by Hy Conrad
“Dad?” The pedestrian gate to the left of the wrought-iron gates was unlocked on the inside and had been propped open with a stone. Callie went through, made a left turn and raced to the end of the stone wall to one of the vacant lots flanking the Blackburn property. She had run most of the way and was now panting, the night air coursing through her tender throat. “Dad?” she called a little louder. He was already thirty yards into the field, bending down, passing his arms randomly through the spring grasses and bushes, like a day-dreaming child. “Are you alright? You should come back inside. Dad?”
He heard this last mention of his name, stood straight and turned. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Are you alright? Do you know who I am? It’s Callie, Dad.”
“What the hell?” Buddy’s eyes darted around, from his daughter to the road to the mansion and back. “I told you to keep him occupied. I distinctly told you. Could I have been any clearer? Hold his attention, damn it. Where is he now?”
“He had to take a call.” She began to step carefully through the bushes, her path illuminated by the halogen. “When I saw you… I thought you might be wandering.”
“Don’t come to me. I’ll come to you.” He headed in her direction, no longer swaying, just trying to avoid the brambles and the gopher holes. “With any luck, we’ll beat him back to the living room. If not, we’ll say we went out to clear our heads. Too damn strong a whisky. The whisky’s fault.”
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see the world from his favorite chair. Then I let the curiosity get me. Stupid, stupid. Lit up like a stage. What could I do? You and me, we’ll come in the daylight. It’s his land, so we’ll need some papers from your brother.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Buddy’s left ankle turned on something. He caught his balance then tilted his head, narrowed his eyes and knelt down in the weeds. A few seconds later he came up with what looked like a rope, a foot and a half long, that had tangled itself onto his foot. The rope glimmered in the halogen reflection.
Callie recognized it. “That’s Briana’s.” She caught up to him and took the braided leather necklace with the broken clasp, wiping off the accumulation of mud until the gold strand shone from end to end. “My God. How did it…” The answer seemed obvious. “Briana was killed right here. In this field.”
There was rustle of twigs in the grasses behind them.
“She wasn’t killed here.” It was Keagan Blackburn, stepping from the road into the vacant lot, his face thrown into silhouette by the street lamp’s glare. “When he dumped her, she was already cold. I checked.”
“Keagan.” Buddy’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I hope you brought the Glenfiddich. I think we could all use a touch right now.”
“Sorry. Short phone call. I came back and got fascinated by the view, if you know what I mean.” He spoke and moved deliberately, inhaling deeply, as if trying to speed up the sobering process.
“That damn view,” said Buddy sympathetically. “Source of all our woes.”
“You’re telling me?”
“It must have been quite the shock,” Buddy said.
“Unbelievable.” The CEO shook his head. “Stopped his car right here, pulled her out and dragged her onto my property. I was negotiating with my fellas ‘round the world, hundreds of millions of bucks, and I see this guy dumping a corpse not a hundred yards away. I’m sure something must’ve showed on my face. Maybe got me a better deal, huh?” He pointed to the necklace in Callie’s hand. “I figured she’d lost something when I pulled her back to the road. Wasn’t easy. Not as young as I used to be.”
“I don’t get it,” Callie said. “She was dead and you just moved her? You didn’t call the cops? You drove a mile away and dumped her in another field?”
“Seemed like the easiest thing to do,” Blackwell said.
“I hate being a Monday morning quarterback, Keagan boy, but it would’ve been smarter not to bring a shovel.” Buddy made a face. “You didn’t need to give her a good burial, just dump her.”
“I didn’t know.” Blackburn sounded angry with himself. “I’d touched her. There were probably fibers on her from me and my truck, all that stuff. I didn’t know what the cops could do with their forensic shit, so I decided on burial. What the hell? I was wired and could use the exercise. If it wasn’t for that damn patrol car…”
Callie still hadn’t pieced it together. “Why didn’t you just say that? Why did you have to stonewall everyone and risk a murder charge?”
“He was never in real danger.” Buddy fixed his eyes on the black silhouette of the CEO’s face. “The real danger would’ve come from the police combing through this field for days on end with their dogs and their metal detectors and their whatnot.”
The silhouette nodded slowly. “Buddy, my buddy. How did you know?”
“I should’ve known months ago, the night you killed them. The night you came blubbering over to the ranch. ‘Oh, my Ingrid’s screwing this lowlife wetback. Ungrateful bitch. Making a fool of me.’ You sweating like a pig, which wasn’t the least bit like you, which should’ve clued me in. Bad on me. I assume they were both already dead?”
The silhouette kept nodding, almost rhythmically. “I flew in a day early. Caught ‘em in bed.” He grinned at the memory. “Ingrid could see me going for my daddy’s old Colt Python in the dresser. Her eyes went all wild, staring at the dresser and me, then trying to shield her worthless stud. One shot each. Clean – except for the blood.
“Afterwards, when things were such a mess – in the bedroom and in my mind – I came crawling to you. If ever I needed someone to deal with the cops and the prosecutor and the press…” Blackburn’s voice turned cold and snide. “Before I could say a word, you were consoling me: Things weren’t so bad. The ice-cold bitch had no friends, you said. No one would miss her. I was in your study, drinking your whisky and I happened to think, ‘Goddamn, the man’s perfectly right. Things ain’t so bad.’ I came up with the running-off story right there on the spot. Thank you.”
“I should’ve felt it,” Buddy muttered. “Something was off. I should’ve known.”
“Time was on my side. I buried them right here. Not a deep burial, but deep enough to avoid the coyotes. I repainted the bedroom myself. The jewelry and whatever else she would’ve taken with her, all burned or buried. And the wetback Raul – that was his name, I learned from her phone, Raul Cabrera – was even easier. He owned a tiny, shitty trailer by the polo club up off 130. You know the place?”
“Yeah,” said Buddy. “I remember it under the old management. State took a riding lesson or two before he discovered football.”
“Raul was an illegal, turns out. No one came asking for his forwarding address. There were a couple of close calls with Ingrid, some communication from her parents in Norway, but nothing I couldn’t divert. It was like a fun, new hobby, cleaning up my own mess. Every day got easier.”
Blackburn took two more steps into the field, revealing more of his face. “And then that body got dumped.” Callie noticed something at his side, like a walking stick but bulkier.
Buddy saw it, too. “That’s not your daddy’s Colt Python.”
Blackburn glanced down casually at the shotgun. “It’s from the front closet, by the powder room. I’m not sure exactly what to do here,” he said, as if asking the fixer for advice. “This can’t be suicide, I suppose. A double suicide with a shotgun? Even your dumb-ass son would question that.”
“Hey,” Buddy warned. “Let’s keep family out of this.”
“You’re right, my friend. I apologize. And now…” The shotgun swung up, the stock sliding under his shoulder. Callie recognized it as a double barrel over-under, an old school weapon, hardly meant for assassination but lethal enough at close range.
Buddy countered by swinging up his empty hands, showing his palms. “Keagan, what the hell? How the hell do you see this ending?
Two shotgun blasts in an open field? Someone’s going to hear.”
“No one heard last time. And let’s face it, I can’t ever sell this lot. Might as well make the most of it. Like a goddamn graveyard.” His sighted down the barrels, training them on Buddy’s chest.
Callie glanced around, left then right. She hadn’t seen a car go by since she got here. The lights from the surrounding estates were few and far between, no houses at all on this section of the road.
“What’s the best result?” Buddy blurted out, breaking the silence. Blackburn smiled, recognizing the phrase. “Let’s talk. What do you want out of this?”
“The best result…” Blackburn kept his aim but gave the question a respectful moment. “Are you seriously asking? The best result is for me to shoot you here and now. Over and done.”
Buddy didn’t flinch. “Nah. I hate to disagree, but this’ll be much louder than a revolver in a bedroom. People will hear. Even if no one calls the police, Callie and I would be missing and someone who knows my connection to you – Gil or my dumb-ass son – would make local inquiries and find out about the gunshots. By that time, of course, you could run off and leave the country and your life and most of your money. But you’d still get caught.” He let this sink in. “One possibility…”
Blackburn was interested. “Yes?”
“One possibility is for you to drop the shotgun and give up.”
“Screw you, McFee.”
“No. Hear me out,” Buddy said, his hands still raised. “I’ll do what I can. We can spin this. I know we can.”
Blackburn shook his head. “I don’t see how.”
“You found your wife and her buck in flagrante delicto,” Buddy explained. “You acted out of passion. We’ll find evidence to back that up. This being Texas, that will be an extenuating circumstance and we can sway public opinion. You’ll wind up doing time, yes. But watch your health and you’ll be out and about and getting yourself another wife, if any woman will have you after that.”
Blackburn shook his head through the whole proposal. “I know you’re a talented man, Bud, but that’s a non-starter. Want to know the best result? It’s for you to just forget about this.”
“Forget you killed your wife and her lover? In exchange for our lives?”
Even Blackburn knew better. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen, is it? The second I let you go, you’ll be calling your boy and having him dig up my property.”
“Yes, we probably would make that call.” Buddy used one of his raised hands to scratch his head. “Unless…” The word sounded long and inviting.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you have something on us as well.”
“What could I have on you?” Blackburn asked.
“It’s like something I arranged in the past,” Buddy said. “Not for myself. And not murder. But if you put some money, say half a million apiece, from your personal account into each of our bank accounts – do it tonight, before we leave – then our hands would be tied. We wouldn’t be able to tell the authorities about your – what to call it – domestic episode.”
“What?” Callie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re blackmailing him? That’s your solution?”
“Daddy’s negotiating, sweetheart. Don’t interrupt.”
Blackburn seemed amused. “You’re blackmailing me, McFee?”
“Oh, please, Keagan. I don’t need the money. But if my daughter and I had a change of heart and went to the police, you would have the bank info to show we’d been extorting you. It wouldn’t be in our interest to tell. In the meantime, I would recommend finding a better resting place for Ingrid and whatever-his-name-was. Some spot better than a field next to your own house, for God’s sake.”
Blackburn furrowed his brow. “Worth considering.”
Callie was appalled. “You want a public record of us blackmailing a killer?”
Buddy waved her away. “Ignore my girl. What do you say?”
“Is this how you work?” It was as if Callie were seeing him for the first time. “Is this what you’ve been doing your whole life, in the study with your pals, while we played upstairs and loved the hell out of you? Letting people get away with murder?”
“No,” Buddy said calmly. “I am trying to prevent two more murders, which I’m sure none of us wants.” He stared his daughter down. “Am I right, sweetheart? Am I right, Keagan, old pal?”
His old pal thought it over. “Half a million for the two of you?”
“God, no,” Buddy scoffed. “We want something believable. Half a million apiece.”
“And you get to keep it?”
“Well, you want the blackmail to look real, don’t you?”
Blackburn chortled at the idea. He seemed genuinely amused. “I gotta hand it to you, Bud. Only you. Only you could take a situation where I’m standing here with a shotgun and turn it into something where I pay you a million bucks.”
Buddy adjusted his arms. He was tired of keeping them up. “Okay, what are your alternatives? Shoot us and you’ll get caught. Let us go and you’re going to jail. But if some money goes into our banks, Callie and I won’t ever be able to turn you in. Makes plain sense.”
Callie was aghast. How could he do this to his own daughter? There had to be some other way. But the genius of Buddy McFee was that when he said it was the only choice, he made it feel true. On the one hand, death. On the other hand, abetting a killer plus half a million just for her.
Blackburn’s head bobbed cautiously. “Makes some sense. In theory.” The effects of the fifty-year-old Glenfiddich were still apparent.
It was the moment Buddy had been waiting for. “Good, we’re all agreed. In theory. The instant you put down that gun, we have a deal.”
The CEO hesitated, the shotgun wobbling then returning to its target. “No. The instant we do the bank transfer. If that’s my leverage, I want it in place.”
“Well, then,” Buddy said, finally lowering his hands, “we all need to go inside and do a little banking.”
“Maybe. Maybe.” Blackburn adjusted the shotgun. It was no longer pointed at Buddy but at his daughter. “How about it? Are you on board?”
Callie felt a cold spot over her heart, as if the gun was no longer a few yards away across a patch of brush but pressed up against her bare skin. “Dad?”
“Give him your word, Callie. This will all be over.”
She had always considered herself as practical as any McFee. She certainly didn’t want to die. And yet making this promise…? These four little words, ‘you have my word’ were a ludicrously small price to pay for her life. Her father’s, too. But the words seemed like an incantation, some evil spell that would make her just like the worst part of her father, like Keagan Blackburn and all the other dealmakers. She moved her mouth to say it, but it felt like a phrase from an unpronounceable foreign language. “I can’t.”
“Callie, honey,” Buddy moaned. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“I’m so sorry, Dad.”
“Well then, you are leaving me no choice. Damn!”
The attack was quick and reckless, with almost no thought behind it. The shotgun was still trained on his daughter’s heart when Buddy McFee stumbled through the last of the underbrush separating them from Blackburn. The CEO had been viewing Callie as the threat, and it took him a full two seconds to realize it and turn. When he did, Buddy was already traveling the final three feet, leaping for the other man’s legs, below the range of the barrel. Then the shot went off.
Callie was deafened. It was the noise, followed instantly by the shock and finally the pain, searing into her left arm. She looked down, almost curiously, at the three tiny holes in the upper arm of her thin cashmere sweater. Her first inclination was to touch them, but she knew that would only make the pain more excruciating.
The shotgun was in the brambles now, with probably another cartridge ready in the over-under. Her father and Keagan Blackburn were just a few feet away, two older men rollin
g in the brush, moving away from the weapon then toward it again. Both were bellowing – just sounds, no words, full of grunts and testosterone-filled howls. As the sonic concussion eased in her ears, Callie could hear a large dog barking in the distance. A house light went on somewhere through the woods on the other side of the road, and she was strangely, calmly pleased that Buddy had been right, someone would have heard their deaths.
“Cal, Cal, Cal . . .” Through the pain and the shock and reverberation of the gunshot, she could make out her father groaning her name over and over. That was enough to snap her back.
She knew shotguns. From the age of twelve she had handled smaller versions while hunting rabbits in the woods behind the ranch with her brother. She stepped around the wrestling men, giving them a wide berth and found the weapon lodged among the thorny patch of blackbrush. She barely felt the thorns, mere pricks on her hands, producing more little drops of blood. By the time she extracted the shotgun from the bush, Buddy had managed to push himself free and she had a clear shot at Blackburn’s head. She switched barrels and aimed.
“Callie, don’t. Callie, darling, listen to me.”
She had never pointed a firearm at a human being before, but for a moment, a long moment, she could understand how people did it – how people could pull a trigger and end someone’s life.
She hesitated just long enough for her father to get to feet and stumble through the briars and brambles. “Give me that,” he wheezed, grabbing the weapon but keeping it aimed. “Good job.” Blackburn stayed frozen in the brush, just staring at them, breathing heavily, not saying a word.
“I should have shot you both,” Callie erupted.
“What? Don’t even joke about that.” Buddy sounded more than a little hurt. “Shoot your own daddy?”
“Blackmail?” she shouted. “You wanted me to blackmail a murderer?”
“Hell, no. What gave you that idea?”
“Because that’s what you were doing.”
“Jeez, I was stalling,” Buddy declared. “That bank thing never would’ve worked. Half a million popping up? We would’ve been flagged in a minute. Keagan would’ve realized it too, had he not been so drunk and scared.”