Tainted Gold

by Lynn Michaels

  One large fir trunk completely blocked the path, and for a moment, as Tucker swung himself straddle-legged on top of it, Quillen thought he was going to faint. He didn’t, but his face turned a sick, chalky gray and sweat broke out on his forehead as he scanned the trail ahead. Trees too numerous to count had fallen or shattered, and limbs and branches littered the track. Bracing her hands on the trunk beside him, Quillen looked over its shaggy, broken limbs at the ruined path, the timberless gash in the forest, and the torn, ragged lip of ground about two hundred yards ahead.[

  “What a mess,” she breathed, shaking her head slowly. Tucker grunted, not in answer, but with effort as he slid off the fir and continued down the trail, his eyes still fixed on the ground. Silently, Quillen climbed over the fallen tree and followed him.

  About ten yards farther along, Tucker walked slowly around two time-smoothed lumps of granite and bent over, his face contorting with pain, then straightened and raised his right arm. He turned toward Quillen, and her heart shot up her throat when she saw the dynamite plunger in his hand; then it fell to the soles of her feet when he turned it end up and she read the name Cassil Construction etched into the bottom.

  “Remember what I said earlier about mayhem and Uncle Des?” he asked, his voice thick and breathless. “I take it all back. I’m beginning to believe he’s capable of anything—maybe even murder.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I can’t arrest anybody on a maybe anything,” Sheriff Blackburn told them, leaning back in his swivel chair as the minute hand on the face of the clock on his desk swept past three-forty-five and he frowned at Tucker, who’d been pacing his office since they’d come through the door an hour earlier. “The plunger you brought in belongs to Cassil Construction, all right, but it was stolen”—he lifted a police report from the doodle-covered blotter on his desk—“from the same job site where the hammer was stolen last week. That means anybody in this county could have set off that charge.”

  “That same anybody used that same hammer on my seismometer,” Tucker repeated for what Quillen was certain was at least the tenth time. “And Tom Fergus thinks that’s what was used to bust up Quillen’s furnace. What do I have to do? Draw you a picture?”

  “No, you don’t have to draw me a picture,” Sheriff Blackburn answered, his voice flat-edged with anger. “What you have to do is either sign a confession—since your fingerprints are the only ones on the hammer and the plunger—or get the hell out of my office and let me see what I can do about getting to the bottom of all this.”

  “Not yet. Not until you tell me honestly who you think you’re going to find on the bottom.”

  Against her shoulders, Quillen felt the light brush of Tucker’s knuckles as he leaned on the back of her chair. This was the closest he’d come to touching her since he’d thrown her over his shoulder and carried her out of the creek, or, more recently, since he’d leaned on her as they had left the hospital after Carl had securely taped his cracked ribs. Subtly, she hoped, she shifted her weight—but as her arm brushed his fingers, he lifted his hands from the back of the chair.

  Her heart sank. She’d blown it, all right. But good.

  “I can’t tell you that,” Sheriff Blackburn replied levelly, “because I have no idea who I’m gonna find there. When I do, though, you’ll be the second person I tell.” He lowered his gaze to Quillen and his mouth thinned sternly. “You’ll be the first, young lady, and between now and then, if anything else happens, don’t you so much as draw a deep breath before you call me. If you’d told me yesterday that Mayor Cassil threatened you, I might have been able to have a little chat with him and then maybe”—he glanced up sharply at Tucker—“just maybe this needn’t have happened.” His eyes settled on her face again and he smiled kindly. “I wouldn’t have laughed, Quillen, and I wouldn’t have thought you were crazy. I’ll do my best to keep an eye on you and your house, but you have to promise you’ll call me.”

  “I promise.” She smiled back at him wanly, and before Tucker could launch into another tirade, she rose to her feet, crossed the office, and opened the door.

  Halfway through it she stopped, her hand still on the knob and panic tightening her throat as she realized he wasn’t following her. She looked back and saw him still glaring at Sheriff Blackburn. Briskly she turned away and cut through the outer office, past the dispatcher at his radio and a deputy eating an apple as he tucked manila folders in open file drawers. She again noted the time on the wall clock, and thought morosely that she’d have plenty of time for a good long cry before dinner.

  “Wait a second, will you?”

  Glancing over her shoulder as she pushed open the heavy plate-glass front door, Quillen saw Tucker walking stiffly toward her. His left hand was pressed to his side and she stepped out onto the sidewalk and held the door for him; he muttered a curt thank-you as he sidled past her.

  Hurt festered into anger and she snapped, “You’re welcome.” She strode around the nose of the Blazer parked at the curb and got in behind the wheel. Guilt and concern replaced her ire, however, when he hauled himself, tight-lipped and white-faced, into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut.

  “I’d like to make another stop,” he said tightly. “Take a flying guess where.”

  “Carl said,” she reminded him firmly, “that you should go home and rest.”

  “Never mind, then, I can walk,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “It isn’t that far.”

  “Oh, all right, I’ll take you.” She sighed, turning the key in the ignition and starting the engine.

  When the Blazer pulled up in front of the blond brick building that housed Cassil Construction, Tucker sprang the handle and kicked his door open. He glanced at her over his shoulder and smiled thinly.

  “You may want to come along. I think you’ll enjoy this.”

  “Tucker, wait—” Quillen made a grab at his arm, missed, and left the motor running as she ditched the truck and ran after him.

  The pebbled glass door was already swinging shut behind him, and she hurriedly pulled it out of her way. She’d never been inside the building before but saw nothing of the decor, only Tucker’s broad shoulders in dusty, torn blue plaid advancing on a walnut-paneled door at the far side of a large, desk-dotted expanse. All the desks were empty except the low, modern one where Cassil’s secretary, Mildred Fleming, sat at her typewriter.

  The plump, gray-haired woman looked up, her mouth fell open, and she leaped to her feet. She froze there, and Quillen hot-footed it across a thick, moss green carpet, reaching Mildred’s desk as Tucker kicked the walnut door open and strode through it. Mildred was too stunned by Tucker’s appearance to move, and Quillen flew past her into Desmond Cassil’s private office.

  Cassil stood beside Jason behind a massive, carved desk, his hands spread to flatten a large, curled-edged sheet on the smooth, high-gloss surface. One eyebrow arched and his forehead wrinkled as he raised his head. His eyes widened.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed as his filthy, bedraggled nephew rounded the desk. “What hap—”

  A half-second or so before Tucker’s right fist connected with his uncle’s jaw, Quillen saw the punch coming, gasped, and slapped her hands over her mouth. Something popped sickeningly, she saw Cassil’s head snap back and Jason leap clear, then she cringed and squeezed her eyes shut as she heard a heavy thud. Almost instantly, her lids flew open and her fingers slid away from her face.

  Breathing heavily, his hand on his rib cage, Tucker stood spread-footed looking at the floor. Jason had disappeared, then she saw him rise behind the desk, a broad grin on his face.

  “Nicely done,” he said, and clapped twice. “He’s out cold.”

  “Can I have those?” Tucker asked, nodding at the sheet that was slowly curling back on itself on top of the desk.

  “With my blessing.” Jason snatched it up, finished rolling it into a tube, and handed it to him.

  “Thanks.” Tucker winced and half-closed his eyes as he turned around and
walked toward Quillen.

  Backing out of the doorway, she let him pass, then peeked around the jamb at Jason. He was still grinning and winked at her.

  “The old man’s okay, he’ll come to in a minute, but you better have a look at Jack Dempsey’s hand. Sounded to me like he broke something.”

  Probably a knuckle, Quillen thought, waving at Jason weakly as she wheeled around. She scurried past Mildred Fleming, who was still rooted to the spot but not looking quite as glassy-eyed. Though Quillen had wanted to punch Cassil at least a thousand times herself, her insides quivered and she felt sick.

  Tucker was already in the truck, leaning back against the headrest and sucking his right hand. Quillen scrambled inside her open door, shut it, and wrapped her shaky hands around the steering wheel as she glared at him.

  “You broke a bone, didn’t you?”

  It was an accusation, not a question. Making a face, he extended his arm and flexed his fingers.

  “No, honestly, I think I broke my whole goddamn hand.” He slid her a crooked, pleased-as-punch grin. “Would you mind swinging by the hospital again? I really think Carl ought to take a gander at this.”

  She looked at his hand and felt sicker. His knuckles were purple, his second and middle fingers swollen and already twice their normal size.

  “And you,” she seethed at him, shoving the gearshift into drive and stepping so hard on the gas pedal that the tires squealed as she pointed the Blazer away from the curb, “had the nerve to tell me I’ve got rocks in my head! You know, don’t you, that as soon as he comes to he’s going to call Sheriff Blackburn and have you arrested for assault and theft! What did Jason give you, anyway?”

  “A map of Middle Earth,” he answered, then sighed, wistfully. “God, I hope Uncle Des does call the sheriff. I can’t wait to see Blackburn’s face.”

  “Well, I don’t think,” she shrieked at him, “that you’ll have long to wait!”

  “Don’t shout at me!” Tucker thundered. “I’m not deaf!”

  “No, you’re just incredibly dumb, aren’t you? What was slugging him supposed to solve?”

  “Oh, Jesus, Quillen,” he breathed irritably, “just shut up.”

  “I will not!” she shrilled. “This is my truck and I’ll shout if I please! If you don’t like it—walk!”

  “Fine! Pull over!”

  “No—jump! Just wait till I hit forty miles an hour!”

  By the time they reached the hospital, they’d exchanged every insult ever uttered by twentieth-century man—and made up a few new ones. Perversely, Quillen left the Blazer at the far end of the parking lot, got out, slammed her door, and let Tucker fumble his awkward, left-handed way out of the truck. He managed, somehow, and they traded a half-dozen more epithets as they stalked through the cool mauve late afternoon to the emergency room entrance.

  The pretty blond attendant at the admitting desk looked up at them and cocked her head to one side.

  “You again?” she asked. “What is it this time?”

  “Ran into a door,” Tucker told her with a straight face as he showed her his hand.

  “Uh-huh,” she answered, one corner of her coral-tinted mouth curling doubtfully. “Right this way, three X-ray machines, no waiting.”

  Without a backward glance, Tucker followed the blond down the corridor. Quillen leaned against the admitting desk and watched him go. She had expended the burst of adrenaline that had fired her heated barrages at Tucker and was exhausted, emotionally as well as physically. She vacillated between waiting for Tucker and leaving. She considered flipping a coin, but couldn’t decide what to make heads and what to make tails.

  How about, her little voice suggested, since you really don’t want to leave him, heads you stay and tails you wait.

  “Very funny,” she muttered, sighing as she pushed herself off the counter and milled miserably around the lobby. “If I had scrap one of self-respect left, I’d walk out of here and let him find his own way home. Just because I lost my temper this morning—”

  No, that wouldn’t wash. She was too tired to lie, even to herself. She’d done a lot more than lose her temper; she’d hurt him, worse than he’d hurt his uncle, and Quillen almost wished she’d punched Tucker rather than accuse him of conspiring with Cassil. Yesterday she’d said she trusted him, she’d said she loved him, then today she’d done a one-eighty about-face.

  She hadn’t realized until it was too late—until after she’d shot off her big mouth this morning—that his glib, facile exterior, his tight-jawed frowns and stand-offish manner were armor designed to protect his incredibly sensitive, almost fragile self.

  She hadn’t just blown their relationship, she’d trampled it to death under hobnailed boots.

  Sighing again, Quillen stopped in front of the gold vinyl chair where Tucker had napped the previous afternoon. Had it really been only yesterday? What she wouldn’t give to roll the clock back twenty-four hours.

  She didn’t consciously make the decision to stay, but stay she did. Afraid that if she sat down she’d fall asleep, she wandered restlessly around the lobby and in and out the door. Each time she came back inside, the blond attendant folded her arms on her desk and stared at Quillen’s filthy clothes and dirty, straggling hair.

  But her appearance was the least of Quillen’s worries. Her almost certain loss of the man she loved came first, but close behind followed the qualm of terror she felt every time she thought about how close she and Tucker had come to dying. If the cliff had blown while they were still in the water—

  “Watch out for those doors now,” the blond said smoothly, and Quillen turned around.

  “Like a hawk.” Tucker eyed Quillen sourly, waggled his splinted third and fourth fingers, and strode past her out the door.

  Making a face at his back, she followed, but they didn’t speak until they were inside the Blazer and she’d started the engine. She broke the silence as she backed the truck out of its parking place.

  “I take it you didn’t break your hand.”

  “No, just the two fingers,” he answered, and sounded disappointed.

  That was all they said to each other as Quillen drove them home. After she parked the Blazer in the carport, he picked up the rolled sheet Jason had given him and trailed her silently to the back door. She unlocked it, left it open, and felt her heart climb up her throat and beat there, wildly, hopefully, as he followed her inside through the porch, the kitchen, and into her studio.

  “I’d put this in a safe place if I were you,” he said, walking to her drawing board and turning on the Luxo as he rummaged, left-handed, through the clutter on her supply table. “It’s not a map of Middle Earth, of course, it’s the theme park plans.” He found a mechanical pencil and a scrap of paper. He placed the paper on her board and tried, hopelessly, to grip the pencil in his splinted fingers. “You’ll have to do this,” he said, giving up and turning toward her.

  Quillen went to her board and took the pencil and wedge of tracing paper. He backed away from her as she wrote the name, the Denver address, and the phone number he dictated.

  “That’s my boss, Homer,” he explained. “Tell him I told you to call. Uncle Sam usually works his miracles in slow, ponderous ways, but Home’s a real zealot. He’ll be all over Uncle Des quicker than you can say jump my claim.”

  Wincing and pressing his hand to his cracked, taped ribs, Tucker turned away and walked toward the front door. Hope died, Quillen’s heart sank to the soles of her feet, but she followed him, pausing in the archway with her hand on the molding.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to stay,” she said hesitantly. “You took such good care of me yesterday, the least I can do is return the favor.”

  “I don’t need favors, Quillen.” He unlocked the door and faced her with his left hand on the knob. He wasn’t smiling or frowning or glaring. He was nothing, just completely nonplussed. “And no, thank you; I don’t want to stay.”

  This is no time to be proud, her little voice told her with
a sharp, swift kick in her ego to counter the shattering blow Tucker had just landed. Beg, you ninny, grovel—

  “Please don’t go,” she pleaded softly. “I’m so sorry—”

  “You are now,” he cut her off bluntly, “since I gave you black and white proof—the only thing you understand—that I’m not one of Uncle Des’s henchmen.”

  “Is that why you punched him?”

  “No, that’s why I went to Sheriff Blackburn. If he’d had the slightest notion or the flimsiest shred of evidence to connect me to the burglary or the blast this afternoon I’d be cooling my heels in the Cassil Springs Jail. You will please note that I am not.” He opened the door and stopped again on the threshold. “Thanks for the lift. If you decide you want me to move, just tear up the lease and leave the pieces outside my door. I’ll get the message.”

  “Oh, Tucker, please,” she moaned, tears bleeding into her voice as she hurried after him. “I do love you.”

  He’d half-closed the door between them but opened it and looked at her, steadily and without malice.

  “All my life I’ve wanted to use this line, but the perfect situation never presented itself until now. I am, however, going to paraphrase slightly, so forgive me, Rhett.” He paused, and then said it slowly. “Frankly, my love, I don’t give a damn.”

  He shut the door quietly. Faintly, through the thick, ivory-painted wood, Quillen heard his footfalls on the stairs. Demolished emotionally as well as physically, she stumbled backward, bumped into the arm of the love seat, and fell onto the thick, tapestried cushions. Too stunned to think, too numb to cry, she just sat there staring at the stained-glass window.

  “But on the other hand—”

  The door clicked open and Quillen jumped at the sound and Tucker’s voice. She whirled sideways, gripped the arm of the love seat, and gaped at him as he came through the door, shut it, and leaned against it.