Right between the Eyes Read online

  “Damn stupid of him to go out and leave the lantern burning,” Hines grumbled.

  Bob caught Peter’s eye and jerked his chin toward the bedroom door.

  Peter strode to the door and rapped his knuckles against it, calling, “Larkin?”

  When there was no answer, he turned the knob and shoved the door open. Enough light poured into the darkness to show there was no one in there. Peter closed the door again.

  Earl Hines went over to the lantern and twisted the wick up brighter. When he turned back to face the two lawmen, he wore a troubled, somewhat confused frown. “I hope you don’t think I was giving you some kind of bum steer,” he said. “John was here when I left and said he had no interest in going out. I guess he must’ve changed his mind. But where he took a notion to go I don’t—”

  The rest of the sentence was cut off by a voice floating up from outside, through the stairway door they’d left open upon entering.

  “Hey, Marshal,” Vern called. “We got something down here. You better come have a look.”

  “Bring that lantern,” Bob said, starting for the door.

  A minute later they were all back at the bottom of the outside steps. Vern was some distance away, standing at the back corner of the building, motioning them toward him.

  When they reached Vern and followed him around the corner of the building, they found themselves facing a small corral where Hines sometimes kept a horse or two that he was getting ready to fit for new shoes. The corral was empty. Against the rear outer wall of the building some bales of straw had been placed. Sitting together on one of them, with a candle resting on the ground at their feet, were John Larkin . . . and Brenda Emory!

  “What in tarnation is all the commotion about, Earl?” Larkin said, looking up at the sudden cluster of men, squinting slightly against the brightness of the lantern.

  CHAPTER 28

  In the darkness, lying in bed beside Bob, Consuela said, “So it was Brenda Emory who was able to provide him an alibi?” Her voice carried a note of incredulity.

  “None other,” Bob confirmed. “She claimed she was with him the whole while, from within just a few minutes of when Earl Hines left and went over to Bullock’s. She saw Hines going out as she was coming down the street. When she got up to the apartment, Larkin didn’t think it would be proper for the two of them to be alone there. So, it being a clear, warm night, he suggested they go down and have their visit in the corral area out back of the shop . . . That’s where they still were when we found them.”

  “But I thought it was the older Emory sister, Victoria, who was Larkin’s romantic interest before he got sent away to prison.”

  “It was,” said Bob. “But while Victoria was quick to decide she no longer wanted anything to do with a convicted thief, apparently Brenda was like a lot of others and refused to believe Larkin was truly guilty of the charges brought against him. In fact, from talking with her tonight and even a little earlier, when I was at the Emory house, I got a hunch she had a sort of baby-sister crush on Larkin.”

  “Had . . . and perhaps still does?”

  “Could be.”

  It was late when Bob got back home. Bucky was in bed asleep. Consuela had gone to bed, too, but was still awake when Bob came in and slipped under the covers beside her. As soon as she draped a slender arm over his chest, she could feel the tension in him. At times like this they often lay and talked. Consuela had proven to be an invaluable sounding board. Bob often told her this, and then would invariably add, “As if anybody as soft and curvy as you could ever be called any kind of board.”

  Continuing their discussion now, Consuela said, “Whatever her reasons, the fact Brenda was together with Larkin tonight is bound to raise a few eyebrows—and none higher than in the Emory household. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh, yeah. I think it would be a real safe bet to lay money on that,” Bob agreed.

  “It also puts Saul Norton in a rather questionable light, doesn’t it? I mean, if Brenda’s telling the truth, then where does that leave Norton’s claim that it was Larkin who attacked him?”

  “That’s a good question. By the time we got back to Doc Tibbs’s place, after talking to Brenda and Larkin, Norton was heavily medicated and in no condition to get any more out of him. Somebody attacked him and did a helluva good job of it, that much is for certain. Broken ribs, fractured cheekbone, one tooth knocked out and several others loosened. The doc is pretty sure he has a concussion, but how severe he can’t say yet . . . We may be able to talk to him in the morning, but it will likely be limited at best.”

  “So that leaves hanging the matter of why he identified Larkin as his attacker.”

  “It was plenty dark in that alley he was dragged into,” said Bob. “I suspect what it’ll come down to is that Norton didn’t really get a good look at whoever was beating on him and only figured it had to be Larkin because he’d been more or less expecting something like that.”

  “Yes. If Larkin truly did come back with revenge in mind, then—even more than all those now worried jurors who found him guilty—the single person most responsible for his conviction was Norton.”

  “If I was in his shoes, that’s the way I’d look at it.”

  “But if Brenda is telling the truth, then the assault on Norton couldn’t have been by Larkin . . . Do you believe her?”

  “Yes, I do,” Bob was quick to reply. “I don’t see where she has anything to gain by lying for him. In fact, like you already pointed out, taking his side, being there with him at all, gives her plenty more to lose—with her family and, when word gets around, no doubt in the eyes of the more prudish-minded around town. Her behavior will be considered scandalous.”

  “That’s not fair!” Consuela said indignantly. “She went there to show support to somebody she felt had been wronged in the past. And then she had guts enough to stand up for him against a new accusation that, this time around, she could prove was false.”

  Bob felt her small, delicate hand ball into a sharp-knuckled fist resting atop his bare chest, and it made him smile. “Take it easy, tiger,” he told her. “Brenda Emory will come out of this okay. A person can seldom go too far wrong by sticking to the truth.”

  “What if the truth is that John Larkin really didn’t commit those crimes four years ago? If so, things still went pretty far wrong for him, didn’t they?”

  “Whoa. Let’s not get too carried away.” Bob put his hand over hers and held it there until she slowly unclenched her fist. “I’ve got enough to handle with stuff that’s going on in the here and now. I don’t need to look four years in the past and try to untangle something from back then. Okay?”

  “Of course. You’re right,” Consuela said, softer now. Her flattened palm grew very warm against his skin. “I almost forgot that, in addition to the trouble surrounding Larkin and the Emorys, there’s still the matter of Ed Wardell and his alleged rustling problem . . . and whether or not he’s actually sent for Rance Brannigan. You’ve hardly spoken about that in the past day or so.”

  “Been a little busy. Too busy to fret over what ain’t here yet.”

  “But you still believe he’s on his way?”

  “Been too much talk to rule it out. Expect we’ll be finding out soon enough.”

  “More trouble from years past. Trouble that unjustly branded you an outlaw.” A trace of bitterness crept into Consuela’s voice. “Maybe that’s why I have a certain empathy for John Larkin and the thought he may have been wronged in a similar way.”

  Bob gave a small grunt. “You and half the rest of the town. Half think he got a raw deal; the other half thinks a fair trial took place and that should be the end of it. Trouble is, all or most of ’em seem to be in agreement on one thing: thinking Larkin might have come back aiming to get even, whichever way it was. And now—after the shooting earlier this afternoon and the beating of Norton tonight, even though he’s been cleared of both—it’s almost like somebody is trying awful hard to make that look like a legitimat
e worry.”

  “But who? Who would benefit from that?”

  Bob responded negatively, rolling his head back and forth on his pillow. “Damned if I know.”

  Neither of them said anything more for a couple of minutes.

  Until Consuela lifted her hand slightly and began moving her index finger in small circles through Bob’s chest hairs. At the same time, she shifted her supple body tighter against his. Neither her curves nor the heat of her were contained in the slightest by the thin material of her sleeping gown.

  “I suggest,” she said in a husky whisper, “we have covered enough nasty business and nagging questions for the time being. Don’t you think we could come up with a more pleasant and relaxing way to finish off the night?”

  “I don’t know about relaxing, leastways not right at first,” Bob said, grinning as he rolled to face her. “But the pleasant part, with you in my arms, is pretty much a guarantee.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “How the hell do I know what I said last night? I just got done getting my brains bashed in. It’s a miracle I was able to say anything at all. If I did, I must have been talking out of my head.”

  Sitting propped upright on a narrow bed in a spare room at Doctor Tibbs’s place—the room serving as a hospital of sorts for patients who needed care and observation overnight—Saul Norton was a much sorrier sight than the tall, handsome, self-assured presence he’d been when Bob last saw him at the Emory house the previous afternoon. This morning, the wraps of bandages around his head, the twin black eyes and bruised, swollen cheekbone, the split lower lip, and the thick wrapping of bandages around his middle combined to not only paint him in a different light but also attested to the severity of the beating he’d endured. The dull tone of his voice and still semi-dazed look in his eyes were added indicators that his spirit, too, had suffered a beating.

  “So you didn’t get a good look at your attacker and can’t really say who it was. Is that what you’re telling us now—in spite of saying the name ‘Larkin’ and the words ‘getting even’ last night?” asked Bob.

  In addition to Bob and the patient, the room was also occupied by Deputy Fred, Victoria Emory, Graedon, and of course Doc Tibbs.

  “Like I just got done explaining,” Norton half-groaned, “you can’t take to heart anything I said last night after I was assaulted. In those first few seconds after I got slugged and dragged into that alley, while I was still conscious, I’ll admit my first thought was that it must be Larkin. I mean, everybody in town figures he came back to make trouble and who does he have a bigger reason to hold a grudge against than me . . . Right . . . ? But as far as getting a look at whoever it was who jumped me—no, I didn’t. It all happened so fast, I . . . I . . .”

  “Doctor, please!” Victoria implored. “Is this necessary? Let alone advisable? He’s already told the marshal everything he can. When is enough, enough?”

  The doctor looked over at Bob. “She makes a valid point as far as pressing him too hard in his condition. I’m surprised he woke as lucid as he did this morning. He truly needs a lot more rest and quiet. Actually, I’ve recommended he stay here for another day or so but—”

  “No, I won’t hear of it,” Victoria said. “He’s coming home with us. Graedon has the buggy waiting outside and has it prepared to transport him comfortably. We’ve also made necessary arrangements at the house. Saul will get all the rest and care he needs there—with, of course, regular visits by you, Doctor.”

  Tibbs’s mouth pulled tight, just short of a frown, but he said nothing.

  “I really hate for you to go to all that trouble, dearest,” Norton said halfheartedly. “Your father already requires a great deal of your attention, you don’t need me to—”

  “Nonsense. It’s all decided,” Victoria cut him off, just as she had the doctor. Then she turned to Bob. “Are you quite finished, Marshal?”

  Having seen this demanding, rather shrill side of the eldest Emory daughter, Bob decided that she wasn’t quite so fetching after all. The exterior of some things definitely didn’t tell the whole story. He smiled mildly and said, “I’ve got just one more question for Mr. Norton, then I’ll let him rest.”

  Victoria sighed impatiently. “Very well. But make it short. You heard what the doctor said.”

  Addressing Norton, Bob said, “Since we’ve established that it couldn’t have been Larkin who assaulted you, I’m wondering if you can think of anybody else who has hard feelings toward you that might have led them to take it out on you in that way?”

  Norton shook his head, quickly wincing in an indication that it hurt to do so. “No. No, I can’t think of anybody like that . . . Sure, I’m the boss over a couple crews of hard-nosed miners who don’t always like the rules I lay down . . . But there’s none of them I can picture resorting to something like that.”

  “Nobody you’ve fired or had to recently discipline in some way they thought unfair?”

  Norton started to shake his head again but then held it in check. It still made him wince, though. “No. Nothing like that I can think of.”

  “You said one more question, Marshal,” Victoria reminded him.

  Bob nodded. “Okay. I’m done.” He cut his gaze back to Norton. “You get some rest. But I’d appreciate it if you do some more thinking on who might have been behind that attack. I’ll check in on you later today or tomorrow in case you come up with anything.”

  “While you’re checking up on things,” Victoria said rather haughtily, “I strongly suggest you do some further checking on John Larkin and his so-called alibi . . . I don’t care who provided it for him!”

  * * *

  “Whew!” Fred exclaimed after he and Bob had left the doctor’s office and were walking toward the jail. “That Victoria gal seems like one bossy handful, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I sorta noticed,” Bob agreed.

  “She sure is pretty, though.”

  “Too bad she brings with it a reminder of the old saying about beauty only being skin deep.”

  “I guess. What she said there at the end, which amounted to calling both Larkin and her own sister a pair of liars, was kinda ugly.”

  It was the middle of the morning. Front Street was moderately busy with folks going about their business, a few probably out and about on some menial excuse just to enjoy another fine spring day.

  “What do you think about that?” Fred said, continuing to talk as he and Bob strolled along. “About the kid sister, Brenda, I mean. You think there’s any chance she could be lying to cover for Larkin?”

  Bob shook his head firmly. “Nope. I’m convinced she’s on the level.”

  Fred frowned. “What the heck’s going on then? It almost seems like somebody is trying to put Larkin in a bad light with these things that keep happening—the saloon fight, the shooting out by the butte, now the beating of Norton—but so far he comes out in the clear.”

  “Either that,” Bob said, “or somebody has it in for the Emorys and they’re using the return of Larkin as cover for themselves. Way I see it, you can’t really count the fight in the Grand—that was an outlier, strictly Ray Monte bringing it on by acting like a jackass. But the other two incidents . . . yeah, there’s something calculated—something more than just the incidents themselves—going on there.”

  Fred’s eyes widened. “Wow. Our mystery deepens!”

  They’d reached the jail by that point. With his key inserted to unlock the door, Bob shot a look over his shoulder and growled, “Don’t start that again or I swear I’ll throw you in a cell and not let you out until you promise to never carry on about ‘mysteries’ anymore.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Merlin Sweeney, the accordion player who’d recently settled in town and worked most nights in Bullock’s Saloon, playing for tips, sat on a bench toward one end of the wide porch that ran across the front of the Shirley House Hotel. He was leaning back against the side of the building, his long legs stuck out before him, accordion resting on his lap. From ti
me to time he played a portion of a tune, maybe even sang along a little bit, but his mind wasn’t really about music this morning.

  One of the few benefits of being a wandering musician was that a body could usually laze around in a public place, playing and singing a little bit, and not get hassled. Not even if you was a black man, not as long as you smiled wide at folks passing by and looked harmless and didn’t linger in one place for too long. Most people liked music.

  But the smiles Merlin flashed this morning were infrequent and more than a little strained. He was worried. Deeply worried. And the activity taking place at the doctor’s office located catty-corner across the street was the focal point of his concern. He didn’t know what all was going on inside. He could only imagine, and that was worse than knowing.

  The one thing Merlin knew for sure was that the injured Saul Norton was in there—still in there, after being kept under the doctor’s care all night. That was bad, not a good sign at all.

  Oh, Lord, why had he hit the man so hard? So hard and so often?

  “Come on, you black bastard, is that the best you got? Hit like you mean it . . . Make it look like something . . . ! You were paid good money, now earn it, you damned ungrateful nigger!”

  From his vantage point, Merlin had seen people come and go from the doctor’s office. A high-toned lady had rolled up in a buggy driven by a tall, stiff-backed driver—a servant of some kind, it was clear—who’d assisted her down and then the two of them had gone inside. They hadn’t come out yet. A little while later the marshal and one of his deputies had gone in. A short time ago, they’d come back out and gone on down the street.

  But no sign of Saul Norton coming out. A horrible thought bolted through Merlin—maybe Norton couldn’t come out. Maybe he’d never come out, not under his own power. Maybe he’d died from the injuries he suffered.

  A spasm gripped Merlin that caused him to squeeze a sour squawk of sound out of his accordion. Unpleasant as the sound was, it somehow seemed to fit the wretched knot of anxiety jerking steadily tighter in his gut.