by Ann Charles
“Unless nobody finds out it’s here. Which is why you two have to die.”
“What?” Claire’s legs wobbled. According to her addition, one plus one did not equal them dying. “Are you sure about that?”
“Huh,” Mac said. “Now it all makes sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She slid down the wall, squatting next to Mac once again. “Why do you care about the Copper Snake, Richard? Your father sold out.”
“I know some people with deep pockets. People willing to lend cash for a high return. I’ve bought back forty percent of the company’s stock, and I want more.”
Mac bumped Claire to get her attention. “He hired Leo Scott to help him steal the Lucky Monk from Ruby.”
“And Leo says I’ll have it in another week. With you out of the picture, it will go even smoother.” His smile widened, his eyes taking on a freaky, Cuckoo-for-Coco-Puffs glaze.
Richard aimed the gun at Claire’s chest, then Mac’s, then back at her head. “The only question now is who dies first?”
“Him.” Claire pointed at Mac while watching Richard.
“What!” She could feel Mac’s glare.
With a shrug, Richard turned the gun on Mac.
“Hey, Richard,” she said, “you forgot about this picture over here.”
Claire scooped up the rock from behind Mac and fast-balled it at Richard’s head.
Richard was slow to react and dodge. The rock slammed against his kneecap with a loud thwack.
Oops! Her aim wasn’t what it used to be.
Howling in pain, Richard doubled over, the gun clattering onto the floor behind him.
“Was breaking his kneecap part of your brilliant plan?” Mac asked.
“I’m improvising as I go.”
Claire ran toward the gun. Midway there, she changed course and instead charged straight at Richard, who was reaching for his gun.
“Claire, no!”
Mac’s words caught up with her as she nose-tackled Richard, who’d just grasped the revolver.
Richard stumbled backward, off-balance. His heel caught on a small jut of rock, and they tumbled to the floor, arms and legs tangling, gun flying free and sliding out of reach.
Somehow Claire ended up on the bottom. She wiggled one arm free and tried to poke him in the eye. He blocked her and grabbed her hand, twisting her wrist until tears blurred her vision.
She tried to move her legs and realized her right leg was free. With all the strength she could muster, she jammed her knee into his crotch.
Richard grunted, his eyes bulging as he gasped in her face, showering her with stale breath and spittle.
Yanking her wrist free of his loosened grasp, she brought her elbow down on the tender spot between his neck and shoulder blade.
He wheezed and curled sideways, half off her.
Shoving him further onto his side, she squirmed out from under him and scrambled toward the gun. Her fingertips brushed the polished wooden handle at the same time his hand clamped on her ankle and wrenched her backwards.
“Come back here, you bitch.” He caught her by the knee and hauled her closer. “You’ll pay for that cheap shot.”
Claire rolled onto her back, swinging her free foot around, and smashed the heel of her tennis shoe into his nose.
Something crunched. Blood gushed from his nostrils.
He roared, tipping his head back, cupping his nose.
Flopping back onto her stomach, Claire lunged for the gun. But it was gone, replaced by a pair of ostrich-skin cowboy boots.
What the …?
Claire looked up. “Porter!”
She could have danced a jig at the sight of his green eyes. Then she remembered where they were.
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” He held the revolver steadily on Richard, who lay there whimpering, dripping blood.
“Oh. How did you find me?” She stood, her legs quivering so much that she clung to a nearby wall to stay upright.
“I followed you after your sister dropped you off.”
Porter walked over to where Richard lay. He pointed the gun at Richard’s head, smiled at Claire with his pearly whites, and pulled the trigger.
Claire screamed as the gunshot boomed through the chamber, turning away at the spray of blood and brains across the floor. Her ears ringing, she clutched her stomach, fear mixing with revulsion to produce instant nausea, and gagged several times, barely managing to keep her supper down.
“We didn’t need him slowing us down.” Porter’s voice sounded different, more clipped, even while slightly muffled by the lasting effects of the gunshot explosion in her ears.
Then it hit her—his drawl was gone.
“You should thank me,” Porter said. “He was going to kill you.”
Claire looked over at Mac.
Run, he mouthed, nodding toward the narrow exit. He held up his hands just enough to show her he’d managed to free his wrists, but his legs were still bound.
“Where are the goods, Claire?” Porter asked.
Next to Porter’s boots, Richard’s foot was still twitching.
She snapped her lids shut and spoke between gasps. “What goods?”
“Don’t fuck with me, darling.” His boots clomped across the room. She opened her eyes in time to see him point the revolver at Mac. “Tell me where the goods are, or I’ll blow out your boyfriend’s brains next.”
Mac nudged his head toward the exit again. Then his face spasmed, his body jerking in pain, and he paled even more.
There was no way Mac could take on Porter, not with what was probably a concussion slowing him down.
Claire stood up straight, focusing on her newest nemesis. “Which goods?”
“The ones I heard Jess talking to you about while you were mopping up the bathroom floor earlier today.
Claire replayed the scene with Jess in her head. “You mean the money she mentioned?”
“No, I mean the gold.”
The gold? Oh, yeah, Jess had asked her what she was going to do about that piece of gold they’d found. “Oh, that gold.”
“Yes, that gold. My dad didn’t spend the last few years of his life in prison with his lungs rotting in his chest to die for nothing. That gold belongs to me. It’s my inheritance.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and threw it in Claire’s direction. “There’s the note to prove it.
Claire limped over to the wadded up paper, her body aching like she’d slid down the whole length of the Olympic bobsled track on her stomach.
Smoothing out the note, she read aloud:
If you find this, you know where to find me.
The handwriting was Joe’s. She’d become an ace when it came to nailing his penmanship.
“I don’t understand what this means.”
“Last year, my dad called to tell me he was dying and that a ‘treasure’ was waiting for me in a safe deposit box in a Vegas bank. But instead of any money, I found this note from Joe.”
What was it with the father-son stories today? Claire let the note fall to the floor. “How’d you know it was from Joe?”
She wasn’t surprised that Joe had gotten into a safe deposit box that didn’t belong to him. After learning as much about his past as she had in the last few months, she figured that breaking into a safety deposit box was probably child’s play for him.
“He was the only other one who knew about this so-called treasure, according to Dad.”
“You’re the one who broke into Ruby’s office.” Claire had been right to suspect Porter from the start. She couldn’t wait to make Kate eat her words—providing she made it out of this mess free of bullet holes. “I knew that writer from Texas routine was a bunch of bullshit.”
Porter shrugged. “People here don’t trust outsiders. But throw on some cowboy boots and slur your words a little, and they’ll spill their guts for a free beer.”
She needed an answer to something that had been bugging her since Jess tol
d her about it. “What prompted you to look in Treasure Island for clues?”
“Dad always used the word ‘treasure’ when referring to the safe deposit box contents. But Joe’s notes in the book didn’t make any sense to me.”
Welcome to her world.
“Turns out it didn’t matter in the end.” He pulled back the hammer, aiming squarely at Mac’s head. “Now, where’s the gold?”
“Well …” Panic paralyzed her brain.
“I’m going to count to three, Claire. That’s it.”
Oh, fuck!
“Claire, don’t.” Mac’s eyes drilled hers.
“One.”
“Don’t what?” she asked, her whole body trembling. She had to do something, think of something.
“Don’t do it.”
“Two.”
“Mac, I’m sorry about the whole mess with my mom.”
“Damn it, Claire!” Mac shifted forward, as if to stand.
“Three.”
“No!” Claire yelled, holding out her hand to stop Porter. “I’ll show you where I hid the treasure … I mean gold.”
She needed to get Porter away from Mac.
Porter raised his brows. “Why not just tell me where and save yourself the trouble?”
“Because I’ve stashed it in a spot that’s not easy to explain where.” It was a bell-ringer of a lie, but she kept a straight face and managed not to pee her pants. “Besides, you’ll just kill us like you did Richard if I tell you now.”
“Fine. Have it your way.” He directed her toward the exit with the revolver. “You lead the way.”
Fear glued her feet to the floor. “You’re not going to shoot Mac when I turn around, are you?”
Porter chuckled. “I don’t need to shoot either one of you, unless you force me to. I just want what’s mine, and then I’ll disappear and be gone for good.”
Her shoulders clenched, Claire walked stiff-legged toward the narrow tunnel. She glanced at Mac once more; worry lined his face as he tugged at the ropes around his ankles.
“Come after us, and I’ll shoot her,” Porter told Mac, and then nudged her along the narrow corridor, the gun pressing against her spine.
She wondered if he’d allow her a cigarette along with a blindfold before standing her up against the wall and firing.
By the time they reached the skeleton, her back felt bruised. She climbed through the hole at the cave-in first, his threat to turn back and kill Mac if she tried anything funny kept her hands at her side as he wiggled through after her.
“Hold it,” he said as she started toward the main adit. A gunshot rang out, followed by a deep rumbling.
Her ears clanging again, Claire watched as the ceiling rained down over the pile. Dust coated them, choking her and burning her eyes. When the roar stopped and it had cleared enough for her to see the pile, the hole was gone, filled with rubble, leaving Mac on the other side—trapped.
“On we go.” Porter dug the gun into her back again.
Sweat coated Claire’s skin as he prodded her out of the mine.
What was she going to do? She couldn’t take him back to Ruby’s place. That would endanger everyone back there.
Somewhere, between the Lucky Monk and Jackrabbit Junction, she needed to find herself a treasure.
* * *
Kate shielded her eyes from the sun. The rain seemed to have washed the air, leaving it crystal clear. Across the valley to the east, she could practically count the sage brush and little trees dotting the hillside.
“I thought you said hitchhiking was dangerous.” Jess sat in the driver’s seat of the pickup, leaning out the window, watching Kate, who was trying to flag down someone without ending up as road kill.
“It is. That’s why I’m doing the thumbing and not you.”
A pair of headlights from the direction of Jackrabbit Junction crested the small hill about a half-mile away.
“Boy, Kate, we really caught air when we left the road, didn’t we?”
Jess had recovered from their short flight over the shallow ditch and touch down onto the desert’s soft dirt, but now she seemed determined to turn it into a big-fish story. The distance they cleared kept growing longer and longer.
Kate was just grateful that she’d been able to get the old Ford to limp back to the road’s edge, blown tire and all. But her luck had screeched to a halt when she crawled under the truck bed, freed the spare tire, and found it flat as a crepe.
Inching onto the road, Kate held out her thumb and stared at the approaching vehicle, the growl of its engine now audible.
“You look pretty scary with that blood on your forehead.” Jess sure had a way with compliments. “I bet you’re going to need stitches. You should have been wearing your seatbelt.”
“I told you, it’s broken.” Kate spoke through gritted teeth. Her forehead still throbbed from the impact with the steering wheel upon landing.
“Oh, yeah. I guess Mom better get that fixed. Hey, maybe you should lift your shirt and flash this car when it’s close enough for them to see you.”
“Thanks for the advice, Dear Abby, but I think I’ll try my method for a little longer.” Squinting as the vehicle came closer, its daylight running lights shining in her eyes, Kate leaned out as far as she could without falling.
The whine of the engine lowered, the vehicle seeming to slow as it neared. She pasted a smile on her lips, hopeful the bloody gash on her forehead didn’t make her look like a cast member of The Hills Have Eyes.
The vehicle pulled to the side and braked to a stop. The flashers came on.
Behind the headlights, Kate made out the shape of two people in a pickup cab. She held her breath as the driver’s side door opened and a pair of long, jean-clad legs ending in a pair of cowboy boots touched the ground.
“You’re bleeding,” her Good Samaritan said as he walked around the front bumper of his truck.
At the sound of Butch’s voice, Kate closed her eyes and groaned. How much humiliation would she have to choke down today?
“Hi, Butch!” Jess shouted. The squeak of the old Ford’s door meant the teenager would be joining them shortly.
“What happened to your forehead?” The warm touch of Butch’s hands on each side of Kate’s head surprised her into opening her lids.
He frowned down at her, his fingers gentle as he inspected her gash. The smell of fabric softener and his musky cologne made her hungry for more than his feathery touches.
Jess bounced up next to them. “We wrecked again, but this time Kate didn’t hit anyone.”
Kate’s face burned with all twenty-four shades of Crayola’s red at once. If she’d had any spare clothing, she’d have crammed it in Jess’s mouth.
“Jess,” Butch said while looking at Kate. “Will you do me a favor and grab the first aid kit out of my glove box.”
“That’s not necessary.” Kate pulled his hands away from her face. “I’m fine. It’s just a little cut.”
But Jess was already rounding the passenger side of his truck.
“Maybe so, but Jess needs to keep busy.” He stared at Ruby’s Ford. “You’re having a bad day. What happened?”
He didn’t know the half of it. Kate rubbed her eyes. “A tire blew.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t roll it.” Butch walked past the driver’s side door and around the front of the old Ford, pausing to free a thatch of brownish-purple tufted grass pinched between the bumper and the grill. “I take it you head-butted the steering wheel when you landed.”
Nodding, Kate followed him. “Luckily, Jess made it through without a scratch.”
The spare tire leaned against the shredded remains of the blown-out front tire. Butch kicked the spare. “Flat—nice. My spare might fit.”
“No!”
That came out sharper than she’d intended, but the last thing she wanted was to be indebted to the man who’d freed her from jail this morning and then rejected her this afternoon.
Butch raised his brows.
/> “If you’ll just give us a ride to Yuccaville, I can take care of things from there.”
Jess jogged up as Butch asked, “What’s in Yuccaville?”
“The bus station,” Jess answered, smiling as she held out the first aid box toward him. “There’s a lady in your pickup.”
Knowing exactly who that lady was, Kate’s chest ached.
“Is somebody going somewhere on a bus?” He looked at Kate for an answer.
Kate shrugged. What did he care if she flew to the moon tonight? He had Lana to keep his sheets warm. “Maybe.”
“I’m going to live with my dad in Ohio.” Jess ruined Kate’s ploy. “Have you ever been to Cleveland?”
He turned to Jess. “Nope. Is your mom back from her honeymoon now?”
Jess lowered her gaze. “Um, no.”
Butch shot Kate a suspicion-filled glance.
Shrugging again, Kate kept silent. She had to be careful what she said in front of Jess or risk alienating the kid completely.
“Will you do me another favor, Jess?” Butch asked.
“Sure.”
“Go ask Lana to help you find the tire patch kit stuffed behind my seat.”
Jess set off toward his truck with a skip.
“What’s going on?” Butch popped open the first aid kit.
“I found her walking along the road. She’s determined to leave for Ohio before Ruby returns. The only way she’d crawl in the truck was if I promised to take her to Yuccaville. I was working on a plan to delay her when the tire blew.”
He pulled a small pouch from the box and tore it open. “Does she really want to live in Ohio, or is this some kind of game she’s playing with her mom?”
“Ow!” Kate jerked back as he touched the square swab of cotton to her head, her gash stinging. The scent of alcohol drifted between them. “I don’t know. Jess usually spills her guts to Claire, not me.”
“Where is Claire?”
“With Mac.” With Mac’s truck, was more likely. “Somehow, I have to convince Jess to stick around, at least until Claire has a chance to talk to her.”
“Maybe I can help.” He touched the pad to her head again.