Saguaro Riptide, page 23
The only problem was that Rorie had emptied it.
She couldn’t finish Kate Benteen with an empty pistol.
Damn. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.
She turned around, searching the parking lot for her own pistol. The black guy had dropped it when Wyetta plugged him. Had to be that it was around here somewhere—
The black guy said, “Surprise.”
***
Woodrow rose with some effort, staring at the lights.
He was still in the parking lot, but it was no longer morning.
He tried to remember. He had checked into the motel, and he had parked the Saturn in the lot by the junkyard, and he had taken his prayer rug from the trunk, turning toward Mecca to pray . . .
And he had suffered another blackout.
A long one, because now it was night.
Woodrow could not imagine what had transpired in the interim. He only knew what had happened since he emerged from the blackout—he’d seen the lights in the desert, and he’d been shot by a female law-enforcement official who had departed the immediate scene, and he’d managed to shoot the woman’s partner . . .
He stumbled forward, toward the lights. They had never been this close before. And being this close, he could tell for certain that they were not an illusion, no figment of a wounded brain.
The lights were real. If Allah would grant him the strength, Woodrow would know what was behind them before he died.
He stepped through a hole in the chain-link fence. A dog barked at him, but the animal was somewhere in the shadows and he could not see it. Still, he fired the deputy’s pistol into the night, hoping to hear the animal squeal because he recalled all too well the damage inflicted by Jack Baddalach’s dog.
Quite suddenly, the dog ceased its barking. Perhaps Woodrow had been lucky. Perhaps Allah had guided his aim.
He turned and faced the lights.
They beckoned him forward, and this time no needles of pain assaulted his skull, and no taffy-pulling machine tore at his brain.
Still, Woodrow was afraid. He hesitated, squinting into the light.
A silhouette shimmered within the pool of bright white fire.
The silhouette came toward him.
It was a woman.
Woodrow watched her come.
Her face was scarlet. Masked with blood.
Her clothes were black ... but her hands were very white.
And in them she held a shotgun.
Woodrow raised his pistol.
The woman fired her shotgun.
***
Jack pulled the towel out of Sandy’s mouth. She gasped deeply, shivering.
“Easy,” he said. “Take it easy . . .”
Sandy took another breath, and then another, and then her face wasn’t purple anymore.
Jack heard footfalls outside. Someone was running along the landing, just the way he had.
It had to be Wyetta.
Sandy’s fingers dug into his arm. The look in her eyes told him that she heard the same thing he did.
“Keep quiet,” Jack whispered, “and she’ll never know you’re here.”
Fortunately, Sandy Kapalua-Dayton was a skinny woman.
She actually fit under the bed.
***
Kate lay on the ground for a long time.
The shotgun recoil had put her flat on her ass. And even though she was a Montana girl and Montana girl’s got things done, she couldn’t quite get up the gumption to move. Partly because one of the deputy’s bullets had notched her right ear and nicked her skull, and she was still leaking pretty good.
That part of it was okay, though, because fresh blood made good camouflage. She’d smeared it over her face, just the way they taught her in the army. In a dangerous situation without the proper equipment, a soldier must improvise. And, hey, it had worked, because the hit man hadn’t known what to make of her until it was way too late.
But the hit man wasn’t the only one she had to worry about. There was the deputy. And the sheriff.
If the deputy was still out there, she was taking her own sweet time about showing her face. But maybe she was just a careful kind of girl. Maybe she was trying to figure a way to move in without getting her ass blown in half.
Maybe the sheriff and the deputy were flanking Kate this very minute.
Yeah. Could be. She’d better get to moving.
Kate gripped the shotgun. Just one more minute. One more minute and she’d start moving.
Damn. It was just too bad that the old Dodge Dakota didn’t have an air bag. Forget a bullet notching her ear—if she had had an air bag, she’d be fine right now. Give her a little bit of cushion and it would have taken more than a head-on collision with a Chevy junker to put a hitch in her getalong.
Kind of like the Saudi, in fact. Because Black Hawk helicopters didn’t come with air bags, either, and crashing one of those babies nose-first into a sand dune was just a little tougher than this.
Kate still had the scars to prove it.
But she’d had Vince Komoko to get her through the Saudi. And he’d been so beautiful then. So good. A-one all-fucking-American.
Kate remembered bouncing around in the back of an Iraqi truck, busted bones grinding against bruised flesh while she screamed her head off, a couple of Republican Guards trying to loosen the zipper of her flight suit but it hurt so bad and she had to scream, and Vince was busted up too but he went after those guys just like John Wayne.
That gave the soldiers something else to do. They beat the shit out of Vince. Kate watched them do it, every inch of her screaming in pain because there were lots of bumps in that desert and the truck driver seemed determined to hit every one . . . hell, you’d think desert sand should be smooth but it wasn’t . . . and she’d never forget what Vince did for her out there. Not just saving her ass from rape. Taking that beating, he’d given her hope. Showed her that they could tough it out, no matter what. Make it through anything with their dignity intact.
Vince had shown her that, and she’d learned the lesson. Together, they’d survived. That was important.
But there was more to life than simple survival, more than just drawing breath. Kate knew that. You had to make something of your life, or survival meant nothing.
If you ended up all alone with two million dollars for company . . .
If no one cared about anything but your money . . .
If the only person you wanted to give it to wouldn’t even answer her phone . . .
A tear spilled from Kate’s eye, washing a clean trail on her bloodstained face.
Maybe you couldn’t help but be alone when you died.
Maybe . . .
No. Kate knew it was silly to think about that. She wasn’t going to die. She was just a little busted up. Just bleeding a little. Jesus, she was sure happy that she wore her hair long—it would cover the notch the deputy’s bullet had clipped from her ear.
It’s nothing, she told herself. Only a flesh wound. Once it scabs over, no one will notice it at all.
No one will notice because you live alone, girl. A cabin out there in the middle of the big lonesome. No one visits. Your phone doesn’t ring. You have really long conversations with your horses, but they haven’t learned to hold up their end of the deal.
You’re a solo act from here on out, remember?
And she asked herself—if you were dying, who would you call? If you had two million, who would you leave it to?
Was there anyone, anywhere?
Vince Komoko was stone-cold dead . . .
But maybe there was someone else. This other guy. Jack Baddalach. He was out there somewhere. And he was alone, just like she was.
He was waiting for her. Counting on her. The way she’d counted on Vince in the Saudi. The way Vince had counted on her to drop everything and come to Pipeline Beach, Arizona.
Because she was a Montana girl, and you could count on a Montana girl, especially if her name was Kate Benteen. Anyone knew that. Because Kate Benteen got things done. She was a war hero. An Olympic champion. A rodeo rider. A movie star.
And she was damn good with a gun to boot.
Kate stared at the motel. It seemed to be a million miles away.
Aw, Christ. That was a lot of bullshit. The motel was maybe a couple hundred feet away, tops. All she had to do was get up, get her ass in gear . . .
She’d do that.
Because Jack Baddalach was waiting for her.
Counting on her.
Baddalach . . . Man oh man, but that pug sure knew how to kiss.
And maybe that was what she needed. Some seriously sensual motivation to get her rear in gear.
Yeah. She’d bail the boxer’s ass out of trouble, tune in that oldies station, steal another kiss . . .
Maybe two . . .
Yeah.
Kate got up.
***
Something battered the door. Once . . . twice . . . but the deadbolt held firm.
Gunfire exploded outside. Jack sidestepped as a bullet whipped past his ear, missing him by inches.
The door flew open.
Wyetta Earp stepped into the room, her pistol held high. Jack’s empty hands rose automatically.
Wyetta took one look at him and started to laugh.
“What the hell happened to your hair, cowboy?”
Jack shrugged. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“Then we don’t have time for it.” She stepped toward him, the pistol steady in her hand. “Where’s Komoko’s money?”
Jack had no place to hide and he knew it. The room didn’t have a back door, and Wyetta had a gun. But instinct told him he had to move, so he backed up.
“Stand still.” Wyetta cocked her pistol. “You give me an answer, or you’re dead.”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “You think I’d be here if I did?”
Wyetta smiled. “C’mon now, cowboy. Don’t treat me like an idiot. You and your girlfriend came here tonight for a reason. And I’ve got the feeling it wasn’t just because you wanted to get into a gunfight with me and my deputy. I know what you came for, same way as you know what I came for. Just hand it over, and I promise that the end will come quick.”
“Okay,” Jack said, “you’ve got me.”
“That’s smart, cowboy. Let’s get this thing done.”
“The money’s in Benteen’s room.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” Jack said. “Really. It’s under her bed . . .”
***
Kate’s foot found the brake pedal just in time to prevent the bullet-riddled truck from crashing into the side of the Saguaro Riptide Motel.
She dropped the stick into neutral and set the emergency brake. So far, so good. She still felt kind of woozy, but she was going to be okay.
Because she was thinking straight. She’d known, standing in the junkyard, that it was a long walk to the motel. So she’d climbed behind the wheel and driven there instead.
And here she was, ready to come to Jack Baddalach’s rescue.
She stepped out of the truck, the Benelli shotgun in her hands, her eyes scanning the darkness for a sign of Wyetta Earp or her deputy.
She saw the deputy soon enough.
The deputy was dead.
Kate had parked the truck on top of the woman.
Oh, man. She’d never run over a cop before.
Nothing she could do about it now, though.
She stepped over the deputy and started around the side of the motel.
Her foot struck something hard.
She looked down and spotted the Heckler lying there on the ground.
That meant that Baddalach didn’t have a gun.
That meant that he was in real trouble.
***
“The money’s in room 23,” Jack said.
“This is unreal.” Wyetta shook her head. “Money hidden under a bed ... I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. Sheriff. Because it’s the truth.”
The space was tight on the landing. Wyetta was behind Jack, her pistol at his back. He knew he’d only have one chance, and if he blew it—
“Here we are,” he said.
“Open the door.”
“I don’t have the key.”
“Oh, man,” Wyetta said.
“Maybe you should shoot the lock,” Jack suggested.
She smiled, “I’ll kick it in, cowboy.”
“You sure? I mean, you had to shoot off the lock to get in the other room.”
“Step aside . . . but don’t try anything funny.”
Jack pressed his back against the railing.
Wyetta holstered her pistol.
She sprang forward, her heel smacking the door.
It shuddered but didn’t give.
She kicked it again . . . and again.
The fourth kick did the trick.
And that was when Jack moved. He slammed against Wyetta’s shoulder while her leg was still in the air, and his shove coupled with her forward momentum tumbled her into the room.
Jack landed on top of Wyetta, his right hand scrambling for her bolstered gun. His fingers found the grip, and he started to pull it, and he noticed that the perfume she was wearing was really kind of nice—
And her elbow cracked against his cheek.
Jack toppled to the side, feeling like he’d been whacked with a sledgehammer.
But that was okay. Because he had the sheriff’s pistol in his hand.
But Jesus, he couldn’t make his hand work.
And Wyetta was up. Her boot slammed his wrist and the pistol flew across the room. Jack watched it go and then saw her boot coming back from the other direction.
Instinct made him move. He leaned back, and her left foot sailed past his nose, missing him by less than an inch, and his hand lashed out and grabbed her right leg and he jerked her off balance.
She crashed ass-first to the floor.
And now Jack was up.
But he had to get past Wyetta to get to the gun.
He made a jump for it.
Her foot lashed out.
Caught him in the crotch as he sailed over her head.
He slammed the floor hard. Tried to get up.
The ref was counting. Five . . . Six . . . Seven . . .
He had to get up soon.
Eight . . . Nine . . .
Because Wyetta was up.
And she had the gun.
She smiled at him. “Cowboy,” she said, “you can kiss your ass good—”
Gunfire erupted from the doorway.
Blood spattered Jack, and he blinked.
When he opened his eyes, Wyetta was flat on her back.
It seemed that most of her head was splattered across the wall.
Including her long blond braid, which clung to the plaster like some gory trophy.
“You all right, champ?”
Jack turned. Kate Benteen stood in the doorway, a smoking pistol in her hand.
Her face was covered with blood.
Jack smiled.
Somehow, she’d never looked better.
BENTEEN DIDN’T LET UP FOR A SECOND. First she bandaged Jack’s arm. Then she checked Sandy, even though Sandy insisted she’d been fine since Jack pulled that damn towel out of her mouth. After that, Kate attended to her own wounds.
Finally, she asked Sandy about some of the equipment in the junkyard. Jack wondered why she cared about that stuff, until she climbed into her truck and drove through the gap in the chain-link fence.
A few minutes later, the night was filled with the roar of heavy equipment. A few minutes after that, Kate returned.
On foot.
Sandy emerged from the motel office with a six-pack.
“Any problems?” Sandy asked, handing Kate a beer.
“No,” Kate said. “That truck is part of your scrap heap now.”
“I can’t believe you junked your truck,” Jack said, reaching for a beer.
“Had to get rid of the evidence,” Benteen said. “And it wasn’t my truck. I bought it at a bar near the Tucson airport. And I paid cash.”
“You were thinking ahead,” Jack said, rolling the cold beer bottle across his sore knuckles.
“And so was I.” Sandy handed Jack a credit card receipt form. “I knew that Komoko was with the mob, and I figured that he had something to do with laundered money or drugs, the way he came through town once a month. So when Wyetta came sniffing around with questions about Komoko, I got suspicious. And when Ms. Benteen showed up with questions of her own, I started to see visions of missing dollars or missing dope. So when you showed up asking the same questions—”
“You figured you’d take out a little insurance policy.” Jack smiled. “You took my credit card imprint, but you didn’t run it, figuring that if I ended up with the money I might be willing to part with a chunk of it to buy back that receipt.”
“Yeah,” Sandy said. “If I didn’t run your card, it’d be like you never checked in.”
“Pretty smart,” Jack said. “But this wasn’t my only stop in Pipeline Beach. I was arrested in this town. Someone’s going to remember that I had a run-in with the sheriff, and if they put that together with Wyetta’s death—”
“Get real, champ.” Kate laughed. “You were arrested over a stack of magazines. Doesn’t exactly seem like that’s sufficient motive for murder.”
“Anyway, as far as I’m concerned you were never here.” Sandy tore the credit card receipt in half and handed it to Jack. “You saved my life. I would have suffocated if you hadn’t taken that towel out of my mouth. A surfboard broke my nose off Maui back in ’66, and I haven’t taken a decent breath through it ever since.”
“I know just what you mean,” Jack said. “I’ve had my nose busted a time or two.”
“Well, you saved my life. I’m glad you showed up when you did.”
“Me too.”
They clinked their beer bottles and drank deeply.
“What about me?” Kate asked Sandy. “Was I here?”
“You were a little smarter—you paid cash.” Sandy handed Kate a registration card. “But you weren’t here, either.”
