XXX

The day Artemus Talmadge was hanged was clear-skied and bright. Cheerful, almost. The sentence was decided on after a judge, brought in from back east by Mayor Liberty, had deliberated on the number and nature of Talmadge's crimes. She hadn't believed the stuff about the corpses, nor Elijah's nature, at first. After meeting the vampire and being shown the rest, she soon did. Caff wondered if the shock and horror of what she saw affected the sentence she handed down. If it had made her more willing to see Talmadge swing than she otherwise would have. There was no way to tell. She lit out not long after and left the Mayor and Caff to carry out the rest.

Caff could not truly hold any blame for her. He shared her desire for Talmadge's death. Such a man in possession of utter disregard for the lives of others that he used them as fuel for his own deserved to have that taken from him. That alone merited the noose. To lay his numerous other crimes atop those three murders had only made the judge certain. Maybe it would have been ironic for him to spend his final fifty in a prison cell, but this was the chosen fate.

A fate that Talmadge accepted without a word. There was no fight, no protest, left in him. Maybe he figured it wouldn't do him any good as he knew there was no way out. No Hungering One to save him this time. Mayor Liberty stood next to the noose atop the gallows and read the judge's sentence to the crowd that had gathered. A half-dozen people had come to see. Moses and Dora Adler had come, as had their tenant, Miss Agatha Blakely. Leland Heminger stood with planted feet and a mightily contemptuous frown. Jennie and Claudia rounded out the crowd. Both stood together, shoulder-to, and slightly apart from the rest.

“And so,” Mayor Liberty read, “it is the decision of I, Esther Thomas, duly elected and appointed judge with all accompanying powers and priviliges, that Artemus Talmadge be sentenced to death by hanging. The sentence is to be carried out in the light of day, within the hour of its delivery.” In the reading time Caff had brought Talmadge's pale, silent form to stand before the waiting noose. The Mayor turned to them and asked, “Do you have any last words?”

They all stood in quiet for a long time and waited. Leland spat onto the dirt. Eventually Talmadge spoke, saying, “I...I was afraid,” in a soft voice, “so very afraid.” before falling once more into silence. Caff looked to the Mayor, who gave him a nod, and thus proceeded his first hanging as Calavera's Sheriff.

The black-dyed burlap sack that had sat in Caff's back pocket now went over Talmadge's head and was cinched closed. The rope followed. This close, Caff could see the old cur shaking and the wet trail down the inside of his leg. It was strange. After everything, Caff had expected to take vengeful joy in this. He had been ready for it. Now though, with the smooth, sun-warmed lever in hand, he felt hollow. The Mayor gave him a nod and he pulled. The door beneath Talmadge's feet fell inward. Talmadge dropped. The muffled snap of his breaking neck followed, ringing dully through the air.

Miss Blakely vomited. Her breakfast splattered across the dust and the hem of her dress. She swayed, held upright only through the Adlers' support to either side of her. They didn't look much better and led her away without word or sign to anyone. Leland ground his teeth. Tendons in his neck and jaw stood out from the effort. He stayed. Claudia and Jennie did not. He saw that they had taken each other's hands and held them tightly, even as they walked away.

Mayor Liberty crossed the gallows to put his hand on Caff's shoulder. The weight of it was grounding, reassuring. That hollow feeling retreated, just a bit. “Once everyone's left, cut him down and get him to Barney. Let him handle the rest.” Caff grunted. He had no words for this. The Mayor turned to leave but paused. “It doesn't get any easier,” he offered, “but you do get used to it.”

He then left, Leland going with, and Caff was alone with the gently swinging corpse of Artemus Talmadge. The rope creaked under the weight. He wondered if Ruby's spirit had watched. If there had been some small piece left, untouched by death's cold indifference, to care. Probably there wasn't. “Well,” he murmured, though he did not know who his words were for, “it's done. So...there's that, at least.” He cut the corpse down and took it to Barney's.

- - -

Caff wandered after that. Moved kind of aimlessly, letting his feet guide more than any real intent. He stopped outside O'Neil's to roll himself a cigarette. Stuck it between his lips and patted his pockets for a match. Found none. He sighed through his nose. Arnie's was just across the way. Could just go and get himself a fresh book and have done with it. Seemed an awful large effort, though. So he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked on. There was still that hollow place in his chest. It was an absence of some feeling, he figured. Hadn't gone away with leaving Talmadge's corpse. Hadn't gotten worse, either.

Way he saw it, he needed time. A hell of a lot had happened in a short span. Too fast to figure out in the moment. It had built up, he reckoned, and waited until things calmed to come out. That's what this was. The hollow would fade or fill once he'd had the chance to lay everything out and let it set. He was sure of it. He stumbled and bit down on the cigarette butt as his leg gave a nasty twinge.

That was the other thing. All those injuries Booke's medicine had put to sleep were waking up. Starting to sing. She'd promised him a day, more or less, with a guarantee of hideous agony after. Hadn't been wrong yet, so it wouldn't be long now. By his measure, he had a couple hours. The pain settled for now, back into an ache. Not too long at all. Jail wasn't far either. Good a place as any, given his housing situation. He went on. With purpose now, and real intent.

It was as Caff was coming up the Jail's steps that the door opened. Elijah came from within, blinking his bone-pale eyes in the afternoon sun. It had taken some convincing and testimony, but the judge had agreed that he was as much a victim as anything else in all of this. Rupert Wagner, on the other hand, had been given thirty years. Caff agreed on both parts. Elijah saw him and greeted him with a nod, followed by a solemn, “Sheriff.”

Always the title first. “Elijah,” Caff nodded back. “Doing alright?” he asked, shaping the word around the unlit cigarette. His hand, the one that the corpse-thing had stabbed through, spasmed. Elijah considered, blinking in the daylight, before his lips quirked upward. More a twitch than anything.

“Not at all,” he answered. Before Caff could offer his commiseration, Elijah asked, “And yourself?”

Caff grunted. He considered being honest. Considered being dishonest, as well. In the end he shrugged and answered, “Not really sure.”

“I understand,” Elijah sympathized, and told no lie as he did. That was something else Caff would have to figure out. Booke probably knew, or knew who would. He didn't have time to get out to her house before the clock ran out, but maybe after. Caff grunted again. It was nice that the vampire understood, but Caff didn't know what to do with it. Beyond accept it, that was, which he had. “I'm leaving,” Elijah said abruptly. “I wanted to inform you personally, as per the agreement.”

Caff nodded. “Okay,” he replied, “the whole town or just...?”

Elijah did smile then, a small and dry thing quickly gone. “No, my home is here, such as it is. I was woken early and against my will. What followed only made things worse. I...I wish to forget,” he confessed, looking down at Caff. “all that I did and that was done to me.”

“So you're going back,” Caff supposed. Elijah nodded.

“So I am going back,” he echoed. “A few decades of sleep will, I hope, remove these memories from me. At the very least they shall not be quite so immediate.”

Caff felt a touch of jealousy. No more than a touch though, as he was only envious of the vampire's possession of a plan. “Well...” he said, drawing the word out. Didn't really know what to say. “I hope it works.”

That small, dry smile crossed Elijah's mouth once more. “As do I,” he agreed. He came down the Jail's steps to stand in front of Caff and offered his hand. “It's unlikely we'll meet again. Know that I will hold you in the highest esteem. Your successor will have much to live up to.”

Caff snorted. The compliment brought a smile to him. He took Elijah's hand and shook it, feeling the care taken not to shatter every bone in his hand. “Be well,” he said. Elijah nodded to him one final time, turned, and set off towards the graveyard. Those were the last words he ever spoke to Elijah the vampire.

Once again alone, he limped up the Jail's steps and inside. It was still a mess over by the cells. The pain was coming in ever-heightening waves. It doubled him over, leading him to grasp wildly at anything to hold himself upright long enough to reach a chair. He went to his knees, a low groan passing through grit teeth. Booke had not been wrong.

- - -

Death was preferable to this. He knew. He could compare. Blood's taste was on his tongue as ever fiber of his being blazed in agony. It seemed to never end. Just him drowning in a sea of torment until the end of all things. It was possible he begged to die. It was possible he'd screamed for it. There was no way for him to know with any certainty. His mind and body were not his anymore. They were the property of pain. They would be, unless he got his wish or was released. The latter didn't seem likely. He knew pain now. Was as familiar with it as could be. It was a greedy, cruel bastard. Would stay far too long and leave far too reluctantly.

It seemed never-ending, right up until it did. The bastard left slow, dragging its jagged nails on the way out. It wanted him to remember.

He found himself aware of things now. Not of the time passed, but smaller things. More immediate things. He lay in a bed, soft and wide. Too wide for his own. Of course, his own had burned down. So that made sense. He was not covered by any blanket but could feel it bunched at his feet. Probably his thrashing had thrown it around. He had thrashed, he was certain of that. Soaked with sweat and sore as he was. Probably screamed and howled too. He was okay with that.

The air was cool. Pleasant on his heated skin. He'd been breathing harsh and made an effort to slow it down and smooth it out. His throat thanked him for it. Still tasted blood on his tongue and the back of his teeth. Someone had changed his clothes, put him in a pair of jammies that he'd managed to sweat through. Didn't much care for how that felt, but was too otherwise pleased to do much about it.

Took some doing, but he managed to open his eyes. Sure enough, he was in some unfamiliar bedroom. There was a dresser under the grimy window to his right. Lamps stood unlit on nightstands at both sides of the bed. A rocking chair sat in a corner, a wicker basket empty near to it. He saw all this and tried to think on where he was. Came up blank. Someone else was here, though. He could hear them shuffling around nearby.

His throat was real dry, so he had to swallow a few times before he could call out. When he did, it came out raspy and hoarse. Like he was still choking on smoke. “Hello?” he called, wincing at how he sounded. “Who's out there?” There was no response. At least, no one called back. That shuffling started to come his way, though. He managed to push himself up onto his elbows by the time the door was opened.

In walked Widow Booke. Stooped and blind, yet somehow locking her clouded eyes on his own. She carried a tin mug of some steaming drink he was very keen to try out. “Told you,” she said, making her way over. The mug was set on the nightstand near him. She watched him struggle to sit up so he could take it and drink. Smelled like tea. Tasted like it, too. The warm, honeyed drink soothed his throat on the way down to his stomach.

“Told me what?” he asked. His voice was still hoarse, but no longer quite as rasping. He went to take another sip and found that he'd already finished it all. Widow Booke took the mug from him and set it aside.

“I told you,” she clarified, “that it would hurt.”

Caff snorted, smiling a little. “That you did,” he agreed. “that you did.” then, he asked, “How long was I...?”

The Widow scratched her nose with a gnarled finger before answering. “Ten days, nine nights.” The question of how he got here was on the tip of his tongue. “That deputy of yours found you screaming yourself mute and brung you up here. Why, I don't know. Any bed woulda suited.”

“Well,” Caff swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the floor. A testing amount of weight found them a little weak, a lot sore, and not at all injured. “thank you for looking out for me, ma'am.”

The Widow grunted. “Sure,” she said. Waved his thanks off. “wasn't nothing. Reckon you can stand?”

“I do,” he said, and decided not to comment on the lie she'd just told. It was little, anyways. She had gone to effort and he would do her the dignity of pretending she hadn't. With a grunt, he pushed himself to stand. His head spun a little and he swayed, but was otherwise okay. A few cautious steps confirmed that. He turned to the Widow, who had watched him do this with a sort of amused look to her, and said, “Thank you again. For – you know.”

She nodded. “Fetch your clothes from the dresser,” she told him, turning to shuffle out. “Young Leland laundered them for you. Free of charge, he said. Services rendered, he said. You can see yourself out, I think.”

“I can,” he agreed, touched by Leland's generosity. Sure, one set of freely cleaned clothes didn't amount to much in a day's busy work, but it was the intent of the thing. Meant something. He stood and waited for the Widow to leave before commencing to change, but it occurred to him he had an opportunity here. Could maybe get something answered. “Ma'am,” he stopped her. “you happen to know why it is I can suddenly know a lie when I hear one?”

“Oh, that,” she said, waving a hand over a stooped shoulder. “Didn't think the Job had nothing for you, did you? What kinda Sheriff can't tell a lie when he hears one?” With that, she shuffled off, leaving him with one answered question and about ten new ones.

Which, he supposed, was typical.

- - -

Jennie found him sitting on the steps of the Jail, roundabout sunset. He'd been watching the town go about its business and thinking on what the Widow had told to him. Being elected had been as much a surprise for him as anyone else. Maybe it was a sign of his unsuitability that the Job felt a need to compensate and give him this new keen ear for untruth. Maybe it was something every Sheriff got. If only he could ask his predecessor. If only they hadn't vanished without a trace.

When Jennie approached it was with two covered plates in hand, as well as two brown bottles in her coat pockets. She smiled when she saw him. “Doing all right?” she asked, handing a plate and bottle over before sitting down next to him.

“Just about,” he answered. She bumped her shoulder into his.

“Good,” she declared. Then she took the cover off her plate, and he followed suit. Milton had outdone himself this time. Skirt steak cooked over open flame, edges charred and juices leaking. Golden, buttery potatoes and vegetables. He realized he couldn't remember the last time he ate. Probably before going up to the ranch. Maybe not even then. His belly roared and he set to, going after the foor like it'd done something to him. While he ate, Jennie said, “Talked to dad. While you was...out...Claudia put order in for pre-cut timber. Dad said it'd be a week or two 'fore it got there, maybe another week to set it up.” Caff grunted. He wasn't sure where she was going with this. “Occurs to me you need a place to stay 'til then.”

He stopped. A whole potatoe, impaled on a fork, was halfway to his open mouth. “You mean to tell me my sister bought me a house?” he asked, disbelieving. Jennie had the gall to roll her eyes at him.

“That so hard to believe?” she asked. “Sides, she didn't pay for all of it. Hat got passed around, you know how it is.” He did, was the thing. Seen it happen more than once and contributed as often. There was a difference between that and having it done for him, though.

The other thing, though. “And – and this about me needing somewhere to stay?”

Jennie shrugged. “I got a spare room. Ain't using it for nothin'. Might as well park you there for now.”

Caff did not know how to answer. Nor did he know what to say. He was sure touched, though. Quite the lump in his throat. He had to swallow it in order to speak. “I...” he started, finding himself quite choked up. “thank you. I believe I will take you up on that.”

Jennie grinned widely at him and stuck a forkful of steak in her mouth. He smiled back and bumped her shoulder with his. They ate the rest of their meal together in quiet, watching over their town. A fine evening.

Real fine.