The Spirit is Willing (An Ophelia Wylde Paranormal Mystery) by Max McCoy Read Free Book Online Page A

and sprawled in a chair.
    Bernard brought a short glass and an armload of ingredients. In something resembling a ritual, he placed the glass in front of her, then cracked a raw egg on the rim, and plopped the unbroken yolk in. He poured about a shot from a bottle of Worcestershire sauce, added five shakes of Tabasco, and sprinkled it all with salt and pepper.
    “It is ready,” Bernard said.
    Frankie nodded, snubbed the cigarette out on the tabletop, and snatched up the concoction in her right hand. She held the glass high and offered a toast in a surprisingly firm voice.
    “Let those who did not get us cry,” she said. “And let those who did not want us . . . muck off and die.”
    She threw the contents down her throat, wiped her mouth with her forearm, and slammed the glass upside down on the table. The restaurant applauded, and Frankie nodded in appreciation.
    “What was that?” I asked Bernard as he walked by with the empty glass.
    “Prairie oyster,” he said. “Want to try one?”
    “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
    “Say, you’re that Wylde gal who talks to ghosts,” Frankie said, casting her wild eyes upon me. “What in hell did you do to old Hickory Lane?”
    “I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “She’s got it in for you something fierce.”
    “Oh?”
    “She went on a drunk last night and said you were full of it.”
    “Did she, now?”
    “Swore she was going to take you down a peg or two.”
    “I don’t know why Hickory would feel that way about me, but I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding,” I said.
    Frankie snorted.
    “The last person Hickory misunderstood,” she said, “ended up losing her front teeth.”
    I turned away from Frankie Bell.
    Through the restaurant windows, I could see people moving along Front Street, people with purpose, with lists of things to do. They were going to open stores for business, doing the shopping, paying bills, and settling accounts.
    Dodge City was like that. By day, it was as normal as any little town you could hope for. By night, it was Sodom, Port Royal, and Deadwood all rolled into one.
    I decided I might visit the Times office and quiz the Shinn brothers on the finer points of composition. But it was still only five o’clock in the morning and, having known journalists in other locales, I doubted the Shinns were likely to receive visitors much before ten or eleven o’clock, depending on how much inspiration they had drunk the night before. I decided instead to take a walk down by the river, while it was still cool enough to enjoy it.
    I walked down to Bridge Street, crossed the Santa Fe tracks, and then ambled down to the sandy banks of the Arkansas a block or so east of the toll bridge. The river was low, just a few inches of water, but it was wide enough to brilliantly reflect the sunrise.
    Looking at the dull orange ball of the sun through the trees, I thought about the heat that would surely come. Stepping down to the water’s edge, I knelt on a broad, flat rock. The water was sluggish and fouled from the thousands of cattle nearby. The animals were either held in the railway pens in town, awaiting shipment, or in massive herds up and down the river, waiting for their turn to be driven into the city.
    I popped off the celluloid collar of my shirt so I could feel the cool morning breeze against my throat. Then I undid my shirt a couple of buttons and loosened my vest. The wind stirred the cottonwoods and tall grass along the bank, and it made such a pleasant sound I closed my eyes, momentarily at peace.
    The tranquility was disturbed by the sound of boots on gravel.
    I opened my eyes. A tall man with long auburn hair walked toward me, whistling an old tune, and as he walked his hair swayed from side to side. He wore a paisley vest over a loose-fitting pink shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His denims were tucked into calf-length walking boots. Over his left shoulder was slung a well-worn brown leather satchel, of the kind used by