Dirty Deeds (27 page)

She was wrong. She pulled out a plain manila envelope stuck far in the back of the third drawer. Inside was a thick bundle of paper pulled from a legal pad and held together with a binder clip. She flipped through page after page of the cryptic notes. At first glance, nothing made sense, but as she worked, she began to detect a pattern.

Papers in hand, she sat on the floor and spread the individual sheets out. Studying them carefully, she began to arrange them in a pattern that corresponded to the notes on each. Ten minutes later, she leaned back and sighed, a heavy weight sitting squarely across her shoulders.

"Harry, you sneaky bastard."

Had she not spent so much time around Harry, she'd have missed it. His shorthand by itself made little sense. Line it all up, and a schedule and timetable for drops, pick-ups, and payoffs emerged, ingenious, very clever, and very damning. But for the fiasco with James McDonald, chances were better than average Harry would have gotten away with his crimes for a lot of years.

He'd been in the drug trade since before she'd come to work for him. Since before Chris was shot. Combined with what she was certain the rifle would tell them, Harry Studhorse was about to go to jail for a very long time. Tears blurred her vision and she rubbed them away. Would there be anyone left in her world after tonight? The way things were going, no.

Louie gathered up her strength of will and all of the papers. She didn't have time to wallow in self-pity. Regardless of how she felt about Harry, she had a job to do. She put the stack of paper into the automatic document feed of the copier. She hit the button only to discover it didn't want to send her copies through; the small lighted display informed her that the machine was warming up. Shifting from foot to foot, she muttered "hurry up," while looking at the window.

An eternity later, the machine began to feed the sheets of paper through one at a time and the resulting copies collected in the tray. She wouldn't take any chances. Once the copies were done, she put Harry's originals back in the file cabinet where she'd found them, shut the drawer and pushed in the small silver knob to engage the lock. Her copies clutched to her chest, she turned on her heel intending to retreat into her own space.

"Hello, Louise."

For the first time, words failed her. She simply stood and stared. Harry filled the doorway with his imposing bulk. Dressed in blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a deep red shirt, his long black braids hanging down, he was impressive. He was the strong, handsome Harry who was such a great part of her life. He was also someone she no longer recognized. His face was hard and unflinching, his eyes coal black and opaque. And he was carrying a gun, the barrel of which was pointed at her head.

"Harry, I…"

"Don't." The single word roared in the small office and she flinched. "Do not start with the lies, Louise."

"I didn't intend to."

"Oh, and you were just about to tell me what you were doing in my private files, right?"

"I wasn't…"

"I said, don't." This time his words were low. She wasn't sure which was worse.

She couldn't snow him; she didn't know how long he'd been standing in the doorway. She hadn't heard even a tiny rustle of movement to let her know she was no longer alone in the darkened offices. He could have been there watching for quite a while and she wouldn't have known. It didn't matter. It had been long enough for Harry to realize she'd found a file he didn't want her to see.

She sighed and shrugged. He was right. Evasion was futile. He knew and so did she. Except there were a few things she didn't know, and if he was going to kill her, then the least he could do was fill in the blanks.

"Why, Harry? Why would you kill two people? What did either of them do to you? And Chris, for heaven's sake. Why would you set up my brother, your best friend?"

A wry smile turned up the corners of his mouth. The lines in his face softened, but his dark eyes still looked mean. She didn't like that.

"You don't count so well, sugar."

What was he talking about? "What do you mean?"

"You asked why I'd kill two people but that's where your math is off. I killed three, and it would have been four if your stubborn brother hadn't decided to hold on."

"Three?" Her heart sank and it was all she could do not to throw up.

"Yeah, well, here's the score. I couldn't let your brother destroy me, I couldn't let McDonald and his girlfriend expose me, and your nosy friend Meg, well, let's just say she stuck her face into my business one too many times."

"You murdered Meg?" Her voice took on a strangled tone. Bile rose in her throat.

He shrugged. "Yeah, well that little thing was hardly a challenge. No fight left in the old bat."

"You bastard."

"Sticks and stones…"

"And what about Chris? Destroy you? He was your best friend!" She was having a hard time believing what she was hearing. Harry and Chris were as close as brothers. Maybe even closer.

He shrugged again. "Friends come, friends go."

Fury rose in her chest. Chris would have given his life for Harry. "That's a horrible thing to say."

"And you're too smart to be that naive."

The hint of a picture started to form. "You're the one James McDonald was running drugs for and you're the one he was running from as well."

He nodded so slightly it was almost imperceptible.

Pieces began to fall into place, creating a terrible picture that made her stomach lurch. "Chris found out about you."

Harry shrugged. "He only figured out part of it. I'm just the big fish in this part of the pond. There are other fish further up the pond a lot bigger than me."

"You're the Medicine Man," she whispered. "Chris was going to take you down the night he was shot."

Harry smiled, the barrel of the gun never wavering from her face. "You mean the night I shot him."

* * * *

Paul pulled into the parking lot and turned the key. It was a little before eleven, and there were only two other cars in the lot. The Chevelle was easy to recognize, and he assumed the black SUV belonged to her partner, Harry Studhorse. Without the lights of the car, the lot was inky save for the one flickering streetlamp. The four light posts around the perimeter of the parking lot should have illuminated it, but they were dark. He wondered why. Shadows danced around him in a way that made him shift in his seat with discomfort.

Looking over at the building, he frowned. If they were both there, why was only one small light visible? Like the darkened parking lot, the offices should have been bright. He didn't like this. Nothing about it felt right.

In the window, a shadow moved. "Oh shit," Paul muttered as he realized the shadow, the big shadow had to be Harry. Was he holding a handgun?

Reaching into the backseat, he grabbed his jacket. He fumbled around in his pockets until he found the card Joe Federer up in Metaline Falls had given him the day of Jamie's murder. He knew Joe was too far away to help, but he was hoping he'd know who to call here. If he dialed 9-1-1, they'd assume he was a crackpot when he told them he'd seen a shadow with a gun. Joe would be his best bet at the moment. At least the guy would believe him…he hoped.

He dialed and talked in a quick, low voice. At first Joe, and rightfully so, seemed skeptical. Somewhere along the line he got on board with Paul and assured him he'd send someone to the office in a matter of minutes. Paul felt a whole bunch better when he snapped the phone shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. Joe told him to wait and while that might be the smartest thing to do, no way. Time was a luxury he didn't have.

Paul looked around his car for something, anything he could use. He didn't own a gun. His lethal weapon was the one he'd held in his hands since about the time he learned how to walk. He was Canadian, and everyone knew not to mess with a Canadian and his hockey stick. Their bad luck if they did.

He got out of the car and went around to the trunk. Inside was not just one, but six different sticks. It took only a moment to pick the one he wanted. Wizards had their wands; he had his sticks.

He shut the trunk very carefully so as not to make any noise and draw attention to himself. If he was to have any luck tonight, he'd need the element of surprise. Harry might be older than Paul, but he'd bet a month's salary regardless of his age, Harry was one tough sonofabitch. He was not in the mood to get his ass kicked at the very least, and at the worst, shot.

Stick in hand, he moved quickly from the car to the building, keeping to south side of the parking lot so that he was as far away from the window as possible. He grasped the door handle and pulled down. The door squeaked when he pulled it open and Paul froze. After a moment of silence, he let out the breath he was holding and slipped inside, moving down the darkened hallway with his back to the wall. He stopped when he heard their voices.

"You bastard," Louie barked, her voice harsh and angry.

Harry chuckled and sound sent shivers up Paul's back. "Sticks and stones."

"Damn it, Harry, why?"

"Money, baby, it's always been about the money."

"Chris would have helped you."

Again he laughed. "You don't understand. On his public servant salary, his kind of help wouldn't even have come close. I owed money, Louie, a lot of money to people who don't take credit cards. When I couldn't pay, they offered me a way out of my problem. A solution that turned out to be very lucrative."

"Drugs."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Jesus, Harry, what happened to you?"

Now his words turned bitter. "Get off your damn moral high horse. What have you or anyone else ever done for me?"

"I've been your friend."

"Screw that. You've been my friend as long as I was the goody-two shoes you wanted to believe me to be. Not once have you ever seen me, the real me."

"That's not fair."

"And what does fair have to do with anything? This country robbed my ancestors of their birthright and stuffed them on worthless land. Now that we've found a way to make it pay, the country bitches about that. If that's not bad enough, America taught me to be a killer and then tells me not to kill. This country prides itself on the rights of citizens to bear arms as long as we don't use them. This country, that I served so well, tells me I have the right to chase the American dream and yet when I do, when I protect what's mine, you call me a killer."

"You're twisting everything!"

"I'm tired of people like you and your virtuous big brother telling me what's right and wrong. You don't know shit. I'm tired of having to watch my back because little snots like Jamie McDonald try to put a knife it in. I'm not going down because you disagree with my lifestyle."

There was silence for a moment, Harry's bitter words hanging in the air.

"The police have your rifle." Louie's voice was quiet, calm. "By tomorrow they'll be able to prove you shot not only Chris, but James McDonald and Kendall Stewart. You're going down, regardless of what you do to me."

"Yeah, well, you know what, little girl? They'll probably also figure out who killed you, and it won't make a damn bit of difference because I'll be long gone."

"They'll find you."

"No, sweetie, that's where you're wrong. It's quite amazing what money can do, and I've been preparing for the day I'd have to disappear for years. By the time they slap your body into cold storage at the morgue, I'll be laying on the beach with a drink in one hand and a nice Cuban cigar in the other."

The sound of the gun shot coincided with the reverberating force of a hockey stick against Harry's substantial arm. Louie screamed as Harry turned on Paul.

Paul raised the hockey stick again.

Harry smiled. "Just as stupid as your little brother," he sneered. "You two are the kind of guys who bring a knife to a gun fight, and who do you suppose is gonna win? Well, we know little bro didn't and guess what, Mr. N.H.L., neither are you. Nighty, night."

At the sound of the first shot, he flinched. Nothing. Shouldn't he have felt something? When the second shot sounded, pain exploded in his body and as he dropped to the ground, everything went black.

Chapter Eighteen

Harry. Harry. Harry.

Over and over again the name flowed through Chris' consciousness. One minute he was in blissful never-never land and the next, he heard the shot of the rifle moments after he saw Harry's face through the gun's scope.

The minute Chris had arrived at the warehouse he'd had the feeling something was off. Now he understood what it was. His friend, his best friend, had been using him. They'd always been buddies, even before boot camp. Then there was their Ranger training. A person didn't go through purgatory and not become closer than brothers. He'd never been closer to anyone. That's why Chris didn't think twice about sharing work stories with him without realizing Harry had used the intel to keep his own business dealings flowing with seamless precision.

Chris had been suckered and it hurt like a sonofabitch.

He'd wanted to put down a drug operation, to once and for all stop the creep whose business blighted Spokane. He'd planned to learn the identity of the player known as Medicine Man. Now it all made sense. Why he hadn't been able to put two and two together before escaped him. It all seemed so crystal clear now.

He blinked and the light sent daggers through his skull. Jesus, how long had he been asleep? He remembered feeling the shot, a razor-sharp pain in the side of his head, and then nothing but blackness. The paramedics would have come, though he didn't have any recollection of that. Harry's shot must have kicked the living shit out of him. Figures. Harry was the best shooter Chris ever met, bar none.

He blinked again and gave himself a second to let his eyes adjust to the light that at first he thought was glaring. In fact, the lights were low in what he eventually recognized was a hospital room. A rather strange hospital room. Instead of the normal dull bedding, his adjustable bed was covered with a bright-colored comforter. He expected to see Louie here and was surprised to find himself alone in the dim room.