Midnight Cowboy Page 19

  “Maybe.”

  Jack’s odd response jerked Andy’s curiosity, but as her gaze rose to his, she saw a pain in his eyes that overwhelmed any other concern. He looked much the same way she’d felt when Gram had died. She went to him and folded her arms around his lean waist. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”

  Jack wrapped his arms around Andy, amazed that holding her somehow lessened the pain in his heart. But nothing could lessen his need to get to Virginia City. Or his need to get Andy alone and tell her what he suspected. However, it went against his nature to leave another human being in such obvious distress as Minna was in now. “Maybe Minna would like some tea?”

  “I think this calls fer somethin’ stiffer,” Minna said. “The brandy’s there in the hutch. Jack looks like he could use a jolt of it, too.”

  “No, thanks.” Jack released Andy and stood tensely to one side, watching her pour brandy into a small glass. As she carried the drink to Minna, he said, “I’m going to the funeral home in Virginia City to…make arrangements, Andy. I thought you might like to come along.”

  For the first time Andy realized something besides natural shock and grief had Jack agitated, and by now she knew him well enough to understand he wanted to tell her whatever it was in private. But there was something more in his look, an emotion so powerful it joined her to him in some intangible way that could not be explained or analyzed, but that went right to the core of her being as if he’d left his brand on her soul. “Of course.”

  Minna licked brandy from her lips and nodded. “And don’t you two worry ‘bout me. I’ll be jest fine.”

  A family was heading into the motel office as they left.

  When they were in his pickup truck headed for Virginia City, Jack told her about the blood on the seat. “I’m not going to the funeral home to make any arrangements. His family will do that after the autopsy. What I want is a look at Wally now.”

  They rounded the bend, coming upon the old blue Bronco, its crumpled nose kissing a telephone pole. Cringing, Andy looked away as they drove past it. “I’ll be right beside you.”

  He reached out and covered her hand. “Are you sure?”

  Looking at dead bodies would never make her list of ten favorite things to do, but Jack needed her and that need gave her courage. Besides, she could almost hear Gram telling her it was important. “Yes, I’m sure, but what about Birdsill? After what he said this morning about our staying out of his investigation, he isn’t likely to appreciate this.”

  “Birdsill doesn’t think this is part of his investigation. He believes Wally died of heart failure.” Jack glanced at her. “But you’re right. There’s no sense rousing his wrath without cause. Do you think you could distract the funeral director long enough for me to get to Wally?”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Jack squeezed her hand. Strange to think he’d met this woman only days ago, and yet he could think of no one else he’d want sharing this awful time with him.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence, slowing as they reached the city limits, and maneuvered the streets until they came to the establishment they sought. Built on a knoll, the funeral home reminded Andy of a one-story house with a windowless basement. The top level, sun-bleached red with faded gray trim, sported several smoky opaque windows and a ramp leading to an entrance of double doors. The basement was made of unpainted concrete blocks.

  The only vehicle parked in the designated area was a black hearse of vintage age. Jack pulled his pickup next to it and turned off the motor. “Are you ready?”

  Ignoring the tremors in her stomach, Andy nodded. While Jack searched for an entrance to the basement, she strolled in through the front doors and found herself in a long, wide foyer. Muzak floated from some unseen source and the sickly sweet smell of too many flowers jammed into one room filled her nostrils. She pressed a fist against her unsettled stomach and called loudly, “Hello, is anyone here?”

  Footsteps sounded; someone ascending stairs preceded the opening and banging of a door at the end of the foyer. A wiry little man with a pasty complexion hurried toward her buttoning the top button of his short-sleeved white shirt.

  “Mrs. Driggs, you’re early.” His voice was high-pitched, his smile overly solicitous.

  Andy didn’t bother to correct him. His mistaking her for someone else was better than any of the lies that had popped into her head. Praying the real Mrs. Driggs wouldn’t show up any time soon, she sput tered, “I, I—”

  “Oh, I understand. Your aunt is ready for you. I followed your instructions to the letter and everything’s all set up.” He gestured for her to come into a room directly off the foyer. “Right in here.”

  The room looked like a small chapel full of empty pews with a pulpit at the front. Flower arrangements possessed every inch of floor, their colliding fragrances cloying in the compact space, churning Andy’s stomach more than ever. She froze, her gaze riveted on the front of the room, on an open casket and the pasty profile of its occupant.

  “She turned out quite lovely if I do say so myself,” the mortician said. “Now, I’ll just leave you alone with your grief.”

  “No!” The word came out as a yelp and Andy felt her face warming. She reached out for the little man. “Please, I have an awful headache—the heat, you know. Could I trouble you for an aspirin and a glass of water?”

  JACK HAD NO TROUBLE finding the side door, and his fears of it being locked vanished as he realized it was slightly ajar. Apparently the ambulance drivers or someone else hadn’t completely shut it. He stepped inside, immediately feeling as if he’d stepped from summer into winter; the room was dark and gloomy and cold. The stench of formaldehyde hit his nostrils, and his stomach lurched.

  Wally lay stretched on a gurneylike table looking as if he’d fallen asleep. His clothes were half-removed, as though the task had been interrupted. It made Jack more aware than ever how little time he had. Even now, Andy might be running out of ways to engage the mortician.

  The second his eyes adjusted to the change in light, Jack spotted the wound on Wally’s neck—three small punctures as if some deformed, three-fanged vampire had bitten him. The ache of loss in Jack’s chest pressed more heavily. He leaned closer, realizing with a quickening pulse that the gap between each puncture was bone-chillingly close to the span between each of the three scars on Andy’s wrist. Maybe exactly the same.

  He was back in the pickup when she came down the front stoop of the funeral home. Her face was the color of bleached flour. She told him the funny, awful story of her deception as Jack drove out of town.

  “You did well.” He chuckled, then grew sober. “I found what I was looking for. Someone else was in the car with Wally.”

  Andy drew a shaky breath. “Nightmare Man?”

  Jack nodded. “Who else?”

  “But why?” She chewed thoughtfully on a snagged cuticle. “What did Wally know that he hadn’t told us?”

  “I’ve been wrestling with that question, but the only thing I can come up with would be something he might have found out about the Flying W, and we can’t check with the clerk until tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Jack, I forgot to tell you.” Andy sat straighter and gazed up at him. “Minna said Cliff and she got the idea to buy my parents’ old homestead from Duke after he told them Red Yager had bought the place as soon as he could—after Gram and I disappeared—for the cost of the land taxes. So Red knew darn good and well that I didn’t still hold the claim to the land.”

  “No wonder Minna gave him such an odd look.”

  “That’s not all. Apparently he made enough money off the mine to do the original remodel on the Golden Broom.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Alder Gulch loomed ahead, looking more like the first time Andy had seen it—the street full of foot traffic, vehicles of various makes and models wearing licenses from several different states parked everywhere.

  Jack broke into her thoughts. “Red arrived on the accident site aw
fully fast, and he had a welt forming above his left eye.”

  “We’d better talk to him again.”

  “Damned straight.”

  Andy could see he was still shell-shocked at the loss of his friend, and more than anything she ached to comfort him. She spoke softly, reaching her hand to his thigh. “Take me back to the motel and just hold me for a while?”

  Jack nodded, pulled her close and kissed her forehead.

  NIGHTMARE MAN GAZED into the mirror at the bump rising on his forehead. It was small, more red than purple, tender to the touch and close enough to his hairline that it probably wouldn’t draw attention. An insidious ache tweaked his temples, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the bump he’d taken or from losing his temper.

  Only now, was he calming down. At first he’d felt cheated—not being able to end the editor’s life in his elected fashion. On further reflection, he felt that things couldn’t have turned out better. The sheriff might wonder at the three puncture wounds on the editor’s neck, but an autopsy would prove the old man died of natural causes.

  He crossed the room, removed the scrapbook from its secret hiding place and laid it open on the floor. Kneeling, he stuck. the papers he’d taken from the front seat of Wally’s Bronco onto a blank page and hand-ironed them flat.

  A shiver scurried down his spine as he remembered the odd gleam of recognition in the editor’s eyes. Had he been an unknown threat all these years—a wild card? Well, that was one danger eliminated. A cold chuckle died in his throat. He closed the album and tucked it away.

  There was only one danger left: the worrisome Ms. Woodworth. But in a few hours she would join her friend, the editor, in hell. The thought of his bold plan set his pulse zipping like hot water through his veins. Soon little Lee Lee would haunt his dreams no longer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jack realized the moment he wrapped both arms around Andy that merely holding her would not be enough, that merely kissing her would not cleanse from them the evil that had held them in its grasp and brought them to their emotional knees.

  But as they made love on the small bed in his cabin, every intimate touch of hers renewed his spirit, reminding him how very alive he was, how very vital, and he surrendered to her tender machinations, feasting on her offerings, giving in return with equal generosity.

  Afterward, he felt whole again—still saddened by Wally’s death, still angry, but restored in his dedication to bring the murderer to justice.

  Andy knew she ought to be exhausted. Instead, she felt rejuvenated—connecting with Jack in this most intimate of ways had somehow revitalized every cell in her body. She lay naked in his arms, his flesh cleaving to hers as she snuggled against his chest. In a perfect world she could stay like this forever.

  But there was nothing perfect about their situation. Jack’s friend had been murdered. Virgil Cooper, too. They had to figure out who Nightmare Man was. And soon. She gazed up at Jack. His sage green eyes held the dazed afterglow of their lovemaking, but there was also a touch of sadness and a hint of fear. She hated that hint of fear, knowing it was in large part for her. Because of her.

  He stroked her hair away from her cheek. “I think we should go see Duke and Red. The sooner the better.”

  “Okay.” She shoved up and away from Jack. What he’d suggested was necessary, but it shouldn’t be. The power to end this suffering, to end this whole awful predicament, was locked inside her head. She wanted to scream. Why was she so terrified of remembering? Didn’t she love Jack enough to trust that she would survive the horrendous memory?

  The direction of this thought sobered her, chasing the last vestiges of afterglow as far from the forefront of her mind as the face of the man she could not recall. She scooted off the bed. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Jack sat on the bed staring at the bathroom door for long minutes after Andy had shut it. The water was running and he considered going in to join her, to hold her again and embrace the safe cocoon of her love for as long as he could. But that would put off the inevitable, and he had the inexplicable sense that they couldn’t spare the time.

  Someone knocked on the cabin door. Jack jerked toward it, reaching for his jeans. “Who is it?”

  “Cliff Mott.”

  “I’m coming.” Jack buttoned his jeans as he crossed the room. He opened the door and leaned against it, scowling at Cliff. “Your uncle still napping?”

  Cliff gave an arrogant toss of his head, flipping the ever-dangling lock of hair from his forehead. “He’s working on his new book. I’m not welcome in the house when he’s working. Look, I heard that fellah that died in the car crash was a friend of yours. I’m real sorry, man.”

  “Thanks.” Jack swallowed hard over the lump of grief that was still too fresh and began shutting the door.

  “Wait.” Cliff jammed his foot between the frame and the door. “That’s not the only reason I’m here. We’re doing a special performance tonight.” He glanced at his watch. “In half an hour.”

  Jack groaned. No. He and Andy were going to question Red and Duke. Inexplicably, the sense that they were running out of time mushroomed. “Tell them to use my understudy tonight.”

  Cliff shook his head. “Can’t. He went into Butte yesterday afternoon before Birdsill lifted the tourist ban and he hasn’t come back or called. No one knows where he is. Unless he’s seen a paper, he probably thinks the ban is still on.”

  Jack sighed, frustration lassoing him like rope around a rodeo calf. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

  “Be where?” Andy asked, coming out of the bathroom as Jack shut the door on Cliff.

  He explained as he laid a clean black shirt and jeans on the bed, then returned to the dresser for underwear.

  “All right.” Andy towel-dried her hair. “I’ll come watch the performance and we can question Duke and Red immediately afterward.”

  “No.” Jack stopped on his way to the bathroom and glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t want you on the street—getting ‘accidentally’ shot like Virgil Cooper.”

  A chill went through Andy. She wasn’t the only one who risked getting shot during the performance. “What about you?”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open and my head down.”

  Her heart clenched, but somehow she managed to keep the fear from her voice. “I’ll stay with Minna. She can handle a rifle well enough to keep me safe. That way you can concentrate on keeping yourself safe, instead of worrying about me. I’ll concentrate on remembering.”

  Jack considered for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay, but you have to promise you won’t act on anything you might remember unless I’m at your side. Promise?”

  The burden to remember bore down on her more heavily than ever. Why couldn’t she remember? Not doing so had dragged them into worse and worse jeopardy and even cost others their lives. “I promise.”

  “Not even if you remember something so vital it threatens to drive you up the wall?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have a death wish, you know.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose and gave her a look that warmed her heart. Andy stared after him as he moved into the bathroom and shut the door. Where was this going? Jack seemed to genuinely love her, but was it the kind of love that lasted a lifetime? Or one of those wildfire romances she’d heard girlfriends talk about that happened in a blinding flash, sweeping one into a swirl of passion and need, only to burn itself out as quickly as it began?

  Her heart fluttered at this possibility, but she could not deny that what she felt for Jack had begun the second she’d laid eyes on him, nor that it had exploded into something fiery within days. Would it burn itself out the moment they captured their parents’ murderer? Would she survive Nightmare Man only to lose the first man she had ever loved?

  She jerked as if she’d been struck in the spine. Was that why she couldn’t remember? Because once she did she might lose Jack forever? The thought of spending the rest of her life without him ripped through her like a jagged,
dull-edged knife, tearing out her very desire to live. She dropped onto the bed. Dear God, it was true—and people had died because of the terrible fear that gripped her.

  She rubbed her face with her damp palm. It was too late for Coop and Wally, but she would remember before someone else died.

  Half an hour later as she paced Minna’s living room, Andy still struggled with guilt, racking her brain, trying to remember. Minna brought her a mug of coffee, but Andy felt too jittery to even hold the mug.

  Minna insisted, pressing it into her hands. “Drink it down, girl. Ya can’t get yer mind to cooperate when yer tryin’ so hard. It’ll come back to ya when ya least expect it. Jest think ‘bout somethin’ else. Say, yer book.”

  Her book? All that reminded her of was how late it would be. But Minna did have a point. All this pressing to remember was giving her a headache. She accepted the coffee and sank to the sofa, disturbing the big Persian cat as the cushions jostled. It glanced at her disdainfully, then closed its eyes again.

  Andy hugged the coffee mug to her chest. “I know I’m trying too hard. But it’s so important.”

  “It’ll—” The bell on the motel office door tinkled, cutting off Minna’s words. She jerked toward the noise. “Customers. Now, you stay put and drink yer coffee. This shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. I’ll be back before ya know it.”

  As soon as Minna had gone, Andy set the mug on the end table and her gaze wandered to the bookshelf. Her spirits sank to an all-time low. She really should call her agent and tell him to contact her editor about an extension on the book. She rose and crossed the room to the telephone.

  She grasped the receiver and lifted her finger to dial. The telephone was not a Touch-Tone but a rotary dial the same as the phone had been at the Flying W Ranch when she was five years old.

  Without warning, her mind thrust her back to the night of her parents’ deaths. She was five years old again. Tears she didn’t want to cry filled her eyes and felt hot on her cheeks as she poked her finger into the rotary wheel at the big O and started to drag the dial around. Someone stepped from the shadows of the dining room.