Knight in a White Stetson (11 page)

“That wasn’t your reaction in that stack yard over there, as I vividly recall.”

She stopped dancing, stopped playing, and pulled herself away from him. “Henry, do you want to marry me?”

The question dazed him. “What?”

“No,” she continued, her hands on her hips, “you obviously don’t. But Clark does. So don’t play with me, Henry.”

He tried to get his rather excellent brain working properly. “Calla, I don’t think it’s a question of playing…”

She waked away. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back. The couples nearest them on the lawn began to stare.

“Wait, I want to explain something…”

“Let go. You’re making a scene.”

“Do you care?”

“Yes.” She looked at him, her eyes pleading. “Please, Henry. I really do.”

He released her, but reluctantly. She walked to her father and asked him politely for a dance. Jackson gave Henry a questioning look over Calla’s chestnut hair and then swept his only daughter into a regal waltz.

* * *

Henry wondered why he hadn’t noticed the man before. Too much time away, he decided. Until Pete had shown up at Two Creek Camp, he’d begun to uncoil himself from the tension that had plagued him for nearly two years. And had begun to immerse himself in Calla Bishop’s life.

Seeing the man made him realize how stupid that had been. Two months ago, he would have noticed him five minutes after he crawled from under his rock.

It wasn’t that the man stood out in the noisy wedding crowd on Calla’s front lawn. To the contrary, in fact. He was wearing suitably old, suitably cheap clothes, washed and carefully pressed. His face was smooth except for a thick, dark brown mustache trimmed in the flamboyant Western style, and his cowboy boots were worn but polished in honor of the auspicious occasion. A good straw hat, a silver belt buckle the size of a saucer, no coyote bolo tie. He looked like every other man at the reception.

Still, Henry observed, there was something altogether wrong about him, no matter how right he looked. He was sober, for one, and since the wedding party had been in full, boisterous swing for several hours and every Paradisian in sight was well into their cups, that alone should have been enough to have brought the man to his attention, Henry chided himself.

Henry watched him for several minutes. The beer in the clear plastic cup never drained an inch, despite the fact the man brought the cup to his lips several times.

The man was watching Calla. Clearly. His eyes followed her surreptitiously everywhere she went. Henry took a deep breath and forced his pulse to slow.

He was here to find a weak spot. Pete had warned him it was likely. And Henry had left far too many clues leading to Calla.

He had been naive. And stupid. And there was no way he’d make Calla pay for his mistakes.

“Hi, cutie, remember me?” Peggy was standing, barely, next to him. “You owe me a dance.”

Henry automatically reached out to brace her before she fell flat on her face. “How could I forget you? You’re unforgettable, remember?”

The woman giggled. “Oh, that’s right. Come on, let’s dance.” She lurched forward, grabbing Henry’s hand, and dragged him out onto the small section of lawn where several couples were staggering around in a shaky semblance of a slow dance. From the corner of his eye, Henry caught a glimpse of the man as he flicked a glance over at them for an instant and then returned it to Calla, who was arguing earnestly with an old woman in a battered felt cowboy hat about the merits of using retired barrel-racing horses as ranch mounts.

The man watching Calla wasn’t very good, Henry decided with some relief. He had clearly seen him shift his attention. Whoever sent him obviously didn’t think Henry was as yet high enough priority for a top operative. Or even a middle one.

Whoever sent him.

“Do you know that man over there?” he asked his partner as he spun her lightly around so she could get a look at the stranger.

Peggy could barely focus two feet in front of her, and that fence was a long way off. She squinted blearily. “Who?”

“The guy leaning against the fence. Red shirt.”

“Uh, no.”

Henry spun her back around.

“Wait!” she shouted.

Henry clamped his hand over hers. “Not so loud.”

“Oops, sorry.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. No one, not even the man at the fence, seemed to notice her. The party was getting louder by the minute. “Are we spying on him?”

Henry smiled slightly. “Yes. Now, have you seen him before?”

“Yes. I certainly have.” She leaned to stroke her cheek on his shirt. If her breasts just happened to squish against his chest a little, well, no one could blame her. He had a really marvelous chest. “What will you give me if I tell you where?” she whispered

“Five dollars,” he answered.

Peggy screamed with laughter. Henry had to stop himself from putting his hand over her mouth. He was a little afraid she’d lick his palm.

“Okay,” she said. “Pay up.” She put her hand out. Henry raised his eyebrows, then dug into his pocket and pulled a five from a wad of bills.

“Thank you,” Peggy said, still giggling. She snatched the bill and stuffed it provocatively down the front of her shirt. “Why do you want to know?”

“Peggy…”

“Is he a cop or something, you think?”

She was joking, but Henry felt a twinge. “I think my wife sent him.” That was, in a convoluted way, not altogether untrue, Henry thought.

Peggy was crestfallen. She stopped in his arms and weaved. “You have a wife?”

“An ex-wife. Peggy, I need you to…”

“Oh, that’s good.” She sprawled back into his arms.

“Peggy?”

“Mmm?”

“Where did you see that man?”

“What man?”

Henry bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could. “The man by the fence.”

“Oh, him. He was at the co-op last week.”

“What did he want?”

“I don’t remember. Gas, and some baler twine, I think. Maybe. I remember him because he paid cash. My boss got all excited over that. Ronny says nobody wants to pay cash anymore, what with cattle prices…”

“Did he say anything?”

“I was just telling you, he said…”

“Not Ronny, the man in the red shirt. Did
he
say anything?”

“He wanted to find a place to stay.” Peggy giggled again. “Like he has a choice. Paradise Motel is the only place in town.”

* * *

The old motel, its ancient neon sign broken and its office lights unlit, was dead dark and tomb quiet, but the bar across the street was filled to capacity with leftovers from the wedding. Perfect, Henry thought.

After Lester and Helen had taken their cacophonous leave, the well-wishers, most too drunk to see much less to drive, had taken the long road back to Paradise to continue the party at the Last Chance. Henry had watched the red-shirted man get into an indistinct, battered pickup and drive off with the crowd, taking his life in his hands as far as Henry was concerned. He’d be safer in combat than on that unlit country road with a hundred drunks, Henry had thought wryly as he watched him drive away amidst the honking horns and blaring country music.

Henry had waited an hour in the bunkhouse until he saw Calla’s light go off upstairs. Clark, tipsy on punch, hadn’t returned to his own motel room at the Paradise. Henry had a hard time deciding whether he felt relieved or homicidal about that, but he admitted it was safer to leave Calla if there were two men, Jackson and Clark, in the house with her.

He smiled in the darkness. Calla would have pitched a fit if anyone had the nerve to tell her she needed two men to protect her.

Henry, shed of his wedding clothes and dressed in jeans, a dark windbreaker and running shoes, treaded lightly to the door of a room that conveniently, for its occupant and now for him, faced the low scrub hill behind the motel. The office had been unlocked, a register book open on the front desk. The clerk was probably over at the bar. Nobody came through Paradise after sundown. Not on purpose, anyway.

Jimmy Sands, the only name other than Dartmouth’s with the current date next to it, was registered to room 11.

Henry crouched before the door of room 11 and pushed a straightened hairpin into the flimsy lock. When he’d taken his training two years ago, he’d thought—no, he’d prayed—he’d never have to use it, but here he was, breaking into a seedy motel room in the middle of the night. He’d even thought to steal the hairpin from Helen’s bathroom drawer before he left the ranch. Pete would have been thrilled. His professors at Purdue, he decided, would have curled up and died from shame.

The lock clicked imperceptibly and Henry waited, his breath in his throat, for the man to lunge out at him. He was sweating. A distinct difference, he thought wryly, between learning how to do this stuff and actually doing it. Yet, somehow he felt strangely aware. Alive.

He turned the knob slowly and stepped into the room. The man was sprawled on his back on the queen-size bed, the television screen flickering silently in front of him. He was asleep.

Worse. He was snoring.

I must be exceedingly unimportant for someone to send this rookie bozo. Thank God.

Henry stepped to the bed. He’d just ask him a couple quick, brutal questions and leave. Then he’d allow the man to follow him out of town. He had decided on Highway 20 to Wyoming. He’d call Calla sometime and explain. The thought of calling her from some far-off place to say goodbye made his stomach twist a little. He looked down.

The man was naked except for a pair of dingy briefs. His mouth was wide-open, a drop of spittle rolling down to his chin. Henry looked around the room quickly, deciding whether to take the time to search the man’s bags and wallet. The man gave a sudden, ferocious snort. Henry raised his leg and put his knee on the man’s throat and pressed down.

The man awoke with a violent start, his eyes bugged, his tongue flicking forward in shock.

“Be quiet,” Henry whispered, applying additional pressure. The man started for a second, then nodded acquiescence. “Don’t screw around with me and I’ll let you live through this, okay, bozo?”

The man nodded again, his tongue still protruding from his mouth. Henry was gratified. He lifted his knee slightly.

“Can you breathe?”

“Yeah,” the man squeaked.

“Who sent you?”

“I don’t know what the hell—”

Henry sunk his knee into the flesh of the man’s neck, then withdrew slightly. The man beneath him choked and sputtered.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Kiss my—”

Henry leaned in with his knee again. The man’s eyes bulged.

“Cooperate.”

“Yeah.
Okay. Don’t do that again. God, don’t do that again.”

“Who sent you?”

“I don’t know.”

Henry reapplied pressure with his knee ever so slightly.
“No, no,”
the man screamed. “Wait. Hell. I’m telling you. I don’t know. I got a call. I swear it.”

“A call from whom?”

“I don’t know, man. I’m just supposed to keep an eye on that long-haired girl with the ranch.” The man was breathing heavily, his eyes wide. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mingling with the saliva that clung to his whiskers.

Henry considered that. Just the girl. Not Henry.

“When did you get the call?”

“Come on, man, get your knee off my throat. I’m strangling here.”

Henry applied added pressure. “When?”

“Wednesday.”

“You just checked in today.”

“I only got paid from today on.”

“How are you getting paid?”

“Cash. P.O. box. Standard stuff. Really, man, my throat.”

“Just the girl?”

“Yeah, man. Just the girl. I’m supposed to keep an eye on her for a couple weeks. Nothing illegal.”

Two weeks. Interesting. Henry lifted his knee and straightened. The man grasped at his neck with one hand, folded over double, and writhed silently on the bed.

“Stalking’s illegal,” he reminded the spook as he went quickly to the black vinyl duffel bag slung in the corner, reached down and dumped it unceremoniously onto the floor. No gun.

Henry scooped up the sinister-looking knife and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. He moved to the pile of clothes lying across the lone chair in the tiny room and searched them. He found a snub-nosed .38 in the pocket of the man’s pants.

“Bad boy,” he muttered. He checked the load, walked back to the bed and touched the cool barrel of the gun to the man’s forehead. “Where are you from?”

The man swallowed, his flashy Western moustache bobbing up and down in time with his Adam’s apple.

“Salt Lake.”

“Go back there.”

“You betcha.”

“Because if I ever see you near that girl, I will kill you without a second thought. I’m sure you understand.” The man nodded frantically, his eyes crossed on the barrel pressed to his head. “Leave now.”