Duncan looked and felt defeated. All his life he'd been a secondary figure. Even at the mattress plant. The foreman ran the place day to day. What the hell did Duncan know about mattresses? And the accountant ran everything else. What the hell did Duncan know about running books?
"You're never going to amount to anything," Duncan's father had managed to say virtually every day of Duncan's boyhood. Not good at sports, not good at carpentry or riding horses or baseball—the things his father and his older brothers were all good at. And then to feel so damned sorry for himself. A dozen times a day, Duncan took stock of himself and felt this burden of self-disgust. Men—and women—were right to find him repellent, laughable, weak. He was all those things.
Now he was about to turn over his weapon. He'd come out here in such a fine rage. He was going to take control. He was going to figure out how to deal with the telegram. He was going to show Neville that Aaron Duncan was every bit his equal.
His jaw muscles bunched and unbunched. They were like a tumor just beneath his skin. He leaned forward, set the weapon down on the clean desktop, and pushed it over to Neville.
Where Duncan was indecisive, fearful, confused by it all, Richard Neville was purposeful, unafraid, and single-minded. He knew exactly what he needed and wanted to do, and he did it.
He picked up the Peacemaker and shot Aaron Duncan twice in the chest.
Chapter Twenty-five
"You realize I've just destroyed my husband," Ellie Duncan said as she walked him back to his horse. She'd sobered up some. Probably too much, given everything she'd told Prine over the past half hour. She'd probably need to start drinking again when she realized all the implications of her confession.
"I'm sorry, Ellie."
"I'm scared for him. I don't love him anymore. But I'm scared for him. All the things you hear about prison life—"
She began to cry. "I don't know what I'll tell our children. If they ever find out that I betrayed their father . . ."
He took her gently to him, brushing her hair with his big hand, letting her dampen his shirt with her warm tears.
He headed back to town, riding fast.
I didn't cause her death. Neville did. He paid Tolan and Rooney to kill her. They would've killed her even if I hadn't tried to take advantage of the situation. But, shit, it's never going to be the same for me. I saw that I'm no more honest than half the people I arrest. Maybe a lot of people would've tried the same thing I did. Maybe most of us are a lot closer to being dishonest than we know. I sure as hell am. And that's going to stay with me the rest of my life.
When Carlos came in and saw Duncan's body on the floor, Richard Neville stopped what he was doing at his wall safe and said, "You opened the front door for him, didn't you?"
"Yessir."
"You saw how angry he was, didn't you?"
"Yessir."
"I didn't have any choice. He had a gun."
Carlos seemed confused, obviously realizing that the Peacemaker on the desk did not belong to his employer.
"That was the gun you used?"
"Yes."
"But it's—"
"It's his gun. And this is where you have to listen very carefully, Carlos. Do you understand?"
"Yessir."
"I grabbed his gun from him and started walking back to my desk. Do you understand so far, Carlos?"
"Yessir."
"But just as I turned my back, he reached inside his coat. I only caught a glimpse of that—but then I heard you shout, 'He's got a gun!'"
"I see, sir. A lie."
"Dammit, it's not a lie. It's exactly what happened."
"Yessir."
"But I'm going to need a little corroboration."
"Corroboration, sir?"
"Yes, Carlos. Corroboration. It means somebody swearing that that's what happened. Somebody vouching for me. You understand?"
"Now I do. Yessir."
"You'd heard us arguing—Duncan and I—and you rushed in to see if everything was all right. You saw me wrestle the gun from him. And when I got it and started back to my desk, you saw him—from the back—reach into his jacket and start to pull something out. That's when you shouted that he had a gun. Now, can you remember all that?"
"Yessir."
Carlos raised his gaze to the open wall safe.
"I'm going on an overnight trip. Some extremely important business. You ride into town and tell Sheriff Daly what happened out here. And tell him I'll be back sometime tomorrow."
"But shouldn't you be here, Mr. Neville? A dead man—it will not look so good if you're not here."
Neville could feel himself swell with rage. He was not used to his servants arguing with him. But anger would only irritate Carlos more.
Neville said, "Carlos, I'm asking you to help me. I have a very important meeting I need to attend. A great deal depends on this meeting. Your job included. Do you understand?"
"Yessir."
"So I need you to do exactly as I say. All right?"
Carlos, too, had apparently decided that challenging his boss was not the best way to proceed. "Yessir."
"I need the three suits I had made in Chicago packed right away. With all the appropriate shirts and cravats and so on. Just as if you were packing for me on an extended trip. All right?"
"Yessir."
"And I need you to do it now. Right now."
"Yessir."
Carlos wasted no time. He gave a half-bow and removed himself from the office.
The gringos have their laws. Very complicated laws. Neville, he killed Mr. Duncan. He is guilty of murder. By gringo law, I will be guilty of helping him if I lie for him. Gringo law makes provision for that. They have a word for that. Accessory. I could go to prison. Neville, he would not give a damn. Not about me or about my Maria or my three children. When he fires people on a whim, he does not care that they may not find work again for a very long time. Look at Juan. Seven months, and still no job. And when I asked Neville about hiring him back—Juan did nothing; Neville just had one of his stupid hangovers and was in a mood to bully someone—he said that if I ever brought up the subject again, he would fire me on the spot. But he will also fire me if I don't pack his clothes. And lie for him when I bring back Daly and Prine. Blessed Mother, help me to know the right thing to do. The rich gringos, they do not care for us. You and Jesus are our only friends in this terrible world of rich gringos. Our only friends.
By the time Prine reached the sheriff's office, Bob Carlyle was gone for the day and Sheriff Daly was waiting for Harry Ryan to relieve him for the night. Deep shadow and a dusk sky streaked the colors of rose and sunflowers lent elegance to the hurry-home, scurry-home rush of downtown workers. It was just chill enough that even the office coffee smelled good.
Daly was working on paperwork. He looked up and said, "Was wonderin' where you'd got to."
"We need to get out to Neville's place."
Daly put his pen down. "Any special reason?"
"Neville hired Tolan and Rooney to kill Cassie. He's lost a lot of money on bad investments. He needed her half of the fortune."
Daly whistled. "You sure about all this? Because if you aren't, Neville's gonna run out straight up the map into Canada. That is, if he don't decide to shoot us first."
"I just spent forty-five minutes talking to Ellie Duncan. Aaron and Neville burned those three businesses down. Neville was the silent partner I was trying to find."
"Maybe Neville killed Al Woodward, too."
"That's a possibility. For sure."
Daly levered himself up from the desk chair. "Old man Neville's turning over in his grave. You hear him?"