[excerpt from Doctors in Hell]

The Right Man for the Job

by Deborah Koren

New Bodie’s streets rang with music, none of it melodious, tuneful, or in any way pleasing to the ear. That didn’t prevent the damned from striking up a tune on guitars, fiddles, harmonicas; creating bands and orchestras; or simply opening their mouths and belting out a refrain. Bat Masterson, old West lawman, could not fault their eternal enthusiasm. Mankind, even in hell, needed music.

Like the blond fellow plunking away on the yellowed keys of the piano inside the adobe-walled cantina. Bat watched him from the doorway. There was skill in the player’s hands, in the way his fingers neatly curled, in the way his hands rose off the keys so gracefully. But each key sounded a note that had nothing to do with its position on the piano, and the effect was a dissonant jangle. Rhythm alone told Bat the piece was probably a waltz, but that was as far as his guess extended. The player seemed oblivious to the discord, his hands moving precisely, lovingly. Bat wondered how the man could even stand to play when the result so clearly failed to match his intent.

Bat wondered this even more because the piano player had not been a musician in life. Not if George Armstrong Custer was telling the truth and the piano player was Dr. Henry Rinaldo Porter, only surviving surgeon from the Battle of the Little Big Horn. Porter’s piano playing skills apparently had been acquired solely in hell, on instruments that never would offer the satisfaction of a real melody. How did one learn to play under those circumstances?

Bat shook his head and walked into the cantina. He knew of Dr. Porter, of course. Their earthly lives had run almost concurrently, and the Little Big Horn was a military disaster no one in the country had failed to read or hear about. Porter’s skill and quick actions in the field had saved many of the wounded soldiers in his care.

The hot and stuffy air smelled of burning tortillas and beans frying in rancid fat. Bat waited until Porter finished the song before approaching.

Porter said, “I don’t do requests,” then launched into a new, livelier song.

Bat looked over the cantina’s few patrons. Each sat alone at scattered tables, nursing drinks or eating, none paying the slightest attention to the house musician. “I’m not here for a song,” Bat said. “Custer sent me.”

Porter’s fingers tripped on the keys, not that the caterwaul coming from the piano suffered for the lapse. “And what does the Lieutenant Colonel want?”

“Nothing. He merely recommended you as a fine surgeon and physician.”

Porter laughed bitterly. “And what would he know? I was with Major Reno during the battle.” Porter had an unusual way of cutting short his words when he spoke that Bat found slightly disconcerting.

Bat said, “It’s not like you can hide history down here. The dead talk and tell stories. You know what he told me?”

“Do I care?”

“He said it was a damned good thing you rode with Major Reno that day, and not him. If you’d gone with him, you’d have been killed, your skills wasted, and all those wounded you cared for wouldn’t have made it.”

Porter paused in his playing, raised a hand to tug at one side of his handlebar mustache. Bat couldn’t tell if it was a self-conscious gesture or an expression of irritation. Whatever the reason, the piano’s silence was a golden thing. He could even hear the cooks arguing in Spanish in the kitchen.

“He said that?” Porter asked.

“Yes.”

The doctor-turned-piano player regarded him with more interest. “So, then, who are you?”

“I’m Bat Masterson.”

Porter’s blue eyes widened slightly, and his gaze shifted to the pistol holstered at Bat’s side. “I’ve heard of you, Mister Masterson. What do you want?”

“I’m looking for a medical man.”

“Then apparently Custer hasn’t kept up on news down here,” Porter said, with an emphatic shake of his head. “I don’t practice medicine nowadays.”

“Sorry, I didn’t use the right wording. I’m really looking for a man of science. It’s a long shot, but I’ve exhausted all my other resources.”

Porter swiveled on the piano stool, curiosity piqued, to face Bat. That would last all of five seconds, Bat thought, until he told the doctor his area of interest, and then Porter would either laugh or run him out of the cantina. Bat hesitated, delaying the inevitable, but found no better way of stating his needs than doing it outright. “I’m trying to find someone who knows something about curses down here.”

Porter stared at him. Predictably, mistrust and skepticism replaced curiosity. Porter sighed and said, “Why would you want to ask me? We’re all cursed. I know as much about it as you or Joe there, or Miguel in the back room. You don’t want a surgeon. It’s not something I can cut out of you, and you wouldn’t want me near you with a scalpel anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is hell, Mister Masterson. Because of those curses you were just talking about. Because my torment is that if I try to help someone sick or wounded, they die.”

“All right, fair enough,” Bat said. “But like you said, I don’t need surgery. What I need is someone who might have a scientific rationale for what happened to me and my friend, and a way to undo it.”

“A curse isn’t scientific!”

“I said it was a long shot—”

“Go try a witch doctor, or a medicine man, or someone.”

“I did.”

“No luck?”

“The medicine man just shook his head, and this old gal from New Orleans wanted a fortune I don’t have for results she pretty much guaranteed would fail.”

Porter raised an eyebrow. “This surprised you?”

“No, but she also recommended I see a man of  science.”

“A man of science.” Porter laughed. He crossed his arms and said, “Before I realized the true extent of my own torment, I sought out any surgeon or medical man who had arrived down here after I did. The things I learned from them! The advances in knowledge, techniques, equipment! But after a while, when I realized I could not apply anything I learned . . . knowledge simply for the sake of knowledge, age after age, eventually becomes burdensome. I wanted to use this new learning.” Porter struck an off-key chord on the piano and held it. The lingering tones vibrated painfully in Bat’s ears. “None of it matters, Mister Masterson! I cannot use this knowledge to aid anyone. My hands are the hands of death now.” He released the keys and looked up at Bat again. “You think if I had learned something about undoing hell’s torments I wouldn’t have tried it on myself?”

“Well, this curse is a little different: it’s not the torment I started out with. Has to do with a demon—”

“Doc!” The shout interrupted Bat.

A tall, one-legged man in a cavalry uniform thrust through the cantina’s doors. Worn wooden crutches punctuated his approach. He tugged off his forage cap before addressing Porter. “Doc, there’s some wounded needing your help.” An Irish brogue softened his words.

Porter dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his temples. “Two useless cries for help in one day. This hasn’t happened in ages.” He took a deep breath, straightened again, and told the tall man, “I’m sorry, Mike, you know I’m of no use down here for doctoring.”

“But Doc, it’s a wagonload of women. Five or six of ‘em. They somehow made it across No Man’s Land, but they’re shot up something fierce.”

“Who shot them?”

The tall Irishman shrugged sheepishly. “New Bodie citizens.”

“What? Why?”

“Them women, they come down from Helldorado. They were shouting about escaping the plague.” Mike reached down to touch Porter’s shoulder. “Doc, you’re the closest doctor. If someone don’t declare them healthy, the townspeople are gonna shoot ‘em or burn ‘em, just to be safe. There’s a mob gathered outside the storehouse they’re hiding in, not more than a block from here.”

Through gritted teeth, Porter said, “So what? How many times do I have to say it? I am not a surgeon anymore. I’m a piano player.”

“Doc, you’ve got to. There’s no one else close enough to help.”

Before Porter could protest again, Bat interrupted gently, “They’re gonna die or be killed anyway, Doc. Perhaps your ministrations will be a blessing.”

Porter looked up at him sharply, but Bat regarded him steadily, letting the logic sink in. “This is a bad idea,” Porter muttered. “A very bad idea.” Nonetheless, he squared his shoulders and stood. “All right. Fine. I’ll take a look at them. But you’re coming too, Mister Masterson.”

“Me?” Bat shook his head and held up his hands. “I’m no doctor.”

“You heard Mike, here. There’s a mob, Mister Masterson.”

“That there be, sir,” Mike agreed. “It’s going to get ugly if nothing’s done.”

“I’d rather not be shot or lynched along with those women,” Porter said. He pointed at Bat’s holstered gun. “You were a lawman, and I’ll wager you’re as good with that as I was with a scalpel. You come with me and keep that mob from doing something rash, and I’ll examine those women. Deal?”

“You don’t have a scattergun hid under that piano, do you?” Bat asked. “Better for crowd control.”

“No.”

“That’s a shame.” Bat blew out a breath. The doctor was right; this was a bad idea. On the other hand, Bat thought, maybe a little action would be a welcome break from searching for answers that did not exist. He finally shrugged. “All right, what the hell, Doc. Let’s go.”

*

Henry Porter felt the tension as soon as they stepped out of the cantina. Porter had been a contract surgeon with the army several times, seen action in Arizona and, of course, on Montana’s infamous battlefield. He’d been afraid more times than he could count. Fear in hell, however, was a more palpable thing than it had been when he’d been alive. In hell, fear was a mist-like miasma that seeped through the air, infecting others with terror, anger, or other mob-generated emotions. It lured more damned to the mob, like flames drawing moths, and just as destructive. Breathing that foul air made him curl his fingers into fists and tighten his gut with apprehension. Tt made him want to lash out at those around him. He clutched his black bag closer to him and fought the feeling.

Mike’s eyes glittered, but Porter knew the ex-soldier was a good and brave man. Private Michael Madden had been one of the soldiers with Porter at the Little Big Horn. The private had been shot trying to fetch much-needed water for the trapped men, and Porter ultimately had to amputate his leg to save his life. He was a good man, and Mike had proved that again now, fighting the mob’s fear-compulsion to come fetch Porter. Not that Porter’s presence would do anyone any good.

Masterson, Porter observed, seemed oblivious to the miasma, at least on the surface, though his fingers tapped lightly against the hilt of his gun, ready to draw.

“Make way! Make way!” Mike shouted, his words cutting through the mob’s overlapping voices. “The doctor’s here.”

A big, soft-bellied man pushed out of the rabble to block their approach. A dirty hat topped long gray hair, and a gray beard hung over his stained shirt. Suspenders barely kept his britches up. A heavy brow furrowed over hooded eyes. “We don’t need no doctor,” he growled.

“And how would you know?” Porter said coldly. “Did you examine them?”

“Don’t need to. They somehow made it down here from Helldorado, and they were screaming about plague.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re infected, you idiot. Do you think they could have made it across No Man’s Land if they were ill?”

“Well . . .” The man scratched at his beard and glanced left and right at his nearest companions for support, but they had fallen silent.

Masterson spoke up. “All right, here’s what’s going to happen, Mister . . . ?”

“Pearce.” The man eyed Masterson, noticing the lawman for the first time. “My name’s Pearce.”

“Mister Pearce,” Masterson said. “Here’s what’s going to happen: Before you go arbitrarily shooting and burning innocent people, the doctor here is going to take a look at those women.”

Outraged shouts rose from the crowd. Porter shifted uneasily. These people wanted blood, regardless of who the women were or what they suffered from, and the sudden fear that they might be denied murderous satisfaction set them surging forward like snarling wolves. Let them do what they want, Porter wanted to tell Masterson. He couldn’t help those women anyway, if only someone would realize that.

But Masterson hadn’t budged and, under his unruffled gaze, Pearce took a step back and the crowd stopped behind him, like a tide caught by an invisible dam. Masterson still hadn’t raised his voice. “If the doctor says they’re a danger, then you can shoot and burn away.”

A bloodthirsty cheer rumbled through the crowd.

Masterson’s voice turned steely. “But not until the doctor says.”

Pearce’s gaze darted to Masterson’s still-holstered gun before he held up his hands, palms out. “All right,” he said. “All right.”

Masterson gestured to Porter. “Get moving, Doc.”

As they passed him, Pearce grabbed Masterson’s arm. Bat turned his blue-gray eyes on him, and Pearce’s fingers snapped open, releasing Bat. The mob leader swallowed, then poked a finger at Masterson’s chest instead. “But just you lookee here, Mister. If it is plague, doctor or no, gunfighter or no, you ain’t coming out of that storehouse any more than those whores are. You understand?”

Masterson stared at him a moment longer. “You back this rabble away from the storehouse right now. The way you fellas are talking about plague, I’m surprised you’re willing to stand that close.”

His words worked like magic. A path opened up, the crowd scrambling away from the storehouse. The wagon the women had arrived in had crashed into the corner of the building. No one had attempted to move it, and two hell- horses stamped and snorted in their traces.

Porter walked toward the storehouse, conscious of the glares and hard looks, the stink of unwashed bodies, and the threats whispered at his back. This wasn’t a bad idea, it was a terrible idea, he told himself, but he was committed, like it or not. Madden and Masterson followed a couple steps behind him, and Porter was surprised at how reassuring the lawman’s presence was.

“Mike?” Porter said. “Please stay outside the door. Give us warning if things get worse out here.”

“Yes sir, Doctor Porter.”

“Good man,” Porter said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Mister Masterson, come with me, please.”

Masterson caught up to Porter just before the door. Softly, he asked, “You have a plan if those women are infected?”

“Sure. Find out how fast you are with that gun.” He grinned suddenly at the lawman.

“Comforting,” Bat said. “Real comforting.”

Hinges squealed as Porter opened the storehouse’s door. The interior of the building lay dark and full of shadowy shapes. His nose wrinkled at the reek of blood. One uncurtained back window let in enough light to make out flour sacks piled high against one wall and wooden crates in banked tiers against another. Dry straw littered the floor, crunching underfoot. It should have given the storehouse a pleasant, barnlike smell, but the odor was thick and cloying, like decaying leaves and swampy earth. A crooked table with an oil lamp sat near the entrance. Porter struck a match and turned the wick up to gain maximum light. Dust motes spun in the amber light.

Masterson gestured. “Over there, Doc.”

Porter saw the women. Four of them. Three seemed to have collapsed in the process of dragging themselves across the open floor. The fourth was propped against the wall of flour sacks. None were conscious. They were probably close to death. Half of him was relieved at the prospect, half flared in anger that he was too late to help them.

While Porter hesitated, Masterson prowled the storehouse, checking the corners, the back door, and the window, before returning to Porter’s side. Porter was well aware that he had made no move toward the women yet.

“The longer we dally, the more bloodthirsty that mob is going to get, Doc,” Masterson warned.

Sound advice, but that didn’t make it any easier to do his job. But what was he here for, then? Porter asked himself. Who else was going to help? He forced himself forward, holding the lamp aloft.

The two closest women were young, clad in cotton calico dresses. Porter leaned over them, inspecting them without getting too close. “Multiple gunshot wounds on these two. But they’re still breathing.”

“Any signs of the plague?”

Porter studied their skin, seeking signs of boils, pustules, lesions, even a rash or discoloration. There was nothing obvious that he could spot, and he shook his head. “Looks like bullets are all they’re infected with.”

Masterson leaned against the wall nearby. “What if you don’t touch them? What if I be your hands instead, and you tell me what to do?”

“You think I haven’t tried that already? It’s still me providing the help, and my patients still die. I can’t even remove a splinter from someone’s finger without losing them.” Porter stepped toward the third woman. This one wore a red silk dress in a fancy cut. Her matching hat was askew, but still pinned to her auburn hair. She appeared to have only one bullet wound, in the left thigh. It didn’t appear the bullet had touched the bone; it should have been treatable, even in hell.

“Doc?”

Masterson’s voice jogged Porter out of his reverie, and he turned angrily on the lawman. “What do you want me to do, Mister Masterson? If I take that bullet out and bandage her . . . she’ll die. From a wound that shouldn’t be fatal. And there’s nothing I can do about it except not touch her at all.” Porter’s hands trembled, and he set the lamp down on the floor beside the woman. “And each one that dies is on my conscience. I can’t do it.”

“Doc, if you don’t help her, she’ll bleed to death.”

“Lose-lose.” Porter laughed, heard the edge of hysteria tinging his words, and gritted his teeth until he could breathe around the tightness in his chest. “All right,” he murmured. “All right.” He knelt beside the woman and opened his bag. “Just keep talking to me, Mister Masterson.”

“Bat. Call me Bat.”

Porter nodded and began examining the woman’s wound for real. “All right,” he said. “Bat.”

“What do you want me to talk to you about?” Masterson asked.

The bullet had missed both bone and artery, passing through her leg. He turned the woman to inspect the exit wound. Clean and bandage it, that’s all he could do. “Different how?” Porter asked.

Bat blinked. “What now?”

Porter said, “Back at the saloon, you said your curse was different. Different how?”

“Well, Wyatt and I—”

“Wyatt Earp?”

“Yeah. Long story short, we riled up some local underground demons. They punished us with a curse so that we can’t get near each other without trying to kill each other.”

Porter cleansed the woman’s wound with a carbolic acid solution, letting Bat’s voice and words distract him, keeping him from focusing too much on the woman. “That sounds fun. Is it a physical or mental compulsion?”

“Physical.”

“Interesting.”

“Does that mean anything to you?”

“No, it’s just interesting.” Porter pressed a bandage against the front and exit wounds in the woman’s leg, bound them in place. Blood stained his hands, and he reached for a cloth to wipe them. “So, what if Wyatt shows up here?”

“Better hope he doesn’t, Doc. Otherwise, he and I will be compelled to shoot each other, and Wyatt doesn’t miss.”

“Good,” Porter said. “At least then I won’t have to try to treat you and have your death on my conscience too, will I?”

Bat laughed. “That you won’t.” His laugh stopped abruptly.

Porter glanced up and saw the lawman staring at the woman Porter had just bandaged. He didn’t want to look, but his gaze followed Masterson’s back to his patient. Her eyes opened, and she moaned. “It hurts! I need a doctor. A doctor . . .” She trailed off and, just as suddenly, her eyes closed and her breath rasped out a final time. A moment later, her body vanished, returned to the Undertaker’s slab.

Porter gave a strangled cry and pushed himself to his feet. He staggered for the door.

Masterson got there ahead of him and grabbed him by both arms to keep him from rushing outside.

Porter tried to pull away, but Bat’s grip held him immobile. “You see?” Porter’s voice cracked. “You see what happens? I kill them! She asked for a doctor, and she got a murderer!”

“Stop it!” Bat shouted. “Just stop!”

The woman against the flour sacks coughed, interrupting both men. “You sound like just the man I need, Doc.”

Porter started laughing, but Bat squeezed his arms until the pain made him stop.

“I’m being perfectly serious,” the woman said.

Porter met Masterson’s eyes, then nodded once. Bat released him, and Porter approached the woman.

“That was Stella you just released back to the Undertaker. The other two are Lucy and Carmen. I’m Mary.” She was older than the others, still handsome. Strawberry blonde hair framed a well-proportioned face with full lips. She sat propped against the flour sacks, legs stretched out straight in front of her like a child’s abandoned doll sitting stiff-limbed and broken.

“I’m sorry for your friend—”

“Don’t be,” Mary said. Her gaze, appraising and hungry, made him turn away. “So, you treat people and they die?”

Porter couldn’t bring himself to answer that.

She smiled at his silence. “Good,” she said firmly, and coughed again. “You’re the doc I want. I want to die.”

Her hands were folded over her stomach, and Porter could see the bloody wound there. Gutshot.

Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorially, and she looked around as if fearing eavesdroppers. “Do you have any?” she asked.

Porter exchanged a glance with Masterson. “Have what?”

She licked her lips. “The vaccine, of course.”

“What vaccine?” Porter asked.

“For the plague.”

“No. The plague hasn’t hit here yet. I wasn’t even aware there was a vaccine.”

“The vaccine is what I want.”

“You’re gunshot, ma’am, not ill. You don’t need—”

“I don’t care what I need, I want to die!”

“Whatthe hell vaccine are you talking about?” Masterson asked.

“You haven’t heard? This vaccine . . .” She pulled herself up straighter, grimacing, beckoning them closer. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it don’t. And when it don’t . . . you don’t come to, not on the Undertaker’s table.”

“Where do you come back?”

“You don’t.” A crooked smile crossed her lips.

It took a moment for that to sink in. Porter and Masterson exchanged another glance.

Porter said, “You . . . Oblivion? Nothingness?”

“You are gone, sirs, permanently. That’s what they say. It’s not heaven, but it’s a way out. An escape. No more hell. No more anything.”

“I’ll be damned,” Porter murmured.

“We already are,” Mary said, then signed. “No vaccine?”

Porter shook his head.

“Then you’re the next best thing. Help me.”

“No.”

Her hand shot out, talonlike, and gripped his wrist. “Please! Please, Doc. I don’t want to live. My life . . . you don’t know what it’s like, you don’t know how miserable . . . Speed me on my way. Maybe I’ll get lucky and won’t come back to the Undertaker’s table. Maybe you’re as good as the vaccine.”

Porter gaped at her, appalled at the thought.

Her grip did not slacken. “Doc, bandage me up. I’m going to die anyway, we both know it. Do me a favor and hurry up the dying.”

“Let go of me.”

“Not until you promise.”

“I need the lamp and my bag.”

“Promise me!”

“I promise!” The words jerked out of him, more to get away from her than anything, and he regretted them seconds later. But he had always been a man of his word; he had to honor his promise.

Mary let him go, and he stumbled away from her. He brought back the lamp and his black bag, avoiding the bloodstained floor where Stella had died, not looking at Masterson. “It’s peace, you give, Doc,” she said. “Not murder. Peace. You gotta know that. I’m ready to go.”

He ignored her and did his duty as a doctor. The woman groaned and whimpered as he worked on her. Her fingers balled in the material of the flour sacks, and she closed her eyes.

He finished extracting the bullet and sewing the wound shut, then carefully cleaned and bandaged her before he sat back on his heels and stared at her.

Sweat dripped off her brow. “Thanks, Doc. I mean it. Thanks.” She closed her eyes again.

Porter waited, watching for the moment her breath stopped and her body relaxed.

The moment didn’t come.

Her eyes flew open suddenly, and she looked down at her stomach. “What in blue blazes? I don’t feel the pain no more.” She tugged at the bandages, ripping them off. The wound had already knit shut.

Porter blinked and reached out to touch the fresh pink skin. He stared at his hands, then at her, then started laughing. “Mary, you’re going to live.”

Her slap across his cheek sent him reeling. “You said . . . you promised . . . Why am I not dead?” She spluttered with rage, and Porter just laughed at the irony of it. Somehow, he had saved her life.

“Doc,” Bat cut in. He pointed to the other two gunshot victims. “We got a problem.”

Porter raised the lamp for a better view. The skin on their faces, neck, and exposed arms had broken out in blisters. His laughter died, and cold dread spidered up his spine.

Mary chortled gleefully. “That’s the plague, boys! We was overrun with it up in Helldorado.”

“Shit,” Bat said. He grabbed Porter’s arm and yanked him to his feet. “You touch either of those two?”

“No.”

“Out. Out the back and get out of here. Run, man, run!”

Mary was still cackling. “Just try running! See how far you get! Serves you right, Doctor!”

Bat snatched the lamp from Porter’s hand and threw it at a wall where it exploded in a gout of flames. He shoved Porter, and the doctor sprinted for the back door. Porter yanked it open, then turned, waiting for Masterson. One of the plague victims got to her feet and lunged at Bat.

“Behind you!” Porter shouted.

Masterson pivoted, drawing his gun. He shot her down and dashed for the back door, only to pull up sharply.

“Bat, what are you waiting for?” Porter called. The fire was spreading rapidly up the wall, already consuming the rafters with a terrible roaring sound. Smoke spread through the room. The acrid smell of burning wood and creosote choked Porter, and he coughed. He waved a hand in front of his face, trying to clear the smoke for a better view.

Bat had reversed direction and headed toward the front door. His gun was in his hand, aimed ahead of him.

“What are you doing?” Porter yelled.

Calmly, Bat said, “Wyatt must be outside. I can’t stop myself.”

Porter ran forward, dodging a portion of the roof that fell. The heat from the fiery beam burned at his legs. He grabbed Bat’s arm, half-spinning him, and slugged him hard in the jaw. He caught the lawman as Bat slumped and snatched the pistol from his limp hand. He shoved the gun in his own belt, then bent and shouldered Bat in a soldier’s carry.

The sound of the fire had finally drowned out Mary’s laughter. He could see her through the smoke, sitting just where she had been, making no attempt to escape the blaze. He heard a hiss and saw the second plague victim on her feet and coming for him. He kicked the smoldering beam along the floor in her direction.

Stepping forward, her foot rammed into it, and she fell. Her fingernails dragged across the floorboards as she clawed toward him.

Porter didn’t wait around. He ran out the back door into the hot, clear air of the back alley. A few gulps of smoke-free air steadied him as he hurried down the empty alley, grunting under Masterson’s dead weight across his shoulders.

The storehouse burned behind them.

*

Bat groaned. He blinked, waiting for the world to swim back into clarity. Tattered lace curtains wavered in the window’s breeze. He could hear the clatter of wagons passing on the street outside, and the distant strains of a fiddle sawing out a melancholy melody. A sagging mattress cushioned his body. His jaw ached, and he touched it tenderly.

“Easy,” Porter said.

The doctor caught hold of Bat’s arm to help him sit up and swing his legs off the bed.

“Didn’t think you could hit that hard,” Bat muttered.

“You’re welcome.”

Bat surveyed the small, tidy bedroom. “Where are we?”

“As far away from your friend Wyatt as I could get you. Which was just to my room here, but looks like it was far enough to escape the compulsion.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Bat winced and asked, “The plague victims?”

Porter tugged at his mustache uncomfortably. He took a seat on a chair facing the bed. “The fire you started took out the whole block. None of those women got out of there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I saved that woman, Mister Masterson. I actually saved her.”

Bat could hear the wonder in the doctor’s voice, and he decided mentioning the woman’s ungrateful attitude would be of no benefit.

Porter went on, “I never thought that could happen.”

“Your torment must also be tied to the wounded you work on,” Bat guessed. “Everyone wants to live. Even here in the afterlife. Survival at any cost. So their desire to live, plus your desire to heal them . . .”

“Equals death.” Porter nodded. “But for someone who genuinely wants to die . . .”

“Then your curse does the opposite.” Bat swallowed. His throat felt more parched than normal, and he gestured at the pitcher of water on the side table. “What are you going to do now? Go back into doctoring?”

“No!” Porter said, standing. “I can’t . . . But today,” he hesitated, staring off into the distance, searching for words. “Today was . . .”

“I know,” Bat said. He was surprised how envious he felt of the doctor. Moments like that were so rare. “Just hang onto that. It’s not likely to happen again anytime soon.”

“Besides, I’m a damned good piano player. And I like it.”

Bat raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Porter shrugged sheepishly. “No. But it fills the days, and it’s harmless.” He poured water into a glass and pushed it into Bat’s hand.

“Nobody’s shot you for playing the wrong tune?”

Porter blinked in surprise. “Good Lord, would they do that?”

Bat grinned at him. “I’ve seen it happen.”

“You must hang out in a rougher part of town than me. Remind me not to visit your preferred watering holes,” the doctor said, smiling back. “What about you? What are you going to do?”

Bat drank the glass dry before replying: “Keep looking for answers. There’s got to be a way to break this compulsion.”

“You try leaving?” the doctor asked.

“Run away? I’ve been running from Wyatt since this happened. Just like we ran today.”

“No,” Porter said. “I mean leave New Bodie entirely. Get away from here, with Wyatt.”

Bat cocked his head. “How, exactly, would two people compelled to kill each other leave together?”

“Get help. Your brothers? Wyatt’s brothers?”

Bat rubbed at his jaw, not sure he wanted to invite deliberately getting knocked unconscious on a more regular basis. Particularly as he knew his brothers, at least, would agree to such a plan with far more enthusiasm than Bat felt was necessary. “What are you getting at, Doc?”

Porter leaned forward intently. “Those underground demons who put this curse on you: they’re local. Indigenous to this region. Which means their powers are probably localized too. So,” he spread his hands, “get out of their range.”

“I . . .” Bat trailed off, a thoughtful look on his face. Then he shook his head. “No, that can’t possibly work.”

“How do you know? Besides, what do you have to lose? Do you and Wyatt really want to spend eternity gunning for each other? If it doesn’t work, nothing’s changed. But if their power is local . . .”

“Damn,” Bat said. “You might be on to something.” The skepticism in his eyes was replaced by a twinkle of hope. “But how would we leave New Bodie?”

“I didn’t say it would be easy.”

Bat laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Then how about it, Doc? You done playing piano in that run-down cantina? Want to see some place new?”

“What, me?”

“Come on, Doc. Custer told me about your past. You signed up repeatedly as a contract surgeon with the army, and you can’t tell me it was the army pay and good food that kept you coming back. Piano playing might be safe, but I doubt it’s very satisfying to someone like yourself who thrived on excitement. So, what do you say? Ready for a little adventure?”

Porter’s grin told Bat all he needed to know.