Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows (26 page)

Jake planted his hand on my shoulder. It was like having a brick dropped on my chest.

My head dropped back on the spongy pillow, pain thudding in dizzy time with my pulse beat.

“Simmer down, baby.” He traced my collarbone with his thumb. I couldn’t have moved if I had wanted to; I was too surprised to try. “Just relax.”

The feel of his callused thumb on my sensitized skin was weirdly hypnotic. I blinked up at him like I had been shot by a tranquilizer dart.

“When they brought you in your heartbeat was a little funky. It’s been fine for twenty-four hours so they’re going to release you pretty soon. Okay?”

I assented weakly.

Jake made a fist and hooked a playful right to the angle of my jaw.

* * * * *

“Did they find Harvey?” I asked awhile later, a coherent thought bubbling up from the bog of physical misery.

Jake paused in squeezing drops into his eyes. “No. No sign of Harvey. Is he the one who crowned you?”

I tried to think back. My recollection was cloudy. “I didn’t see who hit me. I remember walking out to the trailer. That’s the last thing.”

He frowned. “Why did you go out there?”

“I saw a light on. I thought maybe he was back.” I tried again to force memory. It seemed like a long time ago. “The night before, someone was prowling around outside the house.”

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“Searching for something?”

“I guess. But what?”

“Harvey?”

“Unless Harvey is the prowler.”

Jake considered this from a cop’s perspective. “Then who was your DB in the road Thursday night?”

I looked up. “You believe me?”

“Yeah, I believe you.” His hands rested on the bed railing. “Why did you hang up like that on Saturday? And why the hell didn’t you tell that ghoul who works for you where you’d gone?”

This brought back a number of things I had conveniently forgotten, like the chick he was in bed with when I called. I said stiffly, “I got the impression you didn’t ... take me seriously.”

A couple of beats counted out by the heart monitor. Jake wore an odd expression.

“I take you seriously.”

Were we talking bodies in the road or in the bed?

A nurse entered from the wings and did the usual stage business with thermometer, blood pressure cuff, and clipboard. I tried to remain stoic under her icy hands.

“You’re obviously feeling better,” she said cheerfully. She appeared to be talking to Jake, who gave her a boyish grin.

“Those antihistamines worked like magic.”

The nurse dimpled.

I said irritably, “When can I go home?”

“Oh that’s up to Doctor.”

No definite article. “Doctor,” like in “God.”

“When does He show up?”

She said evasively, “He’ll be making his rounds this afternoon.”

“Could you let him know I plan on checking out today? Like now.”

Jake moved restively, but the nurse merely tittered at my pleasantry and departed stage right on a breeze of antiseptic.

* * * * *

The doctor hemmed and hawed and advised against discharging myself before he sounded the all clear. He talked about complex concussion, the dangers of a second injury to the brain, and the possibility of post-concussive syndrome. Jake folded his arms across his brawny chest, watching with interest as the doc and I duked it out. The doc had medicine, 162

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experience and logic on his side. He was no match for me. Shaky but stubborn, I sat there peeling off the lime-green plastic hospital bracelet, demanding an “Against Medical Advice.”

“We can’t hold you prisoner,” the man of medicine admitted when pressed.

I delivered the coup de grâce. “My insurance won’t cover another day.”

Open sesame. Two hours later I watched Jake scowl as his Acura picked its city-bred way down the unforgiving dirt road that led to the Pine Shadow. We had stopped in town just long enough for Jake to pick his gear up from the Twain Harte Inn. He had traveled light, planning on nothing more than a stopover.

“Right up ahead is where I found him,” I said as we bounced over the cattle guard.

“Here?” Jake rolled to a stop.

Like yellow mist, mustard flower seemed to float across the valley, drifting over the green hillsides in the afternoon breeze.

I reached for the door handle, and Jake said, “Stay put, Adrien. I know how to investigate a crime scene.”

I subsided, watching through the windshield as he tiptoed through the tules. Walking out several yards, he studied the area and then circled back. At the side of the road he knelt, examining the brush.

Jake sneezed mightily, blowing petals from the surrounding wildflowers, and stomped back to the car.

“Well?”

He shrugged, mopping his nose with a flag-sized hanky. “Too much time has passed. The underbrush over there has been knocked down; possibly a car or a truck pulling around.

That doesn’t mean it was used to cart off your DB.” He released the brake.

I said, “Jake, there’s something else. I’ve got a team of amateur archeologists from the local JC camped out on the back of my property. They’ve got a forged letter giving them permission to dig for a lost mining camp.”

“What do you mean ‘forged’?”

I didn’t have a chance to answer because as we drove into the front yard I spotted the sheriff’s black and white pickup. Billingsly himself stood on the porch flanked by his faithful deputy.

“What the hell now?” Jake growled.

We braked. I got out, reaching briefly to the door frame to steady myself. Whatever this was about, I didn’t have the energy for it.

The sheriff marched down the wooden steps. “English, you’re under arrest,” he announced.

“Say what?”

“You heard.”

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My heart began to pound with adrenaline in the fight or flight response. Since my normal reflex is flight, I’m not sure why I reacted with a surge of scared aggression, but I did.

My fists balled up and I launched forward, only to find my way blocked by Jake.

“Whoa,” he said. He turned to Billingsly, asking, “What’s the charge, Sheriff?”

Billingsly said flatly, “English has about an acre of pot growing on the hill behind this house. How about a charge of manufacturing marijuana with intent to distribute?”

“I’ve been here four days,” I said. “How am I supposed to have achieved these results?

Miracle-Gro?”

“It’s your property, it’s your pot,” Billingsly said without emotion. “But if you don’t think the charge fits, try this for size: aiding and abetting, or conspiring, in the possession and production of a controlled substance -- with intent to distribute.”

So ... reducing the charges to “constructive possession,” what was that? Five years minimum? It was so unreal, for a moment I felt like I was on drugs.

The deputy had the handcuffs out.

My voice rose in tempo to the blood beating in my temples. “Obviously you should be looking for Ted Harvey, the guy I apparently pay to sit in the sun and smoke dope all day.

Obviously --” My heart was stuttering in fear and anger. Jake put his hand on my arm in warning -- which did not go unnoticed.

Jake said, “Can I ask you boys how you came to be searching the hill behind Mr.

English’s house?”

“We’ve got a warrant,” Dwayne chimed in.

Billingsly looked annoyed at unauthorized vocal-I-zation. “We got an anonymous tip,”

he said.

“And that doesn’t seem suspicious to you?” I cried, ignoring Jake’s hand tightening on my arm.

“Listen, English, the pot is there. And I notice you didn’t seem surprised to hear it.”

“I notice you seem more interested in anonymous phone calls than the fact I nearly got brained on my own property. Why’s that? One anonymous phone call and you’re out here like a flash, but an honest taxpayer is in the hospital two days and you never even show up to take his statement?”

Yep, I was losing it. Jake must have deduced it was time to intervene. He said mildly enough, “I don’t know how you boys handle things up here, but I’d say this is a lawsuit waiting to happen. English is barely out of the hospital.”

“They released him. If he’s well enough to leave the hospital --”

Dwayne jumped in. “Maybe you LA cops turn a blind eye to smokin’ dope and --”

“AND YOU’VE GOT A FART’S CHANCE IN A HURRICANE OF BRINGING THIS TO

TRIAL,” Jake overrode them both loudly.

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There was a pause in the wake of that lung power. The windmill screeched rustily in the breeze. Pretty much expressing my feelings.

“Before your DA laughs you out of his office you might want to consider the lawsuit English will slap on you,” Jake added coolly. “That’s you personally, you follow me? You’ll have liens on your wages, your home, and your car, if not your wife and kids. Think about it.

Long after Mr. English has gone back to Los Angeles you’ll still be negotiating with his lawyers.”

I can’t say I appreciated this line of defense and the portrait of me as a litigation-crazed Angeleno, but it was effective as I could see by the way Deputy Dwayne sort of sidled away from his boss’s side. Billingsly’s piggy eyes flickered as he mentally squared-off against my high-priced, big-city lawyers, a long-distance nemesis he would have no power to touch.

A massive tumbleweed rolled by while we waited for the sheriff to make up his mind.

Billingsly stroked an uneasy finger down the white skunk stripe in his beard.

The sunlight shimmered blindingly off the dirt; I had to close my eyes against the glare.

Jake’s hand was still fastened on me but it felt more like reassurance than restraint now. I told myself that, if they did arrest me, Jake would handle it. He would know what to do. He would have me out on bail in hours. No need to panic. I told myself this two or three times while the back of my shirt grew damp with perspiration.

“Let me give you a friendly piece of advice, boys,” Billingsly managed finally. “You rile the wrong folks, and you’ll be too busy planning your funerals to worry about going to court.”

* * * * *

“Never use the word ‘obvious’ to a hick cop,” Jake said as we watched the two-man posse ride away in a cloud of exhaust and dust. “Let alone three times in one breath.”

“Thanks for the tip. Any secret handshakes you can show me?” I turned toward the house. I needed to sit before I caved in; the roof of my skull felt like it was cracking apart, showering my brain with dust and pebbles.

Jake followed in silence.

“So how long are you staying?” I asked politely, trying to unlock the front door. My hands were shaking. Jake took the keys and let us inside.

“Just until you’re fit to drive back to LA.”

“I’m staying.”

“What do you mean, you’re staying? You live in Los Angeles remember?”

“I’m staying till I find out what the fuck is going on here!”

Jake said nothing.

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I knew what he was thinking. “If I leave this place now there’s going to be a midnight barbecue to guarantee I never have reason to come back.”

“You stick around and you may wake up in the middle of a midnight barbecue.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Jake snorted. “Tough guy, huh?”

“Oh yeah, that’s me.”

He gave me a level look.

“Reality check, tough guy. You’ve got a faulty pump, savvy? That automatically disqualifies you from the Hardy Boys Club.”

Now why this simple statement of fact pissed me off so, I’m not sure. Especially since it was what I’d been telling myself.

“Nobody’s asking you to stay.” More effective I guess if my voice hadn’t gone high and quavery with stress.

“I noticed.”

I mopped my wet forehead with my sleeve, lowered myself to the sofa. More calmly, I said, “Nobody asked you to ride to my rescue. You want to bail, don’t let me stop you.”

Jake’s lips quirked as though he actually found this funny. “This is the thanks the cavalry gets?”

“You want a big, wet, sloppy kiss hello?” I started to slap my forehead, but thought better of it. “I forgot. You don’t do that.”

Silence.

“Okaaaay,” Jake said finally. “You want to say what’s on your mind?”

“I’ve said it.”

Silence.

“I’m going to lie down. You know, get some shut-eye before the barbecue starts. Check and see if we have marshmallows, will you?”

I dropped back against the cushions too fagged for the moment to care what anybody, including Jake, did. The sofa made a couple of slow wide swoops, like a merry-go-round drawing to a standstill. I closed my eyes.

I could sense Jake standing there in the middle of the room, a perplexed Colossus of Rhodes. That’s right, big boy, I thought. Do the math.

I was drifting out on the tide of peaceful oblivion when he muttered, “Now who the hell is this?”

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Chapter Five

I sat up. Jake looked as irritated as if the baby had been woken from its nap.

“Who is it?” I questioned, pinching the bridge of my nose.

He shrugged. “Some kid in a green pickup. I’ll talk to him. You take it easy.”

I pushed up from the sofa. “I’m fine.” The last thing I wanted was Jake thinking I needed coddling.

“Suit yourself.”

I went out onto the front porch flanked by Jake. Kevin O’Reilly, Boy Archeologist, was climbing out of one of those battered green forester trucks (minus the ranger insignia).

“Howdy,” he called strolling toward us.

Boy Howdy, in fact. He was a good-looking kid, no doubt about it.

“Hey.”

Kevin mounted the porch stairs, shooting a quick look at Jake, who stood there, arms folded like he was posing for Bodyguard Magazine. “I heard you had an accident. I came over to see how you’re doing.”

“A-okay.”

Self-consciously he handed over a two-pound box of See’s candy. “I don’t know if you like chocolate.”

I ignored the queasy roll of my stomach. “Who doesn’t like chocolate?”

“I don’t like chocolate,” said Jake.

Kevin looked Jake up and down. Jake looked Kevin up and down.