Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 03 (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

The nurse was gathering breakfast dishes when Sheriff Boggs stepped into the hospital room. He declined the extra chair and politely asked Wendy how she was feeling. In return he got her radiant smile. “Thank you for saving us, sir.”

“They holding the big lug in the nursery?”

“Yep. Only for a couple days, though. He didn’t get too banged up when Jack Meechum dragged me up the hillside.”

“Meechum show up?” Hickey asked.

“Nope. I got a dozen boys out there, see if they can find the body before it gets shredded. Not a chance he lasted through the night. He would’ve had to come back to the cabin or bust into another, and we’ve checked every place five miles around.”

“He could’ve circled back to the road.”

“I don’t believe he could. Roy got on the radio at Lewellen’s place. We had cruisers on the road before he could’ve got there. I figure he ran scared up into the wilderness. He’s not gonna find a road in eighty miles that way. If he don’t freeze, and wolves or a cat don’t get him, there’s nothing out there but crags to fall off of and arroyos—step in one of those, some hiker’ll sight him mid-August or so. By then he’ll look like Jolly Roger.”

“Who’s Jolly Roger?” Wendy asked.

“A skeleton.” Hickey kissed his finger and touched her forehead. “Like Meechum’s gonna be soon enough, either way. They can stick murder one on him, for the beachcomber.”

“Murder one, they’ll kill him, won’t they?” Wendy asked.

“Yep.”

“Poor man.”

“I got a better name for him,” the sheriff said.

Letting her head fall back, Wendy closed her eyes. Hickey sat stroking her arm. When Claire arrived, after she greeted and kissed Wendy, the sheriff offered his hand, then pulled the extra chair close to Hickey’s and seated her.

Though she’d sat with the Hickeys from midnight to dawn, Claire looked fresh and animated as though she’d just returned from a voyage in the tropics. She wore her hair up, a touch of eye shadow, a bright cotton skirt with a cashmere sweater. She rummaged in her purse, extracted a telegram, and handed it to Hickey. “There was a note on your door. I stopped by Western Union.”

TOM. I GOT THE NEWS FROM WASHOE COUNTY SHERIFFS. THANK GOD. CYNTHIA SKIPPED OUT. DITCHED THE SISTER. TOOK HER SON AND DISAPPEARED. LAUREL’S DAMNED MAD. BRING THE KID FOR A VISIT, I’LL TEACH HIM TO WATERSKI. RUSTY
.

Hickey blew a sigh, folded the telegram, and stuffed it into his pocket. Claire was petting Wendy’s cheek. The sheriff stood, pardoned himself, and left. Hickey sat facing the women. “I got a problem.”

“Leo,” Claire murmured. The second it was out, she winced at her indiscretion.

Wendy stiffened up. “Leo’s in a jam?”

“Naw. Don’t worry, babe. I’m talking about Cynthia. See, when Meechum torched the Sousa place, he was doing the job for her. Now that he’s a goner, providing they don’t catch him alive, I can pin the whole rap on him if I want to. Or I can stick Cynthia with her rightful share.”

“Why would you want to save her, after she burnt up a guy?” Claire asked.

“She’s nuts. A purebred loon. But maybe she’s only nuts about her family. Only nuts enough to kill
them
anyway.” He gave her the story in brief, how the feud between sisters had begun with rivalry and escalated on account of mutual fear. “Look, either Cynthia’s gonna kill Laurel or vice versa. Maybe today, maybe in twenty years, but someday. I’d make book on it.”

“Well, then,” Claire speculated, “if Cynthia goes to prison, it might save her. Or her sister.”

“I think it’d kill her,” Hickey said.

Wendy let go of Claire’s hand, lifted Tom’s, stared at the palm, and caressed it. “Do you think she’d hurt anybody besides her sister?”

“People get in the way,” Hickey said. “Like Johnny Sousa. This beachcomber. Meechum. You don’t just kill somebody clean. Every murder I’ve seen, it’s like a pileup on the highway.”

Claire nodded adamantly. “True. In a sense, she killed two people sure, maybe three, if Meechum’s dead, or—” She caught herself before mentioning Leo. “And that doesn’t count all she put Wendy through.”

Wendy reached behind her head, straightened the pillow, and propped herself up. “I’m okay. And she’s got a little boy, like Clifford. Who’d watch her boy if she goes to prison? Say, maybe we could keep him.”

“Whoa. Not a chance I’m getting you or Clifford mixed up with that family. It’d be the kiss of death.”

Wendy nodded pensively. “Anyhow, her boy needs his mama.”

Hickey stared at his wife in awe, at the arch of her brows and her eyelashes slightly flicking. It seemed he could know her a million years and find a hundred new features to love every day: a turn of her mind, a tone of voice, a soft place or blemish of her skin. “Sousa wasn’t supposed to be in the house. That part was kind of accidental. Anyway, Sousa was no choirboy.”

“Right,” Claire said. “And you can’t really pin Meechum’s killing the beachcomber on Cynthia.”

Hickey wrapped his fingers around Wendy’s hand, picked it up, and kissed the vein of her wrist. “Let’s leave the boy with his mama.”

“Okay. I think that’s best.”

“You know, darling, as long as you’re around, I don’t need a conscience. You do a way better job.”

“Don’t be silly.” She reached around his neck and pulled herself close. Hickey rubbed her back for a long time, until Claire stood and touched his shoulder and excused herself, with a promise to return that evening.

“You know what I want?” Hickey said.

“Tell me.”

“To hold you.”

With a smile that turned to a grimace, she eased herself toward the wall. Hickey slipped in beside her, tunneled his arm under her neck, and flopped his head back onto the side of her pillow. He cocked his head so their cheeks touched.” “Babe, are you sure the freaks didn’t hurt you?” You’re not just saying that so I won’t sneak into the jail and mutilate them?”

“I’m sure, all right. Except when Jack Meechum dragged me up the hillside. That hurt a little. And Tersh whopped me once. Only once, though. I was singing a song he didn’t like. But they couldn’t hurt me bad, even if they wanted. On account of the angels.”

“Yeah, how about those angels? What’d they look like?”

“I only saw Zeke, but I think there was a whole gang.”

“What’d Zeke look like?”

“Oh, big. Way taller than you. It was hard to see him because he was mostly made of light, I think. I didn’t see wings, but maybe that’s because he had a floppy shirt that came way down. He either had hair like a girl’s or he was wearing a funny hat. I think he was a redhead. That’s about all I saw.”

“Did he talk?”

“Nope. Didn’t make a sound.”

Hickey’s free hand had crept over and rubbed her belly. “You’re okay, sweetheart? Honest?”

“Honest. Well, I’m sore, that’s for sure.”

“You’re not worried, about nightmares or anything?”

“Not about anything. Truly. Because nothing terrible’s gonna happen, not to you or Clifford or me. Not ever. That’s God’s promise, Tom.”

The past thirty years, Hickey’d gotten teary a few times, but if he’d sobbed in that time, he’d deleted the memory. Now he sobbed freely, and liked it. Afterward, he lay still, listening to her breathe ever more shallowly until she drifted away. Then he slipped out from under the covers, patted the wrinkles from his trousers, grabbed his coat, and walked out to the hall and down to the nursery window.

There were only two babies. Hickey stared at Clifford, who lay facedown, his head cocked the other way. From the back, he looked strong, as though any second he might do pushups. Hickey didn’t need to see his face, he remembered it so vividly. A long head with puffy cheeks, ruddy skin. The kid might become a heartthrob, especially if he kept the dark hair that set off his eyes. They were blue as the shallows along Agate Bay.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Driving home, Hickey admired the sights. Streams of melted snow alongside the road, glistening blacktop, waterfalls plunging off rooftops, splattering on kerosene drums and into puddles. Even with a prize case of exhaustion trying to pound him into submission, he could’ve sung for joy. Except it would’ve felt wicked to sing when he ought to be mourning for Leo or searching for him. As he drove through the village, past Pederson’s Mercantile and Post Office, a fury sparked and rushed through him.

If Mickey Cohen had knocked off his partner and oldest pal, he’d be obliged to devote whatever part of himself Wendy and Clifford could spare to ruining the freak, at least. Or else he’d live and die in shame. If Leo’d got himself killed, no matter if Wendy’d prophesied their blessed future, Hickey didn’t buy it.

He made the turn and spotted Sheriff Boggs standing beside his cruiser outside the Café Rita, waving him down. Hickey pulled in, lowered his window, and watched the sheriff munch a sweet roll as he crossed the gravel.

Boggs leaned his free hand on the car door. “Tom, you ever heard of the Olive Branch Home down in Auburn? Not exactly a hospital, but I hear it’s the best place for folks that’re just a bit loony. It’s lots cheaper than a hospital, and they got treatments can work wonders in no time.”

“Who’s loony?”

“Well, don’t a person have to be loony to see angels? I’d figure loony was one of the requirements.”

“It depends, doesn’t it? If there are angels around, I guess we’ve gotta be loony
not
to see ’em.”

“That so?” The sheriff winked and backed off a step. “Did I tell you they’ve got a men’s wing too, at that place in Auburn?” Taking the last bite of his sweet roll, he strolled off.

Hickey backed out and pulled away. In front of him, the lake was polished silver upon which Mount Tahoe and the Rubicon shimmered. He noticed them briefly before his eyes slammed shut. He slapped his head, cranked up his eyelids and held on long enough to drive the last quarter mile.

***

Three times he woke to call Leo. No answer. Around dusk, Claire stopped by and chauffeured him to the hospital. They stayed a couple of hours. All of them got to hold the baby. Then Claire drove him home and made him cocoa while he tried Leo’s number again. No answer. She read aloud the book on his nightstand,
Billy Budd
. One chapter put him to sleep.

Thursday morning he pulled on boots and a jacket, started out to check the mailbox. He’d just stepped off the porch when the phone rang. He hustled in and grabbed it.

“Tom?”

“Vi. Tell me he’s okay, Vi.”

“I can’t. He’s paralyzed. His spine got mashed. I don’t know if he’s ever coming home, Tom.” She drew a long tremulous breath. From the background, Hickey heard a woman comforting her. “The doctor says he might have brain damage. I’m afraid he’s gonna be one of those old men that sit in their wheelchairs drooling.”

“He can’t talk?”

“Some. Real slow, but he got out a description of the guys that worked him over. Mickey Cohen’s boys. They tortured him and shoved the Packard off a cliff, left him for dead. I hope they burn! Tom, he can talk, all right, but it took an hour or so to describe each guy. He’ll say a few words, then go off somewhere, and you think he’s not coming back. His brain’s goofed up bad.”

Her voice had trailed off to a whimper. Suddenly it blustered. “They arrested the goons, but they’re clammed up. Suppose they get convicted, so what? Six months for assault, if they don’t skip town soon as bail comes through this afternoon. And all Mister Cohen gets is a laugh out of the deal. That’s the hell of it, Tom. It’s all for nothing. Just now, he asked for a cigaret. So I light one, hold it for him. He takes a puff and spits it out. Spits it out on the damn floor.” She sobbed. “I gotta go, Tom.”

“Hey, wait.”

“No, I’ll call back later. I’m having a rough time.”

“We’ll be down soon as the baby can travel. Couple days.”

“Sure, I know you will. I gotta go.”

Hickey set the receiver on the arm of the chair. He stood for a moment glaring at the lake. Then he reached for the nearest object, Wendy’s Isak Dinesen book. He reared back and pitched as though attempting to knock down Mount Pluto. The book shattered his lakeview window.

He slumped into the chair and tried to remember the last time he’d busted something in a rage. Not counting the noses or jaws of a few guys, the last thing he’d busted like that, he was thirteen years old. Maybe he’d do it more often.

He went outside for the book, picked it up and wiped snow off the pages, and attempted to straighten the dented spine. Wrapping it protectively under his arm, he carried it to his car and put it on the front seat, where he’d remember to give it to Wendy. Then he shuffled around the car and across the driveway to the woodshed. He got out his ax. Alongside the shed lay slabs of pine about a foot thick and two feet in diameter. He singled out one. Took aim. With the first swipe, he shattered the damn thing. He tossed the ax aside. Leaned on the shed and tried to figure what he ought to do. The only answer that came was, he should ask Wendy to pray.

Before, whenever he’d been stumped, if his brain got too tangled or sore, there was always Leo. He folded his hands, placed his thumbs between his eyes and the bridge of his nose, leaned into them. “What now, old man?” he muttered.

After a minute came the vague recollection that a long time ago he’d walked outside for a reason. Though he couldn’t remember what it might be, he set off wandering in search of it. He passed through the redwood grove and around back of the house, headed for the lake, but cut left before he reached the dunes. When he got to the meadow, he noticed that Claire’s Pontiac was parked outside Poverman’s. Briefly he questioned what would bring her there, before he received the conviction that Claire’s social life hardly mattered while his partner lay mutilated and as conscious as a turnip.

The mail. That was all he’d gone out for. Murmuring curses, he wandered that way. The mailbox was beside the paved road. A pickup rattled by, spraying a tail of slush.

There was only the one envelope, with his name and address in shaky block letters. He ripped it open and stared in horror.

Tom, They’re all yours, my three girls, your two, and Clifford. I’m a goner. I messed up. Drop it, that’s an order
.

The envelope fell into a bush. The letter stayed in his hands. He stared at it while he trudged in a stupor up the road to Poverman’s mailbox and along the gravel driveway to the gambler’s front porch, where Tyler sat leafing through a newspaper.

“How’s the baby, Mister Hickey?”

“Swell.”

Tyler pushed open the door and stood aside. Before Hickey crossed the threshold, Claire was beside him. “Mister Poverman asked for help redecorating. I had to agree, Tom. A chance to redeem this bordello—turn it down, I’d risk damnation. …”

He passed her the letter and stood mutely until she lowered herself to a nearby sofa and whispered, “Maybe he got away.”

Hickey flopped down next to her. “No, he didn’t. Cohen hit him. He’s alive and good for nothing, Claire. He’d be better off gone.”

In slippers, woolen trousers, and a silk pajama shirt, Harry sauntered over. “So—”

Claire shut him off with a glance and passed him the letter. Reaching for Hickey’s hand, she said, “Leo’s right, you know. For the girls, all of us—and especially for Clifford—you’ve got to let it go.”

The boss paced a circle in front of the sofa, then stopped and squared off. “Yeah, Tom. I’m with her.” He thrust his hands, palms out, to intercept any back talk. “I know the line: ‘Who asked you. Harry?’ Doesn’t mean a damn if you ask me or not, I’m gonna tell you. Guys like that, Mickey’s boys, they’ve got a knack for dying. You take ’em out, it’d be a wasted effort.” He fixed a vehement glare on Hickey. “Trust me this one time, will you, pal? I
know
these guys.”