THIS PERFECT STRANGER

by Barbara Ankrum

  The kid leaned closer. "Hey," he said, glancing around the empty bar, "is it true?"

  "Is what true?"

  "That you were in prison for murder."

  Well, that didn't take long, Cain thought, sliding a look up at the kid who was looking at him with something close to awe. "Yeah," he said, realizing the news was all over town by now. After all, how often did a town like Fishhook have a real live murderer in their midst?

  Bruce leaned closer. "What'd you do it for? I mean … why'd you kill him?"

  Narrowing his eyes, Cain knocked back the shot of courage in one long gulp and felt it burn all the way down. "Because," he told Bruce, "he talked too much."

  "Oh. Hey," Bruce said with a frown, "I'm … I'm sorry, man. I shouldn't have—"

  "You're not the first and you won't be the last," Cain told him. "Don't worry about it, kid. Just don't be impressed. Nothing good came of it."

  Lowering his eyes, Bruce let his gaze settle on the towel in his hand. Cain suddenly wished he had a second chance to be as young as Bruce and know what he knew today. To have his whole life ahead of him instead of behind. But what the hell?

  He pulled out a handful of bills, tossed them on the bar. "You know where the nearest pay phone is?"

  "Sure." Bruce pointed eagerly up the street. "Half a block up, next to the pharmacy. Need some change?" He pulled a handful of quarters from the register and held them out to Cain. "Drink's on me. Just call it an apology."

  "Thanks," Cain said. Pouring the change into his pocket he left Mahoney's and went in search of the phone.

  * * *

  Judd MacCallister had just come in from outside when he heard the phone ring. He had half a mind to let it go. He wasn't in the mood to hear bad news from that damned private eye, Goehner again. Besides, the crew was right in the middle of castrating the young bulls and he had to get back.

  He passed by the phone, on the way to the sink. Thirst had brought him in from the oppressive Texas heat outside, he thought with a grumble. The older he got, the less he could keep up with the young bucks he employed. He'd made up some excuse about needing to take care of some business, but the truth was, he was getting old.

  The phone rang for the third time and he narrowed a look at it. The caller ID listed an area code he was unfamiliar with. Definitely Goehner. What the hell, he thought. Might as well hear bad news today as tomorrow.

  He lifted the receiver. "If you've called to give me bad news, Goehner—" he began.

  "Only for your wallet," said a voice that made his heart stutter and do a little somersault. Judd swallowed hard. It … it couldn't be.

  "Cain?" There was a long pause, "Is that you?"

  "I should feel flattered you still remember my voice."

  Judd's backside collided with the kitchen counter and he let it hold him up. For a long moment, he couldn't talk. Couldn't get his throat to open up. Finally he said, "Cain. God. It's so—"

  "I didn't call to chat."

  Judd checked the hurt in his voice. "Why did you call?"

  Cain cleared his throat. "I've never asked you for anything. But I'm asking now."

  Judd waited, feeling his heart thudding against his ribs. He'd kept his room the way he'd left it. With his baseball glove and his bat and the trophies he'd earned for gymkhana still lined up on the shelf above his bed. He'd never even changed the color of his walls.

  "I need some money," Cain said.

  He remembered to breathe. Seven years and he'd called for money. Well, he supposed it served him right. He pressed his palm against the table to get his fingers to stop shaking. "How much money?"

  "Sixty-thousand dollars."

  Judd didn't even blink. "All right."

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line. "I don't want it for me," Cain said. "I wouldn't touch it for me."

  Of course. Judd sighed. "Who then?"

  There was a long pause. "Her name is Maggie Cortland."

  Closing his eyes, Judd closed his fingers around the phone. Of course. A woman. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Cain?"

  He heard the soft, unpleasant laughter coming from the other end of the line. "Some things never change, right, Father?"

  Oh, hell. He'd done it again. "Listen to me, son, if you need anything. Help or anything … I—"

  "I need you," Cain said through clenched teeth, "to wire the money. That's all. The rest you can—" He paused again as if trying to rein in his temper. "Just wire the money, Father. I won't bother you again."

  "That's not what I—"

  "Are you going to send the money or not?"

  Defeated, Judd picked up the pen and pad of paper near the phone. "Yes. I'll wire it. Give me an account number."

  Cain dictated the account number and he wrote it down. Judd had imagined this conversation a thousand times, but it had never gone this badly.

  "It'll be in by the close of business today," Judd told him. Cain didn't say a word, but he didn't hang up either. "Cain? I know there's been a lot of water under our bridge. But if we could just—"

  "Thank you for the money," his son said abruptly. "I'll pay you back when I can."

  "You don't have to—" The dial tone rang in Judd MacCallister's ear and he pulled the receiver away from his ear with a scowl. A sinking feeling stole the strength from his legs and he sat down hard on one of the kitchen chairs.

  Damn.

  He'd sounded … different. Older. Harder. But what did he expect? That he would be the same boy who'd once ridden to please him? Who had hoped that just once his father would give him the credit he'd deserved for being who he was?

  Judd rubbed his forehead, watching the kitchen table blur. He'd spent the last five years of his life regretting what he'd done to his son, and the last three doing whatever it took to make up for it. And dammit, after all that, he wasn't about to let this phone call be the end of it. He looked at the phone number again, then lifted the receiver.

  "Goehner?" he said when the connection was made, "Where does the 406 area code originate?" He listened to the answer, then looked at the phone number again. "Find the closest airport to the city that has this prefix and book me a flight on the next plane there."

  * * *

  It was nearly 4:00 p.m. by the time Cain headed back to Maggie's. He'd waited until the money had appeared in the account he'd set up for her at the bank. It had appeared just before the bank closed and Cain breathed a sigh of relief. His old man may be a son of a bitch, but at least he'd kept his word.

  The phone call kept turning in his mind as he steered the truck. His father had sounded older. That surprised him. And more than that, he'd sounded almost entreating. Not that Cain gave a damn. He didn't. He was just glad it was over.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. It had been a long day, starting with Geronimo. He should have called Maggie, he supposed. Let her know he was on his way back. Knowing her, she'd be worried about him. But he didn't—

  An explosion jolted the truck and the wheel jerked in Cain's hands. He gripped it tighter, trying to hang onto the road and felt the telltale thump-thump-thump of a flat.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit!

  Pulling over to the side of the road, Cain got out and inspected the tire. Rather, the place where the tire had been. There was little left but rim, with the rest scattered to kingdom come behind him. Another aftermath of the dip in the river, no doubt, he thought, digging into the box at the back of the truck for the tire iron and jack. Thank God there was a decent spare tucked under the truck bed, he thought, even though the last damned thing he wanted to do right now was change a tire.

  He got the blown wheel off and nearly had the spare unbolted from under the truck bed when he heard another car coming. He didn't think much about it until he heard the vehicle roll to a stop right there in the road opposite him.

  Cain looked up. It was a red truck, he noted absently from his vantage point under Maggie's truck. New. He heard doors open and it wasn't until he saw four pairs of boots hit the grou
nd on either side of the truck that the first inklings of trouble began to work their way up the back of his neck.

  Oh, hell.

  He rolled under the truck and came up the other side, only to be grabbed by two thugs who strong armed him hard up against the truck bed. From somewhere, a fist plowed into his kidney. A crippling pain stole his breath. He tried to jerk free but that earned him an elbow in the mouth rattling his teeth. A foul oath slid through his clenched teeth.

  "Where you goin', MacCallister?" the giant wearing a green plaid shirt asked, lifting his arm to the point of real pain. "Looks like you got a tire to change."

  "Gee," he said trying to catch his breath. "That's nice of you to offer, but I can do it myself."

  By now, the other two were rounding the truck, intent on some serious bodily harm. He hadn't spent three years in prison for nothing. He shoved the heel of his boot into the knee of the man on his left, sending him down with a howl and took the Jolly Green giant out with a quick hard jab to the throat and a left to the gut. The man gagged and grabbed his neck and belly. Cain ran around to the other side of the truck and snatched up the tire iron he'd left there.

  The other two men had split up and came at him now from both directions. The giant was struggling to his feet on the other side of the truck. Cain brandished the iron knowing he could take one of them, but probably not the other one if Jolly got here first. Running would have been his best option, but they had wheels.

  "Drop it, MacCallister," said the one who looked like he was in charge. His graying Pancho Villa mustache twitched as he reached into the front pocket of his coat and withdrew a handgun. "Or we can do this the hard way."

  He cocked the gun and pointed the barrel precisely between Cain's legs.

  That was one alternative he wasn't particularly interested in exploring. If they intended to kill him, he thought as a trickle of sweat cut a path through the dirt on the side of his face, he'd damn well prefer to go intact.

  It occurred to him only then that the flat tire had been no accident. That they'd probably shot it out from under him and waited until he had nowhere to go. These men weren't any he'd seen today at Donnelly's but without question they were working for him.

  He had no choice. He swore under his breath and dropped the tire iron. It hit the ground with a hollow, metallic clang.

  Instantly, Jolly had him again, pinning his arms behind his back and dragging him toward the open ground near the back of the truck. "You boys hire out for parties, too?" he asked the others following in the giant's wake.

  "Shut up," said Pancho, swinging his handgun across Cain's cheek with stunning force.

  Pain exploded in his head and stars blotted his vision out for a few long, intakes of air. When the world merged back into one, he spit blood out at Pancho's feet and smiled thinly. "Wow, you know … I knew a guy in prison … Lido Martinez … who mugged old men for their social security checks?" Cain swallowed hard. "He would've admired that move."

  The man's expression didn't even change, but his knee came up hard and accurately between Cain's legs. Cain doubled over, gagging for air. Nausea clawed at his throat and for a minute he thought he would pass out. The Green Giant dropped him to the ground where he curled in a tight ball.

  Though he couldn't open his eyes yet, it was Pancho Villa, he decided, who leaned over him. "See, we were sent to give you a message, MacCallister. You ain't welcome around here. Hear me?"

  Cain mouthed a two word obscenity, though no sound came out.

  "I don't think he heard you, Leon."

  Someone kicked him in the stomach, half-lifting him off the ground. Cain groaned and rolled to protect himself, his ability to breathe gone. But he was hauled up again and held between two of them while the other two took turns pounding on him. He felt his jaw crack and through a haze of red, saw the guy with the mustache smile as he tried to put his fist through Cain's gut.

  Pain crashed him down like a rogue wave until he couldn't stand or fight against it. His last rational thought was of Maggie. He'd forgotten to tell her—

  Something knocked his head back hard and blackness dropped over him like a curtain.

  And then, there was nothing.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  Maggie clutched the phone as she paced near Geronimo's stall and listened to the concern in Harold's voice on the other end of the line.

  "I've been all over town," he said, "And I even went by the Bar ZX. A few hands confirmed that he'd been out there earlier today, and that there had been some kind of a confrontation, but that no one had seen him since. There's no sign of him, Maggie."

  She exhaled a shaky breath and tightened her hand on the portable phone. "He wouldn't leave, Harold. I know he wouldn't. Something has happened to him."

  Harold was silent for a minute. "Maggie, I hate to be the one to point this out, but the man has a criminal record."

  "His conviction was overturned," she reminded him impatiently. "He wouldn't leave. You don't know him the way I do. What if he's had an accident?"

  "I checked the highway all the way out to your place and back. No sign of him."

  "Did you try the back way?"

  "Maggie—"

  "Something bad has happened to him, Harold, or he'd be here."

  She could almost hear Harold wrestling with the conviction in her voice and the logic that made him such a good attorney. But it was instinct she was following. And her heart.

  "All right. I'm heading your way now," he said. "I'll try the back road. I should be there in about twenty minutes."

  A sigh of relief escaped her. "Thank you, Harold. See you soon."

  Maggie clicked off the phone and sat holding it in her lap, listening to the labored sounds of Geronimo' s breathing. There was no possibility in her mind that he could have simply left without a word. He had to be all right, she told herself. She'd know it if he was dead. Wouldn't she?

  * * *

  The sound of crickets somewhere nearby woke him. The noise became one with the pounding at the back of his skull. He moved his head fractionally, but froze as pain shot through his neck and jaw. He groaned and eased back down.

  Damn.

  He risked a few quick, shallow breaths and swallowed. Everything hurt. His teeth, his jaw, his fingertips … and some elephant had apparently stepped on his chest.

  Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was hell, he reasoned. Because it wasn't possible for every inch of him to hurt like this and still be alive.

  He pried his eyes open and blinked several times. Okay. He was on the ground. There was the truck. But he couldn't remember how he'd—

  Oh, yeah, he remembered woozily. Pancho Villa and his merry men. He moaned again as he rolled gingerly onto his side. He touched a knuckle to the painful cut on his lip. His face felt sticky and bruised. And his left eye felt like a mountain.

  Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the moon just rising over the mountains. He wondered where Maggie was and if she was worried about him. He wished she'd appear right now and help him get up because he wasn't sure he could do it on his own. But night was rolling over him and he felt the dampness of it chilling him to the bone. He had to get up or whatever Pancho hadn't accomplished, the Montana night would.

  He rolled back to his side and pushed himself up until he was sitting. The movement stole his breath and made the world spin. At least one, maybe two ribs were cracked, he decided. Dammit.

  Slowly, at about the speed of grass growing, he crawled toward the truck, only then remembering that there was a tire off. A low oath slid past his lips. No way he'd change it in his condition. But to his shock, as he made it to the other side of the truck, the tire was on as if it had never blown off.

  "Well…" he muttered, "that's real … considerate of you boys." Grabbing hold of the back bumper, he hauled himself up using it for leverage. An involuntary groan escaped him as the darkness got punctuated by stars again. He waited until it passed before he moved again. "I'll
have to remember to thank you next time we meet."

  Hand over hand, he made his way to the cab and lowered himself into the seat behind the steering wheel. He felt sick and horrifyingly weak. He wasn't sure he could even handle the wheel. Turning the key in the ignition, the engine turned over—the only thing that seemed to be working well tonight—and he reached out slowly to pull the door shut.

  The sight of headlights screaming up behind him in the rearview mirror temporarily blinded him and the expletive that leapt to mind was low and foul. They'd have to kill him this time, he thought.

  But it wasn't a truck, he decided in the next instant as the vehicle pulled to a stop opposite him. And the voice shouting his name didn't sound like Pancho's.

  Thank God for that, Cain thought, forgetting about his door. Forgetting about everything but breathing as the blackness circled in on him again. Peripherally, he heard the man get out of his car and mutter God Almighty, but everything else slid away as blackness swooped back down on him like a crow's wing.

  * * *

  The truck's headlights pulled down her lane and Maggie ran out to meet it. But it was Harold behind the wheel. Her heart staggered to a stop.

  On the passenger side, propped against the window, was Cain. At least, she thought it was Cain.

  "Oh, my God."

  "I found him on the back road, just like you said," Harold said, pulling to a stop and shoving the truck into Park. "Get in. We're taking him to Emergency down in Helena."

  "No," Cain groaned from the other side of the cab. "Just … get me inside."

  She and Harold exchanged looks. She wanted to cry. His cheek was swollen and his left eye looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight. And there was blood everywhere. "Cain, don't be an idiot. You're hurt."

  He tugged on the door handle and shoved open the door, having none of it. "Nothing that won't heal," he said. "I think they broke a few ribs. Got tape?"