“So you don’t get along with your chief?” Clint asked. “Or you just don’t like him?”
“Both.”
“Then why work for him?”
“I may not be for much longer.”
“Are you going to quit?” Clint asked.
“I prefer to think that the chief will get fired . . . by the new mayor.”
“A new mayor?” Clint asked. “All I’ve heard since I got to Abilene is that nobody wants to run against the mayor.”
“Well,” Stokes said, “that used to be true. But things are changing.”
Clint wondered if Sheriff Evans knew that things were changing.
“Anyway,” Stokes said, “I didn’t want to talk to you about the mayor. Can you tell me exactly what Temple knows about the killer? I got the feeling he was holding back.”
“You know,” Clint said, “I had that feeling, too, but guess what? He’s not.”
“Not what?”
“Holding back,” Clint said. “He really doesn’t know much about the man.”
“But in Boston—”
“He found out a name the killer was going by,” Clint said. “Printed it in the paper, and the man left town. End of story. Except that he felt so responsible he went on this two-year quest to find him again.”
“And maybe he has.”
“Maybe,” Clint said, “but . . .”
“But what?”
“I just had a thought this morning that the piece in the paper might not have the effect we were looking for.”
“You think he’ll leave town?” Stokes said. “I mean, if he’s ever still here.”
“I think instead of leaving town—if he’s still here—” Clint said, “or instead of trying to kill Temple, he might simply strike again.”
“Kill another girl? To rub our noses in it?”
“That’s my thought.”
Stokes picked up his beer and said, “Jesus, I hope you’re wrong about that.”
Clint picked his up and said, “So do I, Detective. So do I.”
THIRTY-TWO
When Clint got back to the office of the Reporter-News, the press was running. He found Tanner and Temple deep in conversation in the editor’s office.
“Here he is,” Tanner said.
“Pete says you talked with Stokes,” Temple said. “What was that about?”
“He was just wondering what we were doing about finding the killer.”
“Isn’t that his job?” Temple asked.
“He thought you might know something that you were holding back.”
“And did you tell him I’m not?”
“I did,” Clint said.
“How did he take that?”
“Surprisingly well.”
“Anything else?”
“He’s going to be putting two more men on us,” Clint said. “Better men this time.”
“Why didn’t he put better men in the first place?” Tanner asked.
“Because he wanted us to see them,” Clint said.
“Why?” Tanner asked.
“Just as a warning,” Clint said. “Apparently he wanted us to know that the chief doesn’t trust us.”
“And does he trust the chief?”
“Doesn’t trust him,” Clint said, “and doesn’t like him. He seems to think the chief will lose his job when the new mayor comes on board.”
“New mayor?” Tanner grabbed his notebook. “Did he say who he thought was gonna run?”
“He didn’t.”
“Can we talk?” Temple said to Clint. “In the back?”
“Sure.”
As they started down the hall to the back, Clint heard Tanner muttering, “New mayor, new mayor . . .” as if trying to decide who that might be.
In Temple’s closet-sized office he said, “Tanner told me what you said in the mayor’s office.”
“Which part?”
“About the killer maybe striking again to make us all look bad?”
“Oh, that.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“It was just something that occurred to me at the moment.”
“And you believe it?”
Clint hesitated. “I don’t want to, but . . .”
“So maybe my having that piece in the newspaper will make him kill again?” Temple asked, eyes wide. “Jesus. This could be worse than Boston!”
“We don’t know anything yet,” Clint said. “And even if he does kill again, I don’t think you can take the blame for that, Harry.”
“No,” Temple said, “no, I wouldn’t take the blame. I’d blame you! You talked me into writing for the paper. And what about tomorrow’s edition?”
“That’s got nothing to do with the killer.”
“No, only the most powerful men in Abilene.”
“Well, that may not be for very long.”
“Jesus . . .” Temple said, sitting down in his squeaky chair.
“Try to take it easy, Harry,” Clint said. “The cards have been dealt. We just have to wait and see how the hand plays out.”
“I’m not a gambler, Clint.”
“Oh, really?” Clint asked. “You could have fooled me, Harry.”
THIRTY-THREE
The killer stood across the street from Mathilda’s Dress Shop, watching customers come and go, squinting against the dust kicked up by passing horses and wagons.
He might not have even thought about Mathilda had he not been able to see the store from the café window. And while most of the customers seemed to be middle-aged women, he did take a look in the window and see the young girl behind the counter.
Now he just stood watching the front of the store, going over the possibilities in his head. He certainly enjoyed thinking about this more than thinking about Clint Adams and the reporter, Temple.
* * *
When Clint decided that he and Temple should go out to get some air, the reporter balked.
“You just want me to walk around and make a target of myself,” he accused.
“Look,” Clint said, “so far we know two things. One, that the killer’s victims are young women, and two, that he strangles them. Even if he decides to kill you, he’s going to have to get close if he wants to strangle you.”
“What about that shot the other night?”
“I’m starting to think that wasn’t him.”
“I don’t know . . .”
By the time Clint convinced the young man, it was time to have some lunch . . .
* * *
Clint decided to try the small café across the street from Mathilda’s Dress Shop. He’d seen it several times, but had not yet been there.
There were several tables available, and they got the one that was the farthest from the front window.
“What’s good here?” Temple asked.
“I’ve never been here before.”
“Then why did you pick it?”
“I want to try it,” Clint said. “Besides, I have a friend who works across the street.”
“The general store?”
“The dress shop.”
“Ah . . .”
Clint decided on the beef stew, and Temple simply told the waiter to bring him the same.
While they weren’t seated at the window, they could still see outside from where they sat.
“Looks like a busy little store,” Temple said.
“She does all right.”
“I guess she knows what these women like to wear, huh?” Temple asked. “Probably because she’s one of them?”
“One of what?”
“These middle-aged ladies.”
“Uh, no,” Clint said, “she’s younger than that.”
“Oh,” Temple said. “Well, I thought you were implying
something romantic.”
“What if I was?”
“Uh, well, I thought, you know, you being your age, and all, that she wouldn’t be . . . you know, that young.”
Clint glared across the table.
“How old do you think I am? No, wait,” he said before Temple could reply. “Don’t answer that.”
The waiter came with their bowls and they both leaned back to allow him to serve.
“Look,” Temple said, “I didn’t mean anything. I just thought, you know, you being this legend of the West and all, that you were . . .”
“Old?”
“Well.”
“Just eat your stew!”
* * *
The killer was surprised.
When he saw Clint Adams and Harry Temple enter the café just across the street from where he was standing, he worried—just for a moment—that they knew he was there. But then he decided it had to be a coincidence. In fact, if they’d arrived earlier, while he was still inside the same café, it would have been a hell of a coincidence.
In the end he decided there was no harm in remaining right where he was. They had inadvertently given him more than one choice as to how to spend the rest of his afternoon.
* * *
“The stew was good,” Temple said as they waited for coffee and pie.
Clint grunted.
“Come on,” Temple said, “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“It’s the reputation, you know?” Temple said. “That kind of thing, it ages you.”
“Yeah.”
“Unless you’re, you know, Billy the Kid, or somebody like that.”
“I knew Billy.”
Temple dropped his fork and said, “Aw, come on . . .”
THIRTY-FOUR
As they finished their pie, Clint told stories of Billy the Kid, Jesse James, and Wyatt Earp.
“Probably my best friend of them all is Bat Masterson,” Clint said. “And then there’s Talbot Roper.”
“Who?”
“He’s a private detective who works out of Denver. Used to be a Pinkerton.”
“Did you know Allan Pinkerton?”
“Better than I wanted to,” Clint admitted.
“You know,” Temple said, “if you ever wanted to write a book—”
“That’s been suggested before,” Clint said. “I don’t want to write a book. Or—before you ask—have a book written about me.”
“Even if you did,” Temple said, “you’d probably go to Mark Twain and ask him to do it.”
“No,” Clint said, “I wouldn’t.”
Temple took that to mean he still had a chance. His eyes lit up.
“Well, if you ever change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
Clint ate the last hunk of pie.
* * *
Mattie happened to be looking out her window when Clint Adams and a younger man walked into the café across the street. She kept her eyes on the café after that, and when she saw them come out again, she hurriedly left the store, even though there were a couple of customers there.
She waved and ran across the street.
* * *
Clint saw Mattie come out, wave, and start running toward them.
“Hey,” Temple said. “Is that her?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Wow,” the reporter said, “she’s young . . . a-and pretty,” he added hurriedly.
“Clint!”
Mattie stumbled stepping up onto the boardwalk, fell into Clint, who caught her.
“Oh! Thank you,” she said. “I saw you go into the café. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, it’s fine, Mattie,” Clint said. “This is Harry Temple.”
“Mr. Temple.”
“Ma’am.”
“You boys could have asked me about this place,” she said. “I would’ve told you it was fine. I have lunch here quite often.”
“It was,” Temple stammered, “uh, fine, I mean.”
“Well, good,” she said. She looked at Clint. “Is he the one—”
“Yes,” Clint said, cutting her off, “he’s the one, but you should go back to work, Mattie. I told you, it isn’t safe to be around me—around us—right now.”
“All right, all right,” she said, backing away, “I just wanted to say hello.”
Clint grabbed her before she stumbled off the boardwalk backward, into the path of a passing buckboard.
“Oops, thanks.”
“You better get back before you hurt yourself,” Clint told her.
“You’re right.” She touched his chest. “I’ll see you later.” Then she looked at Temple. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Temple.”
“Uh, y-you, too, ma’am.”
She looked at Clint again and said, “He’s cute,” and then ran back across the street.
“Harry, don’t tell me,” Clint said. “You’re shy around women.”
“Just pretty women, like her,” Temple said. “How did you guess?”
“Come on,” Clint said. “We’ve stayed in one place for too long.”
* * *
The killer watched the encounter between Clint, Temple, and the girl, who might or might not have been named Mathilda. He was able to recognize what passed between Clint Adams and the girl. And the girl—well, she was just very special, perfect for him.
He watched as they talked, and then the girl ran back across to her store.
Adams and Temple spoke for a moment, and then started walking down the street. The killer had a choice—follow them or stay and wait for the girl to come out.
It was a fairly easy decision for him to make.
THIRTY-FIVE
The rest of the day went pretty much without incident. Two more policemen appeared to watch Clint and Temple. They were better than the other two, but Clint was still able to spot them.
In the office, Temple asked, “Does that mean they’re terrible at it, too? I mean, since you saw them?”
“No,” Clint said, “I’m just that good. Stokes assured me that these are better men. In case of an emergency, they’ll be helpful.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Tanner came down the hall from his office.
“I’m going home,” he said. “Tomorrow’s edition is ready. Do you want to see it?”
“No,” Temple said, “that’s okay. I know what I wrote.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Tanner,” Temple said.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not going to get . . . burned out or anything because of it, are you?”
“Don’t worry,” Tanner said. “I’ve got the money to rebuild if they do.”
“Rebuild?”
“I’m financing this newspaper on my own,” Tanner said. “There’s no way they can put me out of business.”
“That’s good to know,” Clint said.
“Good night,” the editor said. “See you two in the morning.”
“Yeah, good night,” Temple said.
After Tanner left, Clint said, “Let’s get a beer and then some supper.”
“Really?” Temple said. “Go to a saloon? Isn’t that kind of . . . public?”
“You can’t really be bait if you’re not in public,” Clint pointed out.
“Well . . . we did say this might not work.”
“Yes, we did.”
“Okay,” Temple said, “let’s get a beer.”
They decided on the Big Horn Saloon, which was crowded, but not to the point where they couldn’t find places at the bar.
“Two beers,” Clint said to the bartender.
“Comin’ up.”
With beers in hand, they turned and looked over the saloon.
“He could be in here,” Temple said.
“Yes, he could.”
“Or he could be gone.”
“That, too.”
Temple took a swallow of beer, then turned and looked at Clint.
“Have I wasted two years?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve been following him—trying to follow him—for two years, and what do I have to show for it?”
“Well, it all may come to an end here,” Clint said.
“Yeah, but what if it doesn’t?” Temple said. “What do I do then?”
“I guess that would depend on how badly you want to see him caught.”
Temple frowned.
“Maybe not as badly as two years ago,” he said. “That’s a hard thing to admit.”
“Harry,” Clint said, “you could just go back home and resume your life. Nobody’s going to think badly of you.”
“I wouldn’t go back to Boston,” Temple said, “but maybe somewhere else. New York. Philadelphia.”
“I’m sure a newspaper back there would be glad to have you.”
“Writing again, even for a small paper in Abilene, did feel good,” Temple admitted. “But if he kills again—”
“We already established that you couldn’t take all the blame for that,” Clint said, cutting him off, “even if you wanted to.”
“Yeah,” Temple said, “we did, didn’t we?”
“Just relax and finish your beer,” Clint said. “You don’t have to decide anything now.”
“I guess not.”
“Let’s get another one,” Clint said, turning back to the bar and waving to the bartender.
* * *
The killer was surprised by two things. First, she didn’t come out of the store until it started to get dark. Second, she didn’t have far to go apparently. All she did was walk around the corner. He was hoping to grab her off the street, but instead he had to hurry to come up behind her on the steps leading to her rooms.
“Wha—” she started, but he cut her off by slapping his hand over her mouth.
“If you scream,” he said, “I’ll kill you. Understand?”
She nodded, eyes wide.
He pushed her the rest of the way upstairs and said, “Unlock the door.”
Let It Bleed Page 9
