Showdown (6 page)

A man Prine didn't know, a man who was probably drunker than he should have been at a recital, bumped into Prine and nearly sloshed his drink all over Prine's sleeve.

"Whatever you do," the man said, overenunciating as drunks do, "don't ever borrow any money from him. He'll never let you hear the end of it. Especially when things're going bad. He just keeps right on you anyway. Like you could help it that things're going bad." The man waggled a finger in Prine's face. "Don't borrow money from him, you hear me?"

Prine smiled. "You've got my word on it."

The man's head rotated as if it were on ball bearings. "And don't you forget it."

T
he recital was an ordeal.

Before each endless number, the girl would pronounce the name of the composer in very bad halting French—at least Prine
assumed
it was bad French; for all he knew it might be bad Italian—and then proceed to play the piece. Even Prine could tell she was making a lot of mistakes. He felt sorry for her again. But he also felt sorry for himself. This wasn't his sort of an evening. A couple of beers, a couple of sentimental songs on the player piano in some latrine of a saloon—that was the sort of recital he was used to.

Apparently, he wasn't radiating any of his boredom. He sat next to Cassie. She kept squeezing his hand. And smiling. And breaking his heart. He was stricken with her, positively stricken.

There was an intermission. Everybody raving
how wonderful, how wonderful
to the pianist's parents and then obviously loading up on liquor so they could get through the second half of the recital.

Cassie excused herself for a few minutes. Prine walked around the mansion. He couldn't see how anybody could live here. It was like visiting some vast institution, like the museum or library in Denver.

He nodded to people, but he was quick to steer clear of conversations. He didn't want to toss and turn all night, thinking of the stupid things he'd said. Better to say nothing at all.

He recognized the voice long before he saw it. He'd taken a westward turn somewhere near the back of the house. A servant passed by a closed door, shaking his head at the loud voice. The servant glanced at Prine, frowned, and hurried away.

The voice belonged to Richard Neville.

"The champagne is flat. The beef is tough. And the crepes are all but inedible. Dammit, Cassie, can't I put you in charge of anything? My God, when are you going to grow up?"

Prine had partaken of the champagne, the beef, and the crepes and found them to be pretty damned good. Of course, he was a sixty-dollar-a-month deputy. He was not one of the great gods stalking the earth.

Neville settled down finally. "Next time, please do a better job. That's all I ask. That you apply yourself. Apply yourself, Cassie." He sounded like the teacher all the kids hated. There was a prissy, prim side to his superiority.

"I did everything I could, Richard. I honestly did. Everything came from Denver. And everybody else seems to like it. They've been complimenting me on it all night."

He laughed harshly. "God, you're so naive sometimes, Cassie. What else would they say? That it's tripe? That they're insulted that a family of our standing would offer things like this? Of course not. Polite people don't hurt other people's feelings."

"You don't seem to mind hurting mine, Richard." She'd found a little bit of anger and dignity. Prine hoped she'd build on it.

"I'm doing this for your sake, Cassie. You never seem to take that into account. I'm doing this for your sake. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't spend so much time trying to turn you into a mature and responsible young woman. And while we're at it—"

"Don't say a word against Tom Prine," she snapped.

"I'm sure he's a nice young man," he said. "But my Lord, Cassie, a deputy? What kind of a job is that? You need someone with a future, someone like—"

"Like you, Richard?"

Her remark apparently hurt him. "Am I that bad, Cassie? I've raised you, don't forget. Dad didn't. Dad was always too busy. So I took the time and trouble to make sure that you were growing up the right way. And look at how you treat me now."

Another pose, guise. The deeply hurt saint. All I've done for you; all I've sacrificed for you.

And she went for it.

A rustle of evening gown; Cassie sighing. "I'm sorry, Richard. I never should've said that. And I really will do better next time. I promise."

Tell him he's a pompous shit
, Prine thought.
Don't take the blame. Tell him where to put it
.

"Next time I'll let you know every store I'm buying from before I place the orders. Won't that be better, Richard?"

"That'll be much better, Cassie."

Easy to picture her, so slight, in her brother's arms. Playing guilty child to his stern pastor. "You'll grow up yet," he said, "and be a mature woman who finds herself a worthy husband. You wait and see."

Prine hurried back to the music room.

W
hen the recital was over and the gushing begun, Cassie took Prine's arm and guided him out to one of the verandas.

The night was warm for autumn. The moon had that fierce ancient aspect that the Aztecs built so much of their religion on. Dark gods hidden in the pocked fierce silver face.

Her earlier cheerfulness was gone. Obviously, Richard berating her had taken its toll. She was still unhappy.

She leaned against the hip-high stone wall and said, "You know something stupid about me?"

"Hard to believe there's
anything
stupid about you."

He leaned against the wall next to her. She touched his arm again.

"I still read children's books."

"What wrong's with that?"

"Richard thinks I'm immature. Silly, actually. He thinks I'm silly. And that just proves it, I suppose."

"Richard isn't always right."

She laughed, but there was nothing gay about it. "He gives that impression, doesn't he? He's always been like that. My father was like that. But Richard is twice as bad. Three times. But you know something, if I ever had nerve enough to tell him that, he'd deny it. I don't think he's aware of it."

"Maybe," Prine said.

She leaned forward slightly so she could see his face. "You didn't like him, did you?"

"I was taking a tour of the house. I heard him arguing with you. Nobody should talk to you that way."

She covered her face with her hands, the way a small, embarrassed girl would. Then she surprised him by laughing. This time the sound was merry. Her hands came down.

"It must've sounded terrible."

"The worst part was that you didn't fight back. You started to. But then you stopped."

"He scares me, Tom. I could never stand up to him."

"Everything was fine tonight. I heard people say that over and over. And you weren't around, so they weren't just flattering you. Everything was fine for everybody but your brother."

She leaned back again. They were silent for a time. The sounds of the party floated out the veranda door. A lot of social gush from the women; a lot of political guff from the men. The women wondered who'd have the best Christmas party; the men wondered if now would be a good time for Richard Neville to announce for governor.

Cassie said, "I suppose it's because he had to be the man of the house. Richard, I mean. Father was gone a lot. Mom depended on him, and so did I. I suppose that gave him a certain arrogance. Here was this very wealthy young man—not much more than a boy, really—and he spoke with the authority of my father's estate."

"Doesn't matter," Prine said. "He still doesn't have any right to treat you that way."

One of the servants came to the edge of the veranda and asked if Cassie could come to the kitchen for a moment.

"I really need to do this, Tom. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"It's all right, I need to go anyway. I need to get up early tomorrow."

She kissed him. It was a quick, chaste kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. It made him feel ridiculously important.

"I hope I see you again, Tom."

He smiled, still under the spell of her kiss. "Oh, I imagine that could be arranged."

"I was afraid you might have been put off by tonight and—"

He took her hand. He wasn't good at moments like these. His tongue became heavy as a boat oar and his heart threatened to explode on him. Sex was a whole lot easier than romance.

"I had a good time."

"You liked the music?"

"I really enjoyed it."

"Isn't she wonderful?"

"She sure is."

"You're lying, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

She gave him a grin that stayed with him all the rest of the night. Then she gave him a fake girly punch in the stomach. He was surprised and pleased to find her that playful.

"But," he said, "I'd sit through another recital just like that one if I got to sit next to you."

She was wise enough to end on that note, a perfect romantic line.

Another kiss. Not so quick, not so chaste, and then she was gone.

On the ride back to town, all he could think of was the kidnapping. Maybe he should tell her, warn her. Much as he wanted to collect the reward and be the hero, what if something went wrong? Things often went wrong with kidnappings. But what if—? But no, he wouldn't let that happen. He'd rescue her right away. Before anything could go wrong. He was sure of it.

W
hen the mail came in the morning, Sheriff Daly looked through it, as usual, and then dropped an envelope on Prine's desk.

"You have room in that busy social schedule to do a little job for me this morning?"

Daly and Carlyle had been joshing Prine all morning.

"I suppose," Prine said. "Just as long as I don't have to get my hands dirty."

"A charmed life," Carlyle said.

"You won't have to get your hands dirty," Daly said, "but you'll probably wear out some shoe leather. Guy's probably off on a bender somewhere, or shacked up with a whore—or both. But we need to check it out."

Dear Sheriff Daly,

A week ago one of our freelance investigators went to Claybank to work on an arson investigation. His name is Allan Woodward, and from long experience we know him to be a sober, steady worker.

He ordinarily keeps us informed via telegram as to how his investigation is going. We received two telegrams from him in the first three days. But since then we've heard nothing. He told us he'd be staying at the Empire Hotel.

Would you or one of your deputies please check with the hotel and see if he's still registered there? If he's not, could you ask around town and see if anybody knows where he might be. We haven't told his wife about this. But we are concerned. Al isn't the sort to just disappear.

Sincerely,

Evan Ramsdell

Vice President

Nationwide Insurance Company

"Anybody want to bet he's on a bender?" Prine said.

"Why bet? I'd just lose." Carlyle grinned. "He probably met one of Miss Evie's gals and fell in love."

"Miss Evie keeps telling me she and her gals are 'harmless,'" Daly said. "But every once in a while one of her gals ruins a marriage."

"In the arms of love," Prine smiled, quoting the beginning of a bawdy poem that was a saloon favorite.

He stood up, cinched on his hat, waved the envelope for Nationwide Insurance at the others, and walked out the door.

Karl Tolan didn't like confined spaces, so the root cellar was something he wanted to get into and out of as soon as possible.

Once he got the lantern lighted—the flame dull in the eleven A.M. light through the window—he opened the trapdoor and proceeded to climb down the ladder.

The dirt walls and floor and the subterranean chill put him in mind of a grave. What else would it put him in mind of? That's what the damned thing was, wasn't it?

A grave where you stored fruits and vegetables to keep them fresh. But a grave nonetheless.

He needed to set it up so that it was just right.

He'd already moved down an extra lantern, a chair, and a military cot for her. There was even a heavy quilt. He'd dug a small latrine, lugged down half a gallon of water plus a glass, and laid in a healthy supply of fruit and bread. When the authorities checked it out, they'd be able to see that the whole operation had been thoroughly planned and that she'd been thoroughly taken care of.

He didn't like to think of her. She was clean—physically clean—in a way that only added to the sexuality she radiated. She was the type of girl a man like him could never have. They would literally rather die than give in to somebody like him.