Gideon, Robin - Desire of the Phantom [Ecstasy in the Old West] (Siren Publishing Classic) (50 page)

“Who else, Gerald?” Garrett snapped, mildly curious as
to whom the well-heeled businessmen of Whitetail Creek had wait
ing in the wings to take his place. Maybe someone who’d be more the obedient lap dog they’d
clearly expected him to be.

“Andy Fields is a good man,” Gerald threatened, though
without much confidence. “We’ve talked to him and see him as a man who understands how the system works.”

Garrett sneered. “I see. That means you can buy him
cheap, and he’ll do what you tell him. I’m glad we had
this conversation, Gerald. Much easier for me to tell you
to go to hell right now rather than after the election, when
you think you own me. I’m not for sale, Gerald. I never have been. Tell the boys that, and tell them if they try to
stand in my way, I’ll crush them.”

“I can have a lot of wealthy men on my side in a
battle against a single renegade lawyer,” Washburn whispered venomously. “You Randolphs may not be as strong
as you think you are.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Servants ran around nervously at the Darwell mansion, but
they were quiet as church mice, assuming the funereal
attitude expected of them with a death in the family.

Ironically, the attitude of the “mourners”—Michael,
Angie, and Jonathon Darwell—was quite different.

Michael’s chief concern was how many of Richard’s me
nial tasks would now be his. While Richard had greatly
enjoyed his extortionist role in the operation of Lulu’s bor
dello, Michael had always found such business ventures,
though highly profitable, distasteful.

Angie had no concerns whatsoever. She had successfully managed to get Richard to hire men to beat Garrett up, had
murdered Richard before he’d put his filthy hands on her,
and had framed Pamela. Virtually everyone in Whitetail Creek now
believed that Pamela Bragg had murdered Richard Darwell. For Angie,
life couldn’t get much better.

Jonathon had reacted to his son’s murder with surprise.
Why had Pamela murdered him? Had Richard found out that
she was the Midnight Phantom, forcing her to kill him? It
seemed unlikely. Richard was the last person on earth capable of discovering the identity of the Midnight Phantom.
Still, stranger things had happened.

Jonathon, Angie, and Michael were gathered in the huge,
nearly empty ballroom. A crystal decanter of brandy sat on the enormous table, and all three held snifters of this
finest of French spirits.

Jonathon pushed himself far enough away from the ta
ble to stand. He raised his glass and said in a solemn
voice, “To Richard.”

Angie and Michael exchanged a glance. Jonathon could tell that neither of his children felt like toasting a brother they had barely tolerated,
had often berated, and had never liked, much less loved.

“Well?” Jonathon asked, still standing, though his brandy glass was now on the brightly polished oak table.

He looked at his children, waiting for them to show at least some sign of sorrow for the untimely death of their
brother. Michael made a slight effort to appear sorrowful,
but he simply couldn’t find any appropriate words. Angie
didn’t even bother to appear mournful.

Several seconds of stony, questioning silence passed before she answered, “Well, what? He was a stupid, fat,
hairy pervert, and the ugly truth is no one is going to
miss him.”

Jonathon was too shocked to even speak. His daughter had voiced these sentiments when Richard was alive. Just
the same, Jonathon found it abnormal that Angie and Mi
chael had so little regard for their brother now that he was dead.

“Do I have to remind you that he was your brother?” their father said.

“Do I have to remind you that he was a pig?” Angie replied.

“Amen,” Michael added, supporting his sister’s opinion, though he disliked sticking his neck out for anyone
other than himself.

Jonathon looked at his son and daughter for a moment,
then turned his back to them. Had he really created such
heartless monsters? Then he realized
that, in truth, he did not mourn the death of Richard any
more than they did. Actually, even the familial obligation
to defend his deceased son was leaving him.

“Fine. He’s dead,” Jonathon agreed. “The truth is we don’t miss him at all. Fine. It doesn’t matter. What
does
matter is that the people of Whitetail Creek
think
we’re sad.”

“Papa, why worry about it?” Angie asked.

She sprawled now in her chair, the brandy glass held
loosely in her hand. Looking at her father, she was making
no effort to hide her disdain.

“He was your brother,” Jonathon repeated, losing in
terest in the conversation. But suddenly, he paused to look
at his children, really examine them, as a strange thought came to him.

“You killed Richard, didn’t you?”

Spoken as a question, it wasn’t a question at all. It was an observation.

Angie at last stood to face the accusation. She didn’t appear in the least sorry about her brother’s murder.

“My God, you did kill him.”

Angie looked at her father, saying nothing, her expression neutral
. Finally, after many seconds of silence, she asked, “Papa, does it really matter?”

Jonathon wondered what a father was expected to say when he discovered that one of his children had killed
a sibling. Still, he had never considered Richard a true Darwell,
so it wasn’t as though a member of his family had actually
been murdered. In fact, Richard’s death was something of a relief to him.

“I, um,” Jonathon said after a long pause, “actually, I don’t really know.”

Angie smiled then, and her gaze went from her father to
her brother. She was obviously quite pleased with her audac
ity, and not in the least sorrowful over her role in the assassination of the thing misnamed Darwell.

“You did it, didn’t you?” Jonathon asked.

“What difference does it make?” she demanded
. “He was an idiot! We’re money ahead without him.”

Had Angie not commented on the profitability of having
Richard dead, Jonathon might not have suspected with such
certainty that his daughter was the one responsible for
Richard’s death. But looking into her eyes, he saw no sor
row, no sense of loss.

“You murdered Richard. Sweet Jesus, Angie, you shot your own brother in the back,” Jonathon said then, his
absolute conviction stunning him. “It wasn’t that girl Dy
lan arrested, was it?” Jonathon pursued. “It was you all along.”

Jonathon looked at Angie, realizing how magnificently
cold-blooded she was. He looked at her as though seeing
her for the first time. Did she even possess a heart that beat like any other human being?

He could see the various responses going through her mind as she weighed an appropriate response against the
honest one. In that instant, as he realized that his youngest
child—his only daughter—had murdered his second son, he didn’t know whether to be appalled by her savagery or
impressed with her efficiency. The fact was everyone had
wanted Richard to disappear from the scene, but no one else had had the courage or the determination to make it happen until Angie had decided to simply put a bullet in his back.

“You are wicked,” he whispered at last.

“Wickedness becomes me, don’t you think?” she asked,
making no effort to hide her pleasure in her murderous accomplishment. “And I’m brilliant. I hated Richard, and I hated that little tramp, Pamela, so in one move, I was able to get both of them out of our lives permanently.”

Michael said, “Let’s not forget that
Garrett’s defending Pamela. And from what Angie’s told us, there
won’t be any evidence to put the Bragg woman at the scene of the crime. Her conviction isn’t a certainty.”

Angie’s smile twisted into a bitter frown. She did not like
anyone questioning her skills.

“I’m going to have Garrett,” she said quietly
. “I’m going to be his wife when he becomes the mayor, and I’m damn sure going to be at his side when he takes office as the territorial governor.”

“Don’t worry, darling, you’ll have everything you
want.” Jonathon, having already forgotten Richard, wanted
once again to protect his daughter from any unhappiness.
“Well, Michael, it’s obvious that we’ve got to arrange evi
dence that will convict Pamela Bragg. That young woman needs a date with the gallows.”

Angie smiled then.

* * * *

Garrett sighed heavily. He rubbed his eyes, burning with
the strain of repeatedly examining the documents regard
ing Pamela’s arrest.

He pushed himself away from the desk and stretched his legs out in front of him. Should he order more coffee from the hotel’s kitchen and get back to work, or simply close the files on Pamela for a while and get some sleep?
Pulling the watch from his pocket, he opened it at exactly the same time the grandfather clock in the hotel’s hallway chimed softly. Midnight. Bitter memories came to him of
his well-intentioned capers as the Midnight Phantom.

Midnight. He was in a hotel room in Whitetail Creek so that he could be close to Pamela, who had already spent three nights in jail. Midnight. Damn.

Garrett put the watch back into his pocket and tried to concentrate on how to convince a jury that Pamela wasn’t the Midnight Phantom. For the hundredth time, he cursed
himself for having made the cape and mask for her. If he
hadn’t done that, there wouldn’t be a shred of evidence to link her to being the Phantom.

A plan began to form in Garrett’s mind. At first, it seemed too absurd to consider, yet it wouldn’t leave him alone.

Maybe it wasn’t so absurd after all.

He got to his feet and walked to the windows overlook
ing the street. Even at midnight, there were still plenty of
gamblers at the Cattleman’s Paradise Saloon and Casino.

For a minute, Garrett closed his eyes. He tried to decide whether this plan resulted from Fate smiling benevolently
down upon him or whether he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life.

Fate? Why else would Garrett now be looking at a casino
owned by Jonathon Darwell? Luckily, he had stuffed his cape
and mask into his briefcase before leaving the ranch.

He was grinning as he went to the large bed and stripped off his jacket and necktie. He didn’t have the dark
shirt with him, the one he always wore when he’d adopted
the persona of the Midnight Phantom, and he didn’t have his black holster and Colt. He’d just have to do without.

The Phantom would strike a little late this time, he thought,
but by morning the citizens of Whitetail Creek would be seriously
reconsidering whether Pamela was the Midnight Phantom.

* * * *

Garrett was kneeling at the edge of the roof, looking
down at the street below. If he didn’t manage the crossing,
he’d never survive the four-story fall. He imagined the
articles the journalists would write after his mask had been
peeled from his dead or dying remains in the street below.

He forced such thoughts from his consciousness. The
task he’d set for himself was difficult enough without add
ing fears.

He pulled the rope tight one last time and checked to be sure the grappling hook he’d tossed to the casino rooftop across the street remained secure. It had to hold
as he made his way across the chasm, but in something
like this, there could be no guarantees.

After pulling on tight-fitting leather gloves to protect
his hands, Garrett tossed a leg over the edge of the rooftop
and gripped the rope tightly.