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“You found something,” he said.
“I did,” I said.
“Which means, I assume, that the demon problem is all fixed and everything’s okay.”
“Would I be smiling if it weren’t?” I said.
“Sorry,” Ben said. “We forgot to tell you. The genie is bottled and everything’s okay.”
Cormac pointed. “See, I know when the problems are solved even when you don’t tell me, because you just stop talking about them. And did you say genie?”
“Can I tell you about your executions now?” I said quickly, opening the folder. He leaned forward, interested. “If you take in the twenty or so years before and after 1900, there were about half a dozen women executed. There was only one woman executed in 1900.”
“What was her name?” Cormac said.
“Amelia Parker. Her story’s a little different.” I even managed to dig up a few scraps of information here and there, a footnote in an old history book, a couple of hundred-year-old newspaper articles copied off microfiche. I talked like I was delivering a lecture. “Lady Amelia Parker. British, born 1877, the daughter of a minor nobleman. By all accounts, she was a bit of a firebrand. Traveled the world by herself, which just wasn’t done in those days. She was a self-taught archeologist, linguist, folklorist. She collected knowledge, everything from local folk cures to lost languages. She has her own page in a book about Victorian women adventurers.”
Something lit Cormac’s eyes, some recognition, familiarity. He knew something. I stopped myself from calling him on it and demanding that he tell me, because I wasn’t finished with Amelia’s story yet.
“She came to Colorado to follow an interest in Native American culture and lore but was convicted of murdering a young woman in Manitou Springs. The newspaper report was pretty sensationalist, even for 1900. Said something about blood sacrifice. There were patterns on the floor, candles, incense, the works. Like something out of Faust. The newspaper’s words, not mine. She was convicted of murder and hanged. Right here, in fact. Or at least, in this area, at the prison that was standing here at the time.”
Cormac leaned forward. “The victim. How did she die? Did it say what happened to her?”
“Her throat was cut.”
He chewed his lip and stared off into space.
“What is it?” He didn’t say anything, and I pressed. “You know something. This all makes sense to you. Why? How?”
Finally, he shook his head. “I’m not sure. May be nothing. But she’s got a name. It’s not all in my head.”
“What isn’t?”
He looked at me, square on. “She didn’t kill that girl. She was trying to find out who did. What did.”
I blinked. “What do you mean what?”
“Never mind,” he said, leaning back and looking away. “I’ll tell you when I know more.”
“Why is she important?” I said. “She’s been dead for over a hundred years.”
His smile quirked. “And you really think that’s the end of it? You’ve been telling ghost stories for years. Are you going to sit here now and tell me it isn’t possible?”
For once, I kept my mouth shut.
Ben leaned forward and smirked. “She just doesn’t like the idea that someone else is having adventures without her.”
“I’ll have you know I’m looking forward to a good long adventure-free streak from here out,” I said.
They chuckled. No, actually, they were doubled over and turning red in the face with laughter. At me.
“A month,” Cormac said finally, wheezing. “I bet you don’t go a month without getting into trouble.”
“How are we defining trouble?” I whined, irate. “Are we talking life-or-death trouble or pissing-off-the-boss trouble? Hey, stop laughing at me!”
Which only made them laugh harder, of course. I growled.
Ben straightened and got serious. “I’m not taking that bet.” Cormac shrugged as if to say, oh, well.
