Pickleman answered him. “What it has always been about. Money. Millions and millions of dollars. Millions I will get to do with as I see fit.”
Tom couldn’t hide his bewilderment. “What are you talking about? If we don’t get the money it’s supposed to go to the poor.”
“Try and follow me on this,” the lawyer said with the air of an elder to a ten-year-old. “In the event that none of his children found the chest, your father appointed me executor of his estate in perpetuity. Yes, he stipulates in the will that the money is to go to the poor but I get to decide who exactly they are. You see, your father didn’t care about that aspect. He never really expected it to come to that, I imagine.”
“Wait,” Tom said. “You’re saying that you take over everything ?”
“Congratulations. You’re finally getting it.”
“That can’t be. There must be laws against it.”
“Honestly, Thomas. How you manage to get dressed without help is beyond me? Certainly, there are laws. But I’m a lawyer. I wrote up the will for your father. Every clause, every word, in such a way that after I’ve disposed of all of you, your father’s estate and bank accounts become mine to do with as I please.”
“It won’t work. Someone will catch on.”
“Who? The sheriff? The marshal? What cause would they have to suspect me? I assure you that the will is entirely and thoroughly legal. Not that your father read every word. He trusted me, and he could never be bothered to read a document all the way through. So I managed to slip in a few clauses he wasn’t aware of.” Pickleman laughed.
“But it has to go to charity,” Tom persisted.
“Oh, and some of it will. To charities I set up under the table, as it were. Your mansion will become a charitable asset, and as such, mine to live in while I administer the estate.” Pickleman rubbed his hands together. “Yes, sir. If I draw it out, I figure it will take a good forty to fifty years to do the administering.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Now, now. Keep a civil tongue or I’ll have Jacques, here, cut it out. He would, you know. He’ll do anything I ask of him. Isn’t that right, Jacques?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Fargo had listened to enough. “There are a few things I’m cloudy on yet,” he admitted.
“Such as?” Pickleman said.
“Why did Jacques and his sister jump me that night on the Yancy?”
“Why else? I knew Sam had sent for you and I didn’t want to run the risk of you finding the chest before I disposed of the heirs. I could have had them killed before this, I suppose, but the hunt was a perfect pretext. I’ll say that Tom was to blame, that in his greed and his rage he murdered the others.”
“Damn you,” Tom snarled, and coiled to throw himself at the attorney.
“Don’t,” Sam said, restraining him. “You’ll be dead before you take a step.”
Fargo wasn’t done. “Then if you hired these two, who hired Cletus Brun and Anders?”
“I hired Brun,” Tom said. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Actually,” Pickleman said, “if you’ll recall, I was the one who recommended Brun to you. All the time he was working for me. I hired him and Anders, both.”
“What?” Samantha and Tom said at the same time.
They weren’t the only ones taken aback by the news. Jacques stiffened and said, “Did I just hear right? You hired my sister and me andyou hired those two clods?”
“As insurance, you might say,” Pickleman said. “In case you and your sister failed.”
“We never fail.”
“So I was told but I couldn’t take the risk. I hired you and I hired them but I never told either of you about the other.” Pickleman thought that was humorous. “It never occurred to me that you and your sister might catch on to them and kill them, thinking they worked for one of the Clyborns.”
Sam said, “I was wrong about your assassin being a monster. You’re the monster here, Theodore. You betrayed our father. You’re out to destroy the rest of us. You are a vile, mean, petty little man who hid his true nature from us all these years with false smiles and false friendship.”
“Oh, please. I was a whipping boy, good for running errands and attending to legal matters and nothing more.”
“We’ve treated you like one of the family ever since I can remember.”
“The family dog, perhaps.” Pickleman gestured at Jacques. “Enough of this. None of them found the chest so I have no further need of them. Do as I’m paying you to do and finish them off.”
“Do you have a preference as to the order?”
“Eh? No. Just kill them and be done with it.”
“As you wish, monsieur.”
20
The whole time they were talking, Fargo had slowly placed his hands flat on the ground. He dug the fingers of his right hand into the soil, uprooting a clod of dirt. It wasn’t much but it was all he had and he would be damned if he was going to go down without a fight.
Jacques was taking aim at Samantha but glanced up at a sudden racket in the undergrowth.
Roland Clyborn stumbled into the open. He had been pushed from behind and was pushed again.
“Keep moving, monsieur,” Julienne commanded. She saw her brother and smiled and nodded and Jacques smiled in return.
Roland fell to his knees. He had taken a fierce beating. His right eye was swollen nearly shut, his nose was broken and bleeding, his mouth dripped blood and his face was marked black-and-blue. From the way he was holding his arm, it was either sprained or broken. Pain etched his face as he looked at Theodore Pickleman and said simply, “Traitor.”
The lawyer was momentarily dumbfounded. Sputtering, he croaked, “What is the meaning of this, Julienne? You were to have killed him by now while your brother attended to these others.”
“Oui,” the sister said. She had a low, melodious voice that under other circumstances would have stirred Fargo where he most liked to be stirred. “I intended to kill him, monsieur.”
“What stopped you?”
Roland Clyborn managed to smile through his pulped lips. “Me. I said the magic words.”
Theodore angrily shook a finger at him. “What are you prattling about? There’s nothing you could say that would keep you alive.”
“I found the chest.”
The lawyer stiffened. “What’s that?”
“You heard me, you bastard. I found the chest with the last page of Father’s will.”
“Where is it? I don’t see it on you.” Pickleman glanced at Julienne. “Do you have it?”
“Non, monsieur.”
“Then where the hell is it?”
Julienne shrugged. “He didn’t have it with him.”
“Then he’s lying,” Pickleman practically shouted. “He tricked you into sparing him so you would bring him to me, you stupid sow.”
Jacques turned and placed the muzzle of his Remington against the lawyer’s head. “Have a care, monsieur. You will talk to my sister with respect or, employer or no, I will splatter your brains.”
“Jacques, no,” Julienne said. “He has a right to be mad if I have been made a fool of.”
Jacques slowly lowered the Remington. “Very well. But he must watch his words. No man insults you while I still breathe.”
Fargo had glanced at Roland and Roland at him. They understood each other without having to say anything. Fargo nodded, and Roland nodded, and Fargo tensed for what he had to do.
Pickleman was saying, “It doesn’t matter if he did find the chest. So long as no one else knows we can carry on with my original plan. You’ll kill them, I’ll blame their deaths on Tom, and become executor of their father’s estate. It’s simple as can be.”