Look—” Pete sighed wearily “—they want the formula. We want the formula. About ten of the biggest bastards on this planet want the formula. How long do you think you’re going to be safe up here playing Roy Rogers?”
“This is open country. Quiet.” He grinned. “I’ve been listening to you tear around for the past two hours. I’m as safe here as anywhere. Certainly safer than in L.A., where mad bombers can get into my condo complex and kill innocent old women.” Henry took another pull on his beer, trying to wash the bitter taste from his mouth. He hadn’t known the old woman, hadn’t known any of his neighbors, but her death weighed heavily on him, made him sick.
The men were silent for several minutes. It was deep twilight, and Henry heard a yipping duet of coyotes in the valley beyond.
“What about the woman?”
Henry stiffened. “What woman?”
“The one with the pretty hair and the big…” Pete cupped his hands in front of him as a description, then took a notepad from the pocket of his Ralph Lauren denim shirt. “Calla Lily McFadden Bishop. Cute name. Owner and manager of Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch.”
Henry deliberately slowed his breathing and spoke in a casual tone. “What about her? I just work for her. She’s nothing.”
“Yeah? Well, since you’re all the way up here with your rifle and your extraordinary hearing, and she’s down there with three elderly relatives and wimpy excuse for a boyfriend, my professional opinion is that she is not so safe as you are.”
Henry narrowed his eyes in the fading light. “Is that a threat, Pete?”
“Certainly not. I do not threaten innocent young ladies. I’m just saying that if somebody wants you bad enough, he’ll stop at nothing to get you.”
“Including you?”
“You, pal—” Pete drained the can of beer and crumpled it under his shiny new boot “—know the answer to that better than anybody.”
----
Chapter 10
« ^ »
T wo hangovers in two weeks. Her life was getting out of hand.
She didn’t want to open her eyes. Pain was waiting. It promised itself to her already, pounding on her skull; a miner looking for the big vein.
She lifted her lids slightly and groaned. Tequila. How much tequila had she had? She should have forced herself to throw up last night when she wanted to. But she hadn’t seemed to be able to lift herself out of bed, so she waited out the spinning nausea until unconsciousness overtook her.
It was light outside her bedroom window. Ten o’clock. At least. Lester was going to have a field day. She dragged herself out of bed and steadied herself on her bedpost for a minute. Maybe she’d just throw up right now.
She stumbled to the bathroom, the miner pounding relentlessly on the inside of her skull with a fierce little hammer, and grabbed her toothbrush. The taste in her mouth was dirt and rubber. Like she’d been sucking on a tractor tire, she thought as she coated the toothbrush with paste. She tried to brush her teeth and keep her head perfectly still at the same time.
How does Lester do this?
She spit, rinsed her mouth several times and peered into the mirror at her face.
“God, what did you do to yourself, Calla?” she asked aloud. She tugged at the skin covering her cheekbones. Her eyes were bloodshot and tired-looking, and her face was the color of ragweed. She sent a silent prayer to the tequila gods that everyone would already be out of the house when she went downstairs. She was sure she couldn’t explain this.
She noticed her nightgown. She couldn’t remember putting it on. She knew Clark drove from the bar to … somewhere. Where had they gone? Dinner, she vaguely recalled. Then home obviously. Had Clark gently undressed her and put her in this nightgown? It would be a lovely thing if he had. A positive sign. She wished she could remember it.
“No more Jose Cuervo for you, señorita,” she said to the mirror.
She dressed gingerly and took the steep stairs to the kitchen one
“This is open country. Quiet.” He grinned. “I’ve been listening to you tear around for the past two hours. I’m as safe here as anywhere. Certainly safer than in L.A., where mad bombers can get into my condo complex and kill innocent old women.” Henry took another pull on his beer, trying to wash the bitter taste from his mouth. He hadn’t known the old woman, hadn’t known any of his neighbors, but her death weighed heavily on him, made him sick.
The men were silent for several minutes. It was deep twilight, and Henry heard a yipping duet of coyotes in the valley beyond.
“What about the woman?”
Henry stiffened. “What woman?”
“The one with the pretty hair and the big…” Pete cupped his hands in front of him as a description, then took a notepad from the pocket of his Ralph Lauren denim shirt. “Calla Lily McFadden Bishop. Cute name. Owner and manager of Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch.”
Henry deliberately slowed his breathing and spoke in a casual tone. “What about her? I just work for her. She’s nothing.”
“Yeah? Well, since you’re all the way up here with your rifle and your extraordinary hearing, and she’s down there with three elderly relatives and wimpy excuse for a boyfriend, my professional opinion is that she is not so safe as you are.”
Henry narrowed his eyes in the fading light. “Is that a threat, Pete?”
“Certainly not. I do not threaten innocent young ladies. I’m just saying that if somebody wants you bad enough, he’ll stop at nothing to get you.”
“Including you?”
“You, pal—” Pete drained the can of beer and crumpled it under his shiny new boot “—know the answer to that better than anybody.”
----
Chapter 10
« ^ »
T wo hangovers in two weeks. Her life was getting out of hand.
She didn’t want to open her eyes. Pain was waiting. It promised itself to her already, pounding on her skull; a miner looking for the big vein.
She lifted her lids slightly and groaned. Tequila. How much tequila had she had? She should have forced herself to throw up last night when she wanted to. But she hadn’t seemed to be able to lift herself out of bed, so she waited out the spinning nausea until unconsciousness overtook her.
It was light outside her bedroom window. Ten o’clock. At least. Lester was going to have a field day. She dragged herself out of bed and steadied herself on her bedpost for a minute. Maybe she’d just throw up right now.
She stumbled to the bathroom, the miner pounding relentlessly on the inside of her skull with a fierce little hammer, and grabbed her toothbrush. The taste in her mouth was dirt and rubber. Like she’d been sucking on a tractor tire, she thought as she coated the toothbrush with paste. She tried to brush her teeth and keep her head perfectly still at the same time.
How does Lester do this?
She spit, rinsed her mouth several times and peered into the mirror at her face.
“God, what did you do to yourself, Calla?” she asked aloud. She tugged at the skin covering her cheekbones. Her eyes were bloodshot and tired-looking, and her face was the color of ragweed. She sent a silent prayer to the tequila gods that everyone would already be out of the house when she went downstairs. She was sure she couldn’t explain this.
She noticed her nightgown. She couldn’t remember putting it on. She knew Clark drove from the bar to … somewhere. Where had they gone? Dinner, she vaguely recalled. Then home obviously. Had Clark gently undressed her and put her in this nightgown? It would be a lovely thing if he had. A positive sign. She wished she could remember it.
“No more Jose Cuervo for you, señorita,” she said to the mirror.
She dressed gingerly and took the steep stairs to the kitchen one
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