Short Cut to Santa Fe (14 page)

Plans, thought Kate. Sure, and then with a slight jolt of recognition realized that he knew perfectly well that she had had no plans. “What news do you have of my friend?” she said abruptly.

“May I get you a drink?” he asked, and once more his eyes narrowed.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I—” No explanations, Kate, she told herself. Every extra word lays your weaknesses open wider. And he knows them already. The unfinished sentence sat between them. She crossed her legs and smiled.

“Are you sure?” he said. “It must have been a long and dusty drive out here.” With great deliberation, he opened a small cabinet in the wall, took out a bottle of Teacher's, and poured a couple of fingers from it into a heavy crystal glass. He opened the refrigerated cabinet below and took out ice and a jug of water, added both, and set the glass down beside her.

“Hardly,” said Kate. “That limousine of yours is more climate and pressure controlled than a space shuttle. The drive couldn't have been more comfortable.” Her mouth was dry, her lips were cracking, and her throat constricted from thirst. One mouthful—no. Not a mouthful. “Now—about Miss Jeffries. I came out here because I understood that you had some information about her. If you do, I would appreciate hearing it. I'm very concerned about her. And of course,” she added primly, “the police are also very interested in finding out where she is.” Kate's first shot, over his head and to the right.

“Well, isn't that the strangest thing,” said Deever, his voice sweet as poisoned candy. “I believe there's been a misunderstanding. I'm the one who's looking for information, Miss Grosvenor.” He smiled. “You're the one who's going to supply it.” Counter shot.

Instead of flinching, Kate settled back and gave him her best casual, disengaged look. The confident look that had once succeeded in slipping her out of the hands of an enthusiastic little group of youthful terrorists in the Middle East. “Information?” she said. “But that's the whole point. I don't have any information. That's why I'm here. Otherwise, I have other things to do. Lots of them.”

Mr. Deever was not impressed. There was anger behind the dull slits of his eyes. Genuine anger. “You have lots of information, Miss Grosvenor. Why—you know the colour, make, and model of your friend's vehicle. You told all these things to the police, and they found them particularly interesting. So interesting that they told me. You just might want to remember that. I have some very good friends among those gentlemen in the local and state police forces. And more good friends all the way up to various governors' mansions. But we won't worry about things like that right now. You see, you know where she was going and why. You let the police know some of this when you were talking to them and so I guess you must know why she was interested in a tour group that I also happen to be interested in.”

“A tour group? I can't imagine what interest Harriet would have in a tour group. She's not a tour group kind of person at all. She hates organized vacations.” Kate's hand automatically reached over to the low table beside her chair for the glass. She snatched it away again.

“Don't waste my time, Miss Grosvenor.” His voice was becoming harder, and more clipped. A telephone rang with a sharp, nasty sound. Deever swore, scooped it up from the desk, and barked into it. “I'll be with you in a moment, Miss Grosvenor,” he said. “Make yourself at home.” And Carl Deever left, slamming the little door behind him. Kate heard the faint and unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.

She walked quietly over to the door and tried it. “Damn,” she murmured to herself, and began to pace carefully around the small room. There was another door on the opposite side of the room; from its configuration it probably led into a closet, or perhaps a tiny bathroom. It, too, was locked. She pulled aside one set of heavy draperies and looked out at the lush green paddock and an evening sky through barred windows. One of the horses paused in the serious business of grazing, raised his head, and gave her a pitying look in her tiny prison. She shivered and began muttering to herself, “I am perfectly calm,” over and over again. Each time she passed her chair, she looked at the drink waiting there for her. He's done this on purpose, she thought. The slimy bastard. And one of them is probably watching through a peephole or with a hidden camera to see how I react. Whether true or not, the thought steadied her more than a dozen drinks would have. She ambled over to the other window and pulled back those draperies.

This gave her a view through unbarred windows that overlooked the courtyard. The fountain splashing reminded her of how thirsty she was; the trees and shrubs, protected as they were by enclosing walls, still shivered in the evening breeze, and reminded her how cold and miserable she felt. But her eye soon picked out her host, half-hidden by the fountain. He was facing her, talking to a man who towered over him. With a very delicate touch, she turned the catch of the casement window and pushed it open an imperceptible amount. The soft indistinguishable murmur turned into a clear, well-differentiated conversation between two very angry men.

“I don't give a fuck whether she's safe or not. She could be hanging by her hair out a tenth-story window for all I care. I—want—to—know—where—she—is.” He spoke the words very slowly, very carefully, and with equal emphasis on each one. “Right now. Where in hell is the fucking bitch, Rocco?”

“Don't call me that.”

“Listen, Rocco, the money I pay you, I'll call you Mary or Daisy if I feel like it, understand? Where is my wife, Rocco?”

“Where's my money, Carlos?”

“You'll get your money when I find out where my wife is. Listen, shithead, you can't keep this up forever. The state isn't that big, and I'll find her sooner or later. Probably sooner. And when we do, you know what's going to happen, don't you?”

“Listen to me, Carlos. You offered me one million to execute the commission without any repercussions. That was the deal. I cover my own expenses. I accepted it and I'm not bitching about the terms. But I've had expenses. I hired people and they wanted cash up front. I spent my own money, Carlos. To do you a favor. All I want is a down payment on what you owe me, or I don't play any longer. Like, maybe, seven-fifty. And don't start thinking you can get rid of me and finish it off on your own. You know you can't do that. Just give me my money and let me run this my own way.”

“Look, Rocco—”

Suddenly Kate sneezed. By the time they had located the direction of the sound, the window was closed and the curtains were back in their accustomed place. When the key turned in the lock and Deever stormed in, she was standing on the other side of the room, staring with fascination at Deever's book collection. He paid no attention to her. He had left the door open, but his companion was standing in it, blocking any exit. She gave him a quick glance, but he was just a black blob against the darkness of the hall. She turned her attention back to Deever, who went around the desk, opened a section of wood paneling—a relief after all those safes behind pictures, thought Kate—and behind the cover of his crouching frame, ran through the combination.

Once the door was open, he took out a battered briefcase, opened it, and removed several bundles of cash. These he returned to the safe. Then he closed the briefcase and walked over to the door. “Seven-fifty. You get the rest when I get her, you fucking son of a bitch.”

“Sounds good to me, Carlos.” And he turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness.

“I'm terribly sorry to have neglected you for all this time, Miss Grosvenor,” said Deever, turning to her again with a cold smile. “A most important business transaction. Can I get you another drink? Ah—you haven't finished that one. Let me freshen it up for you.” He grabbed the glass and poured in more Scotch and two more ice cubes.

“Now—what were we talking about? I remember. It was your friend's interest in a tour group. You were about to tell me what it was.”

“I'd be surprised if I was about to do that,” said Kate. “Since I haven't the faintest idea what it could possibly have been.” And then, without thinking, she reached out for the drink on the table. She converted the movement into a grab for her purse, and in so doing, sent the glass flying onto the floor. It hit the tiles and smashed. “So sorry,” she said. “I really am a klutz. It's not safe to leave anything breakable within range of me. Waterford, was it?”

“Think nothing of it,” said Deever. As he said the words, his mouth formed itself into a hard line in his white face.

She smiled, located a tissue in her purse, and blew her nose. “What is
your
interest in the tour group? Or do you own it?”

“Certainly not,” he said. “My wife's on that tour, and she's disappeared. I want to know where she is. And I want the name of the person she's with. And, Miss Grosvenor, as you probably know, I usually get what I want.”

“Do you now,” said Kate. “That makes things difficult, doesn't it? Because how do you imagine that I could have any idea where your wife is? I don't even know where my friend is, and she's more important to me than your wife. I assume my friend is lost, and will call me when she finds a telephone. Perhaps your wife will do the same. Otherwise, I don't see the connection between my friend and your wife and a tour bus.”

“It won't do, Miss Grosvenor. That might have worked with the dumb cops you've been talking to, but I know who you are and who you know, and I just don't believe you.” Now his crisp educated tones faded into the harsh nasal drawl of some other and more menacing dialect. “I'm not a very patient person,” he said. “And I haven't got a hell of a lot of time to waste playing games with you. What agency is your friend with?”

“Agency?” said Kate, for once completely puzzled. “You dragged me out here to find out who her agent is?” Then with a click she realized what he meant by agency, and was even more puzzled.

“Very funny,” said Deever coldly. “I got no more time for you, Miss Grosvenor. Not now, and let me tell you, that means, as far as you go, never. Because either you know piss-all, and you're no use to me, or dragging it out of you is going to take more time and effort than I got. You had your chance, and that's it. Unless you want to start talking right now.” His eyes had almost disappeared by this point.

Kate looked at him in silence. Her brain was rapidly assimilating what he was telling her, and it didn't sound good. It failed to suggest a useful response beyond whimpering in terror, which probably would be worse than useless, and so she continued to fix her eyes on him.

“Very well. Ginger,” he called sharply. The small door opened and the chauffeur walked in. “Take Miss Grosvenor upstairs. And get her another drink. Scotch. You might as well drink this one, Miss Grosvenor. You won't have a chance to drink another.”

Kate looked up at the chauffeur with the improbable name from the disadvantage of the armchair she was sitting in. A multitude of instant calculations flooded her brain. Over six foot four. Over two hundred pounds. And probably psychopathic. Fight? Probably not. Scream? Out here in the middle of nowhere? Not much use. She relaxed as much as possible and smiled.

He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her out of the chair as if she were a large soft sculpture. The pain from her injury battled with terror for control of her impulses and in the confusion, reason won. Show no weakness, Kate. Just remain calm and unperturbed. Ginger took her by one arm—the injured one—and piloted her toward the other door in the room. With his left hand, he drew a heavy key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He pulled it open and revealed a circular staircase. Grabbing her injured arm one more time, he forced her onto the first step. He knows which arm to take, she thought, surprised that she hadn't realized that before. The idea steadied her enormously as she walked slowly up the narrow stairs.

After an eternity of steps, she came face to face with another doorway. Ginger gave her another push and she understood that they were not pausing at this one. It must lead out onto the second floor. She moved on, propelled by those heavy feet and hands behind her. Several more steps and her head touched a wooden roof. She could move no farther. Ginger reached around her with his fat hands—she had never seen a man with such fleshy hands—and pushed open the trapdoor. Without a word he propelled her up and in and closed and locked the trap behind her.

She prowled around her new cage. The only door in the room led into a small bathroom, complete with clean towels. Each of the four walls had two tall, very narrow casement windows, unequipped, as she had noticed before, with the pervasive iron grillework that Deever seemed so fond of. The south windows were covered with heavy curtains against the sun; the rest offered no privacy. There was a single bed with a bright red cover, a couch with large pillows in a rough fabric, a dark wood table and two chairs, and under the south windows, a bookcase. A carved wooden chest stood at the foot of the bed. Kate remained in the middle of the room and looked around her, slowly and carefully. There was something very peculiar about the entire setup.

Before she could figure out what it was, the trapdoor opened again, and someone slid a tray with a bottle, a glass, ice, and water onto the floor. It shut and she could hear the sound of the lock. She picked up the tray and set it on the table.

From the south windows she had a view of high plains and mountains. Down below was a smooth drop directly to the ground. A long way. The east windows were above the paddock. Now if she could convince a horse to stand directly under the window— No, Kate. Don't even think about it. The north windows overlooked the courtyard. Shinny down the wall and end up behind iron bars. Wonderful. Walking carefully over to the west wall, avoiding the trapdoor, she eased her head out the window and looked down onto the roof. Because the tower didn't connect to the rest of the house, the roof was six feet down, but that didn't matter. The question was, could she get out of these windows? And having done so, could she get off the flat roof below without killing herself?