Free The Keep of Fire by Mark Anthony Page A

Castle City.”
    “The Immolated Man,” Travis whispered.
    Farr slipped the photo back into the envelope. “You’re right, Deirdre. He is indeed perceptive.”
    Deirdre met Farr’s eyes. “Do you want to tell him? Or should I?”
    “I think I can manage.”
    Travis pushed the gunslinger’s spectacles higher on his nose. “Tell me what?”
    Farr slid from the edge of the stage to stand. He was several inches shorter than Travis, but somehow Travis felt like the smaller one. There was an air of quiet power about Farr. In some ways he reminded Travis of Falken Blackhand.
    “To tell you why we’ve been searching for you, Mr. Wilder.”

12.
    It was only when Deirdre caught his arm and led him to the front row of seats that Travis realized his knees were shaking. As he sat, a dusty exhalation rose from the cushion. He looked up at the two Seekers. Deirdre’s eyes were concerned. Farr’s expression was more difficult to fathom.
    Farr pulled a slim silver case from the pocket of his chinos, took out a cigarette, then cocked his head toward Travis. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
    “I don’t tell other people how to live their lives.”
    Farr nodded. “That’s good advice, Mr. Wilder. I’ll do my best to heed it.” He lit the cigarette, and spicysmoke coiled to the catwalks above. “But allow me to tell you this. There is one who approached you tonight. He didn’t tell you his name, nor is it important. It’s whom he represents that matters. And I say this not in an attempt to control you, but in an effort to save you, Mr. Wilder.
Do not talk to them.”
    The force of Farr’s words struck Travis by surprise, pushing him back into the seat. “Duratek,” he said.
    Deirdre crouched down beside Travis. “Yes, the man at the saloon was from Duratek Corporation. They’ve been—”
    Farr raised a hand. “Not yet, Deirdre. There are some things we must tell Mr. Wilder first.”
    Deirdre stood and gave a curt nod.
    Farr leaned against the stage. “It’s true that we’re interested in the man in the black robe who came to the saloon. We’ve been investigating cases like this for some time. However, we investigate many things, and it was not because of him that we came to Castle City.”
    “But what happened to him?” Travis said, his voice a croak. “How did he …?”
    Farr picked up the envelope and pulled out more photos. He handed them to Travis. Although he did not want to, Travis forced himself to look. Images met his eyes: dark husks twisted into horrible poses. He recalled a television special he had seen about Pompeii. Thousands had been buried by the scalding ash of Vesuvius. Nineteen centuries later, archaeologists had poured plaster into the hollows where their bodies had been burned away. Those casts reminded Travis of the shapes in the photos, each one a perfect effigy of the final moment of pain, before the fire consumed them.
    Farr held out a hand, and Travis gratefully surrendered the photos.
    “What’s happening to them?” he said.
    Farr drew on his cigarette. “That’s a question wevery much want to answer. There have been incidents of spontaneous combustion recorded for centuries, but the current cases are different in subtle ways. Our tests show that the spot temperatures reached are far higher than in previous cases. Even so, with almost all victims, the body is not consumed by the heat. Instead, we’ve recorded distinct changes in morphology, organic chemical composition, and even DNA structure. The man who entered your establishment is one of the few exceptions, as his immolation was complete. In virtually all other cases, it is not as if the victim is being burned so much as … changed.”
    Travis glanced up at Deirdre, his gray eyes wide behind his spectacles. “It’s just like what you told me, the story about the Immolated Man. But you said that was only a myth.”
    Deirdre gave a wry smile.
“Only a myth
is an oxymoron, Travis. Myths have the power to reveal truths about