The Killing Machine (12 page)

“He mention what he was thinking about?”

A half-laugh. “I always wanted him to say that he was thinking about me. About us. But he never did.”

“He ever take you there?”

“Huh-uh. I was kind of a stick-in-the-mud, I'm
afraid. I wasn't all that keen on going to the island. All those bugs and quicksand.”

“He ever talk about the hunting cabin there?”

“Oh, yes. Talked it up quite a bit. How comfortable I'd be in it.”

“He ever mention any trouble in the cabin?”

“Trouble?” She watched my face. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

She wanted any scrap of information I could find about him. The more information, the more alive he was in her mind. I told her about the cabin and the blood on the floor.

“Did it look like fresh blood?”

“I don't think so. Pretty old, in fact.”

“He never mentioned having any trouble there. A lot of different people rented it out for hunting.”

“Yeah, I want to talk to this realtor about the renter list.”

“Dick Benson?”

“Uh-huh.”

She laughed cordially. “He's actually a very charitable man. But he'd double-charge his own mother for a pup tent. He's like a drummer in that respect, I suppose. He hates to leave without selling you something—and just about anything'll do.”

The wall clock fixed her attention. “I've got an hour to go on my shift. I need to start working again.”

Sitting there in the sunlight, worn out from work and missing my brother, I knew he would have moved on to another woman soon enough. When you looked at her closely, you saw signs of the worst disease of all—at least to David it had been the worst disease—getting older. I'd figured out long ago that
men who constantly need to be around younger and younger women are around them in hopes of denying their own impending old age. How old can I be if I still attract young women? They can get away with it for a time, but then they start looking foolish; and ultimately they look sort of sinister.

I wanted to touch her hand, and for once not out of some stupid sense of romance. She'd be a long time getting over David and by then I'd be long gone. I just wanted the touch to say that she was a good woman and that I felt bad about her grief but that her goodness would get her through it.

But I didn't touch her hand, of course. She would've taken it the wrong way and things were complicated enough.

She walked me to the corridor and then down to the front door. “Just be careful,” she said lightly. “Dick Benson's got these old monstrosities he's been trying to unload for years. Everybody who lives here just walks away when he starts his spiel. But he considers strangers prime targets.”

“I'll be careful. After I get the information I'll gag him.”

“It's about time somebody did.”

I drank three cups of coffee and then went for a walk along the river, through the small town park, and then stopped in at the café for some eggs and flapjacks. Nothing tastes better than an afternoon breakfast.

I was just finishing up when Wayland came through the door. He was still wearing that big, new, stupid hat of his. His gaze searched for something, and when it lit on me, he made one of those big surprised looks that stage actors favor.

He came over and sat himself down.

“Did you know that James's wife Gwen has a lover?”

Every once in a while you get shocked. It doesn't even have to be true, what somebody tells you. Just the idea of it—even if you scorn it later on as bullshit—just the idea of something your mind finds offensive can shock you. And even the most cynical person in this old vale of tears can be told something that absolutely stuns him.

“Yeah, and General Grant could fly.”

“You don't understand what I'm saying here.”

“Sure, I do. And that's why I know it's bullshit.”

“You're seeing her as you want to see her. The sweet, faithful wife.”

“Is this supposed to have some bearing on the murders and the gun?”

“It will once I tell you who her lover is.”

“Do I win anything if I guess right?”

“Frank Clarion's been slipping it to her for more than a year.”

“The deputy? Wickham's nephew?”

“The one and only. So think about it. James tells his good and faithful wife that he and Tib are going to the ranch to help you bring your brother in. But Frank goes out there first, kills your brother, and then guns down James and Tib.”

“So why would he kill Fairbain and Spenser?”

“You're not as smart as I thought you were, Ford.” He said this smugly. “You should be way ahead of me on this. He goes to Fairbain and offers him the gun. But Fairbain won't meet the price. So now he has to kill Fairbain because Fairbain can fink him out. Then he goes to Spenser. Same thing. He wants
too much money and Spenser says no. He kills Spenser. He has to. But who would suspect him? Everybody sees him as this good man doing his job. But just wait about six months or so when this thing's blown over. His wife's going to have a little accident. Maybe drowning. Or maybe a fire. Hell, maybe it'll be his wife and kid. Man kills as easily as he has, he could kill his own kid, too. I'm told killing gets into your blood. But then you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Ford? You killed quite a few Rebs during the war. And my understanding is that you still kill people when old Uncle Sam deems it necessary.” He paused. Took a drink of water. “So now Clarion and James's widow are in the clear. They court for a while and then decide to leave town. By this time, Clarion has sold the gun and has plenty of cash for settling down somewhere else. And nobody around here thinks anything more about it. Everybody's moved on mentally—there's plenty of things to worry about besides some murder in the past.”

“That's quite a story.” By now, it was pretty clear what he was doing—giving me something so I'd give him something.

“If you won't go after him, I will.”

I ordered a fresh cup of coffee and while I waited for it I rolled a cigarette. After I got my coffee, I said, “Where'd you get all this information?”

“Tib's wife.”

“Why'd she talk to you?”

“She didn't want to. Not at first. But then I told her about Tib coming to see me.”

“When was this?”

“Three, four hours before he left for the ranch
with you. He asked me how much I'd pay if he double-crossed you and James and got the gun.”

“How was he going to get us out of the way?”

“Kill you. Then blame it on the crossfire. He probably could've pulled it off, too.”

“And Tib's wife told you about Clarion and Gwen Andrews, too?”

“Sure. Tib told her all about it—about them carrying on together with James not knowing anything about it.”

I had to let it settle inside me. That's the trouble with gossip. You might say bullshit right off the top—and it might indeed be bullshit—but it takes root inside you. Even if it's proved false to your satisfaction later on, it's there, in you, in the air. A lot of reputations have been destroyed that way, false rumors; and a lot more will be.

“I can't see it.”

“You could if you'd look beyond that saintly role she plays.”

“She loved James.”

“She said she did, anyway.”

“You shoulda been an elixir salesman, Wayland. You got the tongue for it.”

“I'm just saying what's in the air. You have respect for women. You believe them. So do I. Most of the time. But every once in a while you run across one who doesn't deserve that pedestal you put them on. And that's the case here, my friend. Whether you want to believe it or not. Now if you want the gun, and I know you do; and if you want the people who killed your brother, and I know you do—you'll throw in with me.”

I laughed. “You going to shoot me or stab me?”

“What?”

“Say it's true. Say Frank Clarion and Gwen did kill my brother and take the gun.”

“And killed Fairbain and Spenser.”

“All right, let's throw that in the pot, too. Killed James and Tib and my brother; killed Fairbain and Spenser. Let's assume that's all true. So we go after Clarion and Gwen.”

“And the gun.”

“All right, and the gun.”

“Now that sounds pretty good to me.”

“I'm sure it does, Wayland. Because you're already figuring on killing me.”

“Like hell I am.”

“How else you going to get the gun?”

He blushed, actually blushed. He'd been trapped. “I thought maybe you'd reconsider and make that deal I proposed.”

“No, you didn't. You know I want to take the gun back to Washington, where it belongs. You also know that I may not be the smartest and toughest investigator the Army has, but one thing I am is honest. No matter what you offered me, I wouldn't take it. And that would leave you only one option. You'd have to kill me, Wayland, in order to get that gun you wanted.”

“I don't go around shooting people.”

“Not unless you need to.”

He put on a little show for me. The outraged citizen. “I come to you with the story of what's really going on here—the name of the man who killed your brother, for God's sake—and this is what I get?”

“This is what you get.”

He lifted his ten-gallon hat from the table. “I
deeply resent this, sir.” He was on the stage again, ham actor.

We exchanged one of those glares that are supposed to strike the other man dead. But both of us survived. He left the café. I sat there and finished my coffee.

I
sat my horse in the woods that ran behind James's house. My field glasses told me that Gwen and her daughter were gone. I'd been here quite a while and hadn't seen anybody. They were in town, maybe.

What I wanted to do was disprove Wayland's story about Gwen and Frank Clarion. It wasn't so much that I had great faith in women—neither sex has any real corner on morality, though women strike me as a lot more reasonable to deal with in general—it was just the simple notion that Gwen would ever take up with Frank Clarion. I needed evidence to disprove Wayland's wild tale—or evidence to prove it.

I gave myself ten minutes. I slipped from my horse, crossed the wide lawn separating house from woods, and eased myself in the back door. Cooking smells, beef and bread. A doll in a gingham dress and blond hair sitting upright in the middle of the kitchen, enormous blue eyes holding secrets I'd never be able to guess. I moved quickly to the other rooms. I had no idea what I was looking for. Maybe the kind of proof I needed didn't even exist. It was doubtful they'd
written each other letters that laid out their whole relationship—if they'd ever had one.

James had pretty much given up his Cree heritage, at least judging by the things I found in the house. There were a few ceremonial weapons, a clay pipe for smoking, a pair of moccasins decorated with hand-drawn symbols I took to be Cree, and a tribal headdress heavy enough to snap the neck of the poor sonofabitch who had to wear it for long.

There was much more evidence of the little girl. Books, games, blankets with her name embroidered on them, a hobby horse with mismatched buttons for eyes.

Gwen had three dresses, all worn from wearing, half a dozen shirts, and riding skirt and blouse. On the table next to the bed were three Louisa May Alcott novels.

There was a small desk, two tables with drawers, and the sort of long, metal box used for storing valuables to look through. Nothing especially interesting in any of them.

 

The soughing wind hid their sounds at first. I didn't really hear them until Julia's voice sailed right through the back window and into the living room where I stood. It's always a bit awkward to have folks walk in and find you looking through their things. Most of the time they look surprised, and then they look betrayed. It'd be better if they looked mad. That'd be much easier to handle than the betrayed look. Much easier.

Gwen went through the whole range—surprise,
shock, anger, betrayal. She did it in just a few seconds, too. Julia was less abstract: “How come he's in our house, Mommy?”

Gwen's eyes showed fury again. “Maybe he'll be nice enough to explain that, honey.”

“Look, I was just…”

I glanced desperately from Julia to her. “Honey,” Gwen said, taking Julia's little hand and turning her toward the back door. “Why don't you go play outside?”

“What should I play, Mommy?”

“Well, how about playing with the new kittens?”

“I did that this morning.”

“Well, how about playing with your new ball?”

“I did that this morning, too.”

Gwen glanced over her shoulder at me. A faint impression of exasperation was in her eyes. I had to wonder if I'd ever have enough patience to be a parent.

Gwen turned back to Julia and said, “I know. Have you ever rolled the ball past the kittens and had them chase it?”

“I guess not.”

“That'd be fun for both you and the kittens, don't you think?”

“I guess so. I'm sort of sleepy, though.” For emphasis, she rubbed her right eye.

“Well, you go play for a little while, then I'll make you some warm milk and we'll take a nap. All right?”

“I guess so,” Julia said, still sounding reluctant.

Gwen scooted the kid away and when she heard the back door slam, she turned around again with a fistful of surprise. She pointed a Colt .45 directly at my chest.

“I'm guessing you heard about Frank and me.”

Hard to guess which was the bigger surprise. The gun or the somewhat casual way she brought up Clarion.

Before I could say anything, she went on quickly. “Nobody knew how James treated me. I tried to leave several times. He said he'd track me down if I did. He wouldn't kill me, he said. He'd kill Julia. I didn't have any doubt he'd do just that, either. You had to know him. How crazy he was. Frank Clarion came out here a couple of times when James was drunk. He stopped James from hurting me. I didn't expect anything to start. In fact, I thought Frank was pretty much of a fool in some ways.”

She walked over and sat down in a rocking chair.

“I can see where holding that gun up would make you tired,” I said. “Why don't you set it down?”

“It's not the gun that's making me tired. It's my monthly visitor, in case you're interested. It always tires me out.”

“If you get to sit, how about me sitting?”

“I didn't know Frank was going to kill James. He never told me that.”

“I'll take that as a yes,” I said, and sat down in a chair of my own.

“I didn't know he was going to kill anybody, in fact. I only told him about James helping you out because I thought that maybe he could steal the gun from you—after you got it from your brother. That's how I thought he was going to handle it.”

“So he gets the gun and then what?”

She let her gaze drop for a moment. Regret made her lean face even sharper. “We run away together.”

“He has a wife and kid.”

“Figure it out, Ford. We were in love. Or thought we were. We were very selfish people. We didn't worry about husbands or wives or even children. He only agreed to let me take Julia along because I convinced him that James would kill her otherwise.”

“You're still running away?”

She snorted. “After he killed all those people? He's not right. Up here.” She tapped her head. “He's even crazier than James was. I have to have this gun on me at all times. I sleep with it on the night table. He's mad because I won't take off with him now. He thinks he can sell the gun in New Orleans. He says there's a hotel where all the arms merchants hang out there.”

“The La Pierre.”

“I guess. Anyway, he claims I've destroyed his life.” The snort again. “I've destroyed his life? After he killed all those people. That's the only reason Tib's wife won't go to the marshal. She knows that Frank'll kill her if she does. That he'll find some way. Frank's a very devious man.”

 

The first bullet shattered the west window. The second bullet shattered an oil lamp, which exploded, sending a fist-sized ball of flame along the top of the horsehair couch.

Out back, Julia screamed.

After the first bullet, Gwen had crouched down and headed for the back door. There was no point in trying to stop her. She was out to save her child. There's no more profound urge than that.

I crawled to the side of the west window to get a
fix on where he was. I smashed out what was left of the glass and took a two-second scan of the land. He was out near the barn.

The next minute—and it seemed much longer than that—unfolded this way: Frank Clarion had apparently not been aware of Julia—who'd been on the other side of the barn—until she screamed. Her screams had obviously gotten his attention. Now she was running toward the house. Clarion made the decision to go after her.

Just then Gwen slammed out of the back door and started running toward her daughter. Sight of Gwen must have made Clarion lose control. He shot Gwen twice.

I wanted to fire, but I couldn't. All three of them were now in range, but they'd also collected together in the middle of the backyard. Gwen was crying out and falling in such a way that she obscured Julia and that gave Clarion time to grab Julia.

By the time Gwen's body collided with the unyielding ground, Frank Clarion had what he wanted: a hostage.

“I have to tell you to drop your gun?”

“I guess not.”

“Then do it.”

“What's he going to do to me?” Julia asked me, her lower lip trembling so badly I could barely understand her. Then, as if realizing everything that had happened in the past few minutes, she looked to her left and saw the fallen form of her mother, who lay unmoving facedown on the ground. “Mom!” she cried and suddenly tried to tear herself from Clarion's armlock around her neck. She kicked him in the shin. For the space of a breath, his
hold loosened. I had the exhilarating sense that she was going to jerk and twist free of him. But then his grip was redoubled and when she tried to kick him again, he clipped her on top of the head with the handle of his gun. She slumped in his arm, awake but in pain.

He was done now. Didn't matter if he had a hostage; didn't matter if he had David's gun. He had to know that his world was caving in on him. The shame of destroying his marriage, the shame of murdering several men, and finally the shame of having to take a little girl hostage to save himself—in his frenzy he had to give up on his dime-novel dream of himself. He wasn't the good guy, he was the bad guy. In his case, a very bad guy.

As if to mock us with its indifference, the cacophony of day went right on its way. Birds sang, sweet breezes blew, cows did what cows do, and the wee kittens were cute and playful. Who gave a damn about this stupid human drama where a little girl was probably about to lose her life? Humans were always doing stupid things like this. They never changed, never learned. Birds, cows and wee kittens had given up on humans a long time ago, anyway.

“I'm walking her to my horse. I don't have to tell you what happens if you make a move on me, Ford.”

“You killed too many people, Clarion. You'll never walk away.”

“You don't have no idea what's really going on around here.”

“What about James and Tib—and my brother?”

Julia started to rouse. She'd hung limply in his arms but now, like a puppet whose strings had been reattached, the limbs got awkwardly active, jutting
this way and that for the arms, the knees strong enough to force the legs to stand upright.

“I didn't kill nobody. The way I figure, it was Wayland. He heard me run my mouth off to Tib one night when we were drinking—how I was going to kill your brother and take the gun for myself. That was my plan. But by the time I got there, they were all dead. And somebody was in the barn, firing at you and James and Tib. I just rode back to town. Now put your arms up in the air.”

His bay was west of the house, ground-tied. He wouldn't have any trouble reaching it. Julia was crying quietly, glancing at her mother every few minutes.

Nothing I could do. He was going to leave and he knew there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. Julia tried kicking him again, but this time he moved his leg out of the way in time. He slugged her again on the side of the head, but not as hard as last time.

“Is my mommy dead, mister?” she cried out at me as Frank Clarion dragged her past me to his horse.

“She'll be all right, honey.”

Clarion laughed. “You shoulda been a priest, Ford.”

Julia started crying again. At that moment the world couldn't make much sense to her. If it ever would again. Far as I could tell, her mother was dead.

He got around the house. He wasn't having any trouble with Julia. She'd either given up or had passed out. Her arms dangled at her sides, seeming to swing free. I heard a horse whinny and then I heard Clarion muttering instructions to Julia. He was setting her up on his saddle. He was telling her he'd shoot her if she didn't sit absolutely still. The silence was such that I
could hear his saddle leather when he climbed up on the horse. The horse whinnied again and moved around some. He settled it down before moving it away from the yard. He started out slow, the horse moving just a few yards. I wondered if he was having trouble with Julia. Strange he didn't just start moving fast. A second or two before he did it, I figured out why he was moving so slow. There was one shot and then a second. I don't know how to describe the sound my horse made, a cry that was part shock and part pain. Then the sound became pure pain. The horse collapsed. The sound seemed as enormous as the cry of pain had been. Then Clarion was moving fast and so was I.

The horse was dead by the time I got to it. Tremors skittered across its flesh like spiderflies on a pond surface. At least the prick had been merciful. Two bullets in the brain.

Gwen was stone dead. You could feel the life still warm but cooling fast in the horse. But Gwen was cold dead. I turned her over on her back. Black ants had collected on the blood red of her blouse. She'd hit the ground so hard that her sharp prairie-elegant nose had been smashed. She smelled pretty bad, everything having emptied out the way it did. People didn't figure sometimes, didn't figure at all, and she was one of them. Whatever James had done to her, a shitkicker thief like Clarion sure wasn't the solution.

Clarion had forgotten about the horse out back of the barn, the one Gwen used for her buckboard. I remembered it only because it made some noise on the downwind. I dragged my saddle off my own poor, dead animal and got it on the ancient cutting horse that somebody had returned from the cattle business
years earlier. Getting it to stand still while I saddled it was no easy task. When I finally grabbed the horn and started to swing myself up into the saddle, it spooked and nearly threw me to the ground.

It took me ninety-two minutes by railroad watch to reach town. It should have taken me sixty at the outside.