I followed the trail, and the wind, into the town. My throat was raw, my nose filled with dust and dirt, and my chest heaved like my lungs were soaked in kerosene. Oddly, as winded as I was, I could not feel my heart beating in my chest.
I had no map, and after wandering for days, I was certain that I was lost. The town, no name posted on its perimeter, offered hope, a reprieve, a place to rest.
As is my custom when arriving in a new town, I headed straight for the saloon.
The barkeep waited for my two bits to appear out of my pocket before he offered to pour my whiskey. I obliged, though reluctantly. Lady Luck left my side a hundred miles ago, leaving my coffer, as well as my body, in a meager, unhealthy state.
“You look like you need more than a dose of whiskey.” A half-full glass slid toward me after the last of my coins disappeared in the barkeep’s massive hand. “If you’re lookin’ for a game, the players that matter won’t be in until the sun sets.”
The pomade had long since washed out of my hair, and my linen vest was covered with the same dust that filled my nose, but I imagine a barkeep knows a down-on-his-luck gambler when he sees one.
“Could be,” I said. “But I was hoping you could help me find a woman.”
I coughed, then fought it back so I would not alarm the few patrons in the back of the bar. My malady had yet to fully show itself, but I could feel it growing, eating away at my insides like a maggot gnawing on the flesh of a winterkill elk.
The barkeep’s eyes narrowed. His stomach was as big as a side of beef, his arms looked like hammers, and his apron was worn and tattered at the hems. Just like the saloon, the barkeep looked like he had seen better days.
“This ain’t a cat house, stranger.” He grabbed a broom.
“No, no. You misunderstand.” I reached into my pocket, not breaking eye contact with the barkeep. “My name’s Eddie. Edward, really. Edward Blackstone. Most folks call me Blackjack Eddie.”
Before I could pull out the neatly folded placard from my breast pocket, the barkeep took a hard swing at my head with the broom, and sent me sprawling to the floor.
The placard flew from my hand and skittered across the floor.
I have only two items in my possession that remain of the life I once lived, the placard and a small locket I wear around my neck. They both are more valuable to me than a bag full of gold.
The locket and placard are dear to me, for they are the only love I have known since my boyhood and the long, two-thousand mile train ride west. Without them, a long ago promise will remain unfulfilled, and I will be truly alone in this world…and, perhaps, the next.
My father arrived home, every day, promptly at 4:30 in the afternoon. He would usually have a fresh cut of meat in hand for our dinner, and the day’s newspaper for stories to regale afterward. He always had time for a warm and generous hug for my younger sister, Gillian, and me. Father did not play favorites, his affection was measured just like everything else in his life.
He worked as an accountant in a financial firm, Slade, Crothers, & Leiberman, a block from the new Chemical Bank. Everything was a bustle in New York City then, new construction, new people arriving every day. The city throbbed with vibrations of every sort—language, food, and music.
It was enough to overwhelm the senses, but as a child my environs just fed my taste buds and my ability to appreciate the most delicious aromas. All are just a memory now, evoked only in dreams and nightmares.
My mother taught piano to those who could afford it. Her reputation had followed her from her home country, England, and her wares floated out of our third-story apartment window like sweet cooing doves.
Every afternoon, our parlor was filled with the comings and goings of well-heeled girls, prim and proper, and a few reticent boys, as our mother took them through the paces of Bach, Beethoven, and Chopin.
Music was the heart of our home, but to me it was mostly the unstructured noise of tiresome beginners.
We were by no means wealthy, but we did not have to look far to know how lucky we were. My parents had prospered once they arrived in America, unlike so many others, left to the dingy streets of New York to fend for themselves, with little skills and no family.
I have seen coyotes show more manners than some people fresh off the boat.
I loved the city, loved the warmth of our apartment with the heavy mahogany furniture and thick wool carpets shipped across the ocean, and the wondrous taste of biscuits and cucumber sandwiches set upon silver plates with our afternoon tea.
But Gillian loved the city, and our life, even more than I. She was a prodigy on the piano. My mother’s best student. She could play “Chopsticks” and make us all cry—but she was beyond that, even at five.
Each note of Chopin’s Piano Concerto no. 2 in F Minor was so full of exuberance and emotion that you thought your eardrums were going to shatter and your heart was going to break.
People would gather on the street below to listen to the sweeping arpeggios and themes from various nocturnes.
Gillian was unaware of her gift, of the attention it brought to her. Her talent was not a surprise to anyone in our household, no more so than my growing skill of calculating large numbers off the top of my head—a game my father and I used to play as we walked the streets on an errand for my mother.
Our life was a dream come true.
Until the fire took it all away.
The barkeep’s foot rested heavily on my wrist. “I’ve seen way too many derringers appear out of nowhere, from the likes of you, to risk my life over a shot of whiskey.”
“I assure you, sir, I have no intention of drawing a weapon.” I struggled to pull my hand out from under the man’s buffalo-sized boot. My chest burned like it was on fire. Spittle seeped out of the corner of my mouth.
He pressed his boot down harder, eliciting a sharp groan from the depths of my gut. I feared my wrist was going to break, an injury that would surely be my last—for my body has chosen to rebel against itself.
“Liars are a dime a dozen. I have the scars to prove it,” the barkeep said.
“Let him go, Moses.”
It was a woman’s voice, strong and demanding, coming from behind me. The pressure on my wrist immediately ceased as the heavy man stepped away.
I sat up, my eyes scanning the floor for the placard and the physical presence of my rescuer.
My bones were intact, but what pride or hope I had left had almost escaped me entirely.
The woman was two heads shorter than the barkeep, Moses, I presumed, but her bulky frame was similar to his, as were her eyes, narrow and dark as a moonless night, void of pupil or emotion. She was no dancing queen, but she was attractive, in an odd sort of way, with flaming red hair, and dressed in a green satin dress that was perfectly fitted. Her frilly hat was made for Sundays and sashaying down the street of a finer city than the one I had found myself in. The brilliance of her colorful appearance was calming, like a rainbow after a fierce storm. She looked oddly out of place, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure she was real.
The woman unfolded the placard as I sat up, and was staring at me curiously. “Gillian?” she whispered softly.
I nodded. “Yes. You know of her?” I coughed again, deeper this time. I had found the placard posted outside a saloon five years before, my first clue that Gillian was still alive, playing piano professionally like I always knew she would.
She returned the gesture. “Pour the man a drink, Moses. A friend has joined us.”
The blow had weakened me, but the woman’s acknowledgment of Gillian’s presence gave me a boost of energy that I thought was long gone.
I was on my feet without any effort at all.
Moses scurried behind the bar, his head down.
“You’ll have to forgive my brother, Mr. Blackstone.”
“Edward. Eddie if you prefer.”
“Moses and I try to run a clean establishment, Edward. To many we are sinners, but that does not mean we cannot offer entertainment services to those who seek them. Though we do not profit off of the sale of feminine pleasures, we do profit off a fair bottle, an honest game of faro, and the best music to be found anywhere near or far. What remains of our clientele appreciates our efforts, but I fear our days here are numbered. This town is on its last breath, as is our establishment. The Devil has decided to claim our property and dreams. We are all on edge. Leery of strangers.”
“I didn’t intend to offend anyone,” I said.
“Moses is quick to react since his heart was broken by a woman of, how shall I say it? Nightly manners?”
“Gillian?” My own heart sank.
The woman laughed suddenly like I had said something funny. “Oh, no. I’m sorry to imply such a thing.” She extended her hand. “My name is Ruth Hathaway, or Miss Ruth, as your sister insisted on calling me on our first meeting. Please sit down, Edward. We have a lot to talk about.”
I led Gillian out of the blazing apartment building in the wee hours of the night, smoke roiling around our feet, wet shirts thrown over our heads. We both thought our mother and father were right behind us, for it was they who had roused us out of bed when the fire broke through to our apartment. But we got separated in the trample, in the chorus of screams, in the disorienting pleas for help from the floors above.
They died when a flaming beam fell on them. Their bodies were crushed and burned beyond recognition.
I would like to believe they had left us only to offer someone of less strength and courage aid and rescue. The only identifying remnants of their earthly existence were their wedding rings and the two small gold lockets my mother wore around her neck.
The lockets held pictures of Gillian and me. The picture of Gillian was taken when she was just a girl of five, golden curls flowing over her shoulder onto a fragile lace collar—an expensive portrait that serves as another reminder that our lives were once full, and rich. Gillian’s angelic beauty was evident, even then.
I have worn the locket around my neck ever since. And Gillian wears the locket that holds the picture of me, a miniature version of my father in physical appearance and like mind.
Void of any relatives, we were whisked off to The Children’s Aid Society shortly after our parents’ bones and ashes were ceremonially laid to rest in a pauper’s grave.
The fire destroyed everything that they owned, and though my father worked at a financial firm, there was no record of any investments—we had no money. At least that is what we were told, by a man with thinning hair and tobacco breath who stood in representation of Slade, Crothers, & Leiberman, at the end of the funeral.
The Children’s Aid Society offered few comforts, and more terror than one child, much less two, should be left to imagine.
The only thing that Gillian and I had to hang on to was each other. We vowed early on, after our shock and grief began to subside, to remain together no matter the cost.
And so we did.
Until that solemn day when we both boarded the Orphan Train, and were shepherded out of our wonderful city on the harbor, full of tall ships, teems of people, wonderful smells of food, and the memories of our parents.
We began our journey west, nervous and afraid, to a land that seemed barren, dry, and populated with people who eyed us with only opportunity and greed.
Moses set a full glass of whiskey on the table in front of me. Miss Ruth sat across from me, her mass so large the chair all but disappeared in a sea of green.
“Tell me of Gillian, please. You are the first person in my travels who has known of her. Is she still here, in this town?” I asked.
Miss Ruth shook her head no. “I’m sorry, Edward, she has been gone from here for nearly two years. Ages, it seems, since someone has touched the piano with such fineness. She was a sweet nectar, her talents were far above the stature of our lowly establishment. Her presence was a blessing, and I was sad to see her go. My pockets have not been as full since, and I don’t expect they ever will be again now that we teeter on the edge of loss.”
I smiled, ignoring the soulful moan of Miss Ruth’s mention of her current calamity. How could I not? “I always knew Gillian would be great, perhaps even famous. She would have traveled the world if our parents hadn’t died when we were children,” I said.
“Instead of playing for kings and queens,” Miss Ruth said, “she played for the likes of Moses and me. All the while, watching out of the corner of her eye, hoping that you would walk through the door.”
“She searched for me, as well?”
“Still does, as far as I know.”
I took a drink of the whiskey. My chest had began to boil, and the last thing I wanted to do was break into a coughing fit.
The news of Gillian was an elixir, a salve that soothed any thought of my illness. I wanted to touch the keys on the piano that she touched and feel close to her, feel the warmth of her touch, share the sameness of our blood and memories that have been missing from my life for so long, but I could not move. I was weak, and afraid I would miss a word of Miss Ruth’s tale of my long-lost sister.
“She knew of your reputation,” Miss Ruth continued. “Knew that you gained a certain amount of fame yourself. But you moved around too frequently for her to catch up with you. She missed you by two days in Dodge City. She searched all sixteen saloons until, finally, someone at the Long Branch told her of your victory in a card game there.”
“Blackjack Eddie? She knew of me as a gambler?”
“You look surprised.”
“My father would be ashamed that I have used my skills for a deviant cause.”
“Surviving is not deviant.”
“Ah, but cheating is.”
“Gillian told me of your skills, so please be aware that you won’t be counting any cards here. My till is thin enough.”
“My gaming days are nearly at an end,” I said. “My pockets are empty, and I have lost the will to maintain my fame. I promised Gillian that I would come for her, and I hope to fulfill that promise. Do you know where she went?”
“Yes,” Miss Ruth said. “I do.”
We did not know we were leaving until the day before. It was a Monday bath that warned us. Of course, by then, we had seen many children leave the confines of The Children’s Aid Society before us. They vanished like they had never existed, nary a trace of them left behind. Our fear, Gillian’s and mine, was that we would be separated; only one of us sent west, while the other remained behind in New York.
Fate spared us the blow of separation, if only temporarily, when we both found a new set of clothes on our beds and our hair tended to like we were to be department store models after our “special” bath.
The next day, we were herded to the train station and pushed on board the Orphan Train under the watchful eye of the placing agent who was to accompany us. The man’s name escapes me, but he was flustered and mean, overwhelmed by the forty or so waifs and street urchins put in his charge.
The novelty of the train ride soon fell away. It was miserably hot inside because of the unrelenting summer heat. The seats were thin and uncomfortable, and worse than anything else, the passenger car was filled with the smell of bile from children suffering from the constant sway of the railcar. Gillian was afflicted far worse than I.
We held hands continually.
“Promise me we’ll always be together,” Gillian said just after we crossed the Mississippi River.
Our parents had been dead for nearly three years. Gillian was ten years old, and just as I was a mirror image of my father, Gillian favored my mother. I could not look into her eyes without wanting to cry.
“I promise.”
We had both been cheated, stolen from, and lied to since the day of the fire. I wasn’t sure I could keep my promise to her any longer, but I could not bear to see her afraid.
She rested her head against my shoulder, the golden curls straight now and lacking any hint of luster. Even then Gillian looked frail, haunted by fire and the misery of loneliness.
I could only hope the home we were going to would be gentle, our new parents understanding and kind. Anything had to better than the institutional life two thousand miles behind us—at least, that is what I thought at the time.
Sleep came intermittently, and our nerves were on end at every stop. No one knew how long it would take us to arrive in Kansas. Each time the brakes squealed, Gillian clutched my hand with all of the energy she had, afraid that we had arrived at our final destination.
I can still feel the pain of her touch when I squeeze my hands together.
“Gillian told me to tell you that she would go to Silent Hill and wait for you there. If the wait became too long, she would leave word of her whereabouts at the saloon, just like she has done here,” Miss Ruth said.
“Silent Hill,” I uttered, barely able to speak the name of the town aloud.
“Gillian felt the same way, I’m afraid. But she thought you might look for her there.”
“I vowed never to return.”
“I tried to persuade her to stay. But she is willful.”
“She was good for your business.”
“It was more than that,” Miss Ruth said, clenching her teeth after the words had left her mouth, forcing the fullness of her face to draw so tightly her lifeless eyes bulged.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Ruth. My sister and I have been on the stiff for so long cynicism has become a code.”
“I cared for your sister. She was like a canary with a broken wing. I have never had any children of my own so love does not come easy for me. Moses has always been my protector, my closest confidant. I felt her emptiness immediately.”
I sat back in my chair and studied Miss Ruth. Her emotion was forced, her eyes averted to the door, away from me. For the first time since our conversation began, I felt like she was not telling me everything, that she was hiding something. My gambler’s instinct warned me something was wrong—that it was time to stand up from the table before I lost everything I had.
I was uncertain of my location, how far I had wandered before stumbling on Miss Ruth’s saloon. “How far is Silent Hill from here?” I asked, as I pushed my chair away to stand up.
“A day’s ride, more or less, true north,” Miss Ruth said. “Why don’t you rest up for the night before leaving? There’s a bunk in the storeroom, and a good meal wouldn’t hurt you none.”
The thought of climbing back in the saddle did not appeal to me, at least not physically. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to make the trip. But knowing Gillian was close, that I had caught a whiff of her trail, gladdened my heart, even if I had trepidation about Miss Ruth’s intentions.
I relaxed back into the chair, wooed by the thought of food. “In the morning, then.”
“Good,” Miss Ruth said. “But I have a favor to ask of you before you leave.”
“A favor?” I was as far down on my luck as I could go, and I was short of favors—but Miss Ruth had given me something that I had longed for, a thin piece of hope that Gillian still walked this earth. Still, even with the gift, I was distrustful.
The door of the saloon pushed open and a sudden burst of wind snaked around my ankles. A cold chill, that had no association with fever, ran up the back of my neck. I followed Miss Ruth’s gaze to the door.
Upon seeing the fellow striding into the saloon, dressed impeccably, fresh pomade eliciting a confident shine that extended all of the way down to his highly polished boots, I knew the favor Miss Ruth asked of.
She aimed to profit off my skills, just as she had Gillian’s. I knew the gentleman, and the gentleman knew me.
Mysterious John Harvey and I had a long history.
If my instinct was still intact, something told me there was far more at stake for me than a set of clean sheets and a piece of well-cooked meat.
Rain had just stopped falling when the train came to its final stop.
There were twelve of us boys and only one girl, Gillian, remaining on the train. The rest of our group of orphans from The Children’s Aid Society had already set upon their new lives at various stops across the state of Kansas. I could only hope that their journey, like ours, would lead to a happy end.
A creaking sign, waving in the persistent, cold wind informed us that we had arrived in Silent Hill, Kansas.
The placing agent led us single file down the main street of town.
Silent Hill looked nothing like New York City or anything Gillian and I were accustomed to. Muddy streets. Single-level wood frame buildings that were sparse and weathered. The sky was larger than I could have ever imagined it truly was—gray and moody, full of rolling, bubbling rain clouds that seemed to go on forever.
Even in the middle of the day, there was an eerie quiet, a lack of human activity in the town. The only consistent sound was the whine of the wind. It felt strong enough to topple us over, or go in one ear and all of the way out the other.
“I don’t like this place,” Gillian said.
I could hardly feel my fingers, she was squeezing my hand so hard.
“It’s not so bad,” I lied.
A crowd was hovering outside the opera house. They parted silently as we approached.
As we passed, I searched the crowd, hoping to find a kind face, a nod, an acknowledgment, from someone that seemed recognizable. I realize now that I was looking for love, a hint of it anyway. Why would someone agree to adopt an unknown child from two thousand miles away if there was not love in their heart?
I saw only fear and judgment in the eyes of those we passed. Love was a lost memory, never to be truly found again.
I was to be a workhorse, a laborer, a body to tend to as if it were nothing more than an animal that could easily be put down and replaced.
My boyish desire for comfort and understanding was dying as I made the walk up to the stage in that opera house—but I didn’t know it, couldn’t imagine it, then. I still believed in the goodness of people…and myself.
We stood there like cattle, facing a crowd of strangers whose presence promised to change our lives forever.
The placing agent, who looked even angrier and more exhausted than he did when we first left New York City, joined three men and one woman. They spoke in soft tones, and pointed to the crowd. The three men and woman were obviously members of the committee in Silent Hill that had lined up potential families to adopt those of us from hopeless circumstances.
One of the men, dressed in black and no bigger around than a twig, announced that, “The children are now available for inspection.”
The placing agent nodded in agreement.
Slowly, the crowd broke apart, and people approached us curiously. Some checked our ears to see if they were clean. One man grabbed my arm and squeezed as hard as he could, trying to determine the size of my muscles.
I jerked my arm away, and though I was tempted to spit at the man, I restrained the urge. I didn’t want to make a bad show of myself. I knew my manners, and I hoped my discomfort at being prodded and poked would not overcome them.
The man eventually moved on, though he eyed me like he might have found what he was looking for.
Gillian stood behind me, shivering.
Fear has a metallic taste to it—and the air was filled with gunmetal, iron, and hidden tears. Each time someone touched me, I nearly let go of my bladder.
A woman dressed in widow weeds stopped in front of me. The placing agent was two steps behind her.
“Well,” the woman said. “Aren’t you a fine looking little fellow.”
I could hardly believe my ears.
The woman sounded just like my mother, her accent proper English. Not only did the woman look formal, fully in mourning, but there was a softness in her eyes that made my heart melt. I could almost taste a cucumber sandwich.
Gillian peered out from behind me.
“And you must be the girl I’ve heard so much of,” the woman said, a smile appearing on her face like a ray of sunshine peeking from behind a dark cloud. “I understand you play the piano beautifully. Is that true?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gillian whispered.
“Oh, that is lovely. Just lovely. I have a piano in my parlor. Would you like to come and see it?” The woman extended her hand, a gold band still on her finger.
“Yes.” Gillian had not touched a piano since the night before our parents died. She took the widow’s hand and looked over her shoulder at me. “What about Edward?”
It was then that I noticed the man who squeezed my arm, standing behind the placing agent. The taste of cucumber sandwiches washed out of my mouth, replaced by iron and gunmetal.
“I’m sorry. I only have room for one.”
Gillian’s screams sounded like the wind on the worst Kansas day. Her eyes were filled with terror and tears as she disappeared from my view for the last time, fighting to escape the widow’s grasp.
The placing agent, and the man who would become my adopted father and tormenter, restrained me as I fought futilely to reach Gillian. It was the end of everything I knew—and the start of an even more miserable existence.
“I’ll come for you, I promise!” I screamed after Gillian. “I’ll come for you.”
But I couldn’t. I was a prisoner on a farm in Silent Hill, fed gruel and beat with a belt when I didn’t do what I supposed to do, or sassed back at Wilmer Beatty, the meanest man in the world. Even though I quit believing in God, I prayed every night that Gillian’s life was better than mine.
I escaped when I was seventeen, and not being privileged to the location of the widow’s home, I’ve been searching for Gillian ever since.
Mysterious John Harvey sat down at the table, opposite me. “I heard you were dead,” he said.
“Funny. I heard the same thing about you.”
Harvey motioned for Moses to come over to the table. Miss Ruth was now standing at the bar, watching us both with trepidation, the exact details of her favor interrupted by Mysterious John Harvey’s entrance.
“A whiskey for me and my friend.”
“I’ve had enough,” I said.
“A game then? If I remember right, the last time we met you walked away from the table before I had the chance to empty your pockets.”
“My pockets are empty now.” Our last meeting was a hundred miles ago, when Lady Luck and my body turned on me the final time, and I was too weak to keep count of the cards. I wandered for days, in and out of consciousness, in and out of towns, where I heard Mysterious John Harvey was shot, just outside of Dodge City when he was caught cheating, an ace up his sleeve.
Moses set a whiskey in front of Harvey. “No,” he said to me, “they’re not. He’s playing for the house, Mr. Harvey.”
A laugh escaped Mysterious John Harvey’s tight mouth. “You have very little left to lose, Ruth. I will own this place if Blackjack Eddie’s luck is as miserable as it looks. Are you sure you’re willing to risk everything on a stranger?”
“He’s no stranger,” Miss Ruth said.
“Very well. Eddie?”
I stared at Harvey, knowing full well he would do anything to win. I had to wonder if I was up to the challenge, even if it was prideful. I turned my attention to Miss Ruth. “So if Mysterious John wins, your establishment is his? What is my prize?”
Before Miss Ruth could answer, Moses plopped down a deck of cards between Harvey and me. “Your freedom,” he said, digging a handful of chips out of his apron.
I must have had an astonished look on my face, because Harvey burst out laughing. “Looks like a high stakes game. Stud poker?”
“I’m sorry, Edward. I should have told you. Gillian took the last of our prospects with her. You’re our only hope. You have to stay to repay her debt.”
I took a deep breath, not fully comprehending the situation, other than I knew I had to play. And I had to win to repay whatever my sister’s debt was. “Stud poker it is,” I said.
Time seemed to stand still. The light outside did not change, and I would not have noticed if it did. A man in the back walked to the piano and began to play “That Old Gang of Mine.” I had not noticed him before; he seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Our stacks stayed even for several hands, until the luck shifted and Mysterious John Harvey hit a winning streak. I suspected he was cheating. He knew I was counting, but my marks weren’t holding, my mind foggy, so I quit the effort.
“Take off your vest, Harvey. I want to see your sleeves.”
Miss Ruth and Moses hovered behind me like I was giving birth to a baby. My whiskey glass was never empty.
Harvey did not do as I asked; instead, he glared at me and dealt. “This is a fair game, Eddie.”
My first card up was an eight of clubs. The hole card was a queen of hearts. I had no choice but to bet. I was growing weaker by the moment. The next card, dealt up, was an ace of spades. I bet half of my stack. Harvey did the same. He was showing a pair of kings. My chances of winning were slim, and we both knew it.
The next card Harvey dealt me face up was an eight of diamonds. I bet half again, leading Harvey to do the same in kind, raising three times until I had one chip left.
My chest heaved and my vision was beginning to blur.
The last card dealt was an ace of hearts. Harvey was showing a pair of kings, an ace of clubs, and a two of diamonds. I did not take my eyes off him. The piano player quit playing. Silence engulfed the room when I threw in my last chip, called and flipped over my cards. Aces and eights.
“The dead man’s hand,” Harvey whispered.
“Take off your vest, Harvey,” I repeated, as I slid my hand under the table and grappled for the derringer in my boot.
This time Mysterious John Harvey obliged. An ace of spades spilled onto the table out of his sleeve. I smelled a familiar aroma, iron—fear, I thought, until I saw the bullet hole and bloodstain on Harvey’s shirt, just underneath his heart. He smiled at me and nodded, acknowledging what I had feared since I had began to play. My weapon would do me no good against a dead man.
I realized then that tuberculosis had somehow captured me, soaked my lungs one last time. I just couldn’t place when—somewhere in my wandering, along the dusty trail, before I stumbled into Miss Ruth’s saloon. Dead, even though I didn’t know it.
Harvey turned his card over, all in all he had a pair of kings, an ace of clubs, a two of diamonds, and a two of spades. My guess was he was going to slip in the ace of spades until he saw mine. He’d done it before.
“What is the name of this town?” I asked, trying to stand.
“Purgatory,” Miss Ruth said. “You’re in Purgatory.”
There was piano music in the wind as I entered Silent Hill. The opera house looked like it had received a new coat of paint, the streets were clean, free of mud, and the sky was crystal clear. Sapphire blue. The color of Gillian’s eyes. I never imagined Silent Hill would look like Heaven, if there was such a thing.
I felt revived, free of pain, once I left Miss Ruth and Moses in Purgatory. Mysterious John Harvey was left to pay off his debt—I’m not sure what his penance was. Mine had been playing a fair game, winning, without cheating.
I could not contain myself when I walked into the saloon. Gillian was sitting at the piano, playing Chopin. She turned and looked at me, blond curls falling over her shoulder, a glow about her I could only remember seeing when she was a child, and rushed to me, her embrace warm and happy. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said happily.
“I know. I’m sorry it took me so long.”
We stood looking at each other for what seemed eternity. Death had taken her too, somehow, somewhere. She obviously had a debt to repay—it was the only way to explain her presence in Purgatory. I was burgeoning with questions about her life.
After a moment, Gillian grabbed my hand. “Come, we must go.”
It was then that I heard the train whistle, felt the thunder of the locomotive pulling into town.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Home,” Gillian said with a smile. “Back to our city. Together. Forever.”