Chapter 42
ALICE
The notice we hung at the gate sways in the wind, the ink bleeding where the rain had touched it:
INFLUENZA OUTbrEAK — CLOSED TO TRAVELERS TEMPORARILY
It would keep the curious away. Illness always did.
I peek through the upstairs window. Two riders turn into the lane. Virgil rides in front, posture straight as ever, his coat immaculate despite the muddy road. Behind him comes a thinner man, a satchel balanced on his knee.
My pulse quickens. Why had I assumed he’d come alone?
Oh no. This won’t do at all.
When his knock finally comes, it echoes through the empty rooms like a bell tolling. I draw a steadying breath and open the door just wide enough to meet them in the threshold.
“Virgil,” I say. “You shouldn’t have come. There’s sickness in the house.”
He removes his hat, polite as if he hadn’t abandoned me here with a strange man, as if he hadn’t beaten me bloody the day we left the courthouse.
“Always some ailment about, Alice. I won’t be long. Mr. Collier and I have unfinished business.”
My hand tightens on the door’s edge. “He isn’t receiving visitors. The fever has quite undone him.”
The younger man shifts behind him, uneasy. “Perhaps we might return another day.”
Virgil silences him with a glance. “Nonsense. A few signatures, that’s all. You’ve no objection to me stepping inside, do you?”
I hesitate just long enough to make the lie believable, then step aside.
“Very well,” I say quietly. “But please, don’t linger.”
He steps aside with a small gesture. “This is Mr. Brown, a notary from the county. He’ll see to the papers once we’re settled.”
The younger man bows, awkward but earnest. “Ma’am.”
“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Brown,” I reply, inclining my head.
They cross the threshold with the careful air of men entering a tomb.
I’ve left the lamps low and the curtains drawn. It makes the hall feel smaller, closer. The scent of carbolic and smoke clings to the walls, proof enough of “disinfection.”
“Apologies for the state of things,” I say, leading them toward the front parlor. “We’ve been doing what we can to cleanse the air.”
Brown presses a handkerchief to his face as though the contagion might leap from the wallpaper.
Virgil, by contrast, seems invigorated by his own fearlessness, his boots striking the floorboards in bold defiance.
His eyes wander over the room—the closed door to the kitchen, the fire burning low, the ledger waiting on the side table.
“Mr. Collier’s up to bed, then? I should like his signature before the ink dries on my patience. ”
“He’s resting,” I tell him. “The fever took him quite hard.”
Virgil seems to weigh how much truth I might be worth. “I imagine you’ve been playing nurse,” he says. “Always did have the constitution for it. But I’ll need to see him. I may be a respected man, but the bank won’t simply take my word.”
The tremor seizes my hands before I can still them. “He’s scarcely fit for company.”
“Then I’ll be brief.”
Brown shifts again, clearly wishing himself elsewhere. “Mr. Sherman, if he’s truly ill—”
Virgil turns on him with a touch of ice in his tone. “You’re here to witness, not to diagnose. Sit yourself there and prepare the papers.”
The notary obeys, fumbling for his pen.
Virgil faces me. “Show me to him.”
Upstairs, Kodiak waits behind a locked door, Collier’s hat and coat laid ready on the chair beside him. The smell of lye is stronger up there. Even through the floorboards it bites the back of my throat.
I smooth my skirt and force myself calm. “If you insist. But you mustn’t linger.”
Virgil offers his arm with mock gallantry. “After you, my dear.”
I take a single steady breath and lead him up the stairs. The house creaks around us, old wood complaining as if it meant to warn him. Stop! Turn back! Every step sounds louder than it should, as though the walls themselves wish to betray me.
At the landing I pause, hand on the banister. The air is close, heavy with soap and smoke.
Virgil’s boots creak behind me. “Still smells like lye,” he says. “You always did like things scrubbed raw.”
I ignore him, turning toward the east corridor. The door to the sickroom waits at the end, light leaking through the keyhole.
“Best keep your distance when I open it,” I say, loud enough for my voice to carry. “He coughs when the air shifts.”
Virgil makes a sound, amusement perhaps. Let’s see how amused he is inside. I reach the door, hesitating. My blood pumps so hard I can feel my heartbeat against the doorknob.
Inside, silence. Then, the faintest movement, the creak of a chair, the whisper of cloth.
Kodiak is ready.
I knock lightly. “Mr. Collier,” I call, as the door squeals open. “Virgil’s come about the deed.”
A rough cough answers, convincing. “Not now, Alice.” His voice is thick, unrecognizable.
Virgil’s expression shifts, a flicker of discomfort. “I need his mark. Nothing else will do.”
“Then keep back,” I say and push the door open.
The curtains are drawn, only the fire lends shape to the room. Kodiak lies half-turned from us, face lost in shadow.
Virgil steps inside, the smell of carbolic and damp wool strong enough to sting the nostrils. “Collier, you look worse than I expected,” he says, tone half teasing.
Kodiak shifts but does not rise. “You’d look the same, Sherman, a fever to your bones.”
Virgil chuckles, uneasy. “We just need your mark, friend. Then you can go back to dying at leisure.” He steps closer.
I move to intercept him, setting a hand on his arm. “Please. The doctor says exertion worsens the fever.”
He looks down at my hand, then back to the bed. “I’ll be careful,” he hisses.
Kodiak turns slightly, enough for the firelight to catch the line of his jaw.
“Paper,” he says. “Bring it here.”
Virgil hesitates. For the first time, I see doubt in him—something calculating, something wary.
Downstairs, a board creaks, the notary shifting perhaps.
Virgil hands me the papers. “Very well. Have him sign.”
I cross to the table, dipping the pen. Behind me, Kodiak coughs again, the sound raw enough to make Virgil flinch.
“Hold still,” I whisper, and pass the pen into Kodiak’s waiting hand.
He scrawls the name in a single deliberate stroke, the ink soaking into the page like blood.
When I turn back, Virgil is studying the shape beneath the blanket, his mouth drawn tight, lingering by the foot of the bed. The fire pops and a thin coil of smoke slides toward the ceiling.
“He’s drifting. The fever takes him under for hours.”
Virgil smiles without warmth. “I should like a closer look.” He takes another step.
My breath catches. I can see the muscles in Kodiak’s forearm tense beneath the blanket, his hand closing over the pistol always holstered beside him.
“Please,” I say quickly. “He’s contagious.”
Virgil hesitates, amusement flickering again. “You truly think I fright so easily?” He reaches for the edge of the quilt.
Before he can draw it back, Kodiak speaks, voice deeper now, clear.
“Leave it be, Sherman.”
The words freeze him. Recognition hits like the crack of a whip. His gaze darts to me, then back to the bed. “That’s not—”
Kodiak throws the blanket aside and sits up, firelight in his eyes, pistol leveled between Virgil’s. For an instant, Virgil doesn’t breathe. Then he laughs, short and sharp.
“I’ll grant you ingenuity, Alice. I’d thought you’d taken this creature to your bed, but I never dreamed you’d domesticate him.
” Virgil’s smile does not falter. He rests one hand on his hip, fingers curled near his own piece, a passive motion that betrays the true threat of violence, that blood could be drawn at the twitch of a finger.
“You don’t want to gamble which of us is faster with a pistol, Sherman.” Kodiak’s voice is soft, measured, but there is iron under it.
For a heartbeat, Virgil lets his hand lie there, as if he were caressing the thought of it. “So this was your plan? To pretend to be Collier and send me on my merry way? You nearly passed for Collier, I’ll give you that. What have you done with him?”
“Take a wild guess,” Kodiak snarks, but I’ve been hooked by Virgil’s words. Just then, it comes to me all at once.
Collier. That’s it.
Virgil’s smile remains, but his eyes lose their edge—too still now, too calculating, all his focus on the pistol. “I’ll ask again. Where is Collier?”
I step between them. “He’s…passed on.”
“He’s fuckin’ dead, Virgil. Alice, get out of the way.”
Virgil sighs as if I’ve disappointed him. “You let this animal kill an innocent man?”
“I killed him.”
“Alice,” Kodiak warns, “get out of the goddamn way.”
“It was self-defense,” I explain.
“Alice, move. Now!”
His shout makes me jump, and I stumble back. I turn to face him. “We are not doing this, Kodiak. Both of you, put your guns away at once. We will discuss this like civilized adults.”
Virgil scoffs. “Civilized? With a murderer and a fugitive? He killed ten men in Galveston. More if you count the innocent men on that ship.”
“I don’t expect this yellow-bellied dog to know a goddamn thing about honor.” Kodiak’s arm swings blunt against my chest, sweeping me backward and out of the line of fire, his other hand snug on his gun.
“Kodiak!” I warn.
He ignores me. “Go ahead, draw iron. I dare you.”
Virgil studies him. “You’ve got gall, Randolph. If you fire your weapon, the man downstairs will ride into town and have the sheriff up here by nightfall for the both of you.”
“You need the law to settle your scores, boy?”
“Enough,” I say. I turn to Virgil. “I know you well enough to know your true concern is not with Kodiak. This is about business and the Sherman name. It always has been. So what if we could give you the satisfaction of claiming the bounty on Kodiak.”
“What?” Kodiak shouts.