Dead Watch (39 page)

Merle Haines was leaning on the counter, paging through a copy of
American Rifleman
, while Jerry Jeff Walker sang “I Feel Like Hank Williams Tonight” from a buzzing speaker mounted in the ceiling. Haines nodded at Jake, who was a seasonal regular, and asked, “How’s it going?” Jake nodded back and said, “I need to tune up the .243.” He handed over his car keys and Haines hung them on a Peg-Board and said, “Lane nine.”

“And two boxes of that Federal Vital-Shok, the one-hundred-grain Sierra, if you’ve got it, and two targets.”

“Goin’ huntin’,” Merle said. He took two boxes of 100-grain Federal off the shelf and two target faces from under the counter, and passed them over. Jake paid him, took his earmuffs out of his pocket, put them on, and pushed through the door into the range. The first eight lanes were for pistols, the last three lanes for rifles, with shooting tables. He walked past two fat guys shooting revolvers and one in-shape military-looking guy shooting a Beretta, down a short flight of stairs, to lanes nine, ten, and eleven. He was alone.

He’d be shooting down an underground tunnel at fifty yards—not long, but long enough to get an idea of where the gun was. He sat down at a table, arranged a pile of sandbags on the table in front of him, took the rifle out of its case, pressed three rounds into the magazine, and jacked one into the chamber.

The .243 was a comfortable gun, accurate and easy on the shoulder, if a little slow to reload. He fired five shots slowly, carefully, breathing between shots, then pulled the target in. Four of the shots were tight and all over the bull, right where they should have been. The fifth was a half inch to the right; he’d pulled it. Nothing had moved since Wyoming.

He fired five more shots at the second target, and got one ragged hole three-quarters of an inch wide, across the lower face of the bull. He packed the gun up, collected the remaining cartridges, and walked back out through the salesroom.

“Short and sweet,” Merle said, as he handed over Jake’s car keys. “Good luck with them critters.”

On the way to Madison’s, she called and said, “I’m in the backyard. Johnnie Black is here, I’m calling on his phone. We’re talking about Howard. Johnnie’s got a source who said that the FBI crime-scene investigators have found something weird with the body. There were some scratches on his wrists like he might have been handcuffed and they’ve gone to the three cops and collected their handcuffs.”

“Jeez. How could they, he wasn’t . . .”

“The thinking is, they cuffed him, he didn’t resist, then one of them hit him on the back of the head with something heavy, and they threw him out the window—but because he went out and landed on his back and head, there’s no evidence that he was slugged. That’s what the thinking is.”

“The FBI’s thinking?”

“No, no, that’s Johnnie, trying to figure out what could have happened. But he’s going to talk to a couple of his media pals, just pass the speculation around. It’ll be on the air tomorrow—keep Goodman shuckin’ and jivin’.”

“All right. I doubt that’s what happened, though,” Jake said. “Too complicated—especially with witnesses right there in the office.”

“Maybe . . . Listen, I really need you. I’m scared, I’m sad, I’m messed up by everything that’s happened.”

“I need you too,” he said. “But if your place is bugged . . .”

“If the place is bugged, if the bedroom is bugged, then they’ve heard it all before. I don’t care anymore, Jake. I’m going to send Johnnie home. But I need to spend some time with you. Right now.”

“I’m on my way,” he said.

He parked a block from her house, got his stick, tapped down the sidewalks, a glorious April evening, sunlight still warming the sky, but cool with a touch of humidity to soften the air. Another car was parked farther down the street, and when he turned in at Madison’s sidewalk, a woman jumped out of the car and called, “Sir, sir, could I speak to you a minute? Sir, I’m from the
New York Times
 . . .”

Jake called back, “I’m sorry, I really can’t speak to you.” On the porch, he knocked, saw the woman was still coming along the sidewalk, a notebook in her hand, and she called again, “Sir, sir . . .”

Madison opened the door. He said, quickly, “
New York Times
coming up fast.” Madison looked behind him, grinned, said, “Come in, Mr. Smith. Good to see you again . . .”

“It’s a sad day,” Jake said, as the door swung closed. When he heard the
snick
of the lock, he pushed her back and said, “Not so close to the glass . . .”

Then her arms were around his neck and his hands were on her hips, and he steered her toward the stairs. At the bottom step she broke away long enough to whisper, “There would be a certain
frisson
to know that Arlo Goodman was listening, but I freshened up the guest room . . .”

“Just hope the bed can take a beating,” Jake said.

The first time they’d slept together had been one of the
first time
situations that combined curiosity with wariness and possibly courtesy, an effort both to discover and to leave a favorable impression. This time was a collision, with Jake pulling at her clothing, with Madison ripping at his shirt, falling together on the bed, no preliminaries, nothing but
in
, and consummation, Madison groaning with him, her short rider’s nails digging into his shoulder blades, as he forced himself into her and pressed her down.

When they finished, she gasped, “God . . . bless me.”

He was sweating, breathing hard, his heart thumping, and he wanted to do it again, right then, but was temporarily hors de combat. He rolled away, stood up, shook himself, crawled back to her, put his mouth next to her ear, and said, “No jokes about bugs.”

She said, aloud, “I wonder if anyone has figured us out? The first time we met, Johnnie Black was there, he picked up a little electricity.”

“Probably me,” Jake said. He was on his back now, his arm under her head. “I was asking a million questions and all I really wanted to do was jump you.”

“That’s pretty romantic,” she said.

“Hey. It’s the truth. The first reaction was sexual. Only later did I begin to appreciate your fine mind and deep understanding of Arab culture.”

She sat up. “My ‘fine mind.’ More like my fine ass.”

“You
do
have a terrific ass,” Jake said. “When Danzig sent me to see you, one of the things he mentioned in the briefing was your ass. I’ve noticed that a lot of serious women riders have great asses. Probably all the pounding. Anyway, I’m thinking of nominating you for Miss Ass, USA. We could create a pageant in Atlantic City . . .”

“We could call the contestants ‘aspirants’ . . .”

“Your spelling sucks,” Jake said. “Anyway, we could have the Atlantic City Ass Parade, like the Rose Parade in Pasadena, but instead of flowers on the floats . . .”

“That’s enough. Did Danzig really mention my ass?”

“Yes, he did. And your . . . breasts.”

“Except he called them tits.”

“Yes, he did.” He rolled up on one shoulder. He lightly dragged his index finger from the notch of her collarbone to her navel, and on south. “It’s a weird thing. With most good-looking women, you might want to play around a little. You know, get them up on top, or just . . . fool around. With you, all I want is
in
. And I want to stay in. I just want to be inside, be as close as I can get.”

After a moment, she said, “That’s nice, I think. After a while, you’ll probably notice my fine mind.”

“And your understanding of Thai culture.”

“Arab.”

“That’s what I meant, Arab.”

They made love twice more, and after the second time, with her arms wrapped around his neck, she whispered, “I think . . . we could be onto something here.”

“At my age, I’m almost afraid to think that,” Jake said. “But I hope so.”

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “We have a huge tub in the master bath . . .”

They spent a half hour in the bath, which was big enough to float them both simultaneously, and then climbed out, retrieved their clothes. While Jake got dressed, Madison changed into jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt. She already had a bag packed. “You ready?”

“I’m ready.” She touched her hair, as though for a TV appearance. “Let’s do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I think about the girl in Madison. You described her a little too well.”

“I could figure out something with the car,” Jake said.

“Nah—I’m going.”

He trailed her down to the front room. Launching the play, she said, “You’re sure you don’t want another glass of wine? You have to go?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to get this done,” Jake said. “I could use a Coke. It’s a long drive.”

They went out in the kitchen, still talking, and Madison got two Cokes out of the refrigerator and said, “Take another one for the road.”

“Thanks.”

They drifted back into the front room and he twisted the top off the Coke bottle; Jake wondered if the
pfffttt
it made would be audible on a tape.

“I don’t understand why you can’t look at it here,” Madison said. “I mean, in Washington, at your house.”

“Because I’m tied into the Wisconsin thing. If Novatny smells a rat, the feds might come crashing through the door. And they must be getting frantic, with Barber going out the window. If I’ve got the package, I’m toast. I don’t even know everything that’s in it yet. It might be impossible to hold on to . . .”