by Sharon Pape
“There’s a slip of paper in there with my cell phone and home phone numbers on it,” she said.
“I’ll give you a call as soon as I hear anything,” BB promised as they reached the lobby. “Take care now, adieu, hasta la vista.” With a wave of his hand, he headed off toward the elevators.
1878
The Arizona Territory
When Drummond left the churchyard, he turned his horse southeast, in the direction of Goose Flats. During the desperate search for Betsy Jensen, her father believed Trask had taken her to the silver mining town that had sprung up there. The town, consisting of dozens of hastily erected tents and several frame buildings that weren’t favored to survive a good wind, didn’t have an official name yet and couldn’t be found on any map. But that didn’t stop a steady influx of prospectors with the glint of silver fever in their eyes, along with prostitutes, gamblers, and businessmen of questionable ethics.
Ironically, although the marshal had not agreed with Jensen earlier, when he considered all the places that Trask might have headed after killing Betsy, Goose Flats came up the winner. The town’s population changed by the hour, and no one cared much about his neighbor, as long as that neighbor had nothing of interest or value. Aside from the infrequent visits of the territorial marshals, there was no one charged with enforcing the law or keeping the peace, since the town didn’t exist as far as the government was concerned. That was likely to change before too long, but while it lasted, Goose Flats was the perfect place for a killer to hide out.
The only question in Drummond’s mind was how long Trask could go before the need to abduct another young girl drove him out of the shadows. Betsy had been his third victim, but the intervals between her abduction and the previous two were all different. There was no way to predict when he might strike again. Only one thing was certain: if he was in Goose Flats, he wouldn’t stay once the urge hit him. Families with young girls were in short supply there.
Drummond reached the town at dusk on the third day of his journey. He’d stowed his marshal’s badge in his pocket ahead of time. The folks in a place like Goose Flats weren’t likely to open up to a lawman the same as they might a fellow seeker of fortune.
There were no street lamps, so the only light that spilled onto the dry, rutted road at the edge of the town came from a few oil lamps and candles in the windows of the raw-boned buildings. The saloon was easy to pick out in the center of town. The large, two-story structure was glowing with light, like a sun to the lesser buildings arrayed around it.
A makeshift sign nailed over the doorway read simply, “Palmer’s.” The noise issuing from inside was as dense as any the marshal had heard in towns twice the size. It was a good bet that most of the population was in attendance. The question was whether or not Trask was among them.
Generally speaking, Drummond didn’t much care if he was able to take a suspect alive or if he had no choice but to shoot him. He’d never yet killed a man who gave himself up, but in Trask’s case he might make an exception.
He dismounted and tied the horse to the hitching post. He walked in with his hand poised over his gun and took a minute to get the lay of the place and its occupants. Trask wasn’t there. Of course, that didn’t account for the rooms upstairs. To the right, a bar ran the length of the room with men two deep knocking back shots of whiskey and trading stories, each more raucous than the next. The center of the room was crammed with tables, several of them with card games in play. The clientele was all men. The half dozen women Drummond spotted were clearly working for the establishment. With low-cut bodices and heavily rouged cheeks, they hovered over the customers, sat on laps and flirted with prospective bedmates. They all looked to be on the downhill side of thirty, a few even older, saloon girls past their prime who couldn’t find work elsewhere.
One of the women was standing at the bottom of the staircase, leaning against the newel post. Drummond wound his way to her through the maze of tables.
“Hello there,” she said once he was close enough to hear her above the din.
“Ma’am.” He dipped his head in polite greeting, as if she were a lady he was passing on the streets of a finer town. As far as he knew, manners had never hurt a man, and they were likely to encourage a woman to let her guard down a bit.
“A gentleman,” she said with a saucy smile that told him she didn’t entirely buy the act. “There aren’t too many of your kind around here.” From her smile, Drummond could see that she’d been quite beautiful once, and she still held herself as if she remembered what it felt like to attract the attentions of a man.
“Now that’s a downright shame, ma’am.”
“Call me Marie, Mr. . . . ?”
“Emmet’ll do.” He was sorry to give her a phony name, but he couldn’t have Trask finding out any sooner than necessary that he was on his trail.
“Pleased to meet you, Emmet,” she said with the hint of a curtsey. “What can I do for you tonight?”
He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. It was a sketch of Trask he’d cut from a wanted poster. The artist had created a fair likeness of the man, from the eyes as black and empty as the bore of a gun barrel, to the chin that melted into a thick stump of a neck. He held it out to her.
“That’s my cousin, John Trask. I’m supposed to be meetin’ up with him here. Any chance you’ve seen him?”
Marie appeared surprised by the turn the conversation had taken, but she studied the picture for a moment. “He’s been in here all right,” she said with obvious distaste. “You might not want to be advertisin’ that you’re related.”
“Why’s that?”
“He was rough with a couple of the girls when he couldn’t, you know, perform. Said it was their fault. He got into a nasty tussle with Mr. Palmer over it. Palmer’s guys threw him out and told him he’d be shot on sight if he so much as stuck his nose in here again.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Two nights ago. But like I said, you’re well rid of him.” Marie smiled and sidled closer to him. “Surely there’s something more I can do for a fine gentleman like yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am, there surely would be, if I didn’t have some serious business that needs tendin’ to.”
“I imagine whatever that business is, it can wait till mornin’, Emmet.”
“Not long ago I might have agreed with you. But temptin’ as your offer is, it’s been my sad experience that mixin’ business with pleasure can cost a man too dearly. I found out the hard way, you don’t gamble with what ain’t yours to lose.”
She reached up and touched his stubbled cheek, letting her fingers drift down across his lips. “There’s no work to be done tonight,” she said softly.
Drummond grabbed her hand and yanked it away a bit more roughly than he’d intended. He saw the surprise and rejection register in her eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured. It wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault. “You take care now.” He touched the brim of his hat to her and made his way to the door without looking back.
He felt oddly as if he’d found Trask, then lost him again, all in the space of a few minutes. The stone weight he’d carried in his gut for days was heavier, an anchor that could pull him down and drown him on dry land. As weary as he was, he wanted nothing more than to head out before the killer could put more miles between them. Since his horse harbored no such desire and was sorely in need of food and rest, the marshal made a middling peace with waiting until dawn.
Outside, night had settled in, its hem tucked neatly into the horizon. Drummond untied the chestnut and led him back to the stable they’d passed at the edge of town. He’d see to the horse’s feed and quarters, and with the proprietor’s permission, he’d bunk down there as well.
Chapter 26
Vince came for Rory at exactly six o’clock. It was the first time their schedules had meshed for a Saturday night together. But despite juggling a job and an unsanctioned investigation, she’d made time to see him twi
ce since their first date. There’d been a hurried weekday lunch of clams and calamari outdoors at a little restaurant near the harbor in Port Jefferson, and a decadent Sunday dinner at one of the gourmet steak houses that seemed to have cropped up on every other block in Huntington.
The time they spent together always flew by, and Vince seemed as amazed by it as Rory was. She’d confided to Leah that she thought this relationship might really have legs. Leah was thrilled for her, demanding details and vicariously reliving the romantic, early days with her husband.
Zeke was somewhat less than thrilled. He seemed to begrudge her the time she spent away from the house and him. When she asked him point blank why he was acting like such a curmudgeon, he disappeared in a huff and didn’t appear again for two days.
Rory resolved to be more diplomatic about what she said to him in the future. For all she knew, lacking a corporeal body eroded a person’s self-confidence. After all, he was supposed to be in another realm among blithe spirits, not here interacting with earthbound souls.
On that Saturday afternoon before her date, she and Zeke were sitting in the living room, strategizing about her upcoming interview with Grace Logan. The meeting with Gail and Jeremy’s mother hadn’t been easy to arrange, since so much of her time was consumed with doctors’ appointments. In fact, the last time Rory had been scheduled to see her, the aide who attended to her had called at the last minute to say that her charge wasn’t up to having company. Rory didn’t have any choice but to be understanding and wish her better days soon. Like the others she’d already interviewed, Grace had no obligation to see her.
Rory was so engrossed in her discussion with Zeke, that when she remembered to look at her watch, she saw it was almost five thirty. She excused herself as politely as possible, but Zeke’s demeanor immediately changed. His smile evaporated, and after he’d halfheartedly wished her a good time, he disappeared before she could even thank him. She raced up the stairs to put on some makeup and change her clothes, feeling a little guilty about her hurried exit. No, she told herself firmly, she couldn’t be expected to spend her life mollycoddling an apparition.
Still, it wasn’t until she was ensconced in the leather cushions of Vince’s car that she was finally able to exorcise Zeke from her mind and focus on what promised to be a wonderful evening. Vince had scored tickets, third row center, to the production of West Side Story being mounted at the summer stock theater in Bellport. Rory was sure they had not come cheaply, since the theater had sold out an hour after reviewers compared the show favorably to the original Broadway production.
Vince had also made reservations for dinner at one of the upscale south shore restaurants that thrived because of their proximity to the theater. Sitting across the table from him, Rory felt wonderfully buoyant yet at ease, as if she were exactly where she was supposed to be. It seemed impossible that she’d known him for barely a month. But from day one it had been so easy to be with him. There’d been no posturing between them, no trying to embroider upon who they were, no vying to sound more intellectual or more accomplished. And by now they’d asked and answered all the most basic questions, and if they still didn’t know what flavor ice cream the other preferred, or which baseball team they rooted for, it was fun to make each new discovery. For Rory it was like coloring in the outlines of their relationship.
The evening was delightful, from the crusted rack of lamb to the cassis sorbet for dessert, to the play that surpassed every one of their expectations. It was almost midnight when they drove out of the parking lot. Vince tuned the satellite radio to a classical station and by the time they reached the expressway, they’d fallen into an easy, companionable silence. Because of the hour, the road carried only a small percentage of its usual complement of vehicles, so Rory found it curious when Vince exited the expressway and made his way to the Northern State Parkway instead.
She thought about asking him why he’d done that, but she was too sleepy to really care. Her eyes were beginning to close when Vince’s voice brought her fully awake.
“Rory, is there any reason why someone would be following you?” He was peering into the rearview mirror. Even though it was dark in the car, Rory could see that he was frowning and that his mouth was set in a tight line.
She twisted around in her seat and saw a pair of headlights a few car lengths behind them. “What makes you think we’re being followed?” she asked to give herself time to think. Damn, she didn’t want to lie to him just when everything was going so well. Unfortunately she’d never mentioned the investigation she’d undertaken, and this hardly seemed like the best time to bring it up.
“There’s a black Camry behind us,” he said tersely, “and it’s been there since we left the parking lot. Whenever I switch lanes, he switches lanes. I switch highways, he switches highways.”
“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” she said, no longer the least bit sleepy.
“Well, we’re going to find out.” They were coming up on the Commack Road exit. At the last moment, Vince swung the car out of the middle lane, across the empty right lane and onto the exit ramp. Rory grabbed for the door armrest to steady herself, but the Mercedes responded without even a screech of complaint.
Vince looked in the mirror again. “The bastard’s still with us, whoever he is.”
Okay, it was time for confession. “I guess it might have something to do with a little investigative work that I’ve been doing for a friend,” she said, as if it were only a remote and rather crazy possibility.
“You never mentioned anything about that before.”
As they passed beneath a streetlight, Rory could see the tension working in his jaw. She didn’t have to turn around again to know that the Camry was still there.
“It didn’t seem important before. I mean, we were just getting to know one another and all.”
“Who are you investigating for this friend—the Mob? Colombian drug lords?” Vince didn’t sound as if he were trying to make a joke.
“Hardly.” Rory tried for a little laugh, but it came out more like a croak. “If it was someone like that,” she went on quickly, “we’d be dodging bullets, not cars. This is nothing but a half-assed effort to scare me off.”
“I don’t scare that easily,” Vince said, “and no one gets away with threatening a woman who’s with me!” He made a sharp left onto Jericho Turnpike just as the traffic light turned red.
Rory heard the squeal of the Camry’s tires as it took the turn after them. Things were escalating. Whoever was following her had never before risked being pulled over for a traffic stop. Where was a cop when you needed one? She choked down a nervous giggle that was trying to make its way up her throat.
“Maybe we could lose him in some of the back streets,” she suggested.
“Don’t you worry about it,” Vince said, taking one hand off the wheel to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I know just how to handle this.”
Under other circumstances, Rory would have pulled rank along with the gun in her purse, and made it clear that as a Suffolk County detective she would be calling the shots. Mac would have laughed at the pun; he’d always been a great fan of them. Thinking about him brought Rory a sense of calm and clarity. This was not the time to squabble over who took the lead. Later she would let Vince know that she was not a damsel in distress, nor was she looking for a knight to rescue her. For some women, having a man take care of them might be the answer to their fondest prayers, but for her it was a deal breaker. It occurred to her that in some ways men hadn’t changed much in the century between Zeke’s generation and Vince’s.
Vince made a right turn onto Park Avenue, and the Camry stayed close behind them. Rory still hadn’t figured out what he was planning to do. She hoped it would be obvious soon, because she just couldn’t play the passive woman for much longer.
She was about to demand some information when he made a left turn into the parking lot of the Second Police Precinct. As he slowed to a stop, they both turned around in t
ime to see the Camry start to follow them, suddenly realize where he was about to go, and swing in a wide arc back onto Park Avenue, narrowly missing a light pole and two other cars.
Chapter 27
Vince dropped Rory at her house early Sunday morning, after making her one of his special omelets. One bite and she proclaimed it the best omelet she’d ever had. It took some playful coercion on her part to wrest the secret recipe from him. He finally admitted that it was as simple as using two eggs instead of three, while not cutting down on the amount of vegetables and cheese. The result was an explosion of flavors with the eggs only playing a supporting role.
Although Rory wanted a shower and some fresh clothing when she got home, she first checked to see if she had any e-mail. When the light flickered, she looked up from the screen to find Zeke leaning against the bookcase across from her desk.
“Welcome home,” he said in a tone that fell somewhere between sincere and sarcastic. Rory couldn’t judge much from his face, since it was as expressionless as a poorly wrought statue.
“Thank you,” she said, determined not to go looking for an argument.
“I’m surprised you didn’t take a change of clothin’ when you left last night.”
No ambiguity there. “It was a last minute—” She stopped herself midsentence. Why on earth was she making excuses for staying the night with Vince? She was an adult living in the twenty-first century. It was Zeke’s problem, not hers, if he was offended by the realities of life in this era.
“Look,” she said, managing to keep her voice pleasant, “I’m not going to discuss this with you, because it’s really none of your business.”
Zeke seemed momentarily taken aback by the bluntness of her words. She could see in his eyes that he was backpedaling, trying to change course before he made matters worse.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked lamely.