Ed Gorman - Showdown

"Maybe that's what you need to do now, Tom. Confess."

"If you mean confession, it's been a while."

"Not necessarily confession to a priest. But to somebody. You need to talk about the trouble you're in and how you think you can handle it."

"That makes sense, I guess."

"Maybe you could talk to Sheriff Daly."

"Maybe he's the man I need to talk to," Prine said.

Prine hadn't thought of that before, but now that Lucy had brought up the subject, it sounded like a good idea.

Tell Daly what he'd done. Take responsibility for it. Tell Daly he'd like to stay and show him how good a lawman he could be.

But what would Daly say? He wasn't an especially forgiving man, but he wasn't merciless, either. Maybe he'd understand how a young, dreamy lawman could get caught up in living out his dream. . . .

Prine guessed that was probably the best way to handle it. Instead of trying to keep his involvement in the kidnap secret, just tell Daly what had happened. Even if he fired Tom—even if he threatened to bring charges against him—Tom would feel better with the whole situation out in the open.

"I need to get back to work," Lucy said. "But please think about talking to Daly. Maybe he won't be as rough on you as you think."

"That's a good idea, Lucy. And that's just what I'm going to do as soon as I finish my coffee here."

Sheriff Daly and Bob Carlyle were already at their desks. The morning usually began with the three lawmen making out the list of what they needed to do that day. They shared the lists to make sure there wasn't any duplication and that they weren't needed on other jobs.

Prine knew he'd have to wait for Carlyle to leave before he could talk to Daly. He'd made up his mind for sure now. This was the best way. Straightforward and honest. Maybe Daly would be in a forgiving mood once he knew that Cassie was safe. Prine assumed she hadn't gone back home yet. If she had, they'd have known about it by now.

Carlyle stood up, stretched, yawned. "It's funny that you like sleep the older you get, when that's all you're gonna do after you die."

"Maybe this is like a warm-up," Daly said. "Learnin' how to sleep for longer periods of time."

Prine managed to make a joke. "It sure is a lot of fun hanging around with you two. What're you going to talk about next? Somebody getting his innards cut out?"

"The lad thinks we're morbid, Sheriff," Carlyle said.

"Hell, he already knew that. The tales we tell around here . . ."

"Yeah," Carlyle said, "and at least half of them are true." He tapped a piece of paper. "Note here says Riley's hardware was broken into last night. Guess I better get over there and listen to Riley tear me a new one about how law 'n' order's goin' to hell in this town."

"Just remind Riley that when those twins of his get going, they're responsible for most of the arrests on Saturday night," Daly said. "Damned animals."

Carlyle went over, scooped his hat from its peg, cinched it on, and said, "You'll probably hear Riley shoutin' from two blocks away."

The time was here.

Prine's bowels felt cold and sick. His stomach burned. This wasn't going to be easy. He started to speak, but then the door opened and the woman from the courthouse, Emma Hampton, peeked in and placed a copy of today's court docket on Daly's desk. He'd missed a few appearances over the years. The judges decided it was best to give him a copy of the daily docket. That way it wouldn't ever happen again. And, to date, it hadn't.

After she was gone, Prine stood up and walked over to Carlyle's desk. If he parked himself on its corner, he had a good straight view of Daly.

Daly was writing furiously. He despised paperwork. The scratching of his pen tip had a violent sound to it. Prine knew better than to interrupt him. Daly didn't look up once.

Finally, he set his pen down and said, "This had better be good. Man has a hell of a time concentrating when somebody's hanging off the corner of his eye the way you were."

"It's good, all right," Prine said. "Too good, actually."

For the first time—probably more because of his tone of voice than his words—Daly looked interested. "Somethin's been gnawin' on you these past few days. Probably a good thing to talk it out, lad."

Prine had been all ready to go. To state his case simply. Not to offer any excuses. Not to play for any sympathy. Simple and straightforward.

But when he opened his mouth to speak, he spoke only silence.

"You all right, Tom?"

That was all he had time to say, because just then the door popped open and Wyn Grover, who owned the livery, said, "Stu Byner's just pullin' into town in his wagon, Sheriff. You better come take a look at what he's bringin'."

Grover, a slender man given to drama—he was legendary for tearing into the town council for not much reason at all—wasn't the sort to explain himself. He liked keeping a mystery about things.

If Daly and Prine wanted to see what Stu Byner was bringing to town, then they'd just have to damned well step outside and take a peek.

Prine heard wagon brakes creak outside in the street. Stu Byner jumped down off his seat right away and went around to the back of the wagon.

By this time, Prine and Daly were hurrying out the door and over to the wagon. Byner waited until the lawmen were beside him. He said, "It ain't pretty, Sheriff."

He pulled back a ratty red blanket he'd thrown over the body. There were a number of different ways they could have killed her. They'd chosen just about the worst. They'd cut her throat.

A lurid dark red snake of deep slashes and crusted scabbing stretched over three quarters of her neck. Her hands were mournful expressions of her last few moments—bloody gashes where the knife had cut them as she held them up for protection. He hadn't realized before, not until he'd seen it in the clear morning sunlight, just how elegant the bones of her face were. Or had been. Her blood-smeared and bruised cheeks were garish with death now.

She wore the white blouse and butternuts she'd worn last night. Her body was still dusty and dirty.

She was bled white, as if a thousand leeches had been set upon her.

All Prine could think of was that he could have saved her life. He could have saved her life.

Chapter Twelve

For an hour that morning, Daly, Carlyle, and Prine lived in an another dimension. The dimension of anxious waiting. They stayed inside the sheriff's office, not wanting to go out and answer questions the crowd was sure to ask. They drank coffee and smoked and didn't say much to each other. They dreaded what lay ahead.

A horseman had been dispatched to Neville's place. He carried a note from the sheriff informing him of the death of his sister and informing Neville that the three lawmen were waiting for him at the sheriff's office.

"Wonder how he'll be," Carlyle said.

"You can't ever tell with him," Daly said. "Time somebody burned down his barn, he got so angry I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Wouldn't take any help from me or anybody else. Not even his own men. Went after the man himself. And caught him, too. Brought him back thrown over a horse. Went to the county attorney personally and made sure the man got the maximum penalty the county attorney could put on him."

"But then there was the other time when somebody robbed his old man on the stage road," Carlyle said. "You imagine that, Tom? Havin' the brass to rob old man Neville himself? He was all alone in his buggy and headed home, and this punk came out of nowhere and robbed him. Took everything but his britches. And young Neville stayed so calm, I thought somethin' was wrong with him."

"You're forgettin' the other end of that story," Daly said.

"Oh? What other end?"