Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) (18 page)

Later in the day, after a huge meal and a
bath and shave, fresh clothes on his back and a feeling of
well-being in his soul, Angel sat in the upstairs room with Sunny
Metter and Lieutenant Blackstone.

‘
Looks
like you tied it all up, Frank,’ Metter said, weakly. He cursed as
a movement brought a stabbing pain through his shoulder.

Angel shook his head.
‘If you aren’t the
world’s fattest fool,’ he said pityingly. ‘What in the name of God
made you try to stop Larkin?’

‘
I
don’t honestly know,’ Metter admitted ruefully. ‘I figger’d he’d
give the soldiers the slip, maybe head for the Reynolds place, then
Birch’s. If he found out they weren’t there, I guessed he’d come to
Daranga, so I made tracks here. I guess what was goin’ on in my
head was that if he got to Birch an’ Reynolds, your case would go
up in smoke. I didn’t know about Burnstine, of course. It just come
into my head to try an’ stop him. Damnfool thing to do,
no?’

The soldier nodded, grinning, and Angel
smiled, too.

‘
How
is Larkin?’ Blackstone asked. Angel shook his head. ‘Doc says he
won’t make it.’

‘
Good
riddance,’ snapped Blackstone. ‘Did he tell you
anything?’

‘
Nothing,’ Angel told them. ‘I went over to see him just a
while ago.’ He had been told that Larkin was conscious and wanted
to talk to him. The gunman had been sitting propped up in the bed,
his face chalky beneath the tan, his eyes receded deep into the
skull. He smiled weakly, eyes unreadable.

‘
I
reckon I owe you somethin’,’ he said softly.

‘
Not a
thing,’ Angel had said. ‘It just broke that way.’

‘
Never
Figured on Reynolds at all,’ Larkin said. ‘I must be gettin’
soft.’

He saw the expression on
Angel
’s face
and his smile faded.

‘
Give
it to me straight, Angel,’ he whispered. ‘Ain’t goin’ to pull
through this time, am I?’

‘
No,’
Angel said.

Larkin sighed.
‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I
had a lot o’ things I wanted to do.’

‘
You
could go out clean,’ Angel suggested.

‘
Spill, you mean?’ Larkin shook his head. ‘Not my style,
Angel.’ There was real regret in his voice. ‘I’d like to pay up
what I owe you. But not that. Besides, who’d believe the word of a
hired gun?’

‘
I
would,’ Angel told him levelly.

‘
I’m
thankin’ you for that,’ Larkin said gratefully. ‘But it’s no go,
man. I allus went by my own rules.’

‘
Pity,’ Angel said. ‘It would nail Burnstine good. He’d
hang, Larkin.’

‘
Hangin’s too good for that bastard,’ spat Larkin. He
coughed, and bloody flecks of foam speckled his bloodless
lips.

After a moment, he asked a question.

‘
Metter’s just fine,’ Angel told him. ‘It was just a flesh
wound.’

Larkin nodded.
‘That’s how I shot
it,’ he said, and Angel detected a curious sort of pride in the
man’s voice, as though it was important that he should believe that
Larkin had known exactly where the bullet that had felled Metter
would hit.

‘
You
sure, Larkin?’ Angel tried one last time. ‘It’d be nice to go with
your head high.’

‘
I’ll
do that,’ Larkin had said. ‘Don’t you worry.’

Angel had left him then; the gunman had been
staring up at the ceiling, his eyes empty and his mouth tight in a
thin grimace of pain when he closed the door.

‘
Hard
as nails,’ Blackstone said, whistling through his teeth at the end
of Angel’s recital. ‘Right to the end.’

Metter changed the
subject.
‘How did Thompson take the news?’ he wanted to
know.

‘
Pretty badly,’ the young lieutenant said. ‘He headed back
to the Fort with Sergeant Bettie. It was like talking to someone
who was already dead.’

‘
Does
he know enough to help you, Frank?’ asked Metter.

‘
Some,’ Angel said. ‘It’s hard to say whether it will be
enough.’

‘
But
you doubt it,’ Metter insisted.

‘
There’ll be enough to send the old man to jail for years,’
Angel said. ‘He’s finished, sure enough.’

‘
But
Perry, and Clare ... all those men at the high chaparral ranches,’
Blackstone put in. ‘You mean he could get away with
that?’

‘
He
could,’ Angel admitted. ‘With Birch and Reynolds dead, Boot and
Mill gone, we don’t have evidence of his involvement. Not tangible
evidence, anyway, although there’s enough circumstantial evidence
to hang him ten times over.’

‘
Frank, you’ve done all you can,’ Metter said,
sympathetically. ‘Don’t knock yourself out because you couldn’t get
a full house.’

Angel got up from his chair.

‘
I
think I’ll have a talk with the senator one last time,’ he
said.

He went downstairs to the bar,
where Burnstine sat patiently in a chair, his composure intact,
fully in control of himself
again. Burnstine’s fertile mind had been working
like a well-oiled machine, checking this facet of his involvement
in the Rio Blanco troubles against that. Nothing had ever been put
in writing which could connect him with Larkin, with Boot, with
Mill. Witnesses might be found who could testify that they had been
seen visiting his house, but that could easily have been innocent.
Alternatively, witnesses could become uncertain if pressures were
applied. There were still plenty of strings he could pull which
these fools knew nothing about. His ownership through mortgages of
the Rio Blanco ranches was pure business, nothing more. How was he
to know that Birch and Reynolds had been crooks? They had paid up
on the dot the monies due him each month, and he could certainly
prove that. His bookkeeping was impeccable, for Burnstine knew that
accounts which had no flaws in them were often considered the
hallmark of an honest man, and he had employed one of the best
accountants in the Territory to work on his books, all honest and
above board. No, he was safe. There might be all sorts of
accusations, but none of them would stick. With the conclusion of
these thoughts he had politely asked one of the guards if he might
have a drink. It was rotgut brandy, of course, but better than
nothing. He still had a few cigars. He was sitting now behind a
baize-covered table in the saloon, expansive in the bentwood chair,
cigar alight, brandy warming in his hand. Angel came down the
stairs.

‘
My
dear Angel,’ Burnstine smiled a welcome. ‘Won’t you join
me?’

Angel looked at the politician
for a moment, and then with a contemptuous sweep of his arm,
knocked the liquor off the table, the glass smashing to fragments
against the bar. Then he leaned over and plucked the cigar from
Burnstine
’s
mouth and tossed it away. Burnstine looked at Angel and there was
complete and seething hatred in his eyes.

‘
Damn
you, Angel,’ he said, his voice low-pitched and cold.

‘
Murderers don’t get treated like kings by me,’ Angel told
him, his contempt lashing the vanity of the old man. Burnstine half
rose to his feet and then a slow smile touched his face. He leaned
back in the chair.

‘
You’re a fool, Angel,’ he said. ‘I thought you were an
intelligent man, but I see now that you are just muscle, Larkin’s
kind, only on the side of law and order. You are not worth wasting
time on.’

‘
Senator, I am going to see you hanged,’ Angel promised him,
levelly.

‘
On
what charge, may I ask?’ Burnstine asked. He was beginning to enjoy
himself. He had gone over and over everything in his mind. He was
safe and inside he felt the warm glow the knowledge created. What
could this .. . this hireling do to him? ‘Who will bring evidence,
may I ask?’ he continued. ‘Birch? Dead. Reynolds? Dead. Boot and
Mill, I assume by your continued existence, dead. Larkin? Dead in
all but fact, so my guards tell me. You have been far too efficient
in your narrow way, Angel. You have not brought me down as you so
fondly hoped: you have in fact ensured my survival. Oh, I agree: a
little dirt may stick, it always does. I’ll simply say that it’s
political jealousy in Washington, something trumped-up to discredit
me, the way things are always trumped up against successful people.
My scheme will go through, Angel, and there’s nothing you can do to
stop it.’ He sat back, smiling.

‘
I
could kill you myself,’ Angel said, reflectively. He put no
emphasis on the words, and Burnstine paled. Then anger mottled his
face and he jabbed a Finger forward.

‘
You!’
he hissed. ‘You will be the one who dies, Angel!’ The charming
facade slipped away from the benign politician’s face, and the
sleeping tiger beneath it appeared. The hate-filled eyes
shouldered, the megalomaniac who had planned this gigantic plot,
the real Burnstine, the calculating, coldblooded manipulator who
had brought the reign of terror and destruction down upon the Rio
Blanco valley, showed in every straining fiber of the man’s body.
The man was evil incarnate and despite himself, Angel recoiled
slightly from the venomous power of the man, a thing almost
tangible.

‘
You,
Angel, will be lucky if you reach Washington alive,’ Burnstine
hissed. ‘I will put out word on you. Wherever you go, whatever you
do, someone I have sent will be close behind you, dogging your
footsteps. If I have to spend a million dollars -and I can, Angel,
I can - I will have you dead! Somewhere, sometime, they will find
you. You may stop one of them, or even two. You may hide in the
remotest part of the world. But someone will find you. Waking,
sleeping, wherever you are, however long it may take, they will
find you and kill you. Now get away from me. I’m sick of the sight
of your face!’

The hard and certain power of
the old man
’s words touched a chill finger on Angel’s spine. He felt
doubt seep into his mind: he knew Washington, knew the endless
years that Burnstine could, and would, fight through the courts,
his case shuttled from committee to sub-committee, the buck always
passing on. Few men in the capital would want to have the black
mark on their political career that condemning a senator of the
United States Government to death would make. No matter the justice
of it, the human lightness involved. This evil old man with his
millions could stay his execution for a year, two, ten, and all of
those years would be filled for Angel with the fear of the assassin
in the night, the bullet from the darkened alley, somewhere,
sometime, never knowing when. Angel got up out of the
chair.

He went out of the room without speaking and
he heard the old man laugh as he went, a sound like a snake in a
basket full of newspapers.

Nobody ever found out how Larkin did it.

It might have been that he
spent his last dollars bribing one of the young soldiers who were
guarding him, or he might even have somehow, in some incredible
fashion, managed to
get out of the hotel without being seen. It was late in the
evening. Angel was upstairs with Metter and Blackstone, awaiting
the arrival of the US marshal, and the saloon downstairs was dark
except for a light on the table in front of Senator Burnstine, who
was playing cards with the sheriff. Burnstine was in an expansive
mood, losing large sums of money with a happy laugh, his belly warm
with cheap brandy, a fine cigar smoldering in the ashtray. He dealt
Austin five cards and was just about to deal himself a hand when he
looked up. The cards slipped from his fingers as if they had turned
to wax. His jaw gaped open and Austin, who was sitting with his
back to the door, turned in his chair. His bowels turned to jelly.
Framed in the doorway, a street window lighting him against the
night darkness, stood Larkin. He was leaning against the doorjamb
and they could hear him struggling to breathe. The sound was like
an old, rusty pump being used for the first time in many years.
Larkin lurched into the saloon, standing about six feet away from
them, just inside the circle of lamplight. Austin gasped when he
saw the front of the man’s body: it was a pulsing mass of thick,
black blood. Larkin was all but dead on his feet, his wound torn
open by the terrible effort of getting from the hotel to Metter’s
place. But the eyes held that burning, blank, killing light that
Austin had seen before and he sat frozen in the chair, his tongue
paralyzed in his mouth.

‘
Senator,’ Larkin said. He lifted his bandaged right hand a
few inches in greeting and they saw that the white linen was also
bright red with blood.

‘
How
in the name of God... ?’ Austin finally managed.

‘
Don’
know,’ Larkin said. ‘Leg’s like pulp. Just about made it.’ He
grinned, pain drawing his face into a terrible death’s head.
‘Couldn’t go ’thout sayin’ bye, could I?’ His voice
slurred.

He let them see the sixgun and
Burnstine
’s
eyes touched it and then rolled up in his head. ‘Oh God,’ he
said.

‘
No
help comin’ from that quarter, Burnstine,’ sneered Larkin. He
lurched, almost falling. Then he drew himself upright. His
willpower was astonishing. Burnstine scrabbled out of his chair,
fell to his knees, crawling towards Larkin.

‘
Don’t,’ he sobbed, ‘don’t, don’t, don’t. I’ll do anything.
Only don’t. ...’ He was abject, craven; nothing in him left
functioning. The pungent smell of sweat and urine arose from him
and Austin’s nostrils wrinkled in distaste and horror. The man had
come apart.

‘
I -
uh – Larkin ...’ he began, trying to find courage to tell Larkin
that he was going to shout for help, but the words just would not
come. Austin stared at Larkin in fascinated horror, totally
terrified, completely prevented by the sight of the man from
intervening in what was happening.

Burnstine sobbed and crawled across the
floor towards Larkin.

‘
Get
up, Senator,’ Larkin said, softly, his voice fading away. His eyes
closed for a second, then jerked open again. ‘Get up. I’m not going
to kill you. It’s all right. Get up.’

Burnstine looked up from the
floor, hope kindling in his eyes, his face red raw with tears of
terror, his nose dribbling, his mouth wet and loose. He looked at
Larkin to see if this was some terrible, final jest and Larkin said
again,
‘Get
up, Senator. Get up.’

Burnstine got to his feet, babbling, his
hands moving like butterflies on pins.

‘
You’ll never regret it, Larkin, David, my boy,’ he sobbed.
‘I’ll give you money, anything, anything you want. Just tell me ...
tell me.’

‘
Sit
down, Senator,’ Larkin said. His voice sounded very far away.
‘Don’t be afraid. It’s all right’

Burnstine fell into the chair, knuckling the
tears and snot off his face, his eyes touching Austin with
something like a plea, and he let his shoulders relax, a hiccup
shaking his body.

‘You .
.. won’t... ?’ he tremulously began.
Larkin shook his head and for the first time, a spark came back
into Burnstine’s eyes, the thinnest edge of the foxy craftiness,
the first faint sign that the brain was beginning to function, to
emerge from its deep black plummet into terror. Austin saw
Burnstine’s eyes flick over the swaying Larkin, calculating how
long, how much longer the dying man could stand.

‘
That’s my senator,’ said Larkin and shot Burnstine in the
face three times. The shocking sound of the sixgun, the flash of
the powder by his face made Austin scream with pure terror and he
had fainted dead away when Angel came down the stairs three at a
time, Blackstone behind him.

Blackstone went quickly to
Burnstine
’s
side. He recoiled at the sight of the old man’s head. Austin sat
up, then keeled over to one side, vomiting. His face had been
resting in Burnstine’s bloody brains.

Angel kneeled by
Larkin
’s
side. The gunman coughed, and a gobbet of blood coursed down his
chin. His eyes looked up into Angel’s and he suddenly smiled, a
bright, happy child’s smile.

‘
Now
we’re even,’ he said. And then he died. Angel never knew whether
Larkin meant himself and Burnstine, or himself and Angel. Much
later he would realize that Larkin had meant both.