Dead Silver hd-2

by Neil Mcmahon

  Failing a breakthrough, prosecutors wouldn't be able to convict him of the murders and wouldn't try; they'd drop the matter and settle for the rape and assault charges. It was some consolation that those would send him to prison for years.

  But that would still be a major letdown for Renee, and would leave the uneasy possibility that the real killer was still out there.

  With that handwriting on the wall, Gary had started looking into other leads, but nothing promising had turned up there, either. The rifleman who had run us off Astrid's property, one Eustace O'Reilly, was indeed the xenophobic asshole that Hannah had described-a neo-fascist survivalist type who venomously hated government, yet lived on a combination of welfare and workers' comp from a minor injury he'd managed to parlay into a claim.

  No doubt he had also hated Astrid as representing everything that his dim little worldview held to be wrong. But while he threw his weight around when he could, he'd never been known to actually harm anyone, and he had an even better alibi than Paulson for the time of the murders-his wife had kicked him out of the house, so he'd spent a few months living with his mother in Portland, Oregon. At a guess, his act hadn't gone over too well there.

  It looked like O'Reilly was off the hook-although I had a feeling that Madbird was going to head up to Phosphor one of these days and twist his tail until he squealed. I just hoped I got to go along and watch.

  Another scumbag still on Gary's radar was Ward "Pack Rat" Ackerman's father, Boone. But Gary had had many run-ins with him over the years, and found it hard to believe that Boone possessed the balls to commit those murders or the smarts to plant the cache. Vehicle records didn't support my notion that the SUV I'd seen watching Renee's house might have belonged to the Ackerman clan; of course, it could have been unregistered, borrowed, or outright stolen, and Gary was leaving the door open. But he'd held off searching the place or bracing them about the dead pack rat incident because he didn't want them aware that the cops were paying any attention to them. He assured me he'd come down hard on them as soon as the air was cleared.

  The next two weeks continued without any measurable progress on those fronts. I drifted along, settling into a routine that helped to carry me. My wound healed well and I got stronger. I took long walks in the mornings and evenings, on the lookout for the bobcat. I didn't see him, and I found his tracks only once, in a dusting of fresh snow. Spring was gaining the upper hand over winter; there were more critters around, and it would be easier for him to cover ground and find deer. Still, I always carried Madbird's.41 Magnum. The black tom usually went with me. He wasn't used to having me around so much but he adapted fast, seizing enhanced opportunities to extort beef and beer.

  Every other day I drove to town and took care of necessary business-dealing with the police, getting a chest X-ray and my bandage changed a couple of times, and on my way home, driving by Renee's house. As near as I could tell, it was undisturbed. I went out to Split Rock a few times to check in with Madbird, timing it so he'd be finishing work and we could have a couple of beers. Things were fine there, too, and I always came away recharged by contact with his insane magic.

  Early on, a reporter called from the Independent Record, wanting a story about the assault. Years earlier, I'd been in his shoes, and I'd have helped him out if I could have. I told him that the police had asked me not to comment, and he didn't push it. But the paper released a brief follow-up to their first account of the assault; this one included my name, and several old friends called to offer help. It was good to know that there were people concerned about me, even if I had to get shot to prove it.

  Otherwise, the phone stayed quiet. Usually that was the way I liked it and it didn't bother me during the days, but the sound of a particular sweet voice sure would have been welcome as the evenings dragged on into night.

  38

  There was more action on another front-the drama between Darcy and Seth Fraker wasn't over. She was still furious at Madbird, blaming him for the breakup and barely speaking to him. But she needed to vent, and both Hannah and Pam Bryce were adept at drawing her out; they quietly kept him in the loop, and I gleaned bits from him when we talked.

  The affair had devolved into a familiar sort of aftermath, a running dogfight of sniping, recriminations, and pleas. Apparently, most of that was coming from Darcy-Fraker really did want out. As coldly as he had dropped her, at least he couldn't be accused of continuing to string her along.

  More troubling, she wasn't just hurt. Her anger was escalating, and taking on an unattractive aspect. She had decided that Fraker owed her; on an emotional level, she had a case. But she'd started hinting none too vaguely that she was talking money. Whether this was for revenge or what she'd been playing for all along wasn't clear and didn't matter. It was edging into blackmail. Fraker had stopped taking her phone calls. She had started following him to confront him. He had threatened a restraining order and stalking charges. She was ready to tell the world the seamy truth about the golden-boy-happily-married-pillar-of-morality. And so on.

  Madbird was back in a quandary. He couldn't stop Darcy from what she was doing. There was nothing illegal about Fraker's callousness; coming down on him in any serious way would only get Madbird thrown in jail. He'd already made Fraker nervous, and with any luck that would hold him in check. But the well-founded rumors that Hannah had heard about Fraker's unpleasantness toward women added to the mix. Once again, Madbird could only wait around worrying-not something he was good at.

  Then a Sunday afternoon came along that was balmy enough so I couldn't stand just hanging around. Even though I didn't have any errands, I headed for town. I took it slow and for some time I cruised nowhere in particular, enjoying the drive and the weather, looking at things in a way that I hadn't for a long time. The air smelled good and people seemed happy. It was a nice interlude from the hovering trouble.

  Toward dusk, I turned homeward, making my usual pass by Renee's house, then deciding to treat myself to a fancy dinner. I stopped at a supermarket and bought a good-sized chunk of wild salmon, linguini and Parmesan cheese, sourdough bread, an avocado, and vinaigrette dressing. Then I figured that as long as I was burning up a paycheck I hadn't earned, I might as well also pick up a bottle of Powers, so I swung into an establishment called Wild Bill's, toward the eastern edge of town.

  Wild Bill's wasn't a place I frequented; it was newish, a combination liquor store-bar-casino with a faux western decor and a well-groomed clientele. But it was convenient, and I stopped there occasionally when other places were closed or I was short on time.

  There were close to twenty vehicles in the parking lot, including several big pickup trucks. If I recognized one of them as being Seth Fraker's, it didn't register consciously.

  But as I went into the liquor store, I passed an open doorway to the barroom and glimpsed him at a table in there with a couple of other people.

  I would have ignored him and just bought my whiskey, except that he was laughing and I caught the flash of those perfect white teeth.

  I walked through the doorway and down to an empty section of the bar, making eye contact with Fraker long enough to see his laugh freeze. Then I turned my back to him and ordered a Maker's Mark, intending to have only the one drink, and leave. All I wanted was to piss on his parade.

  But a minute later he came over and leaned against the bar beside me, swilling his own drink a little too close to my face-not exactly belligerent, but letting me know who was top dog. He was unsteady and his breath smelled heavily of gin. No doubt it was Bombay Sapphire.

  "Look, I've got nothing against you personally," he said. "But I'm sick of this loony tunes bullshit. She better back off, and I strongly advise you not to get in the middle of it."

  "I'm not here on Darcy's account or anybody else's," I said. "Believe that or not, I couldn't care less. But as long as I've got the chance, let me ask you-you have any idea how she feels, the way you treated her?"

  I assumed he'd get defensive in a nasty way. Instead,
he scrunched up his face like a kid about to start blubbering.

  "You have any idea how I feel because I can't help being like that? How much I hate myself for it?"

  I almost laughed in disbelief. "You should get an Oscar for keeping your pain so well hidden."

  "You don't know anything about it," he muttered. "You're an arrogant prick."

  He raised his drink as if he was going to drain it. Then, without warning, he sloshed it into my face.

  My open right hand came across the bar in a sharp hook and slapped the glass out of his grip. It bounced on the floor like a baseball, a hard one-hopper, bursting into a spray of shards.

  The other customers in the room went still, leaving only the sound of the video poker machines bleeping and burbling their jingles in the next room.

  Fraker stared, stunned, at his empty hand, then looked up warily at me and started edging backwards.

  "Yeah, I am an arrogant prick," I said. "But I never gave myself the limp-dick excuse that I couldn't help it."

  The bartender, a young woman who clearly wasn't accustomed to this kind of thing, had gone as silent as the customers. I pulled out the change left from the twenty-dollar bill I'd bought my drink with and dropped it on the bar.

  "Sorry about that," I said to her. "Here's for your trouble."

  I drove home braced for the wail of sirens in my ears and the flash of police lights in my rearview mirrors. They'd have had plenty of excuse to run me in; on top of everything else, I reeked worse of Fraker's gin than he had. But nothing happened, and by the time I got to Canyon Ferry, I couldn't help smiling. I'd broken my resolution about physical confrontations, but in a way I could easily live with. I'd come home without my whiskey, but no amount of booze could touch the way that slap had felt-fast, hard, and right on the money-or the look on his face.

  This day was already one I would cherish in memory, and a couple of hours later it got impossibly better.

  I was in my cabin, with water starting to heat for the linguini and the salmon marinating in a teriyaki barbecue sauce, ready to grill, when I heard the faint sound of an engine. That was highly unusual. There was almost no traffic up here anyway, let alone on a Sunday evening.

  I opened the door and watched the approaching headlights. The vehicle was a small, dark-colored station wagon-just like Renee's forest green Outback.

  I strode to my gate, not daring to believe it, and half-terrified that if it was her, that might mean something was wrong. But she got out of the car and stepped into my embrace, seeming weary but fine.

  After a minute or so, she said, "Remember when Gary asked me to think back about when I spent time with my father and Astrid?"

  "Yeah?"

  "He was right-I started digging around in my head, and found something. Can I stay here a while?"

  "As long as you can stand it," I said. "Come on, you're just in time for dinner."

  I put my arm around her and walked her to the cabin.

  39

  I eased myself out of bed next morning, leaving Renee to sleep in after her long drive from Seattle. I quietly stoked the fire, boiled water, and made myself a cup of strong black coffee. Then I wrapped up in a down coat and sat outside on the cabin steps.

  The early morning air was still crisp, but the real bite of winter was gone. The patchwork of bare earth and snow spread out before me turned darker every day; the trees were greening, with fattening buds. I was starting to hear songbirds, instead of just the occasional croak of a crow or screech of a magpie. In general, the land and sky felt softer. We'd still get hammered again a couple of times, but it was like a receding tide; each time a wave withdrew, spring had gained more ground.

  It seemed that my own world might be changing, too, although I couldn't yet gauge how much.

  Renee had taken a leave of absence from her research job. Her employers hadn't been happy about the short notice, but they had agreed, and the door was open for her to return. Whether she'd do so was up in the air, along with more.

  She hadn't yet said anything about Ian. I decided I'd let her bring that up when she was ready to. But the engagement ring was gone from her finger, and we both understood that her staying here was, in part, a trial to see how things might work out.

  But the main reason that had brought her back here, which she'd mentioned on arriving last night, was harder-edged and more compelling-the memory of an argument she'd overheard between her father and Astrid. It had happened during Renee's last visit with them, only a few months before Astrid's death.

  Renee had been aware that the tension between the two was rising, and by that time, the bloom was definitely off the rose. Professor Callister, mild and good-humored by nature, seemed prickly and even angry. Astrid's treatment of him was aloof, disdainful, and sharp. She was gone by herself a lot, sometimes until late at night, and she made no attempt to explain her absences. Infidelity wasn't mentioned outright in their exchanges, but the atmosphere was charged with that possibility.

  On the evening of the argument, Renee had been out with friends and got home around eleven. Her father was alone, reading in the living room. He said good night to her with his usual affection, but she sensed that something had happened; he was almost grim, and later she heard him pacing around restlessly and even muttering to himself, a habit he'd never had. That kept her restless, too.

  She dozed, but woke up around three in the morning to the strident voice of her father challenging Astrid. He seemed to be confronting her with an object-something that she had hidden and he had found.

  "What the hell are you doing with this?" he demanded. He sounded more upset than Renee had ever heard him.

  "What are you doing with it?" Astrid retorted, shrilly, without her usual cool. "How dare you go through my things."

  "That's a brat's answer. You're acting like a little girl; you think you're playing a game."

  "Oh, I know it's real-you're the one who does nothing but talk."

  Then they lowered their voices and moved farther into the house; maybe they'd realized they might wake Renee. She only caught a few more words at the brief argument's end. As the Professor's footsteps stomped across the floor, Astrid called bitingly after him:

  "Go ahead! I'll just get another set."

  Renee heard the back door close, and went to a window. Her father was striding across the yard to his study in the carriage house, carrying a scroll or tube that looked like a rolled-up poster. A minute later, sparks rose from the woodstove chimney; at a guess, he was burning it. She watched for some time longer, but he didn't come out again.

  Renee had thought hard about the incident, trying to reconstruct it in detail, and had connected some dots. First, she was almost certain that in Astrid's final taunt to Callister-that she would "just get another"-she had used the word "set." That was a term commonly used for blueprints, site maps, and general construction plans-which were usually carried in longish rolled-up scrolls.

  Second, Astrid's lover, the one who had been murdered with her, was a manager in the Dodd Company-the backers of the silver mine that she had fought.

  Third, Astrid had been involved with a group of radical environmentalists, and she had talked seriously about blowing up the mine.

  Not much had ever been done with this aspect of the crime. While it was conceivable that her lover was the intended target rather than Astrid, nobody gave that much credence. There was a ton of hostility toward her but none toward him, at least that had ever surfaced. He'd just been unlucky enough to be there. The affair itself didn't seem to have any particular significance; it was assumed to be a case of sleeping with the enemy, with attraction prevailing over antagonism-if not exactly time-honored, certainly not unknown. He was close to Astrid's age, was more appealing physically than her twenty-years-older husband, and the forbidden-fruit aspect would have added spice.

  But maybe lust and kicks hadn't been the only impetus for the affair. What if she had really seduced him to get information-such as a set of construction plans-to h
elp her pinpoint sabotage targets? That was the kind of intrigue she had delighted in, and he wouldn't necessarily have known her real object.

  Callister's fury at finding the blueprint-like scroll, and the fierce words that Renee had overheard, did lend credence to that scenario. And that opened up yet another labyrinth of possibilities, one even murkier than what we'd encountered so far.

  Needless to say, Renee was determined to explore it.

  I went back into the cabin to make breakfast-bacon, eggs scrambled with cheddar cheese in a little of the bacon grease, sourdough bread toasted in an iron skillet, and more of that rich coffee.

  My gaze kept straying to the sight of the sleeping woman in my bed-her cloud of dark mussed-up hair, a glimpse of bare nape, the sweet curve of her hips under the quilt. It had taken some maneuvering last night to keep my ribs comfortable, but we'd managed quite well. My condition was definitely improving.

  The tomcat had settled in behind her knees and was purring quietly, waiting for me to serve the meal. I was happy to oblige.

  40

  Renee ate sitting up in bed, wearing one of my T-shirts-we'd never gotten around to unpacking her car last night-with the cat and me flanking her on opposite sides. He could put away bacon like a black hole sucking down a galaxy, and she was a soft touch; he beat her out of damned near every other bite.

  "I've decided to sell the house," she said.

  I nodded, although that gave me a little pang. But it made all the sense in the world, and it didn't necessarily mean she wouldn't stay in Helena.

  "What about the repairs?" I said.

  "I'll get somebody to finish cleaning up-not you; don't even think about it. Otherwise, it goes on the market as is. I know that's a mistake, but I just can't deal with it anymore."

  "That's not a mistake."

  "Well, this probably is-I'm going to let Evvie Jessup handle the sale. She called me in Seattle when she heard about the shooting. All gushy about how glad she was that I was okay, but really, she was keeping her foot in the door."