A Man for All Seasons

by Diana Palmer

  He grinned. “Sharp girl.”

  “What do you think it is?” she exclaimed.

  “I have no idea. But with any luck, it’s something concrete that will prove Hunt’s mob boss committed murder to stop an investigation.”

  She was as excited as he was now. They rushed into the pawn shop with the ticket. As they expected, they received a safe-deposit box key from the clerk at the shop. They then sped to the bank. They produced credentials and still had to get the bank president to preside over the opening of the safe-deposit box.

  But when they inserted their key, there was a surprise waiting. The key didn’t work.

  “How can that be?” Curt exploded. “This is the right number. It’s the right key!”

  The bank president was scratching his head when the young woman who had been standing uncomfortably behind them spoke up tremulously.

  “It wasn’t my fault, sir,” she moaned. “They had credentials, too. They said they were from the Justice Department. They had the box drilled and the contents removed, and then we had to have the lock changed…”

  The bank president was livid. “You didn’t say anything about this, Miss Davis!”

  “Sir, I told my supervisor. You’ve been out of town,” she added defensively. “It was three days ago!”

  Curt cursed under his breath. There went his evidence.

  “We can have the box drilled again,” the bank president said, disturbed.

  “Don’t bother,” Curt replied quietly. “By now, every piece of evidence in it is gone. We’ve been beaten to the punch, royally. But thanks for your help.”

  “Damn the luck!” he exploded when they were driving back to the courthouse. “If I’d just examined the dog three days ago!”

  “Who would have expected a stray dog to carry evidence of a crime?” she comforted him. “You’re not superhuman, you know.”

  He grimaced. “I could kick myself. The evidence is gone, the witness is gone, and I’m in the doghouse again.”

  “I didn’t see any other federal agents doing much better,” she pointed out. “At least you’ve been trying!”

  “For all the good it did me. I’ve been up all night staking out the neighborhood, and I have nothing to show for it. Except a few dead marigolds,” he added with a rueful smile.

  “I’ve got plenty left,” she assured him. “Don’t beat yourself to death over it. I could make supper for you tonight,” she added. “Then we could go and play billiards in your basement. I love billiards.”

  “You do?”

  She grinned. “My girlfriend and I used to be the terrors of the tables when we were in college.”

  He sighed. “That would make a nice end to the day. Something to actually look forward to,” he added with a slow smile. “Thanks.”

  She shrugged. “What are friends for?” she asked, and she smiled back.

  In the end, Mrs. Russell cooked for all of them. Over ham and potato salad with Matilda Russell’s homemade bread, they had a lively discussion about the criminal justice system and the excesses of the twenty-four-hour news stations.

  Afterward, leaving the dog with his mother, Curt led the way down to the basement and racked the balls on the billiard table.

  “I never asked,” he murmured. “Did you win your case?”

  “Not my most recent one,” she replied with a tiny smile. “I fought hard, but the jury didn’t believe the poor man would do something so dishonest as to get his neighbor drunk and steal his land. However, I did win the one over the drug traffickers.” She shrugged. “You win some, you lose some. That’s life.”

  He let her go first. He was sorry when she cleared the table with expertise. He chuckled as he racked the balls again and cleared it himself.

  Neck and neck, they shot for points until it grew late.

  “I’m having a very good time,” she said finally, “but I have a meeting at nine tomorrow morning. I’m going to have to…Curt?”

  “Hmm?” he murmured, nudging balls into pockets to clear the table.

  “What are those lights?”

  He turned, only half concentrating on what she was saying. Then he noticed where her eyes were, and his heart stopped and started again. It was his board, the one he’d made and forgotten in the disappointment over the safe-deposit box. The grid pattern in Mary’s garden was lighting up like a holiday ship making port.

  “Somebody’s in your barn again!” he exclaimed.

  “How do you know?”

  He explained, briefly, the grid pattern and how it worked. “See? He’s just gone into the barn. We’ve got him!”

  She gaped at him. “You’re going in there all by yourself, huh?”

  He went to the coat stand where he’d hung his shoulder holster without a word. He whipped it around his chest and checked his .45 automatic. His dark, serious eyes met hers. “This is where you go upstairs and phone Jack. Have him get in touch with Hardy Vicks. I don’t care if he has to be dragged out of bed. I need backup.”

  She swallowed. “My dad taught me how to shoot.”

  He smiled gently, taking her by the arms and bending to kiss her with fierce delight. “I wouldn’t risk you for all the tea in China, sweetheart,” he whispered, and kissed her again when she smiled up at him.

  “Don’t get shot,” she admonished firmly.

  His eyebrows lifted. “I wouldn’t dare. Go on.”

  She went up the inside staircase and he turned off the lights. A minute later, he eased out the door, and the genial man of minutes before was eclipsed by a trained federal officer with nerves of steel and years of experience in risky situations.

  There was, fortunately, enough cover to keep him hidden. He moved from his mother’s backyard, past the carport, past the house next door, behind its carport, and into the small thicket of hedge bushes that led to the street. The view from Mary’s barn was hidden by a growth of dogwood trees and boxwood shrubs, so he was able to duck and slide across the paved street. But then it was a matter of waiting for noise to camouflage his footsteps.

  He waited until the sudden loud roar of a truck going along the highway a few hundred yards away disguised his movements. He rushed to the side of the barn, drew his weapon, took off the safety, and waited for another noise.

  It wasn’t long in coming. He heard a soft, whispery movement from inside the barn, as if someone was leaning against a wall.

  His heart was rushing in his chest. It sounded loud enough that it could be heard a block away, although he knew it couldn’t. He closed his eyes to concentrate on what he could hear.

  The whispery sound came again. There was a flicker of movement, barely audible at all.

  Curt had been shot once, early in his career. It had been a shoulder wound in a shoot-out with racketeers in New York City. It was the worst possible time to remember how much it had hurt. He couldn’t think about pain. He had to think about his mother and even Mary.

  He took two quick breaths when he heard the approaching echo of another big truck. It’s now or never, Russell, he told himself firmly. He set his lips, took another breath, and rushed into the barn.

  A big, heavyset man with wavy black hair gasped and threw up his hands in the bare gleam of light from the streetlight—the one that worked—nearby.

  “Don’t shoot!” the man squeaked.

  Curt’s blood was pumping madly. He had the pistol leveled at the man’s gut. “Federal agent,” he clipped. “Identify yourself!”

  “Abe…Abe Hunt!”

  Curt frowned. “Hunt?”

  “Ye…yeah! Could you, uh, put that thing down?” he stammered, indicating the pistol with a nod.

  Curt lowered it with a curse. “You idiot! I could have shot you! What the hell are you doing in here?”

  “Trying to outrun Daniels,” Hunt groaned, looking around wildly as he went toward Curt. “Man, you are slow as Methuselah! Didn’t you get the message? I sent the dog…!”

  Curt wasn’t touching that. “Where have you been for the p
ast few days?” he demanded. “You weren’t here! The damned dog hasn’t made a peep. Well, until now,” he added, as the dog suddenly began to bay and howl so loudly that he could be heard even through the walls of Matilda Russell’s living room.

  “Oh, my God!” Hunt exclaimed. “It’s him! It’s Daniels! Redbone smells him…!”

  Curt wasn’t going to ask how the dog could smell a man through a house. He’d seen bloodhounds track people in cars. Sloughed off skin was detectable even from the open window of a moving car, although most people wouldn’t have believed it.

  “Get down!” Curt yelled, pushing Hunt ahead of him to the floor of the barn. It was dusty and dirty and, above all, safe. For the moment at least.

  Hunt started to speak, but Curt snapped a faint blow against his arm, silencing him.

  His eyes were growing used to the dark. His heartbeat was deafening him, but he knew his capabilities. If he could get a glimpse of their stalker, he could drop him. He was an expert marksman. Of course, there were other dangers—for instance, the man, Daniels, could just set fire to the barn and end the standoff. Old, dry, full of combustible material, it would go up in seconds with both men trapped inside.

  Curt lay listening. If the man struck a match, in the silence unbroken except by the howling dog, he could hear it. He’d try shooting right through the walls if he had to. But he didn’t hear a match.

  He did hear a faint footfall, barely an echo of a leaf crunching. He closed his eyes, aware of Hunt’s strained, loud breathing next to him. He jabbed the man again and made a motion with his finger to his lips. Hunt’s breathing quieted.

  Curt listened, cursing now the sound of another heavy truck passing within earshot, because it masked closer sounds.

  Hunt was still alive. The hit man might have regained any evidence that Hunt could have used to convict the mob boss, but Hunt himself was the nail in the man’s coffin. The hit man would go to any lengths to silence that voice, and Curt knew it.

  He had to protect Hunt, no matter what the cost.

  He waited in the semidarkness, his body tensed for action, his ears peeled, his every reflex honed to its finest edge.

  But when the attack came, it was from a totally unexpected source. Only a faint creak heralded it.

  It was enough. Curt rolled onto his back and fired over his head, at the hayloft where nothing was visible.

  “You idiot, what are you shooting… Look out!” Hunt yelled, and rolled quickly out of the way.

  As he spoke, a dark form came hurtling down with the sound of automatic weapon fire bursting on the silence only for precious seconds.

  Curt felt a stab in his arm as he fired again and again. There was a loud grunt and then the dark form crumpled. The weapon fire ceased.

  Almost simultaneously, sirens burst on the silence.

  “You okay?” Curt asked Hunt, who was dragging himself to his feet with his hands at his throat.

  “Yeah,” the man managed to say. “You?”

  Curt wasn’t sure about that. He didn’t take time to check. He moved to the downed man, pushed him over quickly with the pistol leveled at his chest. An automatic weapon was held in a still hand. There was a dark stain on the man’s suit front. He wasn’t moving.

  Curt bent, amazed at how painful the movement was, and dragged the automatic weapon from the man’s clenched fingers, before he tossed it out of reach, just in case.

  “Thanks, man, you saved my skin!” Hunt exclaimed. “Hey, you’re bleeding…!”

  Curt fell to his knees. It should be hurting, he thought dimly. His arm felt heavy. It felt wet, too. He had another pain, lower down, in his side.

  “Russell! Russell, you in there?” came a familiar loud voice.

  “Jack,” he whispered. He couldn’t talk louder. Funny.

  “He’s hurt! Come on in!” Hunt yelled, bending over Curt to keep him from toppling headfirst.

  There were running footsteps, the sound of bolts being thrown on weapons, the clank of equipment.

  “Curt!” Mary Ryan exclaimed.

  “Miss Ryan, you shouldn’t…!” the police chief protested.

  It did no good. She was right beside Curt, checking him with trembling hands, touching him.

  “He’s been shot. Twice I think,” she said quickly. “Where are the paramedics?”

  “Right behind us,” one of the SWAT team members volunteered. “Hurry it up, guys!” he called to two men with a stretcher.

  “That’s Erskine Daniels,” Hunt was telling the policemen, pointing to the downed man, who was in bad shape, but still alive. “I’m a federal witness, Abe Hunt. I know plenty about the trial that’s going on in Atlanta. I saw the head boss pop another potential witness and dump him in the Chattahoochee. You get me to a safe place, and I’ll sing like a bird! But fix that guy first, will you?” he added, nodding toward Curt. “He saved my life!”

  “We’ll fix him,” one of the paramedics promised, working in the spreading light held by a police officer. “He’s been hit twice, once in the shoulder and once in the side, but I think he’s going to be fine.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Mary Ryan moaned.

  There was a howl and another howl, and Matilda Russell walked into the barn.

  The police chief threw up his hands. “This is my crime scene!” he yelled.

  Matilda just smiled at him and walked right to her son, kneeling. “My poor boy,” she said, touching his cold face. “You’ll be fine, son. Just fine! Can we get you anything?” she added, ignoring the paramedics and the cursing police chief.

  But Curt was drifting away into merciful unconsciousness in a wave of nausea.

  Beside him, the big red dog was licking his face.

  “Redbone, you big dope,” Abe Hunt exclaimed on a chuckle. “I send you out with a message that might save me, and what do you do? You move in with strangers and forget me!”

  “Is he yours?” Matilda Russell asked quickly.

  Hunt nodded. “He was,” he added ruefully. “I guess I can’t take him with me where I’ll be going. Right, guys?” he asked a newcomer to the scene, Hardy Vicks from the FBI.

  “That’s right,” the older man agreed. “Damn, that’s Russell!” he exclaimed when he saw Curt on the floor. “Is he dead?” he asked quickly.

  “Of course he’s not dead!” his mother huffed. “He’s my son. He’s a Russell. You’d have to put a stake through his heart first. These are just itty-bitty flesh wounds.”

  “You’d know, I guess,” Vicks muttered sarcastically.

  “I was a reporter. I was actually shot covering a riot in Atlanta,” Mrs. Russell told him haughtily. “Took two bullets, right through the upper leg. Missed the bone by half a centimeter.”

  He was impressed. He moved closer. “You his mother, you said?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  He studied her closely. “He’s not bad,” he murmured, sparing Curt a glance as Mary Ryan walked beside the stretcher the paramedics were rolling him out on. “I have to admit I’m impressed. He took down a hit man and saved a government witness all by himself, from what the policemen told me.”

  “He did,” Matilda agreed. She studied the taller man. He was about her age. Bald, but that wasn’t a bad thing. She found bald men rather sexy. She smiled. “I don’t suppose you’d give an old lady a ride to the hospital? Mary will go with him in the ambulance. There won’t be room.”

  “It would be my pleasure!” he replied. “But I don’t see any old ladies,” he added gallantly. “I’m divorced. You got a husband somewhere?”

  She shook her head. “I was widowed years ago.”

  He smiled. “I was shot once, too.”

  She smiled, glancing worriedly at her son as they moved him. “I need to get to the hospital. But I have to do something about the dog,” she murmured vaguely, glancing at Abe Hunt.

  “You can keep him,” Abe Hunt said with a grin. “I’d like knowing he had a good home.”

  “Thank you, Mr….?”

 
“Hunt,” he volunteered. “Abe Hunt. And if you ever need anything, anything at all, you just let that guy know,” he indicated Special Agent in Charge Vicks. “He can get word to me. I know people all over.”

  Matilda had visions of a strange man appearing at her door with a baseball bat offering to break legs of potential abusers. She cleared her throat. “Thanks, Mr. Hunt. I’ll take good care of your dog.”

  “He’s sorta stupid, but he’s got a good heart.” He bent to pet the dog before he was led away by two men who had accompanied the SAC.

  “Come on, Big Red,” Matilda told the big dog, tugging at his lead.

  “Here, let me do that. He’s a handful for a dainty little woman like you,” Vicks offered, taking the leash. “I hear you have a billiard table!”

  Curt woke up hours later in pain. He opened his eyes. His mother and Mary Ryan were sitting beside the bed talking animatedly.

  “He has cousins in Cordele,” Matilda remarked, “where my uncle lives. Imagine that! And he loves billiards. I invited him over for supper Friday night. Curt will be out of the hospital by then. You can come, too, dear, and I’ll make some more rolls.”

  “I’d enjoy that,” Mary replied.

  “Who has…cousins in Cordele?” Curt managed in a hoarse whisper.

  “Why, your boss, dear, Special Agent in Charge Hardy Vicks. I was very impressed with him,” she added. “He said you did a great job.”

  “He has an ulterior motive. He likes billiards,” Curt murmured with all the humor he could muster, then he groaned. “Hurts.”

  “That thing injects painkillers automatically,” his mother said, indicating the IV that was pumping fluids into him through complicated electronic machinery. “It should start working pretty soon.”

  He sighed heavily. His arm felt strange. His belly hurt.

  “Don’t pull at that IV,” Mary said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “Just be still and ride it out. You’ll be home before you know it.”

  He opened his eyes and looked up at her with a faint smile. “I got shot.”