Revenge at the Rodeo

by Gilbert, Morris

  Copyright © 1993 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3992-1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture quotations in this volume are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  To

  Lucille Montgomery

  and

  Jann Smith

  There’s nothing like

  high tea

  with two fine ladies of quality!

  Contents

  * * *

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1. A Case of Nerves

  2. A Call from Dallas

  3. “You’re No Good to Anybody!”

  4. Under Cover

  5. The Corral Club

  6. Second Warning

  7. “Too Good to Be True!”

  8. Sixkiller’s Roommate

  9. A Visit to Church

  10. Dani Gets a Call

  11. The Drop

  12. Good-bye to a Friend

  13. Feeding the Ducks

  14. Waiting for Megan

  15. Captain Little Gets Some Volunteers

  16. A Woman in Black

  17. Late Movie

  18. Sixkiller’s Hour

  19. Deep River

  20. “What Could Be in His Heart?”

  21. Greet the Brethren

  Books by Gilbert Morris

  Back Cover

  1

  A Case of Nerves

  * * *

  Stocking masks distorted their faces, pressing their noses flat and rounding all the sharp planes—making them appear like half-formed creatures. More terrifying than the grotesque smoothness of their features was the absence of any expression. The eyes were dulled behind the sheer material, and all mobility of feature that marks humankind was blunted, metamorphosing them into night marish monsters.

  Dani could not seem to move as they emerged from the darkness of the doorway. Helplessly she watched, a thin soundless scream rising in her throat as they separated, almost like a single entity becoming two separate forms. Each carried a gleaming automatic weapon that reflected the overhead lights of the gymnasium. One moved slightly ahead and to the left and began to lift the muzzle of the gun upward as he crossed the gleaming oak floor.

  He wore new blue jeans, a black knit T-shirt, and a black stocking cap pulled almost to his eyebrows. He moved mechanically, his steps precise as if he were doing a drill of some sort. With the same sort of robotlike movement, he swung the rifle up to bear on the group that stood watching him.

  In a second Dani clearly noted the delicate hands, long, tapering fingers like those one might see on a concert violinist or a brain surgeon.

  As she realized that Ben would never be able to get to his gun in time to save them, Dani felt herself reaching for her .38. Her mind was screaming, but her nerves seemed frozen, and it was like trying to move underwater. One hand touched the rough, knurled butt of the weapon. Her fingers closed about it, and as she pulled it free from the holster she found herself looking into the muzzle of the gunman’s weapon. It was like looking down a tunnel, and as she brought the .38 into firing position, grasping it with both hands and laying the bead on the chest of the man facing her, she suddenly found that she could not pull the trigger.

  Time froze, and even as she tried to pull the trigger, her mind screamed, I can’t do it! I can’t kill a man!

  But then she saw the thin finger of the assailant whiten as he began to squeeze his trigger, and the faces of the children behind her flashed through her mind.

  With a spasmodic reaction, she squeezed the trigger, and the roar of the exploding powder filled her ears. She could smell the cordite and feel the kick of the .38 as it flew upward.

  Then she saw the bullet strike the chest of the dark-clad figure. It drove him backward, as though he had been struck by a huge, invisible fist. As he threw his hands up in a wild gesture, the weapon arced into a parabola, swiftly reflecting gleams of light as it spun end-over-end through the air.

  He sprawled flat on his back, one hand thrown over his head, and in a flash Dani could see the scarlet blood begin to pump, sending a jet of crimson that soaked the black knit shirt he wore. Like a miniature fountain it gushed, staining the heaving chest the brightest red she had ever seen. . . .

  Danielle Ross came out of the dream suddenly—as she always did—with a wrenching motion that brought her up, clawing at the air frantically. Her eyes snapped open, revealing the dim, familiar outlines of her bedroom, and she fought to choke back the scream that gathered in her throat.

  The dream was always the same. Even as she flung herself out of bed and stood trembling, with her eyes shut, breathing in a short, gasping manner, the vision of the still body of the gunman with his chest incarnadined would not leave. With desperate urgency, she flung herself into the bathroom. The harsh, brilliant lights of the fluorescent fixtures over the large mirror drove the image away, but she pulled off her nightgown and stepped into the shower. The blast of cold water took her breath, and she stood under it until her body cooled and the water lost its shock.

  Finally, she turned the water off, stepped outside, and dried herself slowly with a thick, yellow towel. She moved carefully, keeping her mind off the details of the dream, as one walks warily around broken glass with bare feet. It’s coming more often, she thought, dusting herself with scented powder. Three nights in a row. Driving that thought from her mind, she focused her attention on getting dressed. It was still dark outside, but the glowing face of the clock beside her bed told her it was six minutes after five. Too late to go back to bed—even if she had dared to do so.

  Prolonging the rituals of putting on makeup and fixing her hair, she methodically followed the familiar routine while listening to the new Praise album. As always, it had a soothing effect on her spirit, and by the time she was ready to get dressed, the shock of the terrible dream no longer seemed so unbearable. It was not gone, she knew as she stood before the closet, trying to decide what to wear to work. No, it lurked somewhere in the dim corridors of her memory, waiting until she was relaxed before it would come back to torment her.

  As she stood there, the phrase, You have killed a man, swept through her mind as it had a thousand times since she pulled the trigger and watched a man’s life flicker out. She had learned to quickly occupy her mind with something—anything—when it came, and now she suddenly pulled a dress from the closet rod and whirled away, saying aloud, “Well, I was a fool to pay so much for this thing—but I’ll wear it to work all the same!”

  She admired it as she had when she had first seen it at the exclusive shop, and quickly she slipped it on. Going back to the closet, she stepped into a pair of purple pumps with three-inch heels. She walked to her dresser, fished out a heavy gold chain, slipped it over her head, then put on a pair of heavy gold hoop earrings. Picking up a purse to match the shoes, she turned to look at herself in the mirror. The dress was a saronglike affair, made of sheer cream-colored polyester and cotton voile. It was much more feminine than other dresses Dani usually wore to the office. Now as she stood there admiring it, she suddenly looked at he
rself as well as the dress.

  A tall, shapely young woman of twenty-six, with a pair of gray-green eyes, deep-set in a squarish face, stared back at her. The nose, she thought as always, is too short and the mouth too large. But the coloring and fine texture of the skin offset that, and the deep tones of the auburn hair cut just over her collar were the envy of most women.

  Abruptly she turned and walked to the dressing table again. Picking up a bottle of Oscar de la Renta perfume, she applied it liberally, taking a perverse pleasure in the gesture. “You could smell good a lot cheaper than this, Ross,” she murmured. Then after one more look, she turned and left the apartment.

  Dawn was breaking as she pulled into the Camellia Grill on St. Charles Avenue. The air was thick and hotly oppressive, a foretaste of the humid heat that would blanket New Orleans by ten o’clock. The Camellia, a small, white building with pillars in front, was crowded, but she found a place at the counter, and Leroy Plotts came to stand before her, a broad smile crossing his black face.

  “What’ll you have, Miss Ross? A waffle?”

  “That’ll be fine, Leroy. And coffee.”

  She need not have told Leroy that, for he knew her habits well. Soon she was eating the golden-brown waffle, and when she was finished, had another cup of coffee. Leaving a tip for Leroy, she left the Camellia, got into her red Cougar, made an illegal U-turn on St. Charles, and drove rapidly to her office.

  Ross Investigations was located on Bourbon Street. Once the locale had seemed rather romantic to Dani, but over the past months it had become just another street. Parking was terrible, and the tourists flocked like lemmings to the area, hoping to see and possibly get involved in sin. Dani was not tempted by the canned sex and tawdry commercialized evil that had soaked into the street over the years, but the parking had driven her up the wall. That had been solved when she had lent a helping hand to an elderly woman, Mrs. Clara DeBreaux. Mrs. DeBreaux had been terrified of a suitor who had resented it when she had refused to marry him. She had called Dani, who had at once sent her best investigator, Ben Savage, to have a talk with the man. Dani never found out what Ben had said, but Mrs. DeBreaux had never heard from the man again. Her gratitude was overwhelming, and in addition to the fee, she insisted that Dani park her car at her home, an off-the-street Bourbon Street residence surrounded by a high brick wall, only a block from Ross Investigations.

  Dani parked the Cougar, noting that Mrs. DeBreaux was not up, then moved to the street and walked quickly to the office. As Dani climbed the steps, she thought again how it might have been better to locate the office in a more reputable section of New Orleans. Being on Bourbon Street, she thought wryly as she unlocked the door, was like trying to carry on a business in the middle of a Ringling Brothers’ three-ring circus.

  Flipping on the light, she paused at her secretary’s desk to grab the mail, then moved through the door into her office. Light streamed through the tall windows that lined the street side of the office, and the pale sun brought out the rich glow of the antique walnut desk and the shelves along the wall. She threw back the curtains, glanced out at the ironwork that framed her small balcony, then sat down at her desk.

  For ten minutes she sorted through the mail, separating the junk from the legitimate items. The junk she tossed into a wastebasket, the legitimate she sorted out according to priority. It was the act of a woman who liked order, who wanted things to be classified logically.

  This part of her character had made her a competent CPA and a good private detective. The other side of her nature lay carefully hidden from public view, controlled by an iron will. Beneath the facade of smooth control lay a volatile set of emotions that could explode like Mount Vesuvius. She had learned long ago that when she gave way to this side of her nature, she exhibited a wildness that could injure those who got in her way—as well as herself.

  Ben Savage had long ago penetrated this level of Dani’s makeup. “You’re like a bottle of nitroglycerin wrapped in pretty satin paper with a lacy bow on top, Boss,” he had said, studying her carefully. “You look as sweet and cute as Shirley Temple—but if you get nudged, you explode like a land mine!”

  She thought of that as she sat in the leather chair, and a frown creased her brow. She looked up suddenly at the picture of her great-great-grandfather, Colonel Daniel Monroe Ross, which dominated the wall to her left. He was a fierce-eyed man dressed in Confederate gray with a red sash around his waist and a mouth like a steel trap. Dani stared at the picture, thinking of how her father had often told her, “You get your stubborn streak from that old confederate rebel, Dani!”

  Dani sat quietly, thinking of her ancestor and of the blood and carnage he had endured through the agonizing Civil War. He had written a straightforward account of that desperate charge he had made with General Pickett, the futile and courageous attempt of the Confederates to take Little Round Top. Her grandfather had allowed the rigid curtain of iron courtesy and control to drop when he penned the last sentence: “It was a bold maneuver, doomed to failure—and my heart weeps over the friends I left on that dreadful hill!”

  Dani looked up at the stern eyes, then murmured softly, “I don’t guess you’d be proud of me, Colonel, making such a big thing of shooting one man.” As she spoke she heard the outer door of the office open and then close. Getting to her feet, she walked quickly out of the room to find her secretary, Angie Park, settling down at her desk.

  “Oh, hello, Miss Ross.” Angie greeted her with a slightly startled look. “I didn’t know you were in your office.” Angie was an attractive woman of twenty-eight, with genuine blond hair and soft blue eyes. “Anything you need right now?”

  “Get Al in here as quick as you can, Angie.”

  “He’ll be in at nine—or so he said last night.”

  Dani gave Angie a quick look. “You were out with him?”

  Angie shrugged with a weary gesture. “He’s better than sitting at home watching a crummy TV show.” Then she shook her head. “Not really. Every time he asks me out, I say, ‘No more!’ But then the walls start to close in, and I find myself fighting him off again.”

  Dani opened her mouth to give some advice, then closed it abruptly. Al Overmile was one of her investigators, an ex-cop who was handsome in a crude way. He was a weight lifter going fat; he drank like a fish; and he was a womanizer. Al had put all the moves on Dani early in their relationship and would try it again. Only two of his qualities kept her from firing him: He worked cheap, and he knew a lot of people from his days on the police force.

  “Send Ben in as soon as he gets here,” Dani requested abruptly, then left the room, closing the door behind her. Angie looked after her, shook her head, and started working. She only looked up at nine, as Al Overmile came through the door.

  “Hi, lover,” he said loudly and came around the desk, lowering his heavy head in an attempt to kiss her.

  “Never mind that,” Angie responded crisply. “Dani wants to see you. And you’d better not try to kiss her!”

  Overmile shrugged, then asked, “She still in a rotten mood?”

  “Just don’t come on strong, Al,” Angie advised. She pushed the switch on the intercom, announcing, “Al is here, Miss Ross.”

  “Send him in.”

  Overmile winked at Angie and suggested, “Maybe we better go out again tonight, take up where we left off.” When Angie ignored him, he blushed and walked into Dani’s office, shutting the door with extra force.

  Angie didn’t have to use the intercom to hear some of what went on, for almost at once Dani’s voice rose to an angry pitch. It was impossible to make out any details, but when Al came sailing out the door, ten minutes later, his face was red and his lips were set in a grim line. He didn’t slam the door, but shut it carefully.

  “Nice interview, Al?” Angie queried innocently.

  “Peachy! Gimme all the reports on the Williams case.” He took the thick file that Angie fished out of a drawer, then without a word walked over to the other desk. He took of
f his coat and lit a cigarette, then began turning the pages slowly. “She said to send Ben in as soon as he gets here,” he muttered angrily.

  The interview with Overmile had pulled Dani out of the calm mood she had achieved. He was an irritating man, and only by keeping rigid control over herself did she ever manage to retain a civil manner toward him. When he had come sailing through the door with that smile that she’d seen so often on his face, it had pushed her over the edge. She’d intended to ask him to go over the facts of a case he’d worked on, but he’d made the mistake of putting his hand on her shoulder in what was supposed to be a friendly gesture but was actually a caress. Dani quickly blasted him verbally and sent him out of the office. She had wished for one instant that she were a man like Ben Savage, so she could have thrown him out bodily.

  When she grew angry, it was imperative for her to find something to do, some activity to help her regain her calm. Going to a drawing board by the window, she sat down on a high stool and soon was engrossed in making a scale drawing of the home of Mr. Adkins Cole. He had hired her to create a security system for his art collection, and for several days she had taken pleasure in laying in the fine lines that made the drawing. She had a knack for such work, and as she studied the print was soon lost in the job. Ben would have to design the circuits and switches that would circumvent a would-be burglar, but she enjoyed laying out the drawing of the house.

  Time passed, but in the silence of the room, Dani was unaware of it. From time to time faint voices or the sound of a car wafted up from the street, but Dani was lost in the intricacies of the drawing. She worked steadily, carefully, and stopped only when she discovered that the pen she used was out of ink. Irritated at having to stop, she moved to the cabinet that held her supplies and picked up a small bottle of black ink. It was a new bottle, and as she walked back to the drawing board, she found herself struggling with the stubborn cap. She had strong hands, but the cap resisted her. Finally, she took a deep breath, grasped the bottle firmly, then applied all her strength.