by Randy Rawls
“Since I have you in a confessing mood, one more point,” Terri said through her chuckles.
“Shoot. I have no secrets from you.”
“Arty. Why are you called Arty?”
I flinched at the name. “That’s another part of my legacy. It was my mother’s pet name for me. Unfortunately, some people heard her use it. I’m stuck with it.”
“Arty. I think it’s kinda cute,” Terri said, smiling.
“Don’t you dare,” I replied with my best glare.
She grinned, squeezed my hand and pointed toward a two story brick building on the corner of Fourth Street. “Look, there’s the Mobley Hotel. Let’s visit the museum. I haven’t been there in years. Maybe there’s a homework assignment for my kids.”
“That’s the hotel Conrad Hilton ran, isn’t it?” I wanted to hear her talk for awhile.
“Yes, according to my great-grandfather, Mr. Hilton bought it in 1919. Great-Granddad said he came to town to buy into one of the local banks but the owners reneged on the deal. So, he bought the hotel instead.”
She had highlighted our age difference again. I remembered hearing the story from my grandfather. But all I said was, “Oh, I remember, this is where Hilton got his start, or something like that. Right?”
She looked at me as if doubting my question. “Yes. He kept the hotel for about six years. I’m sure you know the rest. He went on to build an international chain of hotels and hobnobbed with heads of state and all the other important people of the world.”
“Yeah, if I ever solve a really big case, I might be able to afford one of his hotels.”
Terri grabbed my hand and picked up the pace. “Come on, let’s hit the museum. They used to have some great stuff.”
We went into the old hotel and signed in like tourists. I dropped a fiver into the contributions jar. Terri led me up the stairs to the second floor and into the room which houses Cisco’s history.
“Ace, look at these.” She pointed to newspaper clippings documenting the destruction of downtown Cisco in 1893 by a cyclone. “It must have been terrible. Look at all the buildings that were destroyed. It doesn’t say how many were killed.”
She moved down the exhibit. “Here are photographs of families and town dignitaries that go back to the 1800s.” She chuckled. “Look at the dresses. Don’t they look funny? I can’t imagine wearing a dress like that.”
“Not much funnier than the suits on the men.” I studied Terri and knew I’d love her no matter what she wore.
We wandered around examining the collection documenting Cisco and Eastland County. It was nothing like big city museums. Here, little was under glass. This was a hands-on place.
We stood before a yellowing photograph of a wedding party. Terri took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. The cherubs strummed their miniature harps with gusto.
As I reached for her, she said, “Let’s check out the Conrad Hilton exhibition. I still need an assignment for my kids.”
We spent another twenty minutes in the upstairs hallway that documents Conrad Hilton’s life. Terri pulled a small pad from her purse and took notes. There were large photographs with short captions, showing him with the most famous people of the century. Terri was quiet as she wrote line after line in her notebook.
I guessed there would be a run on Conrad Hilton biographies at the library after school tomorrow.
Walking away from the hotel, I looked at Terri and then back at the building, feeling like I could have flown off its roof.
She took my hand. “How long has it been since you had a picnic?”
“Longer than my memory. Sounds good, but then anything with you sounds good.” I squeezed her hand. “What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s pick up some sandwiches.”
“I can live with that. I think there’s an old blanket in the trunk of the car.” If not, I’d have happily bought one—cashmere, if she wanted it.
Following Terri’s directions, we assembled a picnic basket that turned out to be more than sandwiches. She added three kinds of chips, pickles, potato salad, fried chicken, coleslaw, beans, cookies, and lemon pie.
You should know by now I’m not the type who wouldn’t contribute. I added a cold twelve-pack of Killian’s. “Okay, where to?” I asked when everything was packed in the car.
“Do you remember Scranton Academy?”
“Sorta. That’s the old school in Scranton, isn’t it?”
She gave me a look, as if asking if I was putting her on, then said, “Yeah, the place that’s been falling apart as long as I remember. I’ve always loved it. When I was a kid, I used to play fort with my friends. Later, after I got my driver’s license, I’d search for Joey there. It was his special hiding place.”
“I’m game. Is there a good place to spread a blanket?”
“The lawn’s flat, and there’s a shade tree.”
“Are there any fire ants? I don’t think it’d be a very good picnic if we had to share it with those nasties.” I’d learned through several defeats that I did not want to sit where they could find me and treat me as their main dish. Each time it happened, I itched for days. I’m not normally allergic to insect bites, but fire ants are bad news.
Terri laughed. “Is my ferocious PI afraid of little old ants?”
Before I could reply, she added, “You should be safe. Although it’s been a while since I’ve been there, I’m sure the county folks keep the lawn cleared—tourists, you know?”
While we talked, I had driven out of Cisco, heading up 183 to I-20, then west to State Highway 206. The quickest way I knew was south on 206 then 569 to Scranton. Actually, the town of Scranton, like the Scranton Academy, belonged to history. A gas station, closed for years, and a few houses were all that was left. Once it had been a thriving community. A couple of oil pumpers, recycling themselves into rust, were reminders that oil once brought wealth to the area.
Terri was right. There was a nice tree to spread the blanket under. I shook the blanket several times to rid it of cat hairs. I’d used it to wrap Sweeper and Striker at various times to keep them under control for eye drops or pills or toenail clipping or whatever. I probably ate a few hairs but I didn’t say anything. I assumed Terri did the same.
Scranton Academy always intrigued me. It must have been a beautiful bit of architecture in its heyday at the beginning of the twentieth century. Now, everything was gone except the remains of the stone walls.
“Tell me about being a tough private eye,” Terri said. “Is it exciting?”
We lay on the blanket after stuffing ourselves with the picnic extravaganza. I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’ve been a PI for ten years. I can’t begin to remember how many errant husbands I’ve followed, or how many angry wives I’ve briefed on those husbands.” I turned on my side toward Terri as she squirmed in closer to me.
“The funniest part of this business is the reaction of the wives. They come in hellbent to pin something on the husband so they can rip him off in divorce court. But when I come back with the proof, they most often end up acting like it’s my fault. Guess that’s what they mean by shoot the messenger. I learned on my second case that wronged wives have a vocabulary matching the most hardened waterfront barfly. She was a sweet little thing from a high-class family, but she could sure cuss. You’d have thought I’d heard it all in locker rooms, but she taught me new words.”
Terri laughed. “Maybe you ought to write a book.”
We continued chatting, making small talk and a slight dent in the banquet we’d brought. I felt wonderful. Who could be expected to eat when his heart soared with an orchestra of musical cherubs plucking their harps?
I emptied my third Killian’s and Terri finished her second. She turned toward me and took my hands. “This has been wonderful, Ace, a time I’ll always remember, but now I have to be serious. I’ve tried to summon courage all afternoon. It’s time for us to talk, really talk.”
I looked at her and saw that her attitude had changed. She loo
ked serious, very serious. Even her body language was different, exuding a determination I hadn’t seen before. Her hands were damp on mine, and her eyes had lost the beautiful glow I’d grown accustomed to. Panic threatened to grab me, but I shook it off. “Okay, what is it—our last day together?”
“I hope not. But that’ll be up to you.” A frown furrowed her beautiful forehead.
We sat for a moment in silence. I’m sure I held my breath, wanting to postpone what now seemed inevitable. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “What is it? The look on your face is ripping me apart.”
“I’m sorry about how I might look, but I’m serious. My brother, Joey, asked me to talk to you, to warn you. He says he likes you, and he’s worried you might get hurt.”
Now that tossed me a pickle. There were lots of things I thought she might want to talk about, things I didn’t want to hear, but Joey was not on the list. “Joey? What do you mean?”
“He thinks the guy who killed Sonny was gunning for you. He says you might not be so lucky next time.”
“What does he suggest I do?”
“Give it up and get out of town.” She took a sip of her Killian’s before looking into my eyes. “Of course, I wouldn’t like that, but if it’ll keep you alive…”
I waited, but she stayed silent. Finally, I said, “Thank you for your concern, and Joey’s. But I can’t run. I told Jake I’d find the arsonist who torched his house, and I told Bubba I’d find Sheila’s killer.” I took a deep breath before I plowed on in a lighter tone. “I don’t go back on my word unless there’s a whole lot better reason than just getting dead.” I hoped I could joke her out of her mood.
“I know Jake’s paying you fifteen hundred a day and you need the money, but is it worth your life? You can pay your bills some other way. Let it go. Let the police find the killers. Go back to Dallas and chase cheating husbands and wives, find lost kitties, anything less dangerous.” She dropped her head, and I thought I saw a tear creep down her cheek. “Just come back to see me sometime.”
“Husbands are no problem, but wives are wildcats when you expose them.” I still hoped to get a chuckle out of her. “The worst beating I ever took was from a wife who caught me running surveillance on her and her boyfriend. She came after me—”
“Quit it, Ace. I’m serious. Joey knows the people around here—much better than you do. If he says somebody’s trying to kill you, you can believe it.”
That did it. If she wanted to play serious, I knew the game. In my coldest voice, I said, “If Joey knows who’s after me, he also knows who killed Sonny and Sheila. Tell him to let me know, and I’ll wrap this mess up before anyone else gets hurt. Otherwise, tell him not to waste my time.”
She stood, an indignant look on her face. “Take me home. If you’re intent on getting yourself killed, I’m wasting my time. There’s no future for us.” She took a step, then turned back. “No, take me to my car. I forgot, I left it at your motel, and that’s all I want at your motel.”
I had little choice but to follow. I swooped up the picnic stuff in the blanket. She stood beside the car, waiting for me to unlock the door.
I tried to talk to her, but she proved the old adage about redheads—their tempers match the color of their hair. The only responses she made were grunts and frowns. Cherubs lay around me hurting and, I feared, mortally wounded.
SEVENTEEN
As the taillights on Terri’s car disappeared into the darkness, I looked at my watch. It was only eight-thirty but my world had tumbled down. Somehow, in a short four hours, I’d moved from king to serf, from emperor to peasant. I sniffed the air, hoping to recover the aroma of roses—nothing but wild onions. I looked for the cherubs who flitted around my head all afternoon—AWOL or KIA. Or they’d deserted in the face of adversity.
I parked in front of my room and walked disconsolately to the door. As I inserted the key, an alarm went off in my head. I stepped back and looked around. Something was wrong. I sensed it. It’s one of those traits I inherited from my father. Unfortunately, it normally kicks in late. I backed to the wall of the motel, reached for my Beretta, and surveyed all directions. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing I could see. And nothing where my Beretta should have been. It was always somewhere else when I needed it.
Carefully, and as quietly as possible, I unlocked the door. I leaned against the outside wall and pushed the door open, waiting. I wasn’t sure what I waited for, but it felt right.
I started counting to myself, “One Mississippi, two Mississippis, three Mississippis, up to thirty Mississippis. Nothing, not a sound. While I counted, I had one eye closed. I lay down on my belly and peeked around the corner of the doorframe. I knew I was silhouetting myself, but only at doorsill level. All I saw was dark. I switched eyes, using the one I’d kept closed while counting. It worked. My night vision was good enough to see furniture shapes in the room. I lay there, roaming the room with my seeing eye. Everything looked normal. After another moment, I opened my second eye and its night vision had caught up with the first. I rose and stepped into the room.
Instinct caused me to spin to my right and I felt the breeze of something rush by my head. Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me to the left as a hard blow landed in my midsection. I doubled over, gasping for breath, wondering what had happened, who was here.
A second blow to the stomach dropped me to my knees. I struggled to recover, looking for my assailant as a chop to the back of my neck drove me to the floor. I reached out, grabbed a leg, and yanked as hard as I could. A thud against the wall was my reward. My assailant was down.
I tried to rise, but found my legs unwilling to cooperate. I made it to my knees, gasping for breath. My eyes refused to focus. I heard noise on my left—the sounds of someone getting to his feet. Inspired by fear of what would happen if he made it before me, I struggled upward. I reached out trying to grab something. Air filled my hands.
I heard a harsh laugh and a “You sonafabitch” as another blow to my gut doubled me over again. Then the inevitable happened, a knee to my groin. I pitched forward, putting the lights out as the end of the bed frame jumped up and smacked me in the head—end of game. Nasty Guy 1, Ace 0.
I woke, hurting all over. Pain. An intense ache started in my groin and ran up both sides of me out the top of my head. My first recollection was of the pain, but fear quickly replaced it—a cold sweat fear knowing I had walked into an ambush. Was my assailant waiting to finish me? I forced myself to freeze, breathing as shallowly as possible. With minimum movement, I turned my head, looking for feet, a reflection, a light, anything that might show where the thug waited. Every time I moved, the pain slammed into me.
Nothing. I couldn’t see a thing. I quit trying to see the room and listened. If an ant had crawled across the carpet, I’d have heard it. I knew my hearing had never been so acute. Someone in a room across the quadrangle flushed, and I cursed because it seemed so loud I was afraid it might cover a noise in my room. Nothing, absolutely nothing, not a sound from my immediate vicinity.
The door. I remembered I had stepped through the open door. I twisted my throbbing head, looking in that direction. I could not see outside. Maybe the bad guy had left, and closed the door behind him. It was so dark in the room, I might have thought I was dead except for the pain. I didn’t figure being dead involved such agony, maybe a burning sensation, but not what I felt.
I reached up and felt my forehead, but quickly withdrew my hand. There was a lump and my touch hurt. It didn’t seem to be bleeding, or at least my hand didn’t feel wet. I felt my neck and it hurt, but it was also dry. My groin throbbed in that way only a man can understand, but the pain in my mid-section had dissipated. I took several deep breaths, wishing I were anywhere else.
Someone had attacked as I entered the room. Another of the choice moves I’d made in this case. I wondered if I should find another line of work. My body said he’d hit me with everything he could think of, and a few tricks I would’ve used if I could. Whatever, it was ef
fective. I wondered how much worse it would have been if my instincts hadn’t protected me from his first shot.
I relaxed, looked around, and realized I lay on the floor with my head under the edge of the bed. A huge dust bunny tickled my nose every time I breathed. If I’d felt better, I might have called the office about the housekeeping—major dust bunnies under there. I put my hands down to push up, barely missing another bump to the head.
There was something under my left hand. A shot of fear coursed through my body as my adrenaline flow surged. I froze again, wondering what I felt and how lethal it was. I cupped the object and held it before my face. Whoever had been waiting for me hadn’t been considerate enough to leave the lights on so I could see what it was. It felt like a book of matches, and I slipped it into my jacket pocket. I lay another moment, then summoned my courage. There was no point in waiting any longer. I had to find out if it was safe to move. I concentrated on rising to my feet, a difficult chore in itself as my head spun ever faster with each movement.
When I approached upright, I twisted and sat on the edge of the bed while the spin of my world slowed. Although the room was dark, I could feel it revolving around me. The pain in my head gradually eased until it was only slightly worse than a root canal—without anesthesia.
After a few more minutes, I switched on the bedside lamp. It was the brightest light I had ever endured, and my eyes struggled to cope. Five minutes passed before I had the strength and courage to walk to the mirror to examine the damage. A large red lump on my forehead was the only damage I saw, evidence that a bed frame can be a wicked weapon. I vowed never again to attack one with my head. My neck had calmed to a dull ache and looked none the worse for whatever I’d been hit with. A cold wash cloth felt great on my head, then on my neck.
Although I preferred to stand and feel sorry for myself, I knew I had to move. I examined the room. Everything looked normal except the piece of paper laying on the bed. I picked it up although bending over was not my strong suit. It was in the kind of block print I was getting used to. Get out of town. We don’t want you here. Next time, we won’t get the wrong man. And we won’t be as gentle. This is your last warning.