Carbines and Capacitors 13/14
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Chapter 13
When This You See*
Cheyenne ran into more delays on the rest of his route, but Sam saw him at several points and so knew what the holdup was. All the same, it was a relief to get the dishes delivered, check the location of the large wheeled bin that held the laundry, and duck into the staff lounge for another cup of coffee.
“You really need to turn your earwig back on,” Root’s voice said softly from the blind side of the coffee machine.
Somehow Cheyenne managed neither to jump nor to look around. “What are you doin’ here?” he murmured and punched the button to fill his cup.
“This is the only place where we can talk without being seen or overheard.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Harold was coming over anyway. I convinced him to bring me.”
“Why?”
“The woman who’s been calling herself Diane Claypool is the head of Project Northern Lights. Her codename is Control.”
“She’s after Samaritan?”
“Exactly. She doesn’t like the fact the Machine is, well… beyond her control. She seems to see Samaritan as the next best option-but she’s less likely to pursue Claypool if she thinks she has a chance to get the Machine back. So I’m here as a decoy.”
He frowned as he picked up his cup. “You think she knows you?”
She gave a little affirmative hum. “Not that we’ve met, but she knows who I am. I… made a bit of a mess in Washington while I was trying to find the Machine. She’s already sent her favorite assassin after me twice.”
He would have asked for more details, but he’d just taken a drink of coffee, and by the time he’d swallowed, he’d thought better of pressing the issue. Instead, he said, “And you’re sure she’ll take the bait.”
“Well, as sure as I can be. I’m posing as a member of Housekeeping, and I’ve already moved Claypool’s clothes into the bathroom for you. And Shaw made sure to let Easton overhear her complaining to one of the nurses about your still suffering some cognitive issues from the concussion in Baghdad, like your walking off in the middle of your shift a few times because you didn’t have anything to do for five minutes and forgot you were still on the clock. Easton’s never done any real field work before, and he’s prone to jumping to the wrong conclusions, especially when the false trail is strong enough. So when the two of you disappear after you help Claypool into the shower, he’ll most likely believe that you just wandered off and Shaw went to find you-at least, as long as I’m the one who goes in to turn off the shower after you’ve gotten Claypool out safely.”
“What about Reese?”
“Once you and Shaw get started, Mr. Campbell will get a call from his home office saying that the hospital’s board of administrators decided to award the contract to another company. He’ll meet you either on the elevator or in the laundry room.”
Cheyenne drained his cup, crushed it, and threw it away. “I don’t like your committing suicide like this.”
Root chuckled, although the tone was less condescending than usual. “You’re adorable. John said the same thing. So did Harold, except at much greater length. But it’s not suicide as long as I’ve got her, and this really is your only chance of pulling this off.”
He sighed. “Well, I reckon I can’t talk you out of it at this point.”
She slid out from behind the machine and put a hand on his arm. “I know you don’t like me, but I do appreciate your concern, and I promise I’ll be fine. Seriously, though, turn your earwig back on. If you look distracted, it’ll sell the cognitive problems even better.” And before he could respond, she squeezed his arm and left.
Somehow he knew he’d never see her again. He wasn’t sure how that knowledge made him feel. But after a moment of not watching her go, he tapped his earpiece.
“Are you there, Mr. Bodie?” Mr. Finch asked immediately.
“Yes, sir,” Cheyenne answered. “Just talked to Root.”
“So I heard. I must confess that I am also deeply ambivalent about this situation-but if I hadn’t brought her with me, she probably would have escaped and found a way over here anyway.”
Sam walked into the lounge at that point. “You set with the security cameras, Finch?”
“Yes,” Mr. Finch answered. “I believe it would be best for Mr. Bodie to leave with Mr. Reese while you and I take Arthur in your car.”
“Works for me,” said Reese.
“Am I gonna have time to change while you two head thisaway?” Cheyenne asked Sam.
Sam considered, then shook her head. “No, not completely, but that’s all right. Helps sell the notion that you just left because you forgot what time it was. Wear your hat, though.”
Cheyenne nodded. He’d worn the black hat that morning, without the beaded band, so it wouldn’t look particularly distinctive. “Sure, I can do that.”
“Here.” She took off her white coat and handed it to Cheyenne. “Stick that in your bag for me. You can give it back when we meet up at the safe house.”
“Right. You saw where the laundry cart is?”
“Yeah, no problems. I’m gonna go up through the women’s locker room. Go ahead to Claypool’s room when you’re done here.”
“Got it.”
They separated, and Cheyenne folded Sam’s coat carefully on his way into the men’s locker room. Once he’d put it in his bag, he left the lounge area, stopped by the linen storage for a clean gown, and went back to Claypool’s room.
“You again?” Easton challenged as Cheyenne approached the guards. “What is it now?”
“Mr. Claypool said earlier as he’d like to get a shower this mornin’,” Cheyenne replied at a volume that would carry into the room and held up the folded gown as proof. “Got held up in the kitchen, but now I’m back.”
Easton looked over his shoulder at Claypool, who nodded and waved for Cheyenne to come in, so the guards grudgingly stood aside to let Cheyenne pass.
“Remind me what I’m supposed to be getting a shower for?” Claypool murmured as Cheyenne approached the bed.
“You’re not,” Cheyenne murmured back. “Anne’s takin’ you out through the bathroom ceiling.”
“Taking me where?”
“To see Harold Wren.”
Claypool drew a deep breath and nodded. “Right. Yes. Got it.”
“Do you need a wheelchair,” Cheyenne asked at a more conversational volume, “or do you think you can walk?”
Claypool held out his arm for support, which Cheyenne gave, and got up with a groan. “It’s not that far. I can walk.”
Cheyenne nodded once and stayed at Claypool’s elbow until they were both squeezed into the tiny privy and the door was shut. “Might want to go in there to get your clothes on,” he whispered then, nodding toward the shower.
Claypool nodded back and collected his clothes from the edge of the sink, where Root had left them. Then he stepped into the shower and drew the curtain, which made enough noise that the guards had probably heard it. Cheyenne set the clean gown on the sink and waited while Claypool dressed hurriedly, ducked out without opening the curtain, and sat down on the toilet to put on his shoes. After making sure Claypool didn’t need help with his shoelaces, Cheyenne collected the used gown and turned the shower on. Claypool had both shoes on and tied by the time Sam lifted a ceiling tile out of the way and popped her head through. Then Cheyenne steadied Claypool as he climbed up on the toilet and gave him a boost while Sam helped him from her end.
“Oh, this is fun,” Claypool whispered as his feet disappeared through the hole. “Nathan always comes up with the best pranks.”
“Stay close to me,” Sam cautioned softly and dropped the tile back into place. “And stay quiet.”
“Right, right.”
Confident they were on their way, Cheyenne picked up the used gown again and left. “Gonna take this on down to the laundry,” he told the guards as he passed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“So far, so good,” Root said in his ear.
While Reese faked the call from his home office, Cheyenne strode quickly down the hall and tossed the used gown into the laundry cart, then went back to the locker room to collect his things.
“The security camera nearest the laundry cart is now on a loop,” Mr. Finch announced as Cheyenne shrugged into his jacket and put on his hat.
“I’ve got my gear,” Cheyenne reported and closed his locker. “Headed back to the cart.”
“Should we be considering fiberoptic cable for this?” Claypool mumbled from Sam’s end of the call. “With the volume of data we’re talking about, I’m not sure copper wires will give us enough bandwidth.”
Trying to figure out what that meant distracted Cheyenne enough that he nearly walked straight into one of the nurses in the lounge. After mutual apologies, she looked up at him in concern. “Jim? Are you going somewhere?” she asked.
“N-no, I’m just cold,” Cheyenne replied, deliberately fumbling the explanation, and shivered for effect. “You know how it is out here at night.”
“Out… here?”
“Yeah, the sand don’t hold the heat once the sun’s down. ’Scuse me,” he added, touched his hat to her, and hurried past before she could ask any more questions.
“Nicely done, Mr. Bodie,” said Mr. Finch. “Miss Shaw is nearly to the laundry cart.”
“So am I,” Cheyenne murmured, absently touching his hat to a couple more nurses in the hall, and rounded the corner into the open storage area where the cart was just in time to duck out of sight before the first nurse encountered the other two.
“Wait, Miss Shaw,” Mr. Finch ordered, and Cheyenne heard a slight clank and a soft “Shh!” above him as Sam stopped Claypool.
“He was just here a minute ago,” one of the nurses was saying.
“Didn’t Dr. Moore say something about his having a TBI from his time in Iraq?” another asked.
The third groaned. “It’s bad enough when our patients have fugues….”
“Maybe one of the patients called him,” the first nurse suggested as the three of them passed the doorway of the storage area. “He was moving pretty fast, but I don’t think he could have gone as far as the nurses’ station….” Her voice faded with distance.
“Now, Mr. Bodie,” said Mr. Finch.
Cheyenne tossed his bag into the cart and reached up to lift the tile directly above it. Sam moved the tile and shooed Claypool through the opening first; Claypool, who was clearly having the time of his life, didn’t even wait for Cheyenne to offer him a hand before dropping onto the cart. Then Sam dropped through, and Cheyenne covered them with a sheet, put the tile back in place, and started pushing the cart toward the elevator.
“I’ll cover you,” said Root, and a second later, an alarm went off down the hall past Claypool’s room, followed by running footsteps headed away from Cheyenne.
“The elevator is ready,” said Mr. Finch as Cheyenne reached the end of the hall. “The security camera is in the back corner, to your right as you enter.”
Cheyenne pressed the Down button, shoved the cart into the car while the doors were still opening, and pressed the button for the service entrance on the first floor, then made sure to stand where his hat would block the camera as the car descended.
“Perfect position, Mr. Bodie. Mr. Reese?”
“I’m at the back door of the elevator,” Reese reported. “There’s no one here right now-Shaw, you might want to go ahead and get out of the cart now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Root was saying as Sam climbed out of the cart on the opposite side from where Cheyenne was standing and then helped Claypool out. “I’m not used to cleaning hospitals-I-I-I must have pressed a button or something.”
“Where’s Harold?” Claypool whispered.
“Outside,” Sam whispered back and held a finger to her lips to remind him again to be quiet.
“So clumsy of me,” Root was still carrying on. “I hope I haven’t hurt anybody-I wouldn’t want to-” She started crying loudly, and Sam and Cheyenne rolled their eyes at each other.
“Well, at least Miss Groves didn’t take your suggestion for a diversion, Miss Shaw,” said Mr. Finch. “We don’t need to bring the fire department into this.”
Cheyenne looked inquiringly at Sam, who rolled her eyes again and shook her head in a clear Never mind.
The elevator reached its destination then, and Cheyenne waited until Sam and Claypool had exited before pushing the cart out after them. Reese, as promised, was waiting just outside the elevator and helped Cheyenne steer the cart to an out-of-the-way place.
“This way, Mr. Claypool,” Reese whispered then and ushered Claypool toward the back door while Cheyenne grabbed his bag and followed with Sam.
“Now, who are you?” Claypool whispered back.
“My name is John. I work with Harold. He’s waiting outside.”
Claypool seemed to hesitate again, but Reese opened the door to reveal Mr. Finch standing beside Sam’s car about fifty yards away, and Claypool relaxed with a murmur of, “Finally, someone I recognize,” and followed Reese out.
“The camera feeds down here are looped as well,” Mr. Finch said at a volume Cheyenne could hear only through his earpiece. “I’ll switch the loops off as soon as we’re in our vehicles.”
So Reese stepped out of Claypool’s way and let him hurry over to Sam’s car. “Harold!” Claypool called, though not loudly enough to carry far. “Thank God, it’s really you!”
Mr. Finch’s face softened in a fond smile. “Hello, Arthur.”
“How long has it been?”
“Quite some time.”
Claypool clasped Mr. Finch’s shoulders warmly, then looked back at Reese, Sam, and Cheyenne. “You know, I wasn’t sure whether to trust these kids you sent after me.”
Mr. Finch laughed.
“But I’m glad to know they were telling the truth-let’s see, it’s John….” Claypool hesitated over Sam’s name.
“Sam,” said Sam.
“I… think you said something else earlier, but never mind… and….” Claypool pointed to Cheyenne, eyebrows raised in question.
“Jim,” said Cheyenne.
“Oh, no, that’s all wrong. You don’t look like a Jim.”
Cheyenne grinned. “Well, how’s the name Cheyenne grab you?”
“Cheyenne,” Claypool repeated experimentally and looked away, considering. “Chey-enne,” he said again more slowly, the second syllable on a higher pitch, and then sang quietly, “Cheyenne, where will you be camping tonight?”
Reese and Cheyenne looked at each other in shock.
“Arthur?” Mr. Finch prompted.
Claypool blinked and looked at him. “Mm? What?”
“We need to leave.”
“Yes. Right. Where are we going?”
“To a safe place,” Mr. Finch said and ushered Claypool into the back seat while Sam went around to the driver’s door.
Reese nodded to Cheyenne, who followed him further down the lot to John Campbell’s car. Once they were inside, however, they just sat for a moment, listening to Claypool chatter with Mr. Finch.
“I’ve got the weirdest feeling,” Reese breathed.
“Yeah,” Cheyenne replied. “So do I.”
They looked at each other, and Reese started the engine and drove off toward the library.
They’d been gone only a couple of minutes when there was a splash and the remaining hospital sounds stopped, which must have meant that Root had destroyed her phone. Cheyenne sighed and said a short, silent prayer for her. Meanwhile, Mr. Finch’s pointed questions had gotten Claypool talking about Samaritan, including the fact that it had been a project like the Machine but had been shut down before he could get it to work, the fact that he’d saved the core code on two backup drives because he’d viewed the artificial intelligence like a child, and the fact that Control hadn’t yet gotten him to confess to where the drives were. Mr. Finch then did some technical wizardry to make sure Claypool wasn’t carrying anything with a working GPS transmitter-there was one in Claypool’s medical alert button (the first time Cheyenne had ever heard of such a thing), but Claypool himself smashed that to get out the safe deposit box key that he'd hidden inside it-and then, after some detours and more technical wizardry to ensure they wouldn’t be pursued, Mr. Finch directed Sam to take him and Claypool to the bank where Claypool had hidden the drives. The alias Claypool had used, Ruediger Smoot, was apparently some sort of inside joke between himself and Mr. Finch, but Cheyenne decided not to try to work out what it meant.
For their part, Reese and Cheyenne made a different set of detours before stopping off at the library to pick up Bear and let Cheyenne change clothes. Cheyenne would have been perfectly happy to let Bear use the scrubs as a chew toy, but Reese talked him out of it. “You never know,” Reese reasoned. “We might need you to infiltrate another hospital one of these days.”
Cheyenne sincerely hoped not, but he didn’t say so.
Once both sets of errands had been completed and Sam had successfully gotten Mr. Finch, Claypool, and the drives out of the bank without incident, the two groups converged on the safe house. “Tomorrow we’ll move you to a small private hospital out of town,” Mr. Finch told Claypool as they left the bank, “but I’m sure you need to rest after the day you’ve had.”
Claypool chuckled. “Relax, Harold. It’s not like anyone was shooting at us.”
“No,” Mr. Finch said quietly. “Not today. But it would only have been a matter of time.”
Claypool chuckled again, more nervously. “What are you talking about?”
“Arthur… some very bad groups of people want to get their hands on Samaritan. The woman who’s been posing as Diane represents only one of them.”
And Mr. Finch proceeded to explain the threats from Control, Decima, and Vigilance, along with the existence of the Machine and the fact that the best of Claypool’s ideas were incorporated in the Machine’s design. It took most of the trip for Mr. Finch to make the case that the Samaritan drives needed to be destroyed, partly because Claypool’s ability to focus was slipping and partly because the news was so heartbreaking to him that he had trouble believing it. By the time they’d arrived, however, Claypool had finally come around to Mr. Finch’s way of thinking.
“Not an easy thing, to give up on a dream,” Cheyenne said sympathetically as the five of them went inside with Bear at their heels. “The one time I finally had enough saved up to buy my own ranch, I lost the herd to a disease in a matter o’ weeks and had to sell the place back to the bank ’fore I lost my shirt. I don’t think anyone can blame you for havin’ a hard time lettin’ go.”
“Not just a dream,” Claypool said mournfully, staring at the drives in his hands. “The culmination of my life’s work.”
“It’s an achievement few can equal,” said Reese, putting a hand on Claypool’s shoulder, “and even fewer can surpass.”
“And yet….” Claypool shook his head and said something in a language Cheyenne had never heard before.
“This too is meaningless,” Mr. Finch recited in English, “and a chasing after the wind.”†
Reese sent Bear to lie down out of the way. Then Claypool took a deep breath, covered his head with one hand, and sang something in that same unfamiliar language. Cheyenne couldn’t understand the words, but the sentiment was clear enough, and he removed his hat out of respect. Whatever the words meant, this was Claypool’s way of saying goodbye. When the song-or songs, more likely, given the length and the number of times Claypool paused-came to an end, Claypool took another deep breath, dropped the drives to the floor, and crushed them with his foot.
“Baruch Dayan Ha-Emet,” Mr. Finch murmured.‡ “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”
Fighting tears, Claypool nodded his thanks and let Mr. Finch guide him to the armchair. Then as he sat down, he sniffled and said, “You’re limping. Are you hurt?”
“Oh, it’s an old injury that never healed right,” said Mr. Finch and sat down on the sofa. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
Bear went over to Claypool and put his chin on Claypool’s leg. That startled Claypool a little, but then he started absently petting Bear’s head and murmuring something Cheyenne couldn’t make out.
“I’ll get a broom,” Reese volunteered quietly and started toward the kitchen-and then stopped.
Cheyenne followed his line of sight and straightened. Collier was standing at the far end of the dining room.
Realizing he’d been seen, Collier cleared his throat. “Sorry, am I intruding?”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Finch. “Please come in, Mr. Collier; I wanted you two to meet. This is Arthur Claypool. Arthur, Peter Collier.”
Claypool managed a wan smile. “Hello.”
Collier didn’t say anything for a moment as he limped into the living room, though his shock at confronting the reality of a man he’d considered a monster was plain to Cheyenne. Given the way Collier had gone after Sloan and Greenfield, Cheyenne could easily imagine his gunning down Claypool under other circumstances, but evidently spending five weeks under the care of Mr. Finch’s team had put a powerful damper on Collier’s thirst for revenge on all comers. When he finally reached the living room, all he said was, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Claypool. Sorry, I’d shake your hand, but….” He gestured with his right hand as best he could with his arm still in a sling.
“Don’t worry about it.” Claypool looked back at Mr. Finch and chuckled damply. “Are you running a home for convalescents now, Harold?”
Mr. Finch only smiled, but it reached his eyes.
“Listen, I know you said you were gonna move me… somewhere tomorrow-sorry, the rest didn’t stick-but… would you mind if… if I sit shiva here?”
“No, no, not at all,” Mr. Finch replied. “I’m afraid I can’t allow visitors-”
Claypool shook his head. “No, that’s all right. I understand. I just… don’t think I can move on until I can move on. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“I’ll go get that broom,” Reese murmured and headed toward the kitchen.
“I’ll mix up some aqua regia,” Sam murmured back. “See you on the roof.” And she grabbed her white coat out of Cheyenne’s bag and headed toward the chemical cabinet, which Cheyenne had only ever seen once.
That left only Cheyenne to stand guard over what remained of Samaritan, so Collier hobbled over to him. “Is that what I think it is?” Collier asked in a whisper, nodding toward the wrecked drives.
“Yeah,” Cheyenne confirmed.
“And she’s gonna dissolve it in acid?”
“That’s what it sounds like.” Cheyenne had known assayers who used aqua regia to test metal ores, so he had some idea of what it was, but he also knew it was mighty strong stuff and wasn’t comfortable trying to use it himself.
Collier nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think she’d mind if I help?”
Cheyenne shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her.”
“And, uh…” Collier glanced over his shoulder at Claypool briefly. “I’ll sit with him. We had Jewish neighbors when I was growing up, so I know what to do.”
Cheyenne raised his eyebrows. “You do remember who that is?”
“I do: a sick old man who has committed no crime. Hating him only hurts me, and it won’t bring Jesse back.”
Cheyenne smiled. “You’re all right, Collier.”
Collier returned the smile.
Once Samaritan’s remains were disposed of and everyone had had as much or as little lunch as he or she could stomach, Cheyenne and Reese left Mr. Finch, Sam, and Collier (and Bear) to get Claypool settled and headed back to Cheyenne’s apartment. It hadn’t been as draining a day as some they’d had, but that strange feeling they’d had since the hospital was still trailing them. For Cheyenne, it was akin to the itch he felt whenever it was time to move on, but overlaid with something else he couldn’t name; for Reese, it seemed to be a strong inclination not to leave Cheyenne alone. So Cheyenne invited Reese up for coffee, and Reese accepted.
As they walked into the apartment, Cheyenne gestured with his new bag of clothes. “I’ll just go put this in my closet and hang up my hat. Make yourself at home.”
Reese nodded. “Thanks.”
Cheyenne nodded back and went into his bedroom, but the moment he walked through the door, he was stopped short by a wave of dry heat-not from the central heating, but the blast-furnace heat of the high desert in high summer-and the smell of sagebrush and alkaline dust. The closet door rattled as wind whistled around it, and as he listened, a murmur of male voices and restless horses began to grow.
He leaned back through the doorway. “John!” he whispered.
Reese came running. “What? What is it?”
Cheyenne motioned for silence and dropped his bag, his earpiece, and his pocket telephone on the bed. Then the two of them edged closer to the closet door, noting the sunlight shining under the door and the white dust blowing across the floor and listening to the voices from the other side. Once Cheyenne was sure he wasn’t just imagining things, he went quickly to his dresser to get bandanas for himself and Reese to tie over their faces before they opened the door, pistols in hand.
The closet itself hadn’t changed much; the arsenal was still there, as were Cheyenne’s clothes and his regular hat. He quickly put that on and gave the black hat to Reese to help shade his eyes. The back wall, however, was gone. In its place was a sunlit doorway that looked out at bright blue sky, a high dusty ridge above a broad valley-and the five bushwhacking bandits who’d sent Cheyenne hurtling through space and time, lined up along the crest of the ridge and peering down into the valley.
“You sure you don’t see nothin’?” one of them asked. “It could be the sand’s dazzlin’ you.”
“I ain’t no greenhorn, Wilson,” another snapped. “Man that big, we’d see his body plain enough, even with the sun and the heat. He ain’t down there.”
Reese holstered his pistol and reached for the repeating rifles. Cheyenne holstered his own pistol and accepted the AR-15. Reese took the P-90 for himself. Then they walked forward to the edge of the doorway or portal or whatever one called such a thing, not passing through but able to have a clear field of fire.
“I still say you’re loco, Franklin,” said a third outlaw. “Did we or did we not shove him over that ledge?”
“Yes,” said the second. “But I’m tellin’ you-”
“Look, maybe he did manage to kill three of us with his bare hands, but no matter how many miracles he can pull off, a man don’t just disappear into thin air!”
“Lose something, fellas?” Reese asked casually.
Franklin and the third outlaw paused in mid-argument, looked at Reese, and then stared wide-eyed at both the portal and Cheyenne.
Then Franklin recovered enough to swear and draw. “There he is!” he bellowed, which got the other outlaws to turn around as well.
Reese and Cheyenne ducked out of the way as the outlaws fired; two shots went wild and three hit the far wall of the bedroom. But the outlaws had no cover, so when Reese and Cheyenne returned fire, they were able to kill all five in a matter of seconds.
As the echoes of the gunfire died away, Cheyenne took a deep breath and let it out again, then handed the AR-15 back to Reese. “I’d better change. Can you get everyone on the telephone?”
“Sure.” Reese hung up the rifles and stepped out of the closet to set up the party line.
Cheyenne was already wearing the boots and pants he’d arrived in, but he did take off his jacket, shoulder holster, and boot holster and the flannel shirt he’d worn to work. Then he put on the linen shirt he’d arrived in and his gun belt, checked his pockets, made sure the wallet from Mr. Finch was still in his jacket, and remembered that the money he’d had on arrival was still in his nightstand. After a moment’s hesitation, he started toward the bedroom to get it.
But Reese came back to the door, handed him his money, and held out his own pocket telephone. “You’re on speaker.”
“Well, folks, I don’t know how long this portal’s gonna stay open,” Cheyenne began as he tucked his money into his breast pocket, “but I didn’t want to leave without sayin’ goodbye. I don’t think I could have asked for better friends in a world I didn’t know. It’s been a pleasure knowin’ and workin’ with all of you.”
“Same to you, Cheyenne,” said Miss Carter.
“We’re gonna miss you, Cowboy,” Fusco added.
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Finch agreed. “You’ve more than earned your keep with us, Mr. Bodie.”
Cheyenne smiled. “Oh, Mr. Finch, if there’s any pay I’ve got comin’, or if you get some money from sellin’ my things and there’s any left after payin’ my bills, I’d be obliged if you put it toward that scholarship fund you started with my royalty money.”
“I’ll be happy to.”
“And Sam, I’m sorry about dinner at Delmonico’s.”
“Oh, shut up, Cheyenne,” Sam snapped, sounding perilously close to tears.
Cheyenne and Reese exchanged a smile at that.
Then Cheyenne held out a hand. “John. Give my best to everyone else.”
“I will,” Reese replied and shook Cheyenne’s hand. “Take care, Cheyenne.”
Cheyenne nodded, touched his hat, squared his shoulders, and walked through the portal. The wind howled around him as he crossed the threshold, whipping up a blinding cloud of dust… and when it died down, Cheyenne was alone on the ridge with eight dead outlaws at his feet.
The quiet was almost deafening. The air was thin and clear, despite the dust and the smells of horse and gunpowder and death. It was a little hard to catch his breath after so long at sea level, but by the time his horse walked up to him, his body had remembered how to breathe at this altitude. But he was thirsty-already a muck of sweat, although it was drying almost instantly-and drank gratefully from his canteen, still cool from the spring where he’d refilled it. Then he was struck hard by the realization that this was his horse, his canteen, his rifle, his saddle and saddlebags and bedroll. He was home.
He braced himself against his saddle, his head suddenly spinning from more than the height. He was home-but had he ever left? Had his entire time in New York been only a dream?
Rapid hoofbeats behind him jolted him out of his reverie, and he grabbed his rifle out of its scabbard and spun to look down the slope on the other side of the ridge. Then he lowered his rifle in baffled wonder when he recognized the riders’ hats: one sun-bleached Confederate cavalry hat with its string hanging low below its dark-haired owner’s chin, one white felt hat that had always looked too small for the blond head it sat on.
“-wasn’t a Gatling gun!” insisted a voice Cheyenne had thought he’d never hear again.
“Nobody can shoot that fast with a Winchester!” argued an equally familiar voice.
Cheyenne put his rifle away.
“I never said it was a Winchester!” the first voice shot back. “I just said it can’t be a Gatling-you couldn’t get a Gatling up here!”
“Well, whatever it was, Cheyenne could be in bad-” The riders reached the crest of the ridge at that point, and the blond rider’s face lit up with a relieved smile. “Cheyenne!” he cried and dismounted.
“Tom?” Cheyenne asked, hardly daring to hope that he wasn’t just seeing things. “Bronco?”
“You all right, Bodie?” returned the dark-haired rider in concern.
“I’m… I’m fine,” said Cheyenne, dazed and still staring at the blond rider, who was coming toward him.
“We heard the shootin’ and got up here as fast as we could,” the blond rider said. “Figured you might need some help.”
Cheyenne reached out tentatively to touch one shoulder of the apparition. It was solid. “Tom?”
“Yeah, Cheyenne. It’s me.”
Suddenly overcome, Cheyenne pulled Tom Brewster into a hug and tried not to weep in relief.
“Uh?!” Tom squeaked and patted Cheyenne’s back awkwardly.
Cheyenne huffed and backed away with a rueful smile, though he kept one hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Sorry, it’s just… I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Was the fight that bad?” Bronco Layne asked skeptically.
“It’s a long story. Where’d you two come from?”
“Fort Bridger. Army got word Powder Face was still on the reservation, so the major thought the rumors might be caused by outlaw attacks rather than Indians. He sent us to check it out.”
“We wired you at Fort Laramie before we left,” Tom added.
Cheyenne shook his head. “I never got it.”
“Oh. Well, since we’re here, we’d better help you get these bodies buried.”
“No, we’ll take ’em into Rawlins,” Bronco countered. “There’s probably a reward out for at least a couple of ’em. Where’s the wagon train, Bodie?”
“I… I left ’em back at Eightmile Lake….” Cheyenne turned to look back up the valley, but the motion caused something in his pocket to press against his hip. Puzzled, he reached into his pocket… and pulled out the beaded hat band Mr. Finch had commissioned for him to wear in the final fight against HR. It had still been on the black hat when Reese had picked him up to go to the library that morning, and when Reese had mentioned it, Cheyenne had stuck the band in his pocket and forgotten it was there.
“Is somethin’ wrong, Cheyenne?” Tom asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Next
* “When this you see, remember me” was a common Victorian autograph rhyme.
** First line of the Cheyenne theme song, which Clint Walker stated was the premise of the show in a nutshell.
† Ecclesiastes 2:26b (NIV), but a common refrain throughout the book. We’re not told whether Arthur is Jewish, of course-although Jewish mourning rituals would help explain why the glioblastoma hasn’t erased his memory of Diane’s death despite Control’s interference-but Saul Rubinek is Jewish, and I wanted to honor that.
‡ Blessed be the Judge of Truth
Chapter 13
When This You See*
Cheyenne ran into more delays on the rest of his route, but Sam saw him at several points and so knew what the holdup was. All the same, it was a relief to get the dishes delivered, check the location of the large wheeled bin that held the laundry, and duck into the staff lounge for another cup of coffee.
“You really need to turn your earwig back on,” Root’s voice said softly from the blind side of the coffee machine.
Somehow Cheyenne managed neither to jump nor to look around. “What are you doin’ here?” he murmured and punched the button to fill his cup.
“This is the only place where we can talk without being seen or overheard.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Harold was coming over anyway. I convinced him to bring me.”
“Why?”
“The woman who’s been calling herself Diane Claypool is the head of Project Northern Lights. Her codename is Control.”
“She’s after Samaritan?”
“Exactly. She doesn’t like the fact the Machine is, well… beyond her control. She seems to see Samaritan as the next best option-but she’s less likely to pursue Claypool if she thinks she has a chance to get the Machine back. So I’m here as a decoy.”
He frowned as he picked up his cup. “You think she knows you?”
She gave a little affirmative hum. “Not that we’ve met, but she knows who I am. I… made a bit of a mess in Washington while I was trying to find the Machine. She’s already sent her favorite assassin after me twice.”
He would have asked for more details, but he’d just taken a drink of coffee, and by the time he’d swallowed, he’d thought better of pressing the issue. Instead, he said, “And you’re sure she’ll take the bait.”
“Well, as sure as I can be. I’m posing as a member of Housekeeping, and I’ve already moved Claypool’s clothes into the bathroom for you. And Shaw made sure to let Easton overhear her complaining to one of the nurses about your still suffering some cognitive issues from the concussion in Baghdad, like your walking off in the middle of your shift a few times because you didn’t have anything to do for five minutes and forgot you were still on the clock. Easton’s never done any real field work before, and he’s prone to jumping to the wrong conclusions, especially when the false trail is strong enough. So when the two of you disappear after you help Claypool into the shower, he’ll most likely believe that you just wandered off and Shaw went to find you-at least, as long as I’m the one who goes in to turn off the shower after you’ve gotten Claypool out safely.”
“What about Reese?”
“Once you and Shaw get started, Mr. Campbell will get a call from his home office saying that the hospital’s board of administrators decided to award the contract to another company. He’ll meet you either on the elevator or in the laundry room.”
Cheyenne drained his cup, crushed it, and threw it away. “I don’t like your committing suicide like this.”
Root chuckled, although the tone was less condescending than usual. “You’re adorable. John said the same thing. So did Harold, except at much greater length. But it’s not suicide as long as I’ve got her, and this really is your only chance of pulling this off.”
He sighed. “Well, I reckon I can’t talk you out of it at this point.”
She slid out from behind the machine and put a hand on his arm. “I know you don’t like me, but I do appreciate your concern, and I promise I’ll be fine. Seriously, though, turn your earwig back on. If you look distracted, it’ll sell the cognitive problems even better.” And before he could respond, she squeezed his arm and left.
Somehow he knew he’d never see her again. He wasn’t sure how that knowledge made him feel. But after a moment of not watching her go, he tapped his earpiece.
“Are you there, Mr. Bodie?” Mr. Finch asked immediately.
“Yes, sir,” Cheyenne answered. “Just talked to Root.”
“So I heard. I must confess that I am also deeply ambivalent about this situation-but if I hadn’t brought her with me, she probably would have escaped and found a way over here anyway.”
Sam walked into the lounge at that point. “You set with the security cameras, Finch?”
“Yes,” Mr. Finch answered. “I believe it would be best for Mr. Bodie to leave with Mr. Reese while you and I take Arthur in your car.”
“Works for me,” said Reese.
“Am I gonna have time to change while you two head thisaway?” Cheyenne asked Sam.
Sam considered, then shook her head. “No, not completely, but that’s all right. Helps sell the notion that you just left because you forgot what time it was. Wear your hat, though.”
Cheyenne nodded. He’d worn the black hat that morning, without the beaded band, so it wouldn’t look particularly distinctive. “Sure, I can do that.”
“Here.” She took off her white coat and handed it to Cheyenne. “Stick that in your bag for me. You can give it back when we meet up at the safe house.”
“Right. You saw where the laundry cart is?”
“Yeah, no problems. I’m gonna go up through the women’s locker room. Go ahead to Claypool’s room when you’re done here.”
“Got it.”
They separated, and Cheyenne folded Sam’s coat carefully on his way into the men’s locker room. Once he’d put it in his bag, he left the lounge area, stopped by the linen storage for a clean gown, and went back to Claypool’s room.
“You again?” Easton challenged as Cheyenne approached the guards. “What is it now?”
“Mr. Claypool said earlier as he’d like to get a shower this mornin’,” Cheyenne replied at a volume that would carry into the room and held up the folded gown as proof. “Got held up in the kitchen, but now I’m back.”
Easton looked over his shoulder at Claypool, who nodded and waved for Cheyenne to come in, so the guards grudgingly stood aside to let Cheyenne pass.
“Remind me what I’m supposed to be getting a shower for?” Claypool murmured as Cheyenne approached the bed.
“You’re not,” Cheyenne murmured back. “Anne’s takin’ you out through the bathroom ceiling.”
“Taking me where?”
“To see Harold Wren.”
Claypool drew a deep breath and nodded. “Right. Yes. Got it.”
“Do you need a wheelchair,” Cheyenne asked at a more conversational volume, “or do you think you can walk?”
Claypool held out his arm for support, which Cheyenne gave, and got up with a groan. “It’s not that far. I can walk.”
Cheyenne nodded once and stayed at Claypool’s elbow until they were both squeezed into the tiny privy and the door was shut. “Might want to go in there to get your clothes on,” he whispered then, nodding toward the shower.
Claypool nodded back and collected his clothes from the edge of the sink, where Root had left them. Then he stepped into the shower and drew the curtain, which made enough noise that the guards had probably heard it. Cheyenne set the clean gown on the sink and waited while Claypool dressed hurriedly, ducked out without opening the curtain, and sat down on the toilet to put on his shoes. After making sure Claypool didn’t need help with his shoelaces, Cheyenne collected the used gown and turned the shower on. Claypool had both shoes on and tied by the time Sam lifted a ceiling tile out of the way and popped her head through. Then Cheyenne steadied Claypool as he climbed up on the toilet and gave him a boost while Sam helped him from her end.
“Oh, this is fun,” Claypool whispered as his feet disappeared through the hole. “Nathan always comes up with the best pranks.”
“Stay close to me,” Sam cautioned softly and dropped the tile back into place. “And stay quiet.”
“Right, right.”
Confident they were on their way, Cheyenne picked up the used gown again and left. “Gonna take this on down to the laundry,” he told the guards as he passed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“So far, so good,” Root said in his ear.
While Reese faked the call from his home office, Cheyenne strode quickly down the hall and tossed the used gown into the laundry cart, then went back to the locker room to collect his things.
“The security camera nearest the laundry cart is now on a loop,” Mr. Finch announced as Cheyenne shrugged into his jacket and put on his hat.
“I’ve got my gear,” Cheyenne reported and closed his locker. “Headed back to the cart.”
“Should we be considering fiberoptic cable for this?” Claypool mumbled from Sam’s end of the call. “With the volume of data we’re talking about, I’m not sure copper wires will give us enough bandwidth.”
Trying to figure out what that meant distracted Cheyenne enough that he nearly walked straight into one of the nurses in the lounge. After mutual apologies, she looked up at him in concern. “Jim? Are you going somewhere?” she asked.
“N-no, I’m just cold,” Cheyenne replied, deliberately fumbling the explanation, and shivered for effect. “You know how it is out here at night.”
“Out… here?”
“Yeah, the sand don’t hold the heat once the sun’s down. ’Scuse me,” he added, touched his hat to her, and hurried past before she could ask any more questions.
“Nicely done, Mr. Bodie,” said Mr. Finch. “Miss Shaw is nearly to the laundry cart.”
“So am I,” Cheyenne murmured, absently touching his hat to a couple more nurses in the hall, and rounded the corner into the open storage area where the cart was just in time to duck out of sight before the first nurse encountered the other two.
“Wait, Miss Shaw,” Mr. Finch ordered, and Cheyenne heard a slight clank and a soft “Shh!” above him as Sam stopped Claypool.
“He was just here a minute ago,” one of the nurses was saying.
“Didn’t Dr. Moore say something about his having a TBI from his time in Iraq?” another asked.
The third groaned. “It’s bad enough when our patients have fugues….”
“Maybe one of the patients called him,” the first nurse suggested as the three of them passed the doorway of the storage area. “He was moving pretty fast, but I don’t think he could have gone as far as the nurses’ station….” Her voice faded with distance.
“Now, Mr. Bodie,” said Mr. Finch.
Cheyenne tossed his bag into the cart and reached up to lift the tile directly above it. Sam moved the tile and shooed Claypool through the opening first; Claypool, who was clearly having the time of his life, didn’t even wait for Cheyenne to offer him a hand before dropping onto the cart. Then Sam dropped through, and Cheyenne covered them with a sheet, put the tile back in place, and started pushing the cart toward the elevator.
“I’ll cover you,” said Root, and a second later, an alarm went off down the hall past Claypool’s room, followed by running footsteps headed away from Cheyenne.
“The elevator is ready,” said Mr. Finch as Cheyenne reached the end of the hall. “The security camera is in the back corner, to your right as you enter.”
Cheyenne pressed the Down button, shoved the cart into the car while the doors were still opening, and pressed the button for the service entrance on the first floor, then made sure to stand where his hat would block the camera as the car descended.
“Perfect position, Mr. Bodie. Mr. Reese?”
“I’m at the back door of the elevator,” Reese reported. “There’s no one here right now-Shaw, you might want to go ahead and get out of the cart now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Root was saying as Sam climbed out of the cart on the opposite side from where Cheyenne was standing and then helped Claypool out. “I’m not used to cleaning hospitals-I-I-I must have pressed a button or something.”
“Where’s Harold?” Claypool whispered.
“Outside,” Sam whispered back and held a finger to her lips to remind him again to be quiet.
“So clumsy of me,” Root was still carrying on. “I hope I haven’t hurt anybody-I wouldn’t want to-” She started crying loudly, and Sam and Cheyenne rolled their eyes at each other.
“Well, at least Miss Groves didn’t take your suggestion for a diversion, Miss Shaw,” said Mr. Finch. “We don’t need to bring the fire department into this.”
Cheyenne looked inquiringly at Sam, who rolled her eyes again and shook her head in a clear Never mind.
The elevator reached its destination then, and Cheyenne waited until Sam and Claypool had exited before pushing the cart out after them. Reese, as promised, was waiting just outside the elevator and helped Cheyenne steer the cart to an out-of-the-way place.
“This way, Mr. Claypool,” Reese whispered then and ushered Claypool toward the back door while Cheyenne grabbed his bag and followed with Sam.
“Now, who are you?” Claypool whispered back.
“My name is John. I work with Harold. He’s waiting outside.”
Claypool seemed to hesitate again, but Reese opened the door to reveal Mr. Finch standing beside Sam’s car about fifty yards away, and Claypool relaxed with a murmur of, “Finally, someone I recognize,” and followed Reese out.
“The camera feeds down here are looped as well,” Mr. Finch said at a volume Cheyenne could hear only through his earpiece. “I’ll switch the loops off as soon as we’re in our vehicles.”
So Reese stepped out of Claypool’s way and let him hurry over to Sam’s car. “Harold!” Claypool called, though not loudly enough to carry far. “Thank God, it’s really you!”
Mr. Finch’s face softened in a fond smile. “Hello, Arthur.”
“How long has it been?”
“Quite some time.”
Claypool clasped Mr. Finch’s shoulders warmly, then looked back at Reese, Sam, and Cheyenne. “You know, I wasn’t sure whether to trust these kids you sent after me.”
Mr. Finch laughed.
“But I’m glad to know they were telling the truth-let’s see, it’s John….” Claypool hesitated over Sam’s name.
“Sam,” said Sam.
“I… think you said something else earlier, but never mind… and….” Claypool pointed to Cheyenne, eyebrows raised in question.
“Jim,” said Cheyenne.
“Oh, no, that’s all wrong. You don’t look like a Jim.”
Cheyenne grinned. “Well, how’s the name Cheyenne grab you?”
“Cheyenne,” Claypool repeated experimentally and looked away, considering. “Chey-enne,” he said again more slowly, the second syllable on a higher pitch, and then sang quietly, “Cheyenne, where will you be camping tonight?”
Reese and Cheyenne looked at each other in shock.
“Arthur?” Mr. Finch prompted.
Claypool blinked and looked at him. “Mm? What?”
“We need to leave.”
“Yes. Right. Where are we going?”
“To a safe place,” Mr. Finch said and ushered Claypool into the back seat while Sam went around to the driver’s door.
Reese nodded to Cheyenne, who followed him further down the lot to John Campbell’s car. Once they were inside, however, they just sat for a moment, listening to Claypool chatter with Mr. Finch.
“I’ve got the weirdest feeling,” Reese breathed.
“Yeah,” Cheyenne replied. “So do I.”
They looked at each other, and Reese started the engine and drove off toward the library.
They’d been gone only a couple of minutes when there was a splash and the remaining hospital sounds stopped, which must have meant that Root had destroyed her phone. Cheyenne sighed and said a short, silent prayer for her. Meanwhile, Mr. Finch’s pointed questions had gotten Claypool talking about Samaritan, including the fact that it had been a project like the Machine but had been shut down before he could get it to work, the fact that he’d saved the core code on two backup drives because he’d viewed the artificial intelligence like a child, and the fact that Control hadn’t yet gotten him to confess to where the drives were. Mr. Finch then did some technical wizardry to make sure Claypool wasn’t carrying anything with a working GPS transmitter-there was one in Claypool’s medical alert button (the first time Cheyenne had ever heard of such a thing), but Claypool himself smashed that to get out the safe deposit box key that he'd hidden inside it-and then, after some detours and more technical wizardry to ensure they wouldn’t be pursued, Mr. Finch directed Sam to take him and Claypool to the bank where Claypool had hidden the drives. The alias Claypool had used, Ruediger Smoot, was apparently some sort of inside joke between himself and Mr. Finch, but Cheyenne decided not to try to work out what it meant.
For their part, Reese and Cheyenne made a different set of detours before stopping off at the library to pick up Bear and let Cheyenne change clothes. Cheyenne would have been perfectly happy to let Bear use the scrubs as a chew toy, but Reese talked him out of it. “You never know,” Reese reasoned. “We might need you to infiltrate another hospital one of these days.”
Cheyenne sincerely hoped not, but he didn’t say so.
Once both sets of errands had been completed and Sam had successfully gotten Mr. Finch, Claypool, and the drives out of the bank without incident, the two groups converged on the safe house. “Tomorrow we’ll move you to a small private hospital out of town,” Mr. Finch told Claypool as they left the bank, “but I’m sure you need to rest after the day you’ve had.”
Claypool chuckled. “Relax, Harold. It’s not like anyone was shooting at us.”
“No,” Mr. Finch said quietly. “Not today. But it would only have been a matter of time.”
Claypool chuckled again, more nervously. “What are you talking about?”
“Arthur… some very bad groups of people want to get their hands on Samaritan. The woman who’s been posing as Diane represents only one of them.”
And Mr. Finch proceeded to explain the threats from Control, Decima, and Vigilance, along with the existence of the Machine and the fact that the best of Claypool’s ideas were incorporated in the Machine’s design. It took most of the trip for Mr. Finch to make the case that the Samaritan drives needed to be destroyed, partly because Claypool’s ability to focus was slipping and partly because the news was so heartbreaking to him that he had trouble believing it. By the time they’d arrived, however, Claypool had finally come around to Mr. Finch’s way of thinking.
“Not an easy thing, to give up on a dream,” Cheyenne said sympathetically as the five of them went inside with Bear at their heels. “The one time I finally had enough saved up to buy my own ranch, I lost the herd to a disease in a matter o’ weeks and had to sell the place back to the bank ’fore I lost my shirt. I don’t think anyone can blame you for havin’ a hard time lettin’ go.”
“Not just a dream,” Claypool said mournfully, staring at the drives in his hands. “The culmination of my life’s work.”
“It’s an achievement few can equal,” said Reese, putting a hand on Claypool’s shoulder, “and even fewer can surpass.”
“And yet….” Claypool shook his head and said something in a language Cheyenne had never heard before.
“This too is meaningless,” Mr. Finch recited in English, “and a chasing after the wind.”†
Reese sent Bear to lie down out of the way. Then Claypool took a deep breath, covered his head with one hand, and sang something in that same unfamiliar language. Cheyenne couldn’t understand the words, but the sentiment was clear enough, and he removed his hat out of respect. Whatever the words meant, this was Claypool’s way of saying goodbye. When the song-or songs, more likely, given the length and the number of times Claypool paused-came to an end, Claypool took another deep breath, dropped the drives to the floor, and crushed them with his foot.
“Baruch Dayan Ha-Emet,” Mr. Finch murmured.‡ “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”
Fighting tears, Claypool nodded his thanks and let Mr. Finch guide him to the armchair. Then as he sat down, he sniffled and said, “You’re limping. Are you hurt?”
“Oh, it’s an old injury that never healed right,” said Mr. Finch and sat down on the sofa. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
Bear went over to Claypool and put his chin on Claypool’s leg. That startled Claypool a little, but then he started absently petting Bear’s head and murmuring something Cheyenne couldn’t make out.
“I’ll get a broom,” Reese volunteered quietly and started toward the kitchen-and then stopped.
Cheyenne followed his line of sight and straightened. Collier was standing at the far end of the dining room.
Realizing he’d been seen, Collier cleared his throat. “Sorry, am I intruding?”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Finch. “Please come in, Mr. Collier; I wanted you two to meet. This is Arthur Claypool. Arthur, Peter Collier.”
Claypool managed a wan smile. “Hello.”
Collier didn’t say anything for a moment as he limped into the living room, though his shock at confronting the reality of a man he’d considered a monster was plain to Cheyenne. Given the way Collier had gone after Sloan and Greenfield, Cheyenne could easily imagine his gunning down Claypool under other circumstances, but evidently spending five weeks under the care of Mr. Finch’s team had put a powerful damper on Collier’s thirst for revenge on all comers. When he finally reached the living room, all he said was, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Claypool. Sorry, I’d shake your hand, but….” He gestured with his right hand as best he could with his arm still in a sling.
“Don’t worry about it.” Claypool looked back at Mr. Finch and chuckled damply. “Are you running a home for convalescents now, Harold?”
Mr. Finch only smiled, but it reached his eyes.
“Listen, I know you said you were gonna move me… somewhere tomorrow-sorry, the rest didn’t stick-but… would you mind if… if I sit shiva here?”
“No, no, not at all,” Mr. Finch replied. “I’m afraid I can’t allow visitors-”
Claypool shook his head. “No, that’s all right. I understand. I just… don’t think I can move on until I can move on. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“I’ll go get that broom,” Reese murmured and headed toward the kitchen.
“I’ll mix up some aqua regia,” Sam murmured back. “See you on the roof.” And she grabbed her white coat out of Cheyenne’s bag and headed toward the chemical cabinet, which Cheyenne had only ever seen once.
That left only Cheyenne to stand guard over what remained of Samaritan, so Collier hobbled over to him. “Is that what I think it is?” Collier asked in a whisper, nodding toward the wrecked drives.
“Yeah,” Cheyenne confirmed.
“And she’s gonna dissolve it in acid?”
“That’s what it sounds like.” Cheyenne had known assayers who used aqua regia to test metal ores, so he had some idea of what it was, but he also knew it was mighty strong stuff and wasn’t comfortable trying to use it himself.
Collier nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think she’d mind if I help?”
Cheyenne shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her.”
“And, uh…” Collier glanced over his shoulder at Claypool briefly. “I’ll sit with him. We had Jewish neighbors when I was growing up, so I know what to do.”
Cheyenne raised his eyebrows. “You do remember who that is?”
“I do: a sick old man who has committed no crime. Hating him only hurts me, and it won’t bring Jesse back.”
Cheyenne smiled. “You’re all right, Collier.”
Collier returned the smile.
Once Samaritan’s remains were disposed of and everyone had had as much or as little lunch as he or she could stomach, Cheyenne and Reese left Mr. Finch, Sam, and Collier (and Bear) to get Claypool settled and headed back to Cheyenne’s apartment. It hadn’t been as draining a day as some they’d had, but that strange feeling they’d had since the hospital was still trailing them. For Cheyenne, it was akin to the itch he felt whenever it was time to move on, but overlaid with something else he couldn’t name; for Reese, it seemed to be a strong inclination not to leave Cheyenne alone. So Cheyenne invited Reese up for coffee, and Reese accepted.
As they walked into the apartment, Cheyenne gestured with his new bag of clothes. “I’ll just go put this in my closet and hang up my hat. Make yourself at home.”
Reese nodded. “Thanks.”
Cheyenne nodded back and went into his bedroom, but the moment he walked through the door, he was stopped short by a wave of dry heat-not from the central heating, but the blast-furnace heat of the high desert in high summer-and the smell of sagebrush and alkaline dust. The closet door rattled as wind whistled around it, and as he listened, a murmur of male voices and restless horses began to grow.
He leaned back through the doorway. “John!” he whispered.
Reese came running. “What? What is it?”
Cheyenne motioned for silence and dropped his bag, his earpiece, and his pocket telephone on the bed. Then the two of them edged closer to the closet door, noting the sunlight shining under the door and the white dust blowing across the floor and listening to the voices from the other side. Once Cheyenne was sure he wasn’t just imagining things, he went quickly to his dresser to get bandanas for himself and Reese to tie over their faces before they opened the door, pistols in hand.
The closet itself hadn’t changed much; the arsenal was still there, as were Cheyenne’s clothes and his regular hat. He quickly put that on and gave the black hat to Reese to help shade his eyes. The back wall, however, was gone. In its place was a sunlit doorway that looked out at bright blue sky, a high dusty ridge above a broad valley-and the five bushwhacking bandits who’d sent Cheyenne hurtling through space and time, lined up along the crest of the ridge and peering down into the valley.
“You sure you don’t see nothin’?” one of them asked. “It could be the sand’s dazzlin’ you.”
“I ain’t no greenhorn, Wilson,” another snapped. “Man that big, we’d see his body plain enough, even with the sun and the heat. He ain’t down there.”
Reese holstered his pistol and reached for the repeating rifles. Cheyenne holstered his own pistol and accepted the AR-15. Reese took the P-90 for himself. Then they walked forward to the edge of the doorway or portal or whatever one called such a thing, not passing through but able to have a clear field of fire.
“I still say you’re loco, Franklin,” said a third outlaw. “Did we or did we not shove him over that ledge?”
“Yes,” said the second. “But I’m tellin’ you-”
“Look, maybe he did manage to kill three of us with his bare hands, but no matter how many miracles he can pull off, a man don’t just disappear into thin air!”
“Lose something, fellas?” Reese asked casually.
Franklin and the third outlaw paused in mid-argument, looked at Reese, and then stared wide-eyed at both the portal and Cheyenne.
Then Franklin recovered enough to swear and draw. “There he is!” he bellowed, which got the other outlaws to turn around as well.
Reese and Cheyenne ducked out of the way as the outlaws fired; two shots went wild and three hit the far wall of the bedroom. But the outlaws had no cover, so when Reese and Cheyenne returned fire, they were able to kill all five in a matter of seconds.
As the echoes of the gunfire died away, Cheyenne took a deep breath and let it out again, then handed the AR-15 back to Reese. “I’d better change. Can you get everyone on the telephone?”
“Sure.” Reese hung up the rifles and stepped out of the closet to set up the party line.
Cheyenne was already wearing the boots and pants he’d arrived in, but he did take off his jacket, shoulder holster, and boot holster and the flannel shirt he’d worn to work. Then he put on the linen shirt he’d arrived in and his gun belt, checked his pockets, made sure the wallet from Mr. Finch was still in his jacket, and remembered that the money he’d had on arrival was still in his nightstand. After a moment’s hesitation, he started toward the bedroom to get it.
But Reese came back to the door, handed him his money, and held out his own pocket telephone. “You’re on speaker.”
“Well, folks, I don’t know how long this portal’s gonna stay open,” Cheyenne began as he tucked his money into his breast pocket, “but I didn’t want to leave without sayin’ goodbye. I don’t think I could have asked for better friends in a world I didn’t know. It’s been a pleasure knowin’ and workin’ with all of you.”
“Same to you, Cheyenne,” said Miss Carter.
“We’re gonna miss you, Cowboy,” Fusco added.
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Finch agreed. “You’ve more than earned your keep with us, Mr. Bodie.”
Cheyenne smiled. “Oh, Mr. Finch, if there’s any pay I’ve got comin’, or if you get some money from sellin’ my things and there’s any left after payin’ my bills, I’d be obliged if you put it toward that scholarship fund you started with my royalty money.”
“I’ll be happy to.”
“And Sam, I’m sorry about dinner at Delmonico’s.”
“Oh, shut up, Cheyenne,” Sam snapped, sounding perilously close to tears.
Cheyenne and Reese exchanged a smile at that.
Then Cheyenne held out a hand. “John. Give my best to everyone else.”
“I will,” Reese replied and shook Cheyenne’s hand. “Take care, Cheyenne.”
Cheyenne nodded, touched his hat, squared his shoulders, and walked through the portal. The wind howled around him as he crossed the threshold, whipping up a blinding cloud of dust… and when it died down, Cheyenne was alone on the ridge with eight dead outlaws at his feet.
The quiet was almost deafening. The air was thin and clear, despite the dust and the smells of horse and gunpowder and death. It was a little hard to catch his breath after so long at sea level, but by the time his horse walked up to him, his body had remembered how to breathe at this altitude. But he was thirsty-already a muck of sweat, although it was drying almost instantly-and drank gratefully from his canteen, still cool from the spring where he’d refilled it. Then he was struck hard by the realization that this was his horse, his canteen, his rifle, his saddle and saddlebags and bedroll. He was home.
He braced himself against his saddle, his head suddenly spinning from more than the height. He was home-but had he ever left? Had his entire time in New York been only a dream?
Rapid hoofbeats behind him jolted him out of his reverie, and he grabbed his rifle out of its scabbard and spun to look down the slope on the other side of the ridge. Then he lowered his rifle in baffled wonder when he recognized the riders’ hats: one sun-bleached Confederate cavalry hat with its string hanging low below its dark-haired owner’s chin, one white felt hat that had always looked too small for the blond head it sat on.
“-wasn’t a Gatling gun!” insisted a voice Cheyenne had thought he’d never hear again.
“Nobody can shoot that fast with a Winchester!” argued an equally familiar voice.
Cheyenne put his rifle away.
“I never said it was a Winchester!” the first voice shot back. “I just said it can’t be a Gatling-you couldn’t get a Gatling up here!”
“Well, whatever it was, Cheyenne could be in bad-” The riders reached the crest of the ridge at that point, and the blond rider’s face lit up with a relieved smile. “Cheyenne!” he cried and dismounted.
“Tom?” Cheyenne asked, hardly daring to hope that he wasn’t just seeing things. “Bronco?”
“You all right, Bodie?” returned the dark-haired rider in concern.
“I’m… I’m fine,” said Cheyenne, dazed and still staring at the blond rider, who was coming toward him.
“We heard the shootin’ and got up here as fast as we could,” the blond rider said. “Figured you might need some help.”
Cheyenne reached out tentatively to touch one shoulder of the apparition. It was solid. “Tom?”
“Yeah, Cheyenne. It’s me.”
Suddenly overcome, Cheyenne pulled Tom Brewster into a hug and tried not to weep in relief.
“Uh?!” Tom squeaked and patted Cheyenne’s back awkwardly.
Cheyenne huffed and backed away with a rueful smile, though he kept one hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Sorry, it’s just… I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Was the fight that bad?” Bronco Layne asked skeptically.
“It’s a long story. Where’d you two come from?”
“Fort Bridger. Army got word Powder Face was still on the reservation, so the major thought the rumors might be caused by outlaw attacks rather than Indians. He sent us to check it out.”
“We wired you at Fort Laramie before we left,” Tom added.
Cheyenne shook his head. “I never got it.”
“Oh. Well, since we’re here, we’d better help you get these bodies buried.”
“No, we’ll take ’em into Rawlins,” Bronco countered. “There’s probably a reward out for at least a couple of ’em. Where’s the wagon train, Bodie?”
“I… I left ’em back at Eightmile Lake….” Cheyenne turned to look back up the valley, but the motion caused something in his pocket to press against his hip. Puzzled, he reached into his pocket… and pulled out the beaded hat band Mr. Finch had commissioned for him to wear in the final fight against HR. It had still been on the black hat when Reese had picked him up to go to the library that morning, and when Reese had mentioned it, Cheyenne had stuck the band in his pocket and forgotten it was there.
“Is somethin’ wrong, Cheyenne?” Tom asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Next
* “When this you see, remember me” was a common Victorian autograph rhyme.
** First line of the Cheyenne theme song, which Clint Walker stated was the premise of the show in a nutshell.
† Ecclesiastes 2:26b (NIV), but a common refrain throughout the book. We’re not told whether Arthur is Jewish, of course-although Jewish mourning rituals would help explain why the glioblastoma hasn’t erased his memory of Diane’s death despite Control’s interference-but Saul Rubinek is Jewish, and I wanted to honor that.
‡ Blessed be the Judge of Truth