned back at her console with a satisfied smirk. As far as Ray was concerned, he was being burned alive—or dead. He was still on the floor, still in a ball, screaming in his imagined pain.

“The mind invents so many things, with a little help.” She looked to one of her lackeys. “You’re very knowledgeable at working the fake motion picture fire, Tom.”

Tom shrugged. “It’s not hard. But what are you gonna do with him, Doctor? I mean, what if his body can’t take all this stress, right after being brought back from the dead?”

“I believe his body can,” Portman replied. “It’s his mind I’m most interested in.”

Ray sprawled on the floor now, gasping, quaking, his eyes squeezed shut.

“The drug will wear off before long now,” Portman mused. “He should remember everything that has happened, but in a vague corner of his mind. Then it will start all over again.”

“And if you do break him down, what then?”

“Then I will have proved another facet of the human mind,” Portman replied. “That even a cold-hearted criminal can be shattered to pieces.” Her eyes gleamed. “It’s the ultimate form of rehabilitation. If he recovers, he will never want to touch anything illegal again.”

Tom swallowed hard. “Yeah, but . . . what if he doesn’t recover?”

“He’ll spend the rest of his days here,” Portman replied.

Tom looked through the window at the trembling form of the agonized man. He was not burned anywhere on his body, even on his arm, but he believed it thoroughly. And in reality, his back was bleeding again.

Tom could not help wondering just how long “the rest of his days” would be.

Somewhere in the Western United States, circa 1874

Jim was not restricted to one area of the underground complex. He was allowed to roam freely, as long as he did not try to escape. And having seen that Posey’s gang truly was being revived, he was convinced that Arte truly was in danger from Pinto. That was enough to keep him anchored here for the time being.

He perked up as he turned a corner and saw Sergei coming towards him, slicing salami. Maybe he could subtly work towards a plan by starting a conversation.

“Hello, Sergei,” he greeted. “Did you find Cyril?”

Sergei glanced up, displeased. “Yes, I found him.”

“Then everything’s alright now.”

“Yes.” Sergei cut another slice. “What you want?”

“Oh, I was just thinking. What are you going to do when Dr. Faustina revives the rest of your gang?”

“We will find Miss Posey.”

“What makes you think Dr. Faustina will take you to Miss Posey?” Jim crossed his arms. “Don’t you realize that she can’t let any of you go?”

Sergei paused, his eyes narrowed. “She has promised.”

“The whole reason she’s doing this is for her own gain,” Jim said. “She probably couldn’t care less whether you get back to Posey or not. All she wants is to show the world that she can bring the dead back to life.”

“She has you for that,” Sergei grunted.

“But what’s my word without the formerly dead people to prove it?” Jim calmly looked the other man in the eyes. “Everyone would just think I was insane, or maybe that I’d been brainwashed. Dr. Faustina needs you and the others as well as my testimony.”

Sergei’s frown deepened. “You are not just saying this, like Mr. Gordon?”

“It’s common sense, Sergei. Think about it.”

Jim walked past, leaving the gang member to draw his own conclusions. Hopefully, he had planted at least a seed of doubt.

“Well, Mr. West! Are you trying to stir up contention in our little group?”

He looked up. Dr. Faustina had stepped into his path. Standing behind her, Miklos glowered hatefully.

Jim did not bat an eye. “I just thought Sergei should know what he and the others are getting into by staying here,” he said. “What I said is true, isn’t it?”

“No, it is not!” Faustina retorted. “Of course I plan to take them to their beloved leader. . . . After I have what I want.”

“Naturally. Only the government will never grant it to you, no matter what you or even I say.”

Faustina’s eyes flashed. “We shall see, Mr. West.”

“Yes, we will.” Jim moved to walk past, but Miklos held up a strong hand, blocking his path.

“I hope we will not hear of any more of your attempts at ‘enlightenment’,” Faustina said. “Do we make ourselves clear?”

“Perfectly.” Jim stepped aside and allowed them to walk by. Then he continued down the corridor.

He frowned once he was alone. He was trying to convince Sergei to turn against Faustina by not trusting her words. And yet he was being forced to trust her himself. He had to believe that Arte was safe as long as he remained here. And that was unlikely.

What if Faustina decided to order Arte killed because she didn’t want him looking for Jim too soon? Arte would be investigating. He might find something that would prove Jim was alive. Or at least, he might find something that would put him on Faustina’s trail.

Jim came to a halt, deep in contemplation. It was much too likely that all of that was the case. He certainly did not trust Dr. Faustina or Miklos. He should just leave and look for Arte. It was true that he had no idea which way to go to get to Justice. But there must be more horses than just the one Pinto had likely taken. And those horses might know the way.

Now with renewed determination, he started off again. He would find where the horses were being kept. And there he might also find another way to reach the surface.

He would not think about the possibility that Arte was already dead. His longtime friend was resourceful and clever. Pinto would not be able to take him out so easily. And as for Rodman, well, he would put his money on Rodman remaining Arte’s prisoner.

He would get out of here, find Arte, and then they would put a stop to Dr. Faustina’s insane scheme together.

Just as it should be.

****

Arte sighed in frustration as he stepped back, placing his hands on his hips. The rock loomed ahead of him, mysterious and cold. As far as he could tell, there was nothing special or unique about it. He and Coley had been going over it for the better part of an hour, without success. Now Coley had climbed on top of it, examining it from a new angle.

Arte craned his neck back. “Well?” he called.

“Nothing,” Coley said in annoyance. “No one’s been up this way. And even if they came, there wouldn’t be anything to see.” There was a scuffling sound as he began to descend.

Arte walked around to the left side of the rock. “There has to be something here,” he muttered. He reached out, slapping a crease in the thing with his hand. “But what?”

He froze in sudden realization. Leaning forward, he squinted at the indention. That didn’t look natural, now that he thought of it. What it really looked like was something manmade.

“Could it be?” He tried to fit the tips of his fingers in the crack. From what he could feel, it was smooth. And when he leaned down to look through it, there was a perfectly defined shape in the distance beyond it. “Yes, it could!”

He was looking at a secret door, and through it, to some object in a room on the other side. He was sure of that now. The only question was, what triggered the door? With renewed purpose he began feeling across the massive structure.

“What the h- . . . !”

He jumped a mile at Coley’s incomplete exclamation and the sound of a crash. “Rodman?! What’s going on?!”

He ran out to see and then stopped short in disbelief. Coley was gripping the right side of the rock, staring at the ground under his feet.

Or rather, staring where the ground should be.

Arte hurried over, extending a hand to help Coley over the gaping hole. With Coley unable to let go of the rock without falling, Arte took hold of his arm and pulled him across. “Okay, Rodman, how did the ground disappear like that?” he frowned.

“I don’t know,” Coley grumbled. “I slipped coming down and hit the dirt hard. The next thing I knew, there wasn’t any dirt and I was falling.”

Arte hurried back to the opening in amazement. “It’s perfectly square,” he breathed. “It’s a trapdoor someone installed. And it’s right in the area that exploded!”

His heart picked up speed. Was it possible? Was it at all possible, conceivable, that Jim had fallen through this hole instead of being caught by the bomb? It would have all happened so fast that Arte never would have seen it—especially if the door had then closed after Jim.

He was sure he had found a door on the other side of the rock, too. There had to be some kind of secret installation inside and underneath it.

He leaned forward into the near-darkness. He wanted to call for Jim, but that would be foolhardy. Someone quite different might answer him. And if Jim was down there, it could put him in further danger.

Quickly Arte took out a grappling hook and stuck it in the ground nearby. “I’m going down,” he said, pulling out the attached rope. “If the door doesn’t close up, follow me.”

Coley watched him. “And if it does?”

Arte exhaled. “I’ll need you to open it for me when I want to come back up.”

Coley smirked, adjusting his loosened gloves. “You’re trusting me that much?”

“Believe me, Rodman, I don’t want to,” Arte asserted. “I don’t have much choice.”

“No, you don’t at that.”

Arte let the rope hang into the hole and lowered himself onto it. Slowly and carefully he made his way down, hand over hand, until his feet touched the floor. He let go, turning to stare at his surroundings.

“Incredible,” he breathed.

Coley leaned over the opening. “What is it?”

“There’s an entire laboratory down here,” Arte said. “And there must have been a lot more equipment than there is now; there’s several marks on the floor and walls where heavy objects stood.”

“Surely you don’t think people were here last night,” Coley objected. “They wouldn’t have any way to move heavy objects so fast. And they would certainly leave some trace of it.”

“I know,” Arte frowned. “It doesn’t make sense.”

He walked forward, crossing to the opposite wall. The lighting was dim, but he could clearly see a long, upward-sloping plank. And beyond that, at the top, a rock wall with a crack all the way around it.

“The other door,” he declared to himself. He hastened up the plank and pushed on the door. Still nothing. Undaunted, he felt for a lever. Maybe it only opened from the inside, and still only with a trigger.

At last he was rewarded with a click. The wall swung outward, almost in silence, and brought the desert into view. Arte stepped through in triumph. “Yes!”

“Gordon?” Rodman had walked around to the opposite side of the rock to meet him. He stared in surprise. “What’s this?”

“Another way in!” Arte half-jogged back down the plank, in his excitement almost forgetting to whom he was talking. He was wrapped up in his discoveries, as he so often was when it was something uniquely scientific. But that was only the smallest part of his elation now. “Jim was here. I’m sure of it! He fell through the trapdoor.”

“Maybe so, but where is he now?” Coley stepped inside slowly, cautiously, not wanting to chance going in and not being able to get out again.

“They must’ve taken him through the rock wall,” Arte said. “Look!” He bent down and picked up a small object that was catching the light of the sun. “This is one of Jim’s cufflinks. How would it get all the way over here unless he was by this wall?”

Coley peered at it. “Okay, I’ll bite. But it still leaves a lot of questions unanswered.”

Arte slipped the cufflink into his pocket as he surveyed the room. “Whoever has him must be a scientist,” he thought aloud, not really listening to Coley.

“That doesn’t narrow it down much,” Coley said dryly. “I can only think of one scientist you know who it couldn’t be.” He was, of course, referring to the deceased Dr. Kirby.

“I’ll make a list,” Arte determined. “It could be Dr. Loveless, but somehow I don’t think so. There’d be some clue to his identity if it were him.”

“Unless he didn’t want you to find them,” Coley pointed out.

Arte shook his head. “That isn’t how the good doctor works,” he said. “He loves to brag. He would want to leave a clue.”

“What about West himself?” Coley crossed his arms. “Wouldn’t he try to leave some sort of signal for you? The cufflink says he was here. It doesn’t say anything about who has him.”

“If he could leave some clue about that, then yes, he would,” Arte said as he continued to move across the floor. “He was probably unconscious and the cufflink just fell off.”

“Or he was dead. Yes, I’ll admit he could have fallen through the trapdoor, just as you say. But there’s no guarantee he was alive if it happened. You don’t have to be blown to pieces to be killed by a bomb. He could have even broken his neck when he hit the floor down here.” Coley watched Arte’s antics, his expression impassive. “Gordon, I’m afraid you’re setting yourself up for a fall. It’s probably just false hope that West is alive.”

“I know, I know!” Arte started to swing an empty cabinet to the side. “But if there’s any chance at all, I have to take hold of it and follow it wherever it goes.”

Coley just sighed in resignation and half-heartedly began to assist in the search. The place had pretty much been stripped dry already. He doubted they would find anything else of use.

“Haven’t you ever cared about someone, Rodman?”

His eyes flickered. “Sure. Myself,” he replied sarcastically.

“I thought as much,” Arte said as he pulled open the cabinet drawers.

Coley made no effort to correct the self-inflicted misconception. Of course he had cared, but not for a long time. Unless one wanted to count his refusal to use Dr. Kirby’s germ for annihilating towns and cities. And that refusal had been partially for his own reasons, anyway. He had not wanted the law to be after him and his gang with charges of mass murder.

But aside from that, the thought of the populations of cities and towns laying dead—men, women, and children alike—absolutely turned his stomach. And the thought of stepping over them, back and forth, while going over the cities and towns, sent a chill up his spine.

He had always hated listening to Dr. Kirby rant and rave about the day when he would give back to humanity what it had given him. Coley had tolerated it as long as the doctor was just thinking about it, but once the man had been ready to start using the germ, Coley had had enough.

Arte knew nothing of those plans. Neither had Jim. At least, they certainly did not know the entire truth. All they had heard was courtesy of Kirby’s daughter Anna, who had either honestly not known or had refused to see the fact that her father was the only one who had desired to use the destructive germ. She had also thought that he did not know that the gang was using the temporary paralysis germ, which was absolutely untrue. He had given them full permission to use it. But Anna had laid the blame for most everything at Coley’s feet, deserved or not.

Alright, he had been attracted to her and she had hated him for it. And he had planned to take her with them if they had managed to get away. He had wanted to make her his girl. But he still wondered if, deep down, what she had hated about him most of all was that he had tried to tell her the truth about her father and she had closed her ears to it.

Coley would have told the whole story to the authorities—and also that in the end, Kirby had pulled a gun on him before Coley had done likewise—if he had come to trial. But he and his gang had escaped the prison transport before it had come to that.

Telling everything wouldn’t have made much difference in the end, anyway, Coley was sure. Refusing to go along with the destructive plot was not so noble or unusual, as far as Coley was concerned—although he supposed some people might think so. But most of the criminals he knew would not stand for such a thing, unless they were as insane as Kirby himself or perhaps as sadistic as Little Pinto. Plenty of damage could be caused without eradicating the populations of cities or towns. And Coley had planned that he had to get rid of Kirby, even though ironically in the end, Coley had killed him in self-defense.

As aggravating as Sheriff Cord was, his statement about there being enough against Coley for a hanging was likely true. And Coley did not want to die.

“Aren’t you about done, Gordon?” he asked in impatience as he concluded his investigation. “There isn’t anything to find. They cleaned most everything out.”

“I’m almost done,” Arte agreed. “Unless there’s another room or something. . . .” He started feeling across the back wall for a lever.

Coley walked back up the plank to the doorway and stood there, observing Arte’s vain search. But that, and the conversation with Arte, had distracted him too much. Suddenly there was a shadow against the rock door. He whirled, gun drawn, only to be hit smack in the forehead by the butt of his surprise stalker’s gun. At the same time, someone else hit him on the back of his head. He staggered forward with a grunt, stars and blood exploding in his line of vision. His balance and consciousness both almost lost, he sank heavily against the side of the rock.

He swore in his mind. It was not like him to be so careless. He breathed hard, fighting to keep hold of his senses. He had to get back in there, somehow. Arte was going to be overwhelmed. Vaguely he could hear several sets of footsteps rushing for the rock.

Inside, Arte spun around at the sudden noises. A mysterious masked man was leaping off the plank, directly at him. Arte dove to the side, clubbing the attacker on the back of his head with a fist. The stranger collapsed to the floor, dazed.

Now Arte ran towards the plank. “Rodman?!” he yelled. “Where are you?” He cursed himself in his mind when there was no answer. Rodman had probably escaped while Arte had been too caught up in his ecstasy to notice. Maybe this person who had flown in even worked for him.

Two more intruders, having entered via the trapdoor, launched themselves at Arte from behind, dragging him to the floor. Stunned, Arte forced himself to make a swift recovery. He kicked backwards, catching one of them in the stomach. Before either of the assailants could recover from their shock, Arte started to rise, punching the second as he got to his feet.

The original attacker was getting up now, taking a knife out of his belt. It whistled past Arte, close enough to clip a lock of hair before embedding itself in the wall. Arte jumped a mile, gawking at the strands of dark curl pinned to the blade.

“You boys aren’t here to scare,” he realized darkly. “You’re here to kill.”

He dashed around a long metal slab, upending it as all three men charged. It caught them hard in their midsections, sending them back to the floor with it pinning them down.

Arte grinned. “Success!”

The sound of a bullet made him abruptly look up, just in time to see a fourth man standing under the trapdoor. The gun in his hand was pointed directly at Arte, but now wavered. He was sinking to the floor, shot in the heart.

Arte spun to stare at the other entrance. Coley was standing in the doorway, blood running down his face. His gun was smoking. He met Arte’s stunned gaze for several seconds before he fell forward, collapsing at the top of the plank.

Arte snapped to, running up and dropping to his knees next to his rescuer. “You didn’t run after all,” he said under his breath. Now he felt guilty for the thought, no matter how understandable it had been. A swift examination told him why he had really been fighting alone until now. “You’ve got a bad concussion.”

He had been thoroughly occupied by the other three. He would be dead if Coley had not managed to recover enough to come in and shoot the fourth.

And speaking of the other three, they were starting to push the table aside. Thinking fast, Arte hauled Coley’s limp body into his arms and pressed the hidden button on the wall just before hurrying outside. The rock closed, trapping the men inside the room. It would take them a while to either find the switch or climb through the trapdoor, once Arte took his rope away. Arte had bought him and Coley some time.

“I’ll get you back to town and have the doctor look you over,” he vowed to the unconscious man. “You saved my life.”

Coley’s earlier prediction had come true.

[LuckyLadybug]

Chapter Six

Returning to awareness was strange. At first everything was a blank. Where was he? What had happened? Had he been asleep? What was up with the pain pounding through his head?

“Rodman?” A shadow leaned over him in concern. “Are you alright?”

He grunted, fighting to force his eyes open. As everything was gradually becoming clearer, he recognized Arte’s voice. He was laying in a bed, somewhere, with an apparently worried Secret Service agent bending over him.

That was new.

“What’s going on, Gordon?” he mumbled.

Arte kept hovering where he was. “Do you remember what happened?”

Coley turned his head to the side, averting his gaze. “. . . Someone cracked me in the head,” he said.

Arte sighed and straightened. “The doctor said you might have amnesia when you woke up, either complete or confined solely to your last few conscious moments. I guess this means you’re alright.”

“I guess.” Coley grimaced at the sudden agony splitting through his brain. He covered his eyes with a hand, only belatedly realizing that his hands were still free. “Or maybe it means that alright is relative. Is there any brandy?”

“Right here,” Arte responded. “It’s on the nightstand.”

Coley rose up just enough to grab the container and shakily pour some of the contents in a glass. He downed it almost in one gulp and leaned back into the pillow, closing his eyes.

“. . . I didn’t know you’d been hurt at first. I thought you’d run.”

Coley chuckled. “I figured as much.”

“Instead, well . . .” Arte threw up his hands and then dropped them to his sides. “You came back and ended up saving my life. I didn’t think it would really happen—what you said about me having to rely on you to save my life, that is. And I really didn’t think you’d come through for me if it did.”

“I know you didn’t.”

Arte sighed. “I’m sorry for that. Even though you surely can’t blame me, with your track record.”

“No.”

“Well . . . thanks. A lot.”

Coley shrugged. “I’ve already been accused of one murder in the last twenty-four hours. I don’t need to add a second to that list.”

“Of course not. Although some criminals wouldn’t care much.”

Coley looked to the clock on the wall, albeit it did not offer enough help. “How long has it been?” He did note that it was growing dark outside.

“A couple of hours,” Arte replied. “Maybe a bit more. You really took a hard hit.”

“And you were sitting here worrying about me.”

Arte looked like the proverbial game caught by the hunter’s gun. “. . . I was sure you’d be alright,” he said after a moment, slightly uncomfortable. “I just wasn’t sure if your brains would be scrambled. So I was wondering and worrying what I’d do if I had an amnesiac outlaw on my hands.”

“Lucky for you, that won’t be a problem.”

“Yes.” Arte walked over near the chest of drawers, leaning on it with an elbow. “. . . I have to say, I’m curious. You’re handling this quite well. Has it ever happened to you before? It’s quite common for Secret Service agents, unfortunately, but I’ve never heard about the ratio of knocks on the head per outlaw.”

“It’s not the first time,” Coley responded noncommittally. His expression, however, darkened at whatever memory had been dragged to the surface.

Arte could tell he was not about to reveal any more of his past then that. And that was alright; it was just an idle question anyway.

Albeit he could not help being curious when he saw Coley’s storm-cloud expression.

He pushed himself away from the dresser. “Well, while you were sleeping it off, I was making that list we talked about, the one about known firebugs and explosives experts. And I made another list too, for mad scientists.”

Coley watched him expectantly. “Did anything jump out at you?”

“Several things,” Arte said. “There’s one . . . unique individual Jim and I ran into some time back, who specialized in explosions as well as scientific discoveries. He was a disgruntled schoolteacher. But I checked with the authorities and he’s still locked safely away.”

“And you don’t think it’s this Loveless character.”

“No, I don’t,” said Arte. “But I have him down anyway.”

He sighed, tapping the list. “Then there’s Cyril the Firebug and Snakes Tolliver. Cyril loved fire and Snakes dabbled in explosions. The problem with them is, they’re both dead.”

“I know. So I assume they’ve been removed from the list.” Coley spoke dryly.

“They’ve been marked as ‘Deceased’,” Arte said. “I guess it could be the Seattle Fire Kid; I have no idea where he is these days. I don’t suppose you . . .”

“I haven’t seen him,” Coley interrupted.

Arte nodded, sticking his pencil behind his ear. “And then we come to Dr. Faustina, a truly fascinating and frightening woman all at once. Talk about mad scientists! She’s the mother lode. And she’s also running free, I’m sorry to say.”

“I’m not familiar with her.”

“You can be glad of that,” Arte declared.

Coley crossed his arms. “So what’s so particularly bad about her?”

“Well, when Jim and I met her, she was reviving dead bodies and planting explosives inside them so that . . .” Arte trailed off. “Dead bodies!” he cried, slamming the list on a small table. He ran back to the bed, gripping the footboard as he looked to the astonished Coley. “She was reviving dead bodies!”

“So what?” Coley considered his reaction and cringed. “I mean, alright, that puts her off her chair as much as Kirby, but you’re not thinking about her sanity, are you?”

Arte shook his head. “Even if Jim is . . . dead, maybe she has him and is hoping to bring him back!” He pushed away from the bed and began to pace the floor. “What if she caused that explosion to get hold of Jim and use him for her next experiment?!”

Coley was not convinced. “Would she do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Arte stopped by the window and leaned against the wall with one hand.

“You just want West to be alive so much that you’re letting your mind wander down all kinds of strange paths.”

“Maybe,” Arte grunted noncommittally. “But since we don’t know where she is, we need to look into that, at least.”

Coley sighed. “Where was she seen last?”

“We haven’t heard or seen hide nor hair of her since she vanished with her assistant Miklos in New Orleans,” Arte said. “And that was some time ago.”

“Would you necessarily hear about where she is now?”

“If she’s back to her old tricks, I can’t imagine someone wouldn’t be aware of it by now. She was obsessed with getting government funding for her experiments.”

“Somehow I don’t think the government would be enthusiastic about killing someone in order to bring them back to life.”

“Oh, they’d never sanction it. But you’re right.” Arte heaved a discouraged sigh. “I’m not sure even Dr. Faustina would go that far. She brings back people who are already dead. She doesn’t make them dead first.”

He paused, looking to Coley in a bit of surprise. “You have an awfully good command of the English language for an outlaw.”

Coley shrugged. “We’re not all uneducated.”

“I guess not.” Arte headed for the door. “Anyway, I’m going to see Sheriff Cord at the telegraph office. I need to send off a few and see what I can learn.”

Coley raised an eyebrow. “You’re just going to leave me here, unguarded?”

“You won’t be going anywhere for a while, with the headache you’ve got,” Arte replied over his shoulder. “Besides, Rodman . . . I’ll extend that much trust to you.” He opened the door and stepped into the hall. “I’ll be back soon.”

Coley watched him depart. Then, sighing, he sank farther into the pillows and closed his eyes.

Arte was right about at least one thing. He did not feel like moving.

****

“Look, we’re sorry! We didn’t know they’d be so hard to keep down. We thought it’d be a snap to kill Gordon and knock out the other one.”

Pinto stood under the open trapdoor, unmoved as he glowered at the three still-living guns he had hired. In his hands, he gathered his infamous lasso.

“Instead, you couldn’t even do that right,” he said flatly. “He got up and shot your friend dead.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “I warned you that Artemus Gordon, as a dedicated member of the Secret Service, would have all sorts of tricks to pull on you. And someone like Coley Rodman, who’s been in the crime business all these years, would claw and scratch his way to staying awake no matter what it took.” He slapped his lasso against his leg.

The men cringed. Despite the fact that there were three of them and one Pinto, they were afraid of him. They knew his reputation. If they failed him, he was likely to start a new study of pain, with them as the guinea pigs.

“We’ll try again,” one of them spoke. “Please! Give us another chance. You hired us because we get jobs done.”

“I hired you because I thought you got jobs done,” Pinto drawled easily. He sauntered closer, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “I’d say I was wrong. Wouldn’t you? Two of your friends kicked the bucket this afternoon, along with the one later on. And the rest of you were clobbered by a big table.” He started to unwind the rope, smoothing and straightening it in his hands. “Now, if you three want to help me, tell me this. What kind of news have you heard about Lucrece Posey?”

The assassins exchanged bewildered looks. “We haven’t heard anything,” said another.

Pinto began to form the end of the rope into a noose. “Are you sure?”

“We’re sure!” they exclaimed in unison.

“Not since she broke out of that women’s prison,” added one.

Pinto considered that and nodded in approval. It could be a lie in the hopes of satisfying him, but it sounded on the level. And Lucrece would definitely break out if she could.

“And nobody’s said where she’s heading?” he queried.

“We have no clue,” the third insisted. “You have to believe us; we’d tell you if we knew!”

Pinto nodded. “You probably would at that,” he conceded. “Alright, clear out of here, all of you. Don’t go after Gordon again. I’ll see about that myself.”

Again the men exchanged looks. It was hard to believe that Pinto would just let them go. They quite rightly suspected a trick.

“Go on, go on,” Pinto said, gesturing with his hand. “Just press that button over there. It opens the door in the rock.”

Slowly one of the hitmen went forward, pressing on the wall where indicated. Without warning, a long dart flew out of a secret compartment and buried itself in his chest. Several more launched into the air from around the room. Even as the other two panicked and tried to run, they were downed as well.

Pinto sneered as he came forward. “Dead as three old doornails,” he crowed. “But a lot more surprised.” He kicked one of the bodies onto its back, savoring the pained and horrified expression.

“Sorry, old boys,” he said. “Can’t have you getting caught by Mr. Gordon and telling all, now, can I?” He chuckled under his breath. “The doctor wouldn’t like that. And until the gang’s all here, we need her on our side.”

He bent down, going through the men’s pockets.

He had rigged the trap up earlier that day, but had kept the button concealed so it would not be pushed too soon. He had not wanted Arte killed with that, since it might have taken Coley with it. Pinto wanted Coley alive.

He had been given orders to get rid of Arte however he could, if Arte ventured too close to the truth. Coley, Dr. Faustina had added, was a curious and unforeseen problem and could be dealt with however Pinto wanted. But she did not want him able to tell anyone why Arte was killed. And heck, after Pinto had his fun with him, he doubted Coley would be in any state to tell anyone as much as his own name.

Meanwhile, he had to be careful how he conducted the search for Lucrece. He did not want to draw unnecessary attention to her, if she was in hiding. But he definitely wanted to find her. He did not trust Dr. Faustina to keep that part of the bargain.

He had been unable to travel to her even as a wandering spirit. For some reason he had been anchored to whatever area his body had been in. He had only managed to travel as far as Justice from Dr. Faustina’s hiding place. To stray farther than that in any other direction had caused him to make the acquaintance of a mysterious barrier.

Pinto was a patient person, but despite his entertainment with Justice, he was growing anxious to get on with his bigger and better plans now that he was alive and perfectly capable of mobility wherever he chose.

Maybe by now Lucrece had already begun to round up a new crew to join with her in her vision of an international crime cartel. Maybe she even had someone new by her side, as Pinto had always been in the past. But he was not worried. She would not care about someone new any more than she had cared about Pinto.

She did not need men, other than to manipulate for her own amusement and satisfaction. Pinto knew and understood that about her all too well, after the years they had spent working on her assorted plans for crime takeover. She could play the part of a sweet, loving woman, but it was always just an act. She was hard as nails.

He loved that about her.

She would never love him back, but they made a good team.

He straightened, shoving the dead assassins’ identification into his vest pockets. Smirking at the corpses, he mockingly touched the brim of his hat before pushing the real lever for the door and stepping into the cool desert night.

****

As it happened, Lucrece Posey was in a little settlement in Southern California called Los Angeles. The Spanish influences suited her tastes well and she was able to hide out without too much difficulty. At the moment she was in a corner booth of a cantina, deeply in thought as she observed the outlaws and hired guns and other outcasts of society.

As Pinto wondered, she did indeed have hope of resuming her plans for a wide-scale criminal syndicate. Wherever she went, she inspected the local riffraff and added to one of two lists—those that could be considered and those that could not. The latter was a much longer list than the former. It was difficult to find criminals with intelligence as well as the proper levels of cruelty and mercilessness.

She sighed to herself in frustration. She had just added three more names to the list of unwanted people. This was not turning into a profitable evening.

It had been so much easier when Pinto had been with her and they had collected the misfits who had made up the original board. It really was a pity that they had all been destroyed in Justice, Nevada.

She had been highly displeased when some of them had started fighting among themselves due to Artemus Gordon’s tricks. Brutus and Sergei had killed Gallito and Cyril, while they themselves as well as Pinto had died battling those Secret Service agents. And the evening had already been off to a bad start when Snakes had turned traitor and tried to murder her.

Lawmen and criminals alike had scoffed at her idea of crime as a consolidated business matter. There was no way so many mercenary and power-hungry people could get along without resorting to in-fighting sooner or later.

Lucrece, however, was determined to make it work. It had for some time, until that night in Justice. She had suspected Snakes of possible treachery for a while, but there would not have been trouble among any of the other members without Arte’s meddling.

She replaced the list in her pocket. There was little more to be done here; she might as well leave. With a sweep of her dark cloak, she stood and moved around the chair to the nearest exit.

She had received one of the largest shocks of her life several weeks earlier, in the upper half of the state. For a strange moment she had believed she was looking at Pinto, impossibly brought back to life. But she had quickly realized that the character was actually Coley Rodman, on the run from the law as she also was. And, knowing of his achievements as a gang leader, she had approached him about taking part in her next organization.

He had been most uninterested in her idea for a crime cartel. Or more specifically, he had been most uninterested in someone being his boss. He wanted to be the top man on the totem pole. Despite Lucrece’s insistence of more wealth and power than he would ever have either on his own or commanding a ragtag bunch as he had previously done, he had not changed his mind. And so she had abandoned the attempt, leaving him to his own devices. He was exactly the sort who would be dangerous in the organization.

Anyway, she had mused later, he probably still had too much decency for it.

If he had accepted, it would have been strange—facing a physical mirror of Pinto each day, especially when his personality was so different. Certainly it would not have bothered her; she had no time for such petty discomforts. But there was no denying that it would have been surreal.

Also odd were the reports trickling in from the Justice area. Mysterious storms and fires had been plaguing the town for the last few weeks, if the travelers’ information was correct and not sensationalized.

Lucrece had considered having a look when she wanted a change from Los Angeles. Maybe, she mused to herself as she strolled through the darkened streets, that time was now. What was happening in Justice certainly sounded more interesting than what she had been seeing here.

How amusing, that such a backwater town could be the center of so many unusual events.

She would leave in the morning.

****

Jim finally managed to locate the underground stable where the horses were being kept. But he also managed to locate Miklos. Dr. Faustina’s brutish assistant was standing with crossed arms and a glaring countenance in front of the doors. Beyond them, the animals whinnied.

Jim put on a casual smile. “Hi,” he greeted. “I should have guessed you’d be here.”

Miklos was unmoved. He took a menacing step forward.

Jim stepped back, as though intimidated. “Wait a minute,” he said, raising his hands. “There’s no need to be that way. I was just taking a stroll around your complex and I wound up here. . . .”

Even as he spoke the last word he lunged, punching Miklos in the stomach before the bigger man could do a thing about it. Miklos started to double over in pain and Jim kicked out, hoping to knock him off-balance.

Instead Miklos grabbed his leg, giving it an agonizing twist as he swept Jim to the floor. Jim hit the hard tile with a grimace. Miklos was flying at him before he could even begin to recover.

Jim kicked up with both legs anyway, catching Miklos in the chest. As he fell back, Jim leaped up, punching repeatedly at his opponent. At last Miklos sank to the floor, dazed, and Jim ran through the doors into the stable. Miklos would be up again in a moment, and Jim wanted to be on a horse when that happened. He would have a much better chance of getting out of here, for more reasons than one.

A knife flew past his head, embedding in the wall just to the side. A second weapon immediately followed. Jim jumped a mile, whirling to face Sergei. At his side, Cyril was grinning madly and holding two lit matches.

“Now you are outnumbered,” Sergei declared.

Jim took a step toward the knives, keeping perfectly calm. “So you’re still siding with Dr. Faustina and helping her with her dirty work? I’m telling you, she’s not going to help you find Miss Posey.” He tried to discreetly reach for one of the blades. His own knife, as well as his other weapons, had all been confiscated long ago, before he had first awakened here.

“We believe you about that,” Sergei admitted.

“But we wait until the others are here,” Cyril said. “Then we escape.”

“You’re more loyal than most in your trade,” said Jim. “I hope they’d feel the same about you if they’d been first.”

Sergei shrugged. “Miss Posey does not like us fighting.”

“Are you sure she’ll even take you back?” Jim returned. “There’s not just that problem, but also the possibility that she’s found new board members by now.”

“We wait and see,” Cyril said.

Suddenly Jim pulled both blades out of the wall and charged. Sergei and Cyril had no choice but to leap out of the way. As Miklos tried to lunge from another angle, Jim swiped at him as well. Miklos fell back against the wall, accidentally bringing several horseshoes down on his head. He sank to the floor, again stunned.

Running madly, Jim doubled back to the stable and into the nearest stall. Just as he was about to mount the surprised black stallion, something hard flew past and struck him on the head. With a cringe and a silent groan he sank to the floor. Through his bleary vision, he recognized an all-too-familiar, lethal glove lying next to him.

Not again, was his last conscious thought.

Brutus stood in the doorway with a smile. “Good evening, my friends,” he greeted the amazed Sergei and Cyril. “Our little reunion is growing closer to being complete!”

Cyril grinned. “It is indeed!” he declared.

“So, with Little Pinto in town, there is only Gallito left,” Brutus mused. He moseyed to the unconscious Jim and bent to pick up his glove.

“And one other,” Sergei grunted.

Confused, Brutus straightened and looked to him. “Another?” he echoed. “Surely the doctor isn’t thinking . . .”

“She is!” Cyril exclaimed. “She told me, she is restoring Snakes as well.”

Brutus frowned, adjusting the glove on his right hand. “That could be a problem,” he said.

“It is problem,” Sergei frowned. “We can’t let it happen.”

“Then we won’t.” Brutus drew his arms around Sergei’s and Cyril’s shoulders and led them out of the stable and away from Jim and Miklos. “When it comes time for Snakes to be resurrected, we will damage the equipment.”

“What if Dr. Faustina brings him back before Gallito?” Cyril returned.

“Or what if we don’t know which one is next?” Sergei added.

Brutus was undaunted. “We will decide that if it happens,” he said.

“Miss Posey would not like if we leave Gallito behind,” Sergei said.

Brutus nodded in thoughtfulness. “We won’t,” he said.

He glanced over his shoulder. “But we will leave Mr. West behind,” he smirked.

The gang members laughed as they walked up the hall.

[LuckyLadybug]

Notes: And here the "official" fics and those blurb scenes diverge. I always knew the blurbs would probably be very different when I ever wrote up to those points in the second fic, and ever since the team-up idea happened for this, the first fic, I knew that eventually something like this chapter would probably, logically happen. I still love my blurb scenes, but they were a test, and they have officially been rendered "non-canon" to this storyline now. I will be intrigued to see how those scenes look when I write their new versions in the second fic....

Chapter Seven

Los Angeles, California, circa 2010

He had been lying, listless, on the bed for so long. He was physically conscious, but mentally he was not present. He remained on his stomach for hours, his eyes open but glassy and unresponsive as he stared off at the wall.

In the room above his, Dr. Alice Portman observed through the window, as she had for nearly a year now. At her side, her henchman Tom was honestly disturbed.

“Doctor, he’s gone,” he said. “You wanted to break him, and well, you sure did. He just couldn’t take a whole year of thinking he was dying and waking up in Hell. For a long time now, he doesn’t even bat an eye when I start up the fire. He just acts like it’s not there. Or maybe like he’s not there.”

But Portman shook her head. “He’s still there,” she insisted. “Every now and then he moves. All I have to do is determine how to shock him back to the surface.”

“And then what?” Tom frowned. “Everything starts over?”

“We shall see.” Portman leaned back, making an adjustment on the console. “You seem squeamish, Thomas. Are you losing your appetite for this great experiment?”

Tom shifted. “To tell you the truth, Doctor, I never had much appetite for it. Just seeing a living human being crumble more each day until there’s nothing left but a mind in pieces. . . . That doesn’t give me any satisfaction at all. I don’t see what’s so great about it.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” Portman laced her fingers on top of the console. “You don’t have the vision to understand. And yet you never try to actively oppose me or break away. You always follow orders.”

Tom shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I guess I’m worried about myself above everything else. I don’t want to end up the next experiment after him.”

“Self-preservation. It’s such an inherent trait of living creatures, human and animal alike. When faced with saving another or themselves, most will always choose themselves.” Portman looked up at him. “We’re such selfish beings.”

Tom shifted in discomfort. “I guess so. But I still don’t like what you’ve done to him.”

“What we’ve done, you mean. Don’t exclude yourself or minimize your own involvement.”

Tom wanted to look away. But instead he continued to stare through the glass at the motionless form on the bed.

“I did this too,” he whispered.

It was not his idea of an achievement. And he was not proud of his own selfishness.

But at the same time, his fear of Portman was stronger than his repulsion over the way this man had been treated. And he imagined that he would continue helping her, for that reason.

****

His name was Ray Norman.

He had to keep hold of that, of some sense of identity. It was the last thread of sanity he had left.

Was he dead or alive? At this point, he was honestly not sure. He felt detached from everything around him—from Dr. Portman, from this prison, even from the bed he was laying on. Was any of it real? Maybe he was floating through a void in space and time, for all he would know.

He had heard some mention of it being a year since he had been here. Was it really? Were they sure it wasn’t an eternity?

Did Dr. Portman ever die? Perhaps she had discovered the secret of immortality and had been keeping him here for decades, even hundreds of years.

Maybe Sunday Schools taught it all wrong. Maybe the Devil was a woman. Maybe Dr. Portman was the Devil.

Yes, that was it. He was dead. He had been dead ever since that night in the park and had gone to Hell. It had all the earmarks of Hell—the endless torment, the fire, the regeneration so as to keep suffering over and over again. . . .

He had never been a very religious person. And of course, once he had turned to blackmail he had abandoned any relationship with God that he’d had in the past. His mother would have been horrified. He had become the Devil’s own, she would have told him. Dr. Portman had claimed him because she was the Devil and he belonged to her.

He deserved this, didn’t he? For every person he had hurt, for every life he had destroyed, for every cruel and heartless and greed-filled act he had committed, he was paying dearly. He had to pay it all off, somehow, and even if he could, he would be stranded here. Heaven would not want him.

But he never could pay it off, could he? He was a mere mortal, and a wretched one at that. He did not have the power to pay off all of the sins and wrongs from his life.

Dear God . . . help me. Oh please help me.

Was he really trying to reach out to Heaven now? What sort of fool was he? It was a mockery of God, to think that He would help someone so small and insignificant and deserving of all the pain and anguish that could be heaped upon him.

Even the sparrows. . . .

Sparrows were just innocent, though. Of course God would pay attention to them. But a man like Ray Norman, a cold-hearted blackmailer, could never hope for the same kindness.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done. Please help me. Please, get me out of here!

Was he truly sorry for the people, though, or was he just sorry for himself? Was he just sorry that following a base path had trapped him here?

I’ll never get out. I never can. I’m dead. I’m dead.

And if it had not been for the criminal acts in which he had engaged, he would not have met this end. He would probably still be alive.

A despairing tear slipped down his cheek.

“There!” Portman declared, zooming in on the point on the screen. “You see? He’s still there, Thomas.”

Thomas felt a chill when he saw the tear. “You’ve broken him. You know you have. Come on, can’t you just let him go now? Get him to a hospital where they can maybe help get him back.”

“Go? I can’t let him go.” Portman’s eyes glittered. “As I said, I have to shock him into responding again. That tear tells me for certain that I still can.” She turned a dial. “If I could know what he’s thinking right now, I might know what to use to bring him to the surface.”

She stood with a sweep of her long white coat. “I’ll give him a shot of my truth serum. None of my subjects were able to resist it before. He certainly won’t, in his condition.”

“Maybe in his condition, a drug would kill him,” Tom protested.

“Nonsense,” Portman retorted. “His body is young and strong. The gunshot wound healed long ago.”

“But since you’ve been breaking him down, his will to live’s gotta give out sometime,” Tom frowned.

“You’d be surprised at how much the human body can and will endure to stay alive,” Portman replied.

“And he’s endured a lot,” Tom said. “I don’t know how much more he can take.”

“And that is what these experiments are all about,” Portman countered calmly.

Tom stared after her as she headed down the steps and through the hidden door that permitted access to Ray’s room. He wanted to do something, to call her back, to grab and restrain her.

But instead he did nothing but watch.

Justice, Nevada, circa 1874

Coley was feeling a bit better by the time Arte returned. He had dared to attempt standing, and was examining the bandage over the wound in his forehead as Arte opened the door to their hotel room.

He turned to face the government agent. “Well? Did you learn anything important?”

Arte dropped several sheets of paper on the top of the dresser. “The Seattle Fire Kid is back in Seattle as of last week, Dr. Loveless and Dr. Faustina are both in parts unknown, and that old drunk is downstairs insisting he saw Little Pinto again,” he announced.

“I haven’t left this room,” Coley retorted.

Arte gave him a hard look, but then turned away, softening. “I know. I spoke to the maid outside. She’s been tidying up the hall since I left.

“Anyway, though, the drunk saw Little Pinto at the exact time I was carrying your unconscious body through the hotel’s back entrance. So unless your injuries were so bad you had an out-of-body experience and that’s what the drunk saw, we’re faced with the absolutely impossible happening.”

“He was probably hallucinating,” Coley said. “That’s the only other real explanation.”

“He wasn’t drunk at the time,” Arte said. “Sheriff Cord had him in jail overnight to sleep off the partying, and he swears our man was stone-cold sober when he left.”

“So where does that leave us? With the possibility that he somehow saw a real, honest-to-goodness dead man walking?” Coley pushed away from the wall and sank into a chair.

Arte fixed him with a completely serious look. “Remember what I said about Dr. Faustina?”

“How could I forget?” Coley grunted.

“She could have done it. I don’t know how or why, but I know it’s possible. Jim and I witnessed one of those resurrections, and let me tell you, it blew our minds.”

“I’m sure it did. It blows mine, and I wasn’t even there.”

Arte heaved a sigh. “I went back out to the rock to see if I could find anything else. And I did—three fresh corpses.”

“What?!” Coley sat up straight. “How did they die?”

“Poison darts. Someone rigged it up. And unless I miss my guess, that’s exactly the sort of thing Little Pinto would be not only capable of but more than willing to do. He once tied Jim up in an ice house with the intention of having his body broken and crushed by two falling cakes of ice.” Arte’s voice had turned bitter.

Coley frowned, considering the incredible and bizarre story Arte was feeding him. “Just suppose this Dr. Faustina is behind everything and she really did bring back Pinto from the dead,” he said at last. “She must’ve been using that hollow rock as her hideout. And she’s not there now, even if Pinto’s keeping an eye on the place. So where is she?”

“I haven’t figured that one out yet,” Arte admitted. “But with all of the heavy equipment she must have had with her, it can’t be far. Once it’s daylight I’m going to ride out past the rock and see what other secrets the desert might be keeping.”

“And I’ll be coming with you,” Coley vowed.

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Arte looked at him with a careful, scrutinizing eye. He was still slightly pale and seemed weakened and dizzy.

“I’ve got all night to take it easy and find out,” Coley replied. “But right now I just want to get something to eat.”

“Coming to think of it, I’m hungry myself,” Arte reflected. “This case is wrecking havoc on my digestive system! Come on, let’s go down to the dining room and see what’s for dinner.” He went around the room, turning down the oil lamps.

Coley cast a glance at him as they headed for the door. “You’re in high spirits, in spite of the news that someone may have revived a dangerous sadist. I’m guessing you’re still holding out hope for West’s survival.”

Arte sighed. “Yes, I am.” He pulled the door shut after them once they were in the hall.

“Well, for your sake I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“Me too,” Arte said. “And . . . thanks.”

Coley shrugged. “I don’t want to have to pull you out of a depression any more than you would have wanted to cope with me losing my memory.”

“Touché,” said Arte.

He frowned a bit to himself as they headed for the more isolated back stairs instead of the active front staircase. In spite of himself, somewhere along the way he had started to converse quite comfortably with Coley. And, considering what the man was, that felt very wrong.

Coley was an outlaw. He had robbed; he had killed. And he and Arte were still most certainly on opposite sides of the law. Technically, Coley was still supposed to be Arte’s prisoner.

But Arte did not have him bound or restrained any more. He had even allowed Coley to keep his gun at the rock, after that first attack. Arte had realized that he really might need it. And that decision had saved Arte’s life in the second attack.

He frowned more. Yes, Coley had saved Arte’s life, but could Arte have read too much into it due to his surprise and relief? Coley had probably done it mainly to protect himself from another murder charge, as he had outright said. Everything was about him. And Arte could not let himself forget the details of what Coley had done to get himself into this mess, with the threat of a hanging.

“Gordon, what’s wrong with you?” Coley was frowning now. “One minute you’re not that bad and the next, you’re all sour.”

Arte shook his head, raising a hand to massage his eyes. “I just can’t figure you out, Rodman,” he said. “Sure, you saved my life, and of course I’m still grateful, but what about gunning down Dr. Kirby in cold blood? What about all those people who were going to die when you used his germ to kill them all?”

Coley stopped walking, his eyes darkening at the conversation topic. “Did you ever stop to think about why I wanted to break ties with the doc?”

“I have, actually,” Arte shot back. “So did Jim. We never found an answer, unless you just wanted all the power to yourself and didn’t want to share.”

Coley shrugged and started to walk on, but then stopped and looked back. He was dead serious. “I wouldn’t tell you this except that I want it to go in your report. Maybe you won’t believe me. The doc’s daughter didn’t. She told her twisted version of things to you and West and you believed her without question. It probably never occurred to either of you that maybe she was tipping the scales in favor of her father, that maybe she was just blocking out the whole truth and only keeping part of it.

“But Dr. Kirby was the only one who wanted to use that germ in the towns and cities we looted.”

Arte stared at him. Before the last twenty-four hours, he would not have been likely to believe Coley at all. Now, however, he was at least somewhat more willing to consider that it could be true. “What are you saying, Rodman?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t have anything to do with it. That was why I wanted out. And look, I’ll even admit I went up to the lab to get rid of the doc. But he turned his gun on me before I even so much as threatened him. He didn’t know what I had in mind. He was just mad because of the fight that got going in his lab. He was going to kill me to keep me from wrecking any of the stuff he wanted to use for his little mass murders. I know it sounds like a crazy twist of fate, or me just lying, but I shot him in self-defense. West never saw what happened; he just heard the shot and saw Kirby lying dead. Of course he thought it was cold-blooded murder.”

Arte turned away, overwhelmed. Could he believe it? It went against everything he and Jim had believed about what had happened that night. While it did not excuse Coley, it certainly did lessen the severity of his actions—at least where that case was concerned. And, if he was telling the truth now, maybe some of the things they had heard about him from other sources were incorrect.

Coley trailed after him. “You don’t believe me, do you?” he said darkly. “That’s exactly why I got off that transport instead of letting myself be taken back to the big city. I knew no lawman would listen to my side of it.”

Arte gripped the banister as he headed down the lonely back stairs, not looking back. “I’ve listened,” he said.

“But you’re thinking I’m lying.”

Arte reached the bottom and finally glanced back to his companion. “I need a little time,” he admitted. “Frankly, Rodman, I don’t know what I think. In the past, I would have thought you were lying. But either I’m the most gullible sap in the Secret Service or you’re telling the truth, because . . .” He threw his hands in the air. “Because against all common sense, I’m not sure you’re lying at all. You’ve played fair with me so far. You’ve even saved my life, although I suppose it was just for your own purposes.”

Something not quite identifiable flickered in Coley’s eyes. “You’re giving me a chance, at least,” he said, sounding almost awed. “That’s more than anyone else has in a long time.”

Arte shook his head. “It doesn’t let you off the hook, but it should help your case. For the record, though, why didn’t you want to go along with Dr. Kirby’s plan?”

“I had enough strikes against me already. Mass murder was one I wasn’t willing to take.”

Arte nodded knowingly as he stepped into the dining room. With Justice being a small, out-of-the-way town, it was practically empty. He slipped in at a table near the corner and waited for Coley to join him.

“So it comes back to you again,” he remarked as Coley sat down.

“I’m no pillar of virtue,” Coley grunted, crossing his arms on the edge of the table. “I look out for myself. But alright, Gordon, if you want me to say something else too, the thought of whole towns dropping dead at my hands doesn’t give me a thrill like it did that doc. I’m not out to wipe out humanity. He was pretty far gone.”

Arte sighed. “On that, we agree.” He picked up the menu. “. . . Rodman, why did Dr. Kirby’s daughter detest you so much?”

Coley gave him a dark smirk. “You didn’t ask her?”

Arte shook his head. “Any mention of you upset her, and well, I didn’t like to upset her worse, with Kirby being shot and you staging your escape from the transport.”

Coley leaned back. “I gave her some . . . unwanted attention, if you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, Rodman, I do,” Arte frowned.

“Oh, I mostly just talked to her. A couple of times I tried to kiss her. She pretty much told me in no uncertain terms that she’d rather burn in Hell. Or that she wished I would.”

Arte looked and felt weary. “Rodman, what am I going to do with you?”

Coley gazed into the distance. “You know, I think what she really hated about me was what I said about her father. She wouldn’t believe any of it, but it was all true.”

“Can you blame her for not believing you?” Arte said dryly.

“No,” Coley shrugged. “But every one of my men was scared of Kirby. Strong, tough outlaws and they wouldn’t go up to his lab at all. We’d all seen him doing things to those animals of his that turned even my stomach. I still don’t know if he really kept it all from his daughter or if she just turned a blind eye to it.”

“Or possibly both,” Arte said.

“Possibly.”

“. . . But speaking of being revolted at what the doctor was doing. You seemed pretty gleeful about what you wanted to do to me.”

“I’ve found that colorful threats get most intruders talking.”

“Pardon me, but it seemed like more than a mere threat.”

“Well, if I don’t act like it’s for real, it’s not going to work.”

Arte looked at him askance. “I suppose there’s a certain twisted logic in that, but it’s hard for me to feel that objective.”

Coley was half-listening. Instead he was looking across the dining room, his eyes narrowed. Surprised, Arte tried to follow his gaze from his angle. “What is it?”

“Don’t look now, but that guy over there is watching us.”

Arte stiffened. Still holding up the menu, he tried to casually look over the top of it without drawing suspicion. “Alright,” he said low. “I see him. In the diagonal corner, with his hat shadowing his eyes?”

“Yes.”

A frown crossed Arte’s features as he considered what to do now. “If Jim were here, he’d just get up and march right over,” he mused.

“And you’re going to have a staring contest instead?” Coley grunted.

“I’d rather he didn’t know we’re on to him,” Arte said. “But he probably already does, doesn’t he?”

“Probably,” Coley said flatly.

Indeed, the spy was not only aware, he did not mind in the least. But he did nothing when the waiter arrived and took their orders. He waited while they ate, again mostly in silence. Whenever Arte or Coley looked to him, he did not respond. But once the meal was finished, with both men successfully frustrated at being observed, he looked up slowly, meeting Arte’s next gaze with a quietly widening smirk.

Arte leaped to his feet, his nerves ragged and fraying. “Pinto!” he cried. He tore across the nearly vacant dining room, baffling the scant other patrons as he came to stand in front of the madman. “Alright, what’s the meaning of this?” He started to reach for his gun. “I don’t know what’s more shocking—that you’re alive or that you’re watching us.”

Pinto raised his hands half-off the table in a gesture of indifference. “Are you really going to pull a gun on me in here, in front of these people?” He sneered. “I might not tell you what you want to know.”

“And what’s that?” Arte retorted, barely noticing as Coley came alongside him.

“About Dr. Faustina.”

“So it is because of her that you’re alive,” Arte growled. “What about Jim West?”

“Oh, you can find out all about him if you do one simple little thing and come with me. I’ll take you to the good doctor’s place. You won’t even have to turn the desert inside-out and upside-down lookin’ for it.”

Coley glowered at his double, disturbed by their uncanny resemblance. Pinto spoke with a bit more of a drawl and didn’t have as broad a vocabulary, but other than that, they were just about a complete match.

“I hope you realize we’re not stupid enough to overlook the fact that you’d be leading us into a trap,” he said.

Pinto looked to him. “Would I? Maybe you’re just too suspicious.” He stood, holding out a hand. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while now.”

Coley did not accept it. “The feeling is not mutual,” he grunted.

Arte held up his hands. “Alright, nevermind. Yes, you probably would be leading us into a trap. But . . .” He narrowed his eyes. “I doubt we’ll learn anything any time soon if we don’t take you up on it.”

Pinto grinned. “Now that’s talking sense. Come with me now.” He walked out ahead before any protests could be given.

Coley shot Arte a look. “I would have expected this more from West than you,” he said.

Arte shrugged. “I don’t like it, but I doubt we have much choice. Anyway . . . a little of Jim’s daring doesn’t hurt, sometimes.”

“It might this time,” Coley said. “Pinto won’t take us to this Faustina, unless she wants to kill us too. He’ll probably try to take us down in the desert somewhere.”

“And we’ll be ready for him if he does,” Arte vowed, indicating his gun in its holster.

At last Coley sighed. There was no talking to Arte when he was this determined.

“Alright,” he said at last. “Let’s go.”

Arte clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

“It’d just better not end up my spirit, as in, out of my body.”

“No one else is going to die, if I can help it,” Arte declared. His eyes and tone had darkened.

“. . . I believe you’ll try, at least,” Coley said. “That’s all any of us can do—try. And maybe fail.”

But in spite of his words, he went along with Arte and Pinto. He was afraid of the same thing Arte was, that this was the only way they had a chance to get the answers any time soon.

He was no stranger to dangerous odds. And he wanted this case solved right away. He would take the chance.

[LuckyLadybug]

Chapter Eight

The ride into the Nevada desert was long and cold. Arte, not willing to bank on the idea that they were not becoming hopelessly lost, had been leaving a trail all along the way. Coley, catching sight of him at one point, had realized what he was doing but wisely said nothing.

Arte watched Pinto ride ahead of him and Coley, his eyes narrowed. By all indications, Pinto did not know what Arte was doing. But Arte was not willing to trust in that for a surety. And if Pinto did know, he would probably try at some point to conceal or destroy the trail.

“Just how far is this hideout?” Arte demanded at last.

“Oh, not much farther,” Pinto replied in that smooth, falsely friendly way he had.

Coley glowered in the darkness. “And then you’ll kill us,” he said flatly.

“Kill you? Why, no.” Pinto sneered. “There’s better things to do with you.”

Arte’s stomach turned at the tone of Pinto’s voice. “Things that will probably have us begging for death. Am I right?”

Pinto shrugged. “Eh. Could be.”

“I’m not really a fan of verbal checkers,” Arte said. “How about you just say outright what you have in mind?”

At that same moment, he felt his horse bump into something with its front legs. He stiffened, looking towards the ground. He could not see anything, but the sudden, eerie whistle and what looked like a fireworks missile being launched overhead told him that something had definitely been there.

The horse backed up, whinnying nervously. When the bomb exploded in the air, raining colored lights over the desert for one brief moment, the animal panicked. Both it and Coley’s horse began to rear up in fright, nearly throwing their consternated riders. Several more fireworks followed in quick succession, in assorted locations across the general area.

“There’s tripwires all over the place!” Coley yelled over the cacophony of whistles, booms, and terrified equines.

“What’s Pinto trying to do—get us thrown and trampled?!” Arte gripped the reins, barely managing to stay aboard his dancing horse.

“I just want to know why his horse isn’t doing the same thing!” Coley fumed.

“Maybe it’s used to his whims by now!” Arte called back.

A small object flew past, clipping Arte’s arm as it went by. A second embedded in the band of Coley’s hat, but he did not dare let go of the reins to grab it.

“Duck!” Arte exclaimed.

Coley needed no coaxing. As they dived, gripping at the still-panicked horses, more of the objects soared through the air and all around them. Neither dared look up to see where the things had landed.

At last the fireworks were all expelled and the horses began to quiet down. Arte slumped back, breathing a sigh of relief. He patted the beast’s neck as it calmed. At the same time, he winced at the pain in his arm where the object had grazed him. Frowning, he reached for his lantern to have a better look.

“You know, I’ve never really liked riding,” he commented. “You never know what’s going to happen when you’re traveling on something with a mind of its own. And it’s uncomfortable besides.”

Coley grunted. Reaching up, he pulled the other small object out of his hat. “This is some kind of tiny dart,” he reported.

Arte froze, the lantern held above his arm. “Poison?” he whispered in alarm. The thing had torn his sleeve as it flew by. And it looked like it had cut into his skin a bit as well, albeit it was not bleeding.

“With Pinto?” Coley returned. “I’d say you’ve got yourself a big possibility.”

Arte clenched his teeth in frustration. “They could just be tranquilizers so he could take and torture us, but still, I led us right into this! And of course, Pinto’s long gone by now.”

“He’s probably close enough that he’s watching us,” Coley said. “And feeling more than a little put-out.”

Arte set the lantern aside. “I don’t know whether I got any of the stuff in my arm or not, but it’s feeling a little strange. Numb, almost.”

Coley steered his horse over so he could look. “It doesn’t look like it went deep enough to go through all your skin,” he said. “It probably just cut the top layer or two.”

Arte nodded with impatience. “Yes, I know. But it acts like it was affected somehow anyway.” He flexed his sore fingers. “I guess it could just be from jerking the reins, though. Maybe I’m letting my imagination get carried away.”

Coley leaned back. “There’s no point looking for Pinto now. Let’s get back to town. If your arm starts feeling too strange along the way, we’ll stop and try to see about it.”

Arte exhaled. “I guess that’s all we can do,” he acknowledged. “Alright, let’s go.”

It took some time to guide the horses around all of the now-ineffective tripwires. Arte and Coley rode side by side, neither wanting to fall behind in case Pinto would still try to grab at least one of them. Locating Arte’s trail at last, they began to follow it back towards Justice.

“Oh look, I’m sorry,” Arte said after a while. “Gambling my own life is one thing. I shouldn’t have got you into this mess with me. I knew it was likely a trap.”

Coley shrugged. “You didn’t twist my arm; I came on my own. We both want to solve this thing. So we were willing to take a stupid chance.”

Arte’s eyes flickered in surprise. He had expected a sharp and at least somewhat deserved rant. Instead, Coley just acted tired and resigned.

“I suppose,” he said. “But I have to confess, for me it was less about solving the mystery and more about trying to learn something of Jim.”

“I figured as much.” Coley fell silent. “I always knew that caring about someone makes you do crazy things.”

“And I guess for you, it’s caring about yourself that causes it,” Arte remarked.

“Heh. I guess. It’s ironic, how trying to save your life can cause you almost to lose it.”

“There’s a scripture in the Bible that says something along those lines,” Arte said. “I never took it absolutely literally before, but it seems it can be.”

“I wouldn’t know much about that.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Out of curiosity, do any of your outlaws know the Bible?”

Arte leaned back, considering the question. “Not outlaws, per se. At least, not that I can remember. But some of our other worst enemies were quite knowledgeable. They’d quote verses even as they were trying to kill us. Go figure. Maybe if they’d paid more attention to what they were reading, they wouldn’t have got themselves into so much trouble.”

“Or if it’d been more than just a good read to them.”

“I guess that’s another way of putting it,” Arte mused.

“That’s Justice up ahead. How’s your arm?”

Arte looked to the lights with relief before realizing Coley had continued talking. “Huh? Oh. It’s alright. It was probably just feeling the after-effects of trying to control this boy here.” He indicated his horse.

“Horses are a nuisance. But they get you around, most of the time.”

“Who knows, maybe someday someone will invent a small, steam-powered vehicle for personal travel,” Arte said. “There wouldn’t be any danger of being thrown, since it wouldn’t have the brains to get spooked. And it would be a lot more convenient than a train, since it wouldn’t need tracks.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t invented it yet.”

“Actually, I’ve had some ideas,” Arte said. “I’ve never had the time to put them into action.” His earlier musings came back to him and, in the dim starlight, he saddened. “If Jim really is . . . gone, I guess I’ll have plenty of time in the future.”

Coley looked to him. “I thought you were bound and determined to believe he made it out of that blast.”

“I still want to, make no mistake about that.” Arte gazed hopelessly into the distance. “But I can’t help thinking, Rodman. If Jim were still alive, wouldn’t Pinto have hung that over me more than he did?”

Coley shrugged. “He told you you’d ‘find out all about him’ if you went with him. That’s his style, from what I’ve heard.”

“I know. But he also likes to taunt people. I can imagine him doing that with me about Jim.” Arte sighed. “I guess I just don’t want to get my hopes up only to be let down again.”

Coley was silent for a moment. “Keep thinking West’s alive if it makes you happy, Gordon. Who knows. Hope’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes it pans out.”

He did not offer anything more as they re-entered Justice at last. But Arte thought long and hard on those words for the remainder of their journey.

****

Jim squinted, gazing up at the ceiling above him as it came into focus.

He was no longer anywhere near the horses. Now he was back in the main room, lying on a slab again. Off to the side, Dr. Faustina and Miklos were examining their equipment in apparent concern.

Jim gritted his teeth as he sat up. When this was over, he was going to be very stiff and sore from all the unwilling sleep he had been taking on hard, cold slabs. He raised a hand to his head, quickly finding the sore spot where Brutus had thrown his heavy glove.

Catching the movements out of the corner of her eye, Faustina perked up. “Well, Mr. West! So you are back with us once more. Really, I hope you won’t try to leave again.”

“I’m starting to think I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jim said. “But what was up with reviving Brutus while I wasn’t there? I thought I was supposed to witness all of your medical miracles.”

“Miklos noticed a possible problem with our machines,” Faustina said. “We thought we should try another resurrection immediately and see whether we would still enjoy success.”

“With all the work your machines are doing lately, I’m surprised they’ve hung together as well as they have,” said Jim.

“Perhaps we have been overworking them too much in our excitement and zealousness,” Faustina frowned. “So we are going to refrain from any further demonstrations until tomorrow, at least.”

“Probably a good idea. There’s enough of Lucrece Posey’s gang running loose as it is.”

“You don’t approve of what we’re doing, do you, Mr. West?”

“Frankly, no. And as I already told you, neither will President Grant. Anyway, completely aside from what you’re doing now, do you honestly think he’ll want to hear from you about anything after you tried to have him killed?”

Faustina was unfazed. “There are always casualties in war. I have been forced to wage my own private war against the government for their refusal to allocate funds to us!”

“You already lost the war, Doctor.”

“We shall see!” Faustina spun away, her red robe flaring with the motion.

Jim sighed. He might as well be talking to a brick wall. She would never listen to reason. He would have no hope of convincing her that this was all futile and she should let him go.

“If the party’s over for tonight, do I have a room to retire to?” he asked. “Or is this the extent of my quarters?” He gestured to the slab.

“Of course not, Mr. West. There is a room. Brutus will take you to it.” Faustina nodded to the big criminal, who had just arrived in the doorway. “We don’t have an excess of space here, however, so I’m afraid you cannot have a room to yourself.”

“I’ll be sharing with Brutus,” Jim realized.

“It should make for an interesting evening, no?” Brutus smiled. “As long as you do not try any further escapes, we should get along just fine.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jim said, completely deadpan. “Fine.” He slid down from the slab and crossed the room to join his enemy.

“I am sorry about sending my glove at you again, Mr. West,” Brutus said easily as they left the main room and started down a corridor. “It was nothing personal, you understand.”

“I understand. Although after you died during a fight with me, I’m surprised.”

Brutus shrugged. “I was unbelievably careless, falling back on my own gun.”

Jim nodded in consent. “If that’s the way you want to look at it.”

With little else he could do, he decided to try to further his plans of putting doubt in more of Faustina’s experiments. As they neared a particular room, he spoke again. “So, how do you feel about the good doctor’s ideas?”

Brutus unlocked the door and gestured for Jim to go inside first. “About restoring myself and my companions? I feel very good about it, Mr. West.” He chuckled.

Jim stepped into the room. It was small, but nicely furnished. Certainly many steps up from the dungeon where he had been imprisoned in Faustina’s New Orleans mansion. “What about the rest of her plans?”

“The rest?” Brutus sounded very vague, perhaps even deliberately so. He had surely been informed by someone of what Jim had tried to do earlier today.

Jim turned to face him. “Well, you must realize you’re all just experiments to her—tributes to her genius. And she wants to keep hold of all of you until she’s proved her point to the United States government.”

Brutus nodded thoughtfully. “What do you propose?”

“Why stay here?” Jim glanced at the room. “It’s a nice enough place, granted, but you’re all basically prisoners. You want to find Lucrece Posey. Why not break out and look for her?”

Brutus crossed to one of the beds and began to shrug out of his cream-colored suit coat. “An excellent question, Mr. West. But don’t presume that you are the only one to whom it has occurred. We don’t intend on staying here after the last true member of our ranks is revived.”

“By that you mean Gallito.”

“Yes, indeed. Then we won’t need the doctor any further. We will damage her machinery and escape during the commotion.”

“Your loyalty doesn’t extend to Snakes, I see.”

Brutus’s expression darkened. “Snakes is a traitor. We have no use for him. But Miss Posey despises in-fighting and disloyalty among her true board members.”

“So you intend on proving yourselves worthy of being allowed back into her good graces by waiting for Gallito’s revival,” Jim said. “And what if she chooses to bring back Snakes first, suspecting what you’re up to?”

“Then we will have to wait,” Brutus said. “And incapacitate Snakes if he tries to come with us.”

“What if I try to come with you?”

Brutus turned to look at him. “You would not only help us escape, but travel with us?”

Jim shrugged. “There are no active warrants out on you or any of your friends, since the government thinks that you’re all still dead. I don’t have any reason to try to stop any of you right now. It’s Dr. Faustina I want to stop.”

It wasn’t quite true, of course; he had every intention of preventing the reformation of Posey’s group, too. And he had little hope of Brutus believing his half-bluff. But he was trying it anyway. At the moment, it would be infinitely smarter to get Brutus siding with him instead of against him.

Brutus appeared to consider his words. “And no doubt you wish to reunite with Mr. Gordon and let him know you are alive and well.”

Jim nodded. “Exactly.”

Brutus lay down on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head. “I suppose there wouldn’t be a problem with a bit of extra help. I would have to discuss it with Sergei and Cyril, of course, but if they agreed you could work with us on our plan. Then you could travel with us to Justice while we collect Pinto.”

“That’s fine,” Jim said. “As long as Mr. Gordon is still in Justice.”

“No doubt he is,” said Brutus, “unless he had reason to believe that he would find more answers elsewhere.”

“And would he?” Jim retorted.

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. West,” Brutus insisted. “You would have to obtain that information from Little Pinto.”

Jim backed off. “Alright. When will you talk to Sergei and Cyril?”

“In the morning,” Brutus mumbled. “It will keep until then. Now I am exhausted. Returning from the dead is a truly wearying experience.”

“I can imagine.”

“I only hope it will not ever be necessary for you to do the same.”

“Thanks.”

Jim sank onto the other bed in the room. While of course he would not have to be physically revived, going back to Arte would be like a return from the dead. He surely still thought that Jim was dead. There was no reason to think that Pinto would tell Arte the truth. And even if he did, coming from a wretch like him, Arte might not believe it.

Jim clenched a fist. Every time they got involved with Dr. Faustina, this seemed to happen. Arte had feared Jim was dead the first time they had met her, too.

And Jim most certainly knew how it felt. He remembered all too well that dark time when he had seen whom he had thought was Arte being shot and falling down the stairs. The next hours, including the funeral with full military honors, had been the most horrible Jim had ever spent. Only one thing had mattered to him then—catching the murderer and making him pay for Arte’s death.

Even though Arte had not really been dead, and it had been a double who had been killed, Jim still felt a certain satisfaction that the murderer had indeed paid.

And when he had seen Arte alive and well at the top of the villain’s stairs, having just broken out of his prison and saved Jim’s life, Jim had been struck with such shock that he had not been able to fully process it, nor even to say anything coherent except “Thanks, Arte.”

He lay back on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling. He looked forward to their reunion in the wake of this calamity.

He just hoped that Posey’s gang would go along with him long enough for him to escape. Naturally he would not trust any of them, as they surely would not trust him, either. They probably planned to either kill or otherwise incapacitate him once they had no further use for his services. So no matter what happened, he had to consider that he was alone in his fight for liberation.

It was certainly not the first time. But he felt a particular concern about the stakes this time around, especially when he knew a sadistic killer was on Arte’s trail.

One way or another, he vowed, he would break out of here come morning.

****

Arte was exhausted by the time he unlocked the door to the hotel room. Upon arriving back in town they had gone to report to Sheriff Cord, who had insisted on them filling out all kinds of forms and statements concerning Pinto’s return. That had taken the better part of two hours.

“Now I’ve got a sore hand as well as an arm,” Arte muttered.

But at least his arm wasn’t misbehaving any worse than that. He had concluded in the sheriff’s office that it would be fine, that Pinto’s darts had not done any real damage. And that was really a miracle in and of itself.

Coley wandered in with him. “How do you stand him?” he demanded. “You didn’t fool me, Gordon. You weren’t any happier with him than I was.”

Arte reached and turned up one of the lamps as he shut the door. “Well, like I said, he has kept crime out of Justice, for the most part.”

“An entire gang got past him and operated out of the morgue,” Coley pointed out. “And now they’re slipping past him again. All of this ‘iron fist’ method of his isn’t working where it really counts. He’s so intent on holding the reins on the small things that he overlooks all of the important things.”

Arte sighed. “I don’t want to argue with you on any lawman’s application of said laws, Rodman.”

“Sure, because you know that in this case I’m right. You even agree with me.” Coley smirked, crossing his arms. “But you can’t let yourself be caught agreeing with an outlaw that a sheriff is an idiot.”

Arte pressed his lips into a thin line and spun about to face his temporary ally. “Sheriff Cord is not an idiot, Rodman. I’ll admit that I don’t agree with a lot of his methods, but that’s the only thing I’ll admit.”

“Good enough.” Coley shrugged and turned away, walking towards one of the beds. “Are you going to want to tie me up for the night? I noticed you didn’t ask the sheriff for any handcuffs.”

Arte sighed and took off his hat, running a hand through his hair. “I noticed, too,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll regret it, but I’m trusting that I won’t.

“No, Rodman, I’m not going to tie you up for the night. I’m going to get ready for bed and hope that you’ll do the same. And that I’ll wake in the morning and find you’re still here.”

“I’ll be here.” Coley pulled off his gloves and boots and sank onto the bed.

Arte found he had the confidence that it was true.

By the time he was ready to turn in several moments later, Coley was facing away from Arte and seemed to be asleep. Arte glanced to him while turning down the lamp.

What a bizarre couple of days, he said to himself as he crossed the room and wearily collapsed into the other bed. If anyone had told me last week that I’d be sharing a room with a dangerous criminal and not restraining him even though I could, and maybe should, I wouldn’t have believed it.

Rodman hasn’t been a bad ally. When all’s said and done, I suppose I haven’t minded working with him that much.

But . . . it’s not the same. It could never be the same.

He’s not you, Jim.

Arte stared out the window at the twinkling stars in the sky. One of them seemed to wink right at him, which only made him feel more melancholy than ever.

Where are you, Jim? Are you up there, watching us? Wondering what on earth I’ve got myself into? I wonder that myself.

Is there any possible chance you’re still down here, alive? How will I find you if you are?

He clutched a handful of quilt. He would find Jim, if there was that possible chance. And even if there wasn’t . . . well, he wanted to know the truth in any case.

In spite of the exhausting, draining day, he was unsure if he would be able to sleep. Maybe he really shouldn’t, either, if Pinto was watching them. Who knew what he might try next.

Sleep refused to be warded off, however. As Arte lay there, wrapped up in his thoughts, it crept up behind him and threw its blanket over him. He sank into the pillow, drifting into sweet oblivion.

[LuckyLadybug]

Notes: Thanks to Rielle and Spotted Pony for plot help! And here we go with the first hint of Perry Mason characters wandering into the plot. Ray's plight is meant to take place at the same time Portman is experimenting with a couple of oneshot Perry Mason characters from The Case of the Misguided Missile episode. I detailed their plight in my story The Case of the Spectral Stalker, on fanfiction.net.

Chapter Nine

Los Angeles, California, late January 2012

Ray Norman curled at the back of the cell, shuddering as he rocked slowly back and forth.

Once, long ago in another lifetime, he had been a powerful and arrogant man, racking up wealth through the suffering of others. It was hard to even think of that now; he was not that person any longer. He wasn’t even sure what he was these days.

Early in his imprisonment, he could not stand the thought of appearing vulnerable in the least. He had ceased to care long ago. There was no point in it. Portman had dragged all the fight and all the drive out of him.

There was nothing left for him; he was trapped in his Hell with no way out. There was no money, no power, down here. And that mattered very little to him now. What he wanted, what he longed for more than anything else, was for someone, anyone, to want him rescued, to care what happened to him, to care about him. But he had no one who truly cared. He had spent his life making money, both legally and illegally, and had not needed people other than to use and manipulate. And without anyone to give a darn about his future, why should he?

Even Heaven did not want him and would not even help him. How many times had he cried out in anguish, pleading for deliverance only to be denied?

“You are where you belong,” he had been told time and again. “What would you have me do?”

“It’s what I’ll do!” Ray had screamed in agonized desperation. “I’ll change. I won’t have anything to do with blackmail or other crimes ever again. Doesn’t that count for something?! I want to repent. Oh dear God, please, I want to repent!”

But his pleas were unheeded. From endless day to endless night, he had been left to suffer in this Hell led by the she-Devil Alice Portman. And any hope of salvation or rescue had been decimated. He no longer believed in it, for he knew it was a vain and fruitless belief that only made everything worse. It was better to simply accept the truth and be done with it.

He could not die, for he was already dead. This was his eternity, for now and always. He had crafted it with his own hands, by the life he had led.

He could not control the sobs that racked his body.

****

Dr. Portman smirked in satisfaction as she adjusted another dial. “He has given up,” she said. “After I learned his thoughts, I snapped him to with the false visions and conversations with God and then crushed him by the same means. He thoroughly believes that his existence is only this, and will forever be this!”

Tom clenched a fist. “Doctor, forgive me, but I think you went too far. You made him think you were God, rejecting him from ever entering Heaven.”

Portman quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? And you happen to be particularly pious, Thomas?”

“Well, no . . . but it’s still blasphemous,” Tom frowned.

“Such an old-fashioned word. I’m not concerned.”

“Maybe you should be, Doctor.”

“Nonsense.” Portman leaned back. “I’ve done it. I’ve proved that a hardened criminal can come to reject their lifestyle after my treatments.”

“Anyone would break down after what you’ve put them through,” Tom retorted. “And what’s left for him now that you’ve accomplished your goals? You still won’t let him go. Even if you did, he could never live a normal life now!”

“Then you finally agree.” Portman’s eyes were wild with triumph. “You know I can do everything I said I would.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I guess I do. And I wish I hadn’t found out it can be done. I feel . . . well, tainted.”

“Because you still can’t quite abandon the teachings you grew up with,” Portman replied. “If you could completely embrace science, you would feel quite different.”

“If I have to like what you’re doing to embrace science, then I don’t want it.” Tom turned away. “Luckily, I know there’s better sciences than what you’re doing. Real sciences.”

“But not as efficient. Only by studying the human mind can we progress as a whole. And only my methods are thoroughly effective.”

Tom frowned. He did not want to discuss it any further. “Well . . . anyway, that lawyer, Perry Mason, is out front, wanting to talk about what you’ve done to Captain Caldwell and Major Reynolds. And he’s pretty mad.”

“Oh really?” Portman stood. “Good. I’ll receive him in the main laboratory. There’s no need for him to know about some of my . . . other projects. His knowledge of my experiments with Captain Caldwell and Major Reynolds are quite enough.”

She cast a last glance at Ray through the window. “Keep an eye on him, won’t you?”

Tom scowled. “There’s not much left to keep an eye on,” he muttered bitterly. “That isn’t a man down there. It’s a shattered soul.”

“How poetic.” Portman swept out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Below, Ray had tuned out everything around him. There was nothing in this world of madness that he wanted to hear or see ever again. He continued to rock back and forth in utter, complete hopelessness.

Justice, Nevada, circa 1874

Morning dawned sunny at first, as per usual for Justice, Nevada. But by the time Arte was waking up, dark clouds were rather swiftly obscuring the sun. He frowned and sat up, staring at the scene. “Awfully fast for a storm,” he muttered under his breath.

Of course, it could be perfectly logical. Sometimes storms could and did arrive fast. But what it brought to mind most of all was Sheriff Cord’s tales of the lightning storms that had been the source of much of the consternation in town.

It fit all too well with Dr. Faustina, too. In New Orleans, she had only managed to revive the dead during violent thunderstorms. And since this area was sparse with those, she had probably invented some sort of weather machine.

Arte got up, crossing to the window. Pushing it up, he leaned out for a better look. The scent of rain was strong in the air. The clouds were gathering rapidly in town, but they seemed much darker and more threatening off in the distance. Could Faustina’s hideout be there, somewhere?

He needed to investigate. And it needed to be before the storm broke out in full force.

He spun around, intent on waking Coley, only to find the other man sitting up and looking at him. “What are you doing?” Coley frowned.

“Looking at Dr. Faustina’s handiwork, I’ll wager,” Arte returned. “Just like what you said you saw before.” He hurried about the room, dressing for the day. “We need to get out there and follow the clouds.”

“Follow the what?” Coley got up, stumbling to the window. “Gordon, you’re not making sense. We can’t go out with the sky like that. It’s going to pop open any minute. More than likely, we’ll both end up electrocuted!”

“We’ll wear rubber cloaks I invented,” Arte said. “I wouldn’t have brought them along to the desert, but I was fine-tuning them on the way.”

Coley turned to face him, incredulity spread across his features. “And these rubber cloaks are foolproof?”

Arte sighed. “Well, no,” he admitted. “But electricity can’t go through rubber. We’d be a lot safer with them than without them.”

“If you say so. You’re the scientist.”

“The only problem is, when I say I brought them, it was only as far as the Wanderer. Er, our train.” Arte slipped into his coat and grabbed his hat.

“That’s a great place for them,” Coley remarked, his voice dripping sarcasm.

“See, we didn’t know about the bizarre weather until after we arrived,” Arte explained. “If we’d known ahead of time that we could expect rain, I would have gone to the trouble of making room for them on the horses. As it was, I figured they’d be an unnecessary burden.”

Coley was not impressed. “And can we even get to where your train is faster than the sky might split apart?”

Arte sighed. “I have to hope and pray we can,” he said. “It’s not that far; a few miles at the most. Which is a vast improvement over what it was the first time Jim and I came to town, I’m telling you. It’s too bad the new tracks don’t run right through Justice, but I’m grateful they’re closer at all.”

Coley hurried to get ready as well. “I’m guessing we don’t have time to stop for breakfast,” he said.

“We’d better not,” Arte said. “If we make it to the Wanderer, maybe we can grab something there before starting out for the middle of nowhere.”

“Of course you realize you’d be leading Pinto right to your train.”

Arte sighed but nodded. “If he’s come back to town.”

“Even if he hasn’t, I think you can be pretty sure that he’s watching.”

“Oh, I imagine he is. But I have a few surprises if he makes it to the train.” Arte smiled as he headed for the door.

Coley trailed after him. “Some kind of alarm system?”

“Right.” Arte hurried down the hall towards the back stairs again.

“You’re taking a chance, letting me see what you’ve got rigged up.”

“I change the booby traps from time to time,” Arte replied. “Besides, Rodman, you’ll be in prison when this is over. I’m sure I won’t be able to get you granted complete immunity.”

Coley grabbed his arm. “I don’t do well in a cage,” he said darkly. “If the best you can do is life in prison, it’s not good enough.”

Arte slowed and then stopped, turning to face him. “I didn’t necessarily mean life in prison,” he said. “But some years, anyway. If you really are tired of running, you’ll have to take whatever I can get for you.”

Coley looked at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he let his hand drop to his side. “Do you really have much influence, Gordon?”

Arte turned away, not wanting to acknowledge that he had heard the almost fearful inflection in Coley’s voice. “Some,” he said. “Now, come on. We have to get to the train.”

He frowned at the conflict in his heart and mind as they headed down the stairs and towards the stable. He could not deny that he had wondered more than once if Coley deserved to live at all. Then, after hearing Coley’s version of the Dr. Kirby incident, he had wondered how many of the rumors about Coley were true and how many were false.

Now, for really the first time, he wondered just how much or how little of a sentence he could obtain for Coley, if Coley remained faithful and loyal till the end of this mission. And how much of it Coley really deserved.

Arte sighed to himself. It was not the kind of decision he wanted to make. Now that he had spent so many hours with the outlaw, he had softened a great deal, something he had never thought would happen. At the same time, he knew Coley needed to pay for his crimes.

But if Coley continued to risk his very life to solve this mystery and stop Dr. Faustina, that surely had to count for something.

How much?

Arte pushed the thoughts away as they entered the stable and his horse looked to him. He was going in mental circles. Right now he needed to focus on the present. Thinking about the future would not help anyone, himself and Coley included.

****

Brutus was already gone by the time Jim woke up. He readied himself and left the room, wandering towards the main center. It sounded noisier than before. He frowned. What was going on?

Dr. Faustina appeared in the doorway as he arrived. “Oh, Mr. West! Good. I was about to come retrieve you.” She smiled in excitement. “We are about to conduct the next revival.”

“What’s with all the commotion?” Jim wondered. “Your machines weren’t this loud before.”

“Yes, well . . .” Faustina turned, walking back into the room. “We are making a bigger storm than before. Look at it, Mr. West!” She indicated the periscope hanging from the middle of the ceiling. “This storm is powerful enough to revive two people at once.”

Jim walked over and, grasping the handles, leaned forward to look through the device. Topside, the storm did indeed look serious. The clouds were dark and fierce, sweeping across the sky in determination.

“Impressive,” he said. “But aren’t you afraid of overloading your equipment?”

“I am afraid that we may be prevented from restoring Snakes Tolliver to life,” Faustina replied. “But the other gang members will not interfere with Gallito’s resurrection.”

“So it’s a package deal.” Jim leaned back. “They get Gallito and you get Snakes, all at once.”

“Yes!” Faustina’s eyes gleamed. “I must confess, I’m grateful to the others for their opposition. I would not have thought of this test otherwise. And if it succeeds, just think of the implications for the future! Not only can the dead be restored, it can be accomplished for multiple people in half the time!”

“A feather in your cap, to be sure,” Jim said. “If it succeeds.” He laid one hand over the other. “What if it fails? What happens to Gallito and Snakes then?”

Faustina shrugged. “Well, we’ll just have to wait and find out, won’t we, Mr. West?”

Jim nodded. “Yes, I guess we will. And judging from the size of that storm out there . . .” He nodded to the periscope. “We won’t have long to wait.”

“It shouldn’t be long at all,” Faustina agreed with enthusiasm. “I will tell Miklos to ready the bodies.”

“May I watch?” Jim queried. “I haven’t actually seen any of them being taken and prepared for your experiments.”

“Of course you may, Mr. West,” Faustina smiled. “After all, you must be able to describe everything to President Grant in detail.”

“Thank you,” Jim said with a cordial incline of his head.

“Not at all.” Faustina hastened to the doorway. “Miklos!” she called. “It is time.”

Miklos soon lumbered into the room, heading directly for the freezer compartments against the back wall. As Jim observed with a mixture of fascination and morbid repulsion, Miklos opened one of the drawers and hauled out the form of Snakes Tolliver. He placed the body on one of the two slabs in the room and went for Gallito’s while Faustina hurried to hook the wires up to Snakes.

Jim watched in silence for a moment, slowly walking closer to the scene. “There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” he said. “Before, you were endowing the bodies with superhuman strength before you brought them back. You don’t seem to have done that with Miss Posey’s gang. Why?”

Faustina only glanced up briefly as she worked. “Because we wanted to see if it was possible to revive the dead without making such additions,” she said. “Some people would not want that, you see; they would want their loved ones just as they knew them in life.”

“Oh, so it’s for the good of humanity,” Jim remarked.

“I knew you would understand, Mr. West,” Faustina said, pleased.

“And all of these men are just being used as guinea pigs,” Jim went on. “Is that why you chose them in particular—since if something went wrong, they wouldn’t be missed?”

“I find criminals highly fascinating subjects, as you know well.” Finishing her task, Faustina straightened and looked to Miklos, who was completing the same arrangements on the other corpse. “But many do not feel the same. And I’m afraid it’s true—it’s best to experiment on those who do not have loved ones to come looking for them. You do understand.”

“Oh yes, I understand. I just wonder how much Miss Posey’s gang will understand.”

“Still trying to upset the pot, Mr. West.” Faustina stepped away from the slabs. “I am certain they not only understand, but are grateful to have been revived at all.”

“Granted,” Jim acknowledged. “I’m sure they are. But that doesn’t mean they’d like what you’re doing to Gallito now. Suppose something does go wrong. For all you know, his personality could somehow end up switched with Snakes’.”

“You have quite an imagination!” Faustina exclaimed. “But yes, these thoughts have occurred to us.”

“They have occurred to us, as well.”

Everyone spun around at Brutus’s voice. He, Cyril, and Sergei were standing in the doorway in determination. None of them looked happy. Miklos tensed, steeling himself for a fight.

Brutus stepped forward, apparently the spokesperson. Cyril and Sergei trailed behind, matches and knives in tow. While Cyril grinned wildly, Sergei scowled.

Brutus stopped near the periscope, adjusting his glove. “We have come to a decision,” he said. “We will not let you revive Gallito along with Snakes.”

Faustina looked to him in surprise. “You will sacrifice Gallito just to prevent Snakes from being restored?”

“Oh no, Doctor.” Brutus shook his head. “We will disconnect the wires from Snakes’ body and turn on your equipment to revive Gallito and only Gallito. Then we will destroy your machines and depart.”

Cyril nodded in agreement. “I have watched all restorations,” he proclaimed. “I know what to do.”

“Well. This is an unexpected development.” Faustina seemed to be considering their proposition. “We cannot fight you here. Everything might be damaged before the storm is ready.” She looked to Jim. “Are you in on their plan, Mr. West?”

Jim shrugged. “I want to get out of here and find Arte.”

Faustina nodded slowly but suddenly straightened with a mad fervor. “Unfortunately for you all, there is no time!” Thunder boomed somewhere overhead. “The storm is here. Miklos, throw the switch!”

Miklos rushed to comply, even as Brutus lunged at him. As he pulled the lever, the room filled with a bright, bluish light. Everyone went flying.

Jim gasped in pain as he was flung across the room to crash into the wall. Dazed, he tried to squint through the crackling glow. The machines had never reacted this way before.

What was happening?

****

Arte and Coley had to run their horses at breakneck speed in their desperate attempt to outrun the storm. And even with their best efforts, the sky was still rumbling long before they made it to the Wanderer. When the train at last came in sight, the rain did too.

“Great,” Arte muttered under his breath as the drops began to pound over them and the animals likewise.

Coley’s horse seemed particularly skittish. It twisted and shied, fearful of the heavy water. Coley had to fight and struggle and finally dig in his heels to keep the beast moving in the right direction.

“Can you believe it?” he growled in frustrated disgust. “Of all the horses in the world, I end up with one that’s afraid of rain!”

“That’s bad,” Arte frowned. It would no doubt be raining all during their search over the desert. They could not spend time dealing with a horse this disturbed.

“I don’t suppose there’s any other horses on your train.”

“There’s one, in case the engineer or someone else in the crew needs to leave for some reason and go for help,” Arte remembered. “I hate to leave them with yours, but the way it’s looking, you won’t have any choice but to take theirs.”

“No kidding.”

It was more than a relief to reach the Wanderer at last. And they had apparently been spotted en route; the door was open and the plank lowered for the horses as they pulled up alongside. Arte jumped down and led his mount up the plank, tightly holding the reins. Coley followed suit.

Tennyson was waiting for them inside. He gaped at the scene, and especially at Coley, in disbelief. “Good heavens, Mr. Gordon,” he cried. “What’s going on? Where’s Mr. West? Who are you?” He addressed Coley.

“At the moment, Tennyson, I’m not sure where Jim is,” Arte said honestly. “Oh, this gentleman is Coley Rodman.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Coley raised an eyebrow at Arte’s terminology.

Tennyson paled. “The outlaw?!”

Coley smirked at him. “That’s right, in the flesh.”

“Now, now, Tennyson, don’t worry.” Arte clapped him on the shoulder. “Everything’s under control. Mr. Rodman is my prisoner. He’s helping me look for Mr. West.”

Tennyson still looked uneasy, but finally he nodded. “If you say so, Mr. Gordon. Should I dry your horses?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to take mine out again,” Arte said. “But Mr. Rodman’s has to stay here. He’ll have to take our spotted mare. Would you get her ready, please?”

“You’re going back out in that storm?!” Tennyson exclaimed in shock. “Why, Mr. Gordon, I . . . !”

“Nevermind,” Coley interrupted. “It has to do with finding out about West. Just do what he says.”

Arte nodded. “Please.”

Tennyson shook his head, overwhelmed. “Alright, Mr. Gordon. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Arte smiled. He handed his horse’s reins to Tennyson as he walked past. Coley did likewise.

“I get the feeling you don’t have a lot of outlaws dropping by for tea and cookies,” Coley said sarcastically as he followed Arte out of the car and into the next one.

“Not too many,” Arte agreed. “Now, where did I put those cloaks?”

Coley gave him a Look. “You know what you did with them, don’t you?!”

“Of course I do,” Arte returned. “It’ll just take me a minute to think of it.”

Coley muttered under his breath. As Arte searched, Coley wandered aimlessly through the main car, examining the expensive furniture. “You must get a lot of mileage out of this place,” he said.

“We like to live it up when we can,” Arte said. He opened a door, heading into the room that served as his laboratory.

Coley started to follow him, pausing across from the mantel. The display of two golden pistols both intrigued him and made him wary. Somehow he had the feeling they were not what they seemed to be.

“Oh, be careful you don’t activate the golden pistols,” Arte called from the room. “You’ll be shot dead.”

Coley held up his hands, backing away. “That’s a pretty sadistic device,” he said.

“It’s just keeping the booby trap where you’d least expect—out in the open.”

“Whatever you call it, it’s still the same thing.”

Coley wandered closer to the mantel. As he reached out, picking up a candlestick out of curiosity, a panel opened without warning and a bird flew in his face. The candlestick clattered to the floor as he tried to shield himself against feathers and beak and claws. “What the . . . !”

Arte rushed back into the room and then stopped short at the scene. “Why, Henrietta,” he said, unable to hide his amusement. “You know better than that. That isn’t any way to treat a guest.”

Coley stepped back, watching as the bird warbled and landed on the mantel. Arte crossed the room, extending a hand to stroke Henrietta’s feathers. She preened, nuzzling his hand.

“There,” Arte smiled. “That’s a good girl.”

Coley picked up the fallen candlestick and set it back on the mantel. “I can understand Secret Service agents keeping carrier pigeons,” he sputtered, “but you let your birds roam all over the train?!”

“Why not?” Arte shrugged. “It’s the only home they have.”

“Birds aren’t known for their discretion,” Coley returned. “If they mess the place up, I don’t think your boss would like it. I don’t like it.”

Arte gave Henrietta a last pat and turned to head back to the laboratory. He rubbed at his chin, trying to conceal his mischievous grin. “These pigeons are very well-trained,” he said. “Of course, there can be a mistake now and then. You never can tell with pigeons.”

Realizing that Arte was deliberately teasing him, Coley abandoned the topic. “What do these cloaks look like?” he asked. “I’ll help you find them.”

“Oh, they’re right here.” Arte held up two wadded black cloaks that had been on a table by the door. “Take your pick.”

Coley grabbed one and shook it out. “Let’s get going.” He threw it over his shoulders, tying it in front.

“My thoughts exactly.” Sobered now, Arte did likewise and hurried past him. “Tennyson should have your horse ready by now.”

“You said it’s a mare,” Coley said as he trailed after him. “Does she run fast?”

“She could be a champion,” Arte declared.

“I’ll have to trust you’re not just saying that,” Coley remarked.

“Why, I’m crushed that you’d even consider the possibility that I am,” Arte said with an overdramatic air.

Serious in the next moment, Arte sighed. “Hey, I’m sorry we won’t be able to stop for a proper meal. Now that the storm’s already started, it will probably only get worse.”

Coley waved a dismissive hand. “We need to leave now. I know that as much as you do.”

Arte managed a smile. “Well, then. Onward! Maybe we can have a fancy dinner when this is over.”

“Maybe,” Coley agreed. “If we come out of this.”

“We’ll make it back,” Arte insisted. “And if Jim’s still alive, he’ll come back with us.” He adjusted his cloak before stepping outside to cross to the next car.

Coley continued to follow. “Gordon, I thought of something. If West is alive, what’s he going to do when he sees me?”

Arte glanced to him. “Nothing, when I explain why he’s seeing you.”

“Maybe we’ll get separated and I’ll happen to run into him first.”

“Then you’ll explain,” Arte replied. “Jim won’t just shoot you down, if that’s what’s bothering you. And he probably won’t even have a gun anyway.”

He opened the door. Tennyson was adjusting the saddle on the mare, still looking worried and uneasy. “She’s ready, Mr. Gordon,” he said. “If you’re sure you’re going back out now.”

“Thank you, Tennyson. Yes, we are.” Arte took his horse’s reins and headed for the door and the plank. “Don’t wait up for us; we might be late.”

“That’s an understatement,” Coley grunted as he accepted the mare’s reins and followed.

Tennyson stared after them, shaking his head as he watched them mount and ride off into the downpour.

“What are things coming to around here?” he exclaimed to Coley’s horse as he went to dry it. “Secret Service agents working with outlaws. Outlaws coming onto the train as guests. Them riding off in the worst storm the desert has probably ever seen! And Mr. West out there somewhere, missing!” He threw up his hands in dismay.

The horse neighed in reply.

“And now me talking to animals like they can understand,” Tennyson moaned. “This is a strange, strange world.”

[LuckyLadybug]

Chapter Ten

Los Angeles, California, late January 2012

Captain McVey had seen many horrifying and unspeakable things throughout his years in the United States Air Force’s Air Police.

One of the most gruesome had been the murder of Captain Michael Caldwell, several years ago on a test field at Vandenberg.

Strange, that McVey’s latest horrors also involved the Captain. Over the past few days he had been forced to accept the concept that Captain Caldwell was no longer dead, that Dr. Alice Portman had stolen his body from the morgue, recruited a state-of-the-art neurologist to try to repair the damage to his brain from his fatal injuries, and had finally revived him. For the past few years, she had been seeing to his recovery, all with one purpose in mind—the destruction of both Caldwell’s and Major Jerry Reynolds’ sanity.

Now, at long, long last, her hideout was being raided, thanks to Captain Caldwell and Perry Mason. She and her henchmen had been taken into custody and her equipment was being catalogued and dismantled.

Considering what she had been doing to people, McVey was not satisfied that there was no one else here. He was combing every level, every room, in search of other guinea pigs. Along the way, he was seeing objects and devices that he honestly did not want to know the purposes of. And more than a few rooms had patches or streaks of blood on the walls and floors, chilling him to no end.

How many people had been tortured here? How many had lost their minds? Their very lives?

The sound of agonized sobs jerked him to attention. “Hello?” he called, following the heart-wrenching sound. “Where are you?”

There was no reply, but the crying continued. And, as McVey rounded the next corner, he stopped short in disbelief.

Up ahead, locked in a jail cell, was a blond man in tears. He rocked back and forth, lost in his world of nightmares and horrors.

“Dear Lord,” McVey gasped. He ran forward and grasped at the door. When it came open in his hand, he stared, aghast. Portman would have only left the door unlocked for one reason—the man was too broken to even leave.

Replacing his gun in his holster, he rushed inside and dropped to his knees next to the tormented soul. “It’s alright now,” he tried to say. “You’re going to be alright. You’re free now. See?” He pointed at the open doorway. “I’ll help you leave.”

The man did not so much as look up. McVey reached out, gripping his bare shoulders.

That got a reaction. He looked up with tortured eyes, recoiling at the contact. He brought up his hands, shakily, in case he needed to defend himself.

McVey drew a shaking breath of both relief and horror. He was still in there, somewhere. Perhaps it was only a reaction out of buried instinct, but McVey would insist on believing it was more than that.

“Can you understand me?” he tried again.

The man stared, bewildered, searching. He understood, yet he did not. He could not believe.

“What’s your name?” McVey persisted. “Can you tell me your name?”

There was still silence, but the man kept staring, his eyes continuing to dart towards the door and back to McVey. His utter inability to comprehend twisted the officer’s heart to high levels of horror and outrage.

“What did that witch do to you?” he said in sorrow.

“She’s . . . she’s the Devil.” The blond man’s voice was shaking, rasping. “I’m in Hell. Now you’re in Hell too.”

McVey gripped his shoulders tighter, grateful that he had spoken but stricken at his words. “We’re not in Hell. Although I know it must have felt like it to you. But you’re alive! You’re alive. You can get out of here now and be free.”

Again silence. The man trembled, running his tongue over his lips. “What is it, to be alive?” he whispered. “What is it, to be dead? I don’t know anymore, either way.”

McVey set his jaw. Slowly and carefully he got to his feet, trying to help the tormented prisoner do the same. The blond attempted to follow suit, nearly crumpling to the floor as he stood on weakened legs. He clutched at McVey for balance, looking around in obvious awe.

“Let’s go, Friend,” McVey said kindly.

The blond turned his awestruck look to McVey. “Go?”

“We can go.” McVey took a step towards the door and then stopped, waiting.

At last his companion took a quaking step with him.

He did not speak again until they were through the door and in the corridor. Then he looked around again, shaking, certain that something would go wrong. His gaze fell back on the cell in terror.

“You’re not going back to that,” McVey said firmly. “Never again.”

“Never?” The man shook his head. “I always go back.”

“Not anymore.” McVey tried to guide him on down the corridor.

He went slowly, cautiously, still not believing this was real. Once more he was silent, his grip on McVey desperate and afraid. He was terrified that if he let go, this ray of hope would vanish, as it had always done in the past. But he held fast, as did McVey, and at last they stepped through a side door and into the chill canyon air.

He flinched at the cold but then stared upward, into the sky, as the wind blew his hair about and hit him in the face.

“Are you cold?” McVey asked. It was a stupid question, really, considering the man was devoid of any type of shirt. How could he not be cold up here?

But he considered the question and slowly shook his head. “I . . . I hate the heat.”

He continued to stare into the sky as he spoke again. “Ray Norman.”

McVey blinked in surprise. “What?”

“My name.” He sounded far away, as though trying more to remind himself rather than to tell McVey. “I don’t know how I remember it, but it’s Ray Norman.”

McVey smiled. Portman had shattered her prisoner, but with help he would pull himself together again. McVey was sure of it.

“God was watching out for you, Mr. Norman,” he declared.

Ray looked honestly surprised. “God hasn’t cared about me.”

“Oh yes, He has,” McVey replied seriously. “He led me to find you.”

Somewhere in the Western United States, circa 1874

Lucrece Posey scowled as she urged her horse onward. They were both utterly drenched from a sudden desert rainstorm. And Lucrece Posey despised being drenched against her will.

Instead of departing in the morning, as she had determined, she had left the previous night. There had been nothing to keep her in Los Angeles, and she was not unused to night riding. Besides, she’d had the feeling that someone on the street had recognized her and gone to get the marshal.

She shielded her eyes as her hat blew wildly, nearly lifting off of her head. Her dark horse whinnied in discomfort. This was very strange weather. Rain rarely fell, and when it did, it was not like this.

The abrupt flash of light almost blinded her. When her vision cleared, a slightly queasy feeling had been left with her. She frowned. It was as though she had traveled somewhere very fast. Yet she had not moved.

She glanced up, but rocked back in disbelief. The scenery had changed. It was still the desert, but a different part of it. There was more plant life here, including a strange green hill with a long metal rod sticking out of the top of it. Every now and then lightning touched down upon it. Wherever this was, it was storming even worse than where she had just been.

And yet, how could she not be where she had just been? She believed in science and business, not outlandish fantasy. Suddenly appearing in another place was certainly outlandish fantasy.

“Lucrece?!”

She froze, a chill shooting up her spine. She knew that voice. She had heard one strikingly similar in Northern California of late—but despite Coley Rodman’s interest in the ladies, she doubted he would dare be so bold as to call her by her first name. He knew to stay away from her.

That only left one other, yet it also could not be him. She turned anyway, trying to peer through the sheets of falling water. Another rider on horseback was coming towards her.

She reached for her gun. “Who are you?” she demanded.

He pulled alongside, facing her. “Surely you can’t have forgotten old Pinto.”

He certainly looked like Pinto, just as much as he sounded like Pinto. But Lucrece was unmoved. “Pinto is dead,” she retorted.

He started to unbutton his shirt. “Pinto was dead,” he corrected, pulling the material back.

Her eyes widened at the sight of a still-healing scar in his chest. It was just about exactly where James West had planted the fatal spear in her right-hand man’s body.

“It will take more than that to convince me,” she said at last. “That could be a trick.”

“We can’t talk out here.” Pinto looked to the strange hill. “Come with me and we’ll chat where it’s warm and dry.”

Under the circumstances, it did not take much to convince her to go along with the idea. She went with him to the back of the hill, where he pulled a sagebrush to the side. A panel slid up, revealing a plank leading inside the hill.

She raised an eyebrow. “Innovative.”

He grinned. “Dr. Faustina designed it. It’s one of two ways in.” He gestured towards it. “Ladies first.”

She did not argue. Her mind was turning as she guided the horse down the plank and into a corridor with a stable. She could hear her host following and the panel sliding down behind them.

By the time he caught up, she had placed her horse in one of the empty stalls and had summoned a stable boy to take care of it. After the man did likewise, he walked over to her.

She studied him calmly, intrigued. “I’ve heard of Dr. Faustina,” she said. “She was performing some sort of unbelievable experiments to revive the dead.”

“She still is.” He reached out, running his hands gently along her arms. “Only they’re for real.”

Lucrece smiled, allowing his actions, and coyly touched the scar. “Does it hurt?”

“Not now.” He had taken to studying her. “Did you find anyone new?”

She leaned in and kissed him, sultry, lingering. “No.”

He returned it. “Good.”

“What are you doing in Southern California?” She let him hold her as she moved her hands up his arms. He was no worse the wear for having been dead. And he was the same Pinto. Dr. Faustina had done a good job.

He blinked in surprise. “This is Southeastern Nevada.”

Lucrece Posey did not often look puzzled, but she did now. “Impossible,” she declared. “I was . . .” She trailed off, remembering the flash of light and her unsettled stomach. “If you aren’t lying to me, I was somehow brought here,” she mused. “As though I traveled through time and space.”

Pinto stared. “That shouldn’t be happening.”

She glanced towards the entrance. “Could that be the same storm as in California?”

“Biggest storm I ever heard of.” Pinto shrugged. “But I guess it could happen, maybe if the machine’s being worked too hard.”

The explosion rocked the entire complex and nearly sent them both to the floor. They clutched each other in shock.

“What was that?” she demanded.

“Somethin’ must’ve gone wrong,” Pinto said. He took off running for the main room.

Lucrece caught up and kept pace right alongside him, her eyes narrowed in serious determination.

Neither of them heard the panel open behind them, nor the sound of the next two horses trotting into the stable.

“Thank you, Little Pinto,” Arte smirked. “I never thought I’d be grateful to him, but it paid off to spy on him for a change. It could’ve taken us ages to find that lever.” He took off the cloak, hanging it on a nearby hook to drip dry.

Coley parked the mare and jumped down. “You were right, Gordon. She’s fast.” He removed the other cloak, frowning in the direction Pinto and Lucrece had gone. “But she was even faster. How did she pop in out of nowhere?”

“I wish I knew,” Arte frowned too. “Come on. Let’s see what’s got them so worried.”

“Gordon . . .” Coley looked to Arte as they started down the hall. “There’s something I’d kind of like to know. You still wondered if I might’ve been involved in what happened to West, even if I didn’t actually set the bomb. Do you still think . . .”

Arte glanced over. “Rodman, I cleared you a long time ago. Whatever else you’ve done, you weren’t a part of this.”

“You’re sure of that,” Coley persisted.

“I’m sure,” Arte nodded.

“Thanks,” Coley said quietly.

“You proved yourself,” Arte returned. They rounded a corner. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“But you didn’t have to believe what you saw.”

Arte considered that. “No, I suppose not,” he agreed. “You know, in another time and place, you might have used your knowledge to uphold law and order instead of to defy it.”

“Me, an agent?” Coley shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe not,” Arte conceded. “But then again, who knows.”

“It doesn’t matter much anyway,” Coley said. “Besides, you agents never get paid enough for the risks you take.”

“I can’t quite argue with that,” Arte said with a crooked smile.

****

The central room was a complete catastrophe, with people and equipment scattered everywhere. Pinto and Lucrece arrived first and began picking their way over the debris. The other gang members, seeing them, hurried to them in dazed astonishment.

“Pinto!” Sergei exclaimed. “You have returned!”

“And you’ve brought Miss Posey.” Brutus looked appreciatively to their boss. “Miss Posey, will you accept us once again as your humble board members?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” she replied. “What was that explosion?”

“Gallito and Snakes coming back,” Cyril said.

Lucrece stiffened. “Snakes?!”

Pinto’s eyes narrowed.

“It wasn’t our idea, Miss Posey,” Brutus hurried to say. “We did not want him back.”

Arte and Coley skidded up at that moment. Arte stared at the reunion in dismay.

“Look at that,” he said. “All of those crooks congregating. She’s been reviving all of them, the scum of the Earth, and what about a truly great man like . . .”

A man clad in blue stumbled up from the floor, trying to shake the cobwebs out of his mind. Arte’s attention went immediately to him, his heart swelling in disbelieving awe and joy. “Jim!” he cried. He ran over, barely noticing the assorted metal parts in his way. “Jim, you’re alive!”

Jim looked up, smiling in greeting. “Hi, Arte. What took you so long?”

“Oh, don’t give me that.” Arte pulled Jim into a rare, firm hug. “I’ve thought you were dead!”

Jim returned the embrace, tightly. “I’m sorry about that. I fell through a trapdoor in the ground, but Dr. Faustina wasn’t about to let me go.” He caught sight of Coley out of the corner of his eye. “How have you been holding up with Rodman there?”

Arte pulled back with a sigh. “Well, strangely enough, he hasn’t been so bad. But you’re still more fun to have around.”

“That’s good to know,” Jim deadpanned.

A movement came from among the toppled machines. Coley tensed, drawing his gun. “Something’s alive in there,” he announced.

“Ah, someone, rather,” came an accented voice. A red-violet sleeve pushed aside a monitor and two wires.

“Gallito!” Cyril exclaimed.

The assassin stood with a deceptively charming smile. “It is good to be back among the living, yes?”

“You said it.”

Everyone went stiff at the other voice. Snakes rose as well, sneering at the lot of them. “You thought I wouldn’t make it back, didn’t you?”

Brutus glowered. “You are not welcome here.”

Snakes shrugged. “I’ll be taking my leave, just as soon as the storm clears up.”

Still sitting on the floor, Faustina gazed up at them with pride. “We’ve done it, Miklos!” she exclaimed. “Despite the difficulties, we have successfully revived two people at once! And their personalities are intact in the correct bodies!”

Miklos looked pleased as well.

Coley just stared. “This is getting too weird for me. I’ve had my fill of mad scientists for a lifetime.”

“You and us both,” Jim grunted.

“Now there is only one thing left to do,” Brutus said. “Stop the weather machine so we can depart.”

The console, which had been sparking, now let off a huge burst of electricity. Arte froze. “I’m not sure any of us can get near it enough to do anything!” he exclaimed.

“Well, we can’t leave, either,” Coley frowned. “Not with the storm carrying on up there. What about your wonder cloaks? They kept us dry, at least. Maybe you could use one and stop this contraption.”

“I’d need wonder gloves to go with them,” Arte grumbled, “and I haven’t invented them yet.”

Miklos headed towards the fallen console in determination. But as he tried to lift it, it sparked again. He dropped it, letting it crash to the slab on which it had fallen. A beam of light shot out from it, zapping some fallen equipment across the room. It vanished.

Arte’s jaw dropped. “What happened to those things?” he gasped. “Were they vaporized?”

“We’re not staying to find out,” Pinto growled. “Let’s go.” He let Lucrece go ahead of him as he began rounding up the others, minus Snakes.

“No!” Faustina cried. “You can’t leave. I need you. I need all of you!”

Miklos’s face was a storm cloud. He came around the console, punching Brutus without warning. Posey’s strongman fell back but then recovered, lunging at Faustina’s associate.

“This is insanity!” Arte cried. “You’re going to get us all killed if you fight in here!”

Jim was already hurrying over to them to try to break it up. Coley, sneaking along the wall of the room towards the group, was unnoticed.

Suddenly Jim grabbed Brutus from behind, fighting to pull him back. “Come on,” he said through gritted teeth. “Stop it.”

Miklos glowered at them both and turned, striking Pinto as he tried to approach diagonally from the side. Pinto fell back, crashing against some of the equipment. Angered, Sergei and Cyril both leaped at Miklos.

Snakes scurried away from the fracas, only to be met by Arte. “Hello, Mr. Tolliver,” Arte smiled. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

“Out of here, of course,” Snakes retorted. “Like anyone with sense would do.” He sneered. “Like that outlaw of yours is trying to do.”

“What?!” Arte looked up with a start. But instead of seeing Coley running for his life and abandoning them, he saw Pinto knocking the damaged console so the next beam would point directly at Jim, who had just been flipped over by Brutus.

“NO!” Arte screamed. He was not close enough to grab Jim, so in desperation he launched himself at Pinto. He had to get the console turned away. He had to. He would not lose Jim now, not when he had just found him alive and well.

Pinto registered surprise as Arte came flying at him and knocked him to the floor. But then he smirked, kicking Arte in the side. Arte stumbled but righted himself, punching Pinto in return. The console was jarred, but not by enough. It lit up.

Seeing the beam coming, Jim rolled out of the way. He leaped up, punching Gallito as he approached with bodily harm in mind.

Someone else landed a blow on the escaping Snakes. He collapsed to the floor, revealing Coley standing behind him. Arte, who was just getting up and making sure Jim was safe, looked over in a mix of surprise and relief.

“So you didn’t run,” he said.

“I thought we already established that I wasn’t going to,” Coley countered.

Arte sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“How touching.”

Lucrece’s smooth, accented voice made all of her gang members stop fighting and look up. She was walking towards the door, gun in hand.

“I know you don’t want me to fire this, not with that malfunctioning electrical device in the room. So you really don’t have any choice but to allow us to go free. Come, Pinto. Brutus, Gallito. Sergei, Cyril. Not you.” She glowered at Snakes, who was trying to recover from the blow Coley had dealt him.

“Can’t bygones be bygones?” Snakes retorted, looking up at her.

“Not unless you prove yourself first, and I haven’t seen any indications that you have. Instead, you cowardly tried to leave without any of us.”

“I was just going to inspect the hall to see if we had our way clear,” Snakes protested. “Honest.”

Arte rolled his eyes. “Oh brother,” he muttered.

Lucrece was not impressed. “You’ll have to do better than that. Right now, I don’t care what happens to you.”

Snakes glowered, but looked relieved that at least they were going to leave him alive.

Lucrece’s gang gathered at her side and she turned, heading out of the room with them. “Goodbye, gentlemen and Doctor,” she purred. “I must thank you for restoring my men.”

Faustina’s eyes flashed. Getting up, she rushed after Lucrece in a last desperate attempt to stop them. “You can’t take them now!” she screamed. “I need them as proof that I have conquered death!”

Miklos struggled up to hurry after and help her. But as he fought for balance, he bumped the console, sending it crashing against the weather machine’s control panel. A combined blast shot out from both machines.

Jim felt himself being tackled to the cool tiles. “Look out,” Coley snarled. “Gordon was broken up enough about losing you before, without it happening for real now.”

In the next moment he screamed and was gone, struck by the beam that had nearly hit Jim. Jim pushed himself up from the floor, staring in sickened, bewildered disbelief. There was no trace of him, just like with the missing equipment.

Arte ran over, ashen. “Jim!” He dropped to his knees, looking his best friend over to make certain he was safe and sound. That established, he slumped back, gazing hopelessly at the thin air around them.

“He tried to save me,” Jim said, shaken by what had just happened.

Arte shook his head. “I was supposed to help him get a reduced sentence if he helped me find out what happened to you,” he said miserably. “And if we proved he didn’t have anything to do with it. I don’t know, Jim. . . . I might’ve been able to get him immunity after all, this being a problem of national security and . . .” He trailed off.

Jim gripped Arte’s shoulder. This pierced Arte deeply; that much was obvious. And somehow Jim had a feeling that there was more bothering Arte than just that.

“He did save you, Jim,” Arte said quietly. “I promised him we’d all get out of this mess, maybe even have a fancy dinner. . . . I never thought I’d mourn over Coley Rodman, but . . . oh, dear Lord, poor Coley. . . .” He gazed at his concerned fellow agent. “So much happened these last few days, Jim. I realized that maybe he never was as bad as we’ve thought. Now he’s . . . he’s just gone. Like I thought you were. . . .” His voice cracked.

Jim squeezed gently. He did not fully understand, but he trusted Arte. And he knew what had just happened, even though he was still reeling from it. “You can tell me about it later,” he said.

But the next lightning strike from outside prevented any further conversations or battles. The machines burst forth with a massive bluish-white beam, swallowing nearly everyone in the room. When the light vanished, they were gone as Coley was—all save Faustina and Miklos, who had taken refuge behind the still-standing shield.

“What happened, Miklos?!” Faustina cried, surveying the calamitous room in dismay. “Are they all no more?! Have all of our wonderful experiments been destroyed, just like that?!”

Miklos looked to what was left of the consoles’ dials. As they spun and beeped and flashed, his eyes narrowed.

He was not so sure.

And if they were still alive, out there somewhere, he would get them back and they would serve their purpose.

They owed it to Faustina.

[LuckyLadybug]

Notes: Thank you all so much for your interest! The next story will be started soon, but I'm unsure whether it will be a full-blown crossover with Perry Mason or not.

Afterward

Los Angeles, California, late autumn 2012

He came to the 14th hole and stopped, gazing across what he could see of the rest of the property. The golf course sprawled out around him, big and beautiful and mostly dark at this time of night.

He was alive. He was free. And now, after long months of treatment in a sanitarium to restore his mind, he had that mostly back, as well.

But Ray Norman was a changed man. He had meant what he had said in his anguish about desiring to repent. Blackmail and other crimes held no interest for him now. He was sickened by the very thought of any of them.

Had God been watching out for him after all, as Captain McVey had said upon rescuing him? He was unsure. He realized now that the visions and conversations he had thought he was having with the Divine Creator had been engineered by Dr. Portman—who was locked away in an institution for the criminally insane without much hope of ever getting out. But he had been trapped for over two years. Why wouldn't God have tried to help him escape sooner than that, when he had pleaded and begged for so long?

"Perhaps He helped sustain and support you until the right time for you to escape," a nun visiting the sanitarium had suggested once. "The doctors have all agreed that it's a miracle of some description that you kept hold of enough sanity to be helped now."

Well, maybe so. He remembered thinking that he had to keep hold of his name, if nothing else. To him, his name was proof of overall identity, proof that he had retained some of himself.

"Why wouldn't it have been the right time before?" Ray had muttered.

"Maybe . . ." The nun had regarded him thoughtfully. "You said that you have been more compassionate since this happened to you. Maybe this was the only way for you to gain such compassion, and you will need it in the remainder of your life."

Ray did not like the thought that such a horror might have been the only way to make him turn his life around. But in any case, it was true that he was more compassionate and kind than he ever remembered being.

Oh yes, and then there were the charges against him for his formerly blackmailing ways. The judge had not been quite sure how to handle the problem at all. It was not every day that a once-dead man was to be brought into court. And the torture Portman had piled upon him had to be considered too. The judge had consulted at length with Ray's doctors at the sanitarium before arriving at what he felt was the most humane decision.

The doctors felt there was no way Ray could be locked behind bars without losing his still very fragile mind. He could not so much as go past the cages in a zoo without it triggering a panic attack. And after two years of being made to fully believe that he was in Hell itself, wasn't that surely enough to pay for the wrongs he had done?

The judge was satisfied of that. He had placed Ray on probation, just for several months. It would not be long and those would be up. Meanwhile, with the doctors feeling he was well enough to be released from the sanitarium, he had set about getting his affairs in order.

Including the reclamation of the Oak Bridge Golf Club. It had been his legitimate business during the last years of his life, but it had stood abandoned since his death. With some money he had stored in hidden bank accounts he had taken control of it again, fixing it into the decent place it had once been.

He had added extra security guards when he hired a new team. And he was seeing to the installation of more floodlights and alarms. One thing that the doctors had not been able to fully erase was his paranoia that Dr. Portman would escape and come after him again. They had told him that if the added measures made him feel safer, he should go ahead, even though it was unnecessary and Portman would never get out.

How could they know? Ray still argued in his mind. How could anyone know what a madwoman like that would or could do? They had only vicariously encountered what she was capable of through Ray's tales of his imprisonment. They could never know what it felt like to be tortured, to have the very life sucked from their veins, unless they experienced it firsthand. And Ray would not wish that on anyone.

Who really could know what it felt like? There was fellow prisoner Captain Caldwell, but he was working at Vandenberg Air Force Base now, trying to put his own shattered life back together. And there were likely other victims of Portman's elsewhere in the country. But right here, in Los Angeles, there was no one.

It was a lonely feeling. Ray could not help wishing that he could find someone, anyone, who would understand what it was like.

He was still alone, really, just as he had been before his death. The acquaintances he had known tried to be kind, but they felt uncomfortable around him. And Ray did not want to push it. He felt uncomfortable around them now, too.

Reporters were always after him for one reason or another. He was big news in Los Angeles, the dead man who had survived two years of torture at Dr. Portman's hands. He had to throw nosy and unkind employees of the fourth estate off his property most days. They did not really care about him, after all, just their stories. And he was not keen on helping them get any from him.

The sound of something moving over the grass brought him sharply to attention. "Who's there?" he snapped. No one should be at this part of the property at this time of night. He drew his flashlight, beaming it towards the noise.

A man threw up his arms, trying to shield his face from the bright glow. His sleeves were torn, revealing various cuts, bruises, and . . . was that a burn from an iron?! Ray's jaw dropped.

The man lowered his arms, limping in desperation towards Ray. "Help me," he begged. Losing his balance, he tumbled at Ray and grabbed him, shuddering with pain.

Ray took hold of him, fearful of damaging some of the wounds. "Of course I'll help you," he exclaimed. "I'll get you back to the office and call an ambulance. . . ."

The other's eyes fluttered as he battled to keep them open and focused. "No ambulance," he retorted. "No hospital. Please . . . just help me. My name's Rodman. Coley Rodman. I . . ." He sank farther against Ray, his consciousness almost lost. "I'll pay you. This thing alone is worth a lot here. It'd pay you several times over."

Ray supported Coley as best as he could. This stranger was dressed rather oddly for this time and place. He could have come from a cosplay convention or be part of the steampunk sub-culture. Well, of course, those were the only logical explanation for his wardrobe.

But the coin he was holding out looked unlike anything Ray had ever before seen. It wasn't mint, per se, but as though it had seen everyday wear and use. And it was dated 1874.

"What did you do, rob a coin store?" Ray exclaimed as he tried to walk his new charge to the nearby golf cart.

Coley managed a weak smirk. "No. I robbed a lot of things in my time, but never that."

"In your . . . time?" Ray blinked, situating Coley in the passenger side of the vehicle. He got in the driver's side and started it up. The man was delirious. His eyes were glazed and his speech slurred. And yet he sounded completely sure of what he was talking about.

"I was a pretty notorious character in 1874," Coley said with the same, shaking smirk. "I don't know what's happened back there now, though. They probably all think I'm dead. Unless they came here too."

"They?"

"West and Gordon. Secret Service agents. And that crazy female doc and her assistant." He closed his eyes wearily. "But not Lucrece Posey's gang. I know they're here. And they know I'm alive. I was being tortured by Little Pinto."

Ray was chilled. "Tortured," he repeated in horror.

Had a lunatic been sent to his doorstep? He certainly spoke like he was out of his mind. Anyone else would immediately call for the little men in the white jackets.

So why was it that Ray was fancying the idea of caring for this fellow himself, if the wounds were not too serious for him to be able to treat?

Did he not want this man to be put away for insanity, as he surely would be if he got into any hospital and they heard him talking?

Did Ray just want a companion who understood pain and suffering, even if he wasn't all there in the head?

Did Ray possibly believe, even just a little, that Coley Rodman was telling him the truth?

Right now he was not that interested in self-analysis. He just wanted to get Rodman back to the office, where he could see the full extent of the damage. Whatever else Rodman said, the torture was clearly legitimate.

And Ray would not let anyone suffer at the hands of a true lunatic, ever again.

"It's going to be alright," he promised. "I'll take care of you. I'll nurse you back to health. You'll see."

Coley managed a tired nod. "Thanks." He sank out of consciousness, slumping back against the seat.

Ray glanced at him while driving. He looked so weak and pale and helpless.

And the gun in his holster looked like an old piece too, from what little Ray knew of guns.

After he cleaned and bound Rodman's wounds, he was going to get on the Internet and look up the name, as well as those other names Rodman had thrown at him. The results wouldn't necessarily mean Rodman was telling the truth, even if they checked out.

But then again, they wouldn't necessarily mean he wasn't telling the truth, either.

****

Jim and Arte tumbled out of the light and to the ground. They lay still for a moment, stunned and surprised. Recovering first, Arte pushed himself up. "Jim?" he exclaimed. "Jim, are you alright?"

"Yeah," Jim mumbled. He brought a hand to the back of his head as he tried to push himself into a sitting position. "What happened?"

Arte shook his head. "I haven't the faintest idea. I thought we were all going to be vaporized for a minute there."

He looked around. It was nighttime and they were on a grassy curb at the edge of what seemed to be a park. A strange sort of a lamppost was nearby, shining a bright beam of orange light on them. Nearby, buildings taller than any that either of them had seen stood against the sky, lights twinkling in some of the countless windows.

"Holy . . ." Arte gaped at the scene. "Jim, I don't think we're in Nevada anymore."

A strange metal vehicle swept past on the road in front of them, leaving a breeze of cool air that blew their hair about.

Jim stared after it. "What was that?!"

Arte watched it, and others that came after it, in awe. "They look a little like the transportation devices I've wanted to invent for some time," he breathed. "A little more streamlined, but still."

"What?" Jim paid close attention to the next one. "You're right, Arte. They kind of do. But what does that mean?"

Arte leaned back. "Jim . . . there were all kinds of electrical forces at work in Faustina's lab. What if she overloaded everything so much with that last experiment that she tore a hole in the fabric of time and space?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Arte, are you trying to say that . . ."

"Yes!" Arte gave a firm nod. "Instead of being vaporized, we were all sent to what must be the future of the United States." Hope glistened in his eyes. "And maybe, just maybe, that means that Coley isn't dead. Maybe he's here too."

"That's logical reasoning, I suppose," Jim agreed. "And Miss Posey's gang is probably here as well. Maybe even Dr. Faustina and Miklos."

Arte cringed. "We'll have our work cut out for us," he said.

"You're not afraid of a little hard work, are you?" Jim quipped with a smirk.

Arte's heart twisted. He had missed bantering with Jim, so much. "Oh, it was horrible when I thought you were dead," he choked out.

It was unusual for him to speak about his deepest, most painful feelings like this. Usually, both he and Jim felt they did not need to say much, if anything. They often conveyed their friendship through what was not said.

But this time Arte had not been able to hold back. And Jim fully understood.

"I know," he said seriously. "I'm sorry, Arte. I would have come sooner if I'd been able to get away."

"Of course you would have," Arte nodded.

He gave a weary sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I think that, if Rodman hadn't been there and I hadn't had him to talk to, not to mention needing to concentrate on making sure he didn't get away when I thought he was going to, I would have gone out of my mind. And then I probably would have ended up dead."

Jim stared. "Arte, do you mean that Rodman saved your life?"

"Yes, he did," Arte nodded. "And he told me a lot of things about the Dr. Kirby case that neither of us knew. Oh, I didn't know whether to believe him or not, but in the end I think he was telling the truth.

"He was loyal all the way along, Jim. And I don't think he did everything he did just to try to get the best record possible when I made my report. He still had good in him." Arte clenched a fist. "He didn't know you wouldn't have died if that beam hit you. None of us did. And he protected you anyway, in spite of the risk to his life. If he's still alive, here in wherever and whenever this is, I'm going to find him and make sure he's alright."

Jim laid a hand on Arte's shoulder. "We'll find him, Arte," he promised. "And round up Miss Posey's gang, too. Then we'll just have to figure out how to get back home."

"If we even can," Arte said quietly, gazing into the stars.

Jim was right—it would take a lot of work. But they were up to the challenge. And right now, they had the most important thing in any time or place going for them.

They were taking it on together.