Free Giving Up the Ghost by Max McCoy Page A

Chicago, perhaps.
    â€œNonsense,” I said.
    He grasped the shoulder of my cape and pulled me to him.
    â€œI said, Ophelia Wylde, we should talk.”
    It seemed odd that he knew my name.
    â€œI am always willing to interview prospective clients,” I said. “The agency opens at nine o’clock, mostly, but sometimes as late as eleven,” I said. “Considering what an active night I’ve had, your best chance would probably be in the afternoon. Of course, your behavior has already made me disinclined to take your case, so if I were you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
    I jerked free of his grasp.
    â€œHow sharper than a serpent’s tooth is a woman with a wicked tongue.”
    â€œYou’ve bent the quote all up,” I said.
    â€œIt’s in the Bible,” he protested.
    â€œThat’s not in the King James, you idiot. That’s Shakespeare, and it’s about an ungrateful child,” I said. “So you’ve now compounded your ignorance.”
    He drew a gun from inside his coat.
    â€œYou think you’re smarter than everybody else, don’t you?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “Sadly, I am not smarter than most people. I have some talents that I attempt to use to my best advantage, but there are plenty of people who are smarter and more talented than I am. I’m sure you have admirable qualities yourself that are not, at this moment, apparent.”
    He drew back the hammer of the gun until it locked.
    â€œBe still for one moment,” he said.
    â€œI tend to talk when I’m scared,” I said. “And right now, you’re scaring the daylights out of me. What do you want?”
    â€œShut up,” he said, and shoved the barrel of the gun into my ribs.
    I was quiet.
    â€œYou’re going to turn down the alley between the buildings, with me right behind you,” he said.
    â€œAnd then what?”
    â€œNever you mind,” he said.
    â€œWe’d be more comfortable at the agency.”
    â€œJust go,” he said.
    â€œAll right,” I said softly, taking a cautious step forward. The gun pressed against my side, and I took a few more steps, wondering how much longer I had to live. Once we were in the darkness of the alley, I stumbled along, unsure of my footing amid the broken bottles and other debris that had been thrown there.
    â€œKeep going,” he said.
    â€œIt’s dark,” I said.
    Then I tripped on one of my laces and fell.
    The moment I struck the ground, there was the deafening roar of a pistol shot.
    I cried out in terror, sure that I had been murdered.
    There were two more shots, and then another, all in quick succession, and I realized that the shots were coming from several yards down the alley. My abductor was staggering back, toward Front Street, and as he reached the light I could see that he was holding one arm tight across his chest, but still grasping the pistol with his other hand.
    â€œStop!”
    It was Calder, advancing out of the darkness. He touched my shoulder as he walked past, his large gun at the ready, his eyes on the stricken man in the bowler hat.
    â€œDrop the pistol,” I heard Wyatt Earp call from the street.
    Earp was walking toward him from the west, gun held low but ready.
    The man in the bowler turned sideways to regard this new threat, then attempted to bring his gun up.
    Earp fired.
    The bullet struck the man in the throat.
    He dropped the gun and fell to his knees. The gun discharged when it struck the ground, and the bullet ricocheted from a hoop on one of the fire buckets and made a wicked zinging sound.
    Blood spewed from the man’s throat, squirting in time to his heartbeat. The man clawed at the wound, looking absurdly as if he were trying to loosen his collar, and the bowler hat fell to the street.
    â€œAre you all right?” Calder asked me.
    I had been following behind him, and he noticed I was limping.
    â€œTurned my ankle,” I