Clea's Moon

by Edward Wright

  “For what?”

  “You know. For everything. For taking us in. I don’t know what I would have done with Clea—”

  “Don’t mention it. You’re good folks too, both of you. Stay as long as you like.”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow,” he said. “It’s time.”

  “Well, I’ll be sorry to—” She stopped, leaned forward in her seat. “Who’s that?”

  He had turned off the road onto Maggie’s driveway, and the buildings lay about a hundred yards ahead. As the car drew nearer, they saw Miguel and Tomas leaning over a third figure seated on the ground, propped against the outer wall of the cottage. It was Mad Crow.

  Horn hit the brakes in front of the little group, jumped out, and ran over. Mad Crow sat with shoulders slumped, head down. Flecks of blood darkened the shoulder of his embroidered shirt, and Horn saw a glistening patch of dark red above his right ear.

  “Find Clea!” he yelled at Maggie. He knelt down in front of Mad Crow as his friend muttered something. “What?”

  “She’s gone,” the Indian said.

  Horn felt a wave of dizziness, almost nausea. He reached out, gripped both of Mad Crow’s shoulders hard. “Was it—”

  “No,” Mad Crow said, looking up for the first time, his face streaked with pain and shame. “It was her father. Fairbrass.”

  Maggie brought a pan of water and a towel and began dabbing at the bloody spot. Mad Crow winced, cursing. “God, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “What happened?” Horn asked.

  “We were in the stables for a while, and then we had something to eat.” His words were slurred, as if he were drunk. “Afterward, I lay down on the couch, figured I’d close my eyes for just a minute. When I woke up, this guy was sitting there with a gun on his knee, not pointing it, just holding it.”

  “Fairbrass?”

  “No. Some guy.”

  “Did he have a bandage on his face?”

  “He had a scar there, where some stitches had been.”

  “Sykes.” Horn was working hard to keep the anger out of his voice—anger at his old friend for letting this happen.

  “Then Fairbrass came out of the bedroom with his arm around Clea. He told me who he was, said he was taking her someplace safe. They walked out to the car. He told her she should thank Addie for telling him where she was.”

  “Damn. That little. . . .” Horn tried to collect himself. “What did Clea do? Did she fight him?”

  “No,” Mad Crow said wonderingly. “She looked a little dazed, but she went with him. He was talking to her all the time, telling her she was going to be okay and everything. The guy sounded like he really cared for her.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that,” Horn said. “How did you get hurt?”

  “Well, we were out by the car. I asked Clea if she wanted to go with him. She looked at me for a long time and finally nodded her head. But just then she remembered the present I got for her and said she wanted it. She tried to go back inside, but Fairbrass had ahold of her tight, and she started to cry, and I went for him. Wasn’t going to do anything serious, just get him to turn loose of her so she could go get her present. But the other guy stepped up behind me and laid his handgun upside my head. Next thing I remember, I was sitting by the wall with the two boys shaking me.”

  He braced himself against the wall and tried to get on his feet, but immediately fell back down to one knee. “Damn. I’m seeing everything double.” He resumed a sitting position, head drooping between his knees. “I’m sorry, John Ray. I let you down.”

  Horn patted his shoulder but could think of no words of comfort. You sure did, old buddy, he said silently.

  Maggie took him aside. “He took a good crack on the head, may have a concussion,” she said quietly. “We need to get him to a doctor.” She hesitated. “The nearest hospital is miles away, but I know a vet close by. He’s better with animals, but he does people just fine.”

  “All right, point me to him,” he said. “I’ll drive him there in his car, and you can have one of the boys follow me in mine. I won’t be coming back here.” He looked around almost wildly, as if for guidance.

  “What are you going to do?” She moved around into his line of vision and took hold of the front of his shirt. “You opened up your old trunk last night and got some things, didn’t you? Talk to me.”

  “What am I going to do? You tell me.” The anger spilled out, and it choked his voice. “I could try kidnapping Clea from her father—if I could find them—but somehow I don’t think that would work. All I know is, somebody wants to kill her, and she was probably safer here than anywhere else. Her father means well, but he doesn’t have any idea about how much danger she’s in or how to protect her. I can try to find him and talk some sense into him, but I’ve been lying to him for days, and he’s got no reason to trust me.”

  His shoulders sagged. “Sierra Lane would know what to do. I don’t.”

  Aided by Miguel and Tomas, he maneuvered Mad Crow into the front seat of the Caddy, then started the engine. Maggie gave Mad Crow an awkward hug, then looked searchingly at Horn. “You just be careful,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I brought you all this, Maggie.”

  * * *

  He rang the doorbell, but its tones sounded too decorous for his purposes, so he banged on the door with his fist.

  “Who is it?” He could hear the alarm in her voice.

  “It’s me, Iris. Let me in.”

  “John Ray? What—”

  “I need to talk to your husband.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. What’s the matter?”

  He felt like a fool, standing there talking to her through the door. “Goddammit, Iris, let me in.”

  “Stop it. You’re frightening me.”

  He leaned against the door, head down, trying to think straight. He needed to convey the danger that Clea was facing, but do so without sending Iris into hysteria or causing her to call the police on him. He forced himself to sound calm.

  “Listen. I won’t do anything, I promise. Just want to talk to you for a minute. All right?”

  The door opened, and he stepped inside. She looked distraught. Her hair needed brushing, and she gave off the scent of nerves, like stale clothing.

  “Paul came after Clea,” he said quickly. “She was staying with me at a place out in the Valley.”

  “I know,” she said. “He told me just before he left.”

  “I lied to you when I said I hadn’t found her. But I was only trying to protect her. Look, there’s no soft way to say this. Somebody wants to hurt her. The same person who killed Scotty. I don’t think your husband realizes—”

  “He does,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “He knows someone’s looking for her, that she’s in danger. He told me he’s known for some time, was sick knowing about it, but kept it from me because he didn’t want me to worry. As soon as he found out where she was, he decided to take her someplace safe.”

  “Where?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. Said it was better if I didn’t know. He plans to call as soon as they’re settled in.”

  “I don’t like this,” he muttered, looking around the room, too nervous to sit down. “Why doesn’t he just go to the police? I had reasons for keeping them out of it. But he’s a solid citizen, they’ll believe whatever he tells them. Why is he trying to handle this on his own?” He turned to her. “If he calls you, call me. I’ll be at my place. Even if he says it’s not a good idea, call me. I need to talk to him.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t promise, John Ray,” she said. “I trust his judgment.”

  “Do you? His man Sykes hit Joseph with a gun, cracked his head open. How
’s that for judgment?”

  “I’m sorry. Truly I am. I hope Joseph’s all right. But I know Paul loves Clea, and he’ll protect her. And when all this is over, we’ll all be a family again.”

  His gaze fell on the framed portrait of Clea, the one that made her look almost glamorous. That’s not her any more, he thought. Right now, she’s just a scared kid again.

  “Let’s pray it turns out that way, Iris.”

  As he paused in the doorway, she regarded him almost fondly. “You look terrible,” she said.

  “Well, you’re a knockout, as always.”

  She brushed the hair out of her face. “Sure I am. I used to think I could handle anything. Now, I imagine her getting hurt, and it makes me sick.”

  “Oh, I think you’re going to get through this,” he said. “I was telling Joseph the other day that marriage number three is going to be the charm for you. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for us, but I do want you and Clea to be happy. So maybe it was a good thing you met Paul. If I remember right, Scotty told me he introduced the two of you at that party. If that’s the way it happened, then my old buddy had good instincts.”

  “Well, it didn’t happen exactly that way,” she said. “It was a party, and I think Scotty was there. But it was his father who introduced me to Paul.” A tiny smile, barely there. “Isn’t that funny? Arthur Bullard is responsible for some awful things in my life, but I guess I should be grateful to him for that one thing.”

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when he reached his place in the canyon. The first thing he checked was the mailbox, but all he found was a note from Harry Flye exhorting him to spend some time repairing the crumbling rock and concrete wall that ran across the front of the property. He cursed his landlord loudly enough to hear a small echo from the far side of the canyon.

  Rummaging through his larder, he rustled together enough food for a passable supper, which he ate out on the porch. One thought occurred to him. He dug up the number of Fairbrass’ office at the Long Beach plant and placed the call through the long-distance operator. Finding him there would be almost too easy, he reflected, and although it was after business hours, it was worth a try. He listened to the phone ring several times before he replaced the receiver.

  He felt useless, helpless. He had found Clea and lost her, just at the moment when he had become aware of the peril she faced. He had run down Scotty’s killers, only to acknowledge that he was powerless to impose justice on them. The Colt sat on a table by the couch, mocking him. It was thought of as a hero’s gun, but it had spent its life firing blanks. Except, he reminded himself, to end the life of a good animal that deserved better.

  Self-pity demanded a few drinks, so he pulled out a glass and a bottle of Evan Williams and began working on it. When the level was down three inches, it was dark outside, so he turned out the light, lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. A small thought, tiny as a worm, began gnawing around the edge of his consciousness. But before he could identify the thought, he slipped into sleep. . . .

  He awoke to a scream. He knew it was her, and he gathered the breath to shout out her name before he realized it was the shrill ring of the phone. His hand unsteady with tension and alcohol, he picked it up.

  “Is this Horn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dewey Sykes. We met out at your place.”

  “I know who you are,” Horn said, sitting up on the couch. He looked at his watch; it was past two-thirty. “You cold-cocked my friend from behind. He owes you, and so do I.”

  “If you say so,” said Sykes, sounding unconcerned. “But we’ve got more important things to talk about.”

  “Where’s Clea?”

  “She’s here with her father.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Listen, just let me talk. We’ve had some trouble. We went down to Mr. Fairbrass’ plant in Long Beach, thought we’d go in one of the side gates and hide her there. But somebody either was waiting or followed us. They fired some shots. We took off, and I think we lost them.”

  Horn shook his head to try to clear out the bourbon. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. Shaken up, but fine. The shots took out two of our side windows in the back. Lot of glass and noise, but nobody—”

  “Why are you talking to me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why isn’t Fairbrass on the phone?”

  “He’s, uh. . . .” Sykes lowered his voice. “He’s shaken up bad. Nobody’s ever taken a shot at him before, and he’s not handling it very well. I thought I’d better step in. This is the kind of thing I get paid for anyway. Listen, before all this happened, Clea told us the Indian mentioned that you might take her out of town. Is that right?”

  “He has a friend in San Bernardino.”

  “Sounds good to me. I don’t like the situation here, so San Berdoo would work just fine.”

  “Do you know who you’re up against, Sykes?”

  “Mr. Fairbrass told me someone wants to hurt the girl. That’s all I need to know.”

  “It’s Vincent Bonsigniore. The name mean anything to you?”

  Sykes muttered a curse, then said quietly, “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know if your boss knows that or not, but you need to know it. You’re the one out in front.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  “I’ve got to get hold of Mad Crow,” Horn said. “When I do, I’ll meet you—”

  “No, we’re coming over to your place,” Sykes said.

  “Absolutely not. This canyon’s a dead end. If they’re following you—”

  “They’re not. Anyway, we’re already there. I’m calling from the pay phone outside the garage, about ten minutes from you.”

  Damn. “Get here as fast as you can,” Horn said and hung up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Indian?”

  “Oh, Jesus, I just got to sleep. My head feels like—”

  “I’m sorry. Listen, I’ve got a problem. Clea’s coming here.”

  “What? Where are you?” Horn heard Mad Crow knock over something as he sat up. “Damn. What time is it?”

  “It’s a little before three. I’m home. Sykes just called. Somebody took a shot at their car, and they’re headed this way. They want to get her someplace safe, like we planned, and it looks like San Bernardino is on again.”

  “Fools,” Mad Crow said, his voice still full of sleep. “Is she all right?”

  “I think so. I need one last favor from you. I’d rather not ask it, but I don’t know how many of Bonsigniore’s men are out there looking for her.”

  “You want some protection,” Mad Crow said with resignation. “Somebody to ride shotgun.”

  “Something like that. Are you in shape for it?”

  “I reckon I’ll do it for the little lady,” the Indian sighed in a poor imitation of Sierra Lane’s drawl. “Tell this guy Sykes I’m going to clean his clock for him when all this is over.” He paused. “I’m almost an hour away from you. Can you wait?”

  “We have to. Just hurry.” He saw headlights out the front window. “They’re here. I’ve got to go.”

  He went down and unlocked the gate. The Packard pulled up with Sykes at the wheel and his two passengers in the rear. Both side windows in the back had been shattered, leaving only a few jagged icicles of glass. Horn waved Sykes through and told him to pull around behind the cabin so the car wouldn’t be visible from the road. Soon, all three had joined him on the porch.

  Clea had her arm around Paul Fairbrass’ waist as they came wordlessly up the steps. He looked stricken and out of breath. Horn took them inside and had them sit on his couch, the only comfortable seat. He motioned Sykes back out to the porch.

  “Tell me exactly what happened.”
r />   “Pretty much like I said,” Sykes began, the light from inside illuminating the fresh scar and the pinprick marks left by the stitches on his left cheek. “I think they were waiting for us at the plant, although I can’t imagine how or why.”

  “I think I can,” Horn said. “Addie Webb. She told your boss where to find Clea, and I’m guessing she also told Bonsigniore that Clea was with the two of you.”

  Sykes narrowed his eyes. “She’s a kid. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “She’s a young woman, she’s been cozy with Bonsigniore, and she’s a little cracked,” Horn shot back. “She thinks I killed her boyfriend—the same one who cut you, by the way—so she got back at me by having Clea taken away. She’s jealous of Clea for stealing that boyfriend, and now she’s trying to get revenge on her. The way Addie sees things, they don’t have to make

  sense.”

  “Well,” Sykes said, “she could have made things a lot simpler—”

  “I know. By calling Bonsigniore in right away. All I can guess is that she didn’t want his boys tearing around the O Bar D, maybe hurting Maggie or her ranch hands.”

  “Or maybe you?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. Look, she’s put her friend Clea in the worst kind of danger, and she scares the hell out of me,” said Horn. “What happened at the plant?”

  “Somebody fired three shots at us just as we were going into a side entrance,” Sykes continued. “You saw how close they came. I got a glimpse of a car with two or three men. I stepped on it, got us inside, and the guard closed the gate. Then we left by another gate—it’s a big plant—and headed this way. I was careful coming here, and I don’t think anybody followed us.”

  “What happened to Fairbrass?”

  “Don’t know, but it’s pretty clear he’s never had anybody fire a gun in his direction before,” Sykes said wryly. “On the road, he had trouble breathing. It might have been his heart. He seems better now, but he’s still shaky. Anyway, we came here. He wasn’t crazy about the idea, but I get paid to take care of him, and it seemed to me I’d better make some decisions. So here we are.”

  “How’s Clea doing?”