Print the Legend: A Hector Lassiter novel

by Craig McDonald

  Then again, there was enough intrigue going on around the goddamn mountain town to spare. Maybe Hannah was twisted up in some of all that. Maybe it was run-off from her husband’s finaglings?

  Through a haze of blue smoke, he said, “So, we’ve got threatening phone calls. We’ve got scholars running down your husband in the lounge earlier. We’ve got strange men trying to force their way into your room. Anything else that you’re not telling me?”

  Hannah was surprised that Hector had noticed the scholars…that he had noticed her.

  “I’ve been seeing a man from time to time—some man who is spying on us, I think. I’ve seen him in restaurants. Seen him following us. Following us to restaurants, stores, and the hotel. He followed us right to the foot of Mary’s driveway. I pointed him out to Richard, but he dismissed it.”

  Hector nodded. Hell, Richard Paulson was probably so deep in his blue ruins he couldn’t find Saturday morning at the end of Friday night. He said, “This man, the one watching you, following you two—he’s gaunt? Red-faced? Like his face is sun- or wind-burned?”

  Hannah’s expression was incredulous. She was clearly surprised he’d seen the man, too. The calculated skirt-chaser in Hector sensed the hook was set pretty firmly now if he aimed to move in that direction.

  Christ, stop that, he thought.

  The young Scot was just a nice, knocked up kid in a strange town and tied to a drunken and sorry excuse for a husband. A drunken son of a bitch with apparent ties to Donovan Creedy. Hector pressed on: “He has dark hair, I’m guessing. His hairline is receding and it forms a sharp widow’s peak now. Wears glasses. Am I close?”

  Hannah’s eyes were wide; her lips trembled. She nodded, squeezing her arms to herself. “Exactly. Yes! But how…?”

  Here he was, balanced on the knife’s edge again: torn between the urge to show off—to wow her with his knowing, deeper sense of the dark things swirling around them now—and the simple obligation to put to rest the fears of a pregnant woman who was just possibly in real jeopardy.

  Hector hesitated, then said, “At your angle there at the table you can’t see it, but there’s a skating rink across the way there. He’s down there right now with a pair of binoculars, spying on us.”

  ***

  Hannah couldn’t suppress a shiver. At the same time, this wave of relief washed over her—a heady comfort that she hadn’t been imagining it all. At the same time, there was a sense of exhilaration she worried Hector might pick up on—might see in her face.

  Here, on his balcony with Hector, she felt safe.

  She also felt this impulsive affection for the crime writer for validating her fears.

  For the first time in a very long time, Hannah felt this strange sense of happiness…a giddiness.

  Where Richard would have dismissed all of this, Hector was fully on her side, and more, looked poised to strike out—so ready to act.

  Hannah tried to look flustered…afraid for what might come next. She said, “And so…”

  “And so you wait here,” Hector said. “You’ll be safe. I’m going to go down and talk to this fella, right now. Get him off your tail, pronto.”

  ***

  He left Hannah there on the deck and headed into the bedroom. Hard to say what he would really do next, or what kind of reaction he might get from Hannah’s shadow.

  Following Hector was one thing, but terrorizing a young pregnant woman?

  Hector shrugged on his sports jacket, feeling around to make sure that the taped roll of nickels was secure in the pocket of his coat.

  Fella didn’t look like any “scholar” he’d encountered so far: Hector pulled his Colt from under his pillow, slid it into his waistband.

  Hector locked the door behind him and strode down the steps and out onto the courtyard, heading toward their stalker. Looking back up at the deck above, he watched Hannah watching him. She smiled, then turned her attention to their spy.

  “The world is ruled by violence. But I guess that’s better left unsaid.”

  — Bob Dylan

  18

  THE MAN WHO LIVES WHAT HE WRITES…

  Hector kept his head down as he briskly crossed the lawn, hoping that by obscuring his face, walking with his shoulders rounded and having donned a sports coat, he would fox the man spying on them.

  He sighed, deeply: Here he was in the next phase of that too-familiar role—how many times in his sixty-five years had he pushed through just this same scenario (in life—never mind the printed page)?

  And Jesus, still playing the “good guy” at sixty-five? That was mandatory retirement age in damn near every field but writing…and playing Saturday matinee hero, evidently.

  When Hector was about fifty yards from the man, the stranger seemed to see him and took off in the opposite direction. The way the man ran his surveillance—and promptly bolted: it didn’t smack of FBI. Hell, his threads didn’t even meet with Bureau dress codes.

  Hector took a few quick paces, then decided he couldn’t overtake the younger man across the distance. Hell, across that yardage, Hector doubted he could have caught the stranger even if he was still in his prime. Then Hector cursed and set off after the son of a bitch anyway, actually hurdling a low fence around the skating rink, slipping and sliding across the rink and dodging short-skirted skaters before jumping over the fence on the other side.

  As Hector’s feet hit the hard-packed dirt he nearly lost footing.

  The stranger burst through a set of doors, almost knocking down some tourists on the other side. Hector followed him, weaving around more pretty young things in short skirts and tight sweaters, carrying their ice skates.

  Hector crossed through the lodge vestibule and hurled himself through another set of doors on the other side of the lodge, back out into the open air, headed toward a thick stand of trees.

  The stranger was half-running, half-falling down a slope into a glade of pines. Hector followed him down—still at least fifty or sixty yards behind and increasingly short of breath. Goddamn Pall Malls…goddamn age. Jesus.

  Hector slowed down, now, hobbling down the steep, wooded hill, grateful Hannah couldn’t see them from this range. His current state would probably erase any vestiges of hero worship he was picking up from her earlier.

  Then he heard the click.

  Hector froze.

  There was another cracking sound.

  Could be dry, dead tree limbs creaking in the wind….

  Or it was maybe a rifle bolt being thrown; a cartridge being chambered.

  Off there a ways something glinted in the foliage.

  Lingering dew on the leaves?

  Maybe sunlight reflecting on a piece of chewing gum foil that had found its way into the weave of a goddamn bird’s nest?

  Or had the bastard secreted a rifle here in the woods? Worse, maybe the cocksucker had a confederate—a crack-shot partner. Maybe that gleam in the trees was the sunlight bouncing off the glass of a sniper’s scope. Goddamn his own imagination.

  Hector had left his eyeglasses back at the lodge and everything was a blur now—every twig, leaf and branch was just indistinct enough to be construed as a potential threat.

  Hector felt a little as he figured Hannah must have felt, locked in her room and threatened through her door.

  Except Hector was no Hannah.

  He’d fought—formally and informally—in wars and revolutions…countless times been shot at with intent in exotic, dark foreign ports, yet come out on top time after time.

  And now here he was at a writer’s conference in Idaho, in the wooded perimeter of a world-class sporting complex on a clear and sunny day, second-guessing and being spooked by clicks and glints in the trees.

  How far we’ve fallen, eh, old pal?

  Then Hector heard it again.

  He wasn’t entirely sure, but it surely did sound like the clip being thrust into the butt of an automatic.

  So as not to spook a shooter, Hector turned slowly—showing his back to anyone who might
have him in their sights.

  Feeling more like some matinee idol’s comic-relief sidekick now—and lacerating himself for his burgeoning sense of impotence—Hector held up his hands in surrender to an enemy that might not even be there, then began climbing out of the ravine.

  Weighing whether he’d rather think of himself as a paranoid, a punch-drunk heavyweight who didn’t know when to hang up the gloves, or a coward, Hector tried to keep trees between him and a bullet in the back as he climbed back up the hill toward the lodge, and Hannah.

  ***

  Hector made his way back across the grounds, head down and hands in pockets, feeling his age and disgusted with himself for having blown the chase. Hell, maybe he could use it in a novel, but only for some supporting character. The day Hector’s heroes started facing such setbacks was the day it was really time to hang it up.

  Jesus, was poor, sick Hem having to put up with shit like this around these parts there at his own end? If so, no wonder….

  Hector winced a little at the ache in his knees; his Achilles’ tendons hurt from negotiating that goddamn wooded slope.

  Cataloguing his aches and pains as he approached the door to his suite, Hector spotted another man crouched there against the lower half of the door to Hannah’s room.

  The man had his ear pressed to the door panel, near the knob.

  Hectors stomach kicked; Jesus, could it already be the guy from the ravine—sprinted back here well ahead of Hector? Hector’s palms were damp. Worse scenario—maybe he was some other Creedy minion. Maybe some tough young buck skilled in hand-to-hand combat who could kick Hector’s aging ass.

  But no.

  Hector half-smiled, realizing he was wrong on both counts. This would be old good territory, after all—a standard showdown and good clean fight. Fight? Hell, a rout.

  Even from behind, Hector recognized the man by his horrid dandruff and unkempt hair. It was the bitter egghead from the lounge downstairs—Berle.

  Hector smiled and shook his head. Well, he’d blown it downstairs with the other fella, but he could sure enough handle this prick; get back some scraps of self-respect by solving this little dilemma for Hannah.

  He drew his Colt and shoved its barrel into the fat folds of Berle’s neck. He held the index finger of his other hand to his lips, then grabbed the scholar by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He led him down the hallway and out onto a communal deck overlooking the grounds. It was cool and windy, and they had the deck to themselves. Hector kept the barrel of the Peacemaker tucked up under the fat little professor’s chin.

  “How’s tricks, Berle?”

  Hector searched the man’s scared face: another skulking scholar. Despite all Berle’s earlier nasty words about Richard Paulson, Hector couldn’t dismiss the possibility they were somehow in league; joined as academics, maybe, in this strange plot that had Richard tangled up with Creedy toward some sinister end. Startled, Berle looked down at the gun and said, “Jesus, I thought you were Richard Paulson!”

  “You and Paulson working together?”

  Berle was shaking, his eyes crossing as he looked down at the big Colt poking under his chins. Hector could see Berle’s blood pressuring mounting in his rising flush and reddening ears; the academic’s knees were quaking. Christ—he better not faint.

  “I’m an academic,” Berle said, chins trembling. “Paulson’s an academic. But we don’t work together.” He wet his lips, said, “Can you put that gun away? It scares me.”

  “That’s what guns are for. By ‘work with,’ I mean, are you tied up in this thing Paulson’s got going with Mary Hemingway?”

  “This thing? No, the son of a bitch already cut me out of one book project. I’m not part of this biography or whatever it is that old cow is giving Richard. Like I said, I hate the son of a bitch!”

  Berle moved his head just enough to look down at Hector’s gun shoved up against his throat. “This gun…doing this to me—what’s going on here? What’s going on with Richard?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Hector said.

  “Well, it must be something pretty important… I mean, Richard suddenly seems to have money.” Berle got a little haughty now: “I mean, he’s actually picking up some tabs, here and there. Most times, Paulson’s slowest to reach for his wallet when the bar bill comes due at these conferences.”

  “New money, eh?” Hector chewed his lip.

  “Precisely. That, and this thing with Mary choosing Richard—only Richard—to meet with….” Berle shook his head, then, feeling the Colt’s barrel freshly digging into the folds of his flesh, he swallowed hard again. “I mean, Paulson’s hardly the best of us…not the most accomplished. That damned award he won for the Paris book of his—word was, the awards committee was split. Whispers were, the winning vote was cast by a judge who was suddenly awarded a grant through some obscure branch of the federal government. Ask me, the fix was in for some reason. That bastard!”

  More academic bullshit: Hector felt like screaming. Then again, if there was truth in what this swishy scholar was saying, when did the Feds start caring who won literary awards? What branch of the federal government had sweetened the pot for this literary-award judge?

  “Okay, Berle, here’s another question for you: You ever hear of a fella name of Donovan Creedy?”

  Berle shook his head. He looked confused again. “Never heard of him. Which university is he from?”

  Hector sighed and shook his head. Berle said, “If he’s a friend or associate of Paulson’s he’s not worth my time. I keep my distance from Paulson and anyone he’s friendly with.”

  Hector stowed his Colt. Berle took a deep breath…shot his too-short sleeves. He said, “So we’re done here!” Hector imagined the egghead really could switch it off like that—probably eager to get back to his room and sculpting some drag-on footnote to some thicket-thick essay that would be read by tens of others of scholars.

  “Nah,” Hector said. “You menaced that girl. You scared Hannah Paulson. That’s going to stop, now. Bother her again, threaten her over the phone or through locked doors—you even look at her—well I’m going to lay you out flat, pal. Hell, I’ll attend one of your panels and take you apart verbally in front of your silly-ass peers.”

  Hector leaned in close to the scholar’s face, his pale blue eyes boring into Berle’s muddy brown eyes. “Do you understand me?”

  “I do.” Berle’s chin trembled again. “So now can I go?” Silly bastard had lived in his head so long he evidently thought it was that easy…that there’d be no physical consequences for his reprehensible actions. Well, in this case, he was right; Hector just couldn’t bring himself to swing on the sorry fool.

  Hector slapped his back so hard Berle was forced to take two steps forward to recover his balance. “Sure. Show me your back now Berle, and for Christ’s sake, invest in some good shampoo, hombre—flies could make snow angels on your shoulders.”

  “A hero is a man who does what he can.”

  — Romain Rolland

  19

  …AND WRITES WHAT HE LIVES

  Shivering, Hannah pulled her sweater closer around her; the man on the lawn had run away before Hector could catch him. But at least he’d seen the man, too—acknowledged his threat as Richard had not.

  Hector had been headed back up to the room—disappearing under the ledge. He should have returned by now. The thought something might have happened to Hector Lassiter made Hannah shiver again. Dear God, what’s going on in this town? This strange man following us? Scholars trying to break into our room?

  For God’s sake, it was simply a literary conference…wasn’t it?

  Hannah moved to stand up as Hector stepped out onto the deck. He held up a hand, “Don’t go to the trouble.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  Hector wanted to say, One ran; but I did get in a few good shots at that egghead who’s been giving you grief.

  But the girl had enough on her plate without hearing the scholar had ci
rcled back for another try. “I had him and lost him. Didn’t get much of a look at more than his back, either. Next time I’ll get him.”

  “I’m just glad you saw the man.”

  Hector nodded. Hell, their shadow wasn’t even subtle. Unless Dick was deep in his cups, it shouldn’t be much of a reach to see Hannah was right about their stalker. He said:

  “You said your husband wouldn’t believe you about this man watching you. Why not?”

  Hannah tried to defend Richard, to at least give her husband’s attitude context. She said, “Richard’s very focused on his project with Mary Hemingway. Anything else he regards as a distraction, I guess.”

  The crime writer was still watching her, waiting for more. Hannah couldn’t stop herself: “We had some rough patches early on. Richard thought I should…well, I’ve…I’ve been under psychiatric care.” She couldn’t meet Hector’s gaze to gauge his reaction. “Because of the baby, I’m off my medications. So Richard thinks….” She searched for words.

  Hector thought about it. He’d seen it in a few others. He decided to just put it out there; he knew he’d be giving some back to her on the other side: “He thinks you’re, well, delusional, maybe…a little paranoid?”

  “Maybe,” Hannah said, trying to soften it.

  “You’re clearly not bein’ paranoid, darlin’,” Hector said, voice raw and his Texas accent coming through a bit stronger. “Now you have another shadow,” Hector said. “Me.” He winked. “I’m not letting you out of my sight from this moment on. Not ’til I know you’re safe. Not until we know who that other stranger down there is, and what he wants.”

  Hector carefully pulled her up to him. He hugged Hannah, avoiding putting pressure on her belly. He kissed her forehead through her blond bangs. “C’mon, I’m starving and we have to draw up a battle plan,” he said. “You tried the Ram yet?”

  “No.”

  “It’s one of Papa’s good old places here at the complex,” Hector said. “I’ll credit Hem this: He always knew the best places to eat and drink.”