Chapter 14
Jill dashed into the house, still pressing her ripped jeans to her belly and hanging onto her boots. She was halfway across the living room when she saw somebody in the corner, someone too small to be either Dink or Sam Starr.
Migod, she thought, not already-not here!
She saw the girl come hesitantly from the shadows. It took Jill a double take to recognize her, and then the shock wasn't much less: Sherry Pittman.
"Stay put," Jill said, "I-I have to-oh, hell!" She raced on into the bedroom and kicked shut the door. Snatching at underwear and a shirt, she crammed herself into them, then hunted for more jeans, for socks; she sat down and pushed her feet back into her boots. Only then did her heart slow its beating and drop back toward normal.
Sherry Pittman; what in hell was the girl doing here? She'd already been well laid by Jill's husband; what more could she want? Jill went back into the living room and the kid was still standing where she'd been, with her chin up and those unflinchingly direct blue eyes reaching out at Jill.
"M-Mrs. Devlin, I-my name is Sherry-"
"I know who you are," Jill said, looking beyond the girl to the window. Steve had left the truck and was over by Sam Starr's camper.
"Well," Sherry said, "I had to come over here for-for two reasons. My daddy set fire to your barn. I was home when he came in, and he was all dirty, and sweaty, and he was scared silly. I came to apologize for the terrible thing he did, and to help any way I can."
Jill touched the girl on the shoulder, and Sherry winced away. "I need something in the kitchen," Jill said, "a big drink. Come on, and you can tell me what the other reason is."
She had the drink poured when Sherry said in a small, faint voice, "Because I'm in love with your husband."
Tossing down the drink, Jill splashed more whiskey into the glass. Through the kitchen window, she saw Steve talking to the two old men, warning them probably. She looked back at the girl; oh, lord, to be honest and conscience-ridden again; to be fourteen years old and madly in love.
Jill said, "Okay; I love him, too. And look, Sherry-I don't blame you for it; I don't blame Steve either. I know what happened in the hay barn yesterday, and-"
The girl gasped. "He told you!"
"No, he didn't. I saw it. Don't faint, girl; get hold of yourself and think about loving Steve. Okay now? He doesn't even know I watched the two of you. I'll say it again; I don't blame either of you. I think it was-beautiful."
Sherry touched the tip of a pink tongue to her lips, but just then the telephone rang stridently. Jill walked to answer it, and gave the girl a reassuring smile, understanding some small part of what the child was feeling. Then she remembered the hay barn and thought; Child, hell!
"Yes-hello?"
"Jill, this is-this is Boyce. Oh, my god, Jill. I just found this note-it's from my daughter, my daughter Sherry. She said she's riding out to your ranch and-is she there?"
"Yes, she's here, Boyce." Jill looked a question at the girl, who shook her head. "She doesn't want to talk to you."
"Tell her to come home right now! Jill-please, damn it. She's only a child and she doesn't know what's going on, how dangerous it is for her to be-"
Jill said, "She told me you burned our barn. And she's not a child, Boyce; not any more."
"You-I can't conceive of anyone-I didn't burn your barn, damn it! I'll admit that I searched your house; yes-I was hunting for those blackmail pictures, but I didn't-I couldn't set fire to anybody's place. I was cutting through the woods to where I'd left the car when I heard shots, and I didn't know-I couldn't tell if they were meant for me or not and I ran-Jill; please, please let me talk to my daughter!"
She held out the phone, but Sherry turned her back and stared out of the kitchen window. "No dice, Boyce, and I don't fault her for it. What do you mean, how dangerous it is for her to be out here? You'd better spit it out, because she's not going anywhere-"
Boyce Pittman swallowed hard, dryly; the sound was nearly that of retching. He said, "It's Aaron Mercer. He-he isn't Mercer."
Jill's fingers clamped onto the phone until the knuckles turned white. "What?"
"Mercer-the real Aaron Mercer, of Mercer Developments, just flew into New York today from somewhere in Europe." Boyce's voice went up a notch. "How was I to know? I mean-he was due in Midway, and we'd been in communication about your ranch, and-damn it, I couldn't know he was-this man in town was an imposter. Mercer is like Howard Hughes, and nobody sees much of him, only-"
Jill snapped it. "Get to it! Why is that dangerous?"
Yet she knew in her heart that Aaron-whatever he was called-was deadly; that the two men with him were no less evil. But they had already been beaten; they'd already lost-hadn't they?
Boyce Pittman said, "Mr. Mercer-the real one-said his people discovered an organizational leak, that a gangster-a Mafia man-had the advance information on our Midway development, where the Rafter D is the key because of its location. Mr. Mercer called from New York today, and he was identified by a prominent stockbroker I know well up there, so it's certainly him-and he said-the gangster was trying to make a quick killing for better than a hundred thousand dollars, maybe a lot more, by getting your place and selling it to Mercer."
Boyce gulped for breath, and Jill pictured him behind his banker's desk, jumpy and sweating, truly frightened for the first time in his money-padded life. But he was frightened more for his little girl-she gave him that much. Little girl, hell.
"He-this mob man-he just called me from the motel, and had me vouch for him to the sheriff. He said he'd kill me if I screwed him up, and he'd kill Sherry, too. Please, Jill-about Sherry-he's going out to your ranch, and he's so mad he's insane. He means to murder Steve, so you'll be the sole survivor and full owner of the ranch-he said he has your quitclaim, and he's making this last ditch try to salvage the operation-oh, my god; I'm so scared I can't think straight."
Jill said bitterly into the phone, "If you don't call the sheriff, I swear I'll march Sherry right out into the yard for Steve to hide behind." Then she banged down the instrument.
To the girl, she said, "No, I won't. But I had to put some pressure on your father, so he'll rise above being a son of a bitch for once in his life."
Steve loped across the back yard and through the kitchen door. Jill handed him a glass of whiskey and told him swiftly about Boyce Pittman and the two Aaron Mercers. He drank and looked at Sherry; the girl smiled tremulously at him, and somehow Jill wasn't jealous. She saw them again in her mind's eye, locked together on the bale of straw, naked and lovingly coiled in that static moment of the perfection of simultaneous orgasm. And she wasn't jealous.
He said, "Sherry, get down on the floor by the stove, and stay there. Jill-fill some pots with water, in case they pop some more tracers into the house to burn us out. You can take the shotgun then, and cover the bedroom window, but stay down, you hear?"
"Yes," she said, "and you?"
He took the Winchester from its pegs over the mantelpiece, and jacked its lever. Fingering into the shell box, he thumbed the tube full and took the dust covers off the telescopic sights; then he dumped the rest of the shells into his pocket. He said, "I gave Dink Watson my pistol and another full clip, just in case."
Jill shook her head; those two poor old men out there. They'd be safer, running off through the woods; Dink couldn't see to shoot a pistol, and Sam Starr must be at least seventy-five years old. She lifted the single-shot 12-gauge from the rack and poked a shell into its chamber.
Steve said, "I feel better, knowing they're hoods. They'll be easier to kill."
Jill said, "They may be harder, because they're professionals, and they won't give you half a chance, Steve; they know you're dangerous now, and Aaron-whoever he is-he was completely insane."
He looked into her face. "You bit him, didn't you-bit his penis?"
She managed a grin. "Damned near off."
And Sherry Pittman said, "If you've got a twenty-two, I can shoot one pretty good."
Steve shook his head and Jill said, touching the girl's pale, freckled cheek with her fingertips, "I take back what I just said about your dad. He must be something special to produce a girl like you."
Tears welled in Sherry's eyes, and she spun away to hide them.
"Car's coming," Steve said. "Both of you-down!"
Listening, Jill knew that the car-a gray Buick, or two of them-hadn't come all the way to the house. Its motor stopped some distance off, and she used the interval to grab a box of shotgun shells off the shelf before ducking for the bedroom as she'd been told. Boyce would call the law, she thought; he wouldn't put his daughter up as a target in the coming shootout.
But, the sheriff wasn't available. So they were on their own, setting themselves up against three Mafia killers, and the head man was in a blind, mad rage because his penis had been damned near bitten through. Now Jill wished she had chewed it off, that the motel had burned down with Aaron and Lang and Jojo still inside.
But they were coming. Fanned out along the bushes beside the road, maybe already crossed over into the thicket of willows near the house, possibly circling into the woods near the burned barn-they were coming, and by the time any help got here, Steve Devlin could have been shot full of holes.
They would have to kill her, too; she was scared green and her mouth tasted like old dust, but Jill was determined to fight them off beside her husband.
"Mrs. Devlin-J-Jill?" Sherry was standing in the bedroom door. "Don't you have a twenty-two I can use? I won't be afraid to shoot it, honest I won't."
The bullets slapped into the wall. Splinters spewed from the fir paneling, and a picture was knocked from the bedroom vanity.
Jill threw herself at Sherry's legs, clutched the girl around the knees, and dragged her to the floor. They shivered in a tangle there, while more bullets ate away at the front windows, and glass whirled, broken about them.
Into a sudden quiet, Steve said calmly, "Some kind of full automatic weapon; sounds like an old Army carbine. Only one of them firing, so far. You girls doing okay?"
Jill pulled at Sherry's hand, and they eeled together back to Jill's shotgun. She said, "Okay, Steve," and eased her head over the windowsill to check out the stand of willows. She didn't see anything.
She peeped to the left, and couldn't find Dink or Sam Starr; maybe they were well under cover in the woods, and they ought to be. The pile of black cinders that had been their good, solid barn was still smoking a little, and there was a burned smell in the air.
Bam-bam! Bam-bam-bam!
More glass shattered, and bullets snicked wickedly through the door. Steve fired twice, the blast of his Winchester loud inside the house. "Damn!" he said with feeling. "Either this scope's off, or I led Jojo too much; missed him clean, both times."
Jill looked back toward the willows and saw some branches moving. She jerked the trigger of the shotgun and it damned near took off her shoulder. Sherry screamed in shock, and Jill peeped over the windowsill again; willow leaves were floating to the ground, but nothing else was stirring. Jill thumbed another shell into the gun and locked its breach; next time, she'd hold it away from her shoulder, off to the side.
Steve called out. "Anything?"
"G-guess not," she said, easing the barrel of the 12-gauge over the sill again.
It leaped out of her hands and she was pulled into the wall below the sill. "Steve-Steve!"
He bounded into the room and whipped the muzzle of his rifle through the window. He fired, fired again, then looked down at her. "Knocked a leg out from under him, but he's making for the camper anyway-with your shotgun. It's Lang."
Pellets hailed into the house as the shotgun turned traitor and fired their way. Jill said, "I'm sorry."
Steve blurred away, running bent over with the rifle at his hip, and she came heartsick to her knees to see him burst from the front door, firing as he leaped.
Jill stumbled after him, and Sherry was only a step behind. They reached the doorway, and Jill caught at the girl to stop her, to hold them both back.
Jojo was in the middle of the yard, working the carbine, a long curved clip sticking from its bottom. Steve's bullet hit him somewhere in the body, and he staggered back; the carbine went off, but the burst chewed into the porch foundations. Steve shot him again, and the impact turned Jojo completely around, so that he was facing away from the house. His carbine rattled some more, tearing gouts of dust near his feet.
"Up your ass!" Steve yelled, and aimed at the stumbling man.
But Jojo fell before Steve could shoot. He fell face down, his apelike arms outthrust stiffly, the carbine spinning away as he toppled.
Steve said, "Oh, hell!" And Jill screamed, "Lang-Lang!" But Lang wasn't trying to kill them with the long-barreled pistol he carried in his left hand. He threw down the empty shotgun and ran crippled, ran dragging his wounded leg, trying to get away from the camper, away from the smoldering ruins of the barn.
A .45 caliber pistol sounded from the blackened and crumbling foundations of the barn, and Lang was knocked down. He went down hard, skidding a ways along the hard ground before his body stopped.
Steve lowered his rifle and started to turn. Blood scattered from his cheek and he fell full-length on the ground. Jill screamed, and Sherry's scream rang out a pulse beat later. Jill saw Steve rolling, saw him kick himself around and come to his elbows with the rifle out, searching, searching.
Over by the gray Buick, Aaron Mercer walked stiffly into the open. He took three, four jerky, walking-doll kind of steps. Then the carbine he held dropped out of his hand, and he got off balance, so that he leaned far forward. His feet moved again, trying to catch up with the tilt of his body, but they never made it. They did kick a few times in the dust of the road, while the red puddle came out to be absorbed by the dust.
From behind the pasture fence, an old man in faded denims stood up to wave a saddle carbine over his head. They came together then, walking toward each other from three different directions-Sam Starr and Dink Watson and Steve Devlin.
Jill and Sherry sat down on the front porch with their arms about each other, and they cried.
Sam Starr said, "Held it a mite too fine, I reckon. Put the bullet in him just about when he drew down on you, and that throwed him off. Couldn't get a clear shot at him afore; he was hunkered down ahind that car."
Steve had a bandanna wadded to his cheek. He said to Sam Starr, "Where'd you hit him?"
"Well, now," Sam said, "I ain't all that proud of a neck shot; most generally I take them Texas turkeys in the head."
Dink Watson said, "That other one wasn't expectin' nobody in the burned down barn; he already stuck his goddamned head into the camper. I had to hold on him with both hands, but the job got done."
"It sure as hell did," Steve said, and then they were all laughing as if they'd gone crazy.
The men laughed and the women cried, and somehow Jill knew that this was how it always was. She climbed up from the porch and took Sherry back into the house, so neither of them would have to look at the bodies in the yard, and so they wouldn't have to see whoever it was driving up the ranch road so fast. Jill figured that whoever it was, they wouldn't have to kill him.
She gave Sherry Pittman a small drink of bourbon, and took a large one for herself. Drinking it down, she found she could think, but that there was a numbness about her reactions, something of unreality. It was almost done with. The bad guys were dead, and the good guys had almost won. There was only one little detail to be cleaned up-the Devlins still owed twenty thousand dollars on their ranch, and the payments were far in arrears.
Jill wished that Boyce Pittman had burned down the barn; even now, she hoped he was lying when he denied it, but her intuition told her the truth had been spooked out of him. If he had tried to burn them out, they might have used that as a lever to make him hold off.
But a rose was a rose and money was bread to a banker; when Boyce recovered from his fright over his daughter, he'd come to his usual cold, banker senses and shut down on the Rafter D. It was still worth a lot of money to the real Aaron Mercer. Jill tried to hold off the raw hysteria that was building in her throat, but it was a losing battle. She giggled, and held her hands over her mouth and couldn't stop giggling.
It was so funny; it was just so goddamned funny, about the real Aaron Mercer, because the other one couldn't stand up.
She was laughing and crying together and little Sherry Pittman was holding her close and trying to calm her.
And that was the biggest damned joke, too-being comforted by a fourteen-year-old girl, being calmed by this small, ex-cherry type kid who also happened to be Steve's mistress, more or less. Mostly more, and more down than up, and wasn't that the silliest fucking thing anybody ever heard of?
He didn't slap her, like in the movies. He took her by the shoulders and shook her, so that Jill's head bobbled back and forth and her teeth rattled so that she said, "You'd better stop that, you silly bastard, before I get seasick all over the front of you."
Steve said, "That's better, darling. We're okay now; it's all over, and if you're worrying about me-the bullet only clipped my cheek."
Jill rubbed at her eyes and cleared them. She saw her kitchen filled with men, and over by her stove, Boyce Pittman was talking earnestly to his daughter, alternately threatening and pleading with Sherry, but the girl was saying no.
Jill stepped into the waiting circle of her husband's arms and put her head on his chest. Then she must have gently passed out.