This has been an exhausting week, and I topped it off with catching a little bit of a summer cold, so I thought today's blog would be an excerpt. This is from Slay Ride, which will be coming out later this summer.
Cover art by Catherine Dair.
SLAY RIDE
Maybe Tom Finney’s
phone call was a blessing in disguise.
Robert was having
dinner with Sheriff Dooley’s widow. Dooley had been shot and killed three
months earlier, and it was a godawful Christmas for Mabel and the three little
girls.
But then, with the
war on and so many families missing loved ones, it was a godawful Christmas for
everyone. Joey, Robert’s kid brother, had been killed in the Pacific the
previous spring. The Pacific was where Robert had nearly lost his right leg the
year before that. There wasn’t a family in Butte that hadn’t been touched by the war. In
fact, there probably wasn’t a family in the whole of the United States
that hadn’t been touched by the war.
So Robert was
doing his best to bring a little holiday cheer to the proceedings. Mabel was
swell. He’d been to school with her, had even thought about asking her to marry
him at one time. But somehow he’d never got around to it -- whereas Clinton
Dooley had. Now Clinton
was dead, shot one night on a country back road by a nameless assailant, and
Mabel was making a brave effort not to cry into the mashed potatoes.
When he was done
failing to comfort the Dooley girls, Robert was supposed to head over to his
mother’s house where his kith and kin would make their own brave effort not to
notice the empty place at the table.
So, yes, in a
funny way, Officer Finney’s phone call was a relief.
“Chief, I just got
a call from Eugene Boswell, the assistant manager of the Safeway over on Harrison Avenue. He claims there’s some bird holed up at the
Knight’s Arms waving a roscoe around and squawking about bumping off his girl
friend.”
“Knight’s Arms.
That’s the place on Main Street?”
Robert asked. And then, suspiciously, “How would Eugene Boswell know what’s
going on in the Knight’s Arms?” Finney had a fondness for practical jokes, and
was known to celebrate the holidays -- every holiday known to man, including
some that hadn’t been thought of yet -- with a nip or two.
But Finney sounded
cold sober when he replied, “Boswell was over there having dinner at his
mother-in-law’s when a gal burst in followed by this Harold Braun. Braun said he had three bullets, two for the
dame and one for himself. While the women were trying to reason with him,
Boswell scrammed across the street to the Scandia
bar and called us. He said Braun’s not fooling.”
“I’m on my way.
“I’ll meet you in front of the Knight’s Arms.” Robert hung up and turned to
find Mabel standing in the doorway holding his hat and coat. Her pretty face
was pale. She was a tall, thin blonde with a spatter of golden freckles across
her pert nose. In the old days, she had always laughed a lot.
“Trouble?” she
asked.
Robert nodded.
“Sounds that way. I’m sorry about dinner.”
Mabel brushed
aside mention of the meal on which she had used up so many of her ration
coupons and worked so hard to prepare. “Be careful, Robert.”
“Sure,” Robert
said easily. “I’m not the heroic type.”
“Not you,” Mabel
agreed. “Not being heroic is how you got shot in the Philippines.”
“Everybody got
shot, so that doesn’t count,” Robert shrugged into his coat, took his hat, and
limped toward the front door. “Anyway, it was my leg that got shot, not my Philippines. My
Philippines
still work fine.”
Mabel laughed
shakily. “If you can come back later, do. I’ll save you a slice of mince pie.”
“I can’t promise,
but if I can, I will.”
She was still
standing in the doorway, famed in cozy lamplight and hugging herself against
the cold, when he climbed into his car and pulled away from the curb.
* * * * *
A handful of
snowflakes drifted down as Robert parked behind the Scandia.
He got his pistol out of the glove box, and climbed out of the car. His leg
ached in the damp winter air. But then, his leg always ached now.
The Christmas
lights strung across the windows of the bar cast watery blue and red and green
smears on the black, shining street as he hurried across to where Finney and
O’Hara were pacing in front of the brick apartment building. There was a third
man with them, young, sandy and balding, plump as a pigeon, in a dark overcoat.
That would be Boswell, the grocery store assistant manager, and Robert
automatically wondered why he wasn’t in the army or some other branch of the
service.
“Chief, we were
just about to go in,” Finney said as Robert reached them. He was in his forties,
short, wiry, hair prematurely white. He always reminded Robert of a
smooth-haired fox terrier. Now he was almost quivering, like a dog tugging at a
leash.
O’Hara was older
than Finney. He was big -- tall and broad -- with a head of curly and startlingly
dark hair. He hooked a thumb back at the trio of men hovering just out of
earshot, and said, “The newshounds say they heard a shot right before we
arrived.”
Newshounds? Robert swore inwardly. It
had taken him less than five minutes from receiving Finney’s phone call to get
over to Main Street,
and he had been relieved to see there wasn’t much of a crowd gathered yet. But
now that he took a closer look, he saw the three men lurking a few feet away
near scraggly shrubbery were not casual bystanders. One of them, a kid with a
shock of white blond hair, held a camera. The second -- Robert recognized Earl
Arthur from the Montana Standard and
the third -- his heart jumped at the sight of that tall, lanky figure with the
untidy chestnut hair -- Jamie.
Jamie -- James
Jameson -- worked for the Butte Daily Standard. Robert hadn’t seen him
since Joey’s funeral. And he wished he wasn’t seeing him now.
Jamie gazed back
at him, eager and alert, hazel eyes shining like Santa had brought him a brand
new bicycle that very morning, and Robert groaned inwardly.
He turned his back
on Jamie and the other newshounds. Another snowflake drifted down and melted as
it brushed his skin.
“He’s crazy,”
Boswell was saying between chattering teeth. “He’s going to kill that woman. My
wife’s still up there.”
Finney and O’Hara
were only waiting for his word. Robert pulled his pistol from his belt. “Which
apartment?”
“Top floor. First
one on the left. I can show you.”
Robert nodded.
“Good man.”
Finney sprang for
the front door. The reporters moved to follow. Robert turned back to them. “Not
a chance. You boys wait here.”
Jamie,
predictably, burst into protest. Arthur, older, harder, or just lazier waved
them on. Robert ignored them both, following his men and Boswell up the wooden
steps and through a pair of white doors with oval panes of etched glass. Inside
the building it was warm and smelled of a dozen cooking Christmas dinners.
Delicious and comfortable scents of roasting turkey and baking pies. Bing
Crosby’s voice floated from beneath one closed door. “I’ll Be Home for
Christmas” sang Bing. But a few million people would not be home for Christmas.
Would not be home ever.
Boswell rushed up
the staircase, footsteps pounding, and Robert followed. His leg twinged in
painful protest. Behind him, Finney and O’Hara made enough noise for a herd of
elephants as they crashed up the steps after him.
As they reached
the top floor, the sound of a woman sobbing reached their ears. All else was
eerily silent.
“Anne!” gasped
Boswell, starting forward.
“Wait.” Robert
grabbed Boswell’s arm. “Stay here.” He went past the other man, moving quietly,
cautiously down the hall. The line of doors stayed closed, all but for the last
door. That one stood ajar, and through the opening he could hear voices. Women’s
voices.
A floorboard
squeaked beneath his foot. Robert paused. O’Hara was breathing heavily down the
back of his neck.
No one rushed out
of the apartment at them.
Robert reached the half open door and pushed
it wide.
He could see his
reflection -- Finney and O’Hara hovering behind him -- in a long mirror hanging
over a flowered sofa. A string of Christmas cards hung across a doorway leading
into another room. A small Christmas tree sat on three-tiered table.
There were four
women in the room. One woman slumped in a chair while two others worked over
her bloodied form. A fourth woman in a red dress sat on the sofa weeping into
her hands. There was no sign of anyone else.
“Where is he?”
demanded Robert, and the weeping woman looked up and screamed.
Boswell charged
past Robert, nearly knocking him over. “Anne!”
“Oh, Gene!” The
woman in the red dress jumped up and threw herself in her husband’s arms. “Mrs.
Mileur’s been shot. She was struggling with that maniac for the gun, and the
gun went off. He shot her!”
“I’m all right.”
the blood-stained woman, Mrs. Mileur, suddenly sat up. “The bullet just nicked
me.”
She was about
forty with brown hair and blue eyes. Blood soaked the white lacy collar of her
dress, but she seemed alert enough.
A younger,
dark-haired woman said, “The bullet grazed your throat, Alice. He nearly killed you. And all because
of me.”
“What do you mean
because of you?” Robert asked. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mabel McDuffy. Alice’s sister. I was…well, I used to go with
Braun. He was angry with me. That’s what this was about.”
Finney said, “Why
was he angry with you?”
“Because I
wouldn’t take his dirty gifts bought with his dirty blood money.”
“You’re not blame
for anything he does!” Alice
said.
“You warned me he
was no good. I guess I thought --”
“Never mind that
now. Where is Braun?” Robert tried to cut through the din of everyone talking
at once. “Where did he go?”
The fourth woman,
white-haired and older than the others, answered. “He ran downstairs. I think
he thought he’d killed Mrs. Mileur.”
“He meant to kill
Mabel, and no thanks to him, he didn’t. He lives in an apartment in the rear of
the building,” Alice Mileur said. “I should have thrown him out weeks ago. He’s
a chicken thief and a hophead.”
“It’s my fault,”
the dark-haired woman said again. “This is all my fault.”
“Be quiet, Mabel.
The only thing you’re to blame for is having lousy taste in men.”
Robert turned back
to O’Hara and Finney. “Come on. Downstairs.”
A chicken thief
and a hophead. Well, it could be worse. It nearly had been. A lot worse.
He pounded back
down the staircase, Finney and O’Hara in pursuit.
Braun’s apartment
was in the back of the building. Robert and his men made their way down a
narrow hall, past the door to the cellar. They lined up outside the door.
Robert nodded at Finney. Finney pounded the door with his fist.
“Police! Open up!”
The door did not
open. There was only silence.
Robert touched the
round doorknob. The door swung silently open.
“Careful, boys,”
Robert whispered.
Cautiously,
pistols at ready, the three men entered the apartment. The blinds were drawn
and the room was in darkness.
“He’s gone,”
Finney said. “He must have lit out.”
Robert felt
through the gloom for a lamp.
“There’s another
room here.” O’Hara’s voice floated through the blackout.
There was a squeak
of hinges, the gloom wavered as a door opened, and too late Robert saw white
muzzle flash and heard the blast of Braun’s revolver.
O’Hara cried out.
The lamp flared on just as there was another flash and another loud bang.
Robert caught a nightmare glimpse of Finney crashing into the wall, firing at
the open bedroom door.
Robert didn’t
remember turning the lamp out again, but the room fell back into blackness as
he dived for the floor.
Braun was still
shooting and Robert returned his fire. He could hear Finney groaning and
swearing, and for one crazy, confused moment he thought he was back on Guadalcanal under fire from the Japs. He had fallen badly
on his leg and it was throbbing like he’d been shot all over again, but that
was the least of his problems.
Swift footsteps
approached, someone was running toward Braun’s apartment, and to Robert’s
horror a voice he would have known anywhere called, “Robert? Chief Garrett?”
“Jamie, stay the hell out of here,” he yelled.
Braun had stopped
firing.
Had he managed to
hit him in the dark? Robert didn’t think so. More likely Braun was trying to
slip into the front room and pop him. He kept his gaze trained on the slit of
faded light between the dark living room and the bedroom.
Jamie was hovering
outside the doorway. Robert knew it, could feel it in his bones, but he didn’t
dare call out, didn’t dare draw Braun’s attention to him. Finney was still
groaning.
“O’Hara?” Robert
tried.
There was no
answer. That deadly stillness from the spot O’Hara had fallen was the answer.
“How bad are you
hit, Tom?” Robert called.
Finney stopped
moaning. He choked out, “The sonofabitch chicken thief got me in the right
shoulder. And my left arm.”
“Did he get you, Rob?” Jamie asked from the
other side of the front door frame. He sounded startlingly calm.
“No. I’m okay,”
Robert said. “Stay out of here. Understand? Stay clear of the door.”
“Got it.”
A gust of cold
December air blew in from the bedroom, and Robert tasted snow. “Goddamn it,” he
said. “He’s gone out the back.”
He scrambled up,
levering himself on the small table with the lamp, knocking both over. He
stayed close to the wall, moving quickly around the square of the room. Keeping
to the side, he threw open the door. O’Hara was sprawled in front of him. Blood
pooled beneath him, soaking the floorboards.
“Goddamn it,”
Robert said.
The bedroom was
empty. Brown curtains bobbed lightly on the breeze blowing through the open
window next to the bed.
Robert swore
again, bitterly, turned and ran past Finney who was slumped and bloody against
the wall. “Hold on, Tom,” he told him.
Finney didn’t
answer.
There was no sign
of Jamie in the hall. That showed unexpected good sense and Robert was relieved
as he limped hurriedly down the narrow passage and back to the front of the building.
Arthur from the Montana Standard was fairly dancing with
excitement on the pavement in front of the house. “By God, what a story! What’s
the name of this gunmen?”
“Never mind that.
Where’d he go?”
“Thataway.” Arthur
pointed down the street where a black sedan had all but disappeared into the
now heavily falling snow. “There were two women in that car he grabbed.”
God almighty. It
just kept getting worse and worse.
Robert looked
around. There was a crowd gathering on the sidewalk behind them. Well, that was
bound to happen. He scanned the ring of bystanders, but did not see the one
face he was looking for.
His heart sank
still lower. “Where’s the kid?” he demanded.
“Who?”
“The Jamieson kid.
Where did he go?”
“Oh. You mean
those two from Butte Daily Standard.”
Arthur pointed down the street, now empty of all but snow flurries. “They took
off after your bird.”
