The Last Good Kiss (36 page)

was parked in front. It looked like it had been wrecked

once, then towed out of the river. "What promise?" I

repeated.

"That she could come and go as she pleased,"

Trahearne muttered. "That I wouldn't ask any questions."

"She promised you the same thing, didn't she?"

He nodded, and glanced around. "Does he live

here?" he asked.

"He?"

"You know, the man . . . the man she sees."

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"She's supposed to meet me down here around ten ,"

I said. "I'll let her tell you about it. "

"It's you now, isn't it," he said sadly, a statement not

a question. "It's you . "

"Just shut the fuck up, all right?" I said, then got out

and walked across the road to watch the river.

What a case. Private detectives are supposed to find

missing persons and solve crimes. So far in this one I

had committed all the crimes-everything from grand

theft auto to criminal stupidity-and everybody but

poor old Rosie and I had known where Betty Sue

Flowers was from the beginning. I had the odd feeling

that if I didn't go home soon, instead of ending up with

a bank account fat with Catherine Trahearne's money I

would end up with holes in my boots and moths in my

pocket. The more· I thought about it, the angrier I

became. I stood up and charged back across the

highway, shouting at Trahearne.

"I'm sending you a bill, old man , and I don't care if it

breaks your ass, you better come up with the scratch!"

"All right," he answered meekly.

"Oh , stop being such a damned dope," I said. "She's

up on that mountain staying with a woman who saved

her life once and she's not doing a number with

me-she's never done a number with anybody since she

made the colossal mistake of falling in love with your

sorry ass."

"All right," he said, not believing ·a word of it.

As I thought about it, I wasn't too sure that I

believed it either. Like too many men, Trahearne and I

didn't know how to deal with a woman like Melinda,

caught as we were between our own random lusts and a

desire for faithful women so primitive and fierce that it

must have been innate, atavistic, as uncontrollable as a

bodily function. That was when I stopped being angry

at the old man.

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"What time is it?" I asked him.

"Ten-thirty," he said.

"She should be here soon," I said. "Let's have a

midmorning nip."

He looked startled, then reached under the seat for

the bottle. As we shared the whiskey, I wondered how

long men had been forgiving each other over strong

drink for being fools.

At eleven, when Melinda still hadn't shown up, I

hiked up the trail toward Selma's place, Trahearne

following at his own pace, ten steps and a halt for some

heavy breathing.

"I'll go ahead," I told him, "and warn them of your

arrival so it won't be so much of a surprise."

"It'll be a hell of a surprise if I get there," he joked as

I went on ahead. 1\vo switchbacks up the hill, I could

still hear his tortured breaths.

By the time I reached the clearing, my lungs were

working overtime too. As I paused to rest a bit, I

noticed a black splotch in the dust of the trail and

splatters of dried blood on the rocks beside it, then I

wondered where the dogs were. Across the clearing,

the kennel gate stood open, as did the bank of small

animal cages.

I ran to the large cabin, but it was empty, so I ran

outside and around it. A young boy was digging a large

hole with a pick and a young girl knelt beside a pile of

dead dogs and birds and small furry animals. Selma sat

on the far side of the clearing, her back against a pine, a

shotgun cradled on her knees.

"What the hell happened?" I said to the boy.

He started, then climbed out of the hole quickly, the

pick raised like a club. An ugly mouse closed his left

eye, and he spit blood between broken teeth.

"You'll have to kill me this time, you son of a bitch,"

he said as he came at me with the pick.

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"Hey," I said, holding up my arms and backing

away. He didn't stop. The �rl beside the grave moaned

and covered her face with her hands. "Hey, wait a

minute," I said, but he kept coming. "Calm down,

son," I said, still walking backward, "I didn't do

anything. "

"You led them here!" Selma screamed as she stood

up and pointed the double-barreled shotgun in my

general direction.

The boy with the pick glanced over my shoulder, and

I heard the scuffle of feet on the rocky dirt. I didn't wait

to find out what the sudden inhalation of breath behind

me meant; I ducked and rolled away, catching a

glimpse of the other young girl as she swung the ax she

carried. When it hit the ground where I had been

standing, the blade glanced off a rock and the ax

bounced out of her hands. She didn't take her eyes off

me, though, she just locked her fiercely calm gaze on

my face as she picked up the ax again. There's nothing

like a woman with an ax to get you moving. I chunked a

handful of dirt and stones at the boy with the pick,

scrambled to my feet, and ran back to the trail,

stepping high and moving out. The ax looped and

whistled over my head, and I picked up the pace. Just

as I hit the tree line, Selma touched off the first barrel,

and shot dusted a small pine to my left. I dodged, and

she got a piece of me with the second barrel. The edge

of the pattern stung me high on the right side but it

didn't knock me down. It helped my progress, though.

I abandoned the trail to leap straight downhill through

the small trees.

Combat at close range is the sort of thing you have to

train for until you operate by reflex. Once the ball is

rolling, there usually isn't much time to think and just

barely enough time to react. It had been nine years

since I led a squad with the 1st Air Cav in the central

highlands of Vietnam, and Trahearne's Pacific war was

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twenty years beyond that. When I found him on the

trail midway down the hill, we were two civilians scared

out of our wits, as effective a combat unit as a couple of

headless chickens.

"Jesus Christ, what happened?" he asked me in a

breathless whisper.

"I don't know," I said, trying to think. "Go back

down the hill," I told him. "Take your car a mile up the

highway and if I'm not back in an hour, go get the

sheriff."

"I've got a shotgun in my trunk," he said.

"There's already too many shotguns up here," I said.

"Just do what I say."

"What are you going to do?" he asked with a hurt

look. When he remembered his war, he remembered

being in command.

"Going back up the hill," I said, "and you get your

ass down it."

"Lemme go with you," he whined.

"Move," I said, then hit him on the shoulders with

the heels of my hands.

The big man went ass over teakettle, and I dodged

into the trees, circling right over the lower end of the

ridge and into the next drainage, then I dropped down

the far side of the ridge about a hundred yards, and

worked my way back up toward the clearing. If I had

been in better shape, I would have gone the other way,

uphill, and dropped down on the clearing. If I had had

any sense, I would have gone home.

Fifteen minutes later, I bellied up to the clearing

behind the large cabin. Three of them were on the far

side, peering into the trees beside the trail-selma with

the shotgun, the boy with his pick, and the crazy girl

with her ax-but the other young girl sat on the edge of

the unfinished grave, still weeping into her hands.

Sweat poured off me so furiously that I couldn't tell if

198

my back was still bleeding, and I was too tired to crawl

on my belly anymore. I stood and walked up behind the

girl as quietly as I could, with all the cunning and grace

and animal stealth of an old milk cow, but she didn't

hear me until I sat down beside her.

"Don't be afraid," I said to her. "I won't hurt you."

She fainted right into my arms. I lifted her in front of

me like a shield, then shouted at the others. They

turned and walked back toward me.

"One more step and I break her neck!" I shouted

melodramatically. She was so limp her neck might as

well have been broken. The three of them stopped,

then took a hesitant step. "Throw all that crap away!"

The boy flung his pick to the ground in disgust and

Selma sat the shotgun at her feet but the girl with the ax

kept it on her shoulder. "You gotta throw it away,

honey," I said.

"Don't honey me, motherfucker," she answered

calmly, clutching the ax handle tightly.

"Please, young lady," Trahearne growled from the

trail as he lumbered into view, "please put it down."

His face was fiery red and his shirt completely soaked

with sweat, but he walked straight up, carrying the

ugliest shotgun I had ever seen�a riot gun, a 12-gauge

Remington pump with an 8-shot magazine, a 20-inch

barrel, a pistol grip, and a metal stock that folded over

the receiver and barrel. I knew what it was because I

had one just like it. "Please," he said again.

She let the ax head fall to the ground beside her

tennis shoe but she kept her hand on the handle. I was

willing to settle for that. Without their weapons, Selma