Monday, June 11, 2012
Now Playing: The Songbird of the West
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Episode Seventeen concluded with:
As he walked down the hallway, Carrie stepped out of her room. “What happened?”
“Patten sent a man to beat me up. He wanted revenge for what I did to him earlier this evening. I think you may have a point about the fatal flaw. Bruce Patten isn’t fit for the West.”
“I’m very glad that you are fit for the West, Mr. Dehner.” Carrie slowly retreated back into her room.
Dehner found himself back in his hotel room listening to Carrie Whiting, who was singing as she got ready for bed. The young woman was singing a love song and for a few moments Rance Dehner wondered if the song wasn’t for him.
The detective laughed at himself. A beautiful woman can give a man some crazy notions.
Rance Dehner didn’t sleep much that night, but when sleep did come, it brought some very interesting dreams.
The killer stood across from the Silver Crown saloon and watched carefully. All through the day, people had talked of nothing except Carrie Whiting’s upcoming performance that night. The performance was now about thirty minutes away and every man in town was crowding into the saloon. Several extra tables had been set up in the saloon to accommodate the large crowd. The killer tensed up as Doc Erickson entered the Silver Crown.
The killer didn’t run. A man running might create some attention. But he moved quickly to the house where the doctor both lived and conducted his practice. That was where he would hit next: the house where a wounded outlaw lay on a cot, fighting for his life. The outlaw had been wounded when Carrie Whiting was rescued from her kidnappers; he was the one who was still unable to talk, and must never be allowed to talk.
The killer needed to move fast. People would expect him to be at the Silver Crown tonight. Questions might be asked if he wasn’t there. He stood in the darkness looking about carefully. This was one of the most dangerous parts of his mission. If anyone was around they would see him step onto the large porch that fronted doc’s house.
A large grey cat slowly crept along the bannister that ran across the porch of Doc Erickson’s house. The cat’s eyes cast yellow lights in the darkness: lights that focused directly on the intruder.
Four steps led to the porch. The first one creaked when a boot pressed on it. The cat hissed and crouched as if ready for an attack. The intruder moved cautiously upward.
Doc Erickson’s front door was unlocked. It always was. The killer entered and headed directly for the room the doctor provided for patients who couldn’t be moved. As he opened the door, he could see by the moonlight streaming in from the window that only one of the four cots was occupied. Good. He would only have to kill one man tonight.
As he stepped inside and drew the knife from his belt, the figure mused that he wouldn’t really have minded if there had been others to murder. Killing gets easier the more you do it.
He would first wake up the injured owlhoot, whose name he couldn’t remember. The killer wanted to enjoy the expression on his victim’s face before he sent him to perdition.
Tomorrow: Episode Nineteen of The Songbird of the West