Showdown (4 page)

Not a whole hell of a lot of help.

Prine was in the room for less than four minutes. He went down the same back-end fire escape he'd used to come up.

C
assie Neville said, "It's very nice to meet you, Deputy."

She gave a little curtsy that was cute as all hell.
She
was cute as all hell. Refined yet not formal at all. A girly girl who'd nonetheless probably been something of a tomboy when she'd been growing up. Today she wore a white blouse, a dark riding skirt, and a smile that could break a thousand hearts from half a mile away.

The church basement where the poor and the unemployed came for food and medicine had been painted white to give it a clean, open feeling. The doors were left open to let sunshine beam down the steps. And the other women who helped Cassie were as resolutely cheerful as she was.

Prine wanted her to remember him when she got herself kidnapped. After all, he was going to be her savior. Her hero. There would be a sizable reward offered for her return. And that sizable reward would be plenty for a man to head to California and find a place for himself in the sun and the ocean.

Prine said, "This is sure a nice thing you do. This setup for poor people, I mean."

She smiled. "They're poor in money, perhaps, Mr. Prine. But not poor in spirit. Some of the nicest, most decent people I've ever met I met right here in this church basement. Isn't that right, Effie?"

Her assistant, another daughter of wealth, nodded enthusiastic agreement. "I just wish some of my rich friends had the spirit of these people. You never hear them complain about anything."

The portrait she painted was sentimental and untrue, of course. Poor people complained all the time. As did everybody else, no matter where they stood on the social ladder. Though he was generally optimistic about things, his years as a lawman had taught Prine that when you came right down to it, life wasn't easy for anybody. There was always dire surprise, unexpected illness, family or friends in some kind of trouble, and fear that whatever you possessed—whether it was a lot or a little—would be snatched from you by the dark and comic gods who sometimes seemed in control of this vale of tears. Money solved many problems, but not all of them.

Prine scanned the basement. Against one wall were racks of clothes. Against another, stacks and stacks of canned food. Against a third wall were things for the home, everything from washboards to butter churns. Everything but the canned goods were used, but some of it looked as if it had been used only slightly.

There was a collection box. FOR THE POOR, it read. Prine took several greenbacks from his pocket and dropped them in the box.

"That's very generous of you," she said. "We really appreciate it."

"I'll try and give you a little something on a regular basis."

She reached across the front counter and touched his arm. The gesture was as intimate as a kiss. Just something about it. Just something about her warm brown eyes as she did it. "Do you enjoy piano music, Mr. Prine?"

"Very much."

"I should say classical piano music."

"The times I've heard it, I've enjoyed it very much. Not that I know much about it."

"I don't know much about it myself. But there's this neighbor of ours—a Mrs. Drummond, her husband is one of the Denver Drummonds—and she was trained musically in the East at two very good schools. She's playing at our house tonight for invited guests. Would you enjoy something like that?"

"I'd enjoy that very much."

"Why don't you stop out around seven? Would that be all right?"

Prine had been scrupulous about not fixing his gaze upon the hypnotic swell of her breasts or the beautifully proportioned curve of her hips. But just for a heady moment, his glance fell to them. And when he looked up, he found her smiling at him in that secret way of females who appreciate being admired if the admiration is discreet and courteous.

A group of Mexican women and children clattered down the steps, ending the perfect moment of romance and proper lust Prine was feeling.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Suarez," Cassie said to the woman who reached the basement floor first.

"Well, I'd best get back to work," Prine said.

"I think you'll enjoy yourself tonight, Mr. Prine." Prine smiled. "I know I will."

E
very other day, Lucy gathered up all the day-old bread in a basket and took it over to the church basement, where it was given free to the poor.

Lately, on most such trips, she had to argue herself out of walking past the sheriff's office. Seeing Tom Prine was exquisite agony. She loved him too much to simply accept him as another person.

Today she was stern with herself. More than half the time, she ended up walking past the sheriff's office and then slowing down in case Tom just happened to be coming out the door.

She'd never managed to see him on one of these furtive trips.

Today, she avoided anxiety and embarrassment by walking along the river. It was a longer route, but the day was pretty and she wouldn't have to worry about Tom.

But even on this route there was a surprise for her. A handsome—almost pretty—young man sat on a stool before an easel painting the river scene he saw before him—a crude barge and a couple of rowboats. The far shore is what would give the painting its romance. White birches and an old icehouse sat there, suggesting a gentler time when life wasn't as fast as it was now.

When he saw her, he jumped up so quickly he nearly knocked over the easel. He wore, as usual, a high-collared white shirt and tight black trousers and a gray vest. His dark curly hair lent him the air he wanted—that of an artist. His name was David Hearn, and he had been to London and Paris and Berlin before returning to his hometown of Claybank. He hadn't returned by choice. He'd never been a strong man, and a bout with consumption had left him even weaker. And it was probably just as well for him to come home. It was obvious to everybody but the blind that he didn't have much artistic talent.

Even by local standards, his paintings lacked any kind of originality or even spirit. They simply recorded, with no inspiration whatsoever, what he chose to paint. His family had money and supported him in his illusions about someday being a great painter.

"You're as beautiful as an apparition, Lucy, you really are."

She laughed. "And you're as corny as a bad actor."

He rushed over to her and kissed her on the cheek. "I count it a good day when I'm able to tell you that I love you. In person, I mean. Not in one of my little drawings."

He mailed her drawings two or three times a week. With sentimental poems attached. Every once in a while they'd be funny poems. She preferred those.

"So I think you should reconsider and marry me. Think of the children we'd have. So smart and good-looking and talented—"

Merry as he was, she was well aware of the underlying sadness in his eyes and words. He really did love her—had loved her since they'd shared a one-room schoolhouse—and she sensed that he would always love her.

She was crushing him just as Tom Prine was crushing her. And like Tom, she was careful to neither encourage nor hurt David unduly.

"David—"

"There's a choir at the church tonight. You like choir music, I know you do."

"Yes, but—"

"But what? Don't tell me about Tom. I know you think he's being nice to you, but he's going on with his life."

She'd never heard malice in David's voice before. It chilled her. She sensed now that he knew something—something she would find terrible. He'd never had any power over her, but he had some now.

"You mean he's seeing somebody?"

David put his hand to his head. "Oh, God, Lucy, forgive me. I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm so sorry."

But she was angry and not willing to give in to his sudden remorse. "You started to tell me something, David. Now you'd better damned well finish it."

He'd done serious damage to their relationship, and he knew it. He looked pale, sick, even more so than usual. "God, why did I say that?"

"I'm in a hurry, David. I have to drop this bread off at the church basement and then get right back to work."

He seemed to notice the basket of bread for the first time. He laughed sadly. "That's funny."

"What is?"

"You going to the church basement."

"Why is that funny?"

"Because that's what I was going to tell you. My mother had me drop some old clothes off there a while ago and—" He hesitated. "Damn, Lucy, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Well, you'd better say it now."

He sighed. His dramatics irritated her. "While I was there, I heard Cassie Neville invite Tom out to her house tonight. A piano recital."

"And he accepted?"

He nodded silently.

She said nothing, just began walking again toward the church.

"Lucy, Lucy, listen—" he called after her. But she paid no attention.

Her mind was filled with small dramas of how it would be when she faced Cassie, so beautiful, so elegant, so wealthy Cassie. She couldn't blame Tom for being attracted to her. At least he had good taste.

She imagined her and Cassie in an argument. Lucy declaring her love for Tom. Cassie declaring her love for Tom. The customers shocked and embarrassed at the two young women carrying on this way in public.

But when she got there, the basement was crowded. She set the basket of bread on the far counter and left. Cassie was so occupied checking people out that she didn't even notice Lucy.

M
idafternoon, Rooney and Tolan rode out to the deserted farmhouse where they planned to keep Cassie Neville. The place was ideal because it had a trapdoor that led to a root cellar.

As they rode, a strange melancholy came over Rooney.

Here he was, perfectly capable of killing Tolan—which he planned to do as soon as they got the ransom money—but at the same time he was also capable of knowing that in some stupid way he'd miss him. Tolan was like having a pet, a big shabby dog that you couldn't train very well but who, if you applied enough pressure, would do your bidding more often than not. Brains and brawn, as the saying went, that was the two of them.

Too much brawn, as these things went. Tolan became more and more mercurial as the years went on. Rooney suspected that all the drunken brawls he'd been in had caused some permanent damage to Tolan's senses. He was too much of a risk these days. Rooney needed somebody younger, smarter, steadier as a partner.

But still and all, he would miss old Tolan. There was no doubt about that.

A
s they rode out to the farmhouse, Tolan kept glancing at his partner Rooney. The man always seemed to wear that ironic, superior smile. No matter what Tolan did or said, Rooney managed to convey his superiority nearly every time.

This was one road that had run out for Tolan.

There would be enough cash in this kidnapping to set him up for a good long time. One of his prison friends had a little shack down in the bayous of Louisiana and between screwing colored girls and fishing all day, the life there seemed unmatched by any other place on earth. And with the stash of greenbacks Tolan would be bringing along, he'd have money for the rest of his life—if, that is, he kept it hidden from his prison friend, who, when you faced facts, you had to admit would kill your mother for a dollar. Tolan'd have to hide his stash real, real good down there or his prison friend would kill him for it. Or maybe—it was nice to think so—all that screwing of colored girls and all that fishing had changed his prison friend. Maybe he was now a trustworthy fella. But then Tolan had never known a trustworthy fella. Or trustworthy gal, for that matter.

Tolan found himself hypnotically gazing upon Rooney's neck. He wanted there to be a lot of pain and panic and dread and total terror. Cutting a man's throat was about the best way Tolan could think of. His fingers ached for that time to arrive.

S
heriff Wyn Daly said, "You noticed anything different about Tom these last few days?"

Deputy Bob Carlyle finished up with some forms he'd been filling out on his desk and looked up.

"Prine?" He considered Prine a moment. "Yeah, I guess I sort of have."

"I had to tell him three times to ride out and see the Washburn widow about somebody tearin' down that fence of hers. That isn't like him. Then he had a couple of mysterious disappearances."

Carlyle grinned. "Mysterious disappearances? Now, that sounds serious."

Every once in a while, Daly would come up with a phrase straight from a stage melodrama. Carlyle and Prine liked to ride him about it.

"You know what I mean. He'd be gone three, four hours and when he'd come back he wouldn't have any good explanation for where he'd been."

"That doesn't sound like Prine."

"No, it doesn't. That's why I'm wondering if something's wrong with him. In his life, I mean."