Midnight Cowboy Page 2

  The two articles Jack Senior had written about her and her tragedy were filed away in the attic now, but every word was etched in his mind. If only his dad had left it at that, just covered the story instead of getting involved. He should have taken his cue from the little girl. The trauma of what she’d witnessed had robbed her memory of all but one name—Nightmare Man. As far as anyone knew, she was the only living soul who could identify the man he was after, the man who’d killed her parents and his father. “Has she turned up after all this time?”

  Wally pressed his lips together. “No. Her grandmother did a bang-up job of covering her tracks. No one’s ever found her. That’s not to say we couldn’t now. We could contact ‘Unsolved Mysteries.’ They’d probably find her in a heartbeat. She’d be twenty-five, and with that distinctive scar on her wrist and those unusually colored eyes of hers—”

  “Have you lost your mind? How can you even consider putting the woman in such jeopardy?” Shaking his head, Jack scraped his chair back. “I wouldn’t be a party to anything like that.”

  “Will you please listen to me?”

  “No, no.” Panic exploded through Jack. He was being sucked in, his defenses dropping like fence posts in the wind. He started to stand. “I have to get going. Max is wait—”

  “Please, Jack. A man’s life is at stake.”

  Jack choked on the angry hatred buried deep inside him. Catching Nightmare Man had controlled his life for too long. Had ruined his life. He couldn’t chase a ghost anymore. He wanted a wife. He wanted kids. He wanted a normal life. “You aren’t counting right, Wally. Two men’s lives are at stake—Gus Dillard’s and mine.”

  “Just five minutes more,” Wally pleaded.

  In spite of his intention to do otherwise, Jack dropped back into his chair. Whiskey sloshed his wrist as he grabbed his glass. “I must be crazy.”

  Wally scooted to the edge of his chair and spoke rapidly. “How much do you know about the Karen Bradley case?”

  A frustrated breath woofed from Jack. He’d left the paper right after Gus Dillard’s arrest. “I wasn’t assigned her story. Remember? But I know she was headed home from some summer job and she never made it.”

  Wally tapped the envelope.

  Jack watched the tapping finger as if it were some kind of water torture he couldn’t look away from. “What is that?”

  “A complete copy of the police file on the Karen Bradley case.”

  He couldn’t believe he’d heard right. “How did you—”

  “Ididn’t. But once it was in my hands, I felt obligated to read it.”

  “Justify it any way you want, it’s still illegal.”

  “Do you mean to say you aren’t theb least bit interested in what’s in here?” He was tapping the envelope again.

  Jack clenched the arms of his chair, his gaze riveted on the envelope. It had taken Gus Dillard’s arrest to get through to him just how obsessed he was with Nightmare Man, to give up the obsession. And here was Wally telling him he might have given up too soon. His head ached as if some unknown sources were playing tug-of-war with his brain. The urge to see the file won. “Are you going to show me that report?”

  Wally turned the envelope over and pinched the golden prongs that held the flap. He pulled a sheaf of papers free, but made no move to turn them over to Jack. “Inconsistency number one. The only fingerprints in Karen’s car were Gus Dillard’s.” He slid a paper over to Jack.

  Jack quickly read it, noting that it confirmed what Wally claimed. He suppressed his niggling curiosity. “So what?”

  “So what?” Wally echoed. “So, why would a murderer wipe away his victim’s fingerprints, then leave his own all over the place?”

  The whiskey felt like lead in Jack’s stomach. He shook his head. “Maybe Dillard was drunk…or high.”

  “Then why would he wipe her fingerprints away at all?”

  Jack had no answer. It made no sense. But it was not his problem. Not yet. This time he did stand. “Wally, I can’t get involved. I’m thirty-three. I’ve wasted my youth chasing every false lead that even smelled of Nightmare Man. I can’t keep chasing a serial killer.”

  “You know darn well I never bought your serial killer notion. Never felt right—in here.” He poked his ample stomach. “Until Karen Bradley—I don’t think our guy has killed anyone since your dad.”

  Jack frowned. Can Wally be right? Dear God, what am I doing? Listening. Getting involved again. “Whether you’re right or wrong no longer matters to me. I just want to forget it all.”

  There was a look of sympathetic understanding in Wally’s brown eyes, but steel braced his words. “I hear you, son, truly I do. But I can’t forget about the Bradleys. Or Gus Dillard. In all good conscience, can you?”

  God help him, he wanted to. He longed to be outside, on his horse, galloping through the pastures, the wind biting into his fevered flesh, venting the bellow of anguish blooming in his gut.

  “Inconsistency number two,” Wally said firmly. “Lack of cat hair in the car.” He shoved another paper across the desk.

  “What does cat hair have to do with Gus Dillard?”

  “Everything and nothing.” Wally stood, tucked the police report under one arm, crossed to the dry sink and returned with the bottle of Black Velvet. He refilled Jack’s glass and gestured for him to drink.

  Jack complied, wondering why the straight shots of booze hadn’t dented the armor of tension gripping him.

  Wally filled his own glass. “Karen adored cats. She adopted one while away from home. Named him Outlaw.” His voice softened. “Her last letter to her parents was full of stories about Outlaw and how eager she was for them to meet him, as if the blackfurred, yellow-eyed critter were their grandchild. That was back in September. At the time it was assumed Outlaw had fled the car when Gus came on the scene.”

  “But…?” Jack felt the pull of his obsession sucking at his willpower. His gaze shifted to the window. Is that snow? “Look, Wally…Max—”

  Wally interrupted, pointing to the paper he’d just handed Jack. “That forensic report says the car was so clean you could have eaten off the seats. Not one cat hair.”

  Jack’s attention jerked to Wally. No cat. Not even one cat hair in a car belonging to a confirmed cat lover. “What makes you think Nightmare Man is be hind this?”

  “This.” Wally plunked down more papers. This bunch stapled. The pathologist’s report. Cold washed over Jack as he read through the clinical findings.

  “See that—on page three?” Wally’s voice came out choked. He stretched toward Jack, flipped through the document until he came to the page he wanted, then poked his finger at the paper. “The police didn’t tell the press about it, but although poor Karen’s body had started to decompose, they could see that her neck was slashed with three, inch-long gashes, as—”

  “As though she’d been clawed by a huge bird of prey.” Just like Dad. A tremor rocked through Jack like an earthquake measuring nine point five on the Richter scale.

  “But here’s the kicker. Peterson did the story, visited the Bradleys and picked out some ditzy cheerleading photograph to run with his copy on Karen. When I visited the Bradleys this morning and saw this photograph I nearly had heart failure.”

  Jack grabbed the photo, turning it toward him. He might be staring at a picture of Marcy Woodworth, Leandra’s mother. Jack whispered, “This is Karen Bradley?”

  Wally nodded. “Spooky, isn’t it?”

  Despite his promises to himself, despite the misgivings beating a tattoo inside his achy head, Jack felt a tingle of excitement rising in his blood. “Where did Karen Bradley spend the summer?”

  But he already knew the answer. The town where the Woodworths had lived…and died. Alder Gulch, Montana.

  IT WAS AS IF she’d crossed a time threshold into the mid-1800s and landed right smack in a gold-boom town. Andrea Hart felt her pulse surge, that sense of excitement that always gripped her when she’d found the missing ingredient for one of her
novels. Her delight spread to a grin as hot as the sun beating down on the roof of her Cherokee. It had taken seven long weeks, her deadline drawing near and her nerves churning with panic, but just as she’d decided all refurbished ghost towns were the same…voilà!

  She dragged the brochure closer, then gazed out the windshield. Southern Montana spread beneath the pressing blue sky, the countryside ebbing away from the settlement in lazy rolling hills as far as the eye could see. The literature hadn’t done it justice.

  Alder Gulch was the exact image of the town she’d envisioned for the new story. There was no way she’d get everything she wanted in a week. She set the brochure on the seat beside her and shifted into gear, gently tapping the gas pedal. Would it be possible to stay longer, to write the bulk of the book here? The idea was tantalizing.

  A nudge of guilt stole some of the idea’s flavor. “You don’t approve, do you, Gram?” She spoke aloud as if her grandmother were actually with her, as if she hadn’t succumbed to the massive coronary she’d suffered two months ago. Gram had raised her, been her confidante, and somehow talking to her still seemed right and comforting. Besides, it was the only way she’d found to deal with the loss that lay heavy in her breast.

  But Gram wouldn’t approve of her being here. No, sirree! Gram would be livid. Andy frowned at the thought. Why had Gram spoken of Montana as if it were the Devil’s Triangle? It was beautiful—the vast open spaces, the glorious mountains, the rivers, the prairies. It had it all. Including the friendliest residents she’d ever come across.

  And the best part was, now she had a chance of meeting her deadline. Andy couldn’t abide tardiness. Gram claimed she’d been impatience since birth, that she’d been born early, walked early and even talked early. Maybe. But she saw no reason for tardiness. A person merely needed organization and attention to detail—two assets Andy prided herself on possessing. Of course, Gram would add willfulness. Stubbornness. Disobedience.

  Smirking, Andy maneuvered the Cherokee around parked cars and vans of all sizes and makes and pulled to a stop near a crowd of people gathered at the edges of the one main street bisecting Alder Gulch.

  A college-aged man with a shock of white blond hair sticking out from under a dusty ten-gallon hat and a tin star pinned to his leather vest motioned for her to drive toward him and park beside the boardwalk, then he leaned toward her open window and stuck a flier at her. “Performance is about to start.”

  Andrea turned off the engine, then read the scrap of white paper with its bold blue lettering. Authentic Nineteenth-Century Melodramas—Performed Twice Daily By The Alder Gulch Players. It was as if she’d been expected. “You were wrong, Gram. Montana is welcoming me like a long-lost daughter. Not only have I found my town, I’m about to see a slice of life right out of one of my novels, in full-blown, living, breathing Technicolor.”

  Spectators hugged the sides of the streets, their expectant voices reflecting her own anticipation. Oh, yes. She’d been right to disobey Gram this time.

  In a way it was Gram’s own fault. She was the one who’d hidden, in her sewing box, the photograph of the mysterious man dressed like a gold miner. The moment Andy had come across it, she’d been fascinated. In fact, it had inspired the new book. But she had no idea who the man was, nor why Gram had kept the photograph a secret. And now there was no one to ask. She’d give anything to know if the man had been a relative. It was awful being all alone in the world.

  Well, she wasn’t exactly “all alone.” Nor would she ignore everything Gram had wanted for her. “I might be the last of our line, Gram, but I’m a Hart through and through. I promise right after I finish this book, I’ll marry Tim just the way you wanted, but I couldn’t face planning the wedding without you. Not yet. So you’ll just have to understand about the new book…and this trip.”

  She tugged off her sunglasses, wishing she could remove her contacts for an hour or so, and shoved a strand of her dark brown hair toward the banana clip it had escaped. Her bare legs felt sticky against the leather seats now that the vehicle was motionless and the hot June air uncirculated.

  Yanking a notepad and pen from the book bag always within reach on the seat beside her, Andy glanced down the street and began jotting descriptions of the blackened-wood buildings lining both sides of the dirtpacked road, the watering troughs, the wooden-railed boardwalks and the hitching posts with horses and wagons drawn up close. She was amazed at the great spot she’d managed to procure, given her late arrival. It had to be fate.

  Her attention snagged on a strapping man, dressed all in black, as he broke through the bank doorway directly opposite her. The crowd quieted. A big Appaloosa waiting at a hitching post not five feet from the Cherokee let out a nervous nicker.

  A gun blast exploded through her thoughts. Andy froze, her hand curling tighter around her pencil as she instinctively scrunched lower behind the steering wheel.

  The man in black—whose gunfire had startled herran hell-bent across the street and leapt onto the Appaloosa, which looked sturdy enough to hold his magnificent proportions. He jerked the reins and spun the horse around, pulling up short inches from her front bumper.

  In that moment their eyes met.

  Andy felt as if an electrical shock had jolted through her. Here was the hero of her book. His hair was as black as polished onyx, his eyes the gray-green of sagebrush. She felt suddenly chilled—as if she were staring at the face of destiny. Her destiny. She doubted she’d ever seen a more handsome man…or one more deliciously dangerous looking.

  “Stop him! He’s stolen the orphans’ fund!” Six or seven men, each brandishing either pistol or rifle, raced down the wooden sidewalk after the man in black, their gunfire punctuating their frantic pursuit.

  Feeling as if she were watching a scene from the new novel being played out before her, Andy forgot to breathe. The man in black tipped his hat to her, then ducked low in the saddle.

  Her heart raced like the group gaining on the thief.

  More gunfire was exchanged, accompanied by fresh shouts and the hammering of boots on hard-packed earth.

  The man in black yanked the reins and dug his bootheels into the horse’s flanks. The Appaloosa sprang into action, lurched away from her Cherokee and galloped straight for the pursuing crowd. The stunned posse froze. The man in black let out a war whoop and, alternately firing both his silver pistols, scattered his pursuers and made a clean getaway down the street toward the end of town.

  Applause erupted.

  Grinning, Andy scooted erect in her seat and let out a miniature war whoop of her own. After seven weeks of searching, she’d finally found the right town and the right man.

  The crowd quickly dispersed. Car doors opened and banged shut. She waited, letting those in a hurry to leave drive around her. Catching sight of the towheaded college student who’d handed her the flier, she stepped out of the Cherokee and got his attention. “Where might I find the outlaw?”

  “Who, Black Jack?”

  “I suppose…if that was him on the Appaloosa.”

  “It was.” His smile showed even white teeth, and his deep blue eyes swept assessingly over her gauzy, long-sleeved peasant’s blouse, across her shorts and down her long, tanned legs. It was obvious he liked what he saw. “Maybe I can help you instead? Cliff Mott’s the name.”

  Indeed, Andy thought, recognizing the come-on for what it was. Yes, indeed. Montana was jam-packed with friendly people, but she doubted old Cliffie would take too kindly to her active imagination metamorphosing him into less than hero material. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Mott, but I’m afraid only Black Jack will do for my purposes.”

  Cliff pressed his lips together, almost a pout. “Well, if you’re certain…?”

  Andy laughed. She’d never been more certain of anything. “Positive.”

  “In that case, you might try the hotel bar after the next performance an hour or so from now.”

  “Great. Thanks.” An hour or so would give her time to check in to the motel
, unpack, shower and change clothes.

  Andy got back into the Cherokee and started the engine. She knew she was grinning like an idiot, but she didn’t care. Her glee was irrepressible. “Hot damn, Gram! This is going to be one good book.”

  Horses and wagons now shared the street with automobiles and foot traffic. Andy drove slowly, half expecting to spot the assay office that was also pic tured in her mysterious photograph. She knew it was a long shot, but considering all the magic that had been bestowed on her thus far this afternoon, why not one more miracle? Why not the icing on the cake?

  Two tourists leapt into her path. Andy braked. As she waited for them to cross the street, she noticed she was abreast of the hotel. A delicious image of her impending meeting with Black Jack began to form in her head and her gaze lifted to the sign above the door. The Golden Broom Hotel. Andy’s eyebrows twitched. What a different name. Was there an interesting story behind it? One she could use in her new book?

  A sudden, unexpected chill swept through her, drawing goose bumps on her summer-warmed skin and stealing her smile. The eerie feeling was some thing akin to…to déjà vu. Oblivious to the horn honking behind her, Andy scanned the two-story building again. It was whitewashed and charming and impossibly familiar.

  Impossibly.

  She frowned, as if scowling would open her memory to anything she couldn’t recall, like the car accident that had claimed the lives of her mother and father when she was five. Everything including and preceding the accident was a complete blank. The doctor said she couldn’t remember because it frightened her too badly. Dwelling on it still tightened her skull with terror. She didn’t care if she never remembered. It wouldn’t bring them back.

  She forced her attention to the present, to the concerns of driving, and moved her foot to the gas pedal. Gram had done her best to fill the gaps. And they didn’t include Montana. If she didn’t know anything else, Andrea Eloise Hart knew she’d never been here. Gram had made certain of that.