by Ed Gorman
“What’s your decision, Webley?” I barked.
A sob. Or something very much like it. A curse. And then the sob again. He said, “I’m walking back there, Morgan. Don’t shoot.”
It wasn’t dramatic at all, if that’s how you picture it. He just came back looking weary and sad. He walked right up to me-not paying any attention to the sawed-off I had leveled right at his belly-and started handing me guns. He had three of them. Two handguns and a shotgun. I dumped them on the end of the bed.
He looked at Callie. “I’m sorry, Callie. I’m really very sorry.” And then he began to cry.
But I didn’t give a damn about him crying. I set down the sawed-off and started in on him. I pounded his head and face, and then I pounded his belly and ribs, and then I went back to his head. He bled a lot and he screamed a lot. So did Callie, for that matter. Trying to stop me. But I couldn’t be stopped. Not right then. I was into the simple animal rhythm and pleasure of it. Right now I didn’t give a damn that I was turning into the same sort of bully Webley had been to Callie.
I cut him enough that he bled a lot; and I inflicted enough pain that he begged me to stop. And I would’ve kept right on going, but Callie was dragging me off him, hitting me with her fists, even kicking me a few times in the leg. “Can’t you see he’s hurt? Can’t you see what you’re doing to him?”
When the average person gets violent, he often tells you how he acted in a hazy, dreamlike state. Like it was somebody else beating his opponent, or stabbing him or shooting him. The whole thing wasn’t-and would never be-quite real.
And that was how I felt when all of Callie’s slaps, punches, and kicks collected enough power to bring me back from whatever stay of frenzy and rage I’d allowed myself to slip into.
At my feet-this was in the all-too-real world-lay a bloody heap named Webley. The heap was sobbing and gasping and moaning.
And then Callie was running to find water and rags- maybe the same water and rags they’d used on her-and then rushed back to minister to him. The same man who’d kidnapped her. The same man who’d beaten her. The same man who would’ve ordered her death as soon as she’d signed the false confession.
She got him up on the bed and got his shirt off, and looked him over with the careful eye a doc would apply.
“Nothing broken,” she told him.
“My nose.”
“Bruised, not broken.”
“I had it coming.”
“Lord,” she said. “You men and your anger. It makes me sick.”
She continued to take care of him. She sent me out front to find some whiskey. When she took control like this, there was no sense arguing. You did what she told you to, or there would be hell to pay.
But I couldn’t quite let it go. “Even after all he did to you you’re defending him?”
“I’m not defending him, Morgan. I’m trying to make you understand him is all. That’s the difference.” She pointed to him. “Now help me get him outside and on his horse.”
The Mexican grunted and stirred slightly.
“Get him some water, Morgan.”
I laughed. “Remind me not to invite you to a hanging. You’ll let the prisoner go.”
But I got him some water. He sat Indian-legged and drank it. And then daubed some on the wound from where I’d hit him. “You hit hard.”
“So do you, I imagine. But I didn’t want to find out.”
“Bad headache, man.”
I nodded to Aikins. “Could’ve been worse.”
“He put up a fight, eh?”
“He tried,” I said.
I stuck a hand out. Helped pull him to his feet. The Mexican was winded. He kept staring at Aikins. “Next week was his birthday. His daughter’s coming here from New Mexico to see him.”
“I’m sorry.”
He smiled. “No, you’re not. You’re a lawman. Lawmen don’t give a shit about people they kill.”
“Sounds like you’ve made your mind up already. Guess there’s no reason to try and change it.”
He went hard-ass on me. Glaring. His mouth a sneer. “Lawmen killed my little brother, man. You ain’t no different than them.” He dug a toothpick from his shirt pocket, jammed it in his teeth, and walked out of the deserted hotel ahead of me.
I grabbed one side of Webley, Callie the other. We got him out to his horse. His face looked puffy and bloody in the stark moonlight.
The Mexican smirked at me. “You do good work, man. Mr. Webley, he lucky he be alive.”
“Leave him alone,” Webley said.
The Mexican shrugged. “It’s your face, Boss. Personally, I’d want a crack at him sometime. Pay him back.”
Webley looked at me and laughed through an obviously sore mouth. “You ask Morgan’s wife how see feels about paying people back.”
“I ain’t afraid of no woman,” the Mexican said.
“This one you should be,” Callie said, coming out of the hotel. She’d gone back in to get the prayer book she’d brought with her.
The Mexican looked at her, said nothing.
I helped Callie up on her horse. She was set. Then I swung up on my horse. We had a good long ride ahead of us.
I was going to bring Laura Webley in and all this nonsense was finally going to be over.
I checked on Webley. He looked as if he was about ready to pitch out of the saddle. I said, “You going to be all right?”
“That’s kind’ve a funny question coming from you, isn’t it, Marshal?”
We set off for the mansion.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE PLACE WAS dark when we arrived. Nobody was home in the magic castle. Probably even the alligators in the moat were sleeping.
From about a quarter mile away, Webley started saying, like a nervous aunt, over and over, “Something’s wrong. There should be some lights on.”
He was right. It was odd. Why would the huge Victorian house be so dark?
As we drew nearer in the shadows, I saw a faint light on the second floor, near the west side of the mansion. “They’re probably sleeping.” I said. “It’s late.”
“She was very upset when I left,” Webley said. “She could never fall asleep when she was that upset. She can barely sleep even with all those stupid potions the doctor gives her. They just make her groggy half the time.”
As we reined in, I glanced at Callie. I think we both had the same sense. That something terrible had happened here. Hard to know what it was exactly. But I was sure we’d soon find out.
Webley was still wobbly. I was starting to regret the beating I’d given him. Not so much because of him but because of me. I didn’t like to lose control like that. I’d spent most of my life as a professional lawman. One of the things that meant was staying sane and sober while all about you people were frothing with rage.
I didn’t like to think of myself as giving into the same crazy impulses.
Webley moved faster than I thought he could have. We went in the back door. He lighted a lamp in the kitchen and led us through the house. Even under these conditions-the feeling that something bad was in the air-it was hard not to stare at all the antiques and pieces of art he’d accumulated. Or rather, that Laura had accumulated.
He started shouting her name. His voice quickly rose to a level of hysteria. Shouting her name and bumping wildly into furniture, he moved from room to room.
We were headed to the vestibule and the staircase. And that light I’d spotted on the second floor.
He alternated now. Shouting her name and then the butler’s; her name and then the butler’s.
By the time we reached the bottom of the staircase, the butler appeared at the top of it and said, “Marshal, I think you’d best keep the master down there.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Webley screamed.
The butler’s words had only made him more hysterical. They’d been meant to calm, I suppose. But I had to say they would have had the same effect on me. They were ominous and terrible words.
Callie and I were halfway up the stairs when Webley cried out. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like that. A kind of strangling grief. Sad and not a little bit insane.
The butler turned left and ran down the second-floor hall. We moved faster up the steps.
Webley wasn’t hard to find. He was shrieking and smashing everything in the room he was in. A windowpane broke; a heavy piece of something slammed into the wall. And now he started sobbing.
I thought of the asylum Laura had spent so much time in. Webley himself seemed like a good candidate for one at this point.
The butler stood outside the door. He stepped back into the shadows when we reached him.
We went inside and saw her. Or what was left of her anyway.
She’d put the Colt in her mouth. That was the only way to do it if you wanted to be absolutely safe. I’ve seen them put it to their forehead and their temple and still not die. But I’ve never seen them put it in their mouth and not die. You don’t get any reprieve with that method.
By this time, Webley had sunk into a chair and had his face in his hands. He was no longer sobbing. It was as if by covering his eyes, he could will us-and his dead wife-out of his mind.
I checked her the way I would have any other corpse. I tried for pulse points. I tried to find the wound up in her mouth. I tried to cover as much of the mess as I could by taking the pillowcase off, spreading it over the wormy remnants of her brain splattered all over the bed. This was apparently the guest room. Twin beds, a small bookcase, even a small bar. It all resembled a very nice hotel room.
The letter had fallen off the other side of the bed. Apparently, in his blinding grief, Webley hadn’t seen it.
I picked it up.
***
Dear Paul,
You were far truer to me than I ever was to you. I was never a good wife or, even, a good friend. I was so bored with my life here that when I met David Stanton, I was ready to throw everything away. I risked it all. I knew what he was, of course, and I didn’t care. I just wanted some escape from my deadly dull routine. I’m very sorry I was so foolish. I owed you my loyalty, if nothing else. You were very, very good to me, Paul. And right now-in this last moment of my life-I recognize just how good and I really appreciate it. I must’ve gone into the same kind of blackout I did back East, when that murder took place. I don’t remember killing Stanton, but I realize now that I must have. That’s why I went to see him. To kill him. He was going to run out on me. He’d promised he’d take me with him. But he always lied. Always. I’m so sorry for how I ruined our lives, Paul. Now please find yourself another woman-a good, sensible, sane one this time.
Love,
Laura
***
I didn’t think Webley was ready for it yet, so I folded it in half and stuck it in my shirt pocket. I went back over to Callie.
“The poor woman,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, “she was.”
Webley chose then to take his hands down from his face. “There’s bourbon on that bar over there. Would somebody get me a drink?”
I didn’t like being ordered about by rich men, but I decided this was a special circumstance. I got him a hefty drink of bourbon. Took him the glass.
“I saw the letter,” he said.
“I’ll have to turn it over to the law.”
“I keep forgetting you’re not the law.”
“That’d be Tom Ryan from now on.”
“I hate to ask you this-you mind taking Callie into town and clearing all this up? You can take the letter. I just don’t feel much like talking.”
I slid my arm around Callie’s waist. “She’s going home to bed. I’ll take this letter into town and talk to Tom about it. But I expect you to turn yourself in by tomorrow noon.”
I was surprised that he was surprised. "Turn myself in? Isn’t this-” He nodded to the dead woman on the bed. “Isn’t this enough?”
“No,” I said, “it’s not. You kidnapped a woman and held her captive. You also beat her. You’ve got some serious trouble, Webley. And this time your influence isn’t enough to get you out of it.”
He put his face in his hands again. Left them there for some time. I glanced at Callie. Thank God she wasn’t going sympathetic about him now. Anybody else would have to stand trial; so should he.
“I’ll hunt up your lawyer and tell him what happened,” I said to Webley. “I’ll have him meet you at his office at ten o’clock.”
“I just can’t believe that you’re going to charge me.”
“You couldn’t believe that I was going to charge your son either. You might’ve forgotten, but that’s what started this whole thing. That trouble Trent got into. You should’ve just let it ride out its course. Look where the hell it led, Webley. You can’t be too happy about that.”
***
When we left, Webley sat on the edge of the bed, touching a tentative hand to his wife’s face. The dead eyes expressed a certain surprise. I suppose that first moment of the death sensation is a surprise. Whatever you think it’s going to be, it’s probably different.
The butler saw us out. At the back door, he said, “He’s never going to be the same.”
“Good,” I said. “He needed to change.”
***
As we walked down the sloping hill to our horses, Callie said, “You’re getting to be so cold, Morgan. We all need to change. None of us is perfect.”
“It’s this town,” I said. “I need to get far away and fast.” She slid her arm through mine. “I assume you’re planning to take me with you.”
“I’ll think it over and let you know.”
She unslid her arm and used her fist to punch me in the kidney. “Think it over and let me know. And right now.”
“All right, I’ll take you with me. Just don’t hit me anymore.”
The moon was full and high and solemn as we rode home. Callie seemed to grow stronger the closer we got. She said, “I’m rid of him finally.”
“We all are.”
She didn’t have to tell me it was Stanton we were talking about.
“I wonder if she really killed him.”
“If she didn’t,” I said, “why would she have written that letter?”
“Because she wasn’t well. Because she was always imagining things that hadn’t really happened. Because maybe if Webley kept telling her she’d killed him, maybe she started to believe it herself.”
I laughed. “I thought you wanted this to be over.”
“I do.”
“Then let’s leave it alone. Laura Webley killed Stanton. We have her confession. And her husband agrees that she did it.”
“Don’t you see what could’ve happened?” Callie said as we drew close to our place, all limned with silver in the moonlight.
“No, I guess I don’t.”
“Webley knew how suggestible Laura was. What if he killed Stanton and then convinced her she did it?”
“Webley has an alibi. The butler said he was at home that night.”
“You don’t think the butler would lie for him?”
***
As we dismounted, I said, “You’re hard, you know that? You’re little and pretty and delicate. But you’re hard. You get something in your mind and it stays there, and then you fight for it like a snake I just stepped on.”
“I’ve always wanted to be compared to a snake.”
I got all sentimental and carried her across the threshold. I set her down on the bed and said, “I’d better not sit down with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I might get certain kinds of ideas.”
“I wouldn’t let you anyway,” she said. “I need a bath and a good night’s sleep before I’d even think about that.” She took my hand, touched it to her cheek. “Ouch.” She’d rubbed my hand against one
of her many facial bruises. Not to mention her nose. “But you think about what I said, Morgan, all right? He could’ve killed Stanton and then made Laura think she did it.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But probably not. Laura seemed pretty convinced she’d killed him.”
Callie put on a pot of coffee, drew back the covers, and said, “I guess I’ll just clean up at the sink tonight. You think you could stand sleeping next to me?”
“I might just survive.”
“You’re sure in good spirits.”
I took her in my arms. To hell with her washing. “Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve got my wife back, and I’m in the clear as far as my job goes.”
“Won’t that be hard on Ryan?”
“I’ll try and get him a raise. I think I can swing him a pretty good one. The town council’ll want to be nice to me for a while. For not trusting me. I’ll have some leverage so I can help Tom.”
“They should, and just for the way he had to wrestle that Conroy-that con artist-on the stage the afternoon Stanton was killed. He really didn’t want to go. He said he had a right to be here.”
I laughed. “Con artists are getting bolder these days. They think you shouldn’t be able to do anything to them- like run them out of town-when they start cheating people.”
Just before she let her clothes fall away, she said, “How about turning down the lantern?”
“At least you didn’t ask me to go outside this time.”
“I just never got used to being nude around you. You should be happy I’ve got a little modesty left. A girl like me with a past like mine.”
“Yeah, you and Belle Star.”
“Well, I’m not exactly an angel.”
“You come pretty close.”
“You’re stalling, lawman. Turn down the lamp.”
***
Which I did. But I didn’t mention that sitting at the table and watching her moonbeam-traced silhouette was even more erotic than watching her lamp-lit. I don’t suppose it was pure sex I wanted. I wanted the physical and mental reassurance that she was really back and free of suspicion. And free of Stanton.
