“Did he ever make plans?”
She shook her head. “No plans that I knew of.”
“Did you two talk about Leah's death afterwards? I understand you were staying with him.”
“Yeah, that's right. He was pretty shook up from the police questioning. As it turned out he had reason to be. We only talked about it once. I asked if he did it.” She stared steadily at Goodnight.
“What did he say?”
“He didn't deny it, but I thought that was part of the same deal. He wanted me to think he killed her. My thinking he was a murderer really worked him up.”
“Leah had a cat.” Goodnight removed the photograph and showed it to Iverson. “Have you seen the cat anywhere?”
She shook her head. “No. No cat.”
“She had a special pet taxi, sort of carrying case with the name Scottie on it. Have you seen it?”
“Let me think. Yeah. In the closet. Want to see?”
It was there all right. Goodnight had seen a few cat carriers when he had bought one for Morris to take him to the veterinarian, but none of them had been as elaborate as this. There were places inside it for food and water. The name “Scottie” was printed on two sides of the carrier. Leah Swensen had paid a pretty penny for it.
As they returned to the kitchen Goodnight asked, “Did you notice a scratch on Swensen's forearm that week?”
Iverson shrugged and shook her head. “I really don't understand what all this is about. Leah's dead, right? Jack's going to be put to death, well not in this century with all the appeals. Why does the insurance company care who killed her?”
“I'm just tying up some loose ends.”
“I suppose,” she said with disbelief. “Frankly, I was surprised he did it, all right? Like I said, I didn't think he had it in him. But I wasn't surprised at the sloppy way he did it. He would have had to be pretty drunk and mad. I've got a... gentleman friend to get back to.” She smiled ruefully. “He says he wants to take me away from all this.” She waived her hand lightly then shrugged, man to man. “A girl's got to look out for herself.”
When she stood Iverson removed the wrap around scarf, twisting to look down and back at her buttocks. “Listen. Help me out here. Anyone who calls me 'ma'am' is qualified to give an opinion. I think I'm getting too old for a suit like this. I think my ass is starting to sag.” She looked up at Goodnight who found himself suddenly speechless. “What do you think?”
~
By the time Goodnight returned to his house Conchita had left for work, but not before placing dinner in the refrigerator for him. Goodnight regarded the plate of heavenly, though heavy, Mexican food and decided if he didn't learn some self-control he would die a jolly fat man. He fed Morris then called Adrian Lyon who answered on the eighth ring, her voice breathless. “I hope this is important. I'm covered in clay.”
“Sorry to bother you, ma'am. This is John Goodnight. I just want to tell you that I have not located Leah Swensen's cat, Scottie.”
Lyon said that she was pleased to hear from him. “No one has him you say?”
“Apparently not. The carrier is still in place at the Swensen house so it doesn't appear he's been taken anywhere.”
“Scottie isn't hanging around the area? Cats are very territorial. With his mistress gone he would cling to his familiar surroundings. Though I suppose he could have met with an accident or, God forbid, even gone off and died. They've been known to do that when their owner dies.”
“He should be in the area around the house, you say?”
“That's what I would expect. He's a gorgeous creature though. Maybe someone spotted him wandering around and took him in. I'm not the only sucker in town.”
“No, there's a whole herd of us. That's a possibility I suppose. What do you do to travel with a cat? Out of the country, I mean.”
“It's not easy, but better than it used to be. I wouldn't risk a cat in Mexico or South America, not with diseases and the uncertainty of local laws. For all I know they eat cats in Asia. Britain still has a quarantine so you don't go there. Canada is fine. Europe is all right, but you have to have proof of shots and papers of approval from the destination's consulate here in the United States. It's all very complicated, but many of my friends have done it for extended trips.”
“One last question, then I'll let you go. What was the name of Leah Swensen's veterinarian?”
“That's easy. We shared the same one. Desert View.” She gave him the address and telephone number from memory.
“You get back to your work now.”
“Drop by another time, Mr. Goodnight. I'd like to show you some of my sculptures.”
“I'll do that. I've got an alley cat you should consider using as a model, assuming you like your models squat and fat.”
~
Goodnight was standing at his front door, about to leave to walk Conchita home when the telephone rang.
“Ranger!!” Arturo shouted. “We've got trouble!! Hurry!! Emilio came back and stabbed Conchita!!” In the background was screaming. Goodnight was out the door without hanging up.
It was faster to run so he sprinted down the street, his long legs reaching out in stride as if he were young still. His left hand was placed instinctively against the butt of his .44 so that it would not pop out of its holster. It seemed to him that his legs were made of rubber, that he moved in slow motion and would never reach Rosa's Cantina.
Goodnight had experienced fear only twice in his life. Once when he held Flo's hand in the hospital and knew he would lose her that night. And now, hoping with all his heart that he wasn't too late.
Goodnight threw open the door to Rosa's. Smoke rolled out in a heavy, stale cloud and the juke box was still playing a Latin melody punctuated with a crying voice. Most of the patrons had vanished at the first sign of violence but Arturo and several women were clustered around a figure laying on the floor. Even in the dim light Goodnight recognized the dark sheen of pooled fresh blood.
“She's still alive, Ranger,” Arturo said from his knees, looking up, his hands a deep crimson. “I've sent for the paramedics. Emilio ran out back. He bragged he would cut off your balls.”
The women cleared a path for Goodnight, there dark eyes round as small saucers. “Conchita?”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Hey, Ranger. I think he got me pretty good.” She lay in blood and the bastard had slashed her face the way a pimp marks a whore who has incurred his wrath.
“You take care of her, hombre,” Goodnight told Arturo. “I'll be right back.”
Three men stood talking in whispers in the alley behind Rosa's as if they were waiting for him. “That way, Ranger,” one said in Spanish, pointing his entire arm. “He says the knife was for the woman, but he has a gun for you. He was bragging to us when he heard you, then he ran. I think he is afraid.”
Goodnight sprinted down the alley which grew darker with each stride. After a block the alley crossed a street with lights and he spotted a slender figure running across it to the next alley, a thick mane of hair flying behind him. Emilio hesitated for a second under a street light to look back and ran his hand up his face to push his hair back. He spotted Goodnight and his eyes grew in size. He raised his arm and a light winked followed by the crack of a handgun. Goodnight heard the bullet pass to his right then Emilio bolted into the next alley with renewed energy.
Cars honked and one braked, locking its tires, as Goodnight ran across the street and plunged into the alley after him. He caught glimpses of Emilio from the dim light but could tell he was not gaining on him. In the distance he heard the sound of a siren. Then his prey was gone, vanished. Goodnight stopped, willed his breathing under control, and systematically worked the shadows with his eyes as he listened. He advanced in the darkness cautiously.
When he had been 16 years old the vaqueros had taken him across the border to a dusty little town named Las Conchas with several cantinas and a brothel housed in what had once been the mayor's residence. One of his father's men, Ram
on, known for his skill with a lasso, had interceded when a hawk nosed Mexican from Chihuahua had repeatedly slapped the teenage prostitute sitting with him. There had been words, several blows. Then the hawk nosed man had come up fast from the floor and stabbed Ramon in the gut and bolted into the urine drenched alley before anyone could react. Two of his father's men had gone after him and in the dark a second, named Jesus, had been badly stabbed by ambush from the shadows.
Goodnight had not thought of the incident for years but as he worked his way cautiously down the alley it came back to him vividly. When the hawk nosed man ran off they had piled Ramon and Jesus into the battered Ford pickup and raced across the border to a doctor's house. Goodnight held Jesus gently in his arms to spare him the worst of the bouncing, recalling the times Jesus had played the guitar around the camp fires. The blood on his hands had been hot and thick, soon turning into a cold, sticky paste. He could feel the steady slowing of his heart until Jesus, a man not much older than Goodnight, was dead.
The wails of grief coming from the surviving vaqueros were as livid in his memory as they had been in reality. He never forgot the sensation as life had drained from his friend, the sudden weight of the now lifeless body in the back of the old Ford, the blank gaze of the dead man. None of the deaths he had experienced in Korea or in law enforcement had touched him with the same intensity as that first one.
Emilio suddenly shot from a clump of oleanders ten feet in front of him and sprinted across another lit street. Cars honked, brakes locked again, and just as he reached the far side he was struck. The car had slowed considerably before impact so Emilio was quickly on his feet, but limping now, as he oriented himself then disappeared awkwardly into the next alley. Goodnight threaded his way between the stalled cars and plunged into the darkness after him. Three times the light winked, followed by the triple crack of the gun.
There were more sirens, much closer. The paramedics had called the police, or neighbors were complaining about gunshots. Emilio had stopped running now because he was blocked by a blind alley. There was nowhere for him to go. He slid behind a garbage can and squatted, his head and gun both visible. Goodnight's heavy revolver was in his hand and he approached slowly the way he might a wounded javelina after a long chase.
Emilio was breathing harshly. He fingered the automatic he held up, kneading it like bread dough. Then he snarled in Spanish. “Old man! You tried to take my woman! But I fixed her! Everyone will know what she was when they see her in the coffin.” Sweat streamed down his once pretty face. The scars Goodnight had inflicted were still bright, the flesh a shiny pink.
Emilio was transfixed by the sight of Goodnight's gun. His eyes locked onto the long barrel of the weapon. Finally he forced himself to look at Goodnight, staring briefly into the coldness of his eyes. He lowered his own gun and fired twice. At this range Goodnight could see the long flame coming from the mouth of the gun; the sound was deafening. A bee buzzed his head again. Another bullet ricochet off a stone.
Goodnight aimed the pistol at the garbage can and fired twice. The heavy hollow point slug tore through the thin metal and tossed Emilio against the back wall of someone's garage. His eyes registered utter surprise as he placed his hands where the bullets entered, his own gun fell to the dirt. He stared down in growing horror as blood, black as tar in the dim light, covered his fingers. Then, slowly at first but with utter finality, Emilio collapsed into the dirt and was dead by the time he came to rest on his back, his blank eyes fixed somewhere in the distance.
Goodnight turned on his heel and went back to Rosa's Cantina.
~
The paramedics were about to lift Conchita into the rear of the ambulance as he arrived and leaned down to her. She licked her dry lips. “Querido,” she whispered softly, her pallor frightening in its lightness. “Te amo, Juanito. Te amo.”
The pair lifted the stretcher up and slid her into place. Goodnight started to climb in after her, but the tallest of the men, his freckled face a bright red, his gaze fixed in concern, stopped him with his hand.
“Fella, we've got a lot to do between here and the hospital and you'll just be in the way.” Then the paramedic climbed in back and the vehicle pulled away, it's lights flashing, the siren on before he had the doors fully closed, slamming the one on the right twice to get it shut all the way.
“What happened?” Goodnight asked Arturo with a leadened voice.
The old man looked very tired and every bit his age. “I am sorry, Ranger. We were getting ready to close when Emilio came in. He was not drunk but he was very angry. You would have been proud of your Conchita, my friend. She stood right up to him. After he pulled the knife out and threatened her with it she spit on the blade. Que magnifica mujer! What a woman! He stabbed her here,” Arturo place his hand to his stomach. “Before she fell he grabbed her by the hair and slashed her face, calling her a puta. After that he bragged about what he would do to you. I heard gunshots not long ago.”
“I found him.”
“That is good. Now it is over. But I think Conchita is hurt bad, Ranger.”
Two uniformed officers approached them. One was conspicuously taller, burly with a heavy, pale face, the other compact with oily, dark skin and sharp features. The smaller one spoke. “We understand you gave chase to the assailant.”
“That's right. You'll find him three blocks up the alley with two bullet holes in his chest. He had a gun. It's on the ground beside him.”
The pair exchanged glances before the smaller one spoke again. “Mister, I don't know who you are or why you think you can carry a concealed weapon, but I want you to turn around and raise...”
“That won't be necessary, officer.” The man who spoke was dressed in a rumpled summer weight tan poplin suit. A badge was visible on his breast pocket where he had slipped his badge case. He was black, the color of milk chocolate, with a tired, oval face and restless brown eyes. “That's Ranger Captain John Goodnight. He's authorized to carry a firearm, and if he says the man had a gun and he had no choice but to shoot him that what's your report's to say.”
Both officers looked first at the man who spoke then back to Goodnight. “You're John Goodnight?” the smaller one asked with disbelief.
“That's right.”
“Sorry to have disturbed you, Sir.” The cops exchanged looks again then quickly backed away.
“Hello, John.”
“Clarence. It's nice to see you.” The pair shook hands. “I heard you made deputy chief. Congratulations. What are you doing out with the troops?”
The man in the suit smiled and seemed pleased Goodnight remembered his promotion. “Just keeping my hand in. From what I understand you better get to the hospital. Just drop by the department in the morning to give a short statement. Everything will be taken care of.”
Goodnight's lips were dry, like parchment. As he started up the street to get his car he heard the smaller cop say, “Jesus Christ!! John Goodnight! I thought he was dead.”
~
The last time Goodnight was at St. Jerome's Hospital was the night Flo died. The smell of the place, the same mix of patients and concerned family brought the memories back to him lividly.
Flo had not wanted to spend a moment longer than necessary in the hospital and though she had known for weeks she was dying she had waited until nearly the last day before letting Goodnight carry her there. Even then, though she was in great pain, she had insisted the drip morphine be held to a minimum so that her mind remained clear until the end.
It was the most awful two days and nights of Goodnight's life and the only solace he had eventually taken from it was the comfort that Flo had died without experiencing the loss of their only child. That came four years later and Goodnight had born the pain alone.
Goodnight sat in the trauma center waiting room and removed his hat considering it peculiar that it had not once fallen from his head. He wiped his brow and held the despair tightly inside where it formed a hard knot in his gut.
When Flo ha
d been dying he had wished that he was a more religious man. He knew others drew comfort from their religious beliefs and he would have felt less a hypocrite asking a God he did not believe in to spare Flo, first her life, then later the pain. He considered praying again but didn't. What would happen, would happen. If there was a God he certainly didn't concern Himself with such mundane affairs as the stabbing of a barmaid, no matter how much she meant to John Goodnight.
There was a precocious flaxen haired boy of about four across the waiting room from him. He had wandered into every corner of the place over the space of three hours and noisily consumed two soft drinks, spilling as much on himself as he managed to drink. Finally he sat next to his exhausted mother. “That man has a gun, Mommy,” he said pointing with his finger at Goodnight.
The weary mother glanced up, took in Goodnight's black suit, string tie, narrow rimmed Stetson in a moment. “He's a ranger honey. He has to carry a gun. Now hush and try to sleep.” But the boy sat upright next to his mother and stared across the room, his eyes fixed on the small portion of the pistol and tooled leather holster he could make out.
“Is there a John Goodnight here?” a middle-aged woman said loudly shortly after four in the morning. Goodnight rose and approached the woman, removing his hat and said who he was. “I'm Dr. Sipe. Miss Herrera told me you would be here.”
“How is she?”
“It was very close,” she said, every year of her life written on her exhausted face. She had a pale complexion and was stout without being overweight. “I'd like to kiss those paramedics for not wasting time at the scene with her. If they had she'd be dead. As it is she is in critical but stable condition and unless there is an unexpected turn for the worse in the next few hours I think she'll be fine.”
“Can I see her?”
“No. She's sedated and mustn't be disturbed. I suggest you go home and get some rest. You should call first, but I think she'll be allowed a short visit tomorrow night if all continues as it is.”
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