Debra Whittington was sitting in the chair, staring straight ahead.
“Debra?”
She didn’t answer.
“Debra, it’s Clint Adams.”
She looked up at him and smiled.
“I know who you are, Mr. Adams,” she said. “I’m not dead, or blind.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said. “I was kind of worried about you.”
“Worried? About me? Why?”
“Well… I’ve seen Adele and talked to her, but you don’t seem to be leaving the house.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I know you’re right. I should get outside. Would you like to go for a walk with me?”
“I’d like that very much,” Clint said.
She reached out a hand to him and he pulled her to her feet.
They walked awhile, away from the house and the stable, out where it was green.
“You know,” she said, “Ben would never do this with me.”
“Do what? Walk?”
“Yes,” she said. “Just walk. And Adele, neither would she.”
“But you did. You’d walk out here by yourself?”
“Oh no,” she said. “Never. If Ben ever thought I was out here just walking, he’d blow his stack. Every waking hour had to be work, work, work.”
“Farming is hard work,” Clint said.
“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be all the time,” she said. “All the goddamned time! Does it?”
“No,” he said, “I suppose it doesn’t.”
“Do you know why I’ve been sitting in that chair in my house all this time?” she asked. “It’s because I could. I can, Clint. When Ben was alive, I could never stay still for a minute, or he’d start yelling. Well, he’s not around anymore, so I can sit, and I can walk. And you know what else I can do?”
“No, what?” he asked.
She stopped walking abruptly, stepped in front of him, threw her arms around him, and started kissing him.
TWENTY-SIX
They ended up in the house, in the bed, and all the differences between the experienced woman and the talented young girl became evident.
Debra’s body was more robust, more succulent, it was… more. Her breasts were full and solid, as were her sweet buttocks. She used everything in bed—her hands, her arms, her legs and feet, her mouth, tongue, and teeth. At one point she had his hard cock in her mouth and simply scraped it with her teeth, giving him a combination of light pain and amazing pleasure.
He reveled in her body, exploring it, using as many of his senses as he could, at the same time—sight, touch, smell, oh, and taste. She even tasted better than Adele. It was like the difference between a good brandy and a fine wine—even though he still preferred beer. Debra was like the best beer.
“Oh, God,” she said at one point when he was down between her legs, his tongue avidly lapping at her pussy. “This is something my husband never did.”
“His loss,” Clint’s muffled voice said.
She reached down to hold his head there and closed her eyes…
Later she sat astride him, riding him slowly and staring down at him. He watched as her beautiful face became flushed, her eyes glassy, her lips swollen as she bit them. He pulled her down to him to kiss her and swell her lips even more.
Suddenly she stopped and asked him, “What was that?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” he said.
“Jesus,” she said, “I’m so worried Adele will walk in on us.”
“You can’t stop now,” he said. “Not now.”
“No,” she said, “not now… but we’ve got to finish…”
And they did.
They dressed quickly, in case Adele came back too soon.
“My husband and I didn’t have sex very much,” Debra said as they dressed.
“Like I said, that was his loss.”
“You might be wondering about my, uh, experience.”
“Debra,” he said, “you don’t have to explain anything to me. You had a life before your husband, with your husband, and you’ll have one after.”
“I was lonely a lot,” she said. “I was not faithful to Ben. When he left town, I… strayed.”
They left the bedroom and went back to the main room of the house. She decided to make coffee.
“We need more time,” she said. “I kept thinking I heard Adele coming back.”
He didn’t tell her that he knew when she had left. He didn’t want Debra to know he’d been watching them.
“Today is the first day in a long time I’ve felt alive,” she said, sitting across from him at the table, each with a cup of coffee.
“Well, your husband’s been killed—”
“That has nothing to do with it,” she said. “I’ve felt dead living all these years with Ben. You brought me back to life today and I appreciate it.” She reached across the table to take his hand. “I’d like to show you how grateful, but Adele must never find out.”
He squeezed her hand.
“You’re the mother, Debra,” he said. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
“If I wasn’t afraid she’d be coming back,” she said, “we’d still be in bed…”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s time. But I need to tell you why I came by here today.”
“That’s right,” she said, sitting back. “I thought you were leaving town.”
“I did, but somebody took a shot at me,” he said.
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Somebody with a rifle, from a long way off.”
She stared at him.
“Did you come here to ask if one of us shot at you?” she asked.
“I talked to the sheriff, and to Father Joe. They both knew where I was going.”
“And so did we.”
“Yes.”
“You questioned the sheriff and the vicar?”
“I did. I checked the sheriff’s guns.”
“Well,” she said, “then I guess there’s no reason you shouldn’t check ours.” She stood up. “We have two rifles.”
He knew that. They were hanging up on the wall. She went and got them and brought them back to him, placed them on the table in front of him. He lifted them and sniffed them. Neither had been fired recently—not that day anyway.
“Whose rifles are these?” he asked.
“They were both my husband’s,” she said. “He hunted with them.”
“Do you or Adele shoot?”
“We can,” she said. “Ben made sure we learned how, just for protection. But I can tell you Adele was home all day until just a little while ago. She’ll tell you that herself about me, too.”
Clint took the rifles and hung them back up on the wall.
“I have to go, Debra,” he said. “Now I’m not only looking for a killer, but for whoever shot at me.”
“When can we be together again?” she asked.
“I’ll be in town for at least a few days more,” he said. “You can come to the hotel when you can.”
“Well, Adele needs me,” she said, “but I’ll make the time. Now that I’ve felt alive again, I’m looking forward to doing it again.”
“So am I.”
She came into his arms and he kissed her, hoping she’d never find out that he’d been with both the mother and the daughter.
And vice versa.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Debra walked Clint outside, waited while he retrieved his horse and walked it to the front of the house. At that point they heard a horse approaching. As he watched, he saw Adele come into view. Obviously she’d determined he wasn’t in town, and didn’t spend much time looking for him.
“Well,” she said, dismounting, “what have you two been up to?” She looked at Clint. “I thought you said you were leavin’ town.”
Clint hoped Adele wouldn’t be able to tell anything by looking at her mother.
“Mother, you’re up and around.”
“Mr. Adams came to look a
t our rifles.”
“Our rifles? Why?”
He explained to her how he’d been shot at.
“And you think we might have done it?”
“Adele,” Debra said. “He checked the sheriff’s rifles, and the vicar’s gun. Why shouldn’t he check ours?”
That seemed to mollify Adele somewhat.
“What did you find?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Your rifles weren’t fired today.”
“And what does that mean?” she asked.
“It means somebody else knew I was leaving town today,” Clint said. “I’ve got to find out who.”
He looked at Debra, who still looked kind of sleepy-eyed and swollen to him. She had what a whore had once told him was a “just- fucked” look. Hopefully, Adele was not experienced enough to notice it.
“Debra, did your husband have any friends in the area?” he asked.
“He had more enemies than friends,” she said, “but he did have two friends.”
“Oh,” Adele said, “you’re thinkin’ of Clem and Delbert.”
“Clem and Delbert?” Clint asked.
“Brothers with a farm not far from here,” Debra said. “They’re about the only ones I could ever think of as Ben’s friends.”
“I better go and talk to them then,” he said.
“I can take you there,” Adele said.
“No,” Clint said. “We don’t know what will happen when I get there. They might start shooting on sight. I’ll go by myself.”
“He’s right, honey,” Debra said, touching her arm. “Let him go alone.”
“Well,” Adele said, “you’ll let us know what you find out?”
“I sure will,” he said.
They gave him directions to the farm of the Dagen brothers, Clem and Delbert.
“Be careful of them,” Debra said. “They’re kind of, well, crazy.”
“All the more reason Adele should stay here,” Clint said.
He climbed onto Eclipse’s back and looked down at the two women.
“You ladies better stay close to home,” he told them. “It’s safer.”
He’d slept with both of them, and there was trouble here, but it would be worth it to be with Debra again. There was a lot more to her than he had experienced.
“Be careful,” Adele said, and Debra’s eyes said the same.
He turned and rode away, wondering what they’d talk about when he was gone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was late in the day when Clint came within sight of the Dagen farmhouse. It was nearly dusk, but there were no lights in the house yet. He wondered if they were out somewhere—working, or looking for him to take another shot at him?
But if they were friends with Ben Whittington, and knew that he was looking for whoever killed him, why would they take shots at him?
Perhaps questioning these two brothers—who no one else had mentioned to him—would lead him to the actual killer?
He considered dismounting and leaving Eclipse behind, approaching the house on foot, but in the end he decided to simply ride up to the house and see what happened.
As he approached, the front door opened and a man with a rifle stepped out.
“You jes’ hold up right there, mister,” he said, pointing the rifle at Clint. He was a tall, gangly man wearing overalls, with hair that looked like a rat’s nest.
Clint reined in.
“No reason for the rifle, friend,” he said.
“You let me be the judge of that,” the man said. “Whataya want?”
“I’m looking for Clem and Delbert Dagen.”
“What fer?”
“I was told that they were friends with Ben Whittington.”
“Ben Whittington’s dead.”
“I know that.”
“Then whataya want with us?”
“You’re one of the Dagen brothers?”
“I’m Delbert.”
“Where’s Clem?”
“Right here.”
Clint looked behind himself in surprise. Clem—almost identical to his brother—had managed to move up behind him without being heard. He was impressed. Clem also had a rifle pointed at him.
“Glad to meet you, boys,” he said. “My name is Clint Adams. Debra Whittington sent me over to talk to you.”
“About what?” Delbert asked.
“About who may have killed Ben.”
“How would we know?” Clem asked.
“She told me you two were the only friends she could think her husband had.”
“Really?” Delbert asked. He seemed pleased.
“She said that?” Clem asked.
“Yes, she did.”
The two brothers exchanged a glance and Clint felt they had actually exchanged a thought as well.
“You’re the Gunsmith, ain’tcha?” Delbert asked.
“I am.”
“You wanna come in and have some mash?” Clem asked.
“Sure,” Clint said.
Both brothers lowered their rifles.
“Come ahead, then,” Delbert said as Clem joined him at the door.
Clint dismounted, looped Eclipse’s reins around a rail, and followed the two men inside. The place smelled like two men who didn’t bathe or clean often lived there.
“Set,” Clem said while Delbert grabbed a jug from somewhere.
Clint sat at a rickety table, joined there by the two brothers.
“Here ya go,” Clem said, handing Clint the jug.
Clint took a swallow of the homemade mash, tried not to choke as the liquid blazed a path down his throat.
“Pretty good,” he said.
Clem took the jug back and had two big swallows, then passed it on to his brother, who did the same.
“Whooeee!” Delbert said. “That is good, brother Clem.”
Clem took the jug and slammed the cork back into it, but kept it near his elbow.
“What kin we do for ya, Mr. Gunsmith?” he asked.
“Well, you can call me Clint,” he said, “and answer a few questions.”
“Go on and ask,” Delbert said.
“First of all, is Mrs. Whittington right? Were you friends with Ben Whittington?”
“I suppose you could say that,” Clem said.
“He come here a time or two to share the jug,” Delbert said.
“Don’t nobody else we know who wanted to be friends with him,” Delbert said, “and nobody else we know who come here to share a jug.”
“’ceptin’ you,” Clem pointed out.
“Guess that kinda makes us friends with the Gunsmith, huh, brother Clem?” Delbert asked, laughing.
“I guess it kinda does, brother Delbert,” Clem agreed.
“Do any of the people in town know that you were friends with Whittington?”
Clem shrugged and Delbert said, “Damned if we know. We don’t go to town much. Maybe once or twice a month. We don’t talk to many people.”
“So nobody but his family knew you were friends.”
“We didn’t know they knew,” Clem said. “Ben didn’t talk about his family.”
“Not even when his daughter was going to get married?” Clint asked.
“He only said he was finally marryin’ her off,” Clem said.
“So you knew about it?”
“Sure,” Delbert said.
“I didn’t see you fellas at the church.”
“We wasn’t invited,” Clem said.
“Why not?”
“We don’t like weddin’s,” Delbert said.
“So you weren’t upset about not being invited?”
“Hell, no,” Clem said.
“We don’t like bein’ around people,” Delbert said. “And we don’t like that vicar.”
“Father Joe? Why not?”
“He come out here and tried to make us come to church,” Clem said.
“And you didn’t like that?”
“Didn’t like his way with words,” Clem said.
“He
jes’ about threatened us.”
“Said we oughtta come to church, but if we didn’t, then he didn’t wanna see us in town.”
“And is that why you don’t go much?”
“Naw,” Clem said, “we never gone to town much.”
“He didn’t scare us none,” Delbert said. “But he tried.”
“That ain’t somethin’ a vicar’s supposed to do, is it?” Clem asked.
“No,” Clint said, “I guess not.”
“Damn right,” Clem said. He pulled the cork from the jug. “’Nother snort?”
“Sure.”
Clint took a drink, passed it back. Clem cleaned the top with his sleeve, took a drink, then passed it to his brother again.
“Did Ben ever mention somebody he was afraid of?” Clint asked. “Maybe somebody he thought wanted to do him harm?”
“You mean somebody who’d wanna kill ’im?” Delbert asked.
“Yes.”
“Naw,” Clem said. “He never talked about nobody like that.”
Clint reached for the jug, uncorked it and took a big swig, handed it back.
“Nobody’s being very helpful about this,” he complained.
The two brothers exchanged a glance, and then they both grinned.
“What’s so funny?”
“We wuz jes’ thinkin’,” Clem said.
“About what?” Clint asked, wondering how they each knew what the other had in his head.
“Maybe,” Delbert said, “you’re lookin’ for the wrong killer.”
TWENTY-NINE
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Clem said, “we’re just a coupla dumb shit-kickers…”
“…but we think you’re lookin’ fer who killed Ben Whittington…”
“…when maybe you should be lookin’ fer who killed Dan Carter.”
He stared at the two brothers, saw the gleam of intelligence in their eyes. They were far from dumb shit-kickers, but they apparently never let on to the rest of the town.
He wondered if Ben Whittington knew how smart these guys were. Or if he considered them his dumb shit-kicker friends.
“Okay,” Clint said, “so you’re telling me you know who killed Dan Carter?”
“Nope,” Clem said, “we ain’t sayin’ that at all.”
“We’re just sayin’ Carter weren’t liked by everybody in town.”
The Vicar of St. James Page 7
