“What are you doing? I thought you wanted soup.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” I set the pot on the floor near his chair. Placing my hands on my hips, I bent down to give the impression I was peering into the water.
“What in the world are you doing?” Phil leaned toward the pot. “What do you see in there?”
“Boiled Tanner,” I said. In a twinkling I had the Remington out and struck him over the head. He crumpled, but I caught him before he fell flat. He was dazed but not out. Sliding a leg under his chest to hold him steady, I shoved the Remington into my holster to free both hands. Then I moved behind him, let him slump to his knees, gripped both his wrists, and bent his arms as far back as they would go.
The pain revived him. “That hurts!” he shrieked. “What are you doing? We had an arrangement.”
I started to force his face toward the pot.
“Wait! No! You can’t!” Phil struggled, but I had a knee between his shoulder blades, and the leverage. “What about the money? Kill me and you won’t get it!”
“You offered me a thousand to watch your mother die,” I said. “I’m giving up a lot of money to see you do the same.”
Phil bucked and twisted but could not break my grip. “Why?” he wailed. “In God’s name, tell me why!”
I told the truth for once. “This is for Daisy.”
His screams filled the kitchen. They filled the house. They went on for a long, long time.
Chapter 22
At three in the morning Whiskey Flats was a cemetery. Only a few windows glowed and they were in houses at the outskirts. The saloon, the stores, the livery, the restaurant had all long since closed.
I came in from the north, riding the mare and leading Brisco. I had switched back and forth to keep them fresh.
The hunted had become the hunter. I was searching for the Texas Rangers. They were a thorn that needed clipping. Worse, they were bound to try harder to find me once news of Phil Tanner’s fate reached town.
I reached the main street through a narrow gap between the general store and the butcher’s. The hitch rails were empty. Across the street was the restaurant. I could not go in the front. I crossed to an alley that brought me to the rear. Dismounting, I removed my spurs and crept to the back door. Calista did not keep it locked. I gingerly tried the latch, and pushed. The top hinge squeaked but not loud enough to wake anybody.
Her room was on the second floor, at the front. I slunk up the stairs and down the hall. A few of the boards creaked, but again, not loud enough that it would startle her boarders into wakefulness.
Her door was bound to be bolted. I crouched and scratched at it with my fingernails. She had a cat named Butch who spent as many nights out romancing the town’s female cats as he did snuggled in Calista’s bed. I was hoping he was off with a feline lady friend.
Calista took forever to wake up. I heard rustling, and a yawn, and the scrape of her feet. “Butch?” she said softly.
The instant the bolt rasped, I straightened and put my shoulder to the door. I caught her off guard. She stumbled back and had to grab hold of the bedpost to stay on her feet.
“What in—” Calista blurted, and put a hand to her cheek in amazement. “You! Alive!”
“Pleased to see you again, too,” I said, quietly closing the door, then throwing the bolt. I leaned back, my thumbs hooked in my gun belt. “Did you miss me?”
Calista was wearing a chemise as a nightshirt. A thin white chemise that was molded to the shape of her body and left nothing to be guessed at. I must have been staring because she wheeled and clutched a robe that had been thrown over a chair and hastily donned it. When she turned she had composed herself. “To say I’m surprised would not be entirely honest.”
“Oh?”
“A lot of LT cowboys have died in the past few days. The Texas Rangers are of the opinion you are to blame.”
“Parsons don’t generally go around bucking folks out in gore.”
“But you’re not a preacher, are you? You never were. The Rangers think you might be a notorious assassin by the name of Lucius Stark.”
“When did they come to that conclusion?” I was interested to know.
“Yesterday. They’ve had their suspicions. Something to do with a scar. They’re mad as can be about the trick you played on them.”
“What trick would that be?”
“You know very well. You pretended to be an LT puncher by the name of Jack Walker. Les was sure he should know you from somewhere, but he didn’t catch on until later.” Calista paused. “It’s true, isn’t it? You really hire yourself out to kill people?”
“I didn’t come here to talk about me.”
“Oh, God.” Calista sat on the edge of the bed and bowed her head. “And to think I was fond of you.”
“Was?” I said.
“You can’t expect us to continue being friends.” She made it sound like the most insane thing in all creation.
“I don’t see why not,” I responded. “I’m still the same man I was when I dressed as a parson.”
“But you’re not a parson, which is the whole point.” In her exasperation, Calista balled her fists. “How could I have been so dumb?” She gestured sharply. “I want you to leave and never return.”
I didn’t move. “I’d be obliged if you would hear me out first.”
“Nothing you say could possibly be of interest to me.”
“Not even the fact that Gertrude Tanner hired me to exterminate the Butchers? Or that she was the one who murdered Everett?”
That pricked her. She was intrigued despite herself. “How do I know you’re not making that up?”
“Someone had to hire me or I wouldn’t be here. Someone who could afford my thousand-dollar fee.”
“My word. You rate yourself highly, don’t you?”
Her sarcasm stung. “I rate my skills highly. But I don’t walk around with a mirror strapped to my chin, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Skills?” Calista repeated, and laughed me to scorn.
“Not everyone can core an apple at two hundred yards with a rifle, or twenty-five yards with a revolver. Not everyone can stick a knife in a bull’s-eye nine times out of ten. Not everyone has the patience to lie as still as a log a whole night or day, waiting for a perfect shot.” I confess I was stretching things. With a rifle I was good out to a hundred yards, with a revolver, maybe ten. I much preferred to use the scattergun or the garrote or the knife. “And not everyone can squeeze the trigger when a person is in their sights.”
“My, my,” Calista sniffed. “You recite all those accomplishments as if they are traits to be proud of.”
“Do you want to hear about Gertrude or not?”
“If you insist. But your skills, as you call them, do not inspire much confidence that you will tell the truth.”
I was about to say I would never lie to her, but that would make me the world’s biggest hypocrite.
“I’m waiting.”
I gave her all of it, or nearly all, from the moment I arrived in Whiskey Flats until right then. I left out the part about my feelings for Daisy. I left out that it was me who shot Sissy. I also glossed over the gore. And I sure as hell left out how I had boiled Phil Tanner alive.
Calista did not say anything for a spell. When she finally did it was not to accuse me of lying, but rather, “You think you know someone, but you never do. Gerty has always been headstrong. Arrogant, even. But I never suspected she could stoop so low.”
“Now you know.”
Calista gave me a peculiar look. “Why did you come here tonight? Why put yourself in danger to see me?”
“Everyone in town is asleep. I’m not in that much danger.”