Seeing Eileen perform in this or any other show would have to wait. But it was about the best reason he could come up with for staying alive.
From the edge of the shantytown, Kanazuchi watched the last of the white shirts enter the theater. Torches burning in the brackets out front were beginning to work against the gathering dark. He waited five more minutes, then walked across' the empty street and down an alley toward the stables.
He had learned that Reverend Day lived in the adobe house across from the theater. This man would know the location of the underground temple and the books, of that much Kanazuchi felt certain; he was probably the man who had arranged the theft of the Kojiki.
Kanazuchi had waited hours for the Reverend to come out of the place the white shirts called the House of Hope; there had been no sign of him. The house was heavily protected, and its guards, all dressed in black, were more dangerous and better armed than the white shirts he had seen. To get inside, he would need the help of the Grass Cutter.
Curious: While watching from this vantage point, a short time after he began, Kanazuchi had witnessed a clear disruption in the white shirts' concentration, as if the control they moved under had suddenly lapsed. Some stopped dead in the street, others fell to their knees; a few appeared to be in severe pain. Minutes later, the control resumed and the white shirts instantly went on about their business as if nothing had happened.
No one approached as he entered the stable; the barn appeared to be empty. By the light of a single burning lantern, he entered the rear courtyard where the actors' wagons stood. He stopped and listened: no one there. Kanazuchi slowly parted the canvas on the back of the wagon he had ridden in and found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle.
"Eileen said not to kill you," said the man kneeling inside.
The hammer already cocked; finger edging down on the trigger.
If I attack, the bullet will still strike, Kanazuchi realized.
"I don't want to," said the man. "But I will."
Kanazuchi looked him in the eye. A serious man. He was good; nothing had given away his presence in the wagon. He knew how to hide and he undoubtedly knew how to kill.
"What do you want?" asked Kanazuchi.
"They've got Jacob. Eileen said you need him for something and that you'd want to get him back. That true?"
"Yes."
"Then I need your help."
Kanazuchi nodded. The man uncocked the hammer but did not lower the rifle.
"Where is he?" asked Kanazuchi.
"That big adobe."
"We must get him out."
"That's what I was hoping you'd say. Looking for this?"
The man tossed the Grass Cutter toward him; Kanazuchi caught the scabbard and pulled the sword in one blindingly fast move. The man's grip on the rifle didn't flinch.
"My name's Frank," said the man.
"Kanazuchi," he said, with a slight bow.
"Kana ... that mean anything in English?"
"It means hammer."
"Well, what do you say, Hammer," said Frank, finally lowering the gun. "Let's go raise a little hell."
Kanazuchi stood aside as Frank climbed out of the wagon. They looked at each other warily, a perceived sense of professional kinship and common cause delicately balancing the scales against powerful self-preserving instincts. Each waited for the other to make a first move; then, like dance partners, both turned and walked in step toward the stable.
"Took my sidearm when I rode in but they left the rifle with my saddle gear. They didn't look for the one in my boot," said Frank, touching the butt of the spare Colt in his holster.
"Mistake."
"This town's sicker than a bag of drowned kittens."
"It is like a clock; wound up, running down."
"Getting sloppy," said Frank, nodding. "You feel it, too."
"Yes."
"This freak show's coming to a head," said Frank.
"Remove the head, the body will fall."
"Now there's something I know you're good at."
"Sorry?"
"That's sort of a joke, Hammer."
Kanazuchi thought for a moment, then nodded. "I see."
They stopped just short of leaving the alley at the edge of Main Street. Ghostly laughter followed by applause drifted toward them from the theater, then faded to an eerie silence. Lights burned in windows on both floors of the House of Hope; they could see at least six of the guards in black patrolling its broad front porch.
Frank struck a match on the side of the barn and lit a cheroot. "Figure this Reverend A. Glorious Day's the one we want," said Frank.
"Twelve men guard the house; only three in back," said Kanazuchi, watching their movements.
"Move around much?"
Kanazuchi nodded. "They change every hour."
Frank glanced at his watch. "Had a notion about how we might get inside."
Frank explained as they crossed Main Street. Kanazuchi agreed. They turned down an alley and approached the back door of the House of Hope.
Three guards sitting on the porch armed with Winchesters and Colts. Frank walked five steps ahead, hands over his head; Kanazuchi behind him—Frank's pistol in his belt, the Grass Cutter out of sight down the back of his shirt—pointing the Henry rifle between Frank's shoulders.
The guards stood up. They wore loose black clothes; their eyes clear and alert. Not the same group of men, but their manner reminded Frank of the ones he'd seen ride up to the House earlier that day.
"I found this man walking in the stable," said Kanazuchi.
"I already told you, you stupid slant-eyed son of a bitch," said Frank, staggering and slurring his words, "wanted to make sure they were taking care of my horse—"
"Be quiet," said the lead guard.
"He had the colic few weeks back, can't be too careful; those damn kids weren't even tending to—"
Kanazuchi smacked the back of his head with the rifle butt; Frank stumbled and fell forward on the stairs.
"He told you be quiet," said Kanazuchi.
All three guards looked down at Frank curiously, rifles lowered. Frank curled his hands near his stomach and moaned as if he was about to be sick.
"He's one of the visitors," one of them said.
"Yes. He has been drinking," said Kanazuchi.
"Take him to corrections," said the lead guard.
Two of the guards reached down to grab Frank by the arms just as he slipped Kanazuchi's long knife out of his shirt; as they stood him up Frank drove his shoulder into the chest of the lead guard, knocking him back hard into a column, then grabbed him around the face and plunged the knife in behind the man's left ear. He died without making a sound.
From behind, Frank heard two sounds like a rush of rainwater; when he turned, the bodies of the other two guards were falling to the porch and their heads were rolling down the stairs. Kanazuchi's sword was already resting back in the scabbard.
Damn. This guy knew his stuff.
Kanazuchi tossed Frank his rifle; Frank cocked it one-handed, then exchanged the long knife for his pistol. Kanazuchi slid the wakizashi into its scabbard; Frank holstered the Colt. They moved to either side of the back door and waited.
"Didn't have to hit me so hard," whispered Frank.
"More authentic."
"Glad I wasn't playing dead."
No one came; none of the guards from the front had been alerted by the skirmish. Frank tried the door; it opened.
Dim lamps lit the interior hallway. Thick carpets muffled their steps. Plush furnishings throughout the house, oil paintings on the walls, a crystal chandelier hanging over the stairs in the front entryway. Not a spittoon in sight. Fancier than a St. Louis whorehouse.