Whistle Pass (11 page)

He examined the door. Not a nick or scratch. Charlie was right; everybody in town must have a key. He gnawed on his cheek.
I’d have changed the locks too.
So, he did.

Cleaning the room was too large a task for this night, so he trudged down the stairs to the lobby. A man in a snap-brim hat sat on a couch, puffing on a cigar.

Fear eroded Gabe’s stomach lining. He clenched his hands, put them to his mouth, and rubbed the bottom of his nose.

Police Chief Perkins rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. A cloud of smoke rose to the fan above him, curled, then drifted downward.

“Kind of late for you to be out, isn’t it, Gabe?”

Gabe looked to the counter. The weekend night clerk wasn’t at her post.

“I told Grace to go get something to eat. Told her it’d be okay with you.” Perkins slid forward. The leather upholstery squeaked as he stood.

Gabe tried to tell him it wasn’t okay with him, but his throat collapsed onto the words.

Perkins pulled something from his pocket and slipped his hand into it. The cop twisted his wrist back and forth, ensuring Gabe had a clear view of what was to come. Brass knuckles. Gabe’s heart beat its way to his brain.

Charlie’s words clanged in his ears.
When fear chokes off your ability to speak, that’s when you’ll know. It’s what they did about it that separated them from the others around them.

Whatever happened, he had to protect the photograph. He took off his jacket containing the picture and hung it on the coat tree. He willed his sandbag-heavy feet to move. The best he could manage was a shuffle.

Perkins strode toward him. Light reflected off the metal on the back of Perkins’s hand. Gabe gagged on saliva. Still, he put as much distance as he could muster between him and the picture.

Perkins’s hand went low, back behind his waist.

Gabe swung his legs forward another step.

Perkins’s sour body odor hit Gabe first. The fist landed right behind the nostril-closing smell. Gabe tightened his gut, but the blow crumpled him, drove through him to what felt like his spine. A hand grenade of pain exploded inside him. His lungs compressed and emptied. He smacked the hardwood floor face-first. He sucked at the air, tried trying to inhale. But nothing worked. He’d lost control. A stream of warm liquid coated his groin. Tears rushed down his cheeks.

Raspy breath sanded his ear. “Charlie Harris. He’s got something I want. You’re going to help me get it. I’ll be in touch.”

Gabe swiveled his gaze, saw the glint of metal coming at his head. Darkness swallowed him whole.

Chapter 12

S
ECONDS
ticked their way into the past.

If Officer Austin wanted him dead, he’d have pulled the shotgun’s trigger by now.

Charlie’s expectation of dying on the side of the road ebbed slightly. He had to do something, though. Running wasn’t an option. Nor was a suicide charge. Smartass seemed the next best choice.

“You want anything in particular? Or did you just want to hold something long and hard in your hands for a change?”

“I said we need to talk, boy. You got all bristled up like some stray dog. I wouldn’t mind knocking your damned head off, but it’ll have to be later. Get in the car.”

“Why?” To get back to town, all Charlie had to do was stay on this road. Austin taking him anywhere else probably wasn’t such a good idea.

“You’re pretty stupid, aren’t you.”

A growl rumbled out of Charlie. Shotgun or not, he wanted a piece of Phil Austin.

“Dora Black and her friends will be along anytime now. Get in the damn car.”

Hadn’t considered that. Charlie slowly moved out of the headlights’
beams to the passenger door. Austin climbed in. The cop leaned across the seat and opened the door. Charlie sat. Austin dropped the shotgun onto the backseat, turned off the rotating red light, and then sped down the road.

Charlie angled his body against the door and gave Austin the once-over. Near forty. Not too tall. Five eight, maybe. Grayed temples. Eyes a little too small for the round face. A slight second chin. Barrel chest and belly as big as a barrel pushed against the leather jacket. The man had some meat hooks—he could probably grab a basketball with one hand. Two knuckles on his right paw were enlarged. Charlie took him for a brawler; unskilled, but mean enough to counterbalance the lack of training.

“Where we going?”

The car slowed and pulled into the lane to the water tower.

Shaking his head, Charlie muttered, “You folks don’t have much imagination.”

Austin cruised past Upton’s empty Chevy. The squad car stopped next to the rusty, skeletal support. Austin turned off the headlights, but not the engine. He tossed his cop cap onto the dashboard. His hand fondled the wood grips of the pistol in the worn leather holster strapped around his waist.

Charlie’s hand went to the door handle.

“Relax.” Austin’s hand went from the pistol to the steering wheel. “It’s a habit.”

“Try chewing gum.”

The cop’s body jerked once. The corner of his mouth rose. Apparently the man had laughed.

“The mayor said you’re his friend. Said I needed to apologize.” The head moved about an inch toward Charlie. “Sorry.” The ball of flesh shifted frontward. “Somebody’s been threatening the mayor. Can’t be too careful.”

Fingers drummed the steering wheel. When they stopped, the man took a deep breath. “Why’d you let me do it?”

Fair question, so Charlie answered. “You were in uniform. If you’d wanted to really hurt me, you’d have unloaded that sap on me when I was trapped in the bathroom with you between me and the door.” He left out the part about being out of control of his body at the time.

“Think you can take me?”

Charlie drew his head back. The man didn’t mince words. “In a fair fight, yeah.”

“I don’t fight fair. Never have. Wanted you to know that, just in case.”

A vein throbbed in Charlie’s neck. Austin wasn’t a likeable guy, but he had to respect the man’s willingness to be upfront. No time like the present to see how far that willingness extended. “Where do you and Perkins stand?”

“Perkins works for Mrs. Black. I work for the mayor.”

Charlie squinted in thought. Roger
hadn’t
sent the telegram. Dora had. But how’d she know? He scratched at the hair on his face. Bliss hadn’t accompanied wedded in the Black household. And in whatever war they had going on, missus got herself the police chief. The mayor didn’t run his own police department. Which brought him back to Austin. “What do you stand to gain out of all this?”

“Perkins’s job.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to screw the bitch?”

The cop’s visible beady eye narrowed. Charlie snickered. “You tried, didn’t you? Old Dora wouldn’t have any of you. What’s wrong? Needle dick?”

Austin’s hand dropped to the pistol grip. “We’re done. Get out.”

Charlie had no sooner planted his feet on the ground than the car spun dirt and roared out to the street.

He lit a cigarette and looked up through the trees to the open heavens. The treetops swayed slightly in a breeze. Staying focused on the tree-touched sky, he stretched and rolled his shoulders, then let out a breath in a long sigh of loneliness. A pang rippled from heart to gut. He missed the forest and the night’s stillness, broken only by owls’ hoots. The air back home at the logging camp was clean and scented by pines and flowing streams. This air was awash in the stench of burning coal, exhaust, and the mixed assortment of diesel, fish, and other odd odors coming up from the river. He leaned a hip against Upton’s car, closed his eyes, and wondered if Gabe could appreciate nights in the woods.

“Get the hell away from my car!”
Click
.

Charlie opened his eyes and smiled. “Thank you, God.”

A hand grabbed his coat and spun him around. Charlie buried a fist into the bandaged face. The white gauze bled crimson.

Upton screamed, slapped hands over his face, and bolted back toward the hospital. Charlie picked up the abandoned switchblade and walked to the car. The rubber tire offered little resistance to the blade. He pulled back the knife. Air hissed out of the wound.

“Eh. What the hell.” Charlie slashed the other three tires. He left the knife plunged into the driver’s seat and casually strode to the road. Turning to begin the descent into downtown, he stuck his hands in his pockets, but a thought as solid as a brick wall stopped his stride.

Dora Black didn’t strike him as an ignorant woman. Not at all. She wouldn’t leave a potential tool like Phil Austin for Roger to use to his advantage. Unless Austin was actually a piece of yarn dangled in front of her husband for him to play with—while she held the ball.

Austin wanted to be chief. To do so meant Perkins had to be out of a job. If Roger got elected state rep, the mayor’s chair would sit empty. Charlie pinched his lips around the cigarette and nodded. Perkins wasn’t just in this for the sex; he was the next mayor of Whistle Pass.

Dora stood to own a state rep, a mayor, and a police chief without need of Charlie Harris. So why was he here? Charlie sucked in a drag off the smoke. He exhaled through his nose. The two streams merged into a pool and billowed into the night. Obviously, there was something at stake worth sacrificing Roger for.

Regardless of what that something might be, for now, he needed to talk to Roger and let him know he had a spy in his midst.

I
N
THE
doorway of the hotel, Charlie massaged his calves. The walk down hospital hill, leaned back over his ankles and calves, had taken a toll. Hopefully the roach Johnny Upton hadn’t torn up the room too badly and he still had a place to sleep. He grabbed the door handle. His throat cracked like dried paint.

Gabe was on the floor.

He flung the door open and ran. Dropping to his knees, he slid to Gabe’s side.

“Gabe! Gabe.” He stroked the cold cheek. He restrained himself from touching the swollen knot above Gabe’s left eye. The right eyelid flickered. Ever so slowly Gabe’s eye came into view.

“Pi….” He licked his lips and swallowed. “Picture. Coat pocket.”

Charlie sat and tugged Gabe’s torso into his lap. He held Gabe’s head in the crook of his arm. “We’ll get it. Don’t worry about the picture right now. What happened?”

“Perkins.” Gabe’s tongue swept over his lips again. “He was waiting for me.”

The beast in Charlie that always ran toward trouble roused.
Perkins. You’re a dead man.
“Think you can get up?”

“Ye—yes.” He drew in his knees. His face contorted in pain. His hands crossed on his belly.

Charlie pulled up the shirt. Four semicircles of red tattooed the skin.
Brass knuckles.
Perkins was going to be in a world of pain before he died. “You’ll live. Come on, we’ve got to get you out of here.” He scooted to his feet and lifted Gabe with him. Gabe’s hand shot to his forehead.

“Oh, shit, that hurts.”

“Wait an hour. You’ll wish it only hurt like it does now.”

“Picture.” Gabe pointed to his jacket.

Charlie propped him against a couch. Gabe somewhat stable, he retrieved the army coat. He patted the material. The photo of him and Roger was in an inner pocket. He left it there and slipped the coat on Gabe.

“Couldn’t think of a better place to hide it?”

Gabe’s red-rimmed eyes watered. “Charlie, I—”

Charlie silenced him with two fingers against his lips. “Tell me later.” He flopped Gabe’s arm across his shoulders, steadied him with a hand on his ribcage, and headed for the hotel’s exit.

Grace opened the door. “Boss? Are you alright?” Her mouth was open so wide Charlie could have scrawled “Kilroy was here” on her vocal cords.

Charlie coaxed Gabe forward.

As they passed the woman, Gabe muttered, “I have decided to retire for the evening, Grace.”

A
T
G
ABE
’
S
place, Charlie helped Gabe to the apartment’s pristine bed. He almost hated wrinkling the smooth extra-large blue quilt. He sat Gabe on the bed’s edge and pulled back the covers. His brain did a double take.

“You do know most men don’t use lavender silk sheets, right?”

Gabe slipped off his jacket.

“I don’t exactly host many pajama parties, Charlie, no matter what you might think.” The words came out razor sharp and icicle crisp.

Knowing he deserved the sarcasm, Charlie winced and moved to stand in front of Gabe. “I didn’t mean what I said. I just wanted to—”

Gabe’s eyelids fluttered faster than hummingbird wings, then his eyes rolled back in his head. Charlie grabbed Gabe’s shoulders before he fell and guided him backward onto the mattress. “To keep you safe,” he said in a whisper to the unconscious man. He lifted the limp legs and turned Gabe so his body was completely on the bed. Tracing a fingertip over the wounded forehead, he focused on the budding knot of skin. “Apparently the
safe
part needs a little more work.”

After untying the combat boots, Charlie gently tugged them off Gabe’s feet and set them on the floor. Dignity required Charlie remove Gabe’s soiled pants, so he did, with a quick tug and barely a glance at the plentiful bulge in the man’s boxers. He pulled the covers over Gabe, then went to the bathroom where he soaked a towel in cold water. Back at bedside, he gently laid the cold compress over the goose egg. The jacket containing the photograph still rested on the bed.