Текст книги "Snowball in Hell"

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

Chapter Six

«But you've got your man,» Tara protested. «You found the murder weapon in Carl Winters' bookstore. Why haven't you arrested him? Why are you asking so many questions about Nathan?»

Matt shrugged. «You sweet on Doyle?»

«Sweet on him?» Tara flushed and then laughed. «We're just pals.» She cast Matt a shrewd look. «Would you care if I was?»

«Marriage could do Doyle a world of good.»

«What would it do for me?»

Matt grinned at her expression. «Might do you a world of good too, Tara. Take the edges off you.»

«The edges!» She tossed her glossy black curls. «Thanks very much.» She contemplated Matt. «You ever going to remarry, Mathew?»

He shook his head regretfully.

She sighed. «I could have gone for Nathan, but he's-«

«He's?»

«I don't know. Destined for the priesthood or something, I guess.» She grinned. «Now I've shocked you, a big tough police man like you, Lt. Spain.» She played with her chopsticks. They were having lunch at the Hong Kong Cafe. «So what did you want to know about Doyle?»

«You said you didn't know him before he went overseas?»

She shook her head. «He didn't work here. He moved to San Francisco right out of college. That's what I heard.»

«How's he get along with the other newshounds?»

«He keeps pretty much to himself.» She met Matt's gaze. «He's liked. He's good.» She grimaced. «He's bored.»

«Wants to be back on the front lines?»

She nodded, took out a cigarette. Matt leaned forward to light it. Looking into her dark eyes he saw instead a pair of light ones, blue-grey eyes with gold-tipped lashes-direct and yet somehow a little shy.

«Why haven't you arrested Carl Winters?» Tara asked. «Off the record.»

«Off the record?» He raised skeptical brows, but when she nodded, he said, «That gun came from Benedict Arlen's antique gun collection. The way we figure it, any one of a number of people had access to it.»

«Including Phil Arlen?»

She was a smart cookie; he'd always thought so. He could see that sharp brain of hers ticking over. «That's right. And all but one of those same people had opportunity to stash the gat at Winters' bookstore.»

«Let me ask you something,» she said.

Matt nodded.

«Is Nathan a suspect?»

«He was with Arlen the night he was kidnapped. What kind of a cop would I be if I didn't include him in my list of suspects?»

«Very diplomatic,» she said dryly. She sipped some tea from a little porcelain cup. «Nathan wouldn't have access to Benedict Arlen's gun collection.» She followed her own line of reasoning, «But he could have got the gun from the Arlen kid,

assuming the Arlen kid was carrying it that night, and that Mrs. Arlen hadn't swiped it to shoot him with it.»

«It's a possibility.»

«Which is? Nathan grabbing the gun from Phil Arlen or Claire Arlen plugging her no good wastrel husband?»

«Take your choice.»

«Well,» she said shortly, «I choose not to think Nathan's a murderer.»

She was definitely sweet on Doyle.

She said, «Anyway, why would Phil Arlen have taken the gun? I don't think he planned on committing suicide.»

«Well, for one thing, it's a very rare piece. Worth a lot of money. There were only two hundred of those Derringer Riders ever made. And the Arlen kid was running low on dough. He'd racked up some sizable gambling debts at the Las Palmas Club, and his old man had cut off his allowance in the hopes of getting him to straighten up.»

«You think he planned on trading the gun for his gambling chits?»

Matt shrugged.

«What possible motive could Nathan have for wanting Phil Arlen dead?»

«I don't know. What's his financial situation?»

She said dryly, «I don't think Nathan thinks a lot about money. And if he killed somebody by accident, I don't think he'd try and fix it up to look like a kidnapping.» She puffed thoughtfully on her cigarette. «Any line on Pearl Jarvis?»

«We're still looking for her.»

«Cherchez la femme,» Tara remarked.

«That's what everybody says,» Matt replied.

«Did it work?» Jonesy asked when Matt climbed into the car after Tara walked away down the busy street.

«I don't know,» Matt admitted. «She likes Doyle a lot. I don't know that she'll use anything that throws suspicion on him.»

«She's a newshound, she'd sell her granny for an exclusive,» Jonsey said.

«Cynic.»

«You think she'll quote you, Loot?»

«I hope not.»

Jonesy chuckled at Matt's tone. «You want her to do the dirty work. You figure in her efforts to prove her sweetheart Doyle innocent, she'll speculate in print on all the things we can't.»

«Yep.»

«You think it's occurred to her to wonder why there was so much time between when the ransom was paid and when the Arlen kid was supposed to be released?»

Matt said, «If it hasn't yet, it will.»

Jonesy said slowly, «Whoever did that killing was as cold as Christmas. They shot the kid, and then threw him in the tar pit to try and conceal the fact. Maybe they didn't want anyone to know he was dead. Maybe there was another reason, but I've got a feeling it's going to take more than little Miss Tara Renee asking pointed questions in The Examiner to shake that killer's nerve.»

It was late when the phone call came through. Matt had been leaving for home-or in the process of leaving-for the past three hours. There was no rush to get back to an empty house, and he was not going back to Pershing Square again. He'd had two nights of that insanity. He wouldn't spend another standing in the darkness, hot and sick and shaking inside with a confused mess of feelings that weren't worth analyzing. That he shouldn't have felt anyway.

With Rachel gone it was like balancing on the edge of a cliff-and all the little wildflowers, the netting of grass and roots that kept the cliff from sliding into the sea below, were gone. It was just Matt standing there looking down, waiting to fall.

Even Rachel's memory, the sweet recollection of all they had built, all they had shared, was no longer strong enough to fight gravity. From the moment he had looked across the wet grass and seen Nathan Doyle standing in the shadow of a stone saber tooth tiger, something had changed inside him. Something battened down had torn free, like a sail taking its first deep breath of sea air.

It terrified him.

And at the same time it exhilarated him.

Which terrified him all the more.

The phone jangled loudly, and Matt reached for it. He had been thinking about the one thing that tied all the suspects in the Arlen case together-thinking about how far people would go to protect their secrets-thinking-because he couldn't stop thinking about it-about Nathan Doyle's secret. The voice

on the other end of the line was Doyle's. He sounded a million miles away, like he was calling from the moon.

«I've located Pearl Jarvis. She's staying at Little Fawn Ski lodge up near Indian Falls.»

Indian Falls. He and Rachel had honeymooned there. They had gone camping in the mountains there every year until he was sent overseas and Rachel had got sick.

«You're kidding,» Matt said. It occurred to him that he might have seriously miscalculated in not having Doyle followed. If he was wrong about Doyle-but if he was wrong about Doyle, Doyle would probably not be calling him to say he had found Pearl Jarvis. He said calmly, «How'd you find that out?»

«I followed her from Los Angeles.»

«By car or train?» He found a pen and began to write, listening to Doyle's voice. It was a quiet voice, level. Doyle kept himself tightly under control; at least, that's what Matt would have thought if he hadn't seen him half-naked in the shadows and moonlight of Pershing Square on Tuesday and Wednesday night.

«By train. I'm in Indian Falls right now, trying to get a ride up to the lodge.»

«Why are you telling me this?» Spain asked.

Doyle answered, «Because-« And something changed in his voice; he said simply, «I want you to hurry up and solve this thing.»

«Any particular reason? Or are you just a concerned citizen, Mr. Doyle?»

He had to press the phone close to hear that weary, «I … think you know my reason.»

The honesty of it caught him off-guard. Shook him even. He wasn't sure he was ready for it. Wasn't sure that he could ever be ready for it, because to admit that he understood what Doyle was saying was to admit to something within himself. Something he wasn't sure he was ready to face.

He said finally, «You're heading up to the lodge, you said?»

«If I can hire a car.»

«Try not to spook her.»

Nathan snorted. «Tell it to your granny!» And Matt had to laugh at the amused affront.

But after he rang off, after promising to send help, he began to worry a little. He thought that Doyle might easily underestimate the fairer sex, and he thought Pearl Jarvis would not have run if she didn't have friends waiting for her– and that those same friends might be waiting for Doyle as well.

* * * *

The effort of trying to open his eyes hurt. He postponed it, taking a moment to place himself-but he was used to that: the freefall feeling of trying to remember where he was, and whether he needed to be on alert-even after months in hospital, he still woke with it.

But he wasn't in hospital now. He was lying on a bed-a cot-and he was cold. He didn't seem to be wearing any shoes. He opened his eyes.

He was in a room he'd never seen. The log ceiling seemed a long way away and a little fuzzy. He tried to focus on it. His head hurt. He didn't feel very well. Granted, he hadn't felt truly well for a long, long time, but he felt worse than usual. Quite a bit worse. And his feet were like ice.

He wasn't supposed to get sick. He didn't have much of an immune system left.

«Gin,» someone said.

Nathan turned his head. Two men sat at a small table. They were playing cards by the light of a kerosene lantern. One was balder than Cueball, and the other looked like one of the Marx Brothers. He knew them, though it took him a while to remember where. They had been in the hotel bar.

«You're a goddamn card shark, Lawdie,» said Harpo.

Cueball grinned widely-like a shark-displaying a mouthful of gold teeth. «No names,» he told the other man, and glanced at Nathan. His face changed. «Hey,» he said, and he nodded at Nathan.

Harpo looked at Nathan. «Well, well. Sleeping Beauty joins the party.»

Nathan sat up. It was a mistake. He sat there for a moment trying to decide how bad a mistake it was.

«Just stay put, newsie,» Lawdie said. He pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver and showed it to Nathan, who blinked at it tiredly. «Nobody wants any rough stuff.»

«That's good to know,» Nathan said, and the other two laughed.

The man who wasn't Lawdie scooped up the spread of cards, shuffled them expertly, and began to deal again.

«Can I have my shoes?» Nathan asked. «My feet are cold.»

This got another big laugh.

«No,» Lawdie informed him. «Ya can't.» The other man chuckled.

«Can I at least have my socks?»

«Nope.»

«Ah, let him have his socks,» Harpo said. «We don't need to litrally keep him on ice, do we?» He snickered, but Lawdie wasn't amused.

«You gotta big mouth, Hammer.»

«Hey,» Hammer protested.

Hammer and Lawdie, Nathan noted wearily. He'd have to remember that in case he got out of there alive. «That much I worked out for myself,» he said. «You can't be working for the girl, so who? Sid Szabo?»

It had been a shot in the dark, but the two thugs exchanged looks.

«How long do you plan on holding me for?»

«Depends,» Lawdie said.

«You talk a lot,» Hammer said to Nathan. «It's not a healthy habit.»

He was probably right. Doyle lay back down and closed his eyes. The best thing was to shut up and let them forget about him for awhile.

He must have actually dozed off for a few moments because the next voice seemed unnaturally loud.

«Is he still sleeping?»

Nathan opened his eyes. Lawdie was standing over him, staring down. He blinked up at him tiredly, and then closed his eyes again.

«I told you not to hit him so hard,» Hammer said. «You probably killed him.»

«Shut up, you!»

«I knew a guy died from getting hit on the head just like that. Walked around talking and played a hand of cards and then went to sleep and never woke up. Mike Murphy. Used to run with-«

«He's just playing possum,» Lawdie said. He bent over the cot, breathing heavily. Nathan continued to breathe slowly and evenly.

Lawdie slapped him.

He'd pretty well figured that was coming. Nathan groaned and fluttered his eyelashes, then curled over on his side and pretended to go back to sleep.

«Yep,» Hammer said with grim satisfaction. «Just like Mike Murphy. Scrawny little guy like that can't take it. Probably got pneumonia too. I told you. The boss didn't want him killed.»

«Will you shut your goddamned mouth up?» Lawdie cried. «He ain't dead. His breathing's fine.»

«Look how white his feet are.»

«You look at his feet! I'm going to hike up to the hotel.»

«You're not going to leave me with a stiff!»

«He's still breathing, fer crissake! I'll call the boss and see how long we got to hang on to this geezer.»

«What's happening with the car?»

«How the hell should I know? I been sitting here with you. I'll find out once I'm up there.»

«We got to get outta here before this guy croaks.»

«You're planning to walk back to Los Angeles? Just stay here and watch him. I'll be back in an hour.»

They continued to bicker back and forth for a time, and then finally Lawdie took himself out, the door opening and slamming shut on a gust of frosty air. Nathan couldn't help the shudder that rippled through his body.

His feet felt like ice. His body felt flushed and feverish. Another shiver shook him.

A few minutes passed. Hammer shuffled and cut cards. Then he muttered, «Christ. Leave me here with a croaker.»

Nathan heard the scrape of a chair, footsteps, and Hammer bent over the bed. He touched Nathan's left eye– apparently planning to check his pupils-and Nathan bounded up, head-butting him.

Half-stunned, Hammer crashed back on his tailbone, and Nathan sprang on him. He delivered a couple of fast efficient chops to Hammer's head, and the big man sagged back and lay still.

Staggering to his feet, Nathan searched quickly for his shoes, but was unable to find them anywhere. He sat down for a minute on the chair, feeling sick and faint. His head had hurt like hell before he tried head-butting that moose. He straightened up, eyeing Hammer warily, picked up a chair and approached him.

The big man was breathing in stentorian tones. Nathan nudged him, and his head lolled. Nathan knelt, patting him

over and finding his gun, a big old Colt .45, which he appropriated. He scooted around, keeping the Colt trained on Hammer, using his free hand to slip his shoes off, one at a time, and put them on his own feet. They were too big, but they were better than nothing.

He went to the window and stared out. Dusk or dawn? Either way there was no sign of Lawdie in the blur of shadows from the close clustered pines. He checked his watch. Six-thirty. It was either early in the morning or the evening of the following day. He figured it was morning.

Easing open the cabin door, he listened. The wind through the pines made a sound like rushing water. The air was cold and clear. Frost powdered the ground. He stepped outside, shutting the door, and sprinted for the shelter of the trees.

He had no idea where he was, but heading back to the hotel seemed like the only option. He couldn't walk all the way to Indian Falls, and Spain and his boys must surely be at the hotel by now.

Hopefully Pearl was in custody already, and Lawdie would have an unpleasant surprise waiting for him when he arrived.

Sticking to the shelter of trees and bushes, Nathan followed the dirt track that led from the cabin to-he hoped– the main highway. He moved quietly and carefully. Lawdie didn't have much of a head start, and Nathan didn't want to run into him.

Every so often he paused and listened. Every sound in the pristine silence was as loud as a shot. Some distance ahead he heard a scrabble of stones or the snap of a twig. That would be Lawdie, he knew.

A bush smacked him across the face and he had to stop. The pain in his head was getting worse. He dropped to his knees, and quietly threw up at the base of a pine tree. He felt a little better then, and, grabbing for the tree trunk, he pulled himself back to his feet. He rested for a moment, listening, trying to place Lawdie ahead of him.

It was getting lighter now.

He walked on and the road opened up onto the highway. A deer stood on the opposite side of the road, motionless.

Nathan bent over, bracing his hands on his thighs and tried to catch his breath. His side throbbed. He had no idea which way to walk. Nothing indicated the direction in which the lodge lay.

The deer crossed the road, hooves clopping, passed Nathan close enough to brush him, and then suddenly sprang away into the darkness.

From down the road Nathan spotted a pair of headlights.

Christ. Did he take a chance on this? Lawdie and Hammer had at least one ally at the lodge, and it wasn't necessarily Pearl. With their own car out of commission, someone had given them a lift to the cabin in the woods. He didn't believe they had carried him to it, and someone had to have provided the cabin in the first place.

The car was speeding toward him, headlights sweeping the darkness. A solid black Buick bearing down fast.

Nathan stepped out from cover, and raised his hands.

Tires and pads squealing, the car braked sharply, swerved, corrected, and skidded to a halt a few yards ahead of him.

Nathan walked toward it slowly. The front passenger door opened and Lt. Mathew Spain stepped out.

«Well, that was a hell of a chance,» he said.

Someone turned a powerful flashlight on Nathan as he shuffled in his oversize shoes towards the car. «Who dares, wins,» he quoted breathlessly.

«What the hell happened to you?» Spain was peering at him in the white glare of the flashlight. «You're bleeding.»

Nathan touched a hand to the top of his head. Gummy. He spared a glance for his fingers. That was blood all right. «It's a long story.» He reached Spain, who had walked a few steps to meet him, and a weird thing happened. His knees gave out and he buckled.

Spain grabbed him, two powerful hands closing on Nathan's biceps. Nathan leaned into Spain's broad chest and closed his eyes.

* * * *

The next time he came around someone's hands were on him, trying to pull his clothes off, and he made himself start fighting. It wasn't much of a fight, struggling as he was against the extreme lassitude that gripped him, but he made the effort anyway, and a deep, unexpected voice said, «Take it easy, Doyle. We're trying to help you.»

His hands were forced to his chest by someone a lot stronger than he was at the moment, and he opened his eyes against a painfully bright light.

Bewilderingly, he was lying in a room with pink flowered wallpaper, and two men were leaning over him, holding him

onto a bed. One was a big, rawboned man with a shock of iron-gray hair reminding him painfully of Sergeant Yorkie, who had bought it at El Alamein. The other man was Lt. Mathew Spain.

Spain was watching him with those amber-brown eyes– and Spain's big warm hands were covering his own, holding them still.

Nathan mumbled, «What the hell…?»

Spain nodded to the other man, and they let go of him.

«You pack a wallop for a skinny guy,» the older man said ruefully, rubbing his jaw. Nathan blinked at him, tried to sit up, but it wasn't going well, so it was kind of a relief when Spain pushed him flat again.

«Just relax,» Spain said. «You're okay. We're at the lodge. There's a doctor staying here and he says you're supposed to take it easy. You've got concussion.»

«I'm fine.»

«Yeah, we can see that. But it won't hurt to lie down for an hour.»

Actually, it sounded like a swell idea. He let his eyes drift closed. Felt Spain and the other cop tugging at him with careful haste, undoing his belt, unbuttoning his shirt. He was going to tell them it wasn't worth it because he was just closing his eyes for a moment. Or … or maybe an hour…. He felt like Rommel's panzers had run him over, backed up, and run him over again. He ached from head to toe. Which reminded him:

«What happened to the girl?» he asked, opening his eyes. And then, indignantly, «What happened to my shoes?»

«Pearl blew,» Spain said grimly. «During the night. Her aunt drove her to Indian Falls, and she caught a train back to Los Angeles first thing this morning.» His mouth quirked in a kind of smile. «Your shoes are still on the loose.»

He had a nice smile-nice eyes-and Nathan smiled back at him. It was probably a mistake. He couldn't afford to let his guard down with a cop. Even this cop. Especially this cop, really.

Then Spain's words filtered his concussed brain, and he said, «Pearl's aunt? Who's her aunt?»

«Mrs. Hubbard, the hotel manageress. She says Pearl remembered some urgent business back in town and had to leave right away. Had no idea we were looking for her.» Spain reached for the waistband of Nathan's trousers, and Nathan brushed his hand away, sitting up fast-which made his head spin and his stomach do an unpleasant flop.

«Suit yourself,» Spain said mildly.

Hands shaking, Nathan climbed out of his trousers– acutely aware of how desperately he wanted Spain's hands on him. It was frightening how much he wanted it. He didn't dare look at the other two in case they saw it in his face.

Dizzy, he turned back to the bed and the older cop had pulled the sheet and blankets back sandwich-style. He awkwardly maneuvered on to the mattress, and Spain caught him by the shoulder and quite easily, gently, slipped him out of his unbuttoned shirt.

And there it was: the longed for warmth of hands on his bare skin, the strength and gentleness that he craved but

could never-would never-find except in fleeting, stolen moments.

He crashed down on the mattress, burying his face in the pillow. There were things he should be asking them, things he should be saying, but he was overwhelmed with guilt and yearning and fear and frustration. His body hurt, but his heart hurt more. And he was too tired and too sore to deal with any of it. He closed his eyes, shutting them out, shutting everything out.

The older cop said something, and Spain answered, both of their voices quiet and far away. The lights went out, and Nathan went out with them.