by R. J. Jagger
“Call me at eight in the morning tomorrow, your time,” Su-Moon said.
“Okay.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Sooner or later, Waverly would need to come back here. She didn’t want to see the mess again and doubted the man would be back, so she resigned herself to cleaning up.
An hour into it she found something missing.
What it was made her palms sweat.
All her files were gone, every single last one of them.
93
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
In ten seconds River would be dead. He knew it in his heart, he knew it in his gut, he knew it in his mind. As soon as Spencer got the cuffs off Blank, he’d drag her outside and plant a bullet in River’s head right in front of her. River would no longer be a problem and Blank would be terrified into total submission from that point forward.
Spencer had been throwing glances his way every few seconds.
River wouldn’t get far if he ran.
It didn’t matter.
It was his only chance.
He muscled to his feet and forced his body into an immediate full-blown sprint.
A couple of steps, that’s all he got, before a bullet flew past his head.
“Stop or I’ll kill the girl!”
River took more steps but there was no power in them.
Then his body was at a stop.
His lungs went deep for air.
Spencer was on him in an instant, slamming the gun into River’s head and forcing him to his knees. “If it were up to me I’d kill you right now,” he said. “Here’s the deal. Listen hard because I’m only going to say it once. You’ve been retired. You won’t be getting any more jobs. I’m the new you, the new improved you. Go live your life any way you want but don’t do anything stupid. Everything that’s in your past, bury it there and bury it deep.”
The man grabbed River’s hair and tilted his face up higher.
“Here’s the important thing,” he said. “See that woman over there? Forget she exists, don’t come after her, don’t try to save her. Here’s the even more important part. Don’t come after me. Don’t make me regret that I’m following orders right now instead of splattering your stupid brains all over the ground. Be sure I never see your face again. If I even see you walking on the opposite side of the street I’m going to assume the worst. If you make even the slightest move against me anywhere at any time, I promise you that I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and take you to a hell you can’t even imagine. I already have permission to do it so consider this fair warning.”
He pulled the key to River’s cuffs out of his pocket and threw it a good distance into the brush.
“Find it, unlock yourself and have a nice life,” Spencer said.
He grabbed Blank’s hand, said “You’re coming with me,” and walked off.
Ten steps later he turned and said, “By the way, I’m not sure if I mentioned this or not, but if you do anything stupid, your little tattoo slut January is going to meet the same fate as you.”
He turned and walked.
With every step Spencer took, River realized deeper and deeper that he actually wasn’t going to die. Spencer wasn’t just playing a final sick trick on him. When the man disappeared behind the rusted hulk of a combine, River got to his feet and scrambled over to where the key was thrown.
The prairie grasses were thick.
River had watched the throw but not with as much focus as he should have. From where he stood, it could be ten feet in any direction, twenty even.
He memorized where he was, namely two steps from a moss rock half the size of a coffin. He started his search from there, ever widening in a spiraling circle.
Amazingly, he found it.
It took time, but there it was.
He got it into his fingers and found just enough twist left in his hands to get the key in the lock.
Then the cuffs were off.
He was free.
His wrists were red and raw, almost to the point of bleeding. Pain that hadn’t been there before suddenly materialized when the flesh became visible.
River rubbed the wounds.
Then he headed for the trailer.
Inside, as he suspected, was the gun he’d given Blank. He checked the chamber and found something he didn’t expect, namely every bullet had been fired except one.
Blank must have shot them off to try to attract someone’s attention.
Well it didn’t work.
Too bad.
One bullet.
One bullet.
One bullet.
River gripped the weapon with a steel fist and took off in a sprint.
He caught up with Spencer all the way back at the car, just as the man was doing a one-eighty and pulling away. He was too far to catch on foot. River had to fire, there was no other option.
The window was down.
Spencer’s head was in clear view.
The man was looking directly at him, surprised but defiant.
River raised the weapon, took aim and pulled the trigger.
As soon as he did, he knew he was off.
The next second proved he was right.
Spencer’s head didn’t explode.
The windshield didn’t shatter.
The metal didn’t ping.
River had hit nothing, nothing but air.
He pulled the trigger five more times and got only the ping of the trigger against empty shells.
94
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Afternoon
Wilde paced by the windows with an endless string of Camel’s dangling from his mouth and the noises of Larimer Street buzzing in his ears. Occasionally he threw a sideways glance at the magazine ad on his desk, the one of Secret trying to sell him some kind of fancy perfume in a blue bottle. Alabama showed up after lunch, looked at the ad and said, “So she’s a model?”
“Looks that way.”
“She never told you?”
“No.”
“How am I supposed to compete with that?”
Wilde blew smoke.
“Do me a favor, call the magazine and find out who she is.”
“You already know who she is.”
Wilde pulled a dollar out of his wallet and tossed it on the desk. “I’ll bet you that dollar I don’t.”
Alabama stuffed the money in her bra and said, “You’re on.”
“Hold on, it’s a bet. You just can’t take the money.”
“I’m going to win so just chill out.”
She picked up the phone and said, “Now I’ll prove it.”
Seven long-distance phone calls later she had more information than she expected. Secret St. Rain wasn’t really named Secret St. Rain at all, she was someone named Emmanuelle LeFavre. She was one of the most sought-after models in New York, specializing in high-fashion ads and runway struts, represented by none other than the Sam Lenay Agency. When she wasn’t the stunner in front of the camera she was busy flaunting her stuff at the latest, greatest high-society haunt. Her turf included London and Paris in addition to New York.
Alabama poured a cup of coffee and said, “So here’s the question. What’s a girl like that doing out here in this cow-town with you?”
Wilde shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I know one thing,” Alabama said. “If I was you, I’d ask.”
“Trust me, it’s going to come up.”
He lit a cigarette.
Then he held his palm out and said, “I think you owe me a dollar—two, actually.”
“No.”
“No? I won.”
“Yeah, technically, but I told you before that no one’s named Secret, and I was right about that. So I won first.” She patted her bra. “Being that as it may, if you feel strongly about it, you can take your dollar back.”
He flicked ashes.
&
nbsp; “You’re too much.”
She called information, got the number for the Sam Lenay Agency, dialed and handed the phone to Wilde.
A man with a smooth voice said, “Who am I talking to?”
Wilde froze. He expected a hello first.
“Is anyone there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” Wilde said.
“And who are you?”
“My name’s Bryson Wilde,” he said. “I’m calling from Denver.”
“Do I know you?”
“No. Do you know someone named Secret St. Rain?”
“What is this, twenty questions?”
“No, just one,” Wilde said. “Let me rephrase it. You represent Emmanuelle LeFavre, the model, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Does she ever go by the name of Secret St. Rain?”
Silence.
“Is this some kind of a joke?”
“No, she’s in Denver right now, going by that name.”
“Emmanuelle’s in Denver?”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible, she’s in Paris doing a shoot. Let me give you a piece of advice. Next time you want to waste someone’s time, try someone local. It’ll be cheaper.”
The line went dead.
95
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Afternoon
From the apartment Waverly took the bus downtown, got change for a dollar from a magazine vendor, and headed for the nearest phone booth. There she placed a long-distance call to Chicago.
A familiar voice answered.
“Drew Blackwater, private investigator.”
“Drew, this is Waverly Paige. I only have enough money for a minute of talk so this needs to be quick. Someone recently broke into my apartment and stole some of my files, the one you gave me plus a few others like it. He was a lean strong guy with a scar down his forehead and cheek. He had a tattoo on his forearm, maybe a rose or flower or something like that. Does anyone like that ring a bell with you?”
Silence.
“This is weird but it might,” he said. “For some reason it’s tugging at the back of my brain.”
“Can you do me a favor and dig?”
“You mean check into it?”
“Right.”
“Are we talking about being on the clock?”
“Yes, I’ll pay, don’t worry. You can trust me.”
“I know that.”
“Can you do it right away? This is important.”
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“You’re a peach. I don’t have a phone where I can be reached. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, one more thing, have you ever heard of a guy named Tom Bristol? He’s an architect out of San Francisco—”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Do me a favor,” she said. “See if you can find out if he was in Chicago at the time in question.”
A groan.
“That would be about impossible.”
“Try anyway. Please?”
“Sure, why not? It’s your money.”
“Thanks. You’re a double-peach.”
96
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
River’s chest thumped with less of a panic as Spencer’s vehicle didn’t slam to a stop and the man didn’t jump out to carve his face off right then and there. He wasn’t going to die, not right at the minute anyway. Even if Spencer changed his mind right now this second and doubled back, there was enough distance that River could sprint into the terrain. Spencer wouldn’t be able to run him down in a thousand years. As the car sped farther away, however, to the point of becoming a blur, River suddenly realized why.
Spencer was going to kill January.
That would be his way to make River suffer.
He’d get to January first, put a bullet in her brain, and let River live with the guilt for a day or a week or a month. Then he’d pop out of the shadows one dark night and swing a knife into River’s face.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it.
River should have never made a move. Firing the gun had been stupid, he not only knew that now but even knew it while he was doing it. He’d let his rage get the best of him and now January was the one who was going to pay.
Spencer’s vehicle disappeared over the horizon.
The silence was deafening.
No other cars were in sight, not a one.
River’s body broke into a sprint up the road, almost of its own volition.
How far was January?
Five miles?
Six?
River could run five-minute miles. Even at that though he was still close to a half hour away. Spencer would have more than enough time to slam the car to a stop, trot the two or three hundred yards to where January was, say “Bye-bye bitch. Thank your dumb-ass friend for this,” and stick the barrel in her mouth.
River kept running.
There was no other option.
Getting there in time would be impossible. The best he could hope for was that Spencer got car trouble, or got confused as to where January was.
Five minutes passed.
River kept the speed up but his strength was draining faster than he thought. He had one more mile left at this pace if he was lucky.
Spencer would be to January by now.
She was probably dying even as he thought about it.
97
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Afternoon
Wilde needed air, needed it now and needed it bad. He grabbed his hat, cocked it over his left eye and told Alabama he’d be back in ten. Outside, Larimer Street smelled like a bus engine on fire.
He stopped and lit a cigarette next to the water feature, the one with the cherubs that used to spit water into a bowl back when this section of town was the center of the universe.
That was a while back.
The cherubs hadn’t spit for years.
The bowl was still watertight though and had a rancid couple of inches of liquid at the bottom. Floating in that swill were cigarette butts, candy wrappers and at least one broken RC bottle. Wilde tossed the spent match on top of it all and headed down the street.
Secret St. Rain was really Emmanuelle LeFavre.
His first thought was to confront her.
His second thought was to ignore his first thought and not let on that he knew. Whatever it was that she was hiding, he’d be better positioned to figure it out if she didn’t know he was looking.
The Denver sky was crystal blue.
He crossed to the sunny side of the street and let the sun wash over his face.
Five minutes later he had all the air he needed and headed back to the office. He opened the door, took a step inside, got his hat in hand and positioned his body. Then he tossed the hat for the rack.
It swung to the side and went out the window.
He looked at Alabama.
She knew the look.
She wasn’t a fan.
“No way,” she said. “Get it yourself.”
“You never get it for me.”
“I will if you do one little thing for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Be sure your head’s still in it the next time it goes out.”
He smiled.
“Ouch.”
When he came back, Alabama met him at the door, took the hat from his hand and tossed it on the rack, a dead ringer. “Cock it to the left,” she said.
“I try.”
“Try harder.”
The phone rang.
Alabama answered, said “Yeah, that’s him,” and handed the phone to Wilde. “It’s that agent from New York. He wants to know if you’re the same Wilde who just called him about Emmanuelle.”
Wilde lit a cigarette, b
lew smoke and took the receiver.
Then he hung it up.
“That guy’s an ass,” he said.
Ten seconds later it rang again.
98
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Evening
Waverly swung by Emmanuelle LeFavre’s hotel to see if she was in, which she wasn’t, then headed back to the financial district and took up a post in an alley across the street from the Brown Palace. She hadn’t been in position more than ten minutes when what she hoped would happen actually did, namely Bristol and his woman-friend swung out of the revolving doors and onto the sidewalk.
Staying back as far as she could without losing line of sight, she followed them two blocks up to where the woman stayed outside on the sidewalk while Bristol disappeared into the doors of Jackson & Reacher, Denver’s second largest law firm.
What was he up to?
Waverly crossed the street and found an innocuous spot where she could keep an eye on the woman through the glass of a parked Olds.
The spankee wore a short red dress.
Her legs were shapely.
Her nylons had a seam up the back.
Her hair was bouncy and blond.
She leaned against the building and smoked as she waited. A passing car honked at her and someone shouted, “Hey, baby!”
She ignored it.
She must have the envelope by now. Would she show up at ten?
For half an hour, not much changed. Then Bristol emerged. With him was a female, conservatively dressed, holding a pencil in her hand as if she’d been taking notes. She looked familiar, Waverly had seen her around somewhere before.
Where?
Then she remembered.
She saw her at the El Ray Club last weekend, Friday night, dressed like a slut and getting drunk. She was having no problem getting men to keep her glass full. One of those men had an uncanny resemblance to Robert Mitchum.
She got introduced to the red-dress blond, smiled and shook hands, mouthed a few words and disappeared back into the building.
Bristol and the red-dress walked up the street.
