Prologue

Wichita, Kansas 1871

Cody Grady Ranch

A man jumped awake from his bed to the whinny of a horse and a knock at his bedroom door. The waking man, Cody Grady, moved his tall, strong frame slowly in his sunlit room. He maneuvered cautiously, blinded by the glare of a blistering Kansas sun. The molten, shimmering orb continued its rise as Cody moved to dress. This thirty-one-year-old man strained to see as his tired, and icy cold, steel blue eyes focused their gaze across his waking ranch. Rubbing his face, the strict face of a man once sworn to the law, he continued trying to locate his basin to wash. Cody’s eyes were not those of a sheriff, mind you, but the regretful eyes of a man who had been a lawyer.

Now the lumbering man was awake, noticing the fine dust that had covered him during the night. An overnight dust storm had blown inside some, covering him while he slept. Cody toweled away each layer of that Kansas dust. He touched cool water to wipe his dark brow, getting the last of the grime removed from his face. Then, once done, Cody stared again on his ranch and the fiery horizon of Kansas knowing somewhere darkness lurked. Peering further, he caught the glimpse of shadows out toward Yellow Mountain and the surrounding Yellow Hills. For some reason he couldn’t explain, the darkness in those recesses gave him a chill.

There was a creak outside his door. Then, a familiar voice.

“Boss?” A low voice from an older man called to Cody from the other side of the bedroom door.

“Yes, Joe?” Cody grumbled to his foreman Joe Douglas.

“Madge, just dropped her foal. You told me —”

“I know. I’m awake,” Cody interrupted, rubbing his eyes. “Let me get dressed. I’ll meet you out front.”

“Yes, Boss.” Joe left Cody to his morning ritual.

Cody stretched his aging back, and got ready.

Sluggishly, he moved toward his mirror for the daily shave. The mirror reflected haggard lines on his face. He heard the splash of more clean water as he filled his basin preparing for his shave; he could smell the rosemary in the shaving soap’s lather as he heard the slap of leather and the blade sharpening his razor. He watched the water fill with additional gray grime as he did an additional wipe-down. Lathered up, he pulled the blade across his face with ordered, precise, and meticulous movements—similar to the aim of a gunfighter’s draw, he shaved. The timing and accuracy of each blade stroke were as ordered, meticulous, and precise, as he’d been in his career.

Once dressed, Cody walked outside and heard the creak of his porch when Joe met him with excitement. The men walked in haste toward the haybarn, passing a rattling windmill on the eastern side of the ranch. Both could hardly contain their joyous laughter. This was the ranch’s first foal and it had had all the cowboys chattering — those cowboys were presently throwing hay and wrangling steers while performing other daily chores.

Cody smiled as the cowboys worked, waving an hand and saying to a group of them, “Good morning!” They echoed his words back.

Cody’s ranch was his life, his career. Not the regiment of law and order like it used to be. Since retiring, life had been a peaceful existence amongst the oaks and golden hay fields with his mooing cattle and boisterous comrades.

A nervous cowboy, Chipmunk, rode as fast as a forest fire up to Cody. He trotted his horse right up to the barn door. Chipmunk shakily dismounted his horse and handed a letter to Cody.

“Chipmunk, take a breath.” Cody calmed the young buck before taking the letter.

Chipmunk took two deep sighs, then spoke. “It’s … it’s … from Sheriff Sanders. Real important, sir.”

“Thank you, young man.”

The dreaded past launched as a striking rattler. Cody knew his conscience might be the worst for it. Sheriff Philip Sanders of Topeka, Kansas, who had his own ranch near the Yellow Hills, had written him. Philip Sanders — Cody’s best friend, a man who was family to Cody, had sent a letter. A man who rarely wrote to him.

Cody made a curious observation of the note’s handwriting. It was rushed and hurried. Certainly, it was unlike Phil’s normal, flowing script. Phil’s letter said the following:

Cody,

I know you gave up the law, but I’m asking for your help. This case has me baffled. You’ve always had a gift for figuring out puzzles and crimes.

I know I promised to respect you leaving the law, but I’m a desperate, humble law man. I don’t want another innocent person killed. Please reconsider your oath. I need your help to solve this one.

Phil

The Philip Sanders that Cody knew was a tough-as-nails guy. Phil never asked for help, ever! Cody knew something was wrong. His best friend was chin-deep in trouble.

“Boss, where are you going?” Joe asked, concerned. “The foal was just born.”

“Joe, you and the boys look after Madge and her foal. Give her plenty of water and grain.” Cody pulled out his ghost-gray Appaloosa, Storm, and saddled him for the journey to Phil’s. Chipmunk helped. Storm was the fastest horse in the lot and Cody’s favorite.

Undaunted, Joe asked the all-important question, “Is there trouble? Boss, do you need a couple of us to ride with you?”

“No. I’m sure Sheriff Sanders has it under control. He must be lonely or something.” Cody eased the worry on Joe’s brow with a light laugh.

Staring sternly back at Cody with wizened, weathered eyes, Joe continued, “Cody Grady, if you walk into a hornet’s nest, you high tail it out of there and come get us.”

Cody’s steel eyes stared on Joe as he spoke with a hardened tone, “Keep things in order and everyone safe.” Joe gave him a nervous nod back.

Cody spurred Storm, roaring out fearlessly into the golden blaze of the Kansas sun and toward the shadows of the unknown. Both cowboy and horse were a shimmering, ghostly silhouette of justice on their ride.

Chapter One

Wichita, Kansas 1871

Trail South of the Yellow Hills

Unease and dread rode with Cody as he charged out with his horse Storm. The gray and white spotted Appaloosa stallion moved with all the fury of a hurricane. All the while in their ride, Cody tried shaking the unnerving feeling something was horribly wrong. Usually when he had that dread, what he called “the sight,” it meant terrifying events were churning up. Cody remembered with a shiver that it wasn’t too long ago when a similar premonition became horrific, life-changing reality. On that cruel day, Cody Grady’s world was once again crushed. All of it starting with that same gut punch feeling.

The sun was midday and a scorcher as Cody galloped toward the ochre crags and scrub pines of the Yellow Hills. Sitting high in the saddle and upright, he held the bearing of a military rider. Onward Cody drove his steed, as the burnished saddle creaked, navigating between rocks and fallen limbs. Spurring Storm ever faster, Cody drove his horse with the fires of Hell itself to reach Phil’s home. Each distanced mile felt daunting as dread wormed and gnaw into his skull. Onward they galloped, roaring away through lush valleys, winding forests, and mountainous terrain.

Two hours of hot, treacherous and exhaustive riding had pushed horse and cowboy beyond their limits. Cody was soaked and blinded by his salty sweat. Storm heaved and his breathing was in a full foamed lather. Both needed to stop and cool down immediately. Despite his palpable fear for Phil, Cody forced himself to stop and give them rest. They had already pushed two hours into a six-hour journey through the treacherous hill country. Cody couldn’t risk injury to Storm or himself with four hours to go.

Divine providence governed Cody’s decision to rest. He had found, by sheer luck, a moving, clear stream with a nest of emerald willows. Stopping Storm in the shade and shallows, he removed his horse’s saddle and blanket carefully. Then he rested Storm and himself by the trees and babbling brook. After both had taken time to cool to avoid disastrous cramps, he took Storm by the stream for a wash down and drink.

Cody had performed his usual checks of any unknown stream—smell of rot, dead animals in the water, poisoning, and current flow. He always checked these before either of them used a water source. With the water okay, Cody washed down his horse and himself. Salt and lather rinsed off both cowboy and horse in the moving stream. Storm gladly let Cody splash his back and legs with the chilling water. Shaking his back and mane, Storm covered Cody happily in a spray of water too. Then Storm snorted, sighed, and shook his head in happiness and relief.

With both cooled, Storm and Cody drank the chilled waters.

Cody quietly said, “There you go, big fellow. You deserve it.”

With his horse taken care of and resting under a nearby tree, Cody took a moment for himself. He removed his white cowboy hat that had blocked the sun and stinging sweat out of his eyes. He shucked his salty, sweaty denim shirt. Then he washed both in the creek. After he placed his hat and shirt out to dry. Walking back into the stream, he washed everything again.

Both Storm and Cody, reinvigorated by the water and cooldown, rested briefly under the pleasant canopy. Cody started to recall Phil’s trouble again and decided it was better to take a nap in such a peaceful place.

After an hour of rest, Cody remounted Storm and continued his journey to Phil’s ranch. Four hours remained to reach it.

What would they talk about? How would the conversation begin with this man who was like a brother? More importantly, what spooked Phil with this one? Of course, they’d sort out everything as usual.

As a gentle breeze cooled Cody and Storm in their ride, Cody’s past charged through his mind as a herd of thunderous buffalo. The cowboy recalled his and Phil’s first meeting as children by the Missouri River. Cody laughed remembering the look on his momma’s face when he asked if they could keep the orphaned Phil. Momma — Opal Grady — smiled radiantly and said yes. Then he remembered their terrified screams when that desperado killed their mother.

Both men swore, not on vengeance, but on something more powerful: justice!

In the final hour of riding, Cody saw a predatory hawk dart down and kill a rabbit, and his gnawing dread returned. He was compelled to push Storm again to reach Phil. He’d only rest at Holliday Creek. That would be a brief, saddled rest for Storm.

Cody considered things.

What was kicking up my unease in the first place? Was it the tone of the letter from Phil? The words didn’t sound like Phil. Was it the style of the writing? The script was rushed and the hand that wrote it had to have been shaking. Not Phil’s style.

Cody and Storm rested by Holliday Creek. He saw vultures circling low over the ranch. At first, he disregarded them, but now there were too many to count. An icy chill went up his spine. He climbed back on Storm and rode toward the ranch.

From the onset Cody could see Phil’s ranch home was in shambles. Smoke billowed from several set fires in the fields. Bullet holes peppered the barns and stables. It was obvious to Cody there had been a gunfight. Trotting in from the outskirts, he was startled and drew his pistol at the slam of a door — the ranch house door. Shot up, shattered and splintered, it was swinging wildly in the breeze.

Approaching seconds later, Cody gripped his Colt Paterson pistol, ready for anything. He heard a flapping sound through a cloud of smoke. It was coming right at him, and he fired, hitting … a vulture. It screeched before falling dead at Storm’s feet.

Cody realized the rotted smelling creature had thought Cody was one of the dead or dying.

It was deathly quiet at Sander’s Ranch. The only noise was the trot of Storm and the occasional ring of Cody’s spurs in the stirrups. Cody was shocked at the destruction and devastation. Farm animals had broken free or were dead.

Who kills off a bunch of prized chickens? Where are all of Phil’s cows?

Dismounting Storm carefully with his left hand, all the while keeping his right hand tethered to his gun, Cody steeled his nerves. By what he had just seen, the only people inside might be there to cause him harm. If that was the case, Cody readied himself for a fight. He swore to his gun that he’d fill their skulls with lead.

Treading with a light foot up the ranch house steps, Cody caught a nauseous smell of something in decay. He looked up on the porch at some shot, unidentifiable animal left there. It took all he had not to retch. Covering his mouth and nose, Cody moved on, trying to stifle the need to vomit. Ascending past the rotting creature, he heard the creak of the porch step. The sound brought on the thunderous beat of his heart.

Entering the house, darkness shadowed the interior of Phil’s home. Everything had gone sideways within. Busted and destroyed furniture was rearranged badly. Shattered glass and broken wood swept—cleaned up, badly.

Cody Grady whispered into the darkness of Phil’s home, “Phil, what the hell kind of ruckus have you kicked up now?”

On the one table that had not been turned or damaged, Cody saw a note. It was of the usual parchment, only with dirt and blood stains marked across it. The script was of an elegant, educated hand. The curves and lines of a scholar or academic. Cody wouldn’t have been surprised if the words had been in Latin. However, these were definitely proper English. Dread reaching its peak, Cody opened the letter and furrowed his brow — it was addressed to him. It read:

Yours faithfully,

Graham, the Cleaner

Cody Grady shook his head in skeptical disgust. Without a doubt, the author and instigator of this mess was a worthless liar. The man obviously was embellishing or copying Graham Colins. This fraud was claiming to be “The Cleaner,” forgetting, or not, that Cody had put Graham Colins, “The Cleaner,” in the Kansas City Jail.

Cody studied everything more carefully after rereading the note. Things were cleaned — blood, glass, and shot-up wood, but poorly. This Cleaner was a poor copy. Graham Colins would not have left a speck of glass much less a drop of blood on Phil’s carpet. The trademark of the Cleaner was you never knew how long ago he attacked, when he did his crime, or how many men he had used. Cody had figured that key clue out to catch him … with Phil.

This Cleaner was too sloppy and would be an easy capture. This maniac lacked the finesse of Graham Colins. To Cody, this was a welcomed relief. He certainly didn’t want to match wits with such a heartless devil again. He’d rather snuggle up with a porcupine.

The old powers of insight and deduction were back for the retired lawyer turned sleuth. For Cody it was a cherished reunion with a long, lost friend. Friend … how ironic, the word. His old friend — his detective mind — was back in full force to find and hopefully save his best friend. Friends again they all were, and none too sooner.

Cody analyzed each room meticulously. He made note of the techniques used to haphazardly clean them, while focused and in a trancelike fugue. Cody delved deep into the mental intimations and machinations of the perpetrator’s mind. He was driven in the moment to deduce what made this Cleaner tick.

Peculiarities abounded all around this crime scene for the victim and the criminal. The parlor, for instance, was too grandeur for Phil’s tastes. Why did Phil go to such lavish extremes on expensive burgundy, rose-petaled wallpaper? It baffled Cody. Why the rose chandelier as its centerpiece? It too was an oddity to Phil’s usual decorum. From the ornate chairs to the floral paintings, the place reeked more of a … saloon, than a ranch. The sleuth was as perplexed about his friend as the new Cleaner.

As for the Cleaner pretender, one room would be in disarray. Another more immaculate than any previous Cleaner crime scene. For instance, in the parlor, they’d leave the front room spotless of glass, fix or paint the bullet holes with fresh paint and conceal damage. But in the side parlor, there’d be a chandelier shattered on a crushed billiards table and a bloody hand print from someone. It was as if The Cleaner was taunting:

Cody Grady, guess who the handprint is for.

Cody ascended the stairs to the second floor, listening for anything. He smelled blood as he reached the second floor’s left hallway It was an overwhelming iron odor, and it brought Cody’s heart to race.

Please, Lord! Not my best friend Phil!

Cody traced the smell to the first room to the left. Its door was busted. Blood splattered across its floor. Then he heard a creak or moan from within the room. He drew his Colt and was about to aim when he saw what had made the noise lying in a bloodied heap on the floor.

A woman!

She seemed terrified, but it was hard to tell. Hell — Cody could hardly discern that it was a woman because of how her face had been bludgeoned beyond recognition. He just assumed because of the tattered dress. Someone had to have gone at her with fists and knives, based on the stab wounds and bruising on her face and neck.

Whoever did this choked her and blackened her eyes. God almighty!

The girl attempted to scream and it came out as a croaking, garbled shriek. But Cody got the feeling she was trying to say something more specific.

Please, don’t shoot me!