by L C Hayden
As Bronson drove down the narrow streets of Two Forks, his thoughts returned to Pedro’s words. “Formula . . . sell . . . duck.” What was the connection?
eighteen
Henry Clark lived on the historic side of town. Once the elegant home of cattle baron Randolph Schilsom, the house had been modernized without forsaking its Western look. Its surrounding gardens had been restored to their full splendor, providing stunning visual effects. Bronson stepped back and took it all in. The house was elaborate and flamboyant, something Carol would love, something Bronson didn’t care for.
Working for the pharmaceutical lab paid well. Both Clark and Randig had homes that stood as testimonies to that fact. Why, then, would Mitch be tempted to sell the formula? Unless, of course, retirement pay wasn’t up to par. Bronson made a mental note to check on the retirement pay system.
He rang the doorbell. A maid opened the door. She wore a frilly white apron over a black dress. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Henry Clark.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I wasn’t aware I needed one. This is urgent. Please tell him I’m here. I’m sure he’ll see me. My name is Harry Bronson.”
The maid led him into the foyer. “Wait here. I’ll talk to Mr. Clark.”
From where Bronson stood, he could see into the living room. The interior wore the same grand manner as the exterior. The marble fireplace and the heavy gold mirror hanging above it blended perfectly with the elaborate ceiling cornices. Chandeliers graced the frescoed ceilings while graceful door frames lured the visitor in.
“Bronson.”
He turned to face Henry Clark. “It’s nice outside. Let’s go talk on the patio.”
Clark opened the French doors and stepped out. Bronson followed him. They sat in the ornate wrought-iron table-and-chair set. The maid brought a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses with ice. Bronson would have preferred coffee.
Clark poured himself a glass. “I told you everything I know. Why are you here?”
Bronson swallowed the urge to return the rudeness. “Today, someone died in my arms.”
Clark paused with the drink halfway to his mouth. “Died? Who?”
“You probably know him. He worked for the same research center you do. His name was Pedro Lopez. He was only seventeen years old.”
Clark set the glass down and stood up. “Pedro? Yes, I know him—knew him.” He locked his hands behind his back and paced. “I can’t believe he’s dead.” He stopped in front of the table but didn’t sit down. Instead, he reached for his glass and took a large swig. The dull look in his eyes and the tautness around his mouth revealed his turmoil. He didn’t ask how Pedro died, Bronson noted.
“Is that why you’re here, to tell me Pedro died? I’m sorry he’s dead, but I hardly knew him well. What does his death have to do with me?”
Bronson leaned back in the seat and scanned the surrounding gardens. His imagination took him back in time. The sheer glamour of the foliage reminded Bronson of the gardens depicted in the grand scenes of a movie about the Renaissance. “You and Mitch—you were workin’ on a special project.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So tell me about it.”
Clark frowned at Bronson and sat back down. “How’s that any of your business?”
Bronson smiled, leaned back, and admired the row of multicolored lantanas that graced the walkway. His gaze traveled back to Clark. “Humor me.”
Clark glared at Bronson and drank his lemonade.
Bronson glared back.
Again, Clark frowned and shook his head. “We came this close to finalizing the formula that would wipe the years off people’s faces.” He squeezed his thumb and index together.
“What happened?”
Clark shrugged. “Mitch died. That’s what happened.”
“So it’s unfinished.”
“As of now, yes. But I plan to pick up where we left off. It’s just a matter of time.”
Bronson reached over and poured himself some lemonade. “What if I told you Mitch found the answer?”
Clark’s eyes widened—in fear or bewilderment, Bronson couldn’t tell. Seconds later, his bland look returned. “He couldn’t have. I would have known about it.”
“You sure now?” A movement to Bronson’s right caught his eye. He turned very slightly so as not to be noticed. He scanned the area, but didn’t see anyone.
“Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“What if I told you that not only did Mitch successfully complete the formula, he planned to sell it to a rival company?”
Clark’s eyes mirrored confusion, then slowly transformed into genuine astonishment, or maybe panic. “Then I would say you’re either misinformed or you’re allowing your imagination to run away with you.” His voice came as a hoarse murmur.
“Why would you say that?”
As Clark reached for his lemonade, his hand trembled. He cleared his throat. “Because even though Mitch and I were not the best of friends, I knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t do something like that.”
“The way I see it, sellin’ the formula would bring him millions of dollars. A nice cushiony sum that would ease his worries. You said he felt apprehensive about retirin’.”
“Everybody is apprehensive about retiring. That doesn’t mean they’ll sell out.”
A maid Bronson hadn’t seen stepped outside. She carried a bucket of water and a sponge. She hosed a window, dipped the sponge in the bucket, and wiped the glass. Bronson gestured her way. “If you had to live on your retirement pay only, I bet you couldn’t afford her.”
“Not her, or the gardener, or the other two servants. What’s your point?”
The maid finished wiping the window and moved onto the next. “That’s why you haven’t retired? Pay is lousy?”
“It’s adequate, but certainly way below what I’m accustomed to. How’s this relevant or any of your business?
Bronson picked up his glass of lemonade and raised it as if in a toast.
“I continue to work because I enjoy my job,” Clark said. “The formula isn’t complete and that provides me with a challenge.”
Again a movement by the bushes caught Bronson’s eye, but when he glanced that way, he saw no one. “Let’s assume for a minute that Mitch was willin’ to sell. If you were him, who would you sell it to?”
Clark tightened his features like a fist. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “I would have no idea.” He set his empty glass down and stood up. “It’s late. I still have things to do. This isn’t getting us anywhere. I don’t understand why you insist on frightening Linda.”
“Maybe you’re right. Let’s hope so.” Bronson remained seated. “Just one more thing. Before Pedro died, he said the word duck. Does that mean anything to you?”
Clark’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You talked to him before he died? What else did he say?”
“Nothing much. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”
Clark shook his head and looked down. “No, sorry.”
The maid finished her task and moved to the side of the house, away from Bronson’s view. “That pond in front of the research lab, does it have any statues of ducks?”
“No, but we do have ducks that come and go, depending on the time of year.”
Bronson watched the bushes sway. “About Mitch selling that formula.”
“I told you before, that’s ridiculous.” Clark frowned and sat back down.
“And why’s that?”
“We’ve been through this.”
“Humor me.”
“For one, the formula isn’t his to sell. The patent to the formula is under his and my name jointly. He can’t sell it without my consent, but even putting that aside, the lab owns the rights.”
“So if Mitch sold the formula—”
Clark closed his eyes and shook his head. He rubbed his eyebrows as if attempting to chase a headache away. “He wouldn’t.”
/> “If he planned to sell the formula, the one who would lose the most is the company itself.”
Clark stared at Bronson.
“I suppose Mr. McGory and Mr. Stein are real people,” Bronson said.
Clark flashed him a look that clearly meant obviously.
“What can you tell me about them?” By now the bushes stood still, but that told Bronson more than their movement.
Clark poured himself the last of the lemonade. “I don’t know what to say about them. They’re rich and powerful. Mr. Stein is the head behind the organization, the true chief. Mitch and I are—were—directly accountable to him.” Clark shrugged. “I guess I’ll still be reporting to him, which is the part I don’t care for. He runs the lab like a tight ship. We have to justify every single penny we spend. I personally feel that Mr. Stein is the one who makes all the decisions. Mr. McGory just goes along for the ride. Mr. Stein is a worrywart. Mr. McGory is more relaxed.”
“Worrywart?”
“Yeah. Sometimes during our meetings, he goes over and over the same items. The way he talks sometimes makes it seem the company is ready to collapse.”
Bronson retrieved his notebook and jotted down the new information. “And is it?”
“I have no idea. I’m part of the lab, not an accountant. All I know is that in the past few months, the company let several employees go.”
“You said you and Mitch were very close to finalizing the formula.”
“Yes.”
“How long until you finish?”
“A month? Maybe less. Maybe more. Close enough.”
“Then what happens?”
“I’ll turn the results in to Mr. Stein and that will generate big bucks for the company and for both Mr. Stein and Mr. McGory.”
“Exactly how much?”
“Initially, at least three hundred million, but billions of dollars in sales after that.”
Once again the bushes moved. Bronson scooted his chair, making it easier for him to get up. “You’ve got a beautiful garden.”
“I think so, too.”
“I’m a bit of a plant bluff, but I don’t recognize those ones there.” He pointed to his right. “Mind if I take a closer look?” Within seconds, he reached the bright red flowers but went past them.
From behind him, he heard Clark ask, “What are you doing?”
Bronson stepped behind the bushes. He saw a man sitting on the ground, his hands covered with dirt.
The gardener looked at Bronson through startled eyes.
“Just wanted to let you know what a nice job you’re doing maintainin’ these gardens,” Bronson said.
The gardener nodded. “Thank you.” He returned to work.
* * * * *
That arrogant son-of-a-bitch knew.
Doc Ponce swept the papers off his desk and watched them float down to the floor. He picked up one, looked at it, and realized he didn’t need it. He crumpled it and threw it toward the trash. He missed. He kicked the trash can. It tumbled over.
Doc Ponce let out an angry growl that sounded like a duck quacking. He hated Bronson. The sooner he died, the better off Doc Ponce would be.
He had heard every single word Bronson said out there in the gardens, and also every word he hadn’t said. Bronson knew about selling the formula. He knew Mitch’s death hadn’t been an accident. His knowledge spelled danger for the entire operation.
He needed to be eliminated. Why hadn’t Carrier done him in? What was he waiting for?
Doc Ponce picked up his cell and called Carrier.
He answered on the first ring. “This better be important.”
“You killed Pedro.”
“Oh? He died? Too bad. Or maybe not. He was a punk. I did the world a favor.”
“He talked to Bronson before he died.”
“Yeah?”
“He said something about a duck. Do you know anything about that?”
Carrier burst out laughing. “Think about it.”
His superior attitude bothered Doc Ponce and he wished he could strangle the man. “How much does Bronson know?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. Why is he still alive? The Chief is paying you thousands of dollars to—”
“He’s paying me to do the job. I decide when and how to do it. Neither you nor the Chief have any business telling me that. It’ll be done at my leisure within my own time frame. Which reminds me, how’s Manuel?”
“Scared shitless. What do you expect?”
“He’s still with you?”
Doc Ponce knew what Carrier did to anyone who crossed him. “No, I took him to your cabin and locked him in the room. I followed your instructions to the T.”
“Nobody saw you?”
Did Carrier think he was a moron? “Of course not. The place is so damn isolated.”
“Did anybody follow you?”
“No, I made sure, just like you said. Manuel is tucked away safely and ready to be enjoyed at your will.”
Carrier disconnected and Doc Ponce heard the silence at the other end. His jaw ached as he clenched his teeth. He took several deep breaths. “Calm down,” he said aloud even though no one would hear him. “Calm down.”
He regained control and reached for the phone. This time, he dialed the Chief’s number.
nineteen
For the second time today, Bronson sat facing Marshall’s desk. “I’m here to tell you that I sort of bumped into Henry Clark.”
Marshall looked up toward the ceiling’s corner as though attempting to recall the name.
“Mitch’s lab partner,” Bronson said.
“Gotcha.” Marshall retrieved his notepad, clicked the pen, and looked at Bronson. “And how did you sort of happen to bump into Clark?”
“He was home.”
“Hmm.” He glared at Bronson and shook his head. “So tell me what Clark said.”
Bronson proceeded to tell him about the conversation he and Clark had.
Marshall waited until Bronson finished talking. He made the final notations, set the pen down, and looked at Bronson. “So you think McGory and/or Stein are at the bottom of this?”
“I think they’re worth paying a visit, and I think we need to find out if the company is financially stable.”
“We, Bronson? This may come as a shock to you, but I do know how to do my job.”
Bronson slowly nodded. “Of course you do. Sorry. It’s in my system, and I can’t seem to shake it.” He stood up. “I’m out of here.”
“Can’t say I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving.”
* * * * *
Bronson headed out of town via the less traveled road that would eventually hook up to Highway 18. By doing so, he’d drive past the area where Linda’s parents had met with their so-called accident. Linda told him that she and Mitch had erected two crosses on the side of the road. Bronson slowed down, hoping to find them.
If he did, he’d search the area—for what, he wasn’t sure, but maybe something would jump out. He drove down the narrow, winding road, focusing his attention mostly on the ditch. He glanced at the rearview mirror. Not a car in sight. He understood now how an overturned car could have remained unnoticed for a week on this desolate road.
He surveyed the area. Tall grass and occasional white firs and quaking aspens covered the rolling hills. Several dirt paths branching from the road weaved their way to barns, ranch houses, and other farm structures. If he didn’t find the crosses, he’d take one of the roads and ask the first farmer he encountered.
The sudden screeching of tires somewhere behind him grabbed Bronson’s attention. A beige sedan had pulled out from one of the branching roads. It skidded onto the highway, screaming toward Bronson.
Bronson took the gun from his belt and placed it on the seat next to him where it would be readily available. Being a Chief Special, he knew it would be more dangerous in a crowded elevator than on an open road. His best bet was to outrun the sedan.
He jammed t
he gas pedal to the floor.
The car behind him closed in.
Bronson flipped the cell phone open. The display read No Service. Shiiit. He dropped the phone and kept the pedal floored, but still the sedan narrowed the distance between them. His only option left meant driving like hell. Nothing new to him.
The sedan bumped him from behind, pulled back a bit, then rammed him harder.
Bronson braced himself. Just as the car was about to hit him again, he steered sharply to the right. His Honda left the pavement for the uneven, almost nonexistent shoulder. He fought for control over the car and brought it to a stop.
As the beige sedan zoomed past him, Bronson’s and Carrier’s eyes connected in the snap of a second. Carrier flashed an eerie smile that filled Bronson with dread. He shook himself and watched Carrier slam on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt. Then he reversed, heading at a high speed toward Bronson’s car.
Bronson grabbed the Chief Special, jumped out of the Honda, and dove for safety behind a tree. He aimed the gun and fired.
Carrier’s back passenger window burst, but that didn’t prevent Carrier from ramming into Bronson’s car. The impact caused the car to skid several feet downhill.
Carrier slid down in the seat, threw Bronson a finger, and sped away.
Bronson watched the sedan disappear. He knew he’d made a statement. He stepped away from the tree and assessed the damage. The front bumper looked like a raisin. He’d have a lot of explaining to do. He got in the car and started the engine. It coughed once but caught. Bronson threw the engine a kiss.
He popped out the empty shell, reloaded the gun, and replaced it in its holder. He took a deep breath, the cool air invigorating him. He felt thankful to be alive. He turned on the radio, found a classical station, and drove off. Within ten minutes he reached Highway 18, which headed toward Custer.
Now that Carrier had disappeared, anxiety gnawed at him. He reached down to the floor, retrieved the cell, and checked it. Finally, he had service. He called Marshall, told him what happened, and gave him Carrier’s approximate location.