"Mrs. McKay and the blackmailer will be getting together there. If you're lucky, you'll hear the whole thing for yourself."
"How can you be so sure of that?" Michael asked quickly. "What's your part in all this, Parker?"
The visitor shrugged. "I'm a saloonkeeper. I hear things. And I figure it's my duty as a citizen of Wind River, as well as a candidate for mayor, to bring out the truth. That's why I'm here talking to you. Hell, maybe there's nothing to it. Maybe it's all a pack of lies. Either way, it's your job to find out the truth and print it, right?"
Reluctantly, Michael nodded. What Parker said had some validity. If there was a rumor going around that the settlement's leading citizen was guilty of a crime, that had to be investigated, whether Michael believed the story could be true or not. The rumor itself was newsworthy.
Besides, Michael thought, if the rumor was false—which he had no doubt it was—then he could make sure in his reporting of the story that Hank Parker looked bad for spreading it.
Parker wanted to ruin Simone's campaign; that was the only reason he was here, despite any high-flown statements about finding out the truth. His little plan was liable to backfire on him, though, Michael decided.
"What time is this meeting at the church?" he asked.
"An hour after dark is what I've heard."
"I'll be there," Michael said.
"You'd better be quiet and stay in the shadows," cautioned Parker. "If they know you're there, you'll scare them off."
"I'll be careful."
Parker stood up, still looking pleased with himself. He pointed the cigar at Michael and said, "You'll be thanking me when this is all over, Hatfield. You'll be the best-known newspaperman in the whole territory."
"We'll see," Michael said. He couldn't imagine ever thanking Hank Parker for anything.
"Just print the truth. That's all I ask." Parker turned and left the newspaper office.
He'd print the truth, all right, Michael told himself. But Parker might not like that truth. This was one time the man's schemes weren't going to work. . . .
Simone was still so shaken by Becky Lewis's visit to her the night before that she stayed home all day, not even going to the land office. That must have taken the housekeeper by surprise, but the woman knew better than to say anything. She had seen Simone take spells like this before.
Simone didn't come out of her bedroom until the middle of the day, showed little appetite, and spent most of the afternoon in the parlor, sipping brandy. Her mood was decidedly gloomy, and she brightened up only when, late that afternoon, the housekeeper stepped into the arched entrance between the foyer and the parlor and said, "There's a visitor to see you, ma'am."
A smile appeared on Simone's face as she looked up from where she sat in an overstuffed armchair. Perhaps Judson Kent had thought of some way to deal with the problems plaguing her. She said, "If it's Dr. Kent, show him right in."
"That's just it, ma'am. The caller isn't Dr. Kent."
"Marshal Tyler?"
"No, ma'am. It's . . . well. . ."
"For God's sake," Becky Lewis said as she brushed past the older woman, "just let me in. Mrs. McKay knows who I am."
Simone came to her feet, anger flooding through her. "What are you doing here?" she demanded coldly.
"We have to talk," Becky said. She looked at the housekeeper. "Alone."
Simone hesitated, then nodded curtly to the woman. "It's all right. I'll speak with this . . . lady."
"You're sure, Mrs. McKay?" asked the housekeeper.
“I’m certain. Leave us alone."
The housekeeper withdrew, and Simone waited until she heard the door into the kitchen being closed before she said to Becky, "How dare you come here in the open like this?"
Becky shrugged carelessly. "Things have changed. You and I have got to have another meeting."
"Well, you're here now," Simone said with an exasperated sigh. "Whatever you've got to say, you might as well go ahead and say it."
To Simone's surprise, Becky shook her head. "Not here. I don't trust that old bat. She could be eavesdropping."
“I’m sure she's not."
"I don't care. We're going to meet somewhere else tonight, where nobody can horn in on what we've got to say."
"I don't have anything to say to you," Simone replied coldly.
"That's where you're wrong. We're going to talk about what you did."
"I suppose you want more money. You went through that last payment awfully quickly, didn't you?"
Becky shook her head again. "It's not about money this time, Mrs. McKay. I told you I might want something else besides cash."
"Well, what is it?" snapped Simone.
"Not yet. Tonight, an hour after dark. Up there on the knoll, at what's left of that church that burned up."
Once again Simone was surprised. "Why there?"
"Because I say so, that's why!" Becky's voice crackled with spitefulness.
With an effort, Simone controlled her own temper and managed to nod calmly. Becky's mind was obviously none too stable, and it would probably be best to humor her, at least for the time being. But for her own sake, Becky would do well not to push this thing too far . . .
"All right, I'll be there," Simone said. "An hour after dark. And you don't want money?"
"Oh, if you want to bring along some greenbacks, I reckon it would be all right. But that's not the main thing. I'll tell you what to do when you get there."
Although every fiber of her being resented being ordered around this way, especially by a whore such as Becky Lewis, Simone nodded again. She wondered if she ought to tell Judson Kent about this, so that he could follow Becky when she left the rendezvous and see where she went. Simone suspected that someone had put Becky up to the blackmail, and the logical suspect to have done that was Hank Parker.
"One more thing," Becky said, as if reading the other woman's mind. "Don't tell anybody about this. Not a soul. If you do, the whole deal's off and I start yelling at the top of my lungs about everything I know."
Simone nodded again. She supposed it wouldn't hurt anything to go to the meeting alone. She wasn't afraid of Becky. If there was trouble, Simone was confident she could handle the younger woman. In fact, that might be the best way out of this mess. . ..
"An hour after dark," Becky said again, then turned to leave.
"I'll be there," Simone said as she followed Becky through the foyer and then shut the door behind her. She added softly to herself, "Oh, yes, I can promise you I'll be there."
Chapter 12
Michael was distracted at dinner that evening, and his wife noticed his mood. "What's wrong, Michael?" Delia asked.
He shook his head and replied, "Nothing. I've just got some newspaper business on my mind."
"When aren't you thinking about that newspaper?" Delia's voice was touched lightly with resentment. She was feeding the baby some mashed-up sweet potatoes, and Lincoln was swallowing them hungrily. The boy had a good appetite, Michael thought, and he was growing awfully fast. He was going to be walking soon.
Michael looked across the table at his daughter. Gretchen had a mischievous look in her eyes as she ate, which was nothing unusual.
She was probably thinking about what sort of trouble she could get into next. Michael felt a tightness in his chest as he looked at his family. It was a warm sensation, if a bit frightening. He loved them all so much. His children were the light of his life, and even though Delia still missed Cincinnati and halfway wished they could return there, she and Michael had grown closer in recent months . . . since he had come all too close to betraying her with another woman. He had learned his lesson, and he would never let anything come between him and his family again.
But he had a responsibility to the newspaper, and to Simone McKay, too. He wasn't going to let her or the Sentinel down. That was why he had to go out tonight, whether Delia understood or not.
Finished with his meal, he pushed his plate back. "I have to go back down to the
office for a while," he said.
"Why?" Delia asked with a frown. "It's three days until the next edition."
"I know. There's just some work I have to catch up on." He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he was going to go skulking around up there at the burned-out church so that he could spy on a meeting between Simone and some mysterious blackmailer.
"Can't it wait?"
Michael shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
"All right, then." Delia managed to smile, although he could tell the expression was a reluctant one. "Will you be back in time to read a bedtime story to Gretchen?"
"I don't know," he replied honestly.
"Read now!" Gretchen suggested enthusiastically.
Michael glanced out the kitchen window and saw that the light of dusk was still fading outside. It would be a while yet until the meeting took place—if indeed there even was a meeting, which he still doubted. He smiled at his daughter and nodded. "We'll read now," he told Gretchen. She was finished with her food, too, so she got up from the table and ran off to find the storybook.
All those stories had happy endings, Michael thought as he stood up and followed her.
He hoped the one he was living did, too.
* * *
Simone adjusted her hat and studied her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table. It was purely an automatic gesture on her part, because she didn't really care how she looked tonight.
Why should she take any great pains with her appearance? she asked herself. All she was doing was going to the ruins of a burned-out church to talk to a blackmailing slut.
Suddenly she felt another presence. She stiffened in the chair and looked in the mirror, expecting to see someone standing behind her. There was no one there. Simone closed her eyes and breathed deeply a couple of times. She had to get hold of herself. She had to be thinking clearly, tonight of all nights.
She stood up and turned around.
Andrew gazed mournfully at her.
Simone gasped and took an involuntary step back, knocking over the chair in front of the dressing table as she did so. She pressed a hand against the bosom of her dress and said, "Andrew! You . . . you startled me."
Unlike the other times he had appeared to her, he didn't say anything. He just stood there a few feet away, a solemn look on his face, and stared at her.
"What . . . what do you want?" she asked, expecting him to say something again about finding his killer. Instead there was no reply. Silence hung over the room.
Simone's heart began to pound in her chest, and she could hear the beat hammering inside her head. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded. An unreasonable anger welled up inside her. "Why don't you just go away? You're dead. You ought to just go away!"
She caught herself, aware that her voice was rising hysterically. Forcing herself to be calm, she said, "I think I'm imagining you, Andrew. I think Judson Kent was right. I've been under such a strain that I've started seeing things." She drew herself up and squared her shoulders. "So maybe I'm crazy for even talking to you, but you might as well get out of my way. I have places to go and things to do."
With that, she strode forward, straight toward him. He shredded before her, like fog blowing away in a high wind, and she felt only a touch of lingering coldness as she passed through the place where he had been. She opened the door and strode out of the room.
If she could deal with a ghost, she could certainly deal with a dim-witted trollop such as Becky Lewis, Simone told herself. Before this night was over, Becky was going to be very sorry she had ever come back to Wind River.
* * *
Cole Tyler and Billy Casebolt walked along Grenville Avenue. It was too early to make the evening rounds; the first stars were just coming out in the sky overhead. So for the time being, the two lawmen were just enjoying the early evening as the heat of the day faded and a breeze sprang up.
"Goin to be a nice night," Casebolt said.
"I hope so, but I'm not so sure," replied Cole. He nodded toward the west. "There are some clouds moving in. Might get a little shower before morning."
"Wouldn't hurt nothin' if we did. We could use a little rain. Been a pretty dry summer so far."
Cole nodded. In this part of the country, not far from the arid Great Basin, rain was a precious commodity. Many of the streams in the area relied almost as much on the annual snowmelt as they did on rainfall.
A flicker of lightning, far off in the distance, caught Cole's eye. Might be just heat lightning, he thought. Might not mean a thing.
Just like it didn't have to mean anything that he had seen Simone and Judson Kent in each other's arms the night before, embracing like they were the only two people in the world. Cole had carried that image around in his head all day. But it didn't have to mean anything. Sure, it might be just as insubstantial as that distant lightning.
Only time would tell.
* * *
Jeremiah Newton said impatiently, "When can I get up out of this bed and get out of here? I've got things to do, a church to rebuild."
"Not just yet," Judson Kent replied as he placed the tray of food in front of the big blacksmith. "I think you'll probably be recovered enough from your injuries to go home tomorrow, but I don't want you doing any work yet. That means no hammering in that shop of yours, and no work on the church."
"The blacksmithing work will wait, but the Lord's won't," Jeremiah said with a scowl.
"I won't presume to speak for the Creator, but I doubt that He wants you to collapse from your head injuries or rebreak that arm before it mends properly." Kent smiled. "Be patient, Jeremiah. I know it's difficult, but I assure you, it's for the best. You'll be back on your feet and working to rebuild the church before you know it."
"Well, all right," Jeremiah said with a sigh. He turned his attention to the food on the tray and perked up visibly as he saw the pile of pork chops, the bowl of beans, and the biscuits that Rose Foster and Monty Riordan had sent over from the cafe.
Kent left Jeremiah to the meal and went back to his office. He sat down behind his desk and sighed. He had already eaten at the cafe before bringing the tray back here to his house, but he hadn't really tasted the food.
He was as distracted as he had been all day, his mind full of the problem that Simone McKay faced.
Was it possible that Simone was losing her mind? All that talk of ghosts seemed to indicate as much. But Kent knew all too well how the mind could play tricks on a person, especially in times of great worry. Whether the ghost of Andrew McKay had really appeared to his wife—and Kent, rational physician that he was, had a difficult time believing that—Simone had a real problem that was even more pressing. Becky Lewis, and the ridiculous but still vicious blackmail threat she represented.
Kent wondered if he should tell Cole Tyler that Becky was back in town and causing trouble for Simone. Cole was the only one with whom Kent had shared his suspicions about Becky being responsible for Andrew McKay's death.
Perhaps he and Cole ought to pay a call on Miss Lewis and warn her that if she persisted in her efforts to embarrass Simone, she herself would be investigated as a possible murderess. That might be enough to scare her off, Kent mused.
But it might not be. Kent remembered Becky as not very bright but possessed of an animal-like cunning, a survival instinct that meant she would react ruthlessly if anyone crossed her. If she was pushed, she might do her best to ruin Simone and take her chances with anyone who came after her.
It was a dilemma, and so far Kent had not been able to see a good way out of it. Perhaps he ought to go visit Simone anyway, he thought, just to make sure that she was bearing up all right under the strain.
He looked up at the human skeleton that hung from a rack behind the desk and asked, "What do you think I should do, Reginald?"
There was no answer, of course, just a mocking grin from the skull. Kent sighed, stood up, and took his hat and coat off the pegs beside the door. He called out to Jeremiah that he would be back in a litt
le while, then went out into the evening and turned his steps toward Sweetwater Street.
* * *
The usual evening breeze had turned into a wind by the time Michael began walking up the knoll toward the shell of the destroyed church. Full darkness had fallen some time earlier, and the night promised to be even blacker than usual because clouds had moved in from the west and obscured some of the stars.
As Michael glanced overhead he saw even more of the pinpoints of light being gobbled up by the quickly moving clouds. He had to use one hand to hold his hat on his head.
He was probably wasting his time, he told himself. Hank Parker had just been blowing smoke about Simone paying off some blackmailer to keep quiet about her murdering her husband. The very idea of a lady such as Simone being a killer was laughable. Or at least it would have been, Michael thought, if it hadn't been so outrageous.
He was angry that Parker would even attempt to spread such a scandalous rumor.
As he drew near the top of the slope, Michael's eyes searched around the skeletal framework of the burned-out church. Suddenly he spotted something that looked out of place. Stopping in his tracks, he narrowed his eyes and peered intently through the gloom.
The shape he had seen near the ruins of the building was a buggy, he realized. A small buggy with a single horse hitched to it.
The kind of buggy that Simone McKay drove.
Michael gave a little shake of his head. Just because somebody was up here didn't mean it was Simone. Maybe Parker had brought the buggy up here. Maybe this was all part of the saloonkeeper's scheme to make Simone look bad so that he could win the election.
That was what Michael was telling himself when he heard the scream.
The frightened cry came from inside the ruins of the church. It was a woman's scream, Michael realized as he broke into a run, but it hadn't sounded like Simone's voice. Of course, it was hard to tell about a scream.
Without really thinking about what he was doing, he rushed forward and vaulted over a pile of rubble and ashes. He wished there were more light so he could see where he was going.
Frantic motion caught his eye. A vague shape was moving around in the center of the church—no, it was two shapes, Michael realized. And they were struggling . . .
Judgement Day (Wind River Book 6) Page 12