The Empty Door Page 20

Markman looked down at the smoking barrel of the gun in his hand and came out of the moment. Dazed, he slowly tucked it back in its holster and looked around. Faces stared from the curtained windows, and a crowd had formed at the gates to the saloon. The SCIP doorway was now easily available for a retreat, but something had changed. Markman no longer felt the need to leave. Instead, he drew the direction finder from his jacket pocket, switched it on, and took a bearing. The indicator pointed straight for the saloon. He crossed quickly over to the boardwalk and headed for the crowded emporium, ignoring the prone body in the street.

  An Undertaker came out and began to creep toward the body. The old, dark-suited gentleman carried a prodding stick with him and kept himself very ready to run. A long, heavy silence continued to hang over the town.

  “He’s dead all right,” yelled the undertaker as though he was the only soul brave enough to approach the lifeless body. A low muffled cheer erupted from inside the bar as the black suited man continued to poke and prod. As Markman approached the crowded saloon doors, he was given a wide berth to enter.

  Calls of support came from around the tavern as the newly adopted sheriff made his way to the bar. Most of the ranch hand patrons had returned to their seats at the hardwood tables. They stared respectfully as he passed. He could feel the air of electricity that still filled the room. The place smelled like whiskey and sweat. Yet, he felt so at home. A thin, balding man dressed in a dirty vest and worn pants crossed the room and wound up a mean-looking old player piano in the corner. The intrusive, off-key music blared on, helping force things back to normal.

  “Drinks are on the house for you, Sheriff. It’s not every day a man takes on all three a’ the Slaton brothers single-handed and walks away from it. That’s one outlaw gang we’ll be glad not to see again,” said the gray-haired old bartender over the noise. He pushed with both hands on the bar opposite Markman. “What’ll you have?”

  Markman leaned with his hip against the hard wood counter and surveyed the room. Beyond the poker tables, which were now all in use, a set of stairs led up to a balcony that overlooked the gamblers. It serviced several dark wood doors, all of which were conspicuously closed.

  Markman glanced at the smiling bartender. “Nothing thanks, I’m looking for something.” He drew the direction finder from his pocket and took a bearing. “What’s upstairs?”

  The bartender looked confused. “You been up there a hundred times, why you askin’ that, Sheriff? Miss Ann went up a while ago. I’d bet she’s waitin’ for you to go up and tell ‘er yer okay.”

  With an unnecessary nod to a man who didn’t really exist, Markman wove his way through the grateful denizens of the poker parlor, to the worn wooden stairs across the room. They creaked and bowed slightly as he climbed them. The single piece of pine that provided a handrail was smooth and uneven from wear.

  At the top of the stairs, the homing device pointed left of the first door. Markman thumbed the wrought iron latch and looked inside anyway. It was a run-down, unoccupied bedroom, probably intended to provide rendezvous for the ladies of the evening that entertained there. A double bed with no headboard and a bare mattress was pushed against a stained, wallpapered wall. A small table with an oil lamp was set by a narrow window bordered by lace curtains, brown with age.

  The second door was the one. Markman again did not bother to knock. He pushed open the ill-fitting wood slab and peered curiously inside. A similar arrangement as the first, except that in this room a slender young woman, with ivory blonde hair, stood looking out a yellowed window, her back to him. She wore a plaid work shirt and jeans that ended at leather-stringed moccasins. She turned in anticipation that someone had entered, revealing the soft features that Markman had so recently grown to care for. It was Cassiopia, but it was not.

  “Well it’s about time you showed up,” she teased. He entered without speaking and shut the door behind him. The aura of the impostor, combined with the smells and sight of the old west was a powerfully hypnotic mixture. So much so, that Markman completely forgot his shoulder wound. The beautiful creature standing before him was a mere imitation, but it lacked no sensitivity or detail to the eye. He found himself unconsciously tucking the tracker away in his jacket as he came to the duplicate Cassiopia and stood close to her.

  “It’s hard to believe you’re not real.”

  She responded only with a prudish face.

  “That’s okay. I’m not sure I could trust myself standing this close to the real thing.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Well, if you were real, and I had the guts, know what I’d do?” he said in a low, provocative tone.

  “And what might that be, cowboy?” she replied snobbishly, but with a tremor in her voice.

  Markman slowly touched the splash of hair at her shoulders. It felt as lifelike as it looked. Mesmerized, he slipped his hand behind her neck, leaned slowly forward, and kissed her softly on the mouth.

  It seemed too real. The smell of her perfume was intoxicating. His mind became flooded with thoughts of desire for her. He kissed the image of Cassiopia once more, longer this time, and then once again.

  Her arms slid around his waist and pulled against him. Her heart was beating rapidly, and she gasped for breath. Harmony of movement bonded them. Markman’s mind was spinning. He pulled obsessively at the snaps on her blouse and peeled it away, then lifted her to the bed and wrestled off the remaining barriers that separated them.

  Their passion was heated and deliberate and lasted.

  On a soft bed of subconsciousness, Markman felt himself fall backward into an emotional dead-end. He looked at the sensuous, sleeping form beside him and then closed his eyes and tried to make sense of what had happened. He had made love to a beautiful and complex woman who had seemed well out of reach, and still was. Could there have been anything of the real Cassiopia in her? Had he touched her, if only subconsciously? The answer was quite simple. This was his world, his subconscious. There was no part of the real woman here, only the one in his mind. She had, of course, been too perfect. Dreams always filled in the unknowns with the best of answers. He had made love to his own imagination, though it had seemed as real as anything could ever have. It left him feeling soulfully empty. “I might as well have just stolen something,” he mumbled.

  “Why’s that, honey,” whispered the impostor.

  “What’s your name?”

  “They call me Miss Ann.”

  “It’s really too bad you’re not real.”

  “What do you mean by that, cowboy?”

  “What I mean is, I feel like I just cheated myself. It’s better to have nothing at all than something that’s a lie.”

  Markman leaned over and propped himself up on one elbow. “See this ring?” he said, holding open his right hand. “I should find the nearest river and throw it in.”

  “Now why would you want to do that, honey?”

  “It’s a long story. Want to hear it?”

  “Sure.”

  “This was given to me by an old man. I did a good part of my growing up in a place called Thasa. My father was an Air Force officer in charge of a listening post. My mother passed away when I was six. We had no other family, and my father wouldn’t consider foster parents. We shuttled back and forth every year between the States and his job, but most of the time was spent overseas. He made sure I got a real education from tutors okay, but there were no street corner basketball types in those mountains. Buddhism was a science and a way of life there. And there wasn’t much law either. The priests and monks are the policemen—the martial arts are a part of their jobs. Since there was nothing to do, most of my free time was spent watching and learning in the courtyard of the temple.”

  “On the day of my eleventh birthday, the old priest who had sort of adopted me came to me and said that I was ready to become a probationary disciple. He said I was a man.”

  “There was this waterfall in the forest that we all had been warned to stay away from. The
monks said that the basin beneath the falls was bottomless and that many people had disappeared there over the years. They said a prehistoric serpent lived in the deep water.”

  “The old man explained that not everyone could advance to the higher levels of teaching and that to be worthy, each had to risk his life to conquer a seemingly impossible task.”

  “He showed me this ring,” said Markman, and he removed the intricately-carved band and turned it in his hand. It was surrounded with complex oriental designs, snakes, dragons, and serpents, intertwined in rosary.

  “He let me hold it and study it for a few moments and then took it back. He said all that was needed for me to enter the higher levels was to wear that ring.”

  “He threw it out into the middle of the deep basin and told me not to come back to him unless I was wearing it. I, of course, reminded him about the people who had disappeared. He said that no one was sure the monster existed and that if I was killed, it would serve as a great warning to many others that a true danger did exist, and so my death would be meaningful and honorable.”

  Miss Ann rested her chin in one palm and smiled. “So what did you do?”

  “I sat by the pool for two days watching for the serpent. Once or twice I thought I saw it in the white water, and I ran away, afraid. Finally, an idea struck me. I went to the local jewelry craftsman. I had plenty of money by Thasa’s standards. The ring I needed had been made by the monks, but its designs were embedded in my mind. I spent a whole day with the jeweler, gagging on the smell of rancid butter. They have these large religious carvings made out of pure butter all over the place. It’s considered a valuable commodity there. But most of the carvings get old and...whew!”

  “Anyway, after a day of coaxing him along I had a ring which I thought was identical to the one deep under the falls, so I returned to my teacher. I thought I had it made.”

  “The monks received me like a hero. They bragged about me to everyone. They said I had been the first one brave enough to prove no monster existed under the falls, and that the whole community was indebted to me. I was a treated like a celebrity.”

  “The charade went on for three days and that was it, I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t even sleep at night. I left the courtyard at the end of the day and took off the phony ring and threw it into a pile of Yak dung that was fuel for the village ovens.”

  “The next morning I went to the falls. I’ll never forget that day. I took off my clothes and waded into the water. It was freezing. I hated myself so badly that the threat of the bottomless pool didn’t matter. I dove in just not caring.”

  Markman looked at Miss Ann. “Damned if the place wasn’t any more than ten feet deep. I dove over and over for about four hours. You couldn’t see much. You had to feel around the rocks. If there had been a serpent I sure would have found it; I know that much.”

  “The ring was in a hole. I had to stick my hand in up to the elbow at the bottom of the pool’s deepest spot. But I found it.”

  “The next day I went back to the teachers, wearing the real thing but said nothing about what had happened. But something was very different. The monks were much quieter than they had been and they seemed to be—you know, like laughing at me. I felt freed, but I was still disgusted with myself.”

  “At the end of the day, the old man came to me and said that I was truly a worthy disciple and that he had known he was right about me. He said there was just one more small test and asked me for the ring back. He took it and held it behind his back for a moment and then opened both hands, palms up in front of me. Each hand had a ring in it. One was the real one, the other my counterfeit copy. He asked me which ring I valued the most.”

  “I knew then they had never been fooled. I took back the real one and put it on without saying a thing. He handed me the bogus ring and told me to go to the falls and throw it in. He said it would mean as much to the next student who found it.”

  “As he was leaving he said—the next time you think to betray yourself, cast your ring into the river, it will remind you--.”

  Miss Ann smiled thoughtfully and climbed from the bed, her smooth body still seemingly too perfect. She began pulling on clothes hurriedly, finally sucking in her stomach to snap the tight, wrinkled jeans closed.

  “Got to get back to work,” she said with a provocative wink. She stopped in the doorway and looked back. “See you around, cowboy,” she said coyly and disappeared out the door.

  Two hours had passed by the time Markman found his way back to the dress shop. Fortunately, the SCIP door was still illuminated in the window. He had not yet transgressed its inflexible time limit. He checked to see that the homing beacon was still in his jacket pocket. It had been easy to find. It had been on the floor beneath the bed in Miss Ann’s room. He had also brought the feelings of guilt with him. Though his indiscretion had been too sincere to be perverse, he knew the struggle within would continue for some time to come.

  A closed sign hung on the entrance to the gunsmith’s shop. Despite the necessity of returning quickly, Markman could not resist looking in on his excitable friend. He went to the door and thumbed the latch. It was unlocked. The shop seemed deserted. He entered slowly and began to look around when a shaking shotgun barrel crept up from behind the counter.

  “Hold it right there, or I’ll blow yer head off,” cried a trembling voice. Wide eyes peered over the counter top.

  “Sheriff, it’s you! Ah’m saved!” The joyful merchant plunked down the rifle and raced around the barrier to shake Markman’s hand vigorously.

  “Ah heard the shots but Ah wasn’t stickin’ my head out there fer nothin’. That is ‘cept you. The Colt was okay, weren’t it?”

  Markman smiled and nodded, “That it was.”

  “It’s yers now, partner, garunteed fer life,...seein’ how it saved mine and all!”

  “Well, I’m leaving town for a while, guess I’ll take it with me then,” said Markman.

  “Where ya headin’ to, sheriff?”

  “Oh just a short trip through the dress shop window,” said Markman dryly.

  The gunsmith stared back in puzzlement.

  Markman left the store and stopped in front of the SCIP door for a long, last look around. The town had returned to normal. The air chimed with the sound of the blacksmith’s hammer. A horse-drawn carriage carrying a pretty lady with an umbrella coasted by, and he could still faintly hear the uneven sounds of the player piano coming from the bar. A person could be happy here forever, he thought. Perhaps the Sorceress waiting beyond the mirror-door would bring him back someday.

  With the black holster and Colt forty-five still hanging by his leg, Markman lurched through dimensions and crossed back over to the lab.

  Chapter 21