The Night Visitor (36 page)

Anne Foster sat in front of the fireplace, hugging her knees. Watching the flames lick at the split pine logs.

The journalist had given up staring at the photographs she'd taken of Ralph Briggs' clandestine meeting on the rocky summit of the Iron Kettle. She had wonderfully crisp black-and-whites of the antiquarian passing the stolen artifact to the man who'd arrived in the Town Car with the thug. She had, in fact, gotten more than she had dreamed of. Several of the shots she'd made through the excellent telephoto lens included the two armed men who were there with Briggs.

His partners in crime.

One was from out of town. The other was a respected citizen of Granite Creek. What to do with the photographs… Hide them away in some secret spot? No. She'd burn them. Anne had the incriminating prints in her hand… was reaching out toward the fire. The telephone jangled. She let it ring ten times, then relented.

“Hello.”

“Hi, it's me.”

Her heart raced. “Oh… Hi, Scotty.”

Parris chuckled. “You sound kinda down.”

Anne swallowed a lump in her throat. “It's been that kind of day.”

“Well, I'm double-glad I called. I've got something to show you. Something that'll cheer you up.”

She felt a sudden flood of exultant hope. He was going to tell her all about it. Explain why he and Charlie Moon had helped Ralph Briggs sell a stolen artifact. Somehow… it would all make sense. “Why don't you drop by?”

“I'll be there in ten minutes.”

Scott Parris, who was concentrating on the task of steering the Volvo through wisps of fog along a narrow mountain road, glanced at the woman beside him. Anne had barely spoken. Well, she'd evidently had a rough day. Best just to leave her be.

He was mildly startled when she did speak. “Scotty?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen Charlie Moon recently?”

That was an odd question. “Sure. Matter of fact, Charlie was in town yesterday. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just wondered.” She darted a look at him. “You two do anything… interesting?”

He shrugged. “Oh, not much. This and that. You know Charlie.”

“I wondered,” she bit her lip, “whether you've learned anything about that flint blade.”

He frowned, and squinted to see the splash of yellow headlights on the damp asphalt. “Flint blade?”

“The one that was stolen from Nathan McFain.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, we talked about it some.”

“Anything new on who might've stolen it?”

The chief of police grinned indulgently. “If there was, it'd be police business.” He glanced at her profile, ivory in the dash lights. Her expression was thin-lipped and hard. Poor kid must've had an awful day. Well, he'd soon take care of that. He turned off abruptly into a winding gravel driveway. And pulled to a stop under a neatly trimmed willow that sat in front of the stone house like a fragile mushroom.

She blinked. “This is the Waring place.”

He grinned, and cut the ignition. “All sixteen acres of it.”

Anne turned to look at him. “Why are we stopping here?”

He threw his hands up in mock dismay. “Well, I'm outta gas.” He attempted a leer. “So it's either snuggle up to keep warm—or you got a long walk back to town.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “You're an idiot.”

“Yes,” he said earnestly, “but I'm
your
idiot.”

He got out, slammed the Volvo door, and breathed deeply.

She was at his side. “You still haven't told me why we've stopped …”

“Did you know this place was for sale?”

“Of course. It's been on the market for months.”

“And it once belonged to your uncle. You used to visit this place, when you were a kid. It's the place you've always wanted.”

She gave him an odd look. “How did you know that?”

“It's my job. To know what you want.”

“Well, it doesn't matter,” she said glumly. “This property is way out of my price range.”

He snapped off a stem of willow branch and put it between his teeth. “I've cut a deal with the owner,” he said. “Soon as the paperwork's done, it's mine.”

She gave him a dazed look. “Yours …?”

He took her by the shoulders. “Or… if you'd like… it's
ours.”

Anne couldn't meet his eyes. “I don't see how …”

“How what?”

She forced the words past her lips. “I don't see how you could afford a place like this. I know what you make, Scotty. And what you have in the bank.”

“Wow,” he said with an amused expression, “sounds like you've been checking up on me.”

She choked back a sob. “Oh, Scotty… how
could
you?”

He watched, openmouthed, as she turned and stalked away across the frost-killed lawn toward the road. “Hey, babe—where are you goin'?”

“Home,” she called back shrilly.

“But it's almost three miles. You can't …” But she could. And would.

He fumbled around in the Volvo glove compartment and found the small Motorola transceiver. The dispatcher answered his summons almost immediately. “Hi, Clara. Who do we have on duty… in an unmarked car?”

“Officer Alicia Martin. She's at the intersection of Poplar and Fifteenth, speed control duty.”

Perfect. “Send her up to Ayerst Road, on the double-quick. Tell Alicia to look for a woman walking downhill. About one hundred fifteen, five seven. Red hair.”

“Sounds like Sweetums.”

He had expected Clara Tavishuts' snide remark. “Yeah, Clara, it's Anne. And no, it's none of your business. Just have Officer Martin pick her up and take her home.” The chief of police turned the transceiver off without the usual formalities and threw it on the seat beside him.

Scott Parris sat in the old Volvo, watching the slender figure retreating downhill. What had he done? Was it a crime to buy your sweetheart her dream house and practically propose? Within thirty seconds, he saw the familiar square profile of the unmarked Ford coming up the road. Anne hesitated, then got in. The Ford did a neat U-turn. So Anne would soon be safely home.

But what had gotten into her?

His mind was racing blindly along dark byways.

This wasn't the first time he'd asked Anne to marry him. But, he promised himself, it would be the last. True, she was drop-dead gorgeous. Smelled like honeysuckle blossoms. Brilliant conversationalist. Wonderful companion. She was almost perfect. Except for this one little thing …

She was completely nutso.

Might be in her genes.

Their offspring would be a brood of darling little redheaded lunatics.

Nope, this would never work.

He sat there for an hour, into the beginnings of twilight. The morbid thoughts ran around his mind like crippled greyhounds on a ghostly racetrack. Chasing a phony rabbit that was always three strides ahead.

He barely noticed the headlights in the driveway.

Alicia Martin leaned on the Volvo. “Hi, Chief.”

He got out, slamming the door. “Don't ‘Chief' me, Officer Martin. I'm off duty.”

“Me too,” she said with a pixie grin. “I was about to head for home when the call from Dispatch came in.”

He grunted and muttered something under his breath.

“So if I mustn't call you ‘Chief,' what'd be the proper form of address?”

He shrugged. “Scott, I guess.”

“Then you can call me Alicia.”

He looked at her face, framed by shoulder-length blond hair. Alicia had pretty blue eyes that sort of twinkled when she was laughing at you. Nice smile, too. An uncomplicated young lady. Definitely not nutso like someone else he knew. She'd make some young man a fine wife. If a fellow bought her a nice house, she'd appreciate it.

“Is that okay with you… Scott?”
Scott.
Gee, that sounded funny. Like the chief was a regular person.

“Yeah, Alicia. That's okay.” But it wasn't. He stomped across the well-trimmed lawn, toward the house.

She was at his side. “I delivered your package home. Safe and sound.”

“Thanks.”

Poor, sweet man. And he was so sad. “Sometimes,” she said, “life stinks.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

She moved close enough to brush her arm against his. “Sometimes it gets awfully lonely.”

“Indeed it does.”

Should I? What'll he think? Oh, to hell with it!
She took his large hand in hers.

He was startled, and embarrassed. On the other hand, it was very pleasant. Reassuring. Like a father-daughter thing. Except she wasn't his daughter. She was a rather attractive young lady.

“Officer Martin …”

He's on duty again.
“Yes sir?”

Scott Parris cleared his throat. And stepped gingerly into the minefield. “I'm sure there must be a departmental rule against the chief of police holding hands with one of his officers.”

She took a deep breath. “I checked the manual. There is no such rule.”

He grinned weakly. “You're sure about that?”

“Yes sir.”

Anne had meant to stay at home. Take a long, hot bath. Go to bed early. Not think about
him.
Or the house. Or the terrible trouble he'd gotten himself into. Sleep without dreams, that was the ticket.

Within fifteen minutes, she was dialing Scott Parris' home number.

No answer, except for his terse answering machine message. “Leave your name and number and …”

Of course he wouldn't be at home. Not for some time. Anne knew her man. Knew where he was. She threw a tweed coat over her shoulders, got into her Mercury and sped along Pine Ridge Avenue. Past the aging red-brick high school. Across the rusting iron bridge over the frigid river. Up Ayerst Road. Where their dream home waited.

Thank God! His old Volvo was still there, parked in the winding driveway.

But so was another automobile. It was the boxy-looking Ford the cute young blond girl had picked her up in. Alicia Somebody in the unmarked car who thought Anne didn't realize she was a plainclothes cop. Thoughtfully summoned, of course, by Chief of Police Scott Parris. To take his runaway girlfriend home.

Anne slowed the Mercury.

They were standing there on the lawn, the two of them. In the moonlight. Scott Parris and the cute little blond girl.

Holding hands.

It was fortunate for all concerned that Anne did not carry a pistol.

Scott Parris sat in Charlie Moon's office. The
matukach
stared out the window at a dismal world. “Women,” Parris said.

The Ute, who had his boots propped on the battered desk, frowned thoughtfully at this philosophical remark, but did not offer any comment. On the wall facing Moon's desk, an inexpensive round clock hung precariously on a loose thumbtack. As if exhibiting some mechanistic acrophobia, the second hand moved in nervous little jerks.

Minutes passed.

“Don't be so damned taciturn,” the white man said sullenly.

Moon scratched at his sideburn. “Amongst my own people, I talk arms and legs off. But those of the European persuasion expect us indigenous folk to lean toward taciturnity. So—not wanting to disappoint—I'm a man of few words when I'm in the company of you chatty
matukach.”

“I don't think ‘taciturnity' is a real word,” Parris grumped.

“Sure it is. Look it up.”

He rubbed at bloodshot eyes. “Damn it, Charlie, Anne is driving me over the edge. I think I'll give up on women altogether.”

“You could become a monk,” Moon said earnestly. “Go live in an abbey. Practice the virtues of obedience. And chastity.”

Parris groaned.

“And,” the Ute added, “… taciturnity.”

“Charlie, you ever have woman problems? I mean really
bad
woman problems.”

“Not me, pardner. I don't mess with really bad women.”

The white man pulled at a numb ear that had once been nearly severed from his head by a lunatic. “You know what I mean.”

“Oh. You mean bad problems with women. Sure. Once in a while.”

Parris, who felt his load lighten, looked up eagerly. “Gimme a f'r instance.”

“You remember Myra Cornstone?”

“Sure. Kinda thin. But a nice-looking young lady.”

Moon looked at a spiderweb of cracks in the plaster ceiling. “Well, for a while I thought she kinda liked me. Then, for no reason, Myra started treating me like I was the North Vietnamese.”

“Women,” Parris said.

“You know,” the Ute said, “it's no wonder Anne don't want to marry you.”

“What?”

“Well, face facts, pardner. She's a real good-looker. Smart, too. Makes good money. And you're about fifteen years older'n her.”

“Twelve,” Parris growled.

“Point is,” Moon said, “she's too good for you. You need to set your sights a bit lower.”

“Thanks. Now I feel lots better.”

“Glad to help, pardner.” Moon looked at the ceiling. “Of course, if someone would go talk to Anne on your behalf… someone who could convince her that you're a lot better'n you actually are …”

Parris aimed a finger at his friend. “Don't you even
think
about it.”

“Okay. But later on, don't say I didn't offer to help.”

“Whatta you mean,
later on?”

Moon took his big feet off the desk. He got up, towering over his friend. “A good-looker like Anne—'Specially young as she is—ain't gonna stay unattached for long.”

Parris stared bullets at the Ute.

Moon shrugged the bullets off. “So what'll you do when you find some other guy's pickup parked in her driveway?”

The white man's blue eyes narrowed. “I'll pull the bastard's arms and legs off. And beat him to death with 'em.”

Moon patted his friend on the shoulder. “That's the right attitude. So if you want me to drop by sometime and straighten things out between you two …”