The telegraph rode in his pocket like a coiled snake, ready to strike. His lawyer warning him that Prine had tried to get the name of Duncan's secret partner from him. Now it was both Prine and the insurance company moving in on them. And Neville kept on killing people. One dead in the mattress factory fire. Al Woodward the insurance investigator murdered. And in both of these, by law, Duncan had been complicit.
That first night when Neville had proposed it all, it all sounded so easy.
You need money, Aaron, and so do I. Your company's about three or four months from taking bankruptcy. I owe so much money, they may not even give me the regular bankruptcy protection. One thing's for sure—they'll take every single thing I own. Every single thing. But I can lay my hands on just enough cash to buy into your businesses and fix them up some. Capital investment. My accountant'll doctor the books so that it'll look like you're doing very, very well for yourself Then I hire somebody to burn the buildings down and we'll split the proceeds.
It had looked so easy.
The insurance company did only a cursory examination of the first building. They were naturally more curious—and more deliberate—about number two.
Richard Neville went through his arson money quickly, learning that it wasn't enough to keep people off his back for even a couple of weeks. So he'd proposed arson number three. With a wrinkle.
We'll make it look like somebody's got it in for you, Aaron. We'll leave a note that says this is fire number three. Fire number four'll be your fancy new house. And we'll make it sound like this arsonist's got some kind of grudge against you. Maybe somebody you fired a long time ago. Somebody who's really crazy, he hates you so much. This way, it doesn't look like we had anything to do with it. There's this maniac running around. We can't help that, can we?
Good ole Neville. The mastermind. The genius. Just ask him.
Well, now he'd really have to be a mastermind. Obviously, the insurance company didn't believe the letter the "arsonist" left behind. And apparently neither did Prine, else why would he be firing off telegrams to Duncan's lawyer?
The estate was coming into view. Normally, sight of it would have made him feel better. There were always stiff drinks and good food to be had at the Neville mansion. Even listening to Richard brag wasn't so bad most of the time. Richard was an entertaining braggart. He had no sense of humor about himself, that was the biggest problem from a social standpoint. He couldn't detect his underlings gently laughing at him rather than with him. He couldn't tell a smirk from a smile.
But this afternoon, neither smirk nor smile would matter. All that counted was the telegram coiled in Duncan's pocket. With all the stress and strain Neville had been under lately, he was likely to go into one of his temper tantrums. These were truly terrifying and sickening spectacles. A grown man with no more control of himself than a spoiled seven-year-old. He'd curse, smash things, and then turn on whichever poor unfortunate had been designated to bring him the bad news. Killing the messenger was part of the fun for Richard—his eyes bugged out, his face scarlet with boiling blood, spittle flying like silver worms from his lips.
That was when you needed to stand up to him.
Duncan had to remember that. He was a full partner in all this. He was complicit in the murders of at least two people. He had the right to speak up and the right to be listened to with great seriousness.
Even if Richard tried to shut up him, Richard was going to by God listen to him. Even if Duncan had to put a gun to his head.
He was sick of Richard, sick of his life—and, most especially, sick of himself.
He rode through the open black wrought-iron gates leading to the dusty road that eventually wound past the mansion.
After tying his horse to a hitching post, he went quickly up the front steps and knocked on the towering front door. So like Richard to have a door this size. Loom over you and intimidate you even before you'd gotten inside.
"Yes, sir. Good evening, sir." This was whitejacketed Carlos. The butler. The man seemed to work twenty-four hours a day.
"I need to see Neville."
"Very good, sir. Wait here and I'll announce you." All with a Mex accent, of course.
But there would be none of that royal bullshit this time. Duncan pushed past Carlos and rushed down the parquet hall leading to the home office Neville preferred to work out of. The place still stank from all the funeral flowers that had been in the front room where the wake—complete with body—had been held.
He didn't knock. He burst in.
Neville, behind his desk, looked up. He was startled for perhaps two seconds. Then he was enraged.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Duncan?"
"Shut the hell up," Duncan said.
He slammed the door hard enough to make a few of the paintings on the walls dance a little. Then he took the telegram from inside his suit jacket and pitched it onto Neville's desk.
"I asked you what the hell you thought you were doing?" Neville said, not even looking at the telegram.
"And I told you to shut up. And I'm still telling you to shut up. And read that telegram."
Neville had to say something before he read the telegram, of course. His kind always have the last word.
"You're going to regret coming in this way, unannounced. You seem to think you've got some sort of upper hand now, but you don't. And I don't give a damn what that telegram says."
Duncan slid his Peacemaker out from inside his coat.
"Read it, Richard. Now."
"That's just one more thing you're going to regret, Duncan. Pulling a gun on me. You must be losing your mind."
"Read it. Now."
Neville finally picked up the telegram. Unfolded it angrily. Laid it flat upon his desk and scanned it.
Wasn't a long telegram. Didn't take much reading, much time.
"Sonofabitch," Neville said when he finished reading it.
"Those lawyers of yours better know how to save our lives, Richard, or I'm going to cooperate with the law."
Neville, curiously, spoke softly now, almost gently. "We've had our differences, Aaron. But I've always liked you."
"Sure, Richard. You don't like anybody but yourself."
"Will you listen to me? You can't stand there with that ridiculous gun of yours—I'm sorry, Aaron, you just don't look that threatening with a gun in your hand—and tell me that we didn't have same good times when we started hanging around together a couple of years ago. That trip to New Orleans? That trip to St. Louis? Those mulatto girls we found in Cheyenne that time?"
But Duncan wasn't caught up in Neville's attempt at nostalgia.
"We didn't kill people then. The men who died in those fires we had set—"
"It was an accident, Aaron. An accident. It's almost as if you want to feel guilty about those men." Duncan held up his free hand.
"All that matters now is that we figure out how to deal with the insurance company and Prine, Richard. You're supposed to be the smart one here. What the hell are we going to do?"
"I'll tell you one thing we're not going to do," Neville said. 'We're not going to start running around in circles and looking like we've got something to hide. You understand that, Aaron?"
Duncan's resolve had been waning. Going up against Neville was just too difficult. He wasn't afraid of the telegram, he wasn't afraid of Duncan's gun. He was a man naturally given to controlling all situations. And this situation was no different.
"Now, will you put that stupid damned gun down here on the desk, Aaron?"
"You really have an idea?" Duncan knew how desperate, childlike, he sounded.
"I really have an idea, but I'm not saying anything else until that Peacemaker of yours is right here on my desk."