Sketch a Falling Star (18 page)

Zeke seemed to understand that this was her best offer. His posture relaxed and a smile hitched up the corners of his mouth. “Mighty obliged, darlin’,” he said. “I knew you’d come around to my way of thinkin’ if I gave you enough rope to play it out.”

So much for diplomacy and compromise. Although she’d been trying to defuse the situation in as equitable a way as possible, he’d been busy “handling” her the way he would a wild horse he was trying to break. Well, she knew exactly what he could do with his chauvinistic, condescending attitude. But he vanished before she could share that bit of wisdom.

1878

Denver, Colorado

M
arshal Drummond rode into Denver a full ten days after leaving Albuquerque behind. Since there were no tracks to point him in Trask’s direction, he’d had to make do with experience and instinct. The way he figured it, Trask might well be a man without a conscience or a heart, but he was hardly a man without a brain. Aware that the law would be on his trail, and presumably without a hidey-hole nearby, the best place for him to take cover would be in a big city. Denver was the closest one that fit the bill.

The ride had been hard on the marshal, who had not fully recovered from his grim bout with death. The aching and throbbing of his body had worsened with each day he spent in the saddle, each night he lay upon the hard ground. By the sixth day, a peculiar numbness had set in, as if his mind had determined there was nothing to be gained by reminding him of his distress. On several occasions, he went hungry rather than lose time looking for a farmhouse where he might buy a meal. As long as his horse had oats and grass, he could hang on. He hadn’t owned much of an appetite of late anyway. And in spite of the endless hours with only the chestnut for company, he didn’t allow himself to wonder what he’d do if he couldn’t pick up the killer’s trail. Failure was simply not to be contemplated.

Upon reaching Denver, Drummond immediately made the rounds of the city’s stables. A man planning to lay low for a while would need to board his horse. At each stable he pulled out the picture of Trask. He hit pay dirt at the third one.

It was the blacksmith’s apprentice, Tom, a scrawny youth with a long stalk of a neck and hooded eyes, who recognized Trask. “That’s the guy; that’s definitely the guy who sold us the buckskin two, three weeks back,” he said, passing the picture to his boss.

“You’re certain about that?” Drummond asked, afraid to believe things might finally be turning in his favor.

The blacksmith, who introduced himself as O’Malley, looked at the picture and nodded. “That’s him all right—a nasty son of a bitch if I ever met one. I came close to throwing him out of here.”

“Sounds about right,” Drummond said. “He didn’t happen to say why he was sellin’ the horse or where he might be headed?”

“No sir, Marshal. He didn’t volunteer nothin’, and I didn’t say more to him than was necessary for conductin’ our business. But I can tell you the horse was sound enough. Just in need of some rest and food. That Trask had pretty much run him into the ground.”

“What’s he wanted for anyway?” the apprentice asked, his eyes glittery with excitement.

“Murder,” Drummond told him solemnly, “and other things you don’t want to know.”

Tom opened his mouth as if he was about to dispute that assumption, but he closed it again without saying a word.

Drummond refolded the picture and tucked it back in his pocket. “Either of you seen Trask around town since that day?”

“I seen him the very next day over at the Lucky Lady,” Tom piped up eagerly.

“I ain’t seen him at all,” O’Malley said, turning to glare at his apprentice. “Your mama and your aunt Jean’ll tan your hide good, boy, if they find out you were hangin’ round a saloon.”

“I wasn’t, Uncle Will. I was just passin’ by there is all.” His voice had taken on a high, nervous warble. “You ain’t gonna tell them, are you?”

“Much obliged for the help,” Drummond interrupted, since he didn’t have time to wait for the family drama to rattle on to its conclusion.

“More than welcome,” O’Malley said without taking his eyes off his nephew. “I hope you find him.”

As Drummond led the chestnut outside he heard the blacksmith resume lecturing the boy in louder, more graphic terms. The odds were good that Tom wouldn’t be sneaking into another saloon until he came of age.

Before mounting the chestnut, the marshal took a moment to decide on his next move. He tried to think himself into Trask’s boots. He might have sold the horse intending to buy another, one less likely to be identified with him, or he might be planning to travel by train. Denver provided several different options in that regard. He could take the Denver and Pacific Railroad link to Cheyenne and pick up the main line of the Union Pacific to head either farther west or east to Chicago. Or he might hop on the Kansas Pacific and ride it out to Saint Louis.

If it had been up to the marshal, he’d have chosen to stay on horseback, but Trask hadn’t asked his opinion. In any case, as his first order of business, Drummond had to find out whether Trask was still hunkered down somewhere in Denver or had already left for parts unknown. With no quick way to check through the entire city for him, the train depot seemed like the most efficient option. Drummond stopped a man on a passing buckboard and asked to be directed there.

The depot was a small, wooden structure that no one had seen fit to paint. It was the same grimy color as the rails that ran past it and the locomotives that rode upon them. Drummond tied the chestnut to the hitching post and mounted the few steps to the narrow porch that ran the length of the building. Three men and a woman were waiting on benches provided for that purpose, with their travel bags at their feet. They were all dressed in their Sunday finest, in stark contrast to their current surroundings. Under normal circumstances, the marshal would have been ashamed of his appearance. Both he and his clothing were in dire need of soap and water. But as his manners were as yet unsullied, he nodded to the men as he walked past them, and gave the lady a perfunctory tip of his hat.

He walked inside the depot, where there were two more benches to accommodate passengers waiting for a train in inclement weather, a pot-bellied stove that wouldn’t be fired up until summer had run its course and a wooden counter presided over by the ticket agent. The agent, who’d doffed his trademark jacket and cap to work in his shirtsleeves, was busy with a customer. When it was Drummond’s turn, he identified himself and handed the agent the well-creased picture of John Trask, along with a brief explanation of why he was looking for him.

“That fella was in here,” the agent said, thumping the picture with his finger. “Most definitely. Had a chip on his shoulder the size of a two-by-four. Struck me as strange too. He asked a bushelful of questions, but wouldn’t say where he wanted to go. Got downright angry when I pressed him on it. It wasn’t like I was trying to be nosey, you understand. It’s just a whole lot easier to recommend train routes if I know where a person’s headed. Dealing with the public you’d think I’d seen it all by now, but people keep right on amazing me. And never in a good way.”

“Did he wind up buying a ticket?” Drummond asked, scarcely able to hide his impatience with the agent’s chummy, “down-home” style.

“Yes he did. Bought himself a trip to Cheyenne, as I recollect.”

“Do you recall the date?”

The agent chewed on his lower lip while he thought about it. “I make it a couple, three weeks ago.”

Drummond wasn’t happy to hear that. Not only were the time and distance between him and Trask growing, but the killer had taken the train to Cheyenne, where the Union Pacific would offer him many more options. It wasn’t even a matter of where the rail line ended. Trask could leave the train at any stop along the way.

The marshal bought a one-way ticket to Cheyenne and thanked the agent for his help. He untethered his horse, pulled himself into the saddle with some difficulty and headed back to O’Malley’s. He and the blacksmith worked out a simple deal. He paid a month’s board in advance for the care of the chestnut. If he didn’t return by the end of that time, O’Malley could assume ownership of the horse and tack.

The marshal ran his hand along the horse’s neck and withers and made him a silent promise to do his damndest to come back for him. Then he walked out of the smithy alone, his saddlebag slung over his shoulder. He’d thought his heart was already too shattered to break anymore, but he was wrong.

Chapter 18

R
ory was awakened by the garbage truck instead of her alarm clock, which she’d apparently forgotten to set. The day was off to a great start. She was barely conscious, and she was already running late. Hobo, who was stretched out beside her, opened one bleary eye, then closed it again and snuggled deeper into the covers.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she said to him as she dragged herself out of bed. “You’ve got a better life than I do. You really shouldn’t gloat though; it doesn’t become you.” She grabbed her robe from the closet and double-timed it into the bathroom.

She was scheduled to meet with Dorothy Johnson at 9:30 in Northport, which gave her less than an hour to shower, dress and drive the fifteen minutes there. In spite of Dorothy’s age and the foot she’d fractured in the flood, she wasn’t lying around taking it easy. Since her driving foot was just fine, her days were as busy as ever. On that particular morning, she was fitting Rory in after her appointment at the nail salon and before her quilting class.

Rory was drying her hair and reading the news crawl on the mini television Mac had installed to the right of the bathroom mirror when a loud thud against the door startled her. The dryer flew out of her hand, tumbling onto the tile floor, where the plastic casing cracked in two and the motor went ominously silent. Another thud, this one accompanied by a flickering of the bathroom lights. Too little, too late. She’d realized who was making the noise even as the dryer was busy obeying the law of gravity. Aside from her, Zeke was the only member of her household who could approximate a knock by using his energy to throw something against the door. Hobo generally scratched at closed doors or howled to gain entrance. If it wasn’t Zeke, she had more to worry about than wet hair and a moribund dryer.

“Mornin’. Do you have a minute?” The marshal’s voice, casual and upbeat, floated through the door. He’d clearly left yesterday’s argument behind.

Although Rory wasn’t aware of any desire on her part to reprise last night’s drama either, the image staring back at her from the mirror was wearing a harried “What do you want?” expression that would surely start things off on the wrong foot. She unknotted her brow and slapped on a smile before opening the door.

“Hi,” she said, unplugging the dryer and retrieving its remains.

“My apologies if I caused that thingamajig to break,” Zeke said, managing to look both rueful and pleased at the same time. As far as Rory could tell he’d never met a machine he liked or trusted.

She set the pieces on the counter with a shrug. “It was probably ready to retire anyway.” She was glad her hair was short enough to dry quickly on its own, since April was back to doing its best impression of winter.

“So what’s up?” she asked, turning back to the mirror to apply a quick swipe of mascara to her lashes.

“We’ve got some catchin’ up to do. We never went over Dobson’s visit and we oughta get that out of the way before we meet up with Dorothy.”

There’d been so much going on the past few days that Rory had set the director’s visit to simmer on a back burner of her mind and then forgotten it was even there. “I guess we should, but…” She stopped before the words “that’s hardly an emergency” spilled out of her mouth. Apparently she was more annoyed about the broken hair dryer than she’d thought. Patience and diplomacy, she told herself. Patience and diplomacy.

“But what?”

He clearly wasn’t going to let her off the hook. “But…we’ll have time to talk about it in the car,” she said, doing a quick ad-lib. Since she’d already brushed her teeth and destroyed her hair dryer, there was no longer any need for her to remain in the bathroom. She went over to the doorway, which Zeke was still blocking. “I’d better get dressed, or we’ll miss the meeting with Dorothy altogether,” she said, waiting for him to take the hint and move aside.

“That’s a fine idea,” he said, without budging.

“Excuse me.”

“Oh, why, yes, ma’am.” He stepped back with a bow and a gallant sweep of his hand. Rory couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or just trying to be a gentleman. In the interest of harmony, she decided she didn’t need to know.

“I
don’t much care for the man,” Zeke said from the passenger seat. They were driving into Northport along Woodbine Avenue, the winding, one-lane road that overlooked the Long Island Sound. Grand Victorian homes with magnificent water views straddled the hills on the east side of the road. Smaller houses with more stalwart occupants crouched over the Sound on the west side, the angle down to them so precipitous that navigating it required stairs. Cars were out of the question. They had to be left on the apron of level ground at the side of the road.

Although the marshal had initiated the discussion about Stuart Dobson as soon as they’d pulled out of the driveway, he’d been having a hard time staying focused since they’d turned onto Woodbine. Having lived his entire life in a place where a lake was the largest body of water around, he seemed mesmerized by the proximity of the Atlantic, including this tranquil strait of water leading to it.

“I don’t like Dobson either,” Rory said, trying to reel Zeke back in. “But he isn’t running for Miss Congeniality. Bottom line—do you think he did it?”

“Miss who?”

“Sorry.” There were still times she forgot the marshal wasn’t from the here and now. “I just mean he doesn’t have to be likeable to be innocent.”

“I never said he did.”

Rory stopped herself from trying to explain her explanation. Sometimes they seemed to be speaking different languages and it was simply best to let the subject go.