Snowball in Hell

by Josh Lanyon

  The effort of trying to open his eyes hurt. Nathan postponed it, taking a moment to place himself. But he was used to that, the freefall feeling of trying to remember where he was and whether he needed to be on alert—even after months in hospital, he still woke with it.

  But he wasn’t in hospital now. He was lying on a bed—a cot—and he was cold. He didn’t seem to be wearing any shoes. He opened his eyes.

  He was in a room he’d never seen. The log ceiling seemed a long way away and a little fuzzy. He tried to focus on it. His head hurt. He didn’t feel very well. Granted, he hadn’t felt truly well for a long, long time, but he felt worse than usual. Quite a bit worse. And his feet were like ice.

  He wasn’t supposed to get sick. He didn’t have much of an immune system left.

  “Gin,” someone said.

  Nathan turned his head. Two men sat at a small table playing cards by the light of a kerosene lantern. One was balder than Cueball, and the other looked like one of the Marx Brothers. He knew them, though it took him a while to remember where. They had been in the hotel bar.

  “You’re a goddamn card shark, Lawdie,” Harpo said.

  Cueball grinned widely—like a shark—displaying a mouthful of gold teeth. “No names,” he told the other man and glanced at Nathan. His face changed. “Hey,” he said, and he nodded at Nathan.

  Harpo looked at Nathan. “Well, well. Sleeping Beauty joins the party.”

  Nathan sat up. It was a mistake. He sat there for a moment trying to decide how bad a mistake it was.

  “Just stay put, newsie,” Lawdie pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver and showed it to Nathan, who blinked at it tiredly. “Nobody wants any rough stuff.”

  “That’s good to know,” Nathan said, and the other two laughed.

  The man who wasn’t Lawdie scooped up the spread of cards, shuffled them expertly and began to deal again.

  “Can I have my shoes?” Nathan asked. “My feet are cold.”

  This got another big laugh.

  “No,” Lawdie informed him. “Ya can’t.” The other man chuckled.

  “Can I at least have my socks?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ah, let him have his socks,” Harpo said. “We don’t need to literally keep him on ice, do we?” He snickered, but Lawdie wasn’t amused.

  “You gotta big mouth, Hammer.”

  “Hey,” Hammer protested.

  Hammer and Lawdie, Nathan noted wearily. He’d have to remember that in case he got out of there alive. “That much I worked out for myself,” he said. “You can’t be working for the girl, so who? Sid Szabo?”

  It had been a shot in the dark, but the two thugs exchanged looks.

  “How long do you plan on holding me for?”

  “Depends,” Lawdie said.

  “You talk a lot,” Hammer said to Nathan. “It’s not a healthy habit.”

  He was probably right. Nathan lay back down and closed his eyes. The best thing was to shut up and let them forget about him for a while.

  He must have actually dozed off for a few moments because the next voice seemed unnaturally loud.

  “Is he still sleeping?”

  Nathan opened his eyes. Lawdie was standing over him, staring down. He blinked up at him tiredly, and then closed his eyes again.

  “I told you not to hit him so hard,” Hammer said. “You probably killed him.”

  “Shut up, you!”

  “I knew a guy died from getting hit on the head just like that. Walked around talking and played a hand of cards and then went to sleep and never woke up. Mike Murphy. Used to run with—”

  “He’s just playing possum.” Lawdie bent over the cot, breathing heavily. Nathan continued to breathe slowly and evenly.

  Lawdie slapped him.

  He’d pretty well figured that was coming. Nathan groaned and fluttered his eyelashes, then curled over on his side and pretended to go back to sleep.

  “Yep,” Hammer said with grim satisfaction. “Just like Mike Murphy. Scrawny little guy like that can’t take it. Probably got pneumonia too. I told you. The boss didn’t want him killed.”

  “Will you shut your goddamned mouth up?” Lawdie cried. “He ain’t dead. His breathing’s fine.”

  “Look how white his feet are.”

  “You look at his feet! I’m going to hike up to the hotel.”

  “You’re not going to leave me with a stiff!”

  “He’s still breathing, fer Chrissake! I’ll call the boss and see how long we got to hang on to this geezer.”

  “What’s happening with the car?”

  “How the hell should I know? I been sitting here with you. I’ll find out once I’m up there.”

  “We got to get outta here before this guy croaks.”

  “You planning to walk back to Los Angeles? Just stay here and watch him. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  They continued to bicker back and forth for a time, and then finally Lawdie took himself out, the door opening and slamming shut on a gust of frosty air. Nathan couldn’t help the shudder that rippled through his body.

  His feet felt like ice. His body felt flushed and feverish. Another shiver shook him.

  A few minutes passed. Hammer shuffled and cut cards. Then he muttered, “Christ. Leave me here with a croaker.”

  Nathan heard the scrape of a chair, footsteps, and Hammer bent over the bed. He touched Nathan’s left eye—apparently planning to check his pupils—and Nathan bounded up, head-butting him.

  Half-stunned, Hammer crashed back on his tailbone, and Nathan sprang on him. He delivered a couple of fast efficient chops to Hammer’s head, and the big man sagged back and lay still.

  Staggering to his feet, Nathan searched quickly for his shoes, but was unable to find them anywhere. He sat for a minute on the chair, feeling sick and faint. His head had hurt like hell before he tried head-butting that moose. He straightened up, eyeing Hammer warily, picked up a chair and approached him.

  The big man was breathing in stentorian tones. Nathan nudged him, and his head lolled. Nathan knelt, patting him over and finding his gun, a big old Colt .45, which he appropriated. He scooted around, keeping the Colt trained on Hammer, using his free hand to slip his shoes off, one at a time, and put them on his own feet. They were too big, but they were better than nothing.

  He went to the window and stared out. Dusk or dawn? Either way there was no sign of Lawdie in the blur of shadows from the close-clustered pines. He checked his watch. Six-thirty. It was either early in the morning or the evening of the following day. He figured it was morning.

  Easing open the cabin door, he listened. The wind through the pines made a sound like rushing water. The air was cold and clear. Frost powdered the ground. He stepped outside, shutting the door, and sprinted for the shelter of the trees.

  He had no idea where he was, but heading back to the hotel seemed like the only option. He couldn’t walk all the way to Indian Falls, and Spain and his boys must surely be at the hotel by now.

  Hopefully Pearl was in custody already, and Lawdie would have an unpleasant surprise waiting for him when he arrived.

  Sticking to the shelter of trees and bushes, Nathan followed the dirt track that led from the cabin to—he hoped—the main highway. He moved quietly and carefully. Lawdie didn’t have much of a head start, and Nathan didn’t want to run into him.

  Every so often he paused and listened. Every sound in the pristine silence was as loud as a shot. Some distance ahead he heard a scrabble of stones or the snap of a twig. That would be Lawdie, he knew.

  A bush smacked him across the face and he had to stop. The pain in his head was getting worse. He dropped to his knees, and quietly threw up at the base of a pine tree. He felt a little better then, and, grabbing for the tree trunk, he pulled himself back to his feet. He rested for a moment, listening, trying to place Lawdie ahead of him.

  It was getting lighter now.

  He walked on and the road opened up onto the highway. A deer stood on the opposite sid
e of the road, motionless.

  Nathan bent over, bracing his hands on his thighs and tried to catch his breath. His side throbbed. He had no idea which way to walk. Nothing indicated the direction in which the lodge lay.

  The deer crossed the road, hooves clopping, passed Nathan close enough to brush him, and then suddenly sprang away into the darkness.

  From down the road Nathan spotted a pair of headlights.

  Christ. Did he take a chance on this? Lawdie and Hammer had at least one ally at the lodge, and it wasn’t necessarily Pearl. With their own car out of commission, someone had given them a lift to the cabin in the woods. He didn’t believe they had carried him to it, and someone had to have provided the cabin in the first place.

  The car was speeding toward him, headlights sweeping the darkness. A solid black Buick bearing down fast.

  Nathan stepped out from cover, and raised his hands.

  Tires and pads squealing, the car braked sharply, swerved, corrected and skidded to a halt a few yards ahead of him.

  Nathan walked toward it slowly. The front passenger door opened and Lt. Mathew Spain stepped out.

  “Well, that was a hell of a chance,” he said.

  Someone turned a powerful flashlight on Nathan as he shuffled in his oversize shoes toward the car. “Who dares, wins,” he quoted breathlessly.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Spain was peering at him in the white glare of the flashlight. “You’re bleeding.”

  Nathan touched a hand to the top of his head. Gummy. He spared a glance for his fingers. That was blood all right. “It’s a long story.” He reached Spain, who had walked a few steps to meet him, and a weird thing happened. His knees gave out and he buckled.

  Spain grabbed him, two powerful hands closing on Nathan’s biceps. Nathan leaned into Spain’s broad chest and closed his eyes.

  The next time he came around, someone’s hands were on him, trying to pull his clothes off, and he made himself start fighting. It wasn’t much of a fight, struggling as he was against the extreme lassitude that gripped him, but he made the effort anyway, and a deep, unexpected voice said, “Take it easy, Doyle. We’re trying to help you.”

  His hands were forced to his chest by someone a lot stronger than he was at the moment, and he opened his eyes against a painfully bright light.

  Bewilderingly, he was lying in a room with pink-flowered wallpaper, and two men were leaning over him, holding him onto a bed. One was a big, rawboned man with a shock of iron-gray hair reminding him painfully of Sergeant Yorkie, who had bought it at El Alamein. The other man was Lt. Mathew Spain.

  Spain was watching him with those amber-brown eyes—and Spain’s big warm hands were covering his own, holding them still.

  Nathan mumbled, “What the hell…?”

  Spain nodded to the other man, and they let go of him.

  “You pack a wallop for a skinny guy.” The older ruefully rubbed his jaw.

  Nathan blinked at him, tried to sit up, but it wasn’t going well, so it was kind of a relief when Spain pushed him flat again.

  “Just relax,” Spain said. “You’re okay. We’re at the lodge. There’s a doctor staying here and he says you’re supposed to take it easy. You’ve got concussion.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, we can see that. But it won’t hurt to lie down for an hour.”

  Actually, it sounded like a swell idea. He let his eyes drift closed. Felt Spain and the other cop tugging at him with careful haste, undoing his belt, unbuttoning his shirt. He was going to tell them it wasn’t worth it because he was just closing his eyes for a moment. Or…or maybe an hour…He felt like Rommel’s panzers had run him over, backed up and run him over again. He ached from head to toe. Which reminded him…

  “What happened to the girl?” he asked, opening his eyes. And then, indignantly, “What happened to my shoes?”

  “Pearl blew,” Spain said grimly. “During the night. Her aunt drove her to Indian Falls, and she caught a train back to Los Angeles first thing this morning.” His mouth quirked in a kind of smile. “Your shoes are still on the loose.”

  He had a nice smile—nice eyes—and Nathan smiled back at him. It was probably a mistake. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down with a cop. Even this cop. Especially this cop, really.

  Then Spain’s words filtered his concussed brain, and he said, “Pearl’s aunt? Who’s her aunt?”

  “Mrs. Hubbard, the hotel manageress. She says Pearl remembered some urgent business back in town and had to leave right away. Had no idea we were looking for her.” Spain reached for the waistband of Nathan’s trousers, and Nathan brushed his hand away, sitting up fast—which made his head spin and his stomach do an unpleasant flop.

  “Suit yourself,” Spain said mildly.

  Hands shaking, Nathan climbed out of his trousers—acutely aware of how desperately he wanted Spain’s hands on him. It was frightening how much he wanted it. He didn’t dare look at the other two in case they saw it in his face.

  Dizzy, he turned back to the bed and the older cop had pulled the sheet and blankets back sandwich-style. He awkwardly maneuvered onto the mattress, and Spain caught him by the shoulder and quite easily, gently, slipped him out of his unbuttoned shirt.

  And there it was: the longed-for warmth of hands on his bare skin, the strength and gentleness that he craved but could never—would never—find except in fleeting, stolen moments.

  He crashed down on the mattress, burying his face in the pillow. There were things he should be asking them, things he should be saying, but he was overwhelmed with guilt and yearning and fear and frustration. His body hurt, but his heart hurt more. And he was too tired and too sore to deal with any of it. He closed his eyes, shutting them out, shutting everything out.

  The older cop said something, and Spain answered, both of their voices quiet and far away. The lights went out, and Nathan went out with them.

  Chapter Seven

  The soothing squeak and creak of a rocker worked its way into his consciousness. Nathan listened to it for a while, lulled by feelings the homely sound beguiled, feelings of safety and peace and well-being.

  After a bit he realized that he was awake and that he felt better. His head was no longer killing him, his gut had settled, he was relaxed and warm. He sighed his relief, and the rocker abruptly stopped rocking. Floorboards vibrated underfoot, he opened his eyes, and someone was bending over him. Nathan shot upright, dislodging the hand alighting on his brow, and just missing a collision with Lieutenant Spain.

  “Jesus,” Spain said. “If you ever need a job you could probably find work as a jack-in-the-box.”

  “Sorry. You…surprised me.” He subsided back against the stack of pillows. He wasn’t usually this jumpy, but he could hardly tell Spain that it was mostly due to his presence.

  “You surprised me too,” Spain said. “And you keep surprising me.” He sat down on the foot of the shiny pink bedspread and studied Nathan.

  Nathan didn’t know what to make of that. Spain looked at him with an open directness he found bewildering. If he moved his foot beneath the blankets, he could brush Spain’s thigh. His heart sped up at the thought. He was painfully conscious of everything about the other man—his solid muscled warmth, the way Spain smelled of soap and Old Spice, the fine clear texture of his skin, and eyelashes as long and black as a girl’s. Nathan liked everything about him. Too much. He searched around for something safe to say. “What happened to Lawdie and Hammer?”

  “Hammer? Dewey Hammer?” Spain’s mouth curved. “Well, that makes sense. He usually runs with Vince Lawdie. Haven’t seen Hammer, but we’ve got Lawdie on assault and kidnapping.” His smile widened into that grin that Nathan liked so much. “We’re hoping you’re going to be able to substantiate those charges. We were sort of going by your general appearance in the woods, and Lawdie’s reaction when we carried you into the lodge.”

  “You bet,” Nathan said. “I’ll be happy to press charges. Those assholes cold-cocke
d me last night. I guess it was last night.” He looked past Spain to the sweeps of dotted Swiss framing the windows—and the darkness beyond. “Is it night now?” he asked, astonished.

  Spain nodded.

  “What are we still doing here?”

  “Mostly waiting for you to wake up.” Spain didn’t seem upset about it, but Nathan couldn’t figure it out.

  “You all sat around here the entire day waiting for me to wake up?”

  For the first time, Spain’s man-to-man gaze sheered. “Not all of us. I sent Jonesy and the others back to town this morning with Lawdie. You know who Lawdie works for?”

  “I’ve seen him before. Sid Szabo?”

  “Same thing. Nora Noonan. He works at the Las Palmas Club. From what we can make out, their orders were to hold you up here long enough for Pearl to slip.”

  With a sinking feeling, Nathan asked, “Did your men pick Pearl up in Los Angeles?”

  “Either they missed her or she didn’t get off the train.”

  Nathan put a careful hand to his head.

  “I know,” Spain said grimly, watching him.

  For a moment neither of them spoke.

  Spain said, “You and me will have to take the train back. The day after tomorrow.”

  Noonan’s thugs must have really conked him because he just couldn’t seem to connect the dots. “The day after tomorrow?”

  “Tonight’s Christmas Eve.”

  Nathan let that sink in for a moment. Christmas Eve? Then he protested, “I don’t understand. Why would you—?”

  Spain’s eyes met Nathan’s once more, but there was something funny in his expression. “We didn’t want to move you. The doctor said you needed complete rest and quiet.”

  “The hell with that.” And then, slowly, “You could have just left me on my own.”

  “I didn’t want to.”