Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows (35 page)

He mulled this over. “So long as I don’t have to wear a tie,” he conceded at last, grudgingly.

Neither of us wore ties. In fact we wore Levi’s which were all we had, Jake complementing his with a tight black turtleneck that looked so sexy he could have modeled for the Under Gear catalog.

We kicked off the celebration with drinks in the cozy saloon-bar and then moved out onto the verandah for dinner. It was a lovely, mild evening; outside heaters worked overtime to keep it that way. Lost mines, rattlesnakes and dead bodies all seemed like something that happened to other people in distant galaxies.

“How’s your book coming?” Jake inquired, making civilized conversation halfway through his delice de veau.

“It’s coming,” I said, reaching for the thirty-dollar bottle of Merlot. “What were all those phone calls you were making this afternoon?”

“Just checking on a couple of ideas.”

“Like?”

He pushed his glass my way. I filled it and signaled the waiter for another bottle.

I expected Jake to brush me off, tell me not to worry my pretty little head, but he said finally, “The problem is we don’t have an ID for your stinker in the barn. Most homicides are solved within forty-eight hours, because most of the time there’s a known connection between the perp and vic.” He explained, “Cops ask themselves what would someone have to gain by the vic’s death? Who profits? But if we don’t know the vic, it’s hard to draw a connection.”

“We know about Ted Harvey.”

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He sighed, but apparently decided to let it ride.

I swallowed a forkful of my coq au vin, and proposed, “Suppose Harvey’s death has nothing to do with drug running?”

He mulled this over. “Your supposition is based on what?”

“On the fact that someone was searching Harvey’s trailer.”

“I’m not tracking.”

“What would they be searching for?”

“Harvey,” Jake said unhesitatingly. “Or money. What do you think they were searching for?”

“Jake, if we were dealing with drug runners don’t you think their approach would be more direct? Do drug lords typically waste time playing with snakes and knocking people out? Wouldn’t they just come in with automatic weapons and mow us down?”

“You’ve seen way too many Steven Seagal movies.”

I choked on my wine. “Whose fault is that? Besides, I think handling a rattlesnake demands a certain amount of expertise. You don’t just buy them at pet stores. You have to find one, first off.”

“Maybe.”

“What do we know about Harvey? He was a doper, yes, but he was also a small-time crook not above trying his hand at fraud. Maybe he got ambitious.”

“You think Harvey did the DB in the barn?”

I moved the candle aside to see his face better. “I don’t know. But you heard Marnie Starr say Harvey was boasting about a big score. What does that sound like?”

“A drug deal.”

“Forget about the pot for a minute,” I said, nettled. “What else does it sound like?”

“What?”

I pushed my dish out of the way. “That’s what we have to figure out.”

Jake shook his head and carved another hunk off his veal.

“I’ve been thinking about that corpse in the barn,” I said.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“It’s a small town. How come nobody has claimed him?”

“Maybe he’s not from around here.”

“Then how did he get here? Where’s his car? The sheriff must have checked against missing person reports.”

“I’m sure you’ve got a theory.”

“Maybe no one knows he’s missing yet.”

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Josh Lanyon

A busboy whisked away my plate. I leaned forward on my elbows. “Maybe no one knows he’s missing because until today everyone thought they knew where he was,” I offered.

Jake looked up then, his expression wry. “Dr. Livingston, I presume?”

“You think it’s crazy?”

He floored me by saying, “No. The thought occurred to me today too. I guess we ought to have Billingsly get someone from the site to take a look at John Doe.”

The waiter brought the dessert tray and Jake selected a white and dark chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce. I ordered the Hot Brandy Flip which turned out to be three parts brandy and one part flip. A couple of swigs and I started wondering if Jake’s mouth would taste like dark chocolate or raspberry?

To distract myself from my incredible shrinking jeans, I questioned, “So what’s the deal with turning forty?”

Jake shrugged.

“You thought you’d be a lieutenant by now?”

“Nah.” He met my eyes briefly. “I just thought I’d be ... I don’t know.”

I made a wild guess. “Married?”

His eyes met mine. “Yeah, maybe. I guess I expected to have kids by now. My own family.”

“Kids?” I echoed.

He said defensively, “I like kids. I’m good with kids.”

“You are?”

“I’ve got nieces and nephews.”

Jake’s biological time clock was ticking. Who’d a thunk it? I sighed.

“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll have your baby.”

He stared at me, unamused.

“It’s a joke,” I explained. “The truth is, I can’t have babies. My doctor told me.”

“See, you say I don’t communicate, but when I do ....”

Damn. A billy club right between the eyes. I blinked at him a couple of times. “Sorry,” I said. “I guess I don’t get it.”

His eyes looked amber in the candlelight. “You don’t care that you’ll never have kids?

Your family line ends with you?”

“Probably a wise decision, don’t you think?” At his expression I admitted, “Oh, hell. I’m not the paternal kind. Kids make me nervous. Kids and small dogs.”

Jake finished his wine. The delicate crystal stem looked effete in his large, tanned hand.

It was a hand designed for beer bottles and boxing gloves.

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“So why don’t you get married?”

He said finally, “I plan to.”

Razors to my wounded heart, as Will put it in Titus. I drained my brandy and inquired,

“Anyone I know?”

He probably would not have answered anyway, but right then the waiter brought the bill. I reached for the leather book.

“Thanks for dinner,” Jake said.

“My pleasure,” says I.

* * * * *

“Hey, they’re playing Captain Blood,” I said. “We could catch the ten o’clock showing.”

Jake, who hadn’t spoken since we left the restaurant, said, “What’s Captain Blood? Tell me it’s not another pirate movie.”

“You’ll love it. It’s got Errol Flynn, your favorite not gay actor.”

“What is it with you and pirates?”

“I don’t know. My deep and abiding love of the ocean, I guess.”

“Oh, what the hell,” grumbled Jake and we pulled into the parking lot behind the theater, Jake no doubt hoping to prevent any further spilling of conversational guts.

The theater smelled of old popcorn. The red velvet furnishings were as tacky as the Coke-stained floor, but the seats were Jake-sized and comfortable, and it was all ours, except for the row of teens making out in the back.

For 119 minutes we lost ourselves in the black and white swashbuckling romance of 1935’s Captain Blood, starring Flynn and Olivia de Havilland who early on proclaims herself familiar with pirates and their “wicked ways: cruelle and eville ...” At which point Jake, his carcass arranged so as not to touch mine at any potentially interlocking body part, snorted and offered his popcorn.

* * * * *

“Sorry. Was I snoring?” Gingerly I swiveled my neck.

“It’s more of a droning.”

At least I wasn’t drooling. I straightened up in the cramped seat.

222

Josh Lanyon

We pulled into the front yard. Jake parked and we got out into the frigid night air. The wind blowing off the distant mountains tasted of snow. The clouds had cleared and the sky was brilliant with stars. Porch light spilled out over the steps and front yard.

When it happened we were walking toward the house; I was slightly ahead of Jake who was jingling the car keys in his hand. Something zipped past my ear followed by a crack that echoed through the mountains.

Behind me Jake uttered an oath, and the next I knew I was hitting the ground. Hard.

There’s nothing like being tackled when you’re not prepared. And so much for all those Tai Chi exercises and instructions about sliding your palms and bending your elbows. I slammed down, the wind knocked out of me, with Jake on top. A second rifle shot split the night. The sound seemed to ricochet around the deserted ranch yard, rolling on forever.

I was trying to work out what was happening when Jake raised himself off me and fired his 9mm over my head. This took out the cheerful welcoming porch light.

“Move,” Jake yelled in my ear. I could only hear him muffledly, due to the fact that I was half-deaf from the blast of the automatic a couple of inches from my eardrum.

Jake rolled off me and I got to my feet, sort of, and did a four-limbed running scramble for the porch steps. Not more than several yards but it felt like the LA marathon -- or a gauntlet.

Every second I expected to feel bullets thud into my body, tearing muscle, bone, vital organs. There’s nothing more frightening than being shot at -- except maybe having a knife held at your throat. The fact that I had now experienced both was not a good thing.

As I reached the porch there was another shot. Jake, right on my heels, made an inarticulate sound and then yelled, “Stay low.”

Yeah, no kidding. I had my keys out, though I didn’t remember fumbling for them. I knelt in front of the door, jamming one key after another in the damn lock until I found the right one.

More shots. One hit the porch post behind us. The other rang off one of the cowbells hanging from the homemade chimes in the pine.

“Any time,” Jake remarked a little breathlessly.

I pushed the door open and he shoved me into the room and slammed the door behind us.

No more shots. Just the sound of our panting filling the long room, tree branches scratching against the outside walls, the house creaking.

“Why didn’t you fire back?” I gasped between breaths.

“He’s got a rifle, probably with a scope. I’ve got a handgun. He could be half a mile away.” Jake scooted over toward the window, a bulky shadow in the unlit room.

“Can you see anything?”

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“No.”

We waited while the wind moaned down the chimney. Jake muttered, “If he’s got any brains he’s halfway back to town.”

“Or back to camp.”

“Good point.”

He rose, keeping clear of the window and yanked shut the heavy drapes, cutting off any outside view of the room. I did the same on my side. When the room was secured Jake said,

“Okay, turn on a lamp. But -- Adrien?”

“Yeah?” I paused, my hand on the switch.

“Don’t freak. I’ve been hit.”

“What?” I snapped on the light.

Jake was on his feet, and sure enough, his left sleeve was soaked with something darker than the black knit material. Something that glistened in the gentle lamplight. The blood trickled down his hand, which he was wiping on his jeans.

“It looks worse than it is.”

“Sure, just a flesh wound,” I said stupidly.

“It is just a flesh wound.” He gave me a sharp look. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

I shook my head.

“Because you’re sheet-white.”

“Just my girlish complexion.” I got a grip on myself and said, “We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

“No. What kind of first aid kit do you have around here?”

“You’re going to a hospital, Jake,” I said. “I’m not in the mood to play doctor.”

“For this scratch?” He set his gun on the table and began struggling with his shirt.

I tore my eyes away from the Beretta. “You’re damn right! You could get blood poisoning or lead poisoning or lose too much blood.”

There was such a lot of blood. Blood smeared his breast and spilled out the ugly plowed flesh of his upper arm, in a slow but steady trickle. A fat drop hit the floor and splattered.

The sight of it oxidized my brain.

“You’re going to the hospital now.” I headed for the door, and Jake, half in and half out of his shirt, intercepted me.

“Hold on. Maybe you’re right, but let’s do this by the book. We’ve got to make sure he’s gone.”

“He’s gone! He’s not going to come after us. He knows you’ve got a gun. We’ve got a phone. He’ll think we’ve called the sheriffs.”

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Why the hell weren’t we calling the sheriffs?

“Let’s do this by the book,” Jake repeated. “We’ll go for the Bronco, it’s closer. Got your keys?”

I held my keys up. They were jingling. I lowered them.

Jake returned to the window. He parted the drapes a crack and stood motionless, holding his injured arm.

It felt like forever before he gave me a twisty smile and said, “Stand by for action.”

I opened the door. Injured or not, Jake moved fast. He brushed by me, and was out the door first. If I had been on my own, nothing on Earth would have got me outside. I’d have stayed put and called for the cavalry. But no way was Jake going out there without me. I followed him out onto the porch.

Nothing moved in the yard. The wind rippled through the waves of grass and wildflowers beyond.

“Stay low, stick to cover,” Jake instructed. “Give me the keys.”

“You can’t drive.”

“I’m going first.” As I opened my mouth to argue he plucked the keys out of my unresisting fingers and slipped out into the windswept darkness.

I followed Jake along the porch. He climbed over the rail and dropped down to the ground. I followed suit, hitting the hard-packed dirt with a thud that jarred my shins.

I imitated Jake’s awkward running crouch to the old water trough. We were still a few feet from the Bronco. Jake motioned me to stay put.