Deadman (23 page)

In the event, it was dark and snowing, and he decided to wait until he heard from Mulheisen. The decision proved critical. Mulheisen called within the hour, and when he heard that Helen had arrived in Butte that morning and that Joe was up at the cabin, he decided to take the last flight for Butte out of Salt Lake City. He
would arrive around ten o'clock. The prospects looked good for some kind of break in the case.

Several events conspired to blow this well-laid plan. The first was an arson fire at an abandoned house up near the old Anselmo mine. Jacky spent two hours there and thus was unable to make even a cursory check of local hotels and motels, much less the cabin. If he had, he would have discovered that Helen Sedlacek had checked into the War Bonnet Inn, down near the interstate, not far from the airport. Another event was that when he did get to the airport, he noticed Smokey Stover with three strangers, including a rather portly man to whom they all deferred. He didn't approach the party, but he soon learned from flight service that they had just arrived on a private jet, from Detroit.

The third event was that the runway closed down due to a howling blizzard shortly after nine o'clock. The late flight from Salt Lake City was already airborne. It was forced to go on to Helena, the state capital, some seventy miles north, beyond Elk Park Pass. The north-south interstate highway was not closed, but the bus that Delta had hired to carry passengers to Butte would not arrive before midnight, at the earliest.

What Jacky did not learn, because he was no longer at the airport, was that ten minutes before the runway closed, another private jet from Detroit landed.

In the meantime, things were not going well at the cabin on Garland Butte.

Heather couldn't believe her good luck. A perfect opportunity to accomplish all of her goals at once. It was risky being here. Smokey Stover had told her that Humphrey was very interested in some money that Joe Service had taken. This was the first she'd heard of any money, but it rang true: She'd been skeptical from the start about the need for a hit based on simple retribution. Of course, such hits
were ordered, but it was money, big money, that caused them to be long pursued. Smokey hadn't told her how much it was and he'd advised her not to meddle, just hang tight and keep an eye on Joe. From that she deduced that it was quite a bit of money, perhaps $100,000 or more. It wouldn't be easy to hide that kind of money, she thought, and why would Service bother to seriously hide it, anyway? She would find the money—probably in a safe—take care of her contract on Joe Service, and have the delectable Cateyo all to herself.

A sensible person, of course, would have seen that all of these objectives were impossible. Heather was not a sensible person. She was driven nearly crazy in her desire for Cateyo. Weeks of being a roommate had tantalized her beyond endurance. How many times had she blundered into the bathroom during Cateyo's baths, devouring with her eyes those luscious breasts, the curve of those hips, that lovely belly, and the golden hair between the girl's tender thighs? It had nearly endangered the whole project. She could hardly keep her hands off the girl. Her mouth literally watered when she looked at her.

Gloomily, she had learned two crucial things: Cateyo was not susceptible to her affections and she was besotted with this crippled vermin, Joe Service. The stupid girl was unbelievably insane on the subject—she seemed genuinely to believe that Joe was some special avatar of god, sent to her especially, to help him achieve his holy purpose on earth! Heather could tell her a few things about Joe Service, and longed to do so, but that wouldn't further her own purposes.

To be sure, she realized that her task was difficult. The weather helped. They had gotten a late start and the Ford had busted through several shallow but hard-packed snowdrifts on the road up to the cabin. It wasn't difficult, but now that they were here and the fire was blazing, it had begun to snow harder. Heather had been outside a couple of times, returning to advise Cateyo that they might not be so lucky trying to drive out in the dark. She could see that Cateyo was not immune to the charms of being temporarily snowbound. The
cabin was cozy, they had brought plenty of food, and there were plentiful supplies in the pantry. Getting out in the daylight would be less difficult than attempting it at night. Cateyo had all of Joe's medications, she could take care of him. Heather also saw that Cateyo was intrigued by the fact that there was only one bed. There was also a couch, a large and comfortable one situated in front of the fireplace. Obviously, the patient should have the bed. It was large, king-size. The couch wasn't really big enough for two.

What did she want herself? She wanted to sleep with Cateyo. She wanted Cateyo to want to sleep with her. But she knew better. So, there was nothing for it. If she couldn't have Cateyo willingly, she would have her nonetheless. It seemed fairly clear. This was the moment. If she could find the money, she'd take care of Service and dally with Cateyo. Tomorrow she would be out of here, with the money. And Cateyo could stay with Joe forever. It was sad, but she couldn't see any other way to achieve her desired ends. Take what you can get. In this case, it was potentially a lot.

Heather set about it directly. They got in plenty of wood. Then she suggested they should stay the night. As anticipated, Cateyo fell in with that idea without protest. The telephone was working, fortunately. Cateyo called the hospital and explained the situation, somewhat exaggerating the snowfall—although by dinnertime it was clear that a storm had definitely set in. The wind had risen and the snow was swirling about the cabin. You couldn't even see the shed anymore.

Joe Service was no problem. He was alert and interested, shuffling about the cabin with his cane, eagerly looking at everything as if he were simply happy to be home. Heather wasn't fooled. She knew he was looking to see what the cops had removed, whether his stash had been discovered. She contrived to watch his progress every second. He ignored her. He didn't like her, she knew, but she was confident that he didn't realize who and what she really was. Cateyo
followed him around like a doting mommy, or a little girl with a curious puppy. But eventually he seemed satisfied, Heather was glad to see—the money must still be here—and he allowed Cateyo to tuck him up on the couch with hot chocolate while they listened to CDs of old singers, like Judy Collins and the Beatles. Heather volunteered to make dinner. They paid little attention to her. They were flirting outrageously and almost openly scornful of her presence. Unquestionably, they were looking forward to bedtime. Heather was annoyed, jealous, but she kept her counsel and even opened a couple of excellent bottles of wine, Oregon pinot noirs, to serve with the spaghetti she was making.

Then she made a stunning discovery. She went to the bathroom and while she was washing her hands, she matter-of-factly investigated the medicine cabinet. Her eyes locked on a bottle of sleeping pills prescribed by a physician in Huntington Woods, Michigan, for Helen Sedlacek and filled in a Detroit pharmacy. Evidently, the Sedlacek woman had used hardly any of them. The prescription was more than a year old, but they looked okay.

What a find! She had visions of the two young people doped and totally knocked out. She could leisurely search and just as leisurely make love to an unconscious Cateyo. Sometime in the night Joe Service would wander out into the blizzard and perish. By morning Heather would be gone.

The lovebirds cuddled on the couch, watching the flickering flames and listening to sappy music. They ignored Heather as she ground the tablets and sprinkled them among the grated parmesan cheese. Just to be sure, she stirred more ground tablets into their wine. Then she called them to dinner. She had laid the polished pine table with a checkered tablecloth she had found in a cupboard—perhaps Service had enjoyed this kind of meal with the woman whom Smokey had told Heather about, the one who had disappeared.

The lovebirds ate well. Heather was glad she had not relied
upon the parmesan, for neither of them used much of it. They drank the wine, however. And a half hour later, while she was washing up, they were noticeably drowsy.

“Listen, why don't you kids take the bed?” Heather suggested coyly. “I'll be fine on the couch and I can keep the fire going, though we better turn up the electric heat, just to be on the safe side.”

Cateyo fell in with this suggestion with alacrity. She was pretty dozy, however, and Heather had to help them to bed. It was especially pleasant helping Cateyo undress and get into a flannel nightgown that Heather had found in the closet. By the time she said, “Night-night, you two,” they were in each other's arms and almost asleep. She strolled back into the living room and poured herself a glass of wine, then sat down before the fire to relax and wait until deep sleep descended.

She set to work before long, starting at the kitchen end of the large main room, systematically opening drawers and looking into every cranny, testing for hidden cavities. Periodically, she would look into the bedroom, to be sure that Cateyo and Joe were sound asleep. They were totally out of it. Looking down at the unconscious Cateyo, she could hardly resist the desire to make love to her. Finally, she swept the girl up into her arms and carried her into the living room. She placed her on the couch and removed her nightgown. She gazed down on the girl lustfully, then knelt beside her.

Love is, of course, blind. Not totally blind, however. Neither Cateyo nor Joe had been quite oblivious to Heather's behavior. On the other hand, Heather had not paid adequate attention to their behavior. She hadn't noticed, for instance, that Cateyo the nurse had restricted Joe's intake of wine. Cateyo hadn't wanted to offend Heather, but she didn't like the way Heather kept pushing the wine at Joe. A man with a brain injury cannot be served alcohol, she felt.
Whenever possible, she surreptitiously emptied Joe's glass into her own. The few sips he managed were not dangerous, she felt. She didn't understand why Heather was trying to get Joe drunk, but she suspected that it had something to do with Heather's obvious lesbian tendencies. These had increasingly made Cateyo nervous in the last few days, and she had decided that if Heather didn't soon leave for Seattle, she would have to ask her to move.

Cateyo was deeply drugged. She did not feel Heather's rough hands on her breasts nor her lips on her belly. Heather moved farther down the unconscious girl's torso and buried her face in the softly scratchy hair. She breathed in deeply, relishing the womanly odor. After a moment of this, she stood up to take off her own clothes. She gazed down at the maddeningly abandoned disposition of Cateyo's body, the arms listlessly akimbo, the legs spread. The girl's mouth was open and she snored gently. Heather had no more than unbuckled her belt when the telephone rang. She froze, staring at the machine while it rang four times. Then the answering machine pinged.

“Hi,” said a perfectly healthy Joe Service. “You found me. After the long tone you have two minutes to leave your message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Whoever had called was clearly startled. There was a pause after the tone and then a gruff man's voice said disbelievingly, “Joe?” Then, “Okay, okay. I get it. Helen, this is Humphrey. I got here—somehow. Don't ask me. Whew! Awright. Call me at ——,” and he gave Smokey Stover's home phone number. The machine clicked and went silent, except for a tiny “peep” every fifteen seconds, to alert the intended recipient, when he or she came home, that there was a message on the machine.

Heather was transfixed, staring at the telephone, her belt loose. She hadn't even realized that the telephone console contained an answering device.

Joe Service was also surprised. At the sound of his own voice,
he sat straight up in bed, the first time he had done that since the curtain. It took him a few seconds to figure out what was going on and then he was grateful that he had not made any other sound.

Joe was not drugged at all, at least not in the way that Heather had intended. Cateyo had given him his usual medications for pain, but he had not imbibed a single ounce of the wine that Heather had been so obviously pushing. He carefully crawled out of bed, wondering where Cateyo had gone. He had fallen asleep thinking, regretfully, that she was too far gone to engage in any games that night, despite the build-up of expectations.

He watched Heather from the shadows of the bedroom, through the door that she had left ajar. She was standing near the couch, staring first at the telephone across the room, which had now silenced, and then looking down at the couch, the back of which was turned toward him. It struck Joe that Cateyo must be on the couch. At one point Heather turned and looked directly at the bedroom. Joe started back involuntarily, then caught himself. She couldn't see him. She was obviously in a quandary, uncertain what to do.

While Cateyo slumbered on, the two conscious minds in the cabin pondered the significance of Humphrey's presence in—well, in where? Butte? It would seem so. Joe took an additional moment to ponder why the Fat Man called himself Humphrey. And both of them wondered why the man was calling the cabin and asking for Helen, who not only wasn't here but hadn't been here in nearly three months. Was she coming here? It seemed likely, a possibility that raised both their pulse rates.

Heather looked down regretfully at the couch again, and Joe decided conclusively that she must be looking at Cateyo, who must be out cold, otherwise she would have responded to the telephone. What had been going on? Now he could hear Cateyo's faint snore. Jesus, he thought, this Heather is too much—hitting on a sleeping girl, could you believe it? He looked at her rapt face and he could believe it.

Heather turned away from the entrancing vision of the girl on the couch and went to the telephone. She stood peering at it for a moment, then reached out and punched a button. The machine whirred and then played back Humphrey's message. The peep stopped and the machine rewound, indicating no messages received. She had erased the message by not saving it. She recognized the phone number, though. It was the one Humphrey had given her when he sent her out to Butte. So he was in Butte.