"FBI – freeze!"
Jarvis jolted as he looked up to see Agent Coverdal standing at the end of the downstairs hall, his gun drawn and pointed at him.
"Hold it!" Frank yelled gruffly. "I'm Frank Walker – it's all over, put your gun away!"
Coverdal had heard the gun shots and made his own decision to rush the house. Now he lowered his gun and moved on up the hallway and into the entry, looking first at Pierot, deep black blood oozing from the two huge holes Frank had blown into his chest, then at Jake and Py.
Jake had lapsed into a semi-consciousness, but then he seemed to regain himself enough to move over to where Py was lying. "Py – can you hear me? Are you okay?" he asked, barely able to speak the words. Py looked like he was in shock, looking at Jake with eyes that seemed focused on infinity. He didn't respond to what Jake was saying. "Hold on, Py," Jake pleaded, propping him up so that he could cradle his head in his arms. "Get some help!" Jake cried out to anyone who could hear. "We need some help here!"
At that moment the front of the house seemed to light up, and the sound of car doors could be heard opening and closing. Agent Bickering came running up the front walk and came quickly into the entry way. Right behind him were Pete and Tory.
"Jake!" Tory cried, seeing him on the floor, holding Py, whose shirt-front was now drenched in bright blood. "Py!" She and Pete rushed to their sides, kneeling down to offer help.
"What have we got?" Bickering asked Agent Coverdal.
"This one's dead," he said, nodding toward Pierot. "These two both need medical attention – and fast."
"There's another one upstairs," Jake told Bickering, then added – "He's dead." "What are you doing here?" Jake asked Tory. "Py thought something was wrong," she told him.
At that moment Agents Riles and Wheeler came running, exhausted and out of breath, up the front porch steps. They barged in, saw the blood and fallen men, and looked pathetically at Agent Bickering. "Holy Christ, what happened?" Wheeler said.
"Help us get these men into the car," Bickering ordered, wasting no time. "Call Miller and have him alert the hospital that we're bringing two wounded . . ."
"I want the Doc to look at her, too," Frank ordered, holding Lily protectively.
". . . three wounded," Bickering said, adding – "We have two gunshot wounds." "I can take this one in my car," Pete said, referring to Py. "We can just lay him out in the back. Victoria can ride along with me and help." "I'll drive Lily in myself," Frank said.
"Okay," Bickering directed, "let's get 'em out of here."
* * * * *
Tom Larsen and Wynn Frye were moving quickly around the Quonset, giving orders and trying to expedite the process of preparing their stolen goods for distribution, when the door to the hut opened and Jake walked in. The front of his shirt was covered with blood. There were a dozen workers in the room, and when they saw him enter they stopped what they were doing and stood agape.
Both Larsen and Frye seemed shocked to see him. Larsen looked around at the work crews, all staring, frozen in their places. "Get back to work!" he yelled, and the sounds of hammering and cutting metal resumed, though at a halting pace, as the workers continued to watch Jake.
Jake walked slowly over to where Frye and Larsen stood, dragging along a once white linen pillow case, now stained with the blood that ran down his arm from the wound on his shoulder. "What's wrong, boys. You look surprised to see me," he said weakly.
Frye looked at Jake as if he were looking at a ghost, then he looked over at Larsen, to see how he was reacting. "What the hell happened to you?" Larsen asked Jake.
Jake looked grimly at him. "Don't you know?" he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper. "Somebody tried to hit me."
Frye and Larsen exchanged looks. "I don't know what you're talking about," Wynn Frye said, eyeing him closely.
"I think you do," Jake said, challenging, and then wincing from pain. Jake held the pillow case he carried out before him in his left hand.
"You're hurt," Larsen said. "Sit down – let's see what we can do for you," he said, feigning concern.
"What's in the bag?" Frye asked flatly.
"What you wanted," Jake said. He seemed to go pale as a bolt of pain twisted his torso. Then he stared at them, expressionless and cold.
"You got into the safe okay?" Frye asked.
Jake just nodded affirmatively.
"Let's see what you got," Larsen said, reaching forward to take the bag.
Jake held it out to him, but when Larsen grabbed it Jake held on for a moment, so Larsen couldn't easily pull it away. When he was finally able to, Larsen stood looking suspiciously at him. He peered inside, and then turned and emptied the contents out onto a nearby table. Out fell several stacks of cash, wrapped tightly in rubber bands, plus some of the contents of Frank Walker's safe, including an array of expensive jewelry, several show pieces from the estate of the late Viola Walker, some silver settings, and several top quality hand guns.
Larsen looked up at Jake and nodded his approval. "Is this everything?" he asked. "There was supposed to be other stuff."
"It's all I could get," Jake said, staring into his eyes. "What about the truck?" Frye asked. "Did you get it?"
"Where's your partner?" Larsen said, wondering if Jake had shown up solo. "Couldn't make it," Jake said, grimacing, looking sick.
Frye looked nervously at him, than glanced at his partner Larsen. "Are you shot?" he asked Jake.
"Yeah, shot," Jake said, shaking his head.
"Who was it?" Larsen asked, certain that Jake understood that it had been a set-up.
"I don't know – but he's dead."
Hearing that, several of the workers stopped what they were doing and looked nervously at one another. One of them dropped his tool and said – "I'm gettin' out of here."
At that moment doors at the front and back of the building suddenly burst open and armed men entered the room, yelling – "FBI! Everybody down on the floor!
Now!"
Jake, seemingly ready to faint, looked at Larsen and Frye, who raised their hands high, showing that they carried no weapons, and started to get down on the floor in compliance with the order, shocked by the intrusion. "Let's call us even," he said.
CHAPTER 50 – Cat Call
"Hello."
Lily looked out the front screen door with a mixed expression of surprised recognition and circumspect delight. "Hi," she said, seemingly uncertain as to what the greeting might invite. Tory Parker wasn't the last person she expected to find at her front door, but she would have been close.
"I'm sorry to just drop by like this," Tory said, appearing thoughtful as she stood on the porch, using both hands to hold a white envelope, as if it were a credential to be on the grounds.
Lily opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. She seemed to brighten. "No, please – it's okay. I'm just surprised to see you. How are you?" She asked in a way that made it seem she had been curious.
Tory's eyebrows arched at what she considered a wrong-sided question. "I'm fine," she said. "But what about you?"
Though it had been a month, Lily still had a nasty wound on the side of her face, near her left eye. The swelling was only a memory, but the butt of Ray Pierot's gun had put a pretty deep gash in her skin and closing it had required stitches. They had since been removed, but the wound still showed as a purple quarter moon, accenting her left cheek bone. "Oh, I'm fine," she said, briefly unable to stop her gaze from lowering to her feet. She quickly looked up, smiling, recommitting herself to her new plan, which was to appear buoyant at all costs.
"I have something for you that I thought you might appreciate getting," Tory said. "She held out the envelope. “It’s a letter to you – from Jake."
Lily looked at her, rocked a little by the news. "For me?" she asked.
"It came in a letter to me," Tory explained. "He wrote that he didn't feel he could write to you directly. I think he wants to avoid causing problems for you with your father."
L
ily took the envelope from her hand and examined it, then turned and looked back into the house, nervous to be seen talking with her surprise visitor. "Come on," she said, ushering Tory off the porch. "Let's go over here where we can talk," and she led the way around the side of the house, where there was a large expanse of lawn interspersed with shrubbery's and flower gardens, and finally a patio with chairs.
"What does it say?" Lily asked, when she was comfortable that they were sufficiently removed from the presence of her father to talk freely.
"I don't know – open it and read it! I don't open other people's mail," Tory said, though she was curious enough about this particular piece that she had considered breaking her rule.
Lily looked at the sealed envelope, then up at Tory, who could see that she felt better about opening it in privacy. "When you’re by yourself," Tory said, approving.
"Maybe that would be better."
"If you don't mind," Lily said, cautiously. Then a serious expression came over her face. "How is he – Jake, I mean?"
Tory seemed off guard a little, and let a touch of depression show. She was always like that where Jake was concerned, empathetic to a degree that she couldn't talk about him without sharing his feelings. "He's doing okay, I guess," she said. "You can judge for yourself, but . . . he's got a lot to go through."
Lily seemed a little heart sick. "My father says he's likely to be in there for at least five years."
Tory's sad expression seemed to concur. "I guess it could be worse, but it's a long time."
"What are you going to do?" Lily asked.
Tory shrugged. "What I do. Take care of my father, help him with the ranch, try to make sure he doesn't go broke. And there's Py now, too, and he needs plenty of attention."
"How is he?" Lily asked.
"He's doing better," Tory said. "We were pretty worried about him. The Doctors say he was lucky that the bullet didn't do worse than it did, but it's going to take a long time for him to get better. He can't really do much." She smiled and shook her head, thinking about his situation. "But, you know how he is. He keeps his spirits up." She paused for a moment, her thoughts of her own father making her wonder about Lily and hers. "How are things over here?" she asked. "How has your dad taken all of this?"
Lily sagged a little in ennui. "He's so angry all the time," she said, shaking her head. "He hates Jake and says he plans to lobby for him to get the maximum sentence, but he knows Jake won't get that. He's just upset that someone came into his home and took from him – that's what he says all the time – and he wasn’t 't able to stop it. He's such a macho shit." Lily and Tory looked at each other and laughed, briefly conspiratorial.
"How are you and him getting along?"
"Better, in some ways. Especially right after it happened. He was spending a lot of time with me, taking care of me. He actually gave Rosa some time off, to go visit relatives, and while she was gone he didn't do anything but look after me. He even cooked! I missed a week of school, so we were around the house together – and we talked."
Tory seemed pleased. "That all sounds pretty good, then."
Lily shrugged. "It's changing back a little now. I think it's partly this." She reached up and touched the mark on her face. "It's like his seeing that it's not going away reminds him of everything that's happened, and lately he's been bad again. He makes lists, you know. He makes lists of things he's lost, and now I'm there under 'damaged properties."'
Tory shook her head sympathetically. "That's ridiculous. You are a beautiful girl, Lily. If your father can't see that . . ."
"He says that's what happens when you associate with people like Jake – that one way or another, they take from you," Lily said. Then she looked wide-eyed at Tory, a little spooked. "Do you remember that day I met you – outside of the drug store? You said the same thing. You said Jake would steal from me." Her observation betrayed her maturity and the facade shattered, leaving her a wounded ingénue, yearning for counter information that would renew her previously blissful understanding.
Tory seemed thoughtful, considering the intersection of her and Frank Walker's thoughts. Then she said – "I remember saying that. I still think it's mostly true, but I had my motives at the time. You're pretty stiff competition."
Lily smiled kindly.
"It wasn't the whole truth, though." Tory looked serious and a little wistful. "I sort of think that people don't really take from you so much as they trade out part of you for part of them. It's up to you to decide what to do with what you're left with." She added – "I bet, if you think about it, you've grown in some ways – because of Jake, I mean."
Lily looked at Tory for a moment, trying to get her meaning, and then she looked down at the envelope Tory had given her. "Are you going to wait for him?" she asked.
Tory looked out at the countryside, at the huge dome of blue sky overhead and the high, thin clouds, moving imperceptibly to the east, a trailing brush stroke of suspended inspiration. "I think so," she said.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mulvane, I'm glad to meet you. I've read all about you in the paper." Doyle Baumgarten leaned across his desk and warmly shook Py's hand. "Thank you, sir glad to meet you, too," Py said.
"I'm glad to see you getting around so well. It hasn't even been a month, has it?" the banker asked.
"About a month," Py said.
"Well, I just want you to know that everyone here at the bank has been wishing the best for you," Baumgarten said. "You certainly are a lucky young man. Good Lord, to survive something like that, though I guess it was touch and go there for a while."
"Yes sir, it was," Py said.
"Just quite a thing . . ." Baumgarten stood looking at Py, admiring him for a moment. "Take a seat, Mr. Mulvane," he then said, motioning to the wooden chair located in front of his desk. "I'm sure you are wondering why I asked you to come in." He seated himself behind his desk, placed a pair of reading glasses on his nose, and pulled his chair forward, into the configuration he preferred when handling serious business.
"I received a cable from a law office in Denver – from a fella named Early McKeever. Apparently he is with the attorney general's office and is providing legal assistance to your friend, Mr. Jobbs."
"I've heard Mr. McKeever's name," Py said.
"Apparently, Mr. Jobbs has authorized, through Mr. McKeever's office, a transfer of funds which he wants to have deposited into an account in this bank," Baumgarten said. "Apparently he wants an account opened in your name."
Py looked perplexed. "In my name?"
"Yes, that's right. It's a fairly sizable amount of money and it's all been cleared by the attorney general's office."
"Jake is sending money to me?" Py asked.
"That's right," the banker said. "Here is the transaction slip right here." He leaned across the desk, showing the paper to Py. "There's the amount right there – six hundred and seventy three dollars." Py stared at the figure, unable to comprehend such an unexpected windfall. Baumgarten noticed his stupefaction. "I can see that this comes as a surprise to you. Perhaps this will help explain. Along with the cable I received a note that Mr. Jobbs wanted me to see that you got." He handed a folded piece of stationery to Py, who opened it and began to read to himself.
Dear Py,
Greetings from your friend, Jake. If you are reading this then I guess you must have got my cable. Mr. McKeever said he would take care of it for me.
I told you once that I had some money put away. I had always thought one day I would give it back to the people who took me in, back when I was a kid. I thought I could repay them for some of what they did for me. Now I believe it would be better if it went to you. It’s not much, and they don’t need it. Maybe it could help you get started with something of your own, or maybe help you out at Parker Ranch. I know that don't pay good. You do what you want with it. I' m sorry I can’t send more.
Things here ain't that bad, and when it’s over I'll get a start fresh.
That’s what I think of
always, then /'ll be back to you all, if you still want me. You are a fine man, Py. I wish you the best of luck.
Best Regards, Jake
"Mr. Mulvane – are you okay?" Doyle Baumgarten looked concerned by Py's response to the note. He appeared to have melted in his chair. "Is everything alright?"
Py just nodded, unable to find adequate words.
"It's a very nice thing that Mr. Jobbs has done for you," the banker said. Again, all Py could do was nod his agreement.
* * * * *
"Hi, Pete."
Pete opened the door, surprised to see who it was who had come calling, but not at all hesitant to offer a firm, welcoming handshake. It was Wayne Morrison, standing on his front porch, hat in hand.
"Hello, Wayne," Pete said, shaking the cowboy's hand.
"Mighty sorry to be showin' up at your door like this," Wayne said. "I 'spect I'm about the last person you'd be wantin' to see."
Pete shook his head. "No, Wayne, I'm glad to see you. How've you been?"
Wayne seemed a little vulnerable. A big man with strong, callused hands and dark skin, burned leathery by the sun, he shifted his weight from one foot to the next like a repentant schoolboy, called to the principal's office. "I been . . . well, I been better," he said.
Pete looked at Wayne's chapped lips and it occurred to him that he might be a little dry. "Why don't you come in and I'll get you something to drink," he said.
"Don't mind if I do," Wayne said humbly.
"I just made myself some hot chocolate," Pete said, as the two men wandered on into the kitchen. "Would that suit you?"
"That'd be just fine. Thank you," Wayne said.
"Go ahead and sit yourself down there," Pete said, gesturing toward the kitchen table. "It'll just take me a minute here."
Wayne quietly pulled out a chair and seated himself next to the little winged table.
He seemed entirely too large for the kitchenette.
"So what have you been doin' with yourself?" Pete asked.
"I been tryin' to find work," Wayne said, "but I ain't had any luck. I guess people are kind've afraid to get involved with me, after what happened. Nobody much wants to rile Frank."
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