Something Blue

Chapter 37

Katherine

Jacob stood like a statue beside his lectern while the two men— Mulligan and Weston—scrambled to and fro in the cavernous space, peering out windows and barring doors. Both his followers had their pistols out, and nervous sweat left tracks in the mud and charcoal that coated their faces. Jacob did not sweat, and he did not waver. He was a picture of serenity, standing with one hand wrapped around the rifle and the other resting on top of the Bible that sat on the lectern.

Waiting.

Did he truly believe he was safe, or was he simply too deep in his lunacy to bother with such trifles as mortality?

Katherine fought to drag herself to her feet, silent tears of pain burning down her cheeks as her shoulders screamed and the rope around her ankles scraped at raw flesh.

"Jacob, let me go," she pleaded. "He's going to kill you all. Just let me go. You don't have to die."

Weston cast her a frantic look over his shoulder, but Jacob didn't so much as flinch. His back was to her, his shoulders straight beneath the pressed cotton of his shirt.

"I told you not to worry, Katherine," he said, his soft voice echoing about the empty hall. "My men will take care of Satan's footman and—"

"Sir, Johnny's been shot," Weston said from the side window, his face pressed to the glass. "Quint, too."

"Silence, Patrick," Jacob said, with the taut weariness of a beleaguered parent. "Nevermind them."

"Nevermind?" Patrick exclaimed, whirling around and throwing one arm out to gesture out the window behind him. "They're dying out there, you lunatic! He's picking 'em off like rats. I ain't stickin' around to—"

Katherine's brain seemed to stutter, or perhaps it was time that had hiccupped. Either way, the events seemed to occur out of order. From where she stood, strung up beneath the cross, it seemed that Patrick collapsed on the ground before the little red hole appeared in his neck and the splatter of blood erupted onto the faded red curtain behind him. It seemed that he fell and then was shot, and only when all of that had occurred did Jacob raise his rifle in one smooth motion and fire.

But of course, that was ridiculous. It must have all happened in order, and it had to have taken more than the space between one heartbeat and the next. Maybe it was the cold getting to her, compressing long moments down into flashes of awareness and stretching others out until she seemed to age decades in the time it took to blink.

She stared at Patrick Weston's body, which lay twitching on the ground, bloody froth gurgling from the hole in his neck, his eyes wide and frantic. Mulligan had turned from the window and for a moment Katherine shared a comradery with him as they stared in mutual horror at the dying man while the tang of blood and the metallic singe of gunsmoke filled the air.

Then Jacob lowered the rifle back to his side, turning to his remaining follower. "The devil speaks through the mouths of cowards, Mr. Mulligan," he said. "God protects his most faithful servants from evil. We are safe. The firing has stopped. Go check the front and see if any of our friends have survived."

Katherine saw the second of hesitation, as Mulligan's eyes flicked to the door, to her husband, and then to the body on the floor. She watched his throat bob as he came to the same conclusion she would have in his place—to comply meant mere danger. To refuse meant certain death. And to defy the preacher meant that, however death claimed him, his soul was bound to burn for all eternity.

Lies.

With a jerky nod, Mulligan staggered to the front door and opened it just a crack. A wedge of sunlight spread across the floor as he opened it wider and slipped out, and Jacob turned back to her. A serene smile graced his face as he stepped toward her.