Prairie Gothic Read Online Free Page B

examples of the Sunshine Towers’ many shortcomings. From what he could see, the sheriff agreed with her.
    A Mutt-and-Jeff pair of elegantly dressed matrons were on the elevator when it finally arrived. They took one look at the group that was going up, then stepped aside to make room rather than get off.
    â€œNot much excitement around here,” Dorothy said. “We get hungry for it, grab onto most anything.”
    Lucille Martin rolled her eyes as the elevator began to ascend. “Perhaps we should explain just who our Dorothy is, Sheriff.”
    â€œSurely he recognizes her?” the Mutt woman wondered.
    â€œWhy, those ruby slippers give her away,” her Jeff counterpart replied.
    â€œYes, visiting from Oz.” Mrs. Martin tapped her skull gently in an indication that Dorothy’s might be softer than normal.
    â€œNo autographs,” the little woman said. The elevator let them out into a hall with open doors every few feet. Nearly all were occupied with ancient women sitting in chairs that varied from folding to wheeled.
    â€œKinda reminds you of that street in Amsterdam, doesn’t it,” the visitor from Oz observed. “Whores on display. Only these are ladies of the morning, and they aren’t selling a substitute for love, they’re eager buyers. They’ll settle for anything that resembles affection.”
    The fifth door to the right of the elevator was closed and empty. Mrs. Martin did the honors without a knock. She swung it open on a cramped room into which a few pieces of ornate furniture had been stuffed.
    â€œWe encourage the families to let residents use their own furniture,” Mr. Deffenbach explained. “It helps them feel at home.”
    The room felt anything but home-like. Temporary storage, maybe, which, English decided, many families, as well as the management, probably considered it to be.
    Alice Burton was sitting in a rocker nearly hidden behind a dresser so out of proportion for the small room that it blocked half of the only window. She didn’t look like an Alzheimer’s patient. She was clean and well groomed, her hair only lightly peppered with gray. She was wearing corduroys and boots below a hand-knitted sweater with a gold pin. She held a baby swaddled in a thick blanket.
    â€œLet me do this, it’ll be easier.” Dorothy ducked past Mrs. Martin.
    â€œThe Sheriff’s here, Alice. He’s come to take this baby back to her rightful mother. You understand why that’s got to be.”
    Alice Burton did seem to understand. She looked at the bundled form sadly for a moment, then delivered it to Dorothy without complaint.
    â€œYou see,” Lucille Martin began, then faltered as the tiny woman began peeling back the blanket. No one would make a doll in quite such a pasty shade of gray.
    â€œSweet Jesus!” Deffenbach exclaimed.
    â€œSure don’t smell sweet, and there’s no indication he’ll rise from the dead. I’d guess this ain’t him.” Dorothy passed the dead infant to the sheriff’s open arms.
    ***
    It was a small skull. Until he reached down and picked it up, Mad Dog let himself hope he was wrong and this wasn’t human. When he touched it all doubts vanished. He had one of those moments he couldn’t explain. It made him believe in himself again. He was, in fact, a natural born Cheyenne shaman.
    What he felt was kinship. He was related to this tiny orb of weathered bone. They were both Cheyenne. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was sure.
    He held the skull up and looked at it as if he might recognize its features. It didn’t work. It remained only vacant bone, but bone that had once been one of his people.
    So much for Tommie Irons’ uninterrupted journey to the happy hunting grounds. Englishman was going to have to know about this, and once he came to this place, finding Tommie was a virtual certainty. Unless…Mad Dog considered the apparent age of