by Tami Hoag
He sounded so glum, Mari couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. And empathy. She may not have been as self-destructive as Will, but she certainly knew what it was to incur the disapproval of her family. She opened a Pepsi for herself and joined him at the table, setting the doughnut box between them.
He lifted a cinnamon doughnut and saluted her with his soda can. “Breakfast of champions.”
“Meets all the daily requirements for chemical additives and preservatives.” She chose powdered sugar for herself and nibbled at it, shaking down a miniature blizzard on her napkin. “You really ought to see a doctor.”
Will made a face. “I've been hurt worse falling out of bed.”
“You must be a fun date.”
“Wanna find out?” He tried to waggle his brows as the codeine kicked in. The pain was suddenly bearable, the numbness pleasant. He laughed a little at the look Mary Lee gave him. “Oh, yeah, that's right. You're dancing with the boss hoss. So is this serious? Do I get to call you Sis?”
“Not.”
She seemed to take an inordinate interest in picking up doughnut crumbs from her napkin with the tip of her finger. Something about the tension around her mouth struck a warning bell. Her eyes had been red when she had first turned around and looked at him out there on the deck, as if she had been crying. Way to go, J.D., so smooth with the ladies. About as smooth as the business end of a porcupine. Poor Mary Lee.
“You drew a tough one, sweetheart,” he said softly, never thinking that she might not understand rodeo jargon, the dialect of the cowboy. “He's married to the job, you know, to the land. I guess he figured that would be safest. Didn't think the land could duck out on him. 'Course, we have since found out that the land is just a pretty whore that goes to the highest bidder. Ain't that a kick in the butt?”
“Do you care?”
“Not the way he does. The ranch is a lot of things to J.D.—mother, lover, duty. For me it was the thing that tied my mama to a marriage she didn't want. I never had much of a taste for duty.”
“But you stay anyway. Why?”
Why? That was a question he asked himself on a regular basis. Why not just leave? Why not just cut the ties and run free? He never came up with an answer. He never wanted to dig deep enough to find it. Too afraid of what he might unearth. What a coward you are, Willie-boy.
He didn't answer. Mari didn't press. She of all people respected the confusion that tangled around the human heart. Why had she gone to school instead of to seek her fortune as a songwriter? Why had she stayed on the job when she hated it? Why had she tried to sell herself on Brad Enright when she didn't really love him?
Why couldn't life be sunny and simple?
She sighed and dusted the powdered sugar off her hands. “You need stitches for that cut. Come on, cowboy,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I'm driving you in to see Dr. Charm.”
CHAPTER
19
MACDONALD TOWNSEND paced back and forth along the length of the picture window in his study. The view out that window, a panorama of wild Montana beauty that included a spectacular slice of snow-capped Irish Peak, had cost him a considerable chunk of money. He didn't so much as glance at it that morning. He was beyond admiring scenery. He was beyond enjoying much of anything about his getaway “cabin,” two thousand square feet of pine logs and thermal-pane windows and fieldstone fireplaces. On the other side of his study door Bruno, his German shorthair, whined and scratched at the woodwork. Townsend didn't hear it.
His life was going to hell. It was as simple as that. He paused beside the heavy antique oak desk to light a cigarette, but his hands were shaking too badly to accomplish the task and he gave it up, too wired to try again. He knew what he needed, what his nerves were screaming for. There was a stash in the upper right-hand drawer of the desk, but he fought the need, desperate to break free of it. Sweat filmed his face. His nose was running. He pulled a damp, wadded-up handkerchief out of his hip pocket and wiped it across his upper lip, resuming his pacing.
His heart was racing like a rabbit's, something that seemed to be happening more and more often. He didn't know if it was the cocaine or the stress or both. They seemed to feed off each other, chasing around and around in a vicious circle that was taking him closer and closer to the point of no return.
He stopped and stared out the window, seeing nothing. How had he ever come to this? He'd had the world at his fingertips. His career had been poised perfectly on the ladder that would eventually take him to the Supreme Court. He was respected and admired. He had a wife who was respected and admired. There hadn't been so much as a speck of lint on his record.
Then he met Lucy MacAdam. He dated the start of his decline into this hell in which he was living to the night they met, as if her appearance had been a portent sent from the netherworld. As if she had been a familiar of the devil sent to destroy him by leading him down the paths of degradation.
He still remembered that first meeting as if it had happened last night. He had seen her across the room at a party in the elegant home of Ben Lucas. Her gaze hit him like a laser beam. Then that patented smile canted the corners of her mouth, wry and knowing, as if she were fully aware of her evil power over men and delighted in it. His skin had tightened from the scalp down, tingling with raw sexual awareness. At the time her hair had been nearly platinum blond, cut in a jaw-length bob that perpetually looked as if a lover had just run his hands through it. She wore a simple gold metallic knit dress that began in a snug collar around her throat and hugged her figure like a glove, ending high on her slender thighs. She wore nothing beneath it. He had discovered that fact later in the evening, when she had led him by the necktie into a little-used guest bathroom.
At the time he had been, if not a happily married man, a contented one. Irene, his wife of thirty years, had lost interest in sex. All her time and energy was taken up with her causes. He remembered thinking it was a relief. One less obligation to distract him from his career plans. He had been sliding comfortably along on the track that would take him to the superior court bench and onward.
Everything changed in a heartbeat. He was astonished, looking back on it, that he could have been so easily tempted, that temptation would take him so deep, that it all could happen so quickly.
Madness, that was what it was. It had infected him and swept through him like a cancer. First it was Lucy, then the cocaine, the parties, the forays into the world of Evan Bryce and the people who sought him out. He had been so smug at first, flattered and full of himself. He had believed he could handle it, that he could keep his newfound vices separate from his public image. But the task had grown increasingly difficult, until he felt as if he were being asked to juggle bowling balls while balancing on one foot on the head of a pin. His control had slipped bit by bit, and now his life was spiraling downward like a plane with all engines smoking. He could almost hear the wind roaring in his ears.
His need for cocaine was out of control. Between the drugs and the blackmail, his finances were eroding at an alarming rate. Irene was leaving him. God only knew what would happen when her attorney started demanding money and property that had long since gone to fund his secret life. Bryce had him under his thumb and there was a very incriminating videotape floating around that would end his career at the very least if it fell into the wrong hands.
“I have to get that tape,” he muttered.
He could scarcely hear above the thundering of his pulse in his ears. The trembling that had been contained to his hands quaked up his arms and down through his body. He felt as if he might explode. Panic choked him. On the brink of tears, he flung himself into the leather-upholstered desk chair and reached for the handle of the drawer. His fingers curled around it and tightened and tightened until his knuckles were the color of bone.
He had to stop. He had to, or the madness would never end. During the night he had promised himself he would quit. He would extend his vacation into a six-month leave of absence from the bench and cl
ean up his act. He would go to another state, where no one would know him, and check himself into a clinic. There was a place in Minnesota he'd heard about. Top-notch, discreet. He would go there, and when he came back he would be a new man, his old self, back on the straight and narrow.
The plan brought with it a kind of euphoria, a high not unlike that he got from the drugs. For a moment he saw the future through a watery white light, like something inside a free-floating soap bubble. He would quit the drugs, get the stress under control, distance himself from the people who had dragged him down into this muck. Then the phone to his left shrilled a high, birdlike call and the bubble burst.
He grabbed the receiver, his heart rate spiking up-ward again, expecting to hear Bryce on the other end. “Townsend.”
“Judge Townsend.” The voice was unfamiliar, male, ringing with a quality of false joviality. “I was a friend of a friend of yours. Lucy MacAdam.”
Townsend said nothing. The silence vibrated against his ears. A hundred thoughts raced through his mind, none of them pleasant.
“Are you there?”
He tried to swallow the bile that rose up the back of his throat. His mouth was dry as chalk dust. “Y-yes. I'm here.”
“I happen to know you and Lucy had a little thing going. Thought maybe we could discuss it.”
The tape. Jesus, he had the tape! He thought of denying the charge, but what was the point? His nerves couldn't take a cat-and-mouse game. Better to get it over with. “What do you want?”
“Not over the phone. I prefer to do business in person.”
“Where, then?”
“Do you like to fish, Judge?”
“What? What the hell—”
“Of course you do. You're a rugged outdoors type, or you wouldn't have come here. There's a great spot I just discovered over on Little Snake. Meet me at the Mine Road turnoff on old county nine in an hour and I'll lead the way. Know where that is?”
“I'll be there.”
“Good. Oh, and, Judge? Better bring your wallet.”
He fumbled to re-cradle the receiver, his attention on the pressure that was building inside his head. Maybe he would just have an aneurism and die and that would be the end of all his troubles. The pressure pounded behind his eyes like a pair of fists.
Would this nightmare never end?
If he could get the tape back, he thought desperately. He'd pay whatever he had to. He'd sell this place to raise the money as long as he could be assured of never being bothered again. That would be best anyway. Get rid of this place. That would be part of the process of turning himself around. The situation wasn't beyond damage control yet. He would sell this place, get himself straightened out, get Irene back before the divorce proceedings revealed his ravaged finances.
Having a plan calmed him somewhat, but he was still trembling. He pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his nose again. He had to give the appearance of being in control when he met this new blackmailer. It wouldn't be wise to show fear.
His fingers curled into the handle of the drawer again and pulled it open. Just one more time . . .
Mari went into the emergency room with Will to make sure he actually got himself on the list of patients to be seen, then left him there with a promise to come back in an hour. As she drove through town, she made a pass around the square to take in the progress on the sculpture.
Colleen Bentsen was going at it with torch in hand and an iron mask over her face. The sculpture was still little more than scrap metal. A knot of New Eden housewives with babies in strollers stood frowning at the model, turning their heads sideways and back in an attempt to get a perspective that made sense. M. E. Fralick stood beside the pedestal, swinging her long arms in exaggerated gestures as she tried to explain the scope of the project.
At the Moose, tourists were trooping through the main lobby in their pseudo-western wear, heading for breakfast before a day in the great outdoors. Mari went up to her rooms and pried herself out of Lucy's jeans. After a quick shower, she dressed in a pair of old black leggings, crew socks, and hiking boots. She pulled a T-shirt over her head with the words BO KNOWS YOUR SISTER stamped across the front in black, and completed the ensemble with a man-size denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up half a dozen times. She tried to clamp her hair back with a big silver barrette, but the mane was too much for it. The clasp gave way and launched the barrette across the room like a missile.
She went down to the dining room, scanning the faces for Drew. Kevin sat alone at a table near the kitchen door, going over paperwork while he sipped coffee. Mari wound her way to the table and pulled out the chair across from him.
“Didn't your mother ever tell you not to do homework at the breakfast table? You'll ruin your posture.”
He glanced up at her and grinned. Automatically, he came halfway to his feet, even though she had already seated herself. “No, I never heard that one. The big one around my house was ‘Don't run with a pencil in your hand—' ”
“You'll put your eye out,” they finished in unison.
Mari laughed. “I think my mother's real fear was the social stigma of a daughter with an eye patch. There are so few designers who consider it an acceptable fashion accessory.”
Kevin snagged a passing waiter for coffee. “Breakfast?”
“No, thanks,” she said halfheartedly, eyeing the plump golden blueberry muffin he had yet to touch. “I had a doughnut.”
“Have some fruit at least.” He nudged a chilled bowl heaped with melon slices and fresh berries in her direction.
Mari picked out a chunk of cantaloupe with a fork and nipped off a corner.
“How are you feeling?” Kevin asked, concern tugging his brows into that worried-puppy look he wore so well.
“I'm fine.”
“We still feel terrible, you know.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I could share my pain-killers with you.”
“Seriously. This place is our home. The idea of someone breaking in and hurting a guest is just appalling. It's a violation.”
“Have you heard anything from Quinn about catching the guy?”
He shook his head. “Doesn't look likely. It would be a different story if he had stolen something he could be caught in possession of or trying to pawn or sell.”
“My family would be gratified to hear I'm finally suffering for my lack of material greed.” She snagged a blueberry on a fork tine and popped it in her mouth. “I'd just like to know if he expected to find something. Lucy mentioned a book in her final letter to me. I haven't been able to find it.”
“What kind of book would be worth attacking someone for?”
She shrugged, not wanting to go into the whole mess with Kevin. Something told her he hadn't been privy to Lucy's schemes; he was too inherently sweet. On the other hand, she was willing to bet his partner knew more than he was saying.
“Is Drew around?”
“No,” Kevin said shortly, dropping his gaze as he cracked open his muffin. Steam billowed up from its interior in a fragrant cloud. By contrast, the air temperature around him seemed to drop by ten degrees. His smile was nowhere in sight. “He's off communing with nature. Fishing or something. I haven't seen him this morning at all.”
“Oh.” Mari nibbled her lower lip, her attention split between the muffin and Kevin's sudden change of mood. “Is anything wrong?”
He sighed, staring blankly down at his plate. “No. Nothing. Why did you want to see him?”
“Nothing major. We were just talking about Lucy the other night. I thought maybe we could finish the discussion over coffee.”
“Oh, well, he'll be back eventually. Five at the latest. The trio starts playing in the lounge at seven.” He brightened hopefully as he looked up at her. “Will you be joining them?”
“Oh, I don't know—”
“Come on,” he cajoled. “You're not stage shy. It'd be great to hear you sing again.”
“Maybe. We'll see.”
She checked her watch and s
tood, leaning over to pinch a bite of muffin. “Gotta go,” she said, popping the morsel into her mouth. She wiggled her fingers at him and backed away as he laughed.
Most of the morning was spent chauffeuring Will around town. From the hospital they went to Chuck's Auto Body to procure the services of a tow truck. From Chuck's they went to Big Sky Insurance to report the bad news. After being told his coverage would probably be canceled because of his driving record, he had Mari drive out to Cheyenne Used Car Corral on the outskirts of town, where he proceeded to try to weasel a loaner out of his good friend Big Ed Twofeathers. Big Ed told him to take a hike.
At the Gas N' Go Will bought a pair of cheap sunglasses to replace the ones he'd lost in the wreck. They both bought greasy pizza slices and Barq's root beer and ate lunch at a picnic table with a view of the diesel pumps, then climbed back in the Honda and headed for the ranch.
Depressed and drowsy from the painkillers, Will nodded off on the drive out to the Stars and Bars. Mari stuck Shawn Colvin in the tape deck and let her mind wander with the flow of the music, turning the facts and clues and questions over like playing cards in a mental game of solitaire. Her chain of thought was momentarily disrupted as they passed the site of Will's wreck.
The truck had gone off the road in the middle of a tricky curve. Luckily, the embankment wasn't steep, or he would almost certainly have been killed. Mari thought it was a wonder he wasn't killed as it was. The pickup looked like a toy that had been stomped on by an irate giant. It lay on its side, crumpled and twisted.
Will woke as they rolled in through the gate at the ranch. From behind the dark lenses of his new mirror sunglasses, he did a quick scan for any sign of J.D. The longer he could put off a confrontation, the better. Zip trotted down from the house porch to bark at them. He could see Chaske at the end of the barn, trimming the hooves of a blocky bay gelding. J.D. was nowhere to be seen.