by Iona Whishaw
“Sarge,” said O’Brien briskly, picking up the phone.
Ames was almost out the door, when he turned again. “And get a warrant to search the Watts house. Get two of the boys out there, first road going up the hill after Willow Point. House at the top. Ransack the place looking for any kind of poison, bottles of something, rat killer, bleach, alcohol, you name it. Outbuildings. Everything.”
O’Brien nodded and then turned back to the phone.
“It was that damn curly blond hair,” Ames said, running his hand through his own hair. The ferry had been on the Nelson side, so they were now on the short ride across, the ferry engine thrumming underneath them. The icy rain of the last couple of days had turned to a steadily falling icy snow. “Curly hair buying clothes, curly hair hitchhiking, curly hair in the car, and then the purse, which Tina said she lost the night Watts assaulted her. It was Amy Watts in some sort of wig, I’m sure of it. What I don’t understand is why she fixated on Tina. After all, he seemed to be up to his usual trick of going after high-school girls.”
“Turn up here,” Amy commanded, leaning forward, trying to see up the little road she wanted them to take. She waved the gun toward an ascending turnoff.
Tina made the sharp turn up the hill, hardly daring to believe her luck. Amy must not know that King’s Cove was hidden among the trees on this hillside.
Amy was leaning forward, looking at the options. As Tina started to turn up toward the church, Amy saw the steeple. “No. Damn! Go this way!”
Tina pulled the wheel sharply to straighten the car and go where she was directed. She felt her heart freeze. This road was barely wide enough for one vehicle—rutted, winding, and icy, it climbed steadily uphill. Worse, she had no idea where it would take them. Perhaps to some isolated place where Tina could carry out whatever plan she had. Tina, whose mind had been whirring, tried to adjust to the new terrain, desperately trying to think of how to get away or use the small wrench she had in the back pocket of her coveralls.
If Amy’s idea was to shoot her in the close quarters of the car, she might be able to wrestle the gun away before she got the shot off, though those were very long odds. Amy held the gun on her, not shifting it even for a moment. If she yanked the steering wheel hard at one of the corners, she might unsettle her, but it was dangerous gambit on this narrow bit of slippery road because a steep gully dropped precipitously through underbrush down toward a creek fifteen feet below.
Everything happened at once. Out of the corner of her eye, Tina saw Amy reach into her handbag with a gloved hand and pull out a thickly folded men’s handkerchief that filled the car with a choking smell, and at the same instant, as they turned a corner, a tractor loomed up, coming right at them. Tina had no time to do anything except slam on the brakes, but the tractor’s driver—an old man with a horrified expression and a cigarette clinging to the corner of his open mouth—could not react in time. He ran head-on into the car, his tractor sliding on the ice, pushing the car back toward the curve in the road.
Shaken, Tina became aware that Amy had screamed and was bent over trying to find something on the floor. The gun! She pulled frantically on the handle of her own door and managed to push it open just as Amy found what she was looking for. Tina launched herself out of the car, falling partway down the gully until a fallen tree covered with a fresh layer of snow stopped her. She lay dazed, her back in excruciating pain, waiting for the gunshot. Instead she heard an angry voice.
“What the blazes do you think you’re doing? Bloody women! Put that down and get out! Who told you you could drive up this road?”
Trying to ignore the agony in her back, Tina scrambled as quickly as she could back to the road. Her hands were freezing, and it was hard to get purchase. The old man had Amy backed against the crumpled front of the car and was holding her at bay with a rifle. “She was going to kill me,” Tina stuttered.
“Could have killed everyone driving up this road the wrong way,” the old man said angrily. “Bloody ruined my tractor.” He narrowed his gaze on Amy. “ Oh no you don’t! You stay right there. You,” he said to Tina, “get the rope on the back of the tractor. And pick up that revolver. Don’t want it going off.”
Tina limped around the tractor, found a coil of grey and fraying rope, and brought it back to where the old man was standing, his glaring gaze never leaving his prisoner.
“Can you use a rifle?” he asked, not looking at Tina.
“Yes.”
“Good. You take this and you pull the trigger if she tries to move.” He slowly transferred the rifle to Tina, keeping it trained on Amy, and only then looked at Tina. “Hey, don’t I know you?” But he didn’t wait for an answer. He strode in his rubber boots to where Amy stood with her hands up against the car, her face a mask of angry defeat.
Ames was surprised to see Marcus Van Eyck at the top of the drive, waving frantically as the car began to slow down. Not waiting for the car to come to a complete stop, he was in the back, closing the door. “She’s all right! She’s in King’s Cove with the Bertollis.” Van Eyck collapsed back on the seat after this effort.
Ames had turned to Terrell. “The King’s Cove turnoff is about three miles past the Balfour store. Step on it!” He turned around to see Marcus Van Eyck taking a deep breath and looking out the window. “She called you?”
“She said that Watts woman was going to kill her. Luckily an old man in a tractor slammed into them, and somehow they disarmed her and tied her up. What does this mean?”
“It means Tina has caught the person who murdered Barney Watts,” said Ames, his feelings a mixture of relief and admiration, but also regret that he had not been able to effect a daring rescue. This, he thought, must be how Darling feels all the time.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Meg was practically dragging Lane the last feet up over the steep gravelly lip to the road. Idaho impatiently took one side of her to get her the rest of the way.
“How did you get this far, anyway?” he said angrily.
She wanted to tell him she worked for the French Foreign Legion, but she could see Galloway, still training his gun at Darling’s head. Best not annoy Idaho with any angry sarcasm.
Idaho lifted his head and frowned. And then Lane and Meg heard it too. A new sound. Sirens from at least two cars, somewhere well past the outskirts of the city and coming north in a hurry. “Come on, get a move on.” He took her arm in a painful grip and hurried her forward.
Up on the road, Galloway and Darling heard the sirens as well.
“What the devil?” Galloway put his hand to the rim of his hat to block out the sun that pushed blindingly across the landscape from high in the east and looked down the long road. The sirens were definitely coming in their direction. Why? They had been standing watching the progress of Idaho’s hunt and Lane’s emergence from the ridge, Galloway tauntingly handing Darling the field glasses from time to time so he could see clearly the humiliation of Lane’s capture.
When the shot had sounded, Darling had been watching only her face through the field glasses. He hadn’t seen the man raise his rifle. She’d been talking to the man with the rifle and then she dropped like a rock out of the sight of the field glasses. Darling frantically tried to find her and then threw the binoculars aside and started toward Lane. Galloway had put out his hand and grabbed him by the elbow, hard.
“No you don’t.” Darling had wrestled to get out of his grip, furious, and felt his arm pulled behind him, his elbow screaming at being yanked into some unnatural position.
“There now. You can calm down. She’s getting up. Let’s just wait here for them, shall we? She looks shaken up. I don’t think I’ll have too much trouble getting her to tell me where she took my wife.”
“Let me go, you bastard!” And then he too turned to look down the road at the rising wail of the sirens.
Idaho hurried the last few yards to where the car was park
ed and pushed Lane toward the two men and then turned his attention to Meg, who was leaning against the car, recovering her breath from the effort of helping Lane get to the road.
“The boss is not happy about you,” he said to her, but he had his eye on the approaching police cars.
“I’m not too happy about him, so that makes two of us,” she retorted. And then, feeling his hand take her upper arm, she pulled it away. “And you can keep your hands off me. You’re nothing but a bully.”
“I’ll be dealing with you later, missy!” he hissed.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Meg folded her arms and turned to look at Lane. Darling had pulled free of Galloway and enfolded her in his arms. That’s what I need, Meg thought. Someone who loves me just like that. Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, her mind turned to Rex Holden. He had loved her just like that. Just like Ricky had.
Lane winced in Darling’s embrace and he let go, holding her out so he could scan her.
“When you went down like that, I . . .”
“I’m fine, darling. Don’t make a fuss. He just grazed me. But I’ve ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes.”
“I don’t believe you. You went down like a ton of bricks.”
“Thank you very much, I’m sure.” Lane tried to smile, but she had been hit and it was beginning to hurt like the dickens. She could feel dampness growing just where her lower rib was. She tried to still the natural panic this engendered. It was probably, as she had told Darling, only a graze. She’d have a sore rib and maybe a handsome scar.
“In the car, both of you,” Galloway said, waving his revolver in their direction. Two vehicles from the Tucson Police Department were almost upon them.
“What the hell is going on?” Idaho asked of no one in particular, looking angrily at the rising cloud of dust. “What have you done?” He directed this question at Galloway.
Lane and Darling used the distraction to scuttle around to the rear of the car. Meg joined them. Idaho and Galloway were both armed. If there was going to be gunfire, it was as well to have a place to duck.
The two police cars pulled to a stop, aligned so they blocked any exit on the road. Galloway turned to Idaho. “I don’t know why they’re here, so you’re going to have to play your part. I’m going to put you under arrest. We can sort things out later.”
“Sorry, buddy. I’ve been playing my part. No one is arresting me!”
“Don’t be an ass! If they think you’re holding any of us hostage they’ll shoot you! Just play along!”
Among the officers who leapt out of the car was Martinez. He surveyed the scene, trying to make sense of it. He could see Inspector Darling and his wife and—for some reason—Mrs. Holden standing behind the car.
“What the devil are you doing here, Martinez?” Galloway said.
“Sheriff’s office called in a report from a local dude ranch of someone shooting a powerful rifle up in this valley, sir.” He kept his voice professional.
“Well, as you can see, I got here before you, and I got him, so you can pack him up and take him right back to town. We can add kidnapping Mrs. Darling to his charges as well.”
Martinez’s eyes flickered toward a slight movement behind Galloway. Darling was looking directly at him and shaking his head.
“What I see, sir, is that the man you’ve supposedly apprehended is still holding a firearm. Why are Mrs. Holden, Inspector Darling, and his wife here?”
Galloway took a step toward Martinez, his face suffused with rage. “Who are you to be asking the questions? I made you. You do what you’re told, or I’ll have you out flipping tortillas for a living.”
“Tortillas, sir. The double l is pronounced y.” Martinez felt something inside him harden into resolution. “Can you just explain again why this man, one of Jimmy Griffin’s men, is here and still holding a firearm with you and these others, sir?”
Galloway went to take another step toward Martinez, pulling up his revolver as if he just discovered it in his hand, but he was stopped by Martinez, who pointed his own gun directly at Galloway’s chest.
“Put that down please, sir,” Martinez said, pointing toward the hood of the car.
Galloway wheeled on Idaho and shouted at the police who were watching this drama unfold. “Arrest this man and take Martinez’s firearm. This nonsense has gone on long enough!”
The police began to shuffle, and Martinez put up his hand. “Hold it right there.” He turned to Galloway. “It has gone on long enough. I found the evidence against Griffin, where you hid it, sir. I’ve got photographs of you with him in various social situations. It seems you’ve been collaborating with the biggest mob man this city has ever seen. I don’t know why, or for how long, but I think it neutralizes your ability to order people around.”
Darling saw a movement from Idaho, his rifle beginning to swing upward into position toward Martinez. If he got that shot off, Martinez would be dead and there’d be a hail of bullets from the heavily armed throng gathered around the cars. He lunged out from behind the car at Idaho, knocking him off balance, and tumbling them both backwards over the shoulder of the road into the gully.
The big cowboy landed hard with Darling’s weight driving all the wind from him in a sick woof. He gasped for breath, rolled to one side, then tried to rise but felt the barrel of his own rifle poke him between the shoulder blades. “Okay, okay,” he said, then settled face down in the gully and, without being told, put his hands behind his head.
Galloway turned, uncertain now, first aiming his revolver at Darling and then at Martinez.
“No, sir. Put it down. I briefed all these gentlemen before we left and put out an apb. Everyone in the department knows what you’ve been up to. I’ve also had James Griffin re-arrested for good measure.”
Meg watched as Idaho was handcuffed and folded into the back of one of the cars and then, with a sigh, approached Martinez.
“You seem to be in charge around here now,” she said. “I should probably tell you, he likely was the one who shot that poor Mr. Renwick.”
Martinez frowned and turned to look at Idaho scowling in the back of the car. “Is that right? Why do you say that?”
“Oh, it’s a long story, hon. You’d better bring me in too. I can probably help you. I’m married to Artie, or as you call him, James Griffin. As to why he shot him, it’s because Artie found out about my boyfriend, and that stupid jackass thought it was Renwick, just because we were standing together having a chat.”
Darling and Lane sat at dinner, bracing martinis before them.
“This is something they do very well in this country,” Lane said, holding up her glass, and then grimacing. Her ribs, now bandaged, were throbbing faintly underneath the painkiller she had taken. She took a sip and then put her glass down.
Somehow, they’d all been got down the hill and sorted out. Martinez had been surprised to learn from Meg that it was Idaho who likely shot Renwick under orders from Griffin. The mobster heard from his spy that Meg was playing outside the lines of their arrangement to fleece Holden.
“You know what absolutely astounds me?” Darling said.
“What’s that?”
“Martinez told me that, among the papers he’d found in Galloway’s office, there was a letter from someone called Watts threatening to reveal something that went on while he was in Nelson in the thirties just before I arrived there. It was a blackmail letter, effectively, demanding cash.” Darling took a sip of his martini. “And wasn’t Watts the name of the man that got killed just now that Ames is dealing with?”
He was making normal conversation with his wife, but his insides were in turmoil. He’d paced anxiously at the hospital waiting for the doctor to finish treating Lane. Even hearing that the bullet had only grazed her scarcely soothed his anxiety. She’d been sent home with a packet of painkillers after she had refused to spe
nd the night to get a proper rest.
“We can phone Ames in the morning. It would be a shocking coincidence, certainly. But maybe not so much. I mean, you and Galloway used to work together in the Nelson police force. If he is crooked here, he was crooked there too.”
“God, don’t remind me,” Darling said glumly, grimacing at the strength of the martini.
“Cheer up! You accomplished something you normally are deprived of, saving the day and rescuing me—well, and all of us really, by subduing that cowboy. A dangerous killer by all accounts.”
“Thank you for pointing that out. It was not difficult. I put into it all of the rage I had bottled up at watching him shoot you while you were giving yourself up. I think it is one of the most satisfactory moments of my career.”
“Yes, it was funny, his shooting me like that. Ordinary soldiers seemed for the most part to understand the rules during the war. I wonder if the ones who shot people giving themselves up in combat ended up in gangs in civvy street?” She put her glass down and grew silent then.
“What is it?” Darling asked.
“You know, when I got hit, I think I passed out for a minute, maybe from the shock of it. Certainly not from this flesh wound. But I was suddenly back there, you know. In France, in ’43. I can’t really give you the details of why I was there, but I was supposed to meet some people in a safe house, only I found the dog shot outside and three of the four people I was expecting to see were dead. I probably narrowly missed the killers, but I managed to throw myself on the ground as they rode away on a motorcycle. It turns out there was one man hiding in the outside privy. He was beside himself, furious at me for not being armed. I worried that the motorcycle would come back, and it took everything I had to persuade him to get away. When I was lying there, today I mean, I thought I was back in France and that he had been shot and it was my fault. Only as I was coming to did I realize it was I who had been hit. I felt such a relief, I can’t tell you, to be free for that one moment of the guilt over the thought that I’d caused his death.”
