“I don’t smoke, either,” Garvey said. The overseer had voiced only a few comments all evening.
“You should,” Arthur Draypool said. “Tobacco is God’s gift to humankind. Unlike alcohol, it doesn’t have any bad effects.”
“Unless you count accidentally setting your clothes on fire when you light up,” Judge Harding joked.
Fargo did not share in their chuckles. “Tell me more about the Monster,” he urged Harding. “Has anyone ever made a list of the names of all those he’s butchered?”
“I have the information right here.” Judge Harding tapped his temple. “His first victims were the Myrtle family, ten years ago next month. They were from Rhode Island. They came here to farm and were buried on their plot.”
“I remember them,” Arthur Draypool said. “In addition to the parents, there were two small girls and a small boy, correct?”
“That was the family, yes,” the judge said. “I presided at the burials. Little did we realize more atrocities would follow.”
Fargo had to hand it to them. They lied as slickly as patent medicine salesmen. “Who were some of the others?”
Judge Harding related the deaths of victim after victim, adding little touches about their appearance and what they supposedly did for a living to make it more believable. “As you can see,” he said, summing things up, “my wife was not all that remiss about how badly we need your help.”
It was well past nine when Harding and Draypool excused themselves and headed upstairs, the judge commenting, “It would be wise if you gentlemen did the same. Tomorrow may well be the day we receive news of the Monster’s whereabouts.”
Fargo left the dining room. The shadow that fell across him as he came to the upstairs landing was as big as the shadow of a redwood.
“I look forward to working with you,” Garvey said.
“I work alone.”
“Not against the Monster you don’t,” Garvey responded. “Mr. Harding and Mr. Draypool told me we are sticking with you.” He stopped at a room. “This is mine. See you in the morning.”
Fargo shook off a feeling of a net closing around him. His uneasiness resurfaced, and he latched his bedroom door. Sprawling out on his back, he was on the verge of dozing off when a light knock sounded. The clock on the wall said it was five minutes to eleven. Belda was early. He threw the latch and pulled the door wide, and could not hide his surprise.
“I thought you might like some company,” Darby Harding said.
12
A wariness came over Fargo. He was unsure why. Darby was not armed and posed no threat. Quite the opposite. She was dressed for bed, in a gown that clung to her as if it had been painted on, accenting her enticing charms.
Fargo remembered how eagerly Priscilla Mayfair had thrown herself into his arms at the Mayfair farm, and the feeling came over him that this was the exact same situation. Which suggested there was more here than met his eye. He had a sudden conviction that the two women did not necessarily cozy up to him by choice, which meant someone had put Priscilla and now Darby up to it.
“Are you going to let me in or must I stand out here making a horse’s ass of myself?”
Fargo glanced down the hall. He saw no one, but his instincts told him they were being watched and his instincts were seldom wrong. “It’s late and I’m tired.”
Darby’s features rippled in astonishment. “You would rather go to bed alone? Are you the real Skye Fargo or an impostor? The real Fargo, I’ve heard, has slept with more women than the entire Fifth Cavalry.” She laughed lightly and splayed fragrant fingers on his chest. “You’re not serious, are you?”
The cleavage she displayed would have weakened a monk’s resolve, and Fargo was no monk. “Afraid so,” he said, and started to close the door.
“No, you don’t.” Darby barged past him, her eyes flashing with anger. “I won’t have it thrown in my face.”
Fargo nearly grabbed her by the arm and shoved her back out. He did not like being used. He never had. “What?” he asked.
“The gift I’m offering you,” Darby said, and gestured at her soft, sinewy body with all its glorious attributes. “If you make me leave it will be an insult.”
“I’m not in the mood,” Fargo said, and smirked at the thought that he had never in his life said that to a woman before.
Darby stepped to the bed and turned, one leg visible in the folds of her robe, revealing velvet skin from her toes to her thigh. “Don’t give me that. Men are always in the mood. They are born randy and get worse as they get older.”
“Not all men,” Fargo quibbled. He left the door open and leaned against the jamb. “Besides, women like it just as much as men. They like to put on airs and pretend they don’t, but they do.”
“Is that so?” Darby slid more of her leg out of the robe. She waited, and when he did not say or do anything, she gestured again, angrily. “If you know so much about women, you should know that we don’t like having our airs, or our needs, treated with contempt.”
Fargo wondered how far she would push. And was it her uncle, or Draypool, who was behind the charade?
Darby softened and forced a thin smile. “Let’s start over, shall we? I don’t suppose you have something to drink? I sure could use a brandy right about now.”
Fargo stretched, and yawned.
“Damn you. You’re making me mad.” Darby tapped her foot with impatience. “This isn’t what I expected.”
“Next time don’t take things for granted,” Fargo said.
“There won’t be a next time, mister,” Darby snapped. “I don’t care what they—” She caught herself, and stopped.
Fargo folded his arms across his chest. She had said “they.” He wanted to ask who “they” were, but he must not act too suspicious or they would guess that he knew they were up to something. He must continue to act the fool. “Look. It’s been a long day. I’m tired. I would like to catch some sleep.”
“What’s one more hour or so?” Darby asked suggestively. Her breasts jiggling like ripe fruit on a tree limb, she sashayed toward him. “I’ll make it worth your while. I promise.”
Her anger had faded, but now Fargo’s flared. He was sick and tired of being manipulated like a puppet on a string. The Secessionist League had a reckoning coming. But he could not make his move until they made theirs.
“Well, big man?” Darby stopped and taunted him with her gaze and her posture. She was a gumdrop and he was a kid staring into the jar in the general store. “See something you like?”
“These,” Fargo said, and reaching out with both hands, he covered her mounds and squeezed, hard. Really hard.
Darby stiffened and arched her back. She bit her lower lip to stifle an outcry, then covered his hands with hers and said throatily, “Not so rough, if you please. That hurts.”
“Does it?” Fargo pinched her nipples, none too gently.
“Ah!” Darby threw her head back and took half a step backward, but she could not escape his grasp. Her entire face reddened and she gasped, “Shut the door! We don’t want anyone to see us.”
“You shut it if you want,” Fargo said, but as she started to step past him he flicked a hand between her legs and up under her robe.
“What are you—?” Darby blurted. “Oh!” She tried to pull back, but his fingers were where he wanted them. “The bed, damn you. Carry me to the bed.”
“Why bother?” Fargo slowly lowered his mouth to her neck and bit her. As his teeth sank in, he thrust upward with his middle finger.
“Ah! Dear God!” Darby placed her hands on his shoulders and feebly attempted to push him away, but another thrust buckled her knees and she sagged against him, groaning deep in her throat. “Not like this,” she whispered.