Dixon drew in a long breath before stepping into Abbadon’s room. His gaze darted to the boots beneath the washstand. Still there.
He glanced back at Abbadon, who now filled the doorway. He cleared his throat and said, “I see you haven’t moved anything.”
Abbadon lifted his hand to study his fingernails. “I have nothing to hide.” He rubbed his nails along his white coat. “Perhaps you should peruse the notebook you didn’t have time for earlier.”
Dixon’s cheek twitched. How did Abbadon know that he hadn’t looked at it?
The leather-bound journal rested beside the lit kerosene lamp on the end table. Dixon strode across the room and studied the cover. His fingers twitched before taking a pencil and opening the book with it. His breath checked at his throat. Would these notes reveal how Abbadon came to know things about Dixon no one else could know?
July 14, 1872
Clarence Dixon stole a saddle off a neighbor’s dead horse and hid it in a gully near Winnipeg, Manitoba.
Dixon clamped his jaw. Where would Abbadon have gotten such information? Besides, it was a lie. Yes, he had taken the saddle off the dead horse and hidden it, but he’d also returned it to the family’s cabin only to discover their farm destroyed and the family murdered. He’d kept the saddle. What else could he have done? There’d been no one to claim it.
October, 1873
Clarence Dixon lied about his age on his application for the North West Mounted Police.
Dixon had lied, but it was well-intentioned, even if the consequences …
He ran his hand through his hair. He’d been sixteen when he had run away from home to sign up with the NWMP. That’s why his mother had followed him to Duck Lake. If he would have waited until legal age, his mother would not have moved to such a dangerous location.
A cool sensation washed over him. She might even be alive today.
He glanced at Abbadon, and the man’s insolent eyes met his. “What’s the meaning of these notes?”
“I have my reasons. Keep reading. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
Dixon’s heart pounded as he flipped pages. The notebook contained every mistake, every lie, every—yes, admittedly, every sin he’d ever committed. Yet not always the whole truth. Sometimes, like with the saddle, it was only damning words and not the whole story.
February, 1885
Sub Constable Dixon of the North West Mounted Police rendezvoused with Louis Riel at Duck Lake.
The taunt muscles of Dixon’s cheek pulsated as he scanned those words once more. It was a list of insinuations, deadly suggestions that he, a loyal Canadian, had sided with the rebel. If this book got into the hands of the commissioner, Dixon’s life would be under a thorough investigation and he would hang as a traitor.
“Rather convicting isn’t it?” Abbadon leaned against the door frame with a smug smile.
“I wasn’t a traitor.” Dixon pressed the pencil into the book margin. His cold fingers shook. His entire life, everything he’d worked to hide was exposed here.
“Pretty tough to prove, don’t you think?”
“Pretty tough to prove your words.” Anger rumbled in his stomach, but fear cooled its fire. His reputation, his future were at stake. How could he ever look Ruth in the eyes again?
“People believe whatever they want, and, if guided well,” Abbadon straightened and walked toward Dixon, “most people believe what I want them to believe.”
No doubt. Dixon bit his tongue though he seethed with angry words now rising past the fear. However, Abbadon would turn those words into fodder for more lies. He couldn’t let that happen. “What do you plan to do with this?”
Abbadon clasped his hands behind his coat and tilted his head back. “Nothing, at the moment. But what happens in the future depends on you. See, I could burn the notebook. Save you a lot of sorrow, give you the peace in this world you want. Only problem is: what does it get me? As long as I have this, I own you.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Another soul to keep at my beck and call.”
Dixon grew numb. It came down to his badge or justice—to give his life in order to put behind bars one of the most evil men he’d ever met.
“Will you dance with the devil?” Abbadon stood so close his breath raised the hair on the back of Dixon’s neck. “How much is a traitor’s life worth, anyway?”
“You’ve set out to ruin a man much better than myself. This is not about me. This is about Joab.”
Abbadon snorted. “Joab’s a toy. I used him as I use everyone. By ruining his life I am able to keep you under my control.”
Dixon met him nose to nose. “So, you admit you committed arson and murder.”
Abbadon laughed. “Murder? Is that what you think? I merely suggested Black’s son gather some sage for his mother. He crossed those tracks on his own volition. Who could possibly know those wild dogs would attack?”
“But you do admit to arson.”
“Accidents happen, you know. Kerosene lamps are so easy to knock over.”
Dixon squared his shoulders and reached for his gun. “Abbadon, you’re under arrest.”
Abbadon chuckled. “And I’ll be glad to hand this notebook over to the commissioner.”
Dixon refrained from glancing at the leather-bound journal. This might cost him his career, but …
“And it will be your word against the written testimony of my husband.”
Dixon’s gaze snapped to the door to see Mrs. Clumpit holding a scroll in her hand.
Abbadon snatched up the notebook and spun around. The look on his face was one of hatred.
“Freeze.” Dixon pulled his gun and pointed it at the devil. He’d not let Ruth get hurt.
The man swung back and knocked Dixon’s wrist. Dixon cursed as the gun flew through the air. He threw a punch, but Abbadon blocked it and grasped Dixon by his neck.
Pain wrapped around Dixon’s throat. He tore at Abbadon’s hands, but the devil lifted him off the floor, keeping the air from Dixon’s lungs. Where’d the man get the strength?
Dixon kicked at him but missed. He beat Abbadon’s hands, but his own arms grew rubbery. He tried to cry out “Run, Ruth,” but the words couldn’t escape his gagged throat.
Abbadon flung him onto the bed. Dixon’s head slammed against the wall while he fought for breath. God, help us!
He pushed to his feet and saw Abbadon shove Ruth to the floor. “Stop.”
The scoundrel loomed over the woman and snatched after the scroll.
Dixon scrambled for his gun lying beneath the bed.
“In the name of my Lord, Jesus Christ,” Ruth screamed.
Dixon swung around to see Abbadon pale and jump back. Terror gripped the man’s features like that of an animal about to be consumed by a mountain lion. He glanced at Dixon then fled from the room.
Dixon rushed toward Ruth. She pushed herself up, her face pale, her hands shook, but she seemed to be gathering her composure. “You okay?”
“Yes. Go.” She waved him out the door.
Dixon ran down the stairs and out onto the boardwalk. Though he searched up and down the street, there was no sign of Abbadon. The man couldn’t just disappear.
He sped around the corner of the house, but there was no sign of the stranger back there either.
Best get Barty and Nathaniel and start a manhunt. This character was not getting away, even if it cost Dixon his life.