Relentless

by Ed Gorman

  That sort of guy.

  The one thing I’d need from him was his hat. That would get me into the mansion. Folks’d recognize the hat and let me pass.

  He started up the entrance steps. The rowels of his spurs sounded like wind chimes.

  I crouched down as low as I could get, ready to spring. Any moment now he’d be within range.

  It looked as if he was going to cooperate because the first thing he did when he reached the inside of the gazebo was tum to look in the opposite direction at the fire that was flaming on the far side of the structure.

  But then-maybe I made a noise; I was a little too big to be stealthy-he turned suddenly in my direction. And there I was. And he saw that there I was. And he swung that shotgun of his around so fast my stomach clenched even when I was in midair, flying toward him.

  I’d rarely hit a man the way I hit him. Six, seven times full on in the face. Breaking the nose. Breaking several teeth. Bursting the lips. Then starting to pound on the forehead. The way he fell, backward without any hesitation at all, his head slamming against the floor next to the fire-I wondered if he was dead.

  I relieved him of his shotgun, six-shooter, and sombrero. I took off his fancy kerchief and made a gag of it. Then I took off his belt and tied his arms together. My belt, I used on his ankles. I checked his pulse. Pretty strong. Which meant that he’d be awake sooner than later and come looking for me and warning the others. He wouldn’t have too hard a time slipping his bonds. Belt knots don’t last all that long.

  Which meant I had to hurry.

  I stamped out the fire, waved the smoke away into the night, where it flew like eerie gray bats toward the moonlight.

  Hefting the shotgun, I left the gazebo and slowly walked across the wide empty stretch of buffalo grass. The sombrero announced not only my presence but my identity. No reason to hurry, to draw any more attention to myself. I had to pretend I was the guard and act accordingly. He wouldn’t have had a reason to run. And so I didn’t either. I just took my time.

  Till I reached the back door of the mansion.

  No need for my skeleton keys. The door was open. I stepped inside. I was on a shadowy landing. Four steps up there was a door. A faint light bloomed in the line between door bottom and floor. I went up the steps on tiptoes. I was pretty sure, from the pleasant smells, that I was about to step into the kitchen.

  I’d been in houses smaller than this kitchen. Truly. Webley was famous for his dinners and parties. It probably took a place this large-huge cupboards on all four walls; double sinks; four iceboxes; pantries the size of living rooms in three of the walls; and a linoleum floor that sparkled like ice on a frosty morning. The smells of veal and wine and fresh hot bread lingered on the air, tonight’s dinner no doubt.

  I moved on tiptoes again.

  A hallway. A grandfather’s clock intoning the time in a great doomful voice. Sconces ahead revealing a vast vestibule and the edge of a vast, upsweeping staircase. Doors on either side of me, most of them open a crack, giving me glimpses of a den, a music room, what appeared to be a gallerylike display of artwork, and a very male business office.

  Footsteps descending the staircase.

  An honest-to-God butler-right out of an English magazine-in dark business suit and high white collar carried a silver tray with a lone empty glass on it. I hid in the shadows of the staircase. He was too caught up in his own ceremonious air to even look around.

  But even though he hadn’t seen me, my heart was going at an oppressive rate. I’d spent a good deal of my life as a lawman without any particular fears. But the past twenty-four hours were making up for that.

  I edged toward the vestibule, listening intently.

  I heard no human sounds on this first floor. The butler had likely gone to the kitchen I’d just left.

  I remained in place, only angling my head toward the staircase. After a minute or so, sounds began to drift down the steps, all the way to the chandelier, which was as big as the sun and probably twice as bright when it was lighted.

  Human voices. Muffled.

  Up the stairs was where I needed to go. And that would be even riskier than setting the fire in the gazebo.

  But there wasn’t much choice. No choice really.

  I needed to find her, confront her. Then throw her in Webley’s face and make him see the truth he’d been trying to deny or change.

  His wife was the killer. And she would have to pay.

  I started toward the stairs just as I heard soft footsteps coining toward me. The butler again. I barely had time to jerk back into the gloom on the side of the stairway.

  He went upstairs, bearing his silver tray, a fresh drink in its center. He walked with perfect aggravating grace. Nobody should walk that way. Nobody should want to walk that way.

  Then he was just a memory.

  I decided to wait until he’d come back downstairs. The fewer people on the second floor, the safer I’d be.

  It took him five very long minutes to reappear and walk down the stairs. On the last step he paused to scratch his nose. I was glad he didn’t pick it. It would have spoiled his dignity.

  He turned right, back again to the kitchen.

  I swung around the newel post and started taking the steps two tiptoes at a time. The mahogany gleamed in the moonlight through a skylight that had been cut into the roof.

  Not a stair creaked as I climbed. But the nearer the top I got, the more I heard the sound of angry but muffled voices. Far down the hall to the right. I felt exposed, still in the silver rays of moonlight through the skylight.

  I moved to the right, into the shadows occasionally cast back by small glass lamps along the walls.

  I turned once to look back down the hall on the other side of the staircase. It looked pretty much like this side. Doors closed, small lamps along the wall, a sense of desertion because of all the empty space. This struck me as one of those huge houses that was more for show than for people to actually live in.

  ***

  I worked my way down the hall and as I did so, the voices, not very loud even as I drew nearer, became vivid and recognizable. Laura and Paul. Arguing.

  “I want to know what you did with her,” Laura said.

  “Byrum didn’t have any right to tell you that.”

  “Well, he did tell me that, and now I want an answer.”

  “Well, he was lying.”

  She laughed harshly. “You actually think I’ll believe that, Paul? That Byrum would just make up something like that?”

  A silence. Then Paul: “I’m doing this for your sake.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure.”

  “You know the truth and I know the truth, and we have to deal with it.”

  “But you don’t know the truth, Paul. You only think you do.”

  “Blood all over you-”

  “But the blood was only-”

  “That’s the truth, Laura. That’s the truth. And you know it and I know it. And I understand why you did it. But I’ve got to protect you for your own sake. If anybody ever finds out what happened back East-”

  “That was ten years ago! And it was self-defense.”

  “That’s not what your father says. Or believes. If he hadn’t been able to get that judge to let you go to the asylum instead of prison-”

  “The asylum was worse than prison, believe me.”

  “Nonetheless, Laura, if you’d been found guilty and gone to prison, your life would’ve been destroyed.”

  “And you’ve been reminding me of that ever since the day you met me. Ever since the day you and my father decided to send me to another prison-living with you.”

  He slapped her.

  A cry followed. Not hers. His. Her words had probably hurt him far more than his slap had hurt her. She’d get over the slap. He’d never get over the words.

  “I shouldn’t have said that, Paul. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry I slapped you. I never should’ve-”

  “I know you’re only trying
to help me, Paul, but-”

  “You didn’t remember the other one either. You honestly didn’t remember. When you stabbed the other one. The doctors had some kind of fancy word for it. But all I know is that you couldn’t face what you’d done. And so you just blocked it from your mind. And that’s what’s happening here, Laura. You may not be able to see it. But I can. And I’ve got to protect you. That’s all your father ever asked me to do. To protect you; to keep you safe from other people and-yourself.”

  “God.” She laughed. But this was a soft laugh. “Being pretty is a curse. People think I’m making that up when I say it. But all my life men have treated me like a little doll they want to collect and put on the shelf and show off to their friends. Even my father was that way. Always wanting to show his men friends how pretty and delicate I was. And what I really was was a tomboy. That’s what I was really like. I loved playing rough with my brothers. And building birdhouses in the woods. And jumping naked into the lake near our house. I hated all those piano recitals and little plays they used to make me put on. I always swore that when I got to be an adult-”

  “Did Steve Reynolds let you be a tomboy?” Webley’s voice was tight. He obviously held no fondness for this Steve Reynolds.

  “Are you kidding? He was the worst of all. He wanted me for sex and to put me on display. Then he didn’t even want me for sex anymore. He had several mistresses. I think he got bored with having a wife who was as boring as I was. And God, was I boring. I did just what he wanted me to-I really did love him-and it turned out that we both hated what I’d turned myself into.”

  “And then you killed him.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “Laura, listen. That was what your father’s lawyers convinced the judge of. That it was self-defense. But you actually don’t remember what happened. I’m convinced of that and so were your doctors. But if you’re ever put on trial for killing Stanton-”

  “I didn’t kill Stanton-”

  “If you’re ever put on trial for killing Stanton, that old trial back East will be dredged up. And how will it look then?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “All right, Laura. Let’s say I believe that. But put yourself on the jury. You’ll have to admit you were in his hotel room the night Stanton was murdered. You’ll have to admit that you had blood on your clothes. You’ll have to admit that you were very angry with him. You’ll have to admit-”

  She then uttered a word most women in these parts don’t use very often. Then she said, “Poor Callie.”

  “It’s either poor Callie or poor Laura. One of you will have to be blamed for killing Stanton. Are you willing to throw away your life?”

  “How’ll you ever get her to admit that she killed him, Paul?”

  “I still haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “You’re not going to hurt her? You promise?” Laura said.

  “I promise.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  A rustle of garments. An embrace. “Promise me you won’t hurt her, Paul.”

  Garments rustling again. Another embrace.

  I was so caught up in listening-no theatrical had ever been half as fascinating-that I didn’t hear him. I just felt the aggravating stab of his six-shooter in my back.

  He had a very formal voice; it matched his demeanor very well.

  “I believe Master Paul will be wanting to speak to you, sir.”

  “Since when do butlers carry guns?”

  He said quite crisply, “I do what’s necessary to protect the master, sir.”

  He stepped around me and knocked on the door behind which Laura and Paul were talking.

  TWENTY-TWO

  "GO AWAY," WEBLEY said from the other side of the door.

  “It seems you have an uninvited guest, sir.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Greaves?”

  “The former town marshal, sir. He somehow got into the house and has been eavesdropping on the conversation between you and your wife.”

  The door seemed to implode. And in its frame, looking fierce as a gladiator, was Webley. I no longer saw him as an ineffectual little man who paid you back through subterfuge. Any man can be dangerous-hell, any woman, too-when they reach a certain level of rage. And he’d certainly reached that level.

  He came at me swinging. I leaned to the side. His first punch missed. But not his second. He was smaller and not as fast, but he clipped me hard in the ribs and it hurt.

  “This isn’t going to do any good,” I said.

  “Maybe not for you.”

  He had to literally jump up to get me in the face, but jump

  up he did. His fist caught me on the side of the mouth and drew instant blood.

  I held my temper. I cared only about one thing. Finding Callie. A fistfight wasn’t going to help me do it.

  Laura shouted, “Paul! This is stupid! You’re making a fool of yourself!”

  “This is my house and you don’t belong here!” Everybody feels that their own home is sacred. You probably feel a lot more like that when your home happens to be a mansion.

  He came at me again, but this time I defended myself. He was an inch off the floor when I knocked him back into the den, a huge room with book-lined walls, an ornamental Victorian fireplace mantel, and a wall of awards and plaques all certifying that the man in this room with its heavy furnishings, vast standing globe, and walls of books and floor covered with genuine Persian rugs-was every bit as important as he thought he was.

  I got him in a neck lock and flung him against his desk. I was on top of him before he could find his feet. I took him by the hair and threw him into a leather armchair.

  “Stay there.”

  “You don’t order me around in my house.”

  “Sure I do. I’ve got every right as a citizen to arrest you.”

  “The hell you have.”

  “I heard what your wife said, Webley. Where’s Callie?”

  I sounded a lot cooler than I felt. What I wanted to do was tear his face off. But that wouldn’t get me Callie. Only patience and steady pressure would get me Callie. If she was still alive.

  “Tell him,” Laura said. Then to me: “I didn’t have anything to do with this, Morgan.”

  She wore a form-fitting emerald-colored green dress that had a certain regal cut to it. The Queen would soon be receiving her in the grand ballroom, no doubt. I was sick of them both-sick of all the Webley s in the world, and sick of all their Lauras-all their power, all their cunning, all their selfishness. I had to hold myself back from working them over with my pistol.

  “Where is she, Webley?”

  “I didn’t hurt her.”

  “I want to see that for myself.”

  “I imagine he’ll let you, sir.”

  I’d forgotten the butler. He moved with a kind of arthritic dignity, standing over his fallen master, who was sprawled in the leather chair. He handed Webley the six-shooter and said, “Byrum and Aikins are on the way from the bunk-house. I signaled them.”

  “Thank you, Greaves.”

  At any other time, I would have been interested in their signaling system. But right now all I cared about was Callie.

  “You’re forcing my hand, Marshal,” Webley said, composing himself in the chair, pointing his weapon directly at me.

  “Yeah. And I’ll bet you’ll hate to kill me, too.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come here tonight.”

  “No, you just kidnapped my wife.”

  “You love your wife, and I love my wife,” he said reasonably enough. “You’d do just what I’m doing to save her. You know you would.”

  “If Laura’s as dangerous as you say, this is going to happen again, Webley. And you know it. People like Laura-it goes on, Webley. It repeats and repeats and repeats. That’s why they have to stay in sanitariums and asylums. You think you can change her, Webley. But you can’t. She probably thinks she can change herself. But she can’t do it either. She is what she is.”r />
  Laura, ever beautiful, ever delicate and dignified, stepped in front of me and said, “I hate to disappoint you, Morgan, but I’m sure I didn’t kill Stanton.”

  “By saying you’re sure you didn’t-what you mean is you’re not sure, Laura.” I turned back to Webley. “I want my wife, Webley. Now.”

  He stood up and said, “Come in, men.”

  Neither Byrum nor Aikins were outsized in any way. But they had handled and handled well so many dangerous situations in their years as cowboys that they walked into the room with the quiet confidence only experience can give you.

  Webley didn’t need to speak to them. They’d no doubt been in situations like this before. All he did was nod to Byrum.

  Byrum took his gun from his holster and stepped over to me. He pointed to the gun in my own holster. We didn’t speak either. I handed it over.

  Aikins was the one doing the dirty work. He stood at an angle to me. He used his Colt. He got me hard on the side of my skull. I can’t tell you anything more about that particular moment except that patterns began forming in the darkness in front of my eyes. And then there was this pain that traversed the top of my skull and ran all the way down the left side of my head and neck and right into my shoulder. And then I was falling. Somebody said something. But I had no idea what it was. And that was just about it except that, vaguely, I felt worse when my head slammed against the floor. Not even the expensive Persian rug could buffer the pain.

  TWENTY-THREE

  COLD. DARK. BUMPY Pain from full bladder. Pain from lying wrong on my right shoulder. Pain from being struck by Aikins and then my head trying to split the hardwood floor apart.

  Cold. Dark. Bumpy.

  Jingle of traces. Squeak of wagon wheels. Snort of horses.

  I was in the bed of a buckboard. My wrists and ankles were bound tight with rawhide strips. I was gagged.

  The moon and the stars looked chill and autumnlike for such a warm night. I couldn’t smell fall coming. But I could see it in the somber moods. There were Indian tribes that believed they could tell the seasons by noticing the subtle variations in the surface of the moon. I had a pretty good idea of the message it was sending me.