Last Will (The Lockes)

by Ron Schwab

  Silence.

  “It doesn’t matter. I see the truth in your eyes. And, of course, Ike Bell figured it out and helped you suck your father dry with blackmail. How many more girls, Karl? St. Louis would be paradise for a man like you. Orphans. Passers through. Hundreds of young girls who might never be missed. Not enough law to track the killer if they are.” I paused before I spoke. “I tell you what, Karl. I really just want to satisfy my curiosity about a few things I’m not sure of. And I don’t have time to waste. I’d like to head home and be with my little girl. You know her, don’t you? Mandy? The one you’ve been stalking for days? The one you took away and beat and defiled? But I’m digressing. What I’d like to know concerns your father’s murder. Now here’s the game we’re going to play. I’ll ask a question. If you refuse to answer . . . or lie . . . I’ll put a bullet in your other knee. Then I’ll ask again. If I get the same response, the bullet goes in your brain and I go home. Understood?”

  Karl shook his head and moaned in agony and began to sob uncontrollably again.

  “Did you kill your father, Karl?”

  “No,” Karl whimpered.

  “I believe you.” I lowered my pistol again. “It was Celeste, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. It was mostly like I said at the trial . . . except I was there from the beginning. My father was dead drunk. We had been sitting in the kitchen arguing before he passed out. Celeste tried to get me to kill him but I couldn’t . . . he was my father after all.”

  “So Celeste shot him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you helped her dispose of the body?”

  “Me and the sheriff.”

  “Ike?”

  “Yes. Celeste didn’t know. But after we got father in the buckboard, she washed her hands of it. Told me to get rid of the body . . . but to be sure somebody found it. I didn’t know what to do, so I went to Ike. I promised I’d keep him on the payroll if I ended up with the estate. Mrs. Crump’s pigpen was his idea. Celeste threw a fit when I told her I’d dropped the body in the pigpen. Said if the hogs ate father, there wouldn’t be a corpse to prove he was dead and that would complicate things. Fortunately, you and Mrs.Crump came along. I never told her about Ike helping me . . . and Ike made me promise I wouldn’t tell.”

  “Whose idea was it for you to come forth to testify against Celeste?”

  “It was Ike’s. When he heard about the handwritten will, he came to me and suggested I turn Celeste in. I’d be pointing to the real killer and she couldn’t pull me into it without confessing her part. Once she was convicted nobody would believe her, and Ike said he’d alibi for me anyway. It looked like I might get the estate if they hung Celeste or sent her to prison.”

  I stared at the pistol in my hand for some moments and then got up and walked over and looked down at Karl’s pathetic form. I bent over and unfastened the man’s belt buckle and yanked Karl’s trousers down to his thighs, as he squealed in misery. I flinched at the grotesque wounds I uncovered. Already the man’s groin was inflamed and distended, the tender flesh turning raw and rancid, and his mangled penis drooped limp and bulbous between his blood-smeared thighs, probably unable to pass urine, I thought. Blood still oozed from the shattered knee, but it would take another day for gangrene to set in. Karl looked up at me with feverish, pleading eyes. His semi-confession had seemingly sapped the last of his reserves, and his torment had driven him to surrender. I pressed the cold barrel of the Colt to Karl Wainwright’s temple.

  38

  Ian

  WHEN I STEPPED out of the saddle and led Hemlock to the hitching post in front of the house, I was startled to find Casey standing in the shadows of the veranda. She moved swiftly down the porch steps and was in my arms before I realized what was happening. I held her tightly and desperately, drinking of her touch and warmth and scent, vaguely aware my own scent might not carry similar comfort. Our lips met, first lightly, then hungrily.

  “Mandy’s sleeping,” she said in an unnecessary whisper. “Cam’s in repose on the floor of the parlor. Let me help you put Hemlock up.” She took the gelding’s reins, and both horse and man trailed her to the stable.

  Casey tended to Hemlock with quiet efficiency, and neither of us spoke while I watched her grain and rub down the grateful animal, docile as a sleepy kitten under her expert care. The horse settled in, Casey took my hand and led me to an empty stall where I discovered someone had fashioned an inviting bed of fresh straw and blankets. I learned I was not quite as exhausted as I thought and let the ever-persuasive redhead have her way with me.

  I don’t know when I dropped off to sleep, but it was sudden and dead, and I was disoriented when Casey shook me awake in the middle of the night. Feeling her taut nipples brushing my naked back, I rolled over to oblige. “Not that,” she said, gently pushing me away. “Well, not this minute, anyway. We need to talk. About Mandy.”

  I sat up and she snuggled in beside me, resting her head on my shoulder and pulling a blanket around us. “She is all right, isn’t she? You would have told me—”

  “She’s doing unbelievably well under the circumstances.”

  I waited for her to continue and cast my eyes about the stable, dusky in the soft moonlight that crept through the windows. With this woman at my side, it was a poor man’s heaven. Casey remained silent, so I asked, “Should she see a doctor?”

  “It probably wouldn’t hurt, but I stitched her scalp wound, and Cam and I applied some of your vet salves to her swollen eye and lips. I helped her with a hot bath, and Willow brought over some soup and fresh bread . . . which you would probably enjoy yourself.”

  “The soup or the bath?”

  She snuffed her nose a bit crudely I thought. “You could certainly stand a bath”

  “Will you help me with it?” That remark earned a soft punch in the ribs. “Seriously,” I said, “I’m grateful you were here for Mandy. You stitched her scalp? You didn’t tell me you were a physician, too.”

  “Comanche women learn very early about sewing up wounds. I’ve dealt with much worse.”

  “There is something I need to know.”

  “You want to know if Karl violated her?”

  “Don’t want to know. Need to know.”

  “He did not.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, he was going to rape her when she attacked him. Ian, Mandy is an incredibly brave young lady. Resourceful and tough. And I think she is one of those special persons who will grow from adversity rather than be destroyed by it.”

  “Like you.”

  “Perhaps. But I was thinking of her father. We had a long talk. Or I should say, Mandy talked. I mostly listened. I assured her she could speak to me in confidence, and I will respect that. But I asked her permission to discuss one issue with you, and she consented.”

  “This sounds ominous.”

  “Ominous portends future. This is past. And we have to keep it there. It’s about her stepfather . . . and by acquiescence, her mother.”

  “Victor?”

  “He’s been molesting her.”

  “The bastard.” I started to get up, but Casey held me back. “The son of a bitch. I can’t believe this.”

  “There is no way to minimize what he’s done, but so far, his behavior hasn’t gone beyond nighttime fondling or touching while he thinks Mandy is sleeping. But she has seen him stroking what she calls his ‘spear’ during these episodes. She relates his conduct to her experience with Karl, and now she’s terrified at the thought of living in the same house as Victor.”

  “She needn’t be,” I said. The thought of that vile son of a bitch touching my daughter in that way triggered waves of nausea in my stomach and forced bile into my throat. This just wasn’t possible. “She won’t be living anywhere with Victor Hampton again. She won’t be within a hundred yards of him.”

  “I can help you with that if you want. The Omaha courts have jurisdiction of the case. I can file an application for change of custody on your behalf. Perhaps,
when Nadine returns, you can confront her and propose an arrangement that wouldn’t put Mandy in the middle of a custody battle.”

  “Did Nadine know about this? Did Mandy tell her mother?”

  “She said she tried, but she didn’t know how to explain it. She told her mother that he came to her room and touched her at night, but she was afraid to be explicit . . . didn’t really know how to express it. Nadine just shrugged it off . . . said Victor was just showing his affection.”

  “She’s nuts.”

  “Blind, I suppose. People have great ability to deny things they don’t want to believe. But Nadine became a believer one night when she followed Victor to Mandy’s room and caught him in the act, so to speak. Mandy said there was a terrible fight and that Nadine threatened to summon the law. They returned to their own bedroom and carried on their battle through the night. The next morning, Nadine behaved as though nothing had happened and never spoke of the incident. A month later, her mother announced she and Victor were going to Europe and that Mandy would not be accompanying them. Mandy, of course, by this time was not interested in traveling anywhere with Victor, but she begged her mother not to go. Nadine just declared she and Victor needed time together. I gather this was an effort to save the marriage, but I can’t imagine why.”

  “Because you haven’t been raised in Nadine’s society. First, Victor’s money and status are hugely important to Nadine. Her family never quite forgave her for marrying down when she exchanged vows with a young, penniless lawyer. Divorce is a horrible disgrace among her set. Your husband can beat you; he can have a dozen mistresses; but you stay married. She has about lived down one divorce. But two? In her own mind a second divorce would be nearly unthinkable.”

  “But her daughter’s well- being—”

  “She does love Mandy. That’s why she didn’t take her to Europe. It had to be a gut-wrenching decision for Nadine to leave Mandy in my care.”

  “But she knew she was safe with you. Deep down she knows the kind of man you are.”

  “I don’t even know what kind of man I am. But I’d never let harm come to my daughter. Never.”

  “Mandy wants to stay with you. She wants to live here.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes, in spite of what’s happened, she’s never been so happy. She worships you. She knows you’ll take care of her. She wants to see her mother when Victor’s not with her. But she wants to stay here, even if Nadine divorces Victor.”

  I couldn’t deny my indescribable joy at the thought of Mandy remaining with me at the Lazy Key, and still I felt an undeniable sadness for Nadine’s sake. “It won’t be easy, but we’ll make it happen.”

  I kissed the top of Casey’s head and with my fingertips tilted her face toward mine, looking into her eyes. “You look very thoughtful,” she said teasingly.

  “I’m debating about whether to risk making an ass of myself.”

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You haven’t seemed all that adverse to risk-taking in the short time I’ve known you.”

  I blurted it out. “I’d like you to stay here, too.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. The unflappable Casey McGlaun had shock written all over her face.

  “Stay here?”

  “I’m asking you to marry me. I love you, Casey.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about ‘yes?’”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “You don’t feel the same way?”

  “Ian, I’ve never felt about any man the way I’ve come to feel about you. I think we can have an unbelievable friendship. As a lover . . . well, if there’s ever another he’s doomed to be a disappointment to me in comparison to what we’ve shared.”

  “But you aren’t in love with me?”

  “I’m not trying to be evasive. I’m not sure what love is. What I feel for you is very, very powerful . . . it’s almost frightening to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have dreams, Ian. And if I married you, I’d have to give them up.”

  “I don’t see why. Dreams change anyway. They’re not reality. That’s why we call them dreams. I’ve been replacing old dreams with new ones all of my life.”

  “I want to be the best trial lawyer west of the Missouri.”

  “You can do that. I know Will would be agreeable to you joining our firm. He’d welcome the companionship since I decided yesterday I’m going to take a leave of absence and be a banker for a while . . . at least until I sort out a few other things in my mind. With rails reaching almost every place these days, Borderview could be home and you could travel to where your cases take you. After all the newspaper coverage about Celeste’s trial, win or lose, clients will find you . . . no more beating the bushes for your next case.”

  “That remains to be seen.” Her eyes met mine for a long moment, and I saw genuine sorrow there. She sat up and started to fumble in the straw for her undergarments. “I’m sorry, Ian. I truly am. I’ve never intended to marry. Being a lawyer is my life. There’s not room for anything else long-term.”

  39

  Casey

  THE JURY HAD deliberated only about five hours when the judge was notified a verdict had been reached. Court was convened again in the town hall, and the judge, lawyers and spectators waited now for the jurors to be escorted by the bailiff from Reuben’s county courtroom where they had been sequestered for deliberations. Celeste sat silently next to Casey at the defense table, her bearing cool and supremely confident. Their greetings had been brief and perfunctory. Casey did not much like her client and was sure Celeste held no particular affection for her. Their relationship was business and professional, and unless the jury’s decision mandated an appeal, Casey expected to employ Will Heasty to handle collection of her fees and hoped never to see Celeste Kimball, or whatever her name was, after this day.

  Casey would not have been in a mood to chat with any client this Friday afternoon, or any person for that matter. Last night’s ending with Ian had left her in a rare funk. If only he had not asked her to marry him so soon, pushed her to a decision, perhaps they would have had some time to see where their relationship would lead. Of course, she was returning to Omaha tomorrow, and she supposed that would have been the end of it in any event.

  At least they had parted without unpleasantness. Ian had accepted her verdict, much as she must accept the jury’s in a few moments. He had been silent and stoic as they dressed, but she sensed no anger or resentment in his manner, certainly no plea for sympathy. He had helped her saddle her horse, rendering only a token protest when she insisted upon riding out into the pitch black of night to make her return journey to town alone, and he had kissed her before she left, although a bit too chastely. Yes, he did understand her—and totally embraced her as she was. She did not expect to meet the likes of Ian Locke again in her lifetime. So why was she walking away from him?

  The town hall door opened and the twelve jurors followed the bailiff into the room and took their chairs. Some were grim-faced, but others appeared affable and relieved. Casey made an effort to catch the schoolteacher’s eye. He acknowledged her with a slight nod of his head, and a faint trace of a friendly smile crossed his lips. Casey took this as a hopeful sign.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Hutchens asked.

  The blacksmith, who had been chosen by his fellow jurors as foreman, stood and replied, “We have, your Honor.”

  “And how find you?”

  “The jury finds the defendant not guilty, your Honor.”

  Pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom. Casey turned to Celeste, who was smiling benignly but otherwise showed no emotion. “It’s over,” Casey said. “The judge will order you released in a few moments.”

  “I guess I should thank you.”

  Casey did not reply and began collecting her files and papers from the table.

  “It is correct, is it not, that I can never be tried for this crime again?”
>
  “You understand correctly. It’s called double jeopardy.”

  “I did kill him you know. I did shoot the son of a bitch.”

  “I figured as much.”

  40

  Ian

  RAILROAD DEPOTS ARE fascinating places. I always like to arrive well before departure of a passenger train, not only because I am obsessively punctual, but also because I enjoy watching the people, scripting little stories in my head about where they are going, how they earn their livings, whom they love, what joys they have known, what tragedies they have suffered. This day, I would like to have been able to write my own story, or at least an ending to it. I guess that’s what novelists do—play God with the lives of persons they create from their own imaginations. If I were a novelist, I suspect I would find myself constantly driven to resolve the drama in favor of a happy ending. But real life does not all that often, in my experience, bring happy endings. The most we can hope for is to balance defeats with victories.

  Casey had purchased tickets for the only Saturday train to Omaha. A Denver & St. Joseph passenger car would be pulling out of Borderview at noon, carrying the woman who had bewitched me as no other ever had. I had hoped she might stay a few days following the verdict, but she had wasted no time making arrangements to shake herself free of Cottonwood County. We had dined together at The Fremont the previous night, ostensibly to celebrate Casey’s courtroom triumph, but it had not been an intimate occasion, for we were joined by Cam and Emily and even Mandy, who, despite a bruised and swollen face, was in good spirits and as enchanted with Casey as her father. They had forged a bond upon Mandy’s escape from her ordeal that would be durable and lasting.

  Casey had been politely good-humored and pleasant, laughing on occasion with some gusto at Cam’s stories and anecdotes. My brother has a flair for turning the most somber occasion into a party and sometimes annoys me with his vetoes of any serious effort on my part to slip into a nice black mood. I believed Karl Wainwright when he told me Celeste had killed Ralph, and I found it difficult to rejoice at the freedom of a murderess. Not that it made any difference, but I wondered if Casey believed in her client’s innocence. Intellectually, I accept the concept that guilt must be proven beyond reasonable doubt in a court of law, but viscerally I want to see the guilty punished. As a lawyer, I know my duty, but I accept fully that I am as much a hypocrite as any man.