Sloan left the squabbling couple, passed through the barred wooden door to the cells and walked down the length of the hallway. The door to Room One, the Trey Hardy cell, was open.
Hardy had been a true character in his day. A Confederate cavalry lieutenant who had lost everything during the Civil War, he’d started robbing banks. He was a hero to some back in Missouri—just like Jesse James. He’d stolen from the carpetbaggers to give back to the citizens. He’d been dashing and handsome, and when things had gotten hot for him in Missouri, he’d gone farther. But in Lily he came up against another ex-Confederate, Sheriff Brendan Fogerty. Fogerty felt that the war was over, and ex-Reb or not, Hardy wasn’t stealing from the citizens of Lily, Arizona. He’d taken Hardy in after winning a fistfight on Main Street. Hardy had promised to come willingly if Fogerty bested him. To a cheering crowd, he had turned himself in when Fogerty had pinned him. Sadly, unknown to Fogerty, his deputy, Aaron Munson, had a long-standing beef with anyone who’d fought against the Union. Before Hardy could be brought to trial, Munson shot Hardy down in his cell, only to be dragged out to the street and lynched himself by a furious mob enamored of the handsome Hardy.
While Munson haunted Main Street, Hardy was said to haunt the jail and the cell where he had died.
The doors to the cells were wooden with barred windows. They were entered with large jail keys that had to be returned—lest the guest be charged a hefty fee. In the age of the plastic slot card, the Old Jail was a holdout. But entering a cell with a big jail key held greater charm.
The door wasn’t locked, so Sloan stepped inside. The couple had done a pretty thorough job of searching. Drawers were still open and the mattress lay crookedly on the bed.
Sloan turned back to make sure he hadn’t been followed. There was a security camera in the hall but he knew that was just for show; Mike never remembered to change the tape. He seldom had trouble. Guests seemed to love talking about the shadowy apparitions they’d seen in the halls or the “cold spots” that had moved into the room, et cetera, that went with staying at such a place. He walked to the dresser; it was heavy. A wide-screen TV sat on it, along with the bust of an Indian chief.
Sloan waited a minute, then shook his head, said quietly, “Give it up. Return the wallets.”
He heard the rasp of something against the wall. Turning, he saw that that there were two wallets on the floor. They might have been wedged behind the dresser and wall—and fallen when he tugged at the dresser.
He picked them up and headed to the door, then looked back into the room. “You know, Hardy, shadows in the night, cool. Your few ghostly appearances—great. But quit with the money, the keys and the wallets, huh? All these people think you’re the next best thing to Jesse James. Don’t go ruining your wonderful reputation.”
For a moment, Sloan thought he saw him. Hardy seemed to be standing there, still wearing a gray jacket and a sweeping gray hat with a plume, a cross between a Western outlaw and a disenfranchised soldier. He had a neatly clipped golden beard and his eyes were bright. He saluted Sloan.
Shaking his head, Sloan walked back to the breakfast room and set the wallets on the table.
The couple gaped at him incredulously. “They were wedged behind the dresser,” he said.
“Oh, thank you!” Lucinda gushed.
“Yeah, man, thanks!” Jerry said.
“Check them, make sure everything’s in them,” Sloan said.
“You said you searched everywhere!” Lucinda accused Jerry.
“Hey, you were in the room, too!”
She’d barely finished speaking when they heard it.
The sound was terrible; it seemed to come from the earth itself. It was a scream—one that might have been piercing except that it was muffled.
It came again and again...
“What the f—” Jerry began, leaping to his feet.
“Oh, my God!” Lucinda cried, trembling.
Even Sloan felt as if ice trickled down his spine.
And then he realized the source of the scream. There was nothing unearthly about it. It was simply coming from the basement of the theater next door.
Sloan strode quickly from the Old Jail and down the few steps to the swinging, slatted doors that led into the Gilded Lily. He saw the long bar and the rows of seating to the side of it and the stage at the far end.
“Hey!” he called out, seeing no signs of life.
He hurried behind the bar to the stairs that went down to the basement and storm cellar, now a depository for over a hundred and fifty years’ worth of costumes, props, scenery and other old theater paraphernalia.
He heard the scream again as he rushed down the steps.
The muted light blinded him for a moment. The basement was divided into a main room and three side rooms, separated by foundation walls.