Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The) Read Online Free PDF Page A

shooter?”
    “Exactly like that.” The marshal jabbed his thumb back toward the door. “So tell me. What’d you think of our little gunfight in there? Look familiar?”
    “The body in the barn didn’t disappear, Marshal, but I can see why you’d think I was mistaken. That’s a good act, making the farmer vanish like that. What I want to know is how you could rig a trapdoor in a hayloft.”
    “I checked the barn like I said I would and didn’t find a sign of foul play. Guess that makes me a pretty lousy lawman.”
    “Somebody could’ve moved the body before you and your deputy had a chance to look. Like, maybe the driver of the Dodge Charger.”
    “You mean Jess? Doubtful. He was already preparing for the saloon scene. Makes more sense that there never was a body.”
    “I’m going back inside,” I said. “My parents are probably wondering what happened to me.”
    The marshal put his hand on the door, pushing it shut. “Look, son. We work hard to keep our guests entertained. Maybe too hard. But people drive a long way to get here, and they expect to get a real taste of the Old West.”
    “You have a killer running loose, Marshal. I doubt that’s the ghost town experience they bargained for.”
    “Walk with me,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
    I followed him down the alley and beyond the clatter coming from behind the kitchen’s screen door. A trash receptacle had been painted to look like a wooden water barrel, but the sour odor of spoiled milk and rotten food destroyed the illusion.
    “What you have to understand is that tourism is a competitive industry,” the marshal continued. “Hard to compete with those theme parks. Kids these days want fast and scary with lots of things exploding and flying around. But I don’t have to tell you this. Bet you weren’t all that excited when your mom and dad picked Deadwood for their vacation.”
    We turned down a side street bracketed by a livery stable, blacksmith shop, and tannery. In the distance I spied a corral and beyond, the rutted path of a wagon trail.
    I said, “If it had been up to me, we’d have gone to Vegas. There’s a gaming convention out there. My sister lobbied for Disney World but Dad said he wasn’t going to spend that kind of money to stand in line for hours with a bunch of bawling babies in strollers. Mom said as long as we all agreed on the destination, she didn’t care where we went. I didn’t agree to come here, but obviously no one pays much attention to what I say.”
    “Family vacations were different when I was your age. Dad would load up the station wagon and we’d all pile in, stop at the filling station for gas and to check the oil, then we’d head off on Route 66. Back then you could actually stop on the side of the highway, spread a blanket, and have a picnic. We’d eat my mother’s deviled eggs and fried chicken and drink sodas out of a glass bottle. Got a nickel a piece for those bottles whenI turned them in. Now it’s kids listening to music through their headphones or watching videos on their smart phones while mom reads and dad navigates interstate traffic. For me to convince a family that it’s worth their time to come all the way out here and spend a few days looking up at the stars and relaxing is a tough sell.”
    If the marshal was trying to make me feel sorry for him, it wasn’t working.
    We covered the three blocks from the saloon to the corral, walking past the rear of the general store, hotel, and the town’s lone church—a compact white structure with a prominent steeple. We hooked a left at a feed store and approached a modular trailer sitting on sturdy cinder block supports. Buckleberry took a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the door, motioning me inside.
    “My office,” he said, flipping on an overhead fluorescent light.
    The trailer had the strong odor of new carpet. Beige walls, beige carpet, brown desk. He pointed toward a straight-back wooden chair. “Sit.” Boxes