The Lawman Meets His Bride (7 page)

She stared ahead at the glowing pinpoints of the trooper’s taillights. If she did want to catch him, this was her last chance.

Her anger notwithstanding, she held the Jeep at a steady 55 m.p.h.

Another twenty or so miles rolled past, and Quinn Loudon’s breathing became ragged and uneven. Constance took one hand off the wheel to touch the seat near his left thigh.

A prickle of alarm jolted through her when her fingertips came away wet and sticky with blood.

“Mr. Loudon! Mr. Loudon, wake up!”

“Hunh?”

He twitched awake, one hand automatically starting toward his gun.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s you, that’s what wrong. You’re bleeding again. And you sound just awful. You need medical help.”

“No. Just keep driving.”

“Look, these back roads wind all over the place. We aren’t even a quarter of the way to Billings. You’ll never make it.”

“I have to make it.”

“No,” she insisted firmly. “I am finally rebelling. I will
not
assist you in killing yourself. There’s lights
up ahead. I’m pulling over and finding out where the nearest doctor or hospital is.”

She braced herself for his next strong-arm tactic. But he surprised her.

“All right,” he agreed in a flat tone that should have warned her. But in her agitation, she missed the clue.

Up ahead lights blazed a halo around what turned out to be a little crossroads service center—a motel, an all-night diner, a gas station.

“The motel clerk can probably help us,” she said as she turned onto an apron of gravel in front of the motel. It was one of a dying breed of mom-and-pop independents, a run-down establishment called Sleepy Pete’s Motor Inn. An ancient neon VACANCY sign winked on and off like a lighthouse beacon.

“I’ll be right back out,” she promised as she reached to turn off the ignition.

His steel-trap grip stopped her hand.

“Just leave it running and get out,” he told her.

“What?”

“Lady, I’m weak but not incoherent. You heard me. Look, I appreciate your concern. But leave the Jeep running and get out.”

Plenty of light washed over them now—harsh, anemic light that made his haggard and pale face seem almost cadaverous.

“You’re stealing my car?”

“In for a penny, in for a pound. I’ve fired on feds and kidnapped you all in one day. Why balk now at grand-theft auto?”

He took several bills from his wallet and thrust them at her. “Here. I can’t pay for the Jeep, but I can at least cover your room and a hot meal.”

“I don’t need money. I need my vehicle!”

“Why is it always about you?” he joked brusquely. “Now
get.
”

Summoning whatever reserves of strength he still possessed, he climbed over the gearshift knob and bodily forced her from her seat.

“Right when I start to feel sorry for you,” she spat at him angrily, “you have to show your true colors all over again.”

Instantly, even as angry as she felt, she regretted that “true colors” remark. His eyes met hers, and beyond the blurred focus caused by pain she could detect a deep well of hurt—she, too, was accusing him of hereditary evil, just as Dolph Merriday had done by way of the radio.

But there was no time for regrets or apologies. He pushed her roughly away from the driver’s door.

“Auf Wiedersehen, fraulein,”
he said in a weary voice, tossing her a two-finger salute. Then he shut the driver’s door and put the transmission in reverse. Only seconds later he was back on the road, taillights receding in the night.

For perhaps a full minute Constance just stood there, staring after him. Her anger receded quickly, replaced by a numb confusion—she didn’t know
what
to feel now.

He can’t make it, she thought. Even if he really did have some important evidence in Billings, he couldn’t make it.

She gradually became aware that she was chilled. Even though the winter night was unseasonably mild, she needed at least a sweater. Clutching her elbows against the cold, she turned and headed reluctantly toward the motel.

From the outside, Sleepy Pete’s Motor Inn featured a 1950s motif best described as Luau Gothic. But the interior, she realized the moment she stepped into the front office, was a surprisingly authentic throwback to the nineteenth century.

Reproductions of Currier and Ives color prints adorned the walls, alternating with portraits in gilt-wood frames of prominent Montanans from the frontier days. The old-fashioned lamps had milky glass shades. There were even brass cuspidors in the corners.

The night clerk was a taciturn old man who looked to be straight out of
Genesis.
She signed the register and paid in advance with a credit card. He gave her a room key and a remote for the television.

Constance knew, of course, that she had to call the police. But once in her cramped, mildew-smelling room, she began pacing, occasionally staring at the telephone on its battered nightstand.

She couldn’t understand what she was feeling right now. After all the pain Doug’s duplicity had caused her, she ought to hate Quinn Loudon. Or if
hate
was too strong, at least despise him.

Instead, she actually felt that she was somehow on the verge of betraying him. She could still see the hurt in his eyes when she alluded to his “true colors.”

“This is stupid,” she said out loud, addressing her own image in the narrow mirror above a battered oak chiffonnier. “Stupid, stupid,
stupid.
” The man was a dangerous criminal, for God’s sake. She should be unspeakably relieved he let her go with her life.

But…

Her expression darkened in the reflection.

With resolve she didn’t feel, she crossed back to
ward the phone. She finally noticed the varnished oil painting on the wall and recognized the beard-grizzled face immediately. It was Jake McCallum, Hazel’s great-great-grandfather, founder of her world-famous Lazy M ranch in Mystery Valley.

Jake, too, had the distinct prussian-blue eyes that lived on in Hazel. As Constance stared into them, Hazel’s words from earlier today whispered in memory:
Does one bad burn mean you must remain in the cold forever?

Steeling herself, she turned her back on Jake and picked up the telephone.

Chapter 5

A
s it turned out, the dreaded ordeal Constance anticipated from the Montana State Troopers never materialized.

They did respond to her call immediately, of course. But she merely told her story to a polite, professional, plainclothes detective whose interview lasted less than thirty minutes. He even kindly arranged for a rental car to be delivered to the motel so she could drive home next day.

Somehow, though, it all seemed too easy.

She went to bed that night with a strong sense of foreboding. Even calling her parents had left her feeling strange. She’d wanted to tell them everything, but instead found herself holding back. It was as if she didn’t want to fully admit a crime had taken place. Somehow she had an inexplicable need to keep the details to herself for a while, as if she still needed to sort out bad from good.

She passed a fitful night in the lumpy bed, dreaming she was back in the Jeep with Quinn Loudon. But with the cartoon logic of dreams, Loudon’s face would transform into Doug’s.

“Miss Adams? Miss Adams, are you in there?”

Someone’s insistent banging on the motel room door startled her awake on Saturday morning. She sat up suddenly, heart thudding, and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand: just past 7:00 a.m.

“Who is it?” she challenged.

“Miss Adams, my name is Roger Ulrick,” responded a voice she instantly disliked. “I’m the assistant district attorney out of Kalispell. I need to ask you some questions about Quinn Loudon.”

“Just a minute,” she called out, flustered and irritated. She hated wearing the same clothes two days in a row, yet she had no choice but to don her wool skirt and blazer again. At least she had been able to take a long shower the night before. She hurriedly ran a brush through her sleep-tangled hair, trying to ignore the puffy circles around her eyes.

She slid the chain back on the night latch and opened the door. Two men stood waiting in the chill, their breath ghosting.

“Miss Adams, this is Todd Mumford,” Ulrick said in a self-satisfied voice that irked her. “He’s with the FBI District Office in Billings. May we come in?”

As if I really have any choice, she fumed. But she forced an uncertain smile onto her face. “Yes, of course.”

Ulrick offered his hand, which felt warm and gummy in hers. Then he removed his cashmere top
coat and folded it neatly over his arm. He was in his forties, thin and slope-shouldered, dressed in a sagging brown suit and cap-toe Oxfords. She did a double-take at Mumford; the baby-faced, bifocaled agent reminded her of one of those teenagers who used to appear on TV game shows and win big money for being so cerebral.

“I told my story last night to the state troopers,” she explained as the two men stepped inside.

“Yes, we know you did,” Ulrick confirmed. His intense, probing stare and skeptical smirk seemed more appropriate to an Inquisitor General. “We are required to conduct our own questioning.”

“I see,” she replied, not really seeing at all.

Mumford was peering all around the room as if he expected to find an exotic bordello. Despite his fashionable blue suit, something about the youthful agent struck her as decidedly old-fashioned. Then she realized: It was his neat, shellacked hair, which had a part straight as a pike.

Ulrick produced a handheld tape recorder and thumbed it on. He asked many of the same questions the detective had asked her last night. Except that he placed far more emphasis on exactly what Loudon told her as well as his precise purpose for wanting to go to Billings.

“Can you elaborate somewhat on his statement that he has an ‘ace in the hole?’,” Ulrick pressed for the second time.

Constance felt her patience stretching thin. “Do you want me to make something up, Mr. Ulrick? That’s all he told me.”

Ulrick simply switched to a new line of questioning.

“Did he say exactly where this ‘ace’ is in Billings?”

She shook her head.

“Miss Adams,” he reminded her in a condescending tone, “the tape recorder cannot record a nod.”

“No,” she snapped back. “He did not tell me where in Billings this ace is being kept.”

“Did he say where he might go after he went to Billings?”

So they haven’t caught him yet, she inferred. She felt guilty when a weight seemed to lift from her.

“No, he didn’t. And frankly, I don’t believe he was in any condition to even make it to Billings.”

Ulrick’s permanent smirk etched itself a bit deeper.

“You sound concerned about that, Miss Adams. Are you?”

“Concerned?”

“Yes. I get the distinct impression it troubles you that he was in need of medical attention. You seem worried about his well-being. That strikes me as…somewhat odd. After all, this man forced you at gunpoint to—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Ulrick,” she cut in. “
I
never said he ‘forced’ me. That’s your word, not mine.”

Ulrick’s long, thin nose wrinkled at the bridge when he frowned.

“I don’t understand, Miss Adams. Are you now saying no gun was involved?”

“He had a gun, yes.”

“And did he not threaten you with it?”

In her heart, Constance knew the strict answer to that question was probably yes. But by now Ulrick had put her in an adversarial mood.

“Well he
showed
it to me,” she stipulated carefully. “And it was a bit threatening, yes.”

“
It
was threatening, or
he
was?”

“The gun, I meant.”

Ulrick exchanged a long glance with his younger companion. The tape recorder didn’t record
that,
either, she thought, keeping the observation to herself.

“Miss Adams,” Ulrick lectured her in a patronizing tone, “I’m getting the distinct impression that you are actually sympathetic to your abductor.”

“Your impressions are of no interest to me, Mr. Ulrick. And my sympathies are my private business.”

“Perhaps. But aiding and abetting a fugitive is the law’s business.”

Todd Mumford entered the conversation for the first time. His tone was far more reasonable than Ulrick’s.

“Miss Adams, federal kidnapping charges are filed automatically whether the victim presses charges or not.”

“That’s your area of expertise, not mine,” she replied curtly. “I’m a Realtor.”

“Yes,” Ulrick interjected in a pointed tone. “So long as you possess a state license to be one. I assume you know that a felony conviction, in Montana, means revocation of your license?”

Angry blood rushed into her face. “Are you trying to intimidate me, Mr. Ulrick?”

“Merely reminding you of the law, Miss Adams.”

“Frankly, I don’t believe that’s all you’re doing. You’re treating
me
like a criminal. And you’re obviously trying to bully me into giving you information I do not possess.”

Ulrick finally lost his smirk as raw anger distorted
his features. But the FBI agent, coolly professional throughout, poured oil on the waters.

“We apologize if our tactics seem a bit high-pressure, Miss Adams. If necessary you would testify in a court of law, would you not?”

“Yes, if absolutely necessary. But only to exactly what I’ve told you this morning.”

Perhaps ten seconds passed in awkward silence as they all pondered the awkward impasse they’d reached. Ulrick, calm again, put his coat back on. Then he folded his arms over his chest and asked one last question.

“Did Loudon give you anything, Miss Adams? Anything at all?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Mr. Ulrick, which syllable of the word
nothing
are you having trouble understanding? ‘No’ or ‘thing?’ Or perhaps you think I’m feebleminded? I believe I would know if somebody gave me something.”

Angry blood rushed into Ulrick’s face. But Mumford cleared his throat in warning. Ulrick bit back his first, hot-tempered response.