by Robin Gideon
He made a full revolution of the dial without finding the first number. He made another slow, complete turn, paying even closer attention to what he was doing, and still he couldn’t feel the internal tumblers falling into place.
“Damn it,” he whispered, taking a step away from the safe.
He let his hands rest at his sides and shook them gently, needing their sensitivity heightened if he was going to get the safe opened.
Just as he was about to try once again, something registered in his brain. He stopped and looked around, sure that instinct was warning him. But of what? He was alone in the office and, from all that he could tell, alone on the entire third floor of the casino. So what was wrong?
There isn’t anything wrong, the inner voice whispered. But something was different.
The instant Garrett’s fingers again touched the rotating dial on the safe, he realized the safe was not a Barns & Bradley. Instead, it was a Sears and Roebuck.
For nearly a minute, Garrett stood quietly, staring at the safe, convincing himself that he had the skill to open it. This sudden twist of fate wasn’t just the gods punishing him for hubris. The fact was he wasn’t much of a thief. There was only one brand of safe that he could open. There really wasn’t much difference between his skill and Pamela’s after all.
Frustrated, he cursed, nearly muffling the footsteps in the hallway outside the office door.
He reached for the holstered revolver beneath his jacket and cape, at the same time blowing out the lamp he’d lit on Michael’s desk. Garrett hadn’t quite knelt behind the desk when the door opened.
He raised the pistol, aiming it at the intruder’s stomach. Down the hall there was wall lamp burning, but that was the only illumination, and it silhouetted the man who entered while keeping Garrett hidden behind the desk. From the way the fellow moved—short, mincing steps, hands outstretched just a little, as if he was unable to see yet familiar with his surroundings—Garrett could tell that the intruder’s vision had not yet adjusted to the darkness.
“Close the door,” Garrett said.
The man froze in place then slowly raised his hands to shoulder level. He gently kicked the door closed. His composure was impressive.
“No need for gunplay,” Michael Darwell said quietly.
Garrett kept his revolver trained on Michael. Because Michael Darwell was so composed, there was a real chance he was planning something, and whatever that something was, Garrett wouldn’t be happy about it.
“Turn around and walk backward to your desk,” Garrett said, already moving toward his right so that he stayed out of striking distance. “There’re some matches near the lamp. Get it lit then turn toward your safe.”
“There’s no lamp on my desk.”
“There is now.”
“How long have you been in here?”
All of Garrett’s warning signals were triggered. He couldn’t hear a hint of fear in Michael Darwell’s voice. Annoyance at being inconvenienced was there and mild disdain at the break-in and being held at gunpoint, but not a hint of fear.
Garrett waited until the lamp was lit and its pale-yellow glow spread out across the room. Then, for maximum effect, he waited until Michael had blown out the match before he said, “If you think I won’t kill you, you’re dead wrong.”
Michael’s shoulders stiffened.
“Turn around.”
Michael turned slowly, his composure still intact, though frayed now at the edges. When he came face-to-face with the Midnight Phantom’s frightening masked and caped form, he sucked his breath in sharply and held it. Garrett raised his revolver just enough to draw Michael’s eyes to it, then he slowly thumbed back the hammer. In the silent room, the sound was magnified, and at last Michael Darwell began to show there were situations in his life from which neither his name nor his money could save him.
“The Midnight Phantom,” he said finally, with an unsuccessful attempt at bravado.
“The one and only.”
“But I thought…” Michael’s sentence died away as irrefutable proof stared him in the face.
“That I had been arrested?” Garrett made a bitter sound deep in his throat. “Did you really believe that girl was the same person who crept through your bedroom during the charity ball?” He made another angry, derisive sound, certain only that he wanted to get Pamela out of jail as quickly as possible.
“I didn’t know you’d gone through my bedroom,” Michael said after a long pause.
“What you don’t know could fill a library.”
“Now listen here—”
Before he could say more, Garrett had closed the distance that separated them, to touch the cold, hard muzzle of his revolver against Michael’s temple.
“No, you listen,” Garrett said, his tone flinty, deadly. “Open the safe.”
“But I’m not sure that—”
Garrett added pressure to the revolver so that it was forced against Michael’s skull. “Be sure or be dead.”
“Pull the trigger and there will be a dozen men in this room in thirty seconds.”
Garrett recognized the bluff and reminded him, “You’ll still be dead.”
“What do you want?” Michael asked, now with a slightly tremulous quality to his voice.
“First off, open the safe.”
Without argument, Michael went to the wall safe, spun the dial, and soon had it open. He reached inside with both hands and began removing stacks of money, piling them neatly upon his desk. The unwavering pistol, combined with the calm, deadly voice and the black mask and cape all worked to make him more polite and agreeable than he’d ever been in his life.
When Michael had finished, eight wrapped bundles of paper money and one canvas sack of gold coins sat on the desk for Garrett’s inspection. There was also a very small notebook with several names in it, and a larger notebook, with many names, dates, and figures written inside.
Garrett shoved both notebooks into the pocket of his jacket, noting Michael’s quizzical look as the money was ignored.
“I don’t like seeing innocent people hurt,” Garrett said quietly. “The girl in jail isn’t the Midnight Phantom. I’d appreciate it if you’d see that she’s set free by morning.”
Michael cleared his throat, tried to speak and failed, moistened his lips and tried again. Nothing in his privileged past had prepared him for speaking while a small but deadly pistol was pointed squarely at his heart.
“I can’t get her out,” Michael said, raising his hands once more to shoulder level. “She murdered my brother. Shot him in the back.”
“She didn’t murder anyone,” Garrett replied. He began stuffing stacks of paper money into his pockets, again experiencing the reward of injuring the Darwells financially, though there was less pleasure in it when not being able to share the moment with Pamela. “I want her out of jail before noon tomorrow, or I’ll hold you accountable.”
Michael’s tongue went around his mouth several times quickly. His emotional control was rapidly evaporating. “I can’t get her out, I tell you.”
“She didn’t kill anyone.”
“I know she didn’t, but that doesn’t make any difference!”
Garrett raised his weapon and aimed down the barrel, pointing it squarely at Michael’s forehead, fully aware of how unnerving it was to stare down the muzzle of a gun.
“Who killed your brother?” Garrett asked quietly.
“I…I don’t know.” Michael looked away.
“Richard was my friend, and I intend to get my revenge,” Garrett said, not at all sure where he was going with the lie. “How else do you think I broke into your house during the celebration?”
“Richard let you in?”
“Like I told you, he was my friend. Now tell me who killed him. He never did like any of you, never trusted you, always knew you’d cut him out in the end if you ever had the chance. He and I split the take.”
“It wasn’t me,” Michael whispered. His knees were shaking so hard now that
he wobbled on his feet. “I didn’t know Richard had any friends.”
“Tell me who did it, Michael. If you won’t, I’ll assume you’re hiding the murderer, and as far as I’m concerned, that makes you just as guilty as the one who pulled the trigger and shot Richard in the back.”
Michael’s weakening courage snapped completely.
“I’m not going to die for my sister. Angie did it. She shot him then made it look like Pamela did it. That’s the truth. I swear to God that’s the truth.”
The news hit Garrett with such force that for a moment he took his finger away from the trigger so he wouldn’t accidentally shoot Michael.
Angie a murderer? His first thought was that Michael was lying, protecting himself by pinning the blame on someone else. But on second thought, Angie murdering Richard—and in such a cold-blooded way—wasn’t all that shocking. Angie had always considered the rules most people live by nothing more than an inconvenience.
“Turn around,” Garrett said then, disgusted with every member of the Darwell family. He didn’t even want to know why Angie had killed Richard.
“I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for,” Michael said, the high whine in his voice proof of how advanced his fear had become. “You have no reason to kill me.”
“Turn,” Garrett whispered, moving closer. His contempt was reaching such a level that he couldn’t bear listening to Michael say anything else.
The moment Darwell’s back was turned Garrett brought the butt of his revolver down on the back of his head, hitting him hard. Without making a sound, Michael crumpled, unconscious as his body struck the floor.
For a heartbeat, Garrett looked down at him lying in a heap on an incalculably expensive Persian rug. It came to him that it would be so easy to permanently rid the world of another Darwell. But doing that would put him in the same category as the Darwells. Garrett just could not allow himself to become one of the very monsters that he hated, to be so Darwell-like that he would single-handedly decide who would live and who would die.
It wasn’t fair he couldn’t play by the same rules—or lack of rules—as the Darwells, but then, he had known all along that life wasn’t fair.
He left the bag of gold coins on the desk. Crossing back on the rope would be difficult enough without all that additional weight.
Holstering his revolver, Garrett opened the office door and came face-to-face with two blackjack dealers who were coming to get some money from their boss.
Garrett’s reflexes had always been superlative, and he had the advantage in knowing that anyone he saw was an enemy.
“What the—” was all the closest dealer could say before Garrett hit him square in the chest with his shoulder, sending the man toppling backward onto his fellow dealer.
Garrett took off then, moving like his namesake, Phantom, down the darkened hallway. Every second was precious now, and he knew it. Though the dealers had been caught by surprise, their confusion wouldn’t last long once they found their employer unconscious on the floor of his office.
He had nearly climbed the ladder when the pounding of boots against a wooden floor echoed off the walls. These sounds brought on a fresh burst of speed, and he ascended the remaining rungs with dispatch.
He hit the rooftop door with his shoulder, remembering how difficult it had been to move when he’d entered the casino. The door swung on rusty hinges, and when it could move no farther, slammed against the supporting wall. Garrett heard the heavy, old lock strike the rooftop and skid to a stop. For only a second or two, he searched the darkness for it. He couldn’t find it in the darkness. His mending ribs burned like hell’s own fire.
“The roof! He’s going up to the damn roof!” one dealer shouted.
Garrett rushed to the edge of the roof. The grappling hook was still in place, the rope still tautly stretched from the casino to the hotel. There was no time to make it easy on his broken ribs. He grabbed the rope and leaped over the edge, in agony once again when his arms took the full weight of his body, stretching the muscles in his abdomen.
With very little hesitation, Garrett began swinging hand-over-hand toward the hotel.
He hadn’t reached the halfway point when the dealers spotted him. Neither man was armed, so they reached over the roof and tried to shake the rope enough to make Garrett lose his grip, but the line was much too tight from supporting Garrett’s weight for their efforts to have much of an effect.
“The hook!” Garrett heard one of the men say. “Kick the hook loose!”
Garrett felt the rope shake, and worse, he heard the grappling hook slide against the stone edge of the roof.
“Harder, damn it! Kick the hook harder!”
For Garrett, it was as though the world had suddenly slowed down while he continued to think in normal time. He heard the thud of a boot striking the grappling hook, kicking it toward the rim of the roof. He looked down at the street below and, in a split second, calculated the odds of surviving such a fall as close to zero. He looked at the hotel and figured he’d never reach it before the dealers kicked the grappling hook loose.
Damn.
It seemed absurd that he would die because of a couple of unarmed blackjack dealers. For an instant he thought of simply releasing his hold on the rope. He would end up just as dead as he would by having the grappling hook kicked free, and this way the decision would have been his. But that would be giving up. If Garrett was to die, he preferred dying as he had lived, defying the odds and fighting to the bitter end.
He’d just come to this realization—that he would continue fighting, no matter what—when the blackjack dealers pooled their efforts and kicked simultaneously at the grappling hook.
Hanging onto the rope, Garrett heard the hook scrape free, and immediately he felt the tension go from the rope. For an instant he remained suspended weightless in midair. Then he began to descend at an alarming speed. His hands tightened around the rope an instant before he reached the end of the slack. With one end of it still firmly fixed to the hotel rooftop, Garrett began swinging toward the side of that building.
He looked at the side wall of the hotel and smiled, even though he raced toward it at a deadly pace.
Wasn’t life magnificently absurd?
Chapter Twenty-Four
It wasn’t the brick side wall of the hotel that Garrett hit. He crashed through a second-floor window, making a great deal of noise and ending up with more than just a few cuts, to land on a bed—much to the surprise and consternation of Mr. and Mrs. Ignatius Smyth, who weren’t terribly excited about sharing the bed with each other, much less a stranger.
“Go back to sleep. This is all just a bad dream,” Garrett told them as he hastily climbed off the bed, trying not to step on either of the octogenarians.
Mrs. Smyth’s reaction to the intrusion was to put a pillow over her head and babble incessantly, “Oh, God! Oh, God!”
Mr. Smyth’s was to flay out blindly with his fists at the unseen intruder—unseen because the hotel room was very dark and because Mr. Smyth had no time to put his spectacles on before commencing the pugilistic defense of his marriage bed.
Mrs. Smyth might have been more proud of her eighty-four-year-old husband’s courage had she not inexplicably pulled the pillow from her head and sat up, which put her face directly in the path of her husband’s left fist. She never did entirely believe Ignatius’s vow that he had not intended to give her a black eye.
Not quite believing his luck, Garrett stood at the door and patted himself down quickly. Nothing seemed broken, and he had very few cuts and scrapes from breaking through the window, all things considered. He stripped off his mask and cape, dropping them to the floor, then stepped out into the hallway just as Ignatius began apologizing for knocking his wife half out of bed with a roundhouse left.
The hallway was deserted. He hurried to the stairway and made his way to his third-floor room. He could hear the commotion outside in the street and also in the hotel. Stripping off his clothes, Garrett coll
ected all the money he’d taken from Michael Darwell’s safe and stuffed it into his briefcase.
The sizable cut along his chin was bleeding considerably. Several more cuts Garrett considered inconsequential. From his traveling case, he took out his cup, shaving soap, and brush. He dipped the brush into a pitcher of water, quickly working up a thick lather, then dabbed the lather inconsistently on his face. Taking his straight razor in hand, barefoot and bare chested, he stepped out into the hallway.
“What’s going on?” he asked as a bellhop, eyes wide with excitement, rushed down the hall.
“The Midnight Phantom robbed the Cattleman’s Paradise, and he may be in the hotel right now!” the young man exclaimed. He saw the red staining the white lather on Garrett’s face. “Mister, it looks like you cut yourself pretty bad.”
“I heard glass breaking. It startled me,” Garrett explained, pleased beyond words that his alibi was now rock solid.
“No need to worry, mister. The Phantom don’t hurt folks, he just robs them,” the bellhop said, then continued on his way.
* * * *
By morning, Ignatius Smyth was something of a hero to many people in Whitetail Creek. Of course, he was also considered a damned old fool and a liar by others, because when the Midnight Phantom’s mask and cape were found in his hotel room, old Ignatius just couldn’t resist confessing that he—a man of eighty-four, nearly blind and hard of hearing—was in fact the notorious Midnight Phantom.
When some journalists printed Ignatius’s confession of guilt, Mrs. Smyth merely rolled her eyes, one swollen and black, heavenward.
While Deputy Dylan McKenzie was in favor of arresting Ignatius—there was the bounty to be considered, after all—Sheriff Max Stryker was the voice of reason. He administered two shots of whiskey to Ignatius, who promptly went to sleep on the sheriff’s couch and did not awaken for four hours.
“Some Phantom,” the sheriff muttered disgustedly as old Ignatius snored noisily, a look of contentment on his sleeping countenance.
