Ed Gorman - Showdown

"I'm not sure, Mrs. Duncan."

"Oh, Lord. Don't make me feel older than I am. Please call me Ellie."

"My secret—" She stumbled. He seized her elbow again. She was still smiling when she stood straight again. "I think I just gave away my secret."

"You've been drinking."

"How observant. Are all deputies as observant as you are?"

"Yes. We take an oath to be observant."

"I'm drunk, Deputy Prine."

"Gosh, are you sure?"

She laughed.

"I like you. Do you like me?"

"Very much."

"You know something? My husband's afraid of you."

"Did he tell you that?"

"You paid him a visit the other day. I saw you in his office. That Mr. Woodward scared him, too."

Prine was glad they weren't holding hands any longer. Because when she mentioned Woodward, his entire body tensed.

They reached the gazebo—classically shaped with a blue roof and white sides—and he helped her up the stairs and inside. They sat on a padded bench that allowed them to look at the river.

Prine rolled himself a cigarette. He was trying to figure out the best way to keep her talking. "Did you ever meet Woodward?" he asked.

"Would you roll me one of those?"

"You smoke, huh?"

"Only when I'm drunk."

"Sure, I'll roll you one."

He rolled her one. Got it lit for her. Handed it to her. She knew how to smoke just fine. She looked good, too, inhaling, exhaling, cocking her head at a certain angle so that her long, fine neck was emphasized. The lips she'd just wetted sparkled with erotic promise.

She said, "Don't ask me to betray him."

"I assume we're talking about your husband."

"Yes, unfortunately—yes. All the times and all the ways he's betrayed me. I don't know why I should give a damn about betraying him. I guess I still love him. That's the terrible thing about all this. I still love him."

He wondered if she was going to cry.

As soon as Aaron Duncan got the telegram, he said goodnight to his secretary and left Pentacle Mattress. It was barely 3:30.

He headed straight and fast to the Neville estate. He was trying to work up such an anger that not even Richard Neville could turn him aside. That was the hell of it with Neville. He was such a powerful man—both physically and because of his business reputation—that it was impossible for somebody like Duncan to take his verbal abuse. Like most people, Duncan always gave in to Neville, even when he knew he shouldn't. This time, at least, he was going to taunt him, say that Neville's idea for three arsons was stupid to begin with.

You don't think they'll catch on, Richard? You think insurance companies are dumb? Three businesses I own burn down in a four-month period and they don't have any suspicions? You're so desperate for money, you're not thinking straight, Richard. This third one—They'll catch us before. And this time, they're going to find out who my silent partner is, too. You wait and see. This time, they won't quit until they've found out everything .

Duncan had been drunk when he'd said all this one night in his office with Neville. Maybe that's what he needed now. The fortification, the wisdom of alcohol. But it was still the sunny afternoon. No way Neville would take him seriously if he showed up drunk.

The telegraph rode in his pocket like a coiled snake, ready to strike. His lawyer warning him that Prine had tried to get the name of Duncan's secret partner from him. Now it was both Prine and the insurance company moving in on them. And Neville kept on killing people. One dead in the mattress factory fire. Al Woodward the insurance investigator murdered. And in both of these, by law, Duncan had been complicit.

That first night when Neville had proposed it all, it all sounded so easy.

You need money, Aaron, and so do I. Your company's about three or four months from taking bankruptcy. I owe so much money, they may not even give me the regular bankruptcy protection. One thing's for sure—they'll take every single thing I own. Every single thing. But I can lay my hands on just enough cash to buy into your businesses and fix them up some. Capital investment. My accountant'll doctor the books so that it'll look like you're doing very, very well for yourself Then I hire somebody to burn the buildings down and we'll split the proceeds .

It had looked so easy.

The insurance company did only a cursory examination of the first building. They were naturally more curious—and more deliberate—about number two.

Richard Neville went through his arson money quickly, learning that it wasn't enough to keep people off his back for even a couple of weeks. So he'd proposed arson number three. With a wrinkle.

We'll make it look like somebody's got it in for you, Aaron. We'll leave a note that says this is fire number three. Fire number four'll be your fancy new house. And we'll make it sound like this arsonist's got some kind of grudge against you. Maybe somebody you fired a long time ago. Somebody who's really crazy, he hates you so much. This way, it doesn't look like we had anything to do with it. There's this maniac running around. We can't help that, can we?

Good ole Neville. The mastermind. The genius. Just ask him.

Well, now he'd really have to be a mastermind. Obviously, the insurance company didn't believe the letter the "arsonist" left behind. And apparently neither did Prine, else why would he be firing off telegrams to Duncan's lawyer?

The estate was coming into view. Normally, sight of it would have made him feel better. There were always stiff drinks and good food to be had at the Neville mansion. Even listening to Richard brag wasn't so bad most of the time. Richard was an entertaining braggart. He had no sense of humor about himself, that was the biggest problem from a social standpoint. He couldn't detect his underlings gently laughing at him rather than with him. He couldn't tell a smirk from a smile.

But this afternoon, neither smirk nor smile would matter. All that counted was the telegram coiled in Duncan's pocket. With all the stress and strain Neville had been under lately, he was likely to go into one of his temper tantrums. These were truly terrifying and sickening spectacles. A grown man with no more control of himself than a spoiled seven-year-old. He'd curse, smash things, and then turn on whichever poor unfortunate had been designated to bring him the bad news. Killing the messenger was part of the fun for Richard—his eyes bugged out, his face scarlet with boiling blood, spittle flying like silver worms from his lips.

That was when you needed to stand up to him.

Duncan had to remember that. He was a full partner in all this. He was complicit in the murders of at least two people. He had the right to speak up and the right to be listened to with great seriousness.

Even if Richard tried to shut up him, Richard was going to by God listen to him. Even if Duncan had to put a gun to his head.

He was sick of Richard, sick of his life—and, most especially, sick of himself.

He rode through the open black wrought-iron gates leading to the dusty road that eventually wound past the mansion.

After tying his horse to a hitching post, he went quickly up the front steps and knocked on the towering front door. So like Richard to have a door this size. Loom over you and intimidate you even before you'd gotten inside.

"Yes, sir. Good evening, sir." This was whitejacketed Carlos. The butler. The man seemed to work twenty-four hours a day.

"I need to see Neville."

"Very good, sir. Wait here and I'll announce you." All with a Mex accent, of course.

But there would be none of that royal bullshit this time. Duncan pushed past Carlos and rushed down the parquet hall leading to the home office Neville preferred to work out of. The place still stank from all the funeral flowers that had been in the front room where the wake—complete with body—had been held.