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Out of the Darkness

Page 12

by Robert D. McKee


  “I’ll go and shoo Lester away,” Fay said. “I’ll be back as soon as I clean things up. Will you still be awake?” she asked.

  Micah, who didn’t want to make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, said, “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  Fay smiled, and Micah felt something inside him collide with something else. She stepped back over and gave him a quick kiss and said, “You do that. If you’re asleep, I’ll wake you in a nice way.”

  She turned to go but stopped herself. “You know,” she said, “Lester did say something when he first came in that was a little strange.”

  “Lester Jones, say something strange?” Micah put the perfect note of disbelief into his voice.

  “I mean strange even for Lester.”

  “What was that?” Micah asked.

  “He was kind of mumbling to himself, but I swear it sounded like he said he wasn’t going to have any part of murder, no matter what Polly Pratt told the law.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Micah stood across the street from Lottie’s waiting for Fay to send Lester out. He shook another Cyclone from his package and lit up. He hadn’t used tobacco much before moving to Cheyenne. Once every week or so he’d have one of Chester’s cigars—the taste of it mixed well with Chester’s fine Scotland whisky—but he never smoked any other time. It was the thing to do in Cheyenne, though, and he had taken it up. At first a packet of Cyclones would last him almost a week. Now he was lucky if one lasted even two days. It was strange, but it seemed the more you did these things, the more you wanted to do.

  He saw movement behind the curtains, and a moment later, Lester staggered out. It didn’t seem the coffee had done much to sober him up. His footing was wobbly, and he muttered to himself in a slurred soliloquy. Micah tried to make out what he said but was too far away to hear.

  Lester started toward a horse that was tied to a rail a couple of doors away, and Micah crossed the street at an angle to cut him off.

  “Lester!” he called out. “Lester Jones!”

  Lester stopped where he was and peered into the dark street. “Whozat?” he said as he pushed his hat up on his brow a notch with his thumb.

  Micah stepped up on the boardwalk, and Lester’s eyes followed him. They were glassy but focused. Micah was close enough now to see caked blood in the stubble of the boy’s scant beard.

  “Who’re you?” Lester asked. The tone of his voice didn’t sound as though he was up for friendly conversation.

  “Name’s McConners,” Micah said. He stuck out his hand, but Lester only looked at it without extending his own. Micah wasn’t sorry Lester didn’t want to shake his hand. Even in the dim light, Micah could see the grime between Lester’s thumb and index finger. “My father used to own the store over on Second andWalnut. When we were all kids you and your brother would come in from time-to-time, and he’d give you both a lemon drop.”

  Lester squinted as his mind ratcheted over. After a moment he said with a vacant smile, “I recall you. Your daddy was nice. He even give Hank and me some peppermint sticks once.”

  The Jones family had been well known around Probity. The mother had been slow to the point of hardly being able to function, and the father had been mean. Micah winced at the thought of how the gift of peppermint was maybe one of the few high points in Lester’s childhood. “Pop sure liked to feed candy to kids,” Micah offered with a laugh.

  Lester joined the laughter. “Well, sir, you couldn’t never feed me and Hank too much candy. That’s for sure.”

  “Where’s Hank now?” Micah asked. “I don’t know as I’ve ever seen one of you Jones boys without the other.”

  “Hell, I don’t know where they got off to. I don’t care, neither. I’m done with ’em. I might head out for Colorado. They’s hiring folks in them mines west of Denver. There was a harness salesman come through about six months ago told me all about it. Yes, sir. A fella can make him some money down in Colorado. That’s what I hear.”

  Micah pointed to Lester’s face. “Looks like you’ve been roughed up some there, Lester. Who did that to you?”

  “Ah, Sonny Pratt,” he said. In a quieter voice as though he was embarrassed to admit it, “And Hank done some too.”

  Micah pulled out his pack of Cyclones and offered one to Lester. Lester looked at it as though he’d never seen a ready-rolled cigarette before.

  “Thanks,” he said, shoving it into his mouth. He fumbled through his pockets for a light, never coming up with one.

  “Here you go,” Micah said. “Let me get that for you.” He struck a match, and the yellow glow of it showed Lester’s face was worse than Micah first thought.

  “Damn, Lester,” he said. “They sure did work you over.”

  “It ain’t so bad,” Lester said, exhaling a gray flood of smoke. “I’ve had worse, and I’ve give worse too.”

  “I bet you have.” Micah shook out the match and tossed it into the street. “But it seems strange coming from your own brother and best friend. You must’ve done something pretty bad to make them that mad at you.”

  “They’s the ones that does bad things, not me.” He took another pull on the Cyclone, held it up, and eyed it. “These ready-rolleds is good and tight, ain’t they?” he said. “Not like when you twist ’em up yourself.”

  “Here,” offered Micah, pulling the pack from his pocket, “take them. I have more.” He handed the cigarettes over.

  Lester looked as though he’d been presented a great gift. “Damn, store-bought smokes. Thanks, Mr. McConners.”

  “Hell, Lester, don’t mention it. You’ve had a bad night.”

  Lester rubbed his swollen jaw. “What time do you reckon it is?” he asked.

  It was too dark to see his watch without striking another match, so Micah made a guess. “I don’t know. Must be about ten-thirty.”

  “I wonder if Becky’s got herself a customer over at Adelaide’s.”

  “Who’s Becky?” Micah asked.

  The boy seemed to perk up at the question. “Why, Becky’s my girl. We’s in love.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. Sometimes in the middle of the week like this, when it gets on around eleven or so, if Becky don’t have a customer, I can come into her room and we can be together.” His gaze drifted up the street in the direction of Adelaide’s Bawdy House. “Becky’s a sight, Mr. McConners. She has long yellow hair and the greenest eyes you ever did see.”

  “Sounds like a beauty.”

  “You ever go into Adelaide’s?” Lester asked.

  “No, can’t say as I have.” Micah gave a quick laugh. “I’ve thought about it a few times but never made it in.” Lester Jones might be the only person on earth Micah would be willing to admit that truth to.

  “You should go,” Lester urged. “It’s a fine place. It’s got thick carpets and velvet curtains. Adelaide has three piano players on the payroll, so they’s music goin’ night and day. And in the parlor, she’s got this big light what’s hanging down from the ceiling, and I swear, it looks like it’s made out of diamonds.” He turned a sly grin to Micah. “And the girls is somethin’. Adelaide says she’s got the prettiest girls around. It’s the truth too. And my Becky’s the prettiest of the batch.” Lester’s voice dropped, taking on a confidential tone. “Now, Becky’s large, mind ya,” Lester added. “She’s a large, full girl, but I like my women on the fleshly side, don’t you, Mr. McConners?”

  “Well, I’ve seen some large women that I thought were real appealing, Lester. I surely have. But I expect if you’re in love, it doesn’t matter whether the girl’s large or small.”

  Lester snapped his fingers and slapped his knee. “By golly, you’re right, damned if you ain’t. And me and Becky are sure in love; yes, sir, we are. There ain’t no other woman for me—not another one at Adelaide’s, nor anywheres else neither. I don’t never lay with any woman ’cept for my Becky. Why, I never even touched a beauty like Polly Pratt, no, sir. And I had me the chance when—” Sudden
ly the smile left his dull face. “I gotta be goin’,” he said. He began to sidle off the boardwalk toward his horse.

  “What was that, Lester?” Micah asked. “You didn’t touch Polly Pratt when?”

  “Nothin’,” Lester said. “Never mind.” He turned toward his horse.

  Micah wasn’t sure where Lester had been going with his last comment, but it was clear the boy had let something slip that scared him. Micah decided to jab him a little. “You were with Sonny last month when he beat the hell out of Polly, weren’t you?” Micah wasn’t at all sure that Lester had been, but it didn’t hurt to throw it out to see what would happen.

  “No,” Lester snapped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the day of the picnic in the park. I saw you and your brother and Sonny Pratt all there together. Later on that night, Sonny Pratt beat Polly damn near senseless, and you helped him do it, didn’t you, Lester?”

  Lester turned on Micah. It looked as though he was going to charge, and Micah braced himself.

  “You’re a sneaky bastard, ain’t ya?” Lester said. “You got a way about ya. I’ll admit that. You give a fella free cigarettes, and get ’im talkin’.” He pulled the Cyclones from his pocket and threw the pack at Micah.

  Micah caught it and held it back toward Lester. “Oh, come on, Lester, settle down. Take the smokes back. If you say you didn’t help Sonny hurt Polly, I believe you. Why would you lie to me? I’m not the law.” He waggled the cigarettes a couple of times at the boy, and hesitantly, as though he were reaching out to pet a snake, Lester took them back. “Good,” Micah said, “that’s better.” He stepped down into the street next to the younger man. “No, Lester, I’m not saying you had anything to do with it, but I know it was Sonny who worked her over that night, and maybe Hank too, the same way they did you tonight.”

  “It weren’t me, though,” Lester whispered. “Them two do things I don’t like sometimes.” He dug a line in the dirt with the edge of his boot. “I ain’t never hurt Polly Pratt.” He looked up, and even in the darkness, he found Micah’s eyes. “I ain’t bad, Mr. McConners.” He shook his head and looked back down at the line he’d made. “I ain’t sayin’ I’m the best of fellas, no, sir.” His head rose again. “But I ain’t bad.”

  “Tell me why they beat her the way they did, Lester. They must have had a reason. Why would they do that?”

  Lester backed away. He shook his index finger at Micah. “I ain’t talkin’ to you no more, Mr. McConners. No, sir. No more.” His movements were surer now than they were when he first staggered out of Lottie’s. He jerked the reins from the rail and threw his right leg over the saddle. He looked down at Micah for a quick second and, without saying any more, he whirled his horse and rode away.

  Micah watched Lester ride into the darkness. Maybe Lester wasn’t bad, but Hank was, and Sonny Pratt was. And there were strange things going on among the Pratt family: the divorce, the beating of Polly by her brother, the abortion. There was a lot about all of this that Micah did not understand. And he figured it was time he did something about that. Whether he wanted to or not, Chester was going to tell Micah what the hell was going on.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Please, sir, have a seat.” Earl Anderson extended his arm, palm up, toward the heavy leather chair in front of his desk. “This is quite an honor,” he said. Anderson had been beside himself ever since the messenger boy brought the note informing him that Emmett Pratt would be in this afternoon “to discuss some matters of importance.”

  Pratt, holding his hat and dressed in a suit and string tie, sat without saying a word.

  Anderson circled behind his huge oak desk, sat in his own leather chair, and leaned forward, his weight on his forearms, his fingers interlaced. “I can’t tell you how pleased I was,” he said, “to receive your note this morning. It’s an honor to meet with Probity’s distinguished citizenry. It’s not only my duty as your representative in the halls of justice, but my pleasure as well. Now, sir—” He beamed his brightest smile. “—what is it I can do for you? Anything. Anything at all.”

  Pratt tossed his hat onto Anderson’s desk, hitting a bottle of ink as he did and almost toppling it over. “The first thing you can do is stop that blasted chattering. I don’t have much to say to you, Anderson, except that it may be you’re the dumbest son of a bitch that God ever let breathe air.”

  Earl felt his smile melt away.

  “You may know that Thomas Blythe is my personal attorney, and he informed me yesterday that your reasoning for the prosecution of Dr. Hedstrom was that you thought you were doing me some kind of favor.” With every word that left Pratt’s mouth, his complexion grew redder. “Perhaps you would like to explain what favor you are doing me by destroying a good man and dragging my wife and stepdaughter through the mud.”

  Earl tried to swallow, but something felt as though it was plugging his throat. “Well, I—I—” he stammered. “With the divorce proceedings and all, I assumed—”

  “You assumed too God-damned much, little man. I’ll tell you that right now.” Pratt’s anger was rising to the level of fury. He jerked himself from the chair and began to pace in front of Anderson’s desk. “First of all, I don’t want a divorce. I’ve never wanted a divorce. I’ve done everything I can to prevent my wife from obtaining a divorce, up to and including having Blythe refer her to that know-nothing little pup of a lawyer McConners. I’ve worked my entire life to protect my family from hardship and disgrace, and now you bring criminal charges against a man who’s done nothing but risk his career and his freedom to try to help the people I care about most in the world. And, as if that’s not bad enough, you have the God-damned audacity to suggest you did it because you thought you were doing me a favor. Well, sir, you have done me no favor.” He paused. “But you will.” During the course of his tirade, Pratt had leaned across the top of Anderson’s desk and placed his nose scarcely six inches from Earl’s own. “And do you know why you will?”

  “No, sir—I mean—”

  Pratt stood up straight and once again began to pace. “Year before last I spent ten thousand dollars of my own money trying to get a friend of mine elected governor. But I don’t have a great deal of political influence, despite what some fools who don’t know what the hell they’re talking about might think, and my friend lost by a landslide.” Pratt stopped pacing and leaned again toward Anderson. “But I will tell you something, you Nancy-boy little prick:You will either fix this mess you’ve made or I will spend twice ten thousand to see that you’re not only run out of this town and this state, but the whole God-damned West. Now, maybe I can’t get someone elected governor, but I’m willing to bet twenty thousand dollars that I can handle a little shit like you. What do you have to say about that?”

  “Well, of course, sir. I’ll d-d-do anything I can, but there has already been an arraignment, the trial date has been set, the press—”

  Pratt dropped back into the chair in front of the desk. “I’ve talked to Blythe about this, and although it’s within your discretion, he acknowledges it would be awkward for you to dismiss the charge. Judge Walker would be asking questions that would be difficult to answer.”

  “Yes, yes, he would.”

  “Blythe suggested some sort of plea agreement.”

  “It is my understanding the doctor would be willing to plead guilty,” Anderson confirmed.

  “If he did, a trial could be avoided, but I expect he would go to prison.”

  “There’s no doubt about it. Judge Walker’s fair, but his sentencing is harsher than some judges around the state.”

  “How long do you think Hedstrom might get?”

  “The maximum is fourteen. If he pled guilty, I doubt he would get the maximum. But I can’t imagine he’d get less than eight, perhaps as much as ten.”

  “My word,” Pratt said as he stood and walked to Anderson’s window. The afternoon traffic on Main rolled by. “Are you sure Hedstrom would plead guilty?”r />
  “All I know, sir, is his attorney approached me after the arraignment and wanted to discuss that possibility.”

  “Eight, maybe ten years. That won’t do. I cannot allow this man’s life to be ruined.” Pratt stood for a long moment staring out the window. “I want Thomas Blythe to prosecute this case.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Pratt turned from the window and faced Earl. “Whether it goes to trial or whether he pleads guilty, either way, this man’s going to be convicted of this God-damned crime you were stupid enough to charge him with. There’s you on one side and McConners on the other. I want someone with a little brains in that courtroom—someone who might be able to exercise some influence when Judge Walker is making his decision on how many years to give the poor bastard.”

  Anderson stood now too. “But, Mr. Pratt,” he said, “I’m the county attorney.”

  “I don’t give three shits who you are. You appoint Thomas Blythe as some kind of deputy prosecutor, or I’m going to have your ass hanging from a stick.”

  He grabbed his hat from Anderson’s desk, and when he did, he knocked over the bottle of ink. Both men watched as the black liquid spread across the desktop. “Damn,” Pratt said, putting on the hat and heading for the door. “Seems you have a mess, Mr. Prosecutor.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  People looked at her in a different way now that they knew. The women were the worst. Women, in their own manner, could be crueler than men. Men’s cruelty was physical. It was frightening, but she thought she understood it. Women could be cruel with their eyes and their whispers. And that was not a cruelty she could understand. It was one she could feel, though. It was as real as the hands of the men.

  This morning was the first time Polly had been out of the boarding house in days, but she was going insane being closed up all the time. All her life she’d been a creature of the outdoors. She enjoyed horses and riding, and she missed the ranch with its thousands of acres of freedom. She had been happy there.

 

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