Two-Trick Pony (The Drifter Detective Book 8)

by Garnett Elliott

  An hour passed. His legs were going numb against the cold ground. Not a hint of activity from Donna's house, and now the lack of sleep was catching up. He nodded, almost dropping the scope. Wasn't that a fine thing? Falling asleep on his first case.

  He stretched. No harm, he supposed, in resting for a bit. The way he slept a chicken fart could wake him from thirty yards. He propped his head towards Donna's house with the scope in easy reach, intending to keep one eye open.

  * * *

  For a horrible moment he thought he'd woken in Stalag Luft Three. It was the cold, and a ferocious hunger playing tricks with his stomach. He shook his head. Something had happened to the sunlight. The shadows beneath the bush were too dark, too long for midday. He pushed himself up, fumbling to read his watch. The noise that had woken him in the first place rumbled close.

  An old pickup slewed past his hiding spot and skidded to a halt in front of Donna's mailbox. He managed to thrust the scope to his eye. A magnified hand reached out the passenger side window, snapped open the box, and stuffed an envelope inside. The driver had to lean out a little farther to shut the box, revealing the side of his head.

  A white bandage showed underneath his cowboy hat.

  The pickup roared off before Jack could steady his scope on the license plate, but he didn't need to. He'd recognized the man.

  Breathing hard, he came out from behind the bush and sprinted to the mailbox. Dusk had fallen during his not-so-little nap. He opened the box and the letter inside. Several ragged dollar bills fluttered out, along with a hand-written note: KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT (HA), AND THERE'LL BE MORE.

  That was it.

  He picked up the money. Hunches from the day before were solidifying, but he needed to talk to Donna. If she'd cooperate. He banged on the front door as loud as he could. Mid-knock, he realized she wouldn't be able to hear him. But the door opened anyway, and a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy peered out. He had Donna's aquiline nose.

  "Is your, ah, ma home?" Jack said.

  The boy nodded. He looked around twelve, but his grave expression made him seem older.

  "Can I see her?"

  He folded his arms. "What about?"

  "Business. We spoke the other night."

  "Hold on."

  Donna appeared in the doorway moments later, clutching an old Winchester Repeater across her chest. She didn't quite scowl at the sight of him, but she didn't smile, either.

  Jack held up the envelope. "We've got to talk. I know who's threatening you."

  Her brown eyes looked black in the failing light. They kept flicking from him to the envelope. Finally, she lowered the gun and put a hand atop her son's head. They both moved back, allowing Jack to step inside.

  He took off his hat. The house's interior had all the trimmings of poverty; bare walls, sparse furniture, no carpet. But it was clean, and he caught the wonderful smell of frying food. "Is there someplace we can sit?"

  She led him through a stark dining room into the kitchen, lit by a naked forty-watt bulb. A cast iron stove stood next to a more modern gas range, with pancakes cooking on a griddle. Jack felt his stomach implode. He hadn't eaten since the fairgrounds.

  Donna leaned the Winchester against a battered walnut table and nodded at her boy. "You don't understand sign language, do you?" he said.

  "Afraid not. What's your name, son?"

  "Randy."

  Jack handed Donna the envelope. "This was dropped off only minutes ago."

  She noted with distaste the flap had been opened. Her mouth curled as she read the message inside, but she didn't seem surprised. Probably had received a couple of these already. She and her son exchanged rapid-fire gestures.

  Randy said: "Who sent it?"

  "Elroy Adair's pickup man, Alberto. I don't know his last name."

  Again, no surprise registered on Donna's face. She left the kitchen and returned a moment later to toss a small object on the table.

  Jack inspected it. A length of barbed wire, slightly rusted. No, not rust—dried blood. He recalled the evenly-spaced wounds on Red's hide.

  "Ask your ma how she got this," he told Randy.

  A lengthy exchange of sign followed. Donna had to stop midpoint to flip the pancakes. "She found it stuck under the horse's strap," Randy said, "right after the accident. Before she could tell Red's owner a tall man came into the stall and threatened to beat her if she said anything about it. She thought you were him, the other night."

  "What did he look like?"

  Donna's hands talked. "He had a bandana around his face, and his hat pulled low. But his eyes were blue," Randy said.

  "Probably Cecil the Clown. Alright, that squares."

  Donna set a plate of pancakes down in front of her son, drizzled with syrup. Jack had to force his eyes away. She noticed his reaction and motioned for him to sit. While he did so, she took a thick slab of bacon out of the icebox and sliced off several pieces. Jack couldn't have been more excited if she'd started doing a striptease.

  "Way I figure it is this," he said. "Cecil and 'Berto planned the whole thing. Put the barbed wire under Red's surcingle just before the accident to rile him. Only they hadn't planned on the horse kicking 'Berto. Probably didn't reckon Adair would survive, either."

  Donna's eyes asked the question. Why?

  "Cecil has something going on with Adair's wife, Brenda. If Adair dies, his money most likely goes to her. Cecil and 'Berto must've figured they could sponge off the estate for a while."

  Donna slid the bacon strips onto the already hot griddle. When she signed again, Jack noticed her agile hands didn't have a ring. Randy said: "So what do we do now?"

  "We're not dealing with professionals here. Have they sent you any other letters?"

  She held up two fingers.

  "You still have them?"

  A nod.

  "The one I saw was hand-written. Probably has prints, too. Plus Cecil, if that was him, didn't think to take the barbed wire away when he threatened you. It's practically a murder weapon. I witnessed 'Berto dropping off the letter, and I'll swear to it in court. All that, and Red's wound, is enough to take to the sheriff."

  Her hands wove in a flurry. Randy said: "Elroy Adair is a big man in this town. If he doesn't think his friends are guilty he'll try and make the law see it that way, too."

  Jack nodded. "That's why I'm going out to his place and tell him the whole story, first. Soon as he's on our side, we'll talk to the sheriff."

  Some emotion came slipping through Donna's heart-shaped face. Could that be relief? Gratitude?

  "Look," Jack said, "I've got a motel room near the freeway. I think it'd be best if you two holed up while I speak to Adair. You'd be safer."

  She signed: "When are you going?"

  "Soon as I finish that bacon you're frying for me."

  She didn't seem to need much convincing. After a moment's deliberation she pointed her chin at the Winchester.

  "Sure," Jack said. "Bring it along if you want. One thing, though. Do you have a car we can use?"

  * * *

  Donna owned a pre-war Ford that looked older than the DeSoto, but it started after a couple attempts. Jack drove the rattling thing out to the motor court, careful to park far from the manager's office. He didn't want to get caught with 'guests' of the non-paying variety. Hobart's car was parked and his room light on. Jack spotted a fat silhouette at the window as he fumbled with the keys to his own room. Hobart came barreling out seconds later. "Where in hell have you been?" His voice trailed when he got an eyeful of Donna and Randy.

  "I just found out some things. Very important things. I need to speak with Adair."

  "Oh, he wants to talk to you, alright. Got a hornet up his crippled ass, and I can't blame him. He called me after lunch. Asked what the holdup was on having that horse kilt. A man hires you, Laramie, you're supposed to keep in contact until the job's—"

  "I just told you I found something out." Jack was getting tired of Hobart's chewing. "Adair's life might be in dan
ger. That accident with Lubbock Red wasn't really an accident, and I've got the proof."

  Hobart nodded at Donna and Randy. "Who're these two, then? You taking in strays?"

  "It's a long story. I need to borrow your car again."

  Hobart folded his arms. "No goddamn way."

  "Can I get Adair's shotgun out of the trunk, at least? So I can give it back to him?"

  Muttering, Hobart returned to his room and came out with keys. He unlocked the trunk. Jack took the ten gauge, feeling a measure of comfort from the gun's weight.

  "Don't you fret," he told Hobart. "Soon as Adair knows what's really going on he'll give me the other half of the money. You'll get your ten percent."

  "Twenty," Hobart corrected.

  Jack left him scowling, to help Donna and Randy into his room. Donna had brought the Winchester wrapped in a blanket, along with an old leather valise. She set the gun down on the bed and signed to her son. He went into the bathroom.

  "Donna—" Jack began.

  She leaned up and put her mouth on his. It took him like a sucker punch, but more pleasant. He groped for the rest of her and she stepped back, leaving his lips warm and his heart pounding.

  "Just a taste, huh?"

  Her face had gone unreadable again. Kissing a poker-player.

  "Can't be too distracted for what comes next, I suppose. I'll have to take your Ford. Don't open the door for anyone until I get back."

  She touched the brim of his Stetson by way of goodbye.

  * * *

  The Ford's headlamps cast only dimness against falling night. He drove as fast as the subpar engine allowed. On the dirt road leading to Adair's ranch another car appeared and came roaring straight for him, twin beams like white eyes in the windshield. He swerved right. The other car passed within inches. "Goddamn teenagers." But the ranch gate was close now, and open. He took it as a sign of providence. There were no other cars on the crescent of dirt that served as the manor's driveway.

  He parked. Soft light spilled from the front windows. His watch read 7:15; not too late to pay a house call. As he slipped out of the car, shotgun in hand, he checked to make sure the barbed wire was secure in his shirt pocket. The little piece of metal would be key in explaining Adair's 'accident.'

  Brenda answered his knocks. She slouched in the doorway, drunk as the last time he saw her, wearing a sheer lavender gown with a housecoat pulled over top. Her lipstick was smeared. She smirked when she recognized him, not seeming to notice the shotgun.

  "Well it's you, isn't it? The fearless horse-killer."

  "I need to talk to your husband. Is he awake?"

  "Want the rest of your money, huh?"

  "Something more important than that."

  He stepped forward to see if she would block his way. She tottered a little, allowing him to nudge past. He leaned the gun against a trophy case. She didn't try to stop him from entering the adjoining parlor, but followed close. He could feel her uneven breath on his neck. A bar service had been wheeled up to two easy chairs, and there was an ashtray overflowing with butts, a cut-glass decanter and several empty tumblers. Some of the tumblers had lipstick smudging the rim, some didn't.

  She didn't offer him anything, though he could've used a jolt of alcohol or nicotine just then. The parlor connected to Adair's study. He strode in, ready to lay all cards down.

  The hospital bed was there, and Adair atop it. Sheets covered him up to his chin. His head was tilted back and his eyes were shut. For a second Jack thought he'd had gone to the Big Rodeo in the Sky, but his nostrils still twitched with breath. Beside him, his nurse slouched fast asleep. She'd leaned her head over an armrest and snored gently.

  Jack jostled her shoulder. "Sorry to disturb you," he said, "but I need to talk to Mr. Adair. Is it safe to wake him up?"

  She shook her head. "I gave him a sedative about an hour ago. He can't sleep otherwise."

  "Well, how long do you figure it'll be before—"

  Laughter, from the parlor. Brenda was pouring herself another drink.

  "I don't see what's so funny," Jack said. "What I've got to tell your husband could mean life or death."

  "Yeah, fatso said you'd be all fired up."

  "'Fatso'?"

  "Jones." She sipped. "The insurance fella. He called ten minutes ago. Wanted to warn Elroy you'd be coming out here, full of wild talk about his accident not being an accident."

  Jack's heart went into a dive. "Hobart called?"

  "Not ten minutes ago. Said you showed up at his motel with this deaf woman, and not to take you seriously—"

  "Wait. When he called here, were you alone? Besides your husband, I mean."

  She straightened, pulling the housecoat tighter around her shoulders. "Well, I might've had some company, as a matter of fact. Not that it's any—"

  "Was it Cecil?"

  She flinched at the name. "It might've been."

  "Did he overhear your conversation?"

  "He did, but he wasn't being nosy about it. Just concerned for my safety. He got on the phone and asked Jones where you were staying."

  The room was starting to sway. The smell of leather, of starch from Adair's bedsheets felt thick in his nostrils. He leaned against a bookcase to steady himself. "And 'Berto," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse, "was 'Berto here, too?"

  "Sleeping in the guest room. Elroy's let him stay here ever since he got kicked in the head."

  The car roaring past. That'd been Cecil and 'Berto. Instead of laying for him here, they must be …

  Donna.

  He bolted for the driveway.

  * * *

  The door to his motel room had been kicked open. Inside lay the leather valise, the blanket Donna had used to wrap her Winchester, and nothing else. The bed was still made. Donna and Randy hadn't been there long enough to try going to sleep. A single square of motor court stationary rested atop the pillow, written in the same sort-of-literate hand from Donna's warning letter. It read: PALO DURO CANYON. ALONE. ANY COPS AND SHE DIES.

  He fought the impulse to crumple the note. Luring him out to a remote location made killing him and hiding his body easy. But Cecil and 'Berto were leaving enough evidence to hang themselves, if the law ever got involved.

  A big if.

  He rushed to Hobart's room. The door lay open too, but hadn't been forced. Hobart slumped a short distance inside, surrounded by broken glass. Someone had taken a bottle to the side of his head. Jack shook him and got no response. He reached between the folds of his neck to feel for a pulse. There it was, and strong.

  "More'n you deserve," he said.

  He wrote a brief note, to the effect he was on the trail of two would-be killers, and please, please do not involve the police as it could be the death of their hostage. He left the note where Hobart could see it easily on waking.

  One thing was for damn sure: if he lived long enough to continue in this business, he'd never use a middle-man again.

  * * *

  Palo Duro Canyon lay to the south of town, in hill country. Jack had ditched the ailing Ford in favor of Hobart's newer sedan. The fat man wouldn't be needing it for a while, anyway. A series of road signs pointed him towards the canyon State Park. Alone in the sedan's dark cab, night rushing past the windows, he thought of the flight from England into treacherous German skies. Delta formations of B-17's, hurrying towards certain ambush. Fear had gripped him then, but it had worked for him, too, making his movements precise and mechanical. Purging his mind of all distractions.

  He prayed for that fear now.

  Images came to him: Donna's dark eyes, no longer composed. Randy, cringing at the threats of two violent men. If they'd stayed in their house, instead of listening to him …

  He pushed it aside. With luck and strong nerves, he might just get them back.

  A sign prompted him to turn left, off the main road. Hills rose into steep black shapes; stone cathedrals under the moonlight. North Texas wind batted the cab as he parked in a small pullout, dotted with scrub
. Headlamps showed a lone picnic table and a sign denoting several hiking trails leading away from the spot.

  "Didn't say anything about not bringing guns." He shut off the engine and checked the shells in his grandfather's Colt. Dum-dums, for what it was worth. Even a glancing hit from one of these beauties could knock a man down. He transferred the gun to his coat pocket, keeping it somewhat out of sight but accessible. The piece would take centuries to draw from a shoulder holster.

  He opened the door into whistling cold. The wind's touch pricked his senses alive, pointing out all the hard shadows and brush where a man might hide. The terrain ahead rose at a steep angle to form a bluff, carved from striated rock. In the daylight the bluff's face would show red and purple, but now the banded patterns were gray, to match his thoughts. He put his right hand in his pocket and curled it around the Colt's worn grips.

  The wind soughed, died. He caught a flicker some thirty feet to his left. A cigarette, flaring briefly in the gust. A man-shaped silhouette resolved around the pinpoint glow. It raised a hand to wave him over. Jack started forward, finger on the Colt's trigger. He slowed his breathing with conscious effort. No point in showing fear. Closer, and he could see something white against the figure's head. A bandage. The same one he'd glimpsed earlier, outside of Donna's house.

  "'Berto," he said.

  The man-shadow nodded, beckoned. Silver light gleamed off the big Bowie in his hand. He'd been using it to whittle at a branch. The knife had a piece of carved antler for a hilt. Pretty, under other circumstances.

  "So you're the staked goat, huh?" Jack said.

  "That an insult?" 'Berto's voice was mild, despite the question. "You calling me a cabron?"

  "Figure of speech."

  A trail wound behind 'Berto, leading up to a rocky hill. On either side the ground sloped up. Even someone without military training could spot it as the perfect place for an ambush.

  "Let me guess," Jack said. "I'm supposed to follow you."