Out of the Darkness

by Robert D. McKee

  He and his pa had never had such a touching conversation.

  The old man still paced as he spoke. He walked from one end of the large room to the other and back again. All the while he kept his hands in his pockets and his head down, staring at the floor.

  “I lied to you a while ago, Sonny.”

  “No, Pa, you lie? That can’t be.”

  “I know you’re the one who fired the shot into the Charbunneau house the other night, and I told McConners about it.”

  Sonny felt his jaw clench again, only this time it was not to hide a smile.

  “He’s going to get you on some kind of charge, Sonny, before he’s done. That’s the kind of man he is. If you go in and admit to firing that shot, it may be that’s as far as it’d go. Like I say, it’ll be hard if not impossible for him to prove anything more than that.”

  Sonny stood and faced his father. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You told that lawyer that I’m the one who fired that shot at the window, and now you want to take me into town so he can lock me up?”

  Emmett turned to his son as he spoke, but he continued to pace. “Sonny, firing into that house was a bad thing. It’s pure luck no one was hurt.” He looked back to the floor. “But no one was hurt. So if you go to prison, it wouldn’t be for long, and I’d bet we could work it out for you to serve your time right here in the county jail.”

  “Golly, Pa, do you think so?”

  “I know you’re upset with what I’ve done, boy, but in the long run it’s for the best. Besides, I don’t know that he’d lock you up right away. He only wants to talk to you now. That’s all. He wants to ask you a few questions. And we don’t even have to go all the way into town.”

  “What do you mean we don’t have to go into town?” Sonny asked.

  “I agreed that you and me’d meet McConners at the Jones place.”

  “You what?”

  “He and the sheriff were going there to talk to Hank. I told him I would bring you over and he could talk to you at the same time.”

  The situation was getting worse fast. Sonny wasn’t sure what he should do now. McConners would find Hank’s body, and he’d assume it was Sonny who killed him. Still, though, he couldn’t prove anything. There was no way he could show Sonny had been at the Jones place that morning. On the other hand, Sonny had no alibi. If McConners even discovered Sonny had been away from home that morning, it would mean trouble.

  But there was no way McConners could find that out—no way in the world.

  Except . . .

  As Emmett paced back toward Sonny, he spoke in a tone that suggested he was thinking out loud, going over it in his mind, making it all up as he went along. “We’ll meet McConners at Hank’s. You explain to him how it was you who fired the shot into that house.” Emmett turned, started back the other way. He stared at the floor as he ran through what they would do. “You’ll explain it to McConners. You’ll have to take whatever’s coming to you. That’s all you can do. But once you’ve done that, Sonny, it’ll all be over. Everything’ll be fine.”

  Maybe if Sonny had made it back home this morning before Emmett had, there’d be another choice, but he hadn’t. The old fool came back earlier than expected.

  Well, Sonny resolved, that was his bad luck.

  Sonny lifted his revolver from its holster, took two quick steps toward his father, and brought the barrel down hard on the base of Emmett’s skull.

  Like his pa, Sonny had to make things up as he went along.

  Emmett hit the floor face down. Sonny nudged him a couple of times with his toe. Emmett was still breathing but out cold. There was a gash in the back of his head and a nasty-looking red spot above his eyebrow from where he hit the floor. The gash was bleeding some, but not a lot. Sonny was glad for that. Unlike at Hank’s, whatever mess got made here, Sonny would have to clean it up.

  The place was covered in blood at Hank’s that morning. Hank’s whole damn face came off. There was blood everywhere, and the son of a bitch fell in such a way he was blocking the door leading out of the bedroom. Sonny had to step over him to get out, and there was no way to do it without stepping in the mess. It was disgusting.

  Here, though, things were pretty clean. Sonny hefted Emmett up onto his shoulder before the old man could bleed on the floor any more than he already had. The old man was lighter and bonier than Sonny thought. He even felt frail. The coot was probably going to die of some nasty-damn disease pretty soon anyway. Sonny expected he was doing Emmett a favor—saving him a lot of pain and strife. With a smile, he allowed as how Emmett might not see it that way, but what the hell.

  He took Emmett outside and tied him across the saddle of the gelding, climbed aboard his own horse and, holding the gelding’s reins, he headed toward the gate.

  Sonny guessed he didn’t have much time. Once McConners realized Sonny and Emmett weren’t going to show at Hank’s, he’d head to the Pratt place. If McConners was as shrewd as everyone said, he might even start out the minute he found Hank’s body. Either way, Sonny had to move fast.

  He held his horse to a lope. He had loosely tied Emmett to the saddle, and he doubted if he rode any faster the knots would hold. But it was less than a mile to the breaks, and Sonny figured with any luck there would be time.

  When he got to the top, he reined in. The trail curved sharply here, and the ground was loose and treacherous. He climbed off his sorrel, went to the gelding, and pulled Emmett down. He carried his father to the edge of the cliff and laid him in the dirt. As he did, Emmett’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at his son.

  “So, you woke up, did you? That’s more bad luck for you, I reckon.”

  “Sonny,” Emmett whispered, “I’m cold.” The old man was shivering, and he didn’t look too good.

  Sonny smiled. “You’re about to get a lot colder, old man.”

  Emmett’s gaze moved about as he realized where he was.

  Sonny looked out at the view. “Pa,” he said, “you’re like me, aren’t you? You’ve always liked this place. There’s the creek running down yonder, and the river beyond. Hell, the way I figure, it’s about the best place around to die.”

  Emmett winced as he touched his fingers to the back of his head. “You hit me, Sonny.”

  “By golly, old-timer, you are the smart one. There’s no putting anything over on you.”

  “Why are you doing this, son?”

  “Because you talk too damned much, old man. You should never have gone to McConners.”

  “It’s true what they say about you, isn’t it, boy? You did rape Polly. You killed Lester Jones.” When Sonny only stared at him without answering, Emmett said, “I was wrong. There’s not any good left in you. Somewhere along the line you went rotten, and the rot went all the way through.” He said this without surprise, or anger, or recrimination.

  Sonny felt himself quiver inside. There was a time when he’d thought this man lying in front of him was the greatest man who ever lived. There was a time when Sonny would have done anything the man said. But when his mother died, everything changed. Emmett had killed her. Sonny knew that. His mother had never been the kind of woman cut out for life on a ranch in Wyoming. She was from St. Louis—born and raised in city life. She knew about things no one else knew. She loved plays and music. She had taken Sonny to the opera once down in Denver, and although he had hated the thing himself, he’d loved how much his mother had enjoyed it—how taken she’d been with the clothes, and the carriages, and the people. She was like a girl, young and beautiful in her own green velvet dress. Alice Pratt had been a lady, and the life this selfish bastard had forced her into had killed her.

  Sonny locked his eyes to Emmett’s. He wanted to see inside the man at the moment Emmett realized what was going to happen. Sonny wanted to see the man’s fear. Sonny wanted to watch as his father cowered at death.

  Sonny bent low and put his mouth close to Emmett’s ear. “You’re going over, old man.” He pointed past the edge of the cliff. “Th
em rocks down there, that’s where you’re going to die.” Sonny looked deep into the old man’s watery eyes, and search as he might—as much as he wanted it to be there—he could not find the fear he was after.

  He could see something, though. Sonny saw something deep inside the blue of his father’s eyes. He could not identify it, but it was there, and whatever it was, Sonny knew it wasn’t fear.

  Emmett lifted his hand to his son’s face and ran his finger along Sonny’s cheek. “I ache for what has happened to you, boy. I ache for whatever it is I’ve done, or whatever it is I’ve neglected to do.”

  With that, Emmett lifted his hands, placed them on the back of Sonny’s neck, and pulled Sonny’s face down toward his own. Sonny tried to resist, but Emmett was unbelievably strong. Sonny pushed against Emmett’s chest as hard as he could, but still the old man drew Sonny’s face closer and closer.

  Through clenched teeth Sonny grimaced, “What the hell are you doing, you old fool. Let me go.”

  For a moment Sonny thought the son of a bitch was going to toss him over the cliff, and Sonny knew there was not a thing he could do to stop him. The old man’s hands were like two vises. Sonny wriggled like a fish, but he could not break free.

  Sonny was convinced he was a dead man. That he was going to be the one to die at the base of the cliff rather than his father. The hands grew tighter against the back of his neck and Sonny whimpered, “No, Pa, don’t.”

  But Emmett didn’t throw him over. Instead, he slowly brought Sonny’s head down until their faces were two inches apart, and he reached up and kissed Sonny full on the mouth. Sonny struggled, but Emmett held him fast.

  When Emmett let him go, Sonny scuttled back away from his father, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You crazy son of a bitch!” Sonny screamed. “I’ll kill you, you bastard! I will kill you!” But rather than move toward his father, he crawled farther back until he was against the rocks on the far side of the trail.

  Emmett stared at his son for a long moment. His gaze pinned Sonny to the dirt where the boy sat. “No, son,” he said in a hollow voice, “You won’t kill me. I’ll not let you do that.” Then without taking his eyes from his son, Emmett rolled himself over the cliff and in silence fell to the rocks below.

  Sonny stared in disbelief at the spot where his father had been. He could still feel the strength of Emmett’s hands on his neck and the pressure of Emmett’s lips against his own.

  His heart hammered into the walls of his chest. His knees were oozy and soft. He wondered if they would hold him as he struggled to his feet. When he was sure of his footing, he walked to the edge of the cliff and peered over. Emmett lay crumpled fifty feet below, not moving, and obviously dead.

  Sonny was trying to sort out what had happened when he heard the buzzing of a fly. At least that was what his cloudy mind first told him it was: a huge, angry fly. But that didn’t make sense, did it? He forced himself to listen with a more rational ear, and he realized it was not an insect at all. He had no idea what it was, but whatever it was, it was no fly.

  He mounted his sorrel, rode the hundred feet to where the trail curved around, and he saw. A half-mile down and headed his way was Micah McConners. Next to him on his noisy two-wheeled machine was Dr. Hedstrom. There was no sign of the sheriff, but that didn’t surprise Sonny. Brad Collins was a coward, and Sonny figured the sight of Hank’s face in little chunks all over the floor was more than enough to send the sheriff packing.

  Sonny had hoped for more time, but a man had to take things as they came. He wheeled his horse, gave him his heel, and took off for home at a gallop.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Although he’d thought it was a dim-witted idea, Micah had not tried to talk Chester out of riding his moto-cycle. If there was less than a foot of snow on the ground and the temperature was in double digits, Chester was on his contraption. Nothing Micah could say would change that, so he didn’t bother to try.

  Micah watched as the machine climbed the steep and rocky terrain. It was impressive. He never expected the thing could make it, but it had no trouble at all. Micah was about to mention that to Chester, but he stopped when he saw the horse.

  It was a handsome gelding, with four stockings and an expensive custom saddle. Micah had seen it earlier that morning through the window at Lottie’s. It had been tied to the rail out front, and it belonged to Emmett Pratt.

  The horse stood with its reins hanging from the bit. With indifference, it turned its head toward Micah and Chester as they rode up.

  “This horse belongs to Emmett,” Micah said as he dismounted.

  Chester stopped the moto-cycle, but being unable to get the small stand to hold on the oddly canted ground, he leaned it against a boulder. “I wonder what he’s doing out here,” he said.

  Micah checked the horse for injuries. The trail here was bad as it came around the curve, and it might be possible to take a fall on the loose ground if a rider wasn’t careful. Micah could find nothing wrong with the gelding, but there was no sign of Emmett.

  Reaching for the reins, Micah stroked the horse’s neck and asked, “So, fella, what brings you out in these lonesome parts all by yourself?”

  The gelding snorted a response and shook his mane.

  “Micah,” Chester said, “come over here.” His voice was raspy and distant.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Chester stood at the edge of the cliff. His face had gone chalk-white.

  Micah went over and followed Chester’s gaze down below. “God,” he whispered but didn’t say more.

  For a moment they both stared at the body in silence. It was Chester who spoke first. “This is Sonny’s doing,” he said. He turned to look at the loose soil where the trail curved. “I suppose it could be an accident, but I don’t believe for a second that’s what it was. Sonny Pratt had a hand in this.”

  Micah knew Chester was right. There were things about it all that didn’t add up. It was cold out here—maybe not so cold for late December, but chilly—yet Emmett wore no jacket or hat. Also, this was a route Emmett had traveled a thousand times. He knew it well. There was no way he would lose control of his mount and tumble over this cliff, particularly not in broad daylight.

  No, this was no accident, but Micah knew it was another situation where it would be impossible to prove otherwise. It seemed Sonny Pratt had a knack for doing his deeds in a way that the law couldn’t touch him.

  “He has to be stopped,” Micah said. He lifted his eyes from Emmett’s broken body and looked up at his friend. “And it’s left to us to do it,” he said. “You and me.”

  Chester nodded. “I guess you’re right, but I’m damned if I can think of two more poorly equipped fellas for the job. A doctor and a lawyer going after a killer is not my idea of intelligent law enforcement.”

  “There is no law enforcement around here, Chester.” Micah climbed on his horse and reached down for the gelding’s reins. “Mount that contraption of yours,” he said, “and let’s tell young Mr. Pratt what we’ve found at the base of the cliff.”

  As they started off toward the Pratt place, Micah told Chester they would pick up Emmett’s body on the way back. “Now,” he said, “we’ll be toting two dead ones into Probity. Emmett and Hank.”

  He hoped there would be no more.

  There was no better-tended place in the county than Pratt Land and Livestock. Micah knew that during the spring, summer, and fall, the operation would be at a bustle, with dozens of farm hands and cowboys scrambling around. Now, though, in the dead of winter, things were quiet.

  The house itself was a frame Victorian, similar in design to Chester’s, although maybe half-again bigger. There was a large barn and five or six other outbuildings, all of which were in excellent repair and sported a coat of bright red paint that could not have been applied more than six months before.

  Micah tried to devise some sort of plan as to what to do, but he came up with nothing. There was no proof that Sonny had done an
ything—none that would hold up in court, anyway. With the testimony of Emmett, Micah might have been able to make the charges stick with regard to firing the shot into Lottie’s house. Now even that was gone.

  But Micah meant what he’d said to Chester back at the breaks. Sonny Pratt had to be stopped. Micah feared Sonny now was killing as much for pleasure as he was for what he thought was a necessity.

  “Do we just ride in?” Chester asked as they came toward the gate leading into the Pratt place. “We could leave the horses and cycle down in that cottonwood thicket, then sneak up on him from the south side of the house.”

  Micah had pondered the question of how to handle this situation himself. Although he was convinced Sonny was taking pleasure from the killing he was doing, there was still a certain sick logic in the murders. It was clear from the saddlebags Hank Jones carried when he was shot that it was Hank’s plan to run. Sonny would have wanted to stop him from doing that because of the guilty light it would cast on them both. And Emmett had probably confronted Sonny about coming in to talk to Micah, and it was likely Emmett had admitted what he’d overheard between Sonny and Hank regarding the shot into the Charbunneau house. Sonny had killed his father to keep him quiet.

  This all went to show that Sonny was desperate, but it also showed he was still making the effort to cover his tracks. It was likely he wouldn’t do anything rash until he felt an immediate threat. Micah doubted Sonny would shoot them down as they rode in. He would at least try to talk his way out of his problems before he sought to fight his way out.

  “We’ll ride in,” Micah said. “I don’t think he’ll start anything right away. Besides, if he does try something, I don’t want my transportation out of his rifle sights to be all the way down by the creek in a thicket of cottonwoods, do you?”

  Chester nodded his agreement. “That’s for sure,” he said.

  “Sonny’s expecting us, anyway.” A wisp of smoke curled its way from the chimney at the main house. “My guess is he’s sitting with his feet propped by a cozy fire waiting for us to wander into the yard.”