Saguaro Riptide, page 22
“Okay,” she whispered.
She kissed him. It had been a long time since she had kissed anyone. Since Vince. And Jack Baddalach was a good kisser. His lips were soft, and his mouth was warm, and he didn’t push her away, he drew her in, his arms around her, and her arms slipped around his waist and the kiss was slow and easy and wonderful.
They really took their time with it.
As if they had all the time in the world.
Their noses touched as their lips parted.
They let them touch like that for a long moment, staring into each other’s eyes.
Both smiled. Jack stepped back, hands drifting over her hips but not letting go just yet because he was a little dizzy and had to hold onto something.
“You’re something, Major Kate Benteen,” he said. “I never met anyone quite like you.”
His voice was as soft as his kiss, as soft as his hands on black leather.
Those hands were drifting away.
Kate found one of them. Held it in hers. Guided it to her breast.
Leather whispered in Jack Baddalach’s grasp.
“This outfit has thirteen zippers,” Kate said. “And every one of them works.”
***
Kate glanced at the pair of high beams in the rearview mirror. Baddalach was behind those headlights, following in the rented Range Rover.
God knew what he was thinking.
Kate knew what she was thinking: Goddamn—it just doesn’t get much more romantic than this. Off to kill a couple of gunslingin’ law-gals, but first let’s make a little love on an old horse blanket in the back of a Dodge Dakota. Snuggled up between a bunch of boxes filled with bootleg telephones, and not one drop of champagne between them, but who the hell needs champagne when you’ve got a tarnished moon in the sky and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of stud on top of you and good music on the radio.
An oldies station out of Tucson. Late night and hardly any commercials. The disc jockey must have known what was going on out there in the desert. He’d played “Surfer Girl” and “Sealed with a Kiss” and “Hurts So Bad.” Hell, he’d even played “Baby the Rain Must Fall.”
Kate bit her lower lip. She hadn’t felt this bad in a long time. This good, either. She hadn’t felt much of anything in nearly two years. She’d been running on that even keel, just sticking to a routine, taking things nice and easy and—
Damn, but it felt good to be with a man again.
Damn, but she was miserable.
Jack Baddalach. If only she had been with him . . . and only him. His breath warm on her neck while the cool evening breeze brushed her brow, his lips finding hers in the shallow glow of moonlight.
If only she hadn’t closed her eyes and given in while her heart dredged up the memory of Vincent Komoko.
Because then it was Vince’s breath warming her neck while the cool evening breeze brushed her brow. Vince’s lips finding hers in the shallow glow of moonlight . . .
The telepathic disc jockey up in Tucson was still in touch. He dropped the needle on Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely.” Kate turned off the radio.
“Goddamnit,” she said, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. “Goddamnit!”
Why did Jack Baddalach have to turn out to be such a fuckin’ nice guy, anyway?
WOODY’S BALLS WERE KILLING HIM.
Shit. That motel bitch could kick like a fucking mule. Had to be she knew karate or something.
He paced along the junkyard fence. The bitch was hiding in there somewhere. Her kick had sure enough doubled him over, but he’d managed to straighten up just in time to see her scramble over the chain-link fence.
Woody shined a flashlight through the chain-link but didn’t see a goddamn thing besides busted-up cars.
He’d found the flashlight in the bitch’s house. While he was looking around, he’d traded the sharpened toothbrush for a meat cleaver, too.
The cleaver was pretty damn sharp. Maybe he should just jump the fence, go after her.
But her dog was in there, too. And Woody didn’t want to go up against a pit bull, not even with a meat cleaver. Shit. He’d just been dog-bit the other day. The monk had, anyway. And Woody couldn’t see himself making any mistake that the monk had made.
Man, it seemed like he’d been pacing back and forth for hours. The motel bitch was hiding, and there was no sign of the boxer or the bitch in the black bikini. Woody swore. Maybe he should just bag the whole deal. Find the keys to the motel bitch’s Volvo and hit the dusty trail. Worry about getting himself some trim somewhere civilized, like Tucson maybe.
Yeah. Why not.
He went into the bitch’s house one more time. Her purse lay on the sofa. Woody grabbed her car keys. Figured, what the hell, and grabbed a wad of greenbacks, too.
It’d be good to see this fucked-up place in his rearview mirror, anyway. Just put the whole deal behind him. Coming here had been the monk’s idea, anyway. Woody should have figured it would be a king-sized mistake.
Woody counted the bitch’s money as he stepped out the door. Sixty-seven bucks and change. He shook his head. But, shit . . . sixty-seven bucks was better than noth—
“Freeze, asshole.”
Woody froze.
The sheriff said, “Drop the cleaver.”
“Do it now,” said the deputy.
***
Sandy couldn’t believe her luck. She climbed the chain-link fence and ran across the parking lot.
Wyetta had her pistol trained on Woody Jefferson while Rorie patted him down. “Sheriff!” Sandy shouted. “Jesus, am I glad to see you! That son of a bitch practically broke down my door. He tried to rape me, and—”
“Hold it right there,” Wyetta said.
Sandy couldn’t believe it. Wyetta had turned, but she was still holding her pistol as if she were ready to shoot.
Only now the gun was aimed at Sandy.
“Ease off, Wyetta,” Rorie said. “Sandy doesn’t know what’s going on here.”
Wyetta’s eyes narrowed. “Just how do we know that, Deputy?”
“Hell, Wyetta. We don’t know for sure. We don’t know anything for sure, I mean.”
“And I’m tired of that. Deputy. There’s only one thing I want to know—what happened to that goddamned money. I want to know for sure, and I’m not leaving this place until I find out.”
“But if Sandy knew about Komoko—”
“Hey,” Sandy interrupted, because she was getting mad. “I don’t give a shit about Komoko. The only guy I care about is the bastard who tried to rape me. I want you to lock him up.”
Wyetta shook her head. “Sorry, Sandy. We can’t do that. Not until we sort a few things out.”
“Goddamnit, Sheriff. You don’t seem to understand. This son of a bitch tried to rape me ”
“Uh-huh.” Wyetta nodded. “You’ve made that pretty clear.”
“Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“Sure.” Wyetta nodded at Rorie. “Deputy, put the cuffs on Ms. Kapalua-Dayton, and find some little out-of-the-way place where she can cool off.”
Rorie did as she was told and walked Sandy toward the motel.
“Maybe we’ll be talking some more, Sandy,” Wyetta shouted.
Sandy tried to turn, but the deputy pushed her forward.
The motel owner cussed a blue streak.
“Shut her up,” Wyetta said. “The last thing we need is for her to be screaming her head off when Baddalach and Benteen show up.”
The deputy’s hand brushed Sandy’s shoulder. “You’d better do what she says,” Rorie whispered. “It’s going to be okay. We’re on a tough case. It’s about to break wide open. Here. Tonight. Right now Wyetta doesn’t trust anyone. But I know that you don’t have anything to do with this. Just trust me, and you won’t get hurt.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Sandy shouted. “That guy tried to rape me! Just let me go! Jesus, just let me get out of here!”
Rorie hesitated.
And then she said, “I can’t do that.” She pressed her pistol lo the back of Sandy’s head. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up.”
***
Woody had to admit that the look on the motel bitch’s face had been priceless. Shit, it was just too rich—he tries to rape her, and she ends up wearing the cuffs.
He just had to laugh at that.
He laughed real good.
Until the sheriff whacked him upside the head with her pistol.
***
“You can’t be serious,” Rorie said.
Wyetta didn’t so much as crack a smile. “Do like I told you, Deputy.”
Rorie unbuckled her gun belt and tossed it at the black guy.
It hit him in the chest and fell to the ground.
“Pick it up,” Wyetta said. “We’re gonna have us an old-fashioned shootout, just you and me.”
“You’re crazy,” the black guy said. “Shit. I didn’t do a goddamn thing. First you hit me with your damn gun, and now you want to have a gunfight. I mean, this macho shit is way too much. You want to arrest me, then arrest me. But if you want to grow a dick, why don’t you just go get a damn operation or something.”
“You better do like I tell you or I’ll grease you where you stand. I swear I will.”
“Shit. I ain’t doin’ another goddamn thing until you take me in, book me, and let me talk to a lawyer.”
Wyetta’s eyes were on fire. Rorie had seen the sheriff primed and ready plenty of times, but never like this. Wyetta was actually shaking.
She was way too worked up. And Rorie knew that too much emotion could get in the way when it came to bad business like this.
Wyetta could get hurt.
All because of that damn money. Wyetta wanted it real bad. But they couldn’t seem to get hold of it. And every bend they came around seemed to bring them that much closer, but every bend seemed to lead to a dead end. First the Ouija board directing them to Ellis’s place, where they’d found nothing more than a hole in the ground. Then the boot print in the dust sending them here to the motel, but the chicklet who wore combat boots wasn’t anywhere around.
Neither was the boxer.
But the black guy was here. He’d tried to rape Sandy Kapalua-Dayton and, failing that, had stolen her money. And he was going to steal Sandy’s car, too, because he had her keys.
Rorie bit her lip. This buck didn’t know a damn thing about Vincent Komoko’s money. He wouldn’t be stealing sixty-seven bucks if he had the two million. He only wanted some Hawaiian-Irish-Navajo pussy and a stolen car that would take him down the road.
If Wyetta would just slow down for a minute she’d see that was the way it was. But the sheriff of Pipeline Beach had worked up a real head of steam, and that meant trouble for anyone who stood in her way.
Especially a smart-mouthed asshole like Ali Baba.
But he seemed so cool. Biding his time. Standing there as straight and stiff as a lawn jockey.
“C’mon, jailbird,” Wyetta said. “You know you want to do it.”
“You gonna lose your badge over this. Sheriff.”
“Pick up the gun. All you’ve got to do is bend over. You know how to do that. I figure a pretty man like you did a whole lot of bending over in prison.”
“Now, just you listen—”
Wyetta glanced at Rorie. “Help this nigger.”
“Wyetta, I don’t think—”
“Don’t you dare argue with me, cowgirl. Strap that goddamn belt around his waist.”
Rorie moved forward.
“Fuck you, bitch,” the black guy said, and he snatched up the gun belt and cinched it tight.
“That’s real good,” Wyetta said. “You’ve got a waist just like my woman’s. Nice and thin. Just the right size for a lady’s gun belt—no wonder you sell ’em.”
“I should warn you,” Woody said. “I do this for a living. I’ve killed twenty-three men.”
“There’s one way out of this,” the sheriff said. “Tell me what you know about Komoko and the money.”
“I don’t know shit about any Komoko.”
“Then we’re done talking,” Wyetta said. “Skin it, Woody.”
A cold grin rippled across the black man’s lips.
He squinted.
Because a wave of bright light crested behind Wyetta and Rorie, washing the desert floor, splashing three huge shadows against the cinder-block wall of the Saguaro Riptide.
The black man stared into the light.
“Allah be praised,” he said.
He yanked the deputy’s pistol and opened fire.
***
Jack was halfway up the rear staircase when he heard the crackle of gunfire from the far side of the motel.
Then he heard a scream.
Jesus. It was all happening way too fast.
And it wasn’t supposed to be happening this way. Nothing was supposed to happen yet. He wasn’t even in position.
He glanced at his battered Timex. Jesus, what the hell was going on? Where was Benteen? What had happened to all that shit about a flanking maneuver, about drawing Wyetta and her deputy out into the open? Shit, the two of them were already out in the open. And they were shooting. It had to be them—
And Benteen had to be crazy, jumping the gun. Either that, or she’d fallen into a trap—
If they’d killed her. If she was already dead—
Fuck that. Jack pulled the Heckler from his belt and charged down the landing. The last door was open—the door to the hit man’s room—and a slab of light spilled across the concrete walkway, but Jack didn’t even pause to investigate because he could see three people in the parking lot below.
Two of them were staring at the lights.
One was down on the ground, coughing up blood.
The lights scorched the desert, a dozen angry globes bearing down on the gravel parking lot below.
Jack grabbed the railing with one hand as he came to the end of the landing. Still, his momentum nearly tumbled him over the side.
Jack steadied himself, then racked the slide and chambered a round in the handgun
He was really going to do this.
He had to do this.
He took aim.
But the sheriff was already aiming at him.
She’d heard him chamber that round.
Wyetta’s pistol bucked in her hand.
A bullet trenched the meat of Jack’s left forearm just below the elbow.
The Heckler tumbled through the night.
***
The gun landed in front of the black guy, sending up a splash of gravel. He didn’t even grab for it. He was too busy hacking up a dark stream of blood. Down on his knees, one hand under his coat, where a bullet from Wyetta’s .44 American had excavated one hell of a burrow.
A bloody rattle raked his throat, and his eyelids fluttered heavily as his muddy brown eyes tracked that tight bank of lights which skimmed the desert floor.
The lights were coming, and coming fast. Had to be a truck with high beams and fog lights and even a rack up on top.
Just like the rust-bucket Dodge Dakota that Kate Benteen drove.
That bitch. She was too damn smart for her own good. Sending Baddalach through the back door while she raced hellbent for leather through the front.
“It’s a goddamned diversion.” Wyetta squinted, moving back. “They’re trying to sucker us.” She pointed at the second story landing. “Baddalach’s up there. Gotta be he’s trying to grab the money while Benteen plays off-road games. I’m going after him.”
Rorie said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Kill the little bitch,” Wyetta said, and then she snatched up Baddalach’s pistol and tossed it to the deputy.
***
Jack couldn’t quite figure out how he had ended up on his knees. He didn’t remember making the trip at all.
Light spilled across the landing from the open doorway. He got up, looked at his arm. A chunk of it seemed to be missing. There was a whole lot of blood.
A bullet cracked the cinder-block wall just above his head.
“Don’t move, cowboy.”
Wyetta Earp started up the staircase.
Jack dove through the open doorway and slammed the door closed with his feet.
He was up in a second. He locked the door and rammed the deadbolt home. Then he scanned the room, searching for a knife, a club, anything—
The only thing he found was Sandy Kapalua-Dayton.
She lay on the bed. Her wrists were handcuffed, and her legs were bound with an electrical cord tom from a lamp.
A hand towel was jammed in her mouth, held in place by a bandana.
Sandy’s eyes bulged. Her face was a startling shade of purple.
And then a wild spasm wracked her body, and she tumbled off the bed and thrashed about on the carpet, her head banging the floor like a runaway jackhammer.
***
Rorie stepped past the dying black guy and aimed the boxer’s pistol at the headlights.
The truck kept coming. Three hundred feet away . . . two fifty . . . The driver had to see her by now. Two hundred . . . one fifty . . . But the driver didn’t slow down, didn’t so much as swerve—
Rorie pulled the trigger. The first bullet smacked the left headlight and she corrected her aim . . . one twenty-five . . . the pistol rocking in her grip, two shots through the radiator and . . . one hundred . . . steam spit through the grille and the next two shots spiderwebbed the windshield dead center and . . . eighty-five . . . seventy . . . Rorie adjusted one more time, fired . . . fifty feet . . . and the bullet-pitted glass and the battered Dodge Dakota swerved wildly, kicking up sand and rocks and brush like a wild bronco.
The truck crashed through the chain-link fence that penned the junkyard, slammed into a rusted-out Chevy and did not move another inch
Rorie waited. In the junkyard, a dog ran at the truck, barking like it was the end of the world.
But the truck didn’t move. It just sat there, all those headlights glowing like a portable football stadium.
Rorie checked the boxer’s pistol. It was an excellent weapon. A Heckler & Koch USP .45.
