King's Ransom (25 page)

Her voice began
to shake, and her legs went weak.

One of the OSBI
men frowned at her statement. He motioned for some of the men to follow, then
one of the trucks blocking their vision finally moved. He stood transfixed for
mere seconds before he began to run.

"It's
Lynch," he yelled, as they started in fast pursuit, "and McCandless
is after him."

The men split up,
running in parallel paths, hoping to converge on the fleeing suspect should he
try to escape down one of the many narrow paths between the dozens of holding
corrals where the livestock were kept until sold at auction.

Jesse started to follow,
but was pulled back by Shockey's strong, unyielding grasp.

"Let the men
do their job, Miss LeBeau," he urged. "You stay here with me. I'm
here by invitation only. This is out of my jurisdiction. But I like to see the
end of a case for myself."

She couldn't
think past the horrible fear that poured into her brain. All she could remember
was that man, and his knife, and the pain. Now King was in danger. She leaned
limply against the hot fender of the unmarked police car and began to shake.

Twice King almost
had a hand on him, and then Lynch would pivot and dart down another path
between the holding pens. A black rage kept him going, unswerving in his
determination that this man would not escape again. Not this time. He could
feel Lynch's fear. He heard the choking gasps for breath, and knew Lynch was
tiring. But he still managed to stay just out of King's reach. Lynch was
running for his life.

The wind and
heat, the stench of manure, the cattle's uneasy lowing as the race among them
heightened brought a growing certainty to Wiley Lynch that he'd reached a point
of no return. He wasn't going to escape this big, angry man. His lungs burned.
His legs ached. Then he saw it! A slim chance,
but
a chance. He
gathered all of his remaining strength, and made one long leap toward a big
semi pulling an empty cattle trailer out of the loading chute. If he could just
get a handhold on the slat-sided truck, maybe, just maybe . . .

King realized
Lynch's intention and dived for his feet just as he jumped. He felt the dust on
Lynch's shoes come away in his hands, but he missed and fell face down in the
dust, inches away from his goal. He looked up in dismay, certain that he was
going to see Lynch's escape. Instead, he watched in horror as Lynch misjudged
his vault and fell under the rolling eighteen-wheeler.

Suddenly hands
were all over King, pulling him to his feet. Dozens of people kept asking him
if he was all right.

"What the
hell?" he muttered. He was tired, winded, and sick at heart at the growing
suspicion inside him.

"OSBI, Mr.
McCandless," one of them answered. "We have Miss LeBeau. She's
fine."

"Well, you
can't say the same for that bastard," King said, and pointed to what was
left of Wiley Lynch.

He pushed roughly
past the gathering group of bystanders, who looked on in horror at what they
judged to be a terrible accident. King headed back to his car with a wild,
fierce glint in his eyes. This wasn't over yet.

            
TWELVE

As word spread of
the accident, gathering crowds obscured Jesse's view. She struggled within
Shockey's grasp, unwilling to wait quietly while her world might be coming to
an end. She could hear the rising volume of voices as more people became aware
of the events that had just taken place. Many were not aware that a chase had
been in progress, or that the police were already on the scene. Most of the
police were in plain clothes and driving unmarked vehicles.

"Please,"
Jesse pleaded. "I just need to go find him." But she could tell by
the determined look on Shockey's face that her plea was useless.

Suddenly King
emerged from the pushing crowd of onlookers, and Jesse caught back a sob of
relief. She pulled away from Shockey's restraint and began to run. Yet the
closer she came to King, the more a different kind of panic set in. King didn't
even see her, wasn't aware that she was anywhere close, until Jesse grabbed him
by the arm as he started to pass by her.

"King!"
she cried. "What happened? Did they catch Lynch? Are you all right?"

King looked
blindly down at her hand, then up at the worried expression on her face. A
black hole was opening in his mind. He knew he should answer, but he couldn't
focus on anything but the growing certainty that he knew who Lynch's
"Boss" was.

He shrugged away from
Jesse's grasp, and continued toward his car in single-minded determination.
Then he remembered, and turned back to Jesse, as she stood watching his actions
in stunned silence.

"Give me the
keys," he whispered, and swallowed an urge to let his rage take hold.

Jesse began to
shake. She clutched the keys tightly in her hands and refused to acknowledge
King's command. He wasn't going to shut her out like this. She wouldn't allow
it.

"What's
wrong with you, King? What happened? Please, sweetheart," she pleaded, as
an overwhelming fear began to replace her reason. Something was still very
wrong.

"Jesse,"
he shouted, "give me the damn keys."

Shockey walked up
just in time to hear their heated exchange, and knew trouble wasn't over after
all. This man was out of control.

"Not until
you tell me what happened," Jesse screamed back at him. "This
concerns me as much as it does you." Huge tears gathered and began
spilling down her cheeks as she clutched the car keys tighter against her
breast.

King wouldn't
allow himself to think about Jesse. He had a growing horror within him that
replaced everything but a need to hear for himself that what he feared was
wrong. It had to be.

"Lynch is
dead," he finally muttered. Then his voice rose in angry volume as he
shouted, "But he recognized me." King spun around wildly, his boots
kicking up dust as he pounded his fist on the hood of his car. "He thought
he knew me!"

"I don't
understand," Jesse whispered, clutching the keys as an anchor against the
suspicion that suddenly started the world spinning around her. "He doesn't
know you . . . does he?"

"No
...
he doesn't know
me."
King muttered,
his throat tight and aching as he continued. "But, Jesse
...
he knows someone who looks like
me." He watched comprehension hit Jesse in the face with a resounding
slap. "And," he continued, "he called him 'Boss.' "

Jesse staggered,
struck dumb by the implication of King's accusation. She let the keys fall from
her hands as her knees gave way.

Shockey reached
out and caught her as King snagged the car keys just before they hit the dirt.

"Take care
of her," King ordered, and started to stalk away.

"You wait a
minute," Captain Shockey ordered. "I want to know what's going on
here." But his words were useless as King backed the car away from the stunned
pair and drove off in a cloud of dust.

"Oh,
God!" Jesse moaned, and buried her face in her hands. She had to do
something. She couldn't let King get to Duncan. If he did, one of them would
die. Either King would kill Duncan, or he'd die trying. Anyway she looked at
it, she was going to lose King.

"Miss
LeBeau," Shockey ordered, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her gently.
"Get hold of yourself and tell me what in hell all that was about."

"Duncan,"
she mumbled, and started pulling Shockey toward the cars. "We've got to
hurry," she began to sob. "King has gone to find Duncan, and if he
does, he'll kill him."

"Who the
hell is Duncan, and why would King want to kill him?" he asked, allowing
Jesse to pull him along as they talked. It was obvious something more was
involved. Maybe he was about to find the accomplice.

"Duncan is
King's uncle," Jesse muttered. "Please, we've got to hurry!"

"Why would
King want to kill his uncle, and what did he mean by Lynch recognizing
him?"

"Lynch
recognized King, at least he thought he did," Jesse answered,
"because King and Duncan could pass for identical twins."

Shockey's
hesitance was driving her mad. She screamed aloud as Shockey stopped
stubbornly in front of her. "Lynch called King 'Boss.' Don't you see? He
got them mixed up. Please, we have to hurry."

The implication
was sinking into Shockey's analytical mind as he yanked Jesse into the car
seat beside him.

"Yes, girl,
I'm beginning to," he answered. "Now give me an address fast. We're
going to need help to stop that man."

He wrote down the
address Jesse gave him, and grabbed his radio mike. The Tulsa police were going
to have to help. He'd never make it in time to stop King McCandless.

King never knew
how he got to Duncan's apartment. He didn't even bother to park properly. He
just stopped, left the keys in the ignition, and got out of the car in a
trance-like state. He could hear sirens in the distance, warning all who got in
the way of their impending progress, but King was past rational thinking. He
had to see Duncan face to face; he had to hear him admit what he feared was
true, or deny it. King couldn't think past that. He couldn't let himself think
about retribution.

His gut twisted
in a knot of despair as he punched the twelfth-floor button in the elevator and
swallowed the choking rage that rose bitterly in his throat. When the door
opened at the twelfth floor, he had to tell himself to move. King knew now that
each step he took would be bringing him closer to the end of the world as he
knew it.

He heard the
elevator door open down the hall as he arrived at Duncan's apartment, but he
ignored it. All his being was focused on the door in front of him. He took a
deep breath, doubled up his fist, and hammered loudly.

"Duncan!"
he shouted. "Open the door!" No one responded.

This time, when
he pounded loudly on the door, he issued an ultimatum.

"Duncan!
Open the damn door, or I'll kick it in."

There was an
ominous silence before Duncan spoke sarcastically. "It's not locked,
nephew. Do the civilized thing, and use the doorknob, please."

King twisted the
knob and slammed the door back against the wall as he entered. His heart jerked
to a full stop at the sight before him. He realized then that his worst fears
were probably true.

Duncan was half
standing, half sitting on a bar stool with a nearly empty bottle of bourbon in
one hand, and a pistol in the other. He cocked an eyebrow at the big, angry man
before him, the two policemen who followed him through the door, and waved the
pistol in then-general direction.

"Come in,
come in," he called loudly. "I wasn't expecting you." Then he
muttered to himself, "Or maybe I was. At any rate, you're here. What can I
do for you?"

King looked
around in surprise at the men behind him, and then back at Duncan, ignoring the
officers' advice to take cover.

The police looked
at each other, uncertain how to defuse the situation without someone getting
hurt. One of them called out forcefully to Duncan McCandless. "Drop your
gun, mister! Whatever's going on here can be settled without violence. Let me
have your gun, then we'll talk about this."

Duncan smiled,
ignored their presence, and turned his attention to his nephew.

King spoke in
short, clipped sentences, his husky voice so strained it wasn't much more than
a whisper.

"Lynch is
dead," King said, watching Duncan's face for something . . . anything . .
. that would tell him he was wrong.

"Well,
now," Duncan drawled. "That's good news, isn't it? That calls for a
drink." He tipped his head back, tilted the bourbon bottle, and let the
fiery liquid run slowly down his throat.

King never
blinked. He never moved. But his hands clinched and unclenched at his side as
he watched Duncan deteriorate before his eyes. It was a strange sensation.
Almost like watching himself die.

"He called
me, 'Boss,' " King said softly. "Now why would he do that, Duncan?
Why did he think he knew me?"

Duncan sat
staring at the men before him. When the policemen started forward, he quietly
aimed his pistol at King's chest and muttered, "Because he's a fool."