Relentless (19 page)

    The octagonal-shaped structure had steps on both sides. The problem was that the steps would expose me to the guard again. If he was standing in just the right place, he’d have no trouble seeing me crawl up and inside. The other problem was that I wouldn’t be able to see him while I was crawling up those steps. I’d just have to hope that he wasn’t within sight.

    I took a huge gulp of air and worked my way up the three steps. I couldn’t see the guard from where I was. That didn’t rule out the possibility that he’d seen me. He might be sneaking around in back of me right now.

    I got myself up into a crouching position. The gazebo interior consisted of a pewlike seat that stretched all the way around the interior wall. Dark red cushions covered the wood. Here and there you could see books and newspapers. Apparently, people came out here to read sometimes.

    I angled myself away from the two entrance points so that I could set up the fire. It had been years since I’d started even so much as a campfire. Trains and stagecoaches had spared most people from traveling long distances on horseback. And camping out every night on gassy beans and tooth-jarring hardtack.

    The first match, the one damp on one side, sparked for a moment, but then the match head itself disintegrated, first the wet side and then the dry, but cracked, other side. The flare had lasted no more than a moment.

    I crawled over to the edge of the entrance and dared a peek for the guard. He was back in place-though not lost in the shadows this time-and at the moment stoking up a cigarette.

    Given the fact that I had only one match, and given the fact that it might misfire and leave me with no fire, I decided to see if there was some way I could sneak up on the guard. I thought that maybe from a different angle-

    But no. No matter how sly I was, he’d see me. And shoot me.

    I haunched backward and decided to try my luck again with the fire.

    I fixed up alternating layers of foliage, paper, and broken pieces of dry wood. Then I took a sheet of paper and rolled it tight. If I got it to light, I wanted it to last awhile, as near to a candle as I could make it.

    A coyote; a dog; a piano played suddenly inside the house.

    A breeze, too chill on my wet legs; a smell of whiskey and cigars from some happy moment here in the gazebo; a couple of cigarette butts on the floor.

    I held the match close to my eyes. From what I could see, it looked perfectly fine. A good old reliable match. But what if it wasn’t? But there was no point in thinking that way. You get to a moment when thought doesn’t matter. Only action does. And there’s a kind of wary thrill to that moment. Your fate is in the hands of the gods and you can never outguess them, not ever.

    I closed my eyes, the way I did when I threw dice. I didn’t want to look. I wanted to open my eyes and be surprised. A good surprise.

    I struck the match on the dry wood floor of the gazebo. I could hear the sizzle when the flame came up, feel the heat scar my fingers.

    When I opened my eyes, the flame was burning true. I set it against the sheet of paper I’d rolled up tight. It ignited instantly.

    I leaned down and touched the paper to the fire material I’d prepared.

    That’s when it went all to hell.

    The stuff I’d gathered wouldn’t ignite. I wondered if it had been sprayed with creek water and I just hadn’t noticed it.

    The lucifer flame continued to bum down. Only seconds left now.

    I quickly shifted the paper and foliage and in shifting them, saw the trouble. The leaves wouldn’t burn. Even though they looked dead, there must be traces of life shot through them, stubbornly resisting death.

    I had only moments left.

    I yanked the leaves from the fire material and set the last of the flame to the remaining stuff.

    It worked. The flame took. The fire burned.

    But this created another problem. The guard might not notice the fire right away. I’d hoped the leaves would slow the path of the burning. The material that was left would bum all too quickly. What if the guard didn’t see it before it burned out?

    I pushed the fire very near the entrance so that a blind man could probably spot it from where the guard stood. He might see me doing it, come up here, and we’d have a shootout, me with my six-gun and him with his shotgun. But I didn’t have any choice. I’d run out of tricks.

    The fire burned. I crouched in the shadows on the right side of the entrance.

    The way I knew he was coming was the jingling of his spurs. Somebody should have told this man that spurs weren’t a good idea if you might conceivably need to move about invisibly. Spurs could get you killed.

    I tried to be in his mind. He was responding to a fire. How did a fire ever get started in an empty gazebo?

    He’d be hitching that shotgun up a little higher now. And his finger would be nervous on the trigger. And he’d be wondering if he maybe should have called out for help. But he’d seen the little fire and his instincts had taken over. And he was the self-reliant sort, so why should he call out for help when it was just this teeny-tiny fire and wouldn’t he look like seven kinds of dipshit for calling out for help? They’d probably make fun of him-you know how the bunkhouse crowd was-they’d be on him for days.

    But now that he was drawing closer-

    Now that he was seeing this little fire-

    This little fire that looked for all the world like it had been purposely set-

    Well, he clutched his shotgun tighter, ready to shoot whenever he felt it was necessary-

    That’s what I would’ve been thinking anyway.

    Then the jingling of his spurs got louder, closer by.

    And that was when I got my first glimpse of his hat. It looked like a modified sombrero of some sort. And told you a lot about its owner. He’d be a jaunty cuss, this one, very dramatic in how he presented himself. Given to a lot of saloon self-mythologizing. Hell, I remember this one time down in Juarez, it was just me ’n Bobby Lee Grunewald against these fourteen vaqueros, see? We didn’t think we had a chance. But me ’n Bobby Lee Grunewald, we jes’ started a-shootin’, and before you know it they was all dead, fourteen vaqueros layin’ at our feet.

    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.”