He did as he was told and fashioned a makeshift tourniquet. Ralph Lauren had never looked so earthy.
As for my back, there was no way I could tourniquet my torso. I only prayed that things weren't as bad as they felt and that I could make it back to the highway.
“Get up,” I said.
He wanted me to help him up, but frankly I wasn't in the mood. I watched him roll around on the ground and try to get his balance. It wasn't that I was all that mean. I hurt and I was in control and I wasn't about to threaten my advantage by giving him one of my arms.
There was an old dried saguaro on the ground and I walked over to it and found a stout, dried rib and threw it over to Peter. “Use that as a walking stick.”
He'd taken orders from women all of his life and had no trouble following mine. He braced himself against the boulder and by leveraging the saguaro rib, he finally managed to get upright. Blood was still seeping from his leg wound.
“Now, give me the keys.”
It was difficult, but he managed to retrieve them from his front pocket.
He hobbled over to the car with me behind him. I opened the driver's door, and nodded. “You're driving.”
“You've got to be kidding,” he said, his face ashen.
“Shut up, Peter. Don't be a wimp. Hell, it's an automatic. You won't even have to move that leg.”
I held up the stun gun and turned it on for good measure. It snapped and crackled as an impressive electrical arc leapt across the two black posts.
He got in the Bronco.
I walked around to the passenger side and climbed in. Keeping the .22 on him, I slipped the keys in the ignition and started the car.
“I don't think I have to tell you not to fiddle with that knife,” I said.
He drove slowly out the dusty, rutted road. Every time we hit a bad place we both moaned and groaned.
Halfway to the highway I said, “It's cold in here.” He didn't argue and I noticed that his tanned face was the color of unbleached flour.
As I turned off the air conditioner the thought occurred to me that we were both probably going into shock.
Twenty minutes later we stumbled into the Riata Bar, the first place on the highway that we came to after leaving County Line Road.
The barroom became very quiet as we hobbled in. Even the few friendly faces I recognized didn't come rushing up right away.
If the barmaid was surprised to see two bloody patrons, one with a bruised chin, fat split lip and bloody back holding a gun on the other, who had a knife sticking out of his thigh and blood leaking from his armpit, she didn't show it. She was even kind enough to not point out my wet pants.
“If you'll call 911, I'll have a Canadian Club and water,” I said. “My friend here will have a Shirley Temple.”
EPILOGUE
THE CASE AGAINST PETER WAS EASILY MADE, IN LARGE PART BY his own confession, which he seemed eager to make. Cops will tell you that murderers frequently want to confess their sins, and Peter, never a real seasoned killer to begin with, fell right into that mold. The scary thing is he might have gotten away with it if J.B. hadn't hired me.
After a battery of psychological testing it was discovered that Peter had temporary disassociation problems and was easily manipulated by women. Imagine that. With his troubled childhood it came as no surprise that he never knew how to trust anyone, which is why he had a string of sexual relationships but could never be intimate with any of his partners. Except for Abby. Killing her was the ultimate intimacy.
Because of Peter Van Thiessen's confession, Stella Ahil's friend never had to come forward, and as far as I know, never got into any immigration issues.
Gloria Covarrubias was something else. Although she would not cave in, the police quickly made a case against her. A hard nut to crack, she held firm in her conviction that she had had nothing to do with Abigail Van Thiessen's murder. She had no idea that Peter Van Thiessen had used the neighbor's car that she had borrowed, although a deposition was taken from a mechanic who had serviced her own vehicle. He said it was inoperable because someone had poured sugar in the gas tank. Frankly, I didn't imagine that Gloria was too worried about that bill, what with the money she'd received from both Peter and Abby.
She also maintained that the money in her separate checking account came from an old, and untraceable, boyfriend. And while she admitted packing up the food for J.B. and Abby for that fateful horseback trip, she swore that she had no idea how any drugs got into their whiskey. Gloria Covarrubias refused to take a polygraph test. Because the evidence against her was largely circumstantial, the charges were dropped. I have no idea where she is now. Unfortunately, good guys don't always win, and evil isn't always punished.
The good Reverend Lateef Wise, aka Bobby Bangs, got his new day care center and, as far as I know, is still attending anger management classes every Tuesday night.
Jodie Austin has given up bull riding for good. She's planning on marrying her Sullivan and Cromwell lawyer this fall.
As for me I learned more than I ever wanted to about stun guns and about being stabbed. As I suspected, both Peter and I were in shock that day—he from the leg and arm wounds—I'd nicked his ulna with the blade—and I with my back.
I didn't sever any of his arteries, just a few of his overdeveloped muscles.
And, of course, I had stabbed myself in the back. Fortunately the two ambulances arrived at the Riata at about the same time, so I didn't have to arm-wrestle Peter to see who could go first. I was thinking I'd go to the emergency room and be released, but the cut between my shoulder blades was more serious than that. They did some exploratory surgery and hooked me up to IVs.
On the fifth afternoon I was released from the hospital and Martín picked me up. I thought he'd be pretty depressed because when Jake Hatcher got out of the same hospital the day before, Cori Elena moved out of the Vaca Grande and in with him. But it didn't seem to bother Martín at all.
We drove home to a great show of pregnant thunderclouds shrouding the Santa Catalina Mountains, with lightning bolts piercing the dry desert earth. Three days later, the rains came.
I couldn't wear a bra for about ten days and that was probably the toughest part of the whole thing.
Oh, and the barmaid did blab so I'm still getting teased about wetting my pants.
Which brings me to stun guns. Dreadful things. Hurt like hell. And I discovered that they leave little marks that look like vampire bites for days afterward. I can also now attest that a zap to the torso is more painful than one to the leg.
J.B. not only got out of jail, but also gave me a $5,000 bonus. Can you believe it? Guess it was just a drop in the bucket for a wiry little bull rider with sixty million dollars to spend.
Although Jackie Doo Dahs still asks him out from time to time, as far as I know he's not interested. To his credit, in spite of all the money he inherited, he's still running his bull riding school.
While I was recovering at home, Quinta helped me out a lot. Not only with my household chores, but she's also taken on some of my detective work. Frankly, I think she's got a real knack for the job and I'm looking forward to maybe using her on some of my cases.
Little did I know then that my next case, running down a kid named Eddy Gallegos, would come from her …
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SINCLAIR BROWNING'S FIRST TRADE ELLIS MYSTERY, THE LAST SONG DOGS was nominated for a Barry award and for a Shamus award for Best Original Paperback of 1999 by the Private Eye Writers of America. It was quickly followed by The Sporting Club.
Browning is a “dirty-shirt cowgirl” whose family ranched for years. Having lived in, and ridden, the Sonoran desert for most of her life, she still breaks her own horses, rounds up cattle and team pens.
sinclairbrowning.com
RODE HARD, PUT AWAY DEAD
A Bantam Book / February 2001
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2001 by Sinclair Browning
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For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-49026-1
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v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright
Rode Hard, Put Away Dead Page 33
