With Deadly Intent (12 page)

She grinned at him as she held the door open. “One thing nice about White Bird, you
needn't make a lot of choices.”

He managed a smile. “Cause there aren't any.”

They settled in a booth of the nearly empty cafe and she looked around for the blonde
waitress. A thickset lady with permed gray hair appeared instead. She beamed at them
with lively brown eyes and took their order. Later, after they'd eaten a surprisingly
good steak, she returned to ask if they wanted desert.

Both of them chose the apple pie with hot cinnamon sauce. “It's good,” the woman said. “I
made it myself.”

Amy smiled at her. “Jack of all trades, huh?”

“Kind of. What're you kids doing in this end of creation? You lose your way?”

“We're looking for a relative,” Simon said. “You ever heard of the Dorsets?”

“Sorry. I've only been here a couple a months. My brother's ailing and I came to look
after him.” She pursed her lips. “Why don't you try old Doc Yates? He seems to know
everybody"—she winked—"and what they've done that they shouldn't.” She jerked her head
toward the street. “He's just up the block.”

When she returned with their pie, she leaned toward them and said in a low pitched voice,
“You best go when you're done here. Doc tends to hoist a few, soon as his patients are
gone.”

By the time they got outside, night had fallen. In the center of the street, a light with
a metal reflector twisted and clanked with each gust of icy wind.

Amy turned up her coat collar to shield her face. “Spooky, isn't it?” Each word made a
frosty puff in the night air.

“You said it. Add a few bats and ghosts and we'd be ready for Halloween.” Simon set off
in the direction the waitress had indicated.

Amy matched her stride to that of his crutches, each step making a squeaky crunch in
blue-white ankle-deep snow. Near the end of the block, they came to a neatly trimmed
hedge. When she glimpsed the beautifully preserved Queen Anne Victorian house it
surrounded, she stopped in amazement. White gables topped off blue, fish-scale shingled
walls.

She clasped Simon's arm. “Isn't it beautiful?” She took a few more steps. “Look at the
arched bays and all that stained glass.”

“It's something all right. Seems out of place in a decaying town like this.”

The hedge ended a little farther on at an elaborate wrought iron gate. From an overhead
bracket hung a sign with Harold Yates, M.D. painted in crisp black script.

“Get a load of the grounds.” Simon opened the gate and started up the walk. “He must work
at Marchmont too. Takes money to keep up a mini-park.”

They climbed wide porch steps. “Maybe,” she said. “But, salaries are seldom high at
state-run institutions.” She lifted the brass knocker and gave the metal plate several
sharp raps.

Footsteps sounded, the door swung wide and a balding, stoop-shouldered man stood swaying
before them. “Well, what can I do for you, young lady?” Simon stepped into the circle of
light, and the man spied his crutches. “Come in. Come in.” He made a broad gesture that
nearly unbalanced him. “Doc Yates never turns away a wounded pilgrim.”

Simon shrugged and led the way inside. The drawing room they entered had a decorative
pressed tin ceiling, parquet floor and a carved marble mantelpiece that Amy would have
given her eyeteeth to own.

“Sir, we don't want to take up your time, we...” Simon began.

The doctor shambled up behind them. “No problem. No problem. Jes go on in there.” He
pointed to a door. “I'll be with ya soon as I find my white coat.” He grinned at Amy,
laid a finger along side his bulbous, blue-veined nose and snickered. “Gotta look
pro-fesh-in-ul doncha know.”

Simon let out a noisy breath. “Dr. Yates,” he said. “This is a personal, not a
professional call.”

The doctor rocked forward onto his toes, then back onto his heels as he absorbed this bit
of news. “At's great. Don't get to talk to anyone new in this God-forsaken hole. Sit
down. Sit down.”

He waved them to a tufted, gold velvet sofa and lowered his bulky body onto a throne-like
chair. An instant later, he levered himself upward. “I'll getcha a drink. Can't go out
in this cold unless you're fortified.”

Simon put out his hand. “No. No. Please don't bother. I'm wobbly enough on these aluminum
pins as it is.”

The doctor directed a longing glance toward the cherry wood cabinet and sank back in his
chair. “So who are you and what's your problem?”

Simon introduced Amy and himself, then leaned forward. “I was told you could help me
locate a relative of mine.”

Dr. Yates's deep chuckle caused his ample belly to jiggle. “Don't doubt it. I been
birthin' babies and helpin' the old ones take their last breath for close onto forty
years. What's this person's name?”

Simon's eyes centered on the doctor's face. “Elise, Doctor Yates. Elise Dorset.”

The man's face turned chalk-white, his eyes bulged, and his mouth worked like a fish
gulping air. “Who sent you here with their filthy lies?”

Simon's hand closed over hers and gripped it hard. “Marchmont said—”

Dr. Yates plunged to his feet. “I knew it.” He staggered across the room, turned,
flattened himself against the wall and glowered at them. “Wade won't get away with this.
I know things.” A furtive, calculating expression spread over his face. “Lots of
things.” He pointed a shaky finger at them. “You tell him that. Now get out of my
house.”

Neither of them spoke until the doctor's gate closed behind them, then Simon grabbed her
in a one-armed hug. “Talk about a hunch paying off.”

She hugged him back. “And how. Off hand I'd say you lit a fuse.”

He let her go. “Right. But if those two start comparing notes, it won't be too healthy
for us around here.”

She hurried along at his side. “Why should the mention of Elise's name scare people?”

“It's weird. If she was a threat to Marchmont, you'd think he'd have been relieved by her
death. But that wasn't the impression I got.” He blew on his hands to warm them. “Move
closer to the buildings. The wind's less sharp there.”

Ponderous gray stone hunkered like great prehistoric beasts on both sides of them
greedily sucking up the street light's faint beam. Wind whined through vacant rooms,
banging doors, rattling broken windows. Frigid air seared her lungs with each breath.
She lengthened her stride. “Never thought I'd look forward to reaching that motel.”

Something rustled in the doorway beside her. She swung to the right and saw a dark form
detach itself from the gloom.
A man!
She got out a scream before he grabbed her
and muffled the sound with his hand.

“What the hell—?” Simon began. An instant later, she heard the metal clangor of his
crutches, a grunt, and the thud as someone fell.

“Got him,” a voice wheezed in the darkness. “Damned city-bred punk didn't know what hit
him.”

Oh, God. The bearded man!

“Good goin'. Con.” The man who held her tightened his grip around her waist and dragged
her inside. She twisted, kicked, got an arm free and hit out at him, but his heavy
coveralls cushioned her blows.

When he reached the middle of the barnlike room, he dumped her on the floor. The minute
his hand unclamped from her mouth, she let out a piercing scream.

“Dammit, Cecil, shut her up. Can't you do anything right?”

Cecil sprang toward her. “Smart-ass bitch. You'd better pipe down, if you know what's
good for you.”

She scooted backwards, hoping to elude him in the dark.

“Don't try it, damn you.” He flung himself on top of her.

They rolled on the floor, kicking bottles, cans, and cardboard cartons. Finally, he
wrapped his thin wiry legs around her, held her down, and tore off her coat.

Boards splintered somewhere and in the faint glimmer of the swinging street light she saw
Simon ram his head into Con's belly. Hope renewed her strength and another resounding
shriek burst from her. Cecil punched her in the jaw and for a second everything went
gray at the edges.

“Save your breath, lady. Nobody in this town's gonna do nuthin'.” He chuckled over his
private joke. “They know who butters their bread.” He ripped her blouse from neck to
hem, then snatched off her bra and tossed it aside. “Man, would you look at that,” he
breathed. “For a skinny broad, you sure got a great pair of knockers.”

“Get off me, you filthy bastard.” She heaved her body upward in an effort to unseat him.

He laughed, bent down and licked her breast. “Let's have some fun. What do ya say, baby?”

Simon stopped pummeling Con and turned his head. “You try it and I'll kill you.” Con's
fist caught Simon off balance and he crumpled to the floor.

Con stood over him, and the sound of his rasping wheeze filled the room. “That'll hold
you, you nosy sonuvabitch.”

Cecil ran his hand down her bare belly until he found the band of her slacks. He gave a
couple of yanks, the zipper parted, the seams ripped. He tossed them aside. Breathing
fast, he clawed at her stockings until he got them off and gazed down at her bikini
panties. “Whoo—ee lady, you really turn a guy on.” He unzipped his coveralls. “I'm gonna
take her in the back room, Con.”

“Bull said to strip her, knock her out, and let the weather do the rest,” Con bellowed.
“Now, you get with it ‘fore I club you one.”

“Ah, geez Con, I'm really hurtin'. I ain't had a woman since Bull sent those last two
kooks to the cage.” He got to his feet. “Who's to know, if you don't tell him?”

She bent her leg, straightened it, and rammed her foot into his crotch. He let out a
strangled scream and collapsed in a moaning heap. She scrabbled through the litter,
found a rock, and brought it down on his head.

“What's going on over there?” Con started toward her, his big arms outspread.

Naked except for her shredded blouse and panties, she leaped up and scuttled into the
shadows. If she could keep out of his reach until she got to the door maybe ...
Something sharp stabbed into the sole of her left foot. A twist of pain caught her and
she cried out.

Con reached her in one stride. “Think you're going to get away, do ya?” He backhanded
her, she went flying, struck the wall, and slid down.

In a red haze, she saw the glint of light on metal as Simon swung his crutch. She fought
off faintness until darkness closed over her.

A noise brought Amy to. She jerked upright and looked wildly around the lighted room.
What had happened? Where was she? Simon appeared in a doorway. “Oh, thank God, it's
you.” She flopped back on the pillow. This was his motel room and his jacket covered her
half naked body.

Simon sat on the edge of the bed and gently bathed her bruised face. The cold cloth took
away her weakness, but didn't quiet the quivering in her stomach. If Simon hadn't
recovered, both of them would be ... She grabbed Simon's hand. “What happened? Are they
dead?”

A muscle knotted in his jaw. “No. Bent my crutch on the big one, but his head's hard.
That scrawny bastard didn't rape you, did he?” She shook her head and he released his
breath.

A terrifying thought made her struggle upward. “Will they come here?”

“They might.” He eased her back on the pillow. “You lie still, I want to take a look at
your foot.” He wiped blood from the sole of her left foot with the washcloth. “This is a
good sized wound, Amy. You'd better see a doctor when we get to Lewistown.”

She sat up. “I have to take a shower.”

“There's no hot water.” He went over and moved the thermostat back and forth. “And it's
colder than hell in here.”

“I don't care. That slime ball had his hands on me. He ... he...” She shuddered. “I have
to get clean.”

He pulled the blanket around her. “Stay put. I'll go talk to the manager.” He frowned,
then crossed to a wooden kitchen chair that leaned against the wall. He worked the
wobbly leg loose and handed it to her. “If anybody tries to gets in, hit'em.”

As he started out, she noticed he didn't have his crutches. “You aren't supposed to put
your weight on your foot for a week.”

He bowed his shoulders, but didn't turn around. “Just add it to the list of other things
I shouldn't have done.”

In a short while, she heard banging noises coming from her room next door. A few minutes
later, Simon appeared carrying a blanket and her suitcase. His face was tight with
anger.

“The manager's gone. A note on his door says he won't be back until morning.” He flung
the blanket on a chair, and set her suitcase beside the bathroom door. “And there isn't
any hot water or heat in your room either.” He pushed the heavy bureau in front of the
window. “I'm going to barricade us in. Okay?”

“Yes, oh yes.” When he started shoving the bed toward the door, she eased her weight onto
her foot and insisted on helping. He protested but she wouldn't be put off.

After they got the bed into place and had moved the dresser in front of the one window,
Simon gazed around the room. “That's about all we can do.” He picked up the blanket he'd
brought. “I'll spread this on the bed while you put on your night things.”

“But...”

“I'm going to stand watch.”

She folded her arms. “But, Simon.” Her shivering made her determined stance look
ludicrous. “Your eye is bruised and God knows what else. That man hurt you. I know he
did. You need to rest.”

Simon tucked in a blanket corner and squinted up at her. “Your legs are turning blue and
you're getting blood on the linoleum.”

She sighed noisily, took her suitcase, and went into the bathroom. The shower dribbled,
the faucets dripped, the toilet flowed steadily. Frost coated the window and a thick
layer of ice covered the sill.