Slay Ride Page 7

  Whitey, looking bruised and battered, greeted him with slightly muted enthusiasm. His broken arm—and newly discovered cracked collarbone—meant he would not be heading out to show the Nazis what for, for a few months yet, and he was bitterly disappointed.

  James commiserated, filled Whitey in on all the fun he’d missed after being knocked out of action, and apologized for failing to snap a decent photo of Braun or even Braun’s victims.

  Whitey brushed it off with a vague wave of his good arm.

  “Where do you think he’s hiding out? I bet the girlfriend knows.”

  “He’s supposed to have a bolt-hole in Ralston, in the hills above Anaconda. But he was on foot as of this morning. I don’t see how he could make it that far without help.”

  “Seems like he’s a fellow with a knack for finding transportation,” Whitey said.

  That was the truth.

  They chatted a bit longer, and then Jamie rose to leave.

  “Say,” Whitey said, blinking up at him. “I heard you were running into trouble trying to enlist.”

  James felt himself changing color. Did everyone in this goddamn town know he was 4F?

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Don’t bite my head off. I’ve got a pal in Great Falls who could fix it for you.”

  James’s anger faded. “Is that true?”

  Whitey nodded. “It’ll cost you twenty-five dollars, and you might have to tell a fib or two.”

  James hesitated. Twenty-five dollars was a lot of money, but the real concern was the “fib or two.” He did not want his military service to end with a court martial.

  On the other hand, with the situation between himself and Robert the way it was—or wasn’t—he felt more than ever it would be good to get away, devote himself to a higher purpose.

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Sure,” Whitey said. “But don’t leave it too long. Doors have a way of closing.”

  Preoccupied with thoughts of Whitey’s offer—how would he manage it with everyone in Bolt knowing he’d been designated “unfit”? Would he have to pretend to move away or leave all his belongings behind and sneak out of town in the dead of night?—James nearly walked right into a young woman in a black wool coat entering the hospital as he was pushing out through the doors.

  He apologized, reached up to raise his hat, and realized, to his chagrin, he’d left it in Whitey’s room.

  “Jamie?” The woman gaped at him. “Jamie Jameson?”

  “Yes?”

  She looked vaguely familiar—small-boned and very blonde, with large gray-green eyes—but he couldn’t quite place her.

  “It’s me. Nelda. Nelda Ross. Well, Nelda Fitzgerald before I married.” She stopped, still gazing up at him like he had materialized in a puff of smoke. “We were both in Mr. Arthur’s journalism class. Sophomore year.”

  Now he remembered her. Nel Fitzgerald. Every year the two of them had vied for the position of editor-in-chief of the Mountaineer. They had been rivals, not friends, but it was a friendly rivalry. If he had thought of her since graduation, it was with the slightly envious assumption that she had gone off to some prestigious Eastern university and was making a name for herself on a big-city newspaper.

  “Of course,” he said. “How’ve you been?”

  She continued to stare at him as if he were a ghost, and then, to his horror, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m in terrible trouble,” she whispered. “I wonder if you can help me?”

  “I-I don’t know,” he admitted. “What trouble are you in?”

  She put her hand on his, drawing him behind a large potted plant near the bank of elevators. “I can’t go to the police. He’ll kill my children if I’m not back within the hour.”

  Was she crazy? She looked a little crazy. James said cautiously, “I don’t understand. Who’ll kill your children?”

  Nel looked around nervously as though she feared they would be overheard. “His name’s Harold Braun. He’s the one everyone’s looking for. The man who murdered that policeman on Christmas Day.”

  He heard her, and yet the words didn’t make sense. She couldn’t be saying what she seemed to be saying. He said carefully, “Are you telling me Harold Braun is at your home?”

  She nodded tightly. “Yes. Yes. He and my husband used to work together at a bar on Main Street. I hadn’t seen Braun for months when he showed up at our door at eight-thirty this morning.”

  “Where do you live?” Jamie interjected.

  “South Oklahoma Street. Number 11. Jim, my husband, had just left for work when he knocked. He stuck his pistol in my face and told me to let him in or else. What could I do? I let him.”

  “Sure,” James said. “He was coming in either way.”

  She looked relieved at this reassurance she had not made the wrong choice—although he thought she probably had. “He made me cook breakfast for him. He’s been there all day, boasting about how he’s made fools of all the cops, how he has them running in circles and chasing their own tails.”

  “How is it you’re free now?” James asked.

  “He’s sick. He needs insulin. He knew I worked in the hospital, so he’s sent me to get it for him.”

  “You work here? You didn’t go into journalism?”

  She looked momentarily confused. “What? No. I married Jim right after high school.” Her smile was bitter. “My parents didn’t want anything to do with me after that. They said I was throwing my life away.”

  He had no idea how to answer.

  She rushed on. “If I’m not back before three o’clock, he’ll kill the children and then himself. That’s what he said, and I believe him.”

  “You’ve got to go to the police.”

  “No!” Nel drew back in fright. “Have you not heard what I just told you? If I try to go to the police, he’ll kill my children. He has nothing to lose at this point. I think he wants to go out in a blaze of glory, but I’m not going to let him take my babies with him.”

  James thought rapidly. “Can you get the insulin?”

  “Yes. I think so. I’ll have to steal it, but I can manage that.” She gazed at him with desperate hope. “Do you have an idea?”

  No. Not really.

  “When does your husband get home?”

  “Five o’clock. Braun says he’ll take the car then and leave us alone.”

  Maybe. Braun had not killed the Roby sisters, so perhaps there was some vestige of decency in him that made him hesitate at killing innocent women and children. Or maybe not. He had planned to kill Jean McDuffy, and he’d nearly killed her sister.

  “I have to go,” Nel said suddenly. “I daren’t wait any longer.”

  “Wait, let me think.” James absently touched his forehead and the healing cut there. “You say he was boasting about outsmarting the cops?”

  “Yes. He thinks he’s a big man. A real desperado. I told him I didn’t want to hear it. That he made me sick. He just laughed.”

  James nodded, not really listening. “Maybe I do have an idea. I’ll go back with you to your place. We’ll tell him I’m your brother.”

  “My…brother?” Nel looked doubtful. “I don’t have a brother.”

  “Does Braun know that?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t suppose so. I can’t see why he would. But how does your pretending to be my brother help?” She was not arguing really, so much as hoping to be convinced. She did not want to go back alone, and he couldn’t blame her for that.

  “We’ll tell him part of the truth. That I work for the Bolt Daily Banner. I’ll try to get him to give me his story.”

  The light went out of her eyes. “He’ll kill you,” she said. “He’ll kill you on the spot.”

  “I don’t think so,” James said—and wished he felt as sure as he was trying to sound. “It sounds to me like he wants to tell his story. He wouldn’t be the first bad man to try to make his case in the court of public opinion.”

  “I don’t know.” Nel gnawed her lip. “Ev
en if he does want to talk to you—”

  “We just have to stall for two hours till your husband comes home. Then…”

  Then what?

  He wasn’t sure. He remembered something Robert had told him once, and said with greater confidence, “The more time he spends in your home, the more he talks to you, the harder it will be for him to…to hurt you.”

  She whispered, “He has the coldest eyes you’ve ever seen.”

  “I don’t have a better plan,” James admitted. “This is all I can come up with now. If worse comes to worst, I can fight him for the gun while you and the children try to escape.”

  If possible, she went still paler. “All right,” she said after a moment. “God help me, I can’t think of anything better either. Will you wait for me while I get the insulin?”

  He nodded.

  She turned away, stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid closed. James went straight to the public phones and dialed the police station.

  The line was busy—no doubt people calling in claiming to have seen Braun in all reaches of the State—and it took him a couple of tries to get through.

  At last his call was connected. He asked for Robert but was put through to the assistant chief.

  “Jamie,” Bart greeted him cheerfully. “You’ve been having adventures.”

  James swallowed his impatience. Bart always treated him like he was young enough to bounce on his knee. “Bart, can I speak to the chief? It’s urgent.”

  “He’s not here,” Bart replied. “Can I help?”

  “He’s not there?” This possibility had not occurred to James. An unpleasant thought dawned. “Is he really not there, or does he not want to speak to me?”

  “What? Why wouldn’t he want to speak to you?”

  “It-It doesn’t matter. Do you know where he is? Is he somewhere I can reach him?”

  “He went to see O’Hara’s wife. Widow.” Bart asked, “What’s going on, Jamie?”

  James hesitated. He couldn’t decide. He trusted Rob not to do anything that might spook Braun into taking deadly action. Bart…he just wasn’t as sure of Bart. He could not afford to be wrong.

  “Jamie?”

  “Never mind. I’m following up on a lead.” A flash of inspiration came to him. “On Oklahoma Street.”

  “A lead on Oklahoma Street?” Bart sounded indulgent. “What kind of lead? What are you poking your nose into now?”

  The elevator doors opened, and Nel stepped out. She looked white, her eyes huge and frightened as she looked around the lobby for him.

  James slammed down the phone and went to meet her.

  * * * * *

  Nel was right. Harold Braun had the coldest eyes James had ever seen.

  He did not look anything like James had imagined. He was about forty, average height, slender build, thinning dark hair. He was not unattractive, but there was something worn and weasel-like about his narrow face. His eyes were blue. Not the deep Gary Cooper blue of Robert’s eyes, but the pale, unnatural hue of a frozen fish.

  He looked James up and down with that fishy, unblinking stare. “Brother, huh? You look familiar.”

  “You’ve probably seen me around.”

  Braun continued to scrutinize him. James sneezed, mopped his face in the corner of his arm. Braun shook his head, turned to Nel. “Did you get it?”

  She nodded, opening her purse and taking out a small white box.

  “That kid of yours never shuts up,” Braun told her conversationally, referring to the baby wailing in the other room. From the same vicinity another older child was singing, apparently trying to harmonize with the caterwauling. “Maybe you should do something about that.”

  Nel murmured something that sounded panic-stricken and went into the other room.

  “Sit down.” Braun nodded at the dining room table. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  James sat down. He rested his hands on the glossy surface of the table. He hoped he was not leaving sweaty palm prints. He was a feeling a little feverish, which, on the bright side, served to distract him from his fear.

  Braun sat down across from him, and still pointing his pistol at James, proceeded to open the box of insulin with his free hand. He smiled, revealing a surprisingly white, if snaggletoothed, smile. “So you’re a reporter? What paper do you work for?”

  “The Bolt Daily Banner.”

  Braun made a face. “The Montana Standard’s the big paper around here.”

  James shrugged.

  “And you want my story?”

  “If you’re willing to tell it. Can I take notes?”

  Braun gave another of those unsettling smiles. “Why not?” he drawled. “I’ve got a big story to tell and nothing but time.”

  Chapter Seven

  When Robert finished visiting Officer Finney at St. James Hospital, he stopped by his mother’s house to reassure her he was still alive and in one piece.

  Joey’s death had shaken her previous confidence in a benevolent universe, and Robert made more of an effort these days to stay in touch. He found both his sisters keeping her company in her small but comfortable sitting room. The sun shone cheerily through the rose print curtains and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” was playing on the radio. They were all busily knitting socks destined to be sent to soldiers overseas.

  By some troubling coincidence, their conversation was centered on James.

  “I don’t understand why you don’t take that boy under your wing, Robert,” his mother said. “You used to watch over him and Joseph like a hawk.”

  “He’s not an egg,” Robert retorted. “He’s a grown man.”

  “All men are boys.”

  He teased, “And all boys are eggs?”

  She tossed her head, trying not to smile.

  Louise pushed her spectacles up and said, “Mother’s right, Rob. Bart says Jamie’s going to get into terrible trouble trying to prove to everyone he’s not a coward.”

  “Bart doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Robert heartily wished people would keep their big, flapping mouths shut. If people minded their own business, maybe he and Jamie could—well, he just wished they would, that was all.

  “Of course he’s no coward,” Louise said, “but it was a foolish thing he did, chasing after that murdering fiend. It’s a miracle he and the other boy weren’t killed.”

  Robert sighed. Heavily.

  “He’s a newspaper man. He has to go where the story leads him.”

  His sister Helen, younger, prettier, and blonder than Louise, said, “Why don’t you rent a room to him, Rob? You’ve got that great old haunted house all to yourself. Poor Jamie’s living alone in that awful rooming house.”

  “If he’s in a rooming house, he’s not living alone,” Robert pointed out. “And my house is not haunted.”

  “Are you sure?” Helen winked. Sunlight glinted off the knitting needles she wielded with expert speed.

  “It’s certainly too large for one person,” Louise said. “He’s paying rent to that nasty Spinoza woman. Why shouldn’t he pay rent to you? Then you could keep an eye on him.”

  “I promised poor Mrs. Jameson we’d look out for him,” his mother said mournfully. “Those were practically my last words to her. You know, he’s always worshipped you, Robert.”

  Robert made a pained sound. He realized the sudden raising of the subject of Jamie was no coincidence; it was a conspiracy. They had been hatching this plot for some time. Had probably planned to spring it on him at Christmas dinner. He was naturally, reasonably annoyed, but as he gazed at their innocent, earnest faces, it occurred to him that they were offering him something he had been afraid to even envision.

  He laughed right out loud. His heart was pounding so hard, he was surprised they couldn’t hear it. His stomach knotted with the old familiar thrill that came before jumping out of a plane.

  His mother looked surprised and then a little hurt. “I don’t see what’s funny about that.”

  Did he d
are? Was he mad to even consider it?

  The temptation would be unbearable.

  “Sometimes you can be quite heartless, Robert Garrett,” Louise remarked. This was not news to any of them, and she did not sound unduly upset.

  But—and this was the realization that shocked him—there would be no need to resist temptation if he and James could find a way to safely be together out of sight from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

  Give society an excuse to look the other way, and nine times out of ten, society would see nothing wrong.

  Others did it. Found a way to fly safely beneath the radar. If the Misses Bozeman of Gilligan Street were really sisters, he’d eat his hat. Same with Mrs. Marshall and Mrs. Vine on Harvard Avenue. And if Jack Fahey was really Paul Hedge’s stepfather, he’d eat his hat.

  If they were careful and discreet…

  Maybe.

  “I don’t think you’ve listened to a word we’ve said.” His mother shook her head, needles flashing as she completed another row.

  Helen chuckled knowingly. “I think you’re wrong, Mother. I think he’s considering it!”

  * * * * *

  “You’re in a good mood,” Bart observed when Robert returned to the police station. “Young Jameson called for you. He’s following some hot lead.” Bart snorted his amusement at the idea. “Jean McDuffy is waiting for you in your office.”

  Robert’s instinctive pleasure that James had reached out to him after their…misunderstanding? was cut off by the reminder he had a job to do. He stopped whistling and went into his office.

  He’d only seen McDuffy once, and then she’d been hysterical and scared out of her wits. He realized she was a little older than he’d thought but much prettier.

  She huddled in the chair in front of his desk, shivering. “I can’t sleep,” she said. “I haven’t slept a wink since Harry came after me. He’s going to try to kill me, I know.”

  “Why would he want to kill you?” Robert asked.

  She shook her head.