Out of the Past (4 page)

“I told you I'm not scared.”

“Maybe you're not,” Clint said, “but I've just found out I have a daughter, so I'm too scared to risk your life.”

“You're worried about me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “I'm worried about you. All I want to do is get you to Kansas City safe and sound. Isn't that what a father should be thinking about?”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, it is.”

They reached Kansas City a little later than Clint had planned, but it was still daylight. He hoped the ambushers were still sitting on a hill somewhere, disappointed.

“Were you and your mom living here?” Clint asked as they rode in.

“Yes, we had a house in town.”

“What about your aunts?”

“No, they only came when they heard that Mom was—had been shot.”

“So where would they be staying?”

She shrugged and said, “With Mom gone and me away, maybe they're at the house.”

“Okay, lead the way,” he said. “Let's go and check out the house.”

They rode through bustling Kansas City, dodging buck-boards, coaches and pedestrians all on the go, until they reached a residential area of small, wood-frame houses in various states of repair and disrepair. When Sandy stopped in front of one of them, Clint was happy to see that it was a rather well-appointed, freshly painted two-story affair, with a picket fence that didn't look like a gap-toothed smile.

They dismounted and tied off their horses, and Sandy rushed for the door. She slowed suddenly, though, as if she'd just remembered that her mother was not inside. She turned and waited for Clint to catch up to her.

“Maybe we should knock,” Clint said.

“Why?” she asked. “It's my house.”

They opened the front door and went in, with Clint behind her.

“Where the hell have you been?” a large blond woman yelled. She grabbed Sandy and pulled her into a huge hug. “We've been worried sick.”

It took Clint a while to recognize Sandy Spillane. He remembered her as a robust blonde, not pretty but with an earthy, sexy appeal. Now she seemed to have gained thirty pounds and while she still wore a man's shirt and jeans, the clothing seemed to be bursting at the seams. Her hair, golden blond in his memory, was now a sort of dull grayish blond. It hadn't been all that long since he'd seen her, but it didn't look as if the years had been kind to her.

“Clint?” she said, eyeing him. “Is that you?”

“It's me, Sandy.”

“My God,” she said, “the child did it.”

“Did what?”

“Katy and I wondered if she'd find you.”

She released Sandy and came to Clint, enveloped him in a somewhat less desperate hug.

“It's been years,” she said. “You haven't changed.”

“You look good, Sandy,” he said, holding her at arm's length.
Son of a bitch
, he thought,
if she didn't still have that sexy quality to her.

“Liar,” she said. “I've gained weight since I stopped making my living on a horse.”

“Where's Katy?” he asked.

“She's in town, she'll be back soon,” the big blonde replied. “Did Sandy tell you?”

“Yes, she did,” he said. “I'm so sorry . . .”

“She talked about you, at the end,” Sandy said.

Clint rubbed his hand over his face and said, “Well, that doesn't make me feel any better.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, “I didn't mean—”

“There are two horses out front,” Katy Littlefeather called as she entered the house. “Is Sandy . . . Clint? Is that you?”

“Hello, Katy.”

Katy Littlefeather hadn't changed a bit. She still looked young and beautiful, except that she was wearing white man's clothes instead of her Indian garb.

She was holding a couple of packages in her hands and set them down on a chair so she could hug him.

“It's so good to see you,” she said, her voice catching.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, hugging her tightly.

“I know.”

They held the embrace for a few seconds more, and then Katy pulled back, wiped her face with the heels of her hands and asked, “So what do you think of our Little Sandy?”

“Don't call me that,” the girl said.

“Hey,” Sandy Spillane said, “as long as I'm Big Sandy you'll be Little Sandy. Live with it.”

The girl frowned but Clint could tell this was comfortable banter for her.

“She's something,” Clint said. “I'm very impressed with her.”

Little Sandy's face blushed bright red and she turned away to hide it.

They all stood around then, as if they didn't quite know what the next move was.

“Let me help you take those packages into the kitchen,” Big Sandy said.

“Okay.” Katy picked up the packages and Big Sandy awkwardly took one from her.

“C-can I help—” Clint started.

“No, no, I'll make some coffee, Clint, and then we can talk,” Sandy said over her shoulder.

“Okay.”

As her aunts left the room, Little Sandy said, “You got them all nervous.”

“It's been a while,” Clint said.

“Why don't you sit down?” she said. “I'm gonna go in my room and change into some clean clothes.”

“Fine,” Clint said.

After Little Sandy left and he was alone in the room, Clint realized he'd been feeling a little nervous, too, about seeing Big Sandy and Katy again. Or maybe they were all just nervous to be talking about Anne Archer.

Other than being embarrassed when Clint said he was impressed with her, the teenage girl seemed to be the one who was the least uncomfortable with the situation.

When coffee was ready the women offered to bring it into the living room, but Clint suggested they all just sit in the kitchen. When the four of them were situated at the table with cups in front of them—little Sandy apparently liked coffee, and liked it strong—somebody finally brought up the subject.

“Do they know who killed her?” Clint asked.

“They say no,” Sandy Spillane said.

“They say no?” Clint repeated. “But you don't believe them?”

She looked at Katy, and Katy looked at Little Sandy. To her credit the young girl did not look away, but stared back at her aunt with a look that said, “Well?”

“Clint . . .” Sandy Spillane said, then looked at Sandy.

“I think Sandy has a right to hear whatever you have to say about her mother,” Clint offered.

“She's only fifteen . . .” Sandy said, helplessly.

“Almost sixteen,” Clint said, before the other Sandy could correct her aunt.

“All right,” Sandy said, “almost sixteen. We think we know who killed Anne.”

“What?” Little Sandy said. “You know who killed my mother? Why hasn't he been arrested?”

“She said we think we know, Sandy,” Katy said. “We can't prove it.”

“Why not?” Clint asked. “Go to the police and let them prove it.”

“They wouldn't want to,” Sandy said.

“Wouldn't want to prove it?” Clint asked. “I don't understand. ”

“I don't either,” Little Sandy said.

“There's a lot of money in play here,” Sandy said. “The man we have in mind is rich, and . . .”

“Oh, I get it,” Clint said.

“I still don't,” the young girl said. “What has him being rich have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with everything,” Clint said. “Rich and powerful people think they can get away with anything, Sandy.”

“Like killing my mother?”

“Like anything,” Sandy Spillane said.

“But Clint . . . Father,” Sandy said, “you're not going to let that happen, are you?”

“No,” Clint said, “no, Sandy, I'm not about to let that happen.” He looked at the two women. “Tell me who it is we're talking about?”

It was after dark when Ed Presser and Hal Chance came riding into Kansas City, knowing that they had somehow messed things up. Adams and the girl must have gone around and gotten to Kansas City ahead of them. Now Presser was going to have to explain that to his boss.

“You know,” Hal Chance said as they rode into town, “for once I'm glad you're the brains of this outfit.”

“Shut up,” Presser said wearily.

“We gave up bounty hunting a while back,” Sandy said, “but we're not completely out of it.”

“It?” Clint asked. “What's it?”

“The excitement,” Katy said.

“The thrill of the hunt,” Sandy Spillane said.

“Ladies, just what are you trying to tell me?” Clint asked.

“Clint,” Sandy said, “we're Pinkertons.”

Clint sat back in his chair and blinked.

“What? When did that happen?”

“About five years ago,” Katy said. “We were on a job, and met Allan Pinkerton. When the job was over, he offered us positions as detectives.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I've got to give it to ol' Allan. He's smart.”

“That's right,” Sandy said, “you know him.”

“We're acquainted,” Clint said.

“What does this all mean?” Little Sandy asked.

“Yes,” Clint said, “what does it mean?”

“We're investigating Colonel Louis G. Cameron,” Sandy said. “He's a banker here in town, and he's heavy into politics. In fact, he's trying to get his son, William, into the U.S. Senate.”

“So you're after the father?”

“The father, the son,” Sandy said, “the whole family, if we can get them.”

“The women, too?”

“Well,” Katy said, “the son's wife. His mother is dead.”

“And there's a stepmother,” Big Sandy said. “Who's kind of young.”

“Ick,” Little Sandy said. “She married an old man?”

“Some women do that,” Clint said, “for money.”

“Ick, but she'd have to let him touch her.”

“Some women do that, too,” Sandy Spillane said.

“So you think Cameron had her killed, or the son had her killed, or somebody in their circle had her killed.”

“Or William did it himself,” Sandy Spillane said. “Anne told us she had found the evidence we needed to put them all away.”

“Don't tell me, let me guess,” Clint said. “None of you know where this evidence is.”

“Anne thought we'd all be safer that way,” Sandy Spillane said. “I think she was worried about Little Sandy getting involved.”

“Wait,” Little Sandy said. “My mother got killed because she was trying to protect me?”

“That's not certain,” Katy said. “We won't know until we find out who killed her and why.”

“Why was Anne living here and the two of you weren't?” Clint asked.

“She was undercover, working for the Cameron family, ” Katy explained. “She got to know them.”

Katy looked Little Sandy's way and Clint decided that this time whatever they were trying to keep from the young girl was better kept secret.

“I'm kind of beat,” he said suddenly. “I think I should check into a hotel—”

“No, no,” Little Sandy said, grabbing his arm, “you have to stay here.”

He put his hand over hers and said, “If I'm going to find out who killed your mother, Sandy, I'll be better off in town.”

“Then I'll come and stay with you.”

“No, you stay here with your aunts,” Clint said. “I need to be able to move around.”

“Honey, why don't you go out and take care of the horse you, uh, borrowed,” Sandy Spillane said.

“I have to take it back.”

“You can do that tomorrow,” she said. “We arranged for you not to be arrested.”

“I'm sorry,” Little Sandy said, “I just had to go and find Father.”

“Well,” Katy said, “you found him, and it was probably a good idea. Go ahead, take care of the horse.”

“I'll say good night, Sandy.”

The young girl stood and asked, “Will I see you tomorrow? ”

“Definitely.”

He stood and she came around the table to hug him. He held her tightly, then kissed the top of her head.

“Good night, Sandy.”

“ 'Night, Father.”

She went out the back door, presumably to go around the house and collect the horse.

“Now, what didn't you want to say in front of Little Sandy?” Clint asked.

“Bill Cameron and Anne were . . . seeing each other,” Sandy said.

“He was cheating on his wife with her?”

“That's right.”

“So that makes the wife a good suspect.”

“Yes,” Katy said, “that's what we thought. Or, if it's about the evidence, then it was the father or son, or someone working for them.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “That gives me somewhere to start.”

“Gives you somewhere?” Sandy asked. “We're the Pinkertons. Now that you're here, and because you're Sandy's father, you can assist but—”

“I tell you what,” Clint said. “Why don't we talk more about this tomorrow?”

“Why tomorrow?”

“Because I want to argue about this,” Clint said, “but I don't want to argue with the two of you tonight.”

They both stared at him, then their eyes filled with tears. He hugged them both and had to get out of there before he made a fool of himself.