Clint Adams, Detective

by J. R. Roberts

  “This is about Hollister, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Dent said, “it’s about Hollister.”

  “He killed the girl, and now everybody’s covering up for him.”

  “Is that important to you?” Dent asked. “That you know?”

  “I just want to know where I stand,” McCloud said, “what’s going on.”

  “Okay, yes, he killed the girl and everyone is covering up for him,” Dent answered.

  “Why?”

  “Because he might be the next mayor, and then the next governor,” Dent said, “and then who knows?”

  “What about his wife?”

  “What about her?”

  McCloud thought for a minute.

  “I want her.”

  “I think he’ll be needing her to host parties and things.”

  “I want her,” McCloud said. “I don’t have to be a captain, I don’t want any money. I’ll take care of Adams, and the lawyer, and make sure the black boy gets hung, but I want her.”

  Dent thought fast. Where was the harm in saying yes, okay, you can have her? Once McCloud had gotten everything done, Dent could just kill him.

  “Okay,” the chief said, “his wife is yours. Just get it done.”

  FORTY

  Although Clint had committed himself to “all night long,” he hadn’t really taken it as literally as Mandy had. To him it meant having sex, then resting awhile, then having sex again. To her “all night long” meant ALL NIGHT LONG.

  Finally, as the sun started to come up, Mandy fell asleep. Clint, believing he was about five minutes from a heart attack, drifted off to sleep next to her. Then an odd thing happened.

  He woke several hours later feeling refreshed.

  In fact, when he woke up, he did so all at once. His eyes popped open and he sat up, feeling more awake and alive than he had in some time.

  “It’s all the sex,” she said.

  He turned his head and looked at her. She was sitting up with her bare knees pulled up to her naked breasts. She also looked wide awake.

  “When did you wake up?” he asked.

  “Just about five minutes before you.”

  “And you feel . . . awake?’

  “Awake and refreshed,” she said. “I told you, it’s all the sex. It rejuvenates you. At least, it does me. I’ve never seen it work that way on a man before, though. You’re the first.”

  He sat up. There was no soreness in his joints, no headache, no aching anywhere. She leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I wish we could stay here forever,” she said. “Can we stay in and do it all day long, too?”

  “Now that,” he said, “would give me a heart attack.”

  She kissed his shoulder and said, “Let’s test out that theory.”

  “You would sacrifice my life to test it out?”

  “What a way to go,” she said, “but I don’t think you would die. I think you’d be a better man for having sex with me all day. You’re already a better man for doing it all night.”

  “You know,” he said, running one finger along her pale thigh, “I really wouldn’t mind testing that theory out, but I’ve got things to do today.”

  “Like proving my husband killed Eliza Johnson?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  She sighed.

  “Well, how about after you’ve done that, and after you’ve gotten John Taylor freed from jail, we try it?”

  “That’s a date.”

  He stood up, padded naked over to the chest of drawers, and poured some water into a bowl from a pitcher. He could still smell her on his hands and face, and as pleasant as it was, he couldn’t leave the smell there all day. It would be too distracting. He washed his hands, his chest, under his arms, and then dried himself with a towel, all while she watched.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asked when he was done.

  “Stay here,” he said, starting to get dressed. “I’ll come and get you when it’s all over.”

  “And you think that will be today?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “And if it’s not over today, I get to stay here again tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, guess I’ll have to root for it to go on another day or so,” she said. “Selfish as that may be.”

  He grabbed his gunbelt and strapped it on, then reached for his hat.

  “Are you going to have breakfast?” she asked.

  “Probably. Want to come?”

  “How about having something sent up for me?”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” he said, “but take it easy on the boy who brings it.”

  “I told you,” she said, “you’ve ruined me for anyone else. Last night only proves that.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He walked to the bed and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him and turned what was supposed to be a short kiss into a long, deep one that almost had him crawling back into bed with her. Finally—reluctantly—he pulled away.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “Send up a lot of food,” she said. “I’m famished.”

  “On the way.”

  He went down to the dining room, ordered some breakfast to be sent up to Mandy, then went out into the lobby to get Levon and bring him in to have breakfast with him.

  “People ain’t gonna be too happy me bein’ in here,” the black man said.

  “Too damn bad,” Clint said. “You sat out there all night to keep me alive. Least I can do is buy you breakfast.”

  “I’m much obliged.”

  “Why do you look so awake?”

  “I took a nap or two.”

  “When you were supposed to be on watch?”

  “I doubted you were sleepin’ very much, that banker’s wife bein’ with you and all.”

  “Well,” Clint reminded him, “you did say that she liked me and that I was better off with her.”

  “Yep. I did say that.”

  “What makes you so smart about women?”

  Levon grinned and said, “I guess because I got me a good one.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Ben McCloud had made a quick decision the night before, contacted his men, and had them gather together in front of his rooming house just about the same time Clint Adams and Levon were having breakfast. They were all armed.

  “It’s important that not one of you brought his badge with him,” he announced. “We can’t have this exercise coming back to the police department. Does everyone understand?”

  There were eight of them, and they said they did.

  “And no one has a badge?”

  They said they didn’t.

  “Okay,” he said, “we’re going to a house. It’s important that no one in this house—or just outside—makes it out alive.”

  “We have to kill ’em all?’ one man asked.

  “Every last one of them.”

  The men all looked at one another. They knew that when there was killing involved, there was more money.

  “Is there a woman at this house?” another man asked.

  “There is.”

  More glances were exchanged.

  “Anyone who doesn’t want to kill a woman, just take care of the men. I’ll take care of the woman.”

  “I got no trouble killin’ a woman, Sarge.”

  McCloud looked down into the face of Officer Ted Evans. The young man was always willing to do whatever McCloud wanted him to do. Whatever needed doing. The sergeant was his idol.

  “That’s a good boy, Ted,” McCloud said. He had no feelings for the boy whatsoever.

  “You all bring horses?”

  Everyone nodded, and a man shouted, “They’re around back, Sarge.”

  “And one for me?”

  “I brought one for ya, Sarge,” Evans said.

  “Then let’s get the job done. I got a long day ahead of me.”

  He had decided the night before that everyone would stick togethe
r, take care of the lawyer, his sister, and their bodyguards in the morning, then Adams and his backup in the afternoon. By that night the job would be done, and he’d collect his prize. For some reason, Mandy Hollister was all he’d ever wanted. She was the only one who had ever made him feel something inside. A warm, tingly feeling he’d never gotten from anyone or anything else.

  He wanted to feel that again—just before he killed her, because he couldn’t afford to leave alive someone who could make him feel weak like that.

  But one more time . . . what could that hurt?

  Melanie’s anger subsided enough for her to make breakfast for Clark the next morning.

  “I’m going to ask Willy and Sammy to come in for breakfast,” he told her, “so make enough.”

  “No.” And just like that her anger was back. She turned on him and stamped her foot. “I will not have them in this house.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you, Clark?” she demanded. “It doesn’t look good for us to have them here.”

  “Melanie, they’ve been outside all night, making sure we live through the night. If that doesn’t deserve a little breakfast, I don’t know what does.” He stood up from the table. “I’m asking them in.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  She glared at him.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because it’s important to me.”

  She stood there, spatula in hand, and then said calmly, “All right, Clark, do what you think is right.”

  “Thank you.”

  He walked to the front door, opened it, and waved to the two black men.

  “Come in and join us for breakfast.”

  The brothers exchanged a glance, and then Willy shouted, “Sure thing,” just before the first bullet hit him in the head.

  Clark was so startled he almost fell. He got his legs under him just in time to see Sammy lean down, grab his brother’s rifle, and run for the house. From both ends of the block came men with guns, shouting and firing. Bullets struck the ground behind the running black man, and the house all around Clark.

  “Inside!” Sammy shouted.

  As he grabbed Clark and pulled him inside, Melanie came running from the kitchen still holding the spatula.

  “What’s happening?” she shouted as Sammy slammed the door.

  “Can you use this?” he asked Clark, shoving his dead brother’s rifle at the lawyer.

  “Yes.”

  “Then get on that window.”

  There was a window on either side of the front door. Sammy went to one and used the butt of his rifle to break out the glass. Clark went to the other window, preparing to do the same.

  “Clark, no!” Melanie shouted. “Just get down!” She ran to him and grabbed his arm, but he pulled away.

  “Leave me be.”

  “This is his job,” she said. “You said he was supposed to keep us alive.”

  “This man just saw his brother killed right in front of him, and his first thought was to run here to help us. I’m not going to leave him to it alone!”

  “Damn it, Clark—”

  “Melanie,” he shouted, “if you want to help, go and get Dad’s rifle. If you don’t want to help, then for Chrissake get down!”

  Frustrated that he would not listen to her, she finally turned and ran to her father’s study to get his rifle. Behind her she could hear the black man and her brother shooting back at the men outside.

  Where the hell was Clint Adams?

  FORTY-TWO

  The nine men were riddling the house with bullets. The return fire coming from the house was not doing much damage. It was enough, however, to keep the men from rushing the house . . . for now.

  “I’m runnin’ out of ammo,” Sammy announced.

  Clark checked his rifle and said, “Me, too.” He looked at Melanie, who was holding her father’s rifle but not firing it. “Give me that gun and go see if there’s any extra ammo.”

  “Where?”

  “In the desk, or a cabinet. Just look!”

  She ran back to her father’s den, and it suited Clark that she was in there. It meant she was safe from the gunfire— until the men decided to try to enter the house from another direction.

  Clark picked up his father’s rifle, stuck it out the window, and began firing.

  “Should we rush the house, Sarge?” Ted Evans asked.

  “No, we shouldn’t,” McCloud said. “They’re going to run out of bullets any minute now.”

  “I still think we should rush ’em,” Ted Evans said, standing up.

  “Get down, you fool,” McCloud said, “before a bullet takes your head off.”

  Well, it didn’t take his head off, but it did him square in the throat. That didn’t concern McCloud, though. What he found interesting was that the shot had not come from the house.

  Clint and Levon heard the shooting a few blocks away.

  “Sounds like a war,” Levon said.

  “And we know where it’s coming from,” Clint said. “Come on.”

  They rode hard for the Orwell home, Clint and Eclipse leaving Levon in their dust. As he came around the corner, he saw eight to ten men firing at the house. From the house came some meager return fire. While he was watching, Levon caught up to him.

  “They need help,” Levon said.

  “We’re outnumbered, Levon,” Clint said. “We’re going to have to surprise them and go in with guns blazing.” He looked at the black man. “You better with a rifle or handgun?”

  “Rifle,” Levon said, truthfully.

  “Give me your handgun,” Clint said, “and take my rifle.”

  “I can’t shoot two rifles at the same time,” Levon admitted.

  “You don’t have to. Just fire one, and when it’s empty, fire the other. In fact, do it from here. Get some cover and then cover me. I’m going on.” Clint dismounted.

  “On foot?” Levon asked.

  “On foot.”

  Levon didn’t have time to ask any more questions. Clint palmed both pistols and started running. Levon dismounted, took cover on somebody’s porch, and started firing.

  Clint was already firing both pistols at one time, and it was one of his bullets that killed Ted Evans.

  “Crap!” McCloud snapped. He wanted to take care of Clint Adams later, not now. Oh well . . .

  “You, you, and you—with me. The rest of you keep firing at the house.”

  The two men he’d chosen got up and came over to him. “That idiot rushing at us with two guns blazing?” he said. “Kill him.”

  “Sure thing, Sarge.”

  Both men broke cover and started after Clint, who gunned the two of them down with no problem. Actually, there was one problem. He was empty now. He dropped to the ground on his back and reloaded while Levon fired his rifles from cover, killing at least one man that Clint could see. And from the sound of it, the gunfire from the house was increasing.

  “It’s Clint. See him?” Clark shouted.

  “I sees ’im,” Sammy said.

  “Let’s go out there and help him.”

  Sammy looked at Clark and said, “You just keep shootin’ from where you’re at, boy, and let the man do what he do.”

  Clint rolled over, got to his knees, and continued firing. This gave Levon time to reload. Clint knew one of the hardest things for a man to do, unless he had a cool head, was to hit a man who was running right at him. For one thing, he looks like a crazy man, and for another he makes you rush your shots. He started running, hoping nobody had a cool head in that bunch . . .

  Ben McCloud kept a cool head.

  “Keep firing at the house,” he called to the remaining five men. Then he changed his mind. “No, charge the house. Charge it! Let’s get this over with.”

  He turned to face Clint Adams alone, while the other men got up and started running for the house.

  Seeing the men charge the house, Levon broke from cover and started running that way himself
. He left one rifle behind—Clint’s—and took his own, because he knew he could hit what he aimed at with that one. He knew Clint Adams could take care of himself, but the people in that house needed help.

  FORTY-THREE

  From inside the house, Sammy saw two things. First, the remaining attackers were charging the house. He knew that once his rifle was empty this time, he was done. But the second thing he saw was Levon running toward the house, also.

  “I’m empty!” Clark shouted just then.

  “Stay down!” Sammy yelled. He left his window and went to the door. He’d decided to go out and meet the men head-on, with Levon just behind them. Maybe they’d be able to catch them by surprise.

  He swung the door open, shouldered the rifle, and rushed out . . .

  Levon had been hoping to close the gap between him and the other men, but when he saw Sammy come out the front door, he knew he had to act now. He started firing his rifle on the run . . .

  Sammy felt a bullet tug at his leg, but kept firing his rifle even as he went down to one knee. He took one of the men in the chest, another in the face, and they both went down.

  Meanwhile, Levon was firing as quickly as he could while running. His aim was off, but he did hit one man in the hip, spinning him around. He stopped then, took careful aim, and shot the man in the chest.

  That left it more even, two against two . . .

  Clint saw the lone man stepping to him, as if intending to face him. He didn’t know who the man was, but obviously it was someone who felt he was a match for him. He stuck Levon’s empty pistol into his belt and held his own in his right hand. He knew he had three shots left there. Since he was facing one man, it should be enough. His eyes raked the buildings on both sides, looking for an ambush, but he had the feeling that all the action was in the street. He heard shouting and yelling from the direction of the Orwell house, but he kept his attention on the man who was approaching him.