Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5)

by Linell Jeppsen

  Plucking it away, Matthew nodded to Will, who said, “You men are under arrest for suspicion of murder! Stand up now, and put your hands behind your back!” The men struggled and swore a bit but, all in all, it was a smooth arrest.

  Pulling the men to their feet, and clapping handcuffs on all three, Matthew and the deputies marched their prisoners outside. After Matthew opened the door and peered up and down the narrow alleyway, he told the deputies to don their stars. Then, he gestured for them to follow with the prisoners. The small procession moved slowly toward the street in the dusk of early evening.

  Matthew was beginning to feel a great gust of relief. They had finally managed to stop these bandits! Not only that, but he and Chance had more clues to go on. It was possible, now that the immediate threat was neutralized, that he and his son could head into Seattle and put a stop to the Trinity and their minions for good!

  The deputies were in a fine mood, as well. This was their first collar, and they hoped that Sheriff Lobey would put in a good word on their files. Both of them were grinning as they kept their prisoners at gunpoint.

  People on the street stopped to stare, and a few onlookers whistled tauntingly. “Go back to your own business, folks,” Matthew said. “This is a police matter…” He was smiling as he called out, both with the neatness of the whole take down and, to keep the crowds gathering around them calm.

  Suddenly, a sharp crack filled the air. The sound seemed to bounce off the bottoms of the thick clouds overhead and echo throughout the maze of industrial buildings.

  Looking up in alarm, the deputies ducked and searched the rooftops for the shooter but, seeing nothing, looked back down at where Matthew lay bleeding on the street.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Moving On

  Will and Tory gaped at Matthew for a moment and then, while Tory held the prisoners at gunpoint, Will ran to where the private investigator lay unconscious in a pool of his own blood. Kneeling, Will stared down at Matthew’s pale face and placed his fingers on the man’s neck to see if there was still a pulse.

  Matthew’s hat lay a few feet away in a mud puddle, a wisp of smoke still rising from the bullet that had passed through it. Will concentrated and thought he could feel blood coursing through Matthew’s veins, even though he had been knocked unconscious. Blood ran down his face in a slow but steady stream. Touching Matthew’s scalp, Will could see that the bullet had deflected along the hat’s crown and scraped a long but mostly shallow graze on the man’s hairline.

  Sighing with relief, Will saw Matthew open his eyes and squint up at him. “Owww,” he mumbled.

  Turning around, Will hollered, “Someone go and fetch an ambulance!”

  “Alright!” someone hollered back. Will felt his hands start to shake in a delayed reaction to the attack. Looking up at Tory, he asked, “Did you see who did the shooting?”

  Tory shook his head, “No. He must have shot at Mr. Wilcox and skedaddled.”

  “Well, we need to get a few more deputies down here to take these prisoners in!” Will replied.

  The three men in custody were clearly excited, and one of them sneered, “Better hurry up, before our pard finishes all of you off!”

  One of the spectators, an enormous blonde-haired man, suddenly ran up from behind, and clobbered the prisoner over the head with two fists. Delray sank to his knees with a groan. “You better show these lawmen some respect… Pard!”

  Tory and Will stared at the huge man and Will muttered, “Thanks! We could use a few more like you at the sheriff’s department!”

  “Nah,” the man muttered. “I’m doing okay here. I just don’t like crooks.”

  Tory agreed, “Me neither!”

  Turning back to Matthew, Will asked, “How do you feel, Mr. Wilcox? Good enough to let us move you under cover so that shooter ain’t tempted to give it another try?”

  Matthew sat up, slowly, and fresh blood oozed out of the long scrape on his head. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Staring askance at his smoking hat, he added, “Damn…I really liked that hat.”

  Will smiled. “You should give it a little kiss, sir. I think it just saved your life!”

  Matthew grinned back and said, “Give me a hand up.”

  Just as Will started to pull Matthew to his feet, the sound of whistles filled the air. The police had already arrived and along with them, an ambulance. Matthew watched as Tommy approached first, a shame-faced yet proud expression written clearly on his freckled face.

  “I saw you get shot, Mr. Wilcox. I was the one what ran and got the cops.” Tommy took his hat off his head and stared at his own boots, knowing that his disobedience might cost him and his best friend in the whole world their newfound jobs.

  Matthew stared down at the boy for a moment. Tommy knew he had gone against orders but, right now, Matthew was glad. From the way blood kept leaking from the wound on his scalp, he figured he might need to be stitched up…plus he really wanted to take a powder. He was lucky, and grateful to be alive, but the wound hurt like hell.

  “We’ll talk about it later, Tommy. But, right now, I just want to say thanks…” Matthew stuck his hand out. Tommy stared up at him for a second and then he grinned and gave his boss’s hand a shake.

  Then ambulance attendants and deputies swarmed into the area. Within minutes, the three prisoners were tucked into a paddy-wagon and Matthew was on his way to the hospital.

  A couple of hours later, Matthew was lying in a hospital bed, taking notes. The doctor had put six stitches in his head and given him a shot of morphine, instead of an aspirin powder. For the moment, Matthew was content to let the more powerful drug ease the pain of his injury.

  The bullet had not penetrated his skull, but its passage was deep. Also, he was slightly concussed. The doctor felt it was a minor concussion, but he had insisted on keeping Matthew overnight for observation.

  Sighing, Matthew cursed himself in annoyance. There were three names he was supposed to remember; names that had great significance but, so far, he could only come up with two; Seattle, Farnsworth and, and…“Bah!” he snarled and threw his pencil across the room.

  A white curtain that separated him from the other patients twitched and a nurse stood over his bed. “Are you all right, Mr. Wilcox?”

  Matthew looked up and said, “Yes, I’m fine…sorry. I threw my pencil—could you fetch it for me please?”

  The nurse smiled and searched for the wayward implement. Finding it, she returned it to him and said, “I was just about to say that you have a couple of visitors. Do you feel well enough for company?”

  “Sure, send them in, and thanks for finding my pencil.” Matthew laid his head back on the pillow and tried not to cringe at the pain. While he waited, he whispered out loud, “Seattle, Farnsworth…Seattle, Farnsworth…”

  “And Branson,” Clyde said.

  Matthew’s eyes flew open in excitement. Clyde Thurston and his beautiful daughter Annie stood by his bed, grinning down at him.

  “That’s it!” Matthew cried. “Hurry, write it down, will you?”

  Clyde took Matthew’s notebook and jotted down the name, while Annie sank down on the side of the bed, taking Matthew’s hand in hers. “Oh my God!” she said. “I was so frightened when I heard what happened!”

  Matthew smiled and said, “I’m going to be fine, Annie, it’s just a scratch.” Turning to Clyde, he said, “How did you know about the other name…Branson?”

  Clyde took a chair by the foot of the bed. “Your young deputy, Will, heard the names spoken out loud back in the warehouse. He told me everything he knew about the incident. Plus, the head gun of that bad bunch you took down is singing like a canary!” The old man grinned.

  “There hasn’t been a formal inquiry, yet, but he gave up all the names he knew! Luckily, because of what those scoundrels did to me and Annie—not to mention sweet little Chloe, Sheriff Lobey let me listen in on the first round of questions. The formal interrogation is being held off until you are able to attend.”

/>   Matthew grinned. “Tell me what you heard.”

  “Well, Delray…didn’t catch the man’s surname, said he works for an outfit out of the Seattle area. He knows the head honchos’ names, but says he’s only ever seen and spoken to a man by the name of Edward Branson…one of three men who call themselves the “Trinity.”

  Pausing for a moment, Clyde stared off into space and sighed. “I was born into wealth, Mr. Wilcox. The kind of wealth that can turn a person’s head, if you know what I mean. But my parents, God rest their souls, were free spirits. My father was an explorer and he worked most of his life for one university or another, seeking out and cataloging the world’s greatest antiquities.” The old man seemed lost in the past for a moment, while he remembered his youth.

  Resuming his narrative, Clyde said, “For years, my mother and I followed around him around the globe. We were happy too, until I met Annie’s mother. That’s when I settled down and opened my newspaper.” He reached out and took his daughter’s hand, patting it gently.

  Sighing, he continued. “Growing up, I understood that neither my father nor my mother cared for the trappings or the inherent arrogance of high society, and they taught me to feel the same way.”

  He shook his balding head and went on. “The fact that these men call themselves the Trinity tells me we are dealing with enormous wealth. Men like these are class-conscious snobs who think they can do whatever they like, to anybody they wish. They also feel they are above reprisal…God-like.”

  Staring into Matthew’s eyes, Clyde added, “I would bet a thousand dollars that these men were—and perhaps still are, sorority members. I would also bet they are affiliated with the Freemasons. That would explain much of their carte blanche, and the ease with which they’ve seized so many legal contracts around that mine in North Idaho.”

  Matthew felt sick. Claim-jumpers were one thing—crooks like those, he could deal with. But high society fat cats with delusions of grandeur, power hungry moguls with enough money to implement their schemes; they were another thing, entirely. Feeling his head throb with pain, he gulped against the nausea rising up in his gullet.

  Clyde was studying the expression on Matthew’s face. He stared back and forth between his daughter and the man she had fallen in love with and made up his mind.

  “I have made a decision, Matthew.” he murmured.

  Looking up at the old man, Matthew said, “What is it?”

  “I think that Annie and I should go to my mansion in Seattle. I did what comes naturally to me—I exposed these crooks and their schemes to the light of public opinion. But now, I feel like we’re fish in a barrel.” He sighed. “Maybe, if you and your son can round up the rest of these crooks, here and in North Idaho, Annie and I can do a little research on the men who are pulling the strings in the Seattle area.”

  He studied Matthew’s expression and said, “Just as soon as you’ve made progress, and feel like it’s safe to do so, call me and we’ll come back home.”

  Matthew felt relieved. If Clyde and Annie were out of harm’s way, he could move on into Idaho and help Chance round up the claim-jumpers who were threatening the landowners around the mine. Then, if all went well, they would hunt down the puppet-masters behind this foul enterprise.

  Smiling, Matthew said, “Just be careful, Clyde. It sounds like this…Trinity has some pretty solid resources. If you are going to snoop into their affairs, be sure you don’t get caught, okay?”

  Clyde’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry, Matthew. That’s one of the good things about having a lot of money on hand…I have some pretty solid resources too!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Scooter and the Trinity

  Scott Little, better known as Scooter, boarded the east bound train from Spokane to Seattle two and a half hours after he shot and, unfortunately, missed killing one of the lawmen who had rousted his buddies from the warehouse.

  He had hoped to shoot the man’s head clean off, so his companions might escape, but after crouching behind the warehouse’s chimney for almost fifteen minutes, he saw that the man was merely wounded. He also noticed that the crowds teeming below him on the streets were restive and looked to be in the mood for a little citizen’s justice.

  Choosing to fight another day, rather than be strung up by a vigilante mob, Scooter ran off and hid behind the stables by the train station as his co-workers were pitched into the paddy wagon. He went into the ticket office briefly and purchased a one-way ticket, looking over his shoulder the whole time, but once the train arrived, he walked on without a hitch.

  Staring morosely out the train window, he squirmed uneasily. The last thing he wanted to do was face his boss, Mr. Branson. That job was usually reserved for his immediate supervisor. But now that Delray and the rest of the crew were cuffed up in jail, the news of their failure fell to him. Sighing, he thought, how many times has Delray told us how men who fail the Trinity usually suffer a fate worse than death?

  Shaking his head and brimming with anxiety, Scooter closed his eyes and tried to sleep away the miles separating him from his fate.

  Branson was in a foul mood. His gout was acting up again and now, to make matters worse, Farnsworth had just dropped an unpleasant bomb in his blanket-covered lap.

  “What do you mean they’re in jail? All of them?” he roared.

  Timothy studied the beautiful, floral patterns on the carpet beneath his feet. He was growing mighty sick of his old friend’s attitude. Edward seemed to think that, like kings of old, he could snap an imperious finger and whatever he desired could—and would—happen…instantly. Well, maybe that worked at one time, long ago.

  Things were different now, though. Telephones and telegraph machines, fast moving trains, automobiles and…people! Thousands of people cluttering things up—wagging their tongues, calling the sheriffs, taking things into their own hands!

  But, no matter how many times Timothy tried to set things straight for the old man, Branson just couldn’t get his head around the idea that he could no longer move his players around the board with impunity. Feeling the warmth of the overheated room, Farnsworth cleared his throat and loosened his silk necktie.

  “Well, speak up!” Branson snapped, sensing fear in his friend’s demeanor rather than the annoyed frustration Timothy actually felt.

  “Edward, like I told you before, it seems there are other forces at work here. According to Mr. Little, an older man seems to be sniffing our back trail. Scooter doesn’t know this man’s name, but he thinks he has been actively protecting the Thurstons. He also seems to have the sheriff’s department at his disposal. It’s really too bad that Delray saw fit to kill those two deputies when he fired the Thurston’s house.”

  The room was thick with an uncomfortable silence. All three men knew that it was Branson’s team who had made the most mistakes in this endeavor. First, they had made a public spectacle out of silencing the Brazil woman. Then, to make matters worse, a whole city block was involved in the house fire that was set to silence the Thurston’s. And now this…

  Stephen Castle spoke, “I’ll send my team in, Edward. Five men into Idaho to finish what we started there and another five to deal with Delray, Lester and…what was his name?” he asked.

  Branson glared. “I’ll take care of my own men, thank you very much!”

  Stephen smiled and held his hands in the air with an innocent expression. “It’s just that we know you have a soft spot for your own employees, Edward…understandably. I was just trying to help.” The easy grin left his face as he added, “You DO see the necessity of silencing any witnesses, right?”

  Branson frowned at the sullen flames in the fireplace. Finally, he grunted, “Of course I do… it’s probably too little, too late, but the sooner we can shut those three up, the better it will be for all of us. Do we have men in place who can be counted on to do the job?”

  Timothy grinned. “Yes, I have two men on the payroll who work at the sheriff’s office in Spokane. All it would take is one or two
phone calls and any singing canaries will cease to be a problem.”

  Branson grunted, “I hope that your men can do it without making a scene?”

  Farnsworth smirked. “Oh, certainly. My men work in the kitchen, you see, which reminds me—Edward, the other man’s name, if you please?”

  Branson answered, “Its Delray Stinson, Lester Knowles and Paul Delany. They should all be in one cell, for now, anyway.”

  Spying the telephone across the room, Farnsworth asked, “Shall I?”

  Branson said, “Yes! Use that telephone there, quickly!”

  Timothy got up and made a couple of phone calls. After a few minutes, he sat back down with a wide smile on his face. “You were right, Edward. All three men are in one cell. My man can’t be sure, but it sounds like they haven’t been formally interrogated yet. Seems that the sheriff is waiting for Mr. Wilcox to be released from the hospital.

  “Wilcox? Who is that, again?” Stephen sat up in alarm.

  “That is the man who has been hounding our trial, I guess.” Farnsworth replied. “He was shot—in the hat, mind you—by Edward’s man, Scooter. Got his gourd rattled a bit, but he’s due to be released from the hospital in the morning.”

  “Well, let’s take care of the man!” Branson shouted. “I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is, but we don’t need him sniffing around either!”

  Stephen frowned. “Don’t you think we ought to wait a little while and gather some intelligence on him before we knock him off? Honestly, if we’re not careful, and a bunch of dead bodies start piling up, the Spokane County sheriffs will call in the Washington State marshals and maybe even the Pinkertons! Do we really want that?”

  It was Farnsworth’s turn to frown. “Edward, I agree with Stephen. Why don’t you let us do a little checking first? If I know my men…and I do, our three possible songbirds will be dead, soon after dinner is served.”