Whose Dog Are You? (Three Oaks Book 2)

by Gerald Hammond

  The woman’s figure was vague against the dazzle of the car’s headlights, but I saw that Anon was up in her arms and the woman was having to twist her neck to avoid getting a well-licked face. ‘You remember Mommy?’ she said delightedly. ‘Or is it the cookies you remember, my darling?’ She put the spaniel down and nodded to me. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hello!’ I said.

  She switched her attention to the young pilot. ‘Jim, could you be back here at eight, to take Captain Cunningham back to Houston?’

  ‘Yessum,’ he said. ‘No problem. You’ll remember . . .?’

  ‘I’ll remember. You can have the car, free and clear, if I’m sure you haven’t run off at the mouth.’

  ‘No fear of that, ma’am.’ He bent to look at his watch in the light of the car’s lamps. ‘I’ll be going. Still time for three to four hours’ sleep. Be seeing you, sir.’

  He turned away and climbed into the plane. Two minutes later he was a diminishing murmur in what I thought was the east. I felt alone and vulnerable. If the lady was so concerned to cover her tracks, I could be the only inconvenient witness. But no hard men emerged from the darkness and I told myself not to be a fool. I could have been more easily knocked off at home, and far more cheaply.

  She deposited Anon gently in the back of the car, sat into the left-hand seat and leaned across to push the other door open. Until my tired brain remembered about left-hand drives I thought that she was inviting me to take the wheel. She left her door open so that the courtesy light remained on. I saw that she was in her thirties with brown hair so bleached by the sun as to be almost blonde. She was attractive but, although her other features were feminine, a square jaw gave her face a determined and almost manly look. Her silk blouse contrasted with her denim jacket and skirt.

  ‘Captain—’

  ‘Just Mister,’ I said.

  ‘Mr Cunningham, I’m grateful. You’ve brought her here, safe and sound.’

  ‘And pregnant,’ I said. ‘You knew that?’

  ‘They told me. No matter. The more the merrier.’ From a tooled leather shoulder-bag on the seat beside her, she produced a booklet of traveller’s cheques and began scribbling an illegible signature on each of them. ‘Ten cheques, each for a hundred bucks. Right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘Did you have any expenses?’

  I decided to let her away with the cost of the hamburger. ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘If you have to pay out anything on your way home, get in touch with Mr Rodgers.’

  She closed the door, cutting off the light and my view of a figure which was all feminine and very piquant. The cheques were pressed into my hand and the car moved off, apparently of its own accord.

  The vehicle was a large estate car. It absorbed the bumps in the uneven airstrip as though running on tarmac. The light in the runway turned out to be an electric lantern. She opened her door and scooped it up without stopping, handing it to me to switch off and dump behind the seats while she U-turned. ‘Where the hell . . .?’ she muttered to herself. Then a gap showed up in the scrub beside the runway and she turned on to a track which had seen little use for years.

  The car made light of the rough and undulating surface. I could not identify the model but it seemed almost new and remarkably well appointed. With the seat down, the rear would have held a dozen dog-cages. It was cool inside and I realised that it was air-conditioned. It was, in fact, exactly what I needed to replace my smaller and worn-out vehicle.

  I felt a pang of envy. ‘You’re giving this car to that boy?’ I asked curiously. ‘Giving it?’

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘I’ll have finished with it in a few days. He wants it more than money. His daddy won’t give him a car.’

  ‘Just an aeroplane?’

  ‘Right. His daddy thinks cars are dangerous. And he’s damn right. There’s more room in the sky. But,’ she said, nursing the car over a steep hump, ‘a gift from an old family friend would be hard to refuse. Have you figured out yet who I am?’

  ‘My guess is that you’re the widow of Mr Peregrine Hawker Falconer.’

  By the light from the instruments I saw her nod. ‘I thought you’d guess Falconer,’ she said. ‘Hawker maybe. I never thought you’d know about Peregrine. I knew somebody’d made the connection but I didn’t know that anybody outside the cops had it yet. You found his body, didn’t you? So my lawyer said.’

  ‘Yes. My wife saw it . . . him first.’

  ‘They’re . . . sure that it was him?’ It was half statement and half question.

  ‘They’ve found the car he hired,’ I said carefully. ‘The fingerprints inside it matched those sent over by the FBI along with an Identikit. The landlady at the Stoneleigh Hotel recognised the Identikit. It seems to connect up.’

  ‘I was sure of it,’ she said, almost under her breath, ‘but I kept wondering if Dave wasn’t pulling another flimflam.’

  The track brought us to a main road. It was empty, no lights showing for a mile in either direction, but she sat there, silent. I wondered whether she was coming belatedly to terms with her widowhood.

  ‘I guess we’re not being followed just now,’ she said suddenly. She pulled across the road and turned left.

  ‘I certainly didn’t bring any followers,’ I said.

  She produced a mellow laugh. Widowhood was not sitting too heavily on her. ‘If you had, Jim would have taken you somewhere quite different and left you stranded. No, you’ve played it straight and I’m grateful. But there was somebody trying to stick to my tail earlier, only he couldn’t make it in an old pick-up. A Bubba,’ she added.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t you have them where you come from? I thought I’d seen one at least. There’s no mistaking a Bubba. Given names William Robert, for sure; Billybob for short. Or, as often, he’s known as Bubba. They say it’s short for Brother but others say it comes from the way we Texans talk with our mouths full. Some places, the men call each other Bubba the way in New York they call each other Jack.’

  ‘Or Jimmy in Glasgow,’ I said.

  ‘Is that right? He wears a beard and one of those gimme caps from a tractor company. A vest – what you call a waistcoat – over a workshirt. Jeans with a belly bulging above the belt. He used to wear cowboy boots but now he wears sneakers. And he thinks he’s as tough as hell. Mostly they’re good guys, they just look mean, but there’s some bad bastards among them.’

  ‘We have them,’ I said. ‘Not exactly the same, but near enough. Why would he be following you?’

  ‘God knows. That’s what worries me. You can hire a Bubba for almost anything, especially if you tell him a good tale. But not the Feds, they don’t work that way. My fear is that somebody thinks I’m holding the money Dave grabbed in California. And I’m not, thank God!’ She drove in silence for a mile or two. ‘I’d take us to a motel if there was a motel within easy driving. As it is, I could pull over and let you get some sleep in the back. You must be dead beat and your poor arm and all.’ The car slowed.

  ‘I’ve woken up again now,’ I said. ‘I’m more hungry than anything else. But I can survive. If you’d rather drive around or wait it out until Jim comes back, that’s all right. Or drop me back at the airstrip. It’s warm enough for sleeping out.’

  The car picked up again to the legal fifty-five, through countryside which seemed to comprise miles and miles of damn-all. ‘I should have thought about that. I’d forgotten how the airlines feed you on small scraps of plastic these days. And you’ve been on the move since about this time yesterday. I’m getting kind of starved myself, just thinking about it. I guess there’s no harm taking you back to the old homestead. There’s still some food in the freezer. Only one bed made up, though, but that needn’t worry you if you don’t want it to.’

  The last few words were said in the tone in which one might invite a neighbour in for coffee but the implication was clear. ‘For all that’s left of the night,’ I said, ‘an armchair would do.’

  �
�Kind of slow to take a hint, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You’ve been straight with me and I still feel that I owe you. If you’re worried by your arm, there’s ways. Surely you’re not gay?’

  I could hardly say that the threat of infection had rather taken the shine off infidelity, nor would male pride let me admit that exhaustion and illness had put any kind of sexual performance out of the question. ‘I’ve only been married for a few months,’ I said.

  ‘Your first marriage?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think that’s cute,’ she said after a moment’s thought. There was a smile in her voice. ‘Real nice. Forget that I spoke.’

  ‘I won’t forget,’ I said. ‘I take it as a great compliment.’

  ‘You’re sweet,’ she said. ‘And I just love your accent.’

  ‘I don’t have an accent,’ I said. It seemed an easy way to turn the subject. But she let the talk die as she turned off the main road and followed a dirt road in the general direction of Mexico. After about two miles we came over a slight rise to see a ranch house in front of us. The place was well kept but the barns looked empty. There was a total absence of life – no horses beyond the neat rails, no sound of cattle, not even a farm cat.

  ‘This is it,’ she said. ‘I was born and raised here and it’s my home for another day or two. After that, goodbye forever. Come along inside.’

  We got out of the car. She slung her bag over her shoulder and lifted Anon out of the back. As she straightened up with the spaniel bitch in her arms, lights blazed suddenly from a vehicle parked deep in one of the barns.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Put the dog down, lady, and stand back,’ said a voice. I had thought that her accent was strong, but the new voice had an accent which could have chopped logs.

  I had just put my hand into my pocket for a handkerchief. I left it there. Better not to move again. He would know that I had not grabbed for a pistol. My companion stood uncomfortably poised, with Anon clutched to her chest and her large bag looped over her shoulder. ‘What the hell?’ she said.

  A figure moved forward into the light, only ten yards from us. ‘Bubba!’ she said under her breath. The figure was in silhouette but what I could see answered her description, beard, belly and all. It also held a pump-action shotgun as though it was accustomed to using it.

  ‘Just do as I say, lady,’ the man said. ‘It’s only the dog I’m being paid for and I don’t lightly work for free, but it’d be as easy to kill all three of you.’ He might mean it or he might not, but the only thought in my mind was that an armed criminal who has shot once will shoot again . . .

  Anon was wriggling to get down and explore this new environment but my companion held on tight. ‘But why?’ she asked shrilly.

  ‘Lady, I don’t know why and I don’t care. Just do as I tell you or I’ll blast the mutt whether you’re holding it or not. And then I’ll have to go on shooting until there’s nobody alive around here but me.’ His voice was louder, as though he was taking pleasure from a sense of power.

  The fumes of tiredness had blown away and my old training had taken over. My mind was furiously calculating the odds. Even if, as seemed unlikely, this man – Bubba – would draw the line when he had killed the dog, Anon was my friend. I had been taught to take action. When the odds are hopeless, any act, however desperate, is better than to leave the initiative in the other man’s hands. From where I stood I would just have a chance of surviving a dive which would sweep the three of us behind the car. It was a slim chance of escaping unshot into the most temporary of havens, and what it would do to my injured shoulder I preferred not to think, but my earlier training had programmed me against inaction but without suggesting anything better than this desperate resort.

  I braced myself for sudden movement, slid my left arm out of the sling and jerked my other hand, flicking the coins from my pocket against the nearest wall. The noise from outside his area of attention disturbed the man and he swung away. But at the same moment my companion sighed and stooped to place Anon on the ground. She gave the spaniel a pat, as though in farewell, and stood erect again.

  As I made my dive, she moved with equal suddenness, almost spoiling my move. A shot sounded, a double slam. The first part of the sound was thin and sharp for a shotgun. My mind was racing and I had time to think, crazily, that his gun had double-discharged. My shoulder caught the lady at the waist and we slid together over the bonnet of the car, a tangle of legs and arms. We landed together, heavily. I had lost my chance of grabbing Anon but below the car I could see that, true to her training, she had sat down at the sound of the shot, a waiting target. She seemed unhurt, but gunshot victims are sometimes unaware of having been hit.

  Then the pain took over. I had landed on my wounded shoulder and something terrible was happening deep inside me. I was just aware that my companion was disentangling herself and getting up. I tried to grab and pull her down but I was lying on my good arm. I waited for another shot to finish her but all was silent except for the ringing in my ears.

  ‘Are you hit?’ asked a voice. A female voice. It seemed to be aimed at me. We must both be alive, more or less, for the moment.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ I mumbled. I managed to drag my eyes open. Anon was still sitting, waiting for the order to retrieve.

  Then I saw, between the front wheels, that the man had crumpled. He was down on the ground. There was a long scar through the dirt between us. He made some noises, twitched for a few seconds, gave the sigh of a man who has been afraid but has released his breath because he is afraid no more. I sat up, very carefully. My companion walked forward, a blued revolver held in readiness, and bent over him.

  As the pain relaxed its grip on me little by little, it was replaced by a greater unease of the mind. Nothing made sense. As far as I could see, we were still alone.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked her. My voice sounded as if it came from a long way off.

  ‘I shot him,’ she said matter-of-factly but in a thin, high voice. ‘Clean through the heart, I think. Well, no point having a gun unless you learn to shoot it.’ She holstered the revolver through an opening in the end of her shoulder-bag. She patted the bag. ‘Smith and Wesson’s new LadySmith thirty-eight in the Feminine Protection holster-purse.’ She came back and stood over me. ‘That was brave. Brave and gallant but stupid. If you’d been quicker by just one instant, you’d’ve spoiled my shot and we’d both be dead. But I guess you couldn’t know what I was up to any more than I could guess what you were going to do. Maybe I was stupid, too. I just don’t know.’ She rubbed her elbows. ‘You nearly flattened me. How you doing? What happened to your face and your arm anyway?’

  ‘Somebody tried to steal your dog once before,’ I said. My voice now came out as a husky croak. ‘I got stabbed. Just now, I came down on it.’

  ‘She seems to be unlucky for you. We’d best take a look at it. Come along inside. Can you walk?’ There was a slight tremor in her voice now that the shock was catching up with her.

  ‘Help me up,’ I said. ‘I’m no great weight.’

  She looked hard into the shadows and then took my hand. She was strong. She pulled me effortlessly to my feet and led us into the house and through a hallway into a spacious kitchen. The room was large and plain but the equipment seemed to me to be the latest.

  I had lived through enough action during my army days not to be shocked by death itself, but my life since then had conditioned me to believe that civilians do not shoot civilians without endless repercussions. What little I knew about justice in the southern USA, culled mostly from books and films, inspired little confidence, while Bubba himself must have had friends. I pulled out a chair from the central table and collapsed shakily into it. Anon curled up beside the stove, quite at home.

  My companion had disappeared. She returned in a few minutes and again holstered her pistol. ‘If there’s anybody else out there, I don’t know where the hell he is,’ she said. ‘Let’s take a look at you.’

&nbs
p; Very gently but with fingers which trembled slightly, she opened my jacket and shirt. ‘You’re just skin and bone,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing showing except a scar about a month old. You need a doctor?’

  ‘I think I’ve torn the muscle apart again,’ I said. The pain was still abating, very slowly, as long as I kept my shoulder still. I could tolerate it. ‘Nothing to do but rest it. Listen, we must call the sheriff or somebody.’

  ‘Shut up while I think. Do you drink coffee? I suppose you’d rather have tea.’

  ‘Coffee, please,’ I said. I had tasted American tea on my previous visits.

  ‘I need a minute.’ She stood and breathed deeply a dozen times and then swung into action. The process of thought did not seem to interfere with her ability as a cook. She darted between the worktop, a large fridge and the microwave oven. A mug of fragrant coffee appeared in front of me with a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar.

  ‘Steak, ham and eggs,’ she said. ‘Grits or French fries?’

  I chose French fries. Whatever grits might be, they did not sound appetising. With my first sip of the coffee I felt ready to dribble down my chin. I was surprised that I could feel hunger while my thoughts were in turmoil. I had done nothing and yet I felt as guilty as if I had killed Bubba myself. Deeply entrenched feelings about good and evil, the sanctity of life and the power of the law boiled to the surface of my mind. But I was off my home territory. First, wait to discover what her thoughts produced.

  She cut my steak up for me and we ate in silence. When we had finished, she pushed her plate away and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Here’s the way it is,’ she said. She was as calm as she had been in the car. ‘That bastard was going to kill us for sure, you know that?’

  ‘I couldn’t swear to it,’ I said.

  ‘You won’t have to. Just remember that he wasn’t paying a social visit. He may’ve been after the dog, though why the hell anyone should want to knock off my baby I’m damned if I know. But he sure as hell wouldn’t leave us around to talk about it.’