“I had a little visit from the boys working the Mootry case. Least, I think it was them.” He coughed uncontrollably, the pain in his ribs excruciating.
“Oh, no. I hope there wasn't any trouble.”
He managed to get control. “Not too terribly much.”
“But there was some?”
“I just wanted to be sure they… they weren't harassing you tonight, too.”
“Me? Why should they? I didn't break their yellow tape.”
“No, but they mentioned you prominently when they threatened my life.”
“Holy… they threatened your life? Those creeps. Are you hurt?”
“Not too.”
“How about them? Did you hurt them good?”
He would have liked to answer in the affirmative. Instead, he stuck with, “Not too.”
“Aren't you going to give me any of the details? What is it with you and details?”
“Mere… think I'm go… ing… hang up now.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. Good”-he held himself together-”night.” He quickly hung up. In a few minutes, he passed out again, thinking, Damn, that SOB hits harder than a tree falling, and my neck's going to be as stiff as a pine tomorrow-if I ever wake up again.
Earlier in the evening, Randy Oglesby had telephoned Dr. Sanger, but he'd gotten no answer. He didn't want to leave a message of such importance as he had on her answering machine, so he cut off before the beep. He tried Stonecoat at home, having gotten his number from the personnel files on the Net. Once again, no answer, and this time no answering machine.
He had made second and third attempts to get in touch, finally assuming that so much work had confronted them in Oregon that they had had to stay over. He wondered if anything of a romantic nature was taking place between them, but rather doubted this since Dr. Sanger was always and forever talking about her beau-her swain, her suitor, her escort, her fiancee, Conrad, ugh! Conrad could, according to Dr. Sanger, become the next Newton or Einstein or Stephen Hawking, he was that brilliant. Bullshit.
But he didn't care tonight one way or the other about Dr. Sanger's boyfriend, because he couldn't believe his own great fortune. Not only had Darlene Muentes been petite, beautiful, and exotic, but she had laughed at all his stories in the right places, had gone somber during all his stories at the right moments, and had thrilled to the adventure of his police detective's life. She was so enthralled that she wanted to see him again. Life was grand as Jim Pardee.
Darlene, to save time, had brought the two goblets and the bill directly to him when they met for lunch. It had been an exquisite lunch meeting. God, he thought now, what a rush!
Randy had praised Darlene for her sense of duty in getting the evidence back into his hands as quickly as she had. She shyly accepted the compliment, eating like a butterfly trying on a horse's appetite. She was so well-mannered and delicate, but she certainly could pack the food away. There was something about that he liked.
He had been pleasantly surprised that she found him good-looking-a real “hunk,” as she'd put it. She had confessed to having never met anyone over the phone before. He told her he had never met anyone in any “blind” way before, but that her voice just rang so pure and clear, like a bell in a wooded glen. She giggled at the image and wondered if he was lying.
She had no idea, not a clue.
It was great. Detective Randy Jim Pardee Oglesby thought now as he made his way to dreamland and found Darlene Muentes waiting there for him. Their next date was for Saturday night. He could hardly wait.
He gave a momentary thought to Dr. Meredyth Sanger, to whom he owed so much for getting him placed in the hierarchy of the support staff at the station. He had secretly admired her all the time they'd been together, but she was way out of his league and much older, which meant about ten years his senior. Still, he knew the odds of his ever interesting her romantically were as astronomical as winning the Texas State Lottery or of the Houston Astros ever again having a pitcher as good as Nolan Ryan, the first man in history to strike out four thousand batters.
Surrounded by this swirl of thought, light and apprehension, Randy Oglesby slept, Judge Mootry's goblets sitting atop his bookcase, the lab results beside the glasses, the bill below this.
TWENTY
A little makeup applied professionally by the barber down the street, and Lucas's unkind wounds were made to pretty well disappear. It beat a giant Band-Aid, he decided. The neck was, as he'd predicted, stiff as a board, and his head still ached somewhat dully, but he was otherwise well. It had been the massive, bear like blow to the back of his head that had wreaked most of the havoc. When he had stepped over his blood in the gutter this morning, the sight made him boil and seethe with anger.
He wasn't used to being taken so easily. Maybe he should let it go, but his pride was bruised along with his neck.
He and Sanger were to have met with Lawrence at nine, which time had come and gone an hour ago. He supposed that now not only would Sergeant Kelton be pissed, but the captain and Sanger as well; but there was no reason Mere couldn't advise Phil on her own about what they'd found in Medford, Oregon.
He had slept until the phone rang. It was Kelton who had made the wake-up call, saying that Dr. Sanger was worried about him when he didn't show up at nine, and that if it wasn't bothering Stonecoat too awfully, would he get his bloody arse up and onto his duties! The last phrase was delivered in an earsplitting, painful war cry.
“I'm on my way. I had a little medical emergency last night, Sarge,” he had replied.
Now he was stepping through the doors to face Kelton, Lawrence and Sanger together. He hoped none would see the fresh wounds on his neck.
Kelton immediately and silently, his anger rising off him like steam, escorted Lucas to Lawrence's door, announcing him as if he were the king of Siam, bowing loudly and exaggeratedly, making Stonecoat frown and blush at once.
'That's not necessary, Sergeant,” said Phil Lawrence, dismissing Kelton. Meredyth stood in one comer of the room. “I'm told by Dr. Sanger you had some sort of brush last night with Pardee and Amelford from the Twenty-second.
Is that right?”
“Yeah, a slight brush, sir.”
“Those boys can get rough.”
“So I've noticed, sir.”
“Have a seat, Lucas.
“ Lucas did as told.
“Dr. Sanger here's brought me up to speed on what you two found up in Medford. Damned strangebusiness… damned strange, wouldn't you say? Insane, really. What do you make of it?”
“Like you say, sir, insane.”
“Some kind of sociopath on the loose?”
“If so, there're more than one.”
He nodded. “Yes, Dr. Sanger told me about your theory. Well, there's no shortage of sociopaths who meet in prison, team up after they're released to work in tandem. The literature of crime is filled with team killers. What's next, you two?”
“We're not sure just yet, sir, what our next step will be,” Lucas quickly said, “but I think we'll start talking to some of the hunting goods outlets and maybe some of the hunt club types around Houston, if that meets with your approval, sir.”
“Hunt clubs? You know that involves some big muckety-muck types. No lowlife joins a Houston hunt club that I know of.”
“No, sir, I mean, yes, sir, I know. Have it in my head, sir, that we're not dealing with the usual criminal element, sir.”
“Really, now. Then what kind of criminal element are we dealing with, Lucas?”
“High rollers, sir. Timothy Little was a rich man, and so was Mootry. They traveled in different circles, sir, but one thing they had in common was a lot of money to leave behind. Dr. Sanger's promised to look into their wills and scour for who stood to gain the most on their parting. Captain. Meanwhile, I thought I'd ask around at the local hunting goods outlets and clubs about members who prefer the crossbow to, say, a Remington automatic, sir.”