A single muffled shot, and Fairbrass fell back, his face bloody. Another scream from within. Now the man in the doorway began to descend the steps, playing the beam of light around until it fell on what he sought. He moved in that direction.
Stumbling and almost falling on loose rock, Horn reached the threshold and flung himself down the steps and onto the dark figure. The man began to turn, but Horn caught him on the side, driving him full-force into a row of shelves. The two of them spun off the shelf, broke apart, and landed heavily on the stone floor. Horn heard a clattering sound as something fell.
He leaped up. The only light came from the flashlight, which lay on the floor and cast its beam uselessly against the base of a wall. The other man was a shadow in the corner. Did he have his gun? Horn waited for the blast, the impact of the bullet.
“That you, cowboy?” the other man asked softly, the New York accent even more pronounced. “I told you not to get in the way.” He reached out onto a nearby shelf, his hand fumbling there for a second, then he came forward. He’s lost his gun, Horn thought.
“You first, then her,” Falco said evenly. “It’s all the same to—”
Horn crouched and drove into him, plowing his shoulder into the man’s chest and driving him back against the wall, forcing the breath out of him. Seeing an advantage, Horn cocked his fist, aiming it at his opponent’s head. But he saw Falco’s right hand come around in a looping curve, something glinting in the dim light, and Horn’s neck exploded in fiery pain. He cried out.
“Like it?” Falco muttered, pressing the broken bottle deeper, grinding it into flesh and muscle. The pain was worse than anything Horn could remember—worse than the bullet in his shoulder. He felt Falco wrench the bottle out of the wound and saw the bottle now poised in front, ready for the throat. Horn bellowed in desperation, grabbed the other man’s wrist with his left hand and gripped Falco’s throat with his right. The other man made a fist with his free hand and drove it into Horn’s ribs, then again.
The two wrestled upright for a moment, and then Falco hooked a leg behind Horn’s knee and forced him backward to the floor. They rolled there, gasping, Horn’s hands locked on wrist and throat, Falco pummeling him on the face now.
“Clea,” Horn managed to gasp. “Run.” He heard movement toward the stairs.
Falco kneed him in the groin, and Horn felt a shock of nausea. A memory of an old bar fight in San Antonio surfaced, and he sank his teeth into Falco’s ear, tasting blood. Falco jerked his head away with a groan, his left hand worked tirelessly, slamming the side of Horn’s head over and over. Horn began to feel faint. He widened his eyes, but everything looked gray. His hands ached. He bore down on the other man’s throat with what felt like his last bit of strength but felt only corded muscle under his fingers.
Another blow to the head, and he knew he was going to pass out. Don’t let go of him. Then another. His ears were ringing like the bell at the mountaintop monastery. He opened his eyes one last time to spit in Falco’s face and was almost blinded. The face was awash in light, shining like the full moon, panting mouth agape, eyes wide in surprise. Falco turned his head and blinked, trying to make out who was behind the flashlight. At that moment the barrel of his own gun extended slowly into the light, almost gently, until it came to rest on Falco’s temple. He felt it and tried to jerk away, but Horn’s fingers held him fast.
The deafening blast took away most of one cheek. Falco stiffened, then relaxed as shock set in. The second shot was more accurate, taking him dead center in the side of the head.
Horn kicked him away and lay there, gasping. The flashlight dropped to the floor and went out. He reached out until he met Clea’s hand and drew her to him.
She was crying softly. “I thought you were going to die,” she said.
Me too, he thought, but instead said to her, “Now, how could that happen if I’ve got you around to take care of me?”
Outside, a voice he recognized called his name. “We’re in here,” he said. “We’re coming out.”
His foot brushed against a leg near the bottom of the stairs. He knelt down and pressed two fingers against Fairbrass’ throat, moving them twice in search of a pulse. Nothing.
As he stood, Clea touched his arm. “Is he—”
“Better not stop,” he said quickly. “Hold onto me, Honey. This way.”
Mad Crow stood in the gray light, his expression apprehensive. He was dressed in hunting khakis, as if for some kind of recreational weekend, and his head was bandaged with gauze where Sykes had hit him. A shotgun rested loosely in the crook of his right arm.
Horn stumbled as he mounted the stone steps into the light, and Clea steadied him, just as she had assisted Paul Fairbrass up the steps of the cabin. “You’re getting pretty good at helping older men up the stairs,” he told her.
Mad Crow raised his eyebrows in a question.
“Falco’s in there,” Horn told him.
“I shot him, Uncle Joe,” Clea said in a tone she might have used to relate something that happened to her at school.
“You hush,” Horn told her. “We don’t need to talk about that.”
Mad Crow approached. “Godalmighty, but you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. What happened?”
“He came at me with a broken bottle. How does it look?”
“An unholy mess, that’s how,” Mad Crow said, grasping Horn’s shoulder to turn him slightly. “But I bet it’s skin and a little muscle and nothing vital. We need to wrap it quick, though.”
“My shirt’s over there.”
A couple of minutes later, Mad Crow had improvised a bandage from Horn’s undershirt, securing it over the wound with the sleeves of the shirt tied tightly under his right arm. “Get you to a doctor,” he muttered as he knotted the sleeves.
“Pretty soon,” Horn said. “What happened out here?”
“It was Billy did it,” Mad Crow said.
“Who?”
“Billy Looks Ahead. You tangled with him at my bar, remember? He was staying at my place after he got behind in his rent and his landlady threw him out. He heard me start up the car. When I told him where I was going, he just invited himself along.”
“I thought he specialized in Japs.”
“He’s not particular. Anyway, we found Sykes, figured you had taken off in this direction, so we followed. Heard shots. Billy was able to get behind the guy with the rifle. How many were there?”
“Three total,” Horn said. “We’ve got a wounded man somewhere over there.” As he pointed in that direction, he saw Billy Looks Ahead rising from the tall grass. He was bare-chested, and his face, chest, and arms had been darkened with what looked like dirt and soot. His long hair was held in place with a head scarf. He carried no gun, but as Horn watched, he wiped the blade of a Marine Corps knife with a fistful of grass.
“He’s not wounded any more, John Ray,” the Indian said quietly.
Looks Ahead scabbarded his knife and walked a few yards over to where grass gave way to the path. He sat down cross-legged in the dirt facing them, and from that distance it appeared that he had closed his eyes.
“That was Bonsigniore’s nephew,” Horn said.
Mad Crow cursed under his breath. “Well, he was sent out on a man’s job, wasn’t he?”
“I owe Billy,” Horn said. “I want to tell him so.”
“Not now,” Mad Crow said. “He needs some time. Just leave him alone for a while.” He turned to Clea. “How are you doing, darlin’?”
“Just fine, Uncle Joe,” she said brightly—a little too brightly, Horn thought. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
Horn put his arms around her and hugged her, then motioned Mad Crow to move off a few paces with him. “Her father’s in there, too,” he said in a low voice. “Falco killed him. I want to get her out of here as soon as we can. She’s
going to need her mother.”
“All right. What do we do with all this low-life trash?”
Horn thought for a moment. “Bury them in the woods. You’ll find a pick and shovel in the tool shed behind the cabin. Our friend Bonsigniore will never know what happened to them. He’ll guess, but he won’t know.” He paused. “There’s a car down there somewhere.”
“We saw it. I’ll leave it parked right in front of Vinnie’s goddam house.”
“Don’t get carried away. Just leave it someplace far from here, all right? I’m sorry to put all this on you, Indian.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m just wondering—”
“Sykes and Fairbrass? They can’t just disappear. Here’s my idea: Put them in their car and leave it parked down in Long Beach somewhere. When they’re found, the police will ask who had it in for Paul. Iris will tell them somebody was after Clea and Paul was trying to protect her, and she also knows Bonsigniore was one of the group at the hunting lodge. It won’t take the police long to make the connection. He’ll have some heat on him.”
“I hope it’s enough heat to keep him away from the little girl,” Mad Crow said.
“He lost three men tonight,” Horn said. “One of them was a relative. This won’t make him quit, but it’ll make him stop and think, at least for a while.”
“What if it doesn’t? What if it just makes him mad?”
I’m tired of being afraid, said a girl’s voice in his mind. “Then somebody’ll have to go after him.”
“Now that sounds more like Sierra Lane,” the Indian said. “Go on, get out of here.”
Horn went to Clea. “You want to go home?”
She nodded, a half-smile on her face, and he wondered what was going through her mind.
They started down the trail that led to the cabin. When the trees closed in, she stopped, reaching out for him. “My legs are so rubbery,” she said. “Just like the baby horse. Isn’t that funny? I don’t know if I can—”
He picked her up and began carrying her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, as she had countless times when she was small. He felt her yawn.
“Paul protected me,” she said.
“I know he did, honey.”
“I think he knew he was going to die, and so did I. He shot the gun over and over, and then it didn’t work any more, and he just walked over to the door—”
“Shhh. I know,” he said. “Why don’t you rest?”
She yawned again, audibly this time. “I’m so sleepy.” Her head settled onto his shoulder.
He stumbled on a root but caught himself. He was exhausted but, oddly, felt strong, ready to carry her as long as he had to, until the sun was high.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Santa Monica beach ran off in both directions in a long, sandy curve. It was a near-perfect Sunday, and the beach was dotted with families who were sunning and swimming and playing, the children calling to each other like magpies. Mad Crow spotted Horn and walked unsteadily over the mounded sand until he reached him. “This spot taken?”
Horn, stretched out on his back, looked up from under the brim of his hat. He had taken off his shirt, and the two-week-old wound on his neck was starkly visible next to the white strap of his undershirt, healing but still angry looking, with patches of iodine rimming the scabs.
“Pull up a stretch of sand and set yourself down, stranger,” he said.
Mad Crow sat heavily and placed a large paper bag between them. “Where are the girls? Are we going for hamburgers or what?”
“They’ve gone for a walk down the beach,” Horn replied. “Take your shirt off. Get some sun.”
“Silly-ass white man’s habit,” Mad Crow said. “I’m brown enough already.”
Out over the ocean, midway between the apex of the sky and the horizon, a sky-writer’s plane dived and circled as it slowly inscribed a message in a long plume of smoke.
“Oh so good,” Mad Crow said, squinting to read it. “Something like that.”
Horn watched the plane paint another letter. “O-So Grape,” he said. “He’s advertising O-So Grape soda.”
“Can’t stand the stuff.” Mad Crow reached into the bag and plucked out a still-cool Blue Ribbon and an opener. “You want one of these?”
“Sure. Why do you think we invited you?” As Horn opened it with a hiss, he focused on something far down the beach, waved an arm broadly, and said, “They’re coming back.”
“So how’s she doing?”
Horn took a pull from the beer and rested the bottle on his chest. “Not real well,” he said. “What do you expect? She just turned seventeen, and she’s been through more than most people see in a lifetime. Iris is trying to make things normal for her, seeing friends and all that, and she starts school in a couple of weeks. But I don’t know.” He exhaled loudly, a long sigh. “There are doctors—I knew some in the Army—who work on people like her, people who are bothered by things they remember.”
“How did you know them?” Mad Crow asked casually.
“Maybe I’ll tell you some time. Anyway, I’m going to try to find one here and get Iris to have Clea talk to him.”
“Good luck. I don’t need to ask you if you’re ever going to tell them about Paul Fairbrass.”
“No, sir, you don’t,” Horn replied, his eyes on the sky-writer again. “When he died, he was trying to protect her. That’s all they need to know. Especially Iris. She had two losers, me and Wendell. If she wants to think Paul was a good man, I suppose it’s all right with me.” He let a handful of sand sift through his fingers. “One time, I could have killed him myself. Now, I don’t know. I guess I’d rather remember the way he ended up.”
“I talked to Iris for a few minutes last night when she called to get the four of us together,” Mad Crow said. “I was amazed. She loses a husband and almost loses her little girl, and you can hear all that in her voice. But you can hear something else—”
“I know.” Horn shook his head wonderingly. “Iris is. . . just Iris. Inside, where it counts, she’s plenty strong. Even after all this, she’ll go on and raise her girl and. . . survive.”
“Any chance for the two of you to—?”
“No,” Horn said. “Too much happened. But I told her I’ll be around for Clea anytime she needs me.”
“Well, I guess I will too,” Mad Crow said. From a trouser pocket he extracted a folded-up newspaper article. “You said you were going to tell me about this.”
Horn studied the clipping, dated two days earlier. The headline read Mob Boss Mysteriously Slain; Gang Rivals Suspected.
“I said I knew something about it,” he said, handing it back. “I never said I was going to tell you.”
“Dammit, John Ray—”
“Sorry, Indian. I made a promise.”
Mad Crow looked disgusted. “That sounds like some kind of cowboy-honor crap.”
“Maybe it is. Just don’t ask me. What matters is you’ve lost a business partner. I guess you’ll be needing another one.” He tilted his head back. The sky writer had departed, and the tribute to O-So Grape was growing wispy in the offshore wind.
Mad Crow was studying him. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, just thinking about something I said to a lady the other day about how people get away with things. It’s even more true now. I remember Arthur Bullard, who abused children and who died respected. And Wendell Brand, who damaged his own daughter and other girls and who ran away to hide behind God. Where’s the punishment for men like that? Even Addie Webb, who turned against her friend and probably sent killers after her. Think she feels guilty? She’ll buy a new dress and go out dancing. Who’s going to call down any justice on her?”
Mad Crow forced a smile and nudged his friend in the ribs. “It’s real life, John Ray. Not a movie. Sierr
a Lane would wrap it all up and clap the varmints in the hoosegow and ride away, but you can’t do that.”
“Sierra Lane wouldn’t be dumb enough to get stuck with a broken bottle in a fight,” Horn said.
“Wasn’t going to say that.” Mad Crow looked up. “But I don’t care what anybody says. People still need heroes. Even make-believe ones. Hell, especially make-believe.” He grinned broadly. “Know what you need? To get back to work.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Horn said. “I guess I’m ready. I could use the money. In fact, I could use a little in advance against the next job, if you don’t mind. You know, groceries and stuff.”
“Sounds good to me,” Mad Crow said enthusiastically. “Look, here they come.” He stood and waved.
Iris and Clea, wearing swimsuits and floppy hats, waved back. Horn thought he could make out a faint smile on Clea’s face, but her hat brim cast a heavy shadow, and he couldn’t be sure.
* * *
He had learned about Vincent Bonsigniore the day before, sitting at a lunch counter down on Central Avenue, working at a plate of pork ribs and greens with Alphonse Doucette seated beside him.
“Could be you drive a long way for nothing,” Doucette said.
“I don’t think so,” Horn said. “I bet you’ve got a story to tell me.”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because I hooked you up with her.”
“With who?”
“You know who I mean. If it wasn’t for me, Vincent Bonsigniore would still be sitting up there in his house, planning ways to kill some people and hurt others. And you’d still be hating him for what he did to your sister’s girl. I don’t want to get you in any trouble, so I won’t tell anybody. But I hated him too—maybe more than you—and I just want to know.”
Doucette wiped his mouth, got the counterman’s attention, and pointed to a slice of pie under the round glass cover. When it arrived, he dug into it and began to speak around his food.
“I’ll just tell you a f’rinstance kind of story,” he said, his voice musical and soft. “Mighta happened this way, mighta not. Let’s suppose a rich lady calls up Mister Bonsigniore and tells him she got something for him, something she know he wants. Some pictures. Says she know they important to him, and she ‘fraid he might come after her. Says she’ll give ‘em to him if he leave her alone, call everything square. Naturally, he very interested.
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