Bloody River Blues

He opened his eyes and looked at the shadowy silhouette above him. A hand disappeared under the lampshade and the room was suddenly filled with jarring light.

A white-faced John Pellam sat down in the chair beside the bed.

"Hey, chief," Buffett said in an unsteady voice, "how'd you get in here? Visiting hours are over."

"The back stairs."

"Some security. You scared the crap out of me."

"I've got to talk to you, Do

Buffett felt his own hand start to cramp and realized it was still jammed into a large fist. He relaxed it and felt the pain subside. His heart pounded and he felt a surge of weakness melt through his chest and his abdomen. "What the hell are you doing here at this hour?" He too was whispering.

What's he holding?

Pellam glanced down at his own hand, at the object he held. He looked back up at Buffett and said, "He broke into the camper. The man who attacked Nina, the one who killed my friend. I don't know how, he just got in. He hit me a couple times." He looked at Buffett for a long moment. "I took out your gun-"

"The cold gun?"

"Right."

"Jesus."

"I took it out. I shot him with it."

"Jesus, Pellam, you shot him?

"I wasn't going to. I was just going to arrest him. He pulled his gun out and…."

"He's dead? Well, let's think. Any witnesses? Anybody hear anything, you think?"

"There's more," Pellam whispered.

"Don't panic yet. Let's think. It was a break-in. That's burglary, and you've got a right to use deadly force, even if it's a mistake. An absolute right. Okay, let me call…"

Pellam held up his hand. The object was a wallet.

"Where were you parked when it happened?" Buffett took the wallet which Pellam had thrust toward him. Absently he turned it over and over.

"There's more," Pellam blurted once again.

The cop was still talking about what Pellam could do, lawyers he knew, what sections of the state penal code covered justifiable homicide. He opened the wallet. He stopped talking. After a moment he blinked. "Oh, my God."

Pellam asked him, "I just killed an FBI agent, didn't I?"

TWENTY

Pellam kept staring at the ID.

Buffett said, "It's over the line. Peterson wouldn't do that."

"It's true."

"Peterson wouldn't do it. He wouldn't dare."

"He was making it look like Crimmins was threatening Nina and me so I'd testify against him. How else can you explain it?"

BufFett shook his head. "He's the U.S. Attorney." 'This was the guy that threatened Nina. There's no doubt about it."

"Impossible."

"She described him perfectly."

"A U.S. Attorney is not going to send an agent to assault somebody. Maybe the guy is working for Crimmins. Or was.

A rogue agent. On the take, you know."

"No, it's Peterson."

"He'd be crazy. Peterson, I mean. Too much risk."

Pellam lifted his palm. "He is crazy. You know he tried blackmailing me to get me to testify?"

"Blackmail?"

Pellam took a long moment to hook a thumb through a belt loop. "I did some time."

"Time?" BufFett did not understand.

"San Quentin," Pellam said, volunteering nothing more. Buffett stared for a moment, and said nothing. Pellam continued,

"He was threatening to tell the film company."

Buffett took a breath to speak, then he paused. Finally he said that he just didn't know.

"My friend. This guy killed my friend."

"No," Buffett said emphatically. "If he's a rogue agent on a private job for Peterson, murders too over the line. Peterson's on some kind of moral crusade to put Crimmins away, okay. But murder, no way."

"Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he was following the bike to scare me. He misjudged or something."

Buffett conceded that was possible. "What did you do with the body?"

Pellam thought for a minute, as if he'd locked away the memory in a hidden part of his mind. "His car was outside, in the alley across the street. What did I do? I wrapped him up in some garbage bags and put him in the trunk. I drove it to the parking lot by the bus station. There were a lot of cars there. I don't think anybody'll notice it for a while. Oh, I wore gloves."

"You had to do it. You didn't have any choice."

"Jesus," Pellam whispered, shaking his head, numb.

"Where's the gun?"

"I put it next to him. If anybody found him they might think he'd killed himself."

"Pellam, that's not the way people kill themselves."

"I wasn't thinking too clearly."

"Did you wipe off the gun?"

"Yeah. For fingerprints, you mean? Yeah."

"It was a revolver, so you'll have traces of powder on your hands, but you aren't going to be picked up in the next twenty-four hours on this. When the guy doesn't check in, Peterson'll know something's wrong, assuming he does-did- work for Peterson. But what's he going to say? He'll have to deny everything. I think you're pretty safe."

"I…"

A nurse entered the room. She smiled at Do

She gave him two pills in a cup.

"Snack time," she said.

Buffett smiled back. "What are these?" he asked. "The pills."

"Sedatives. Usual."

He took the pills. "Ativan? Half a milligram?"

She called him "Doctor" as she said goodnight.

"I always ask. They make mistakes sometimes. About the pills, I mean. You ever in the hospital, always ask."

Pellam took a kleenex from Buffett's dresser and was carefully wiping the agent's-ID case.

He said to Pellam, "You want some ice cream?'

"Uh-uh. I don't like ice cream."

"You sure?" Buffett opened the ice cream and began to eat it. He stopped and set down the spoon. "Pellam, you did what

I would've done."

"Yeah."

Buffett picked up the spoon again. "You know, there's something else." Pellam took a cookie from the tray and ate it. The cop continued, "Let's assume you're right and this guy, the one you shot, was working for Peterson."

"Uh-huh."

'Then the one who's looking for you, the one who killed your friend, he's still out there."

"I guess he is." Pellam had not thought about this. "But what can I do about it?"

"Dusting off your passport might be a good idea."

Nina, on the other end of the phone, said, "I'd like to see you tonight."

She sounded seductive. Pellam was not in the mood to seduce or be seduced. He was sitting on a banquette three feet from where the carpet had been stained with an FBI agents blood. He had used Clorox to scrub it. This had worked pretty well but the camper smelled fiercely of bleach.

"I called three times and you never answered."

"I don't have a machine in the camper," he said, although he did. He often did not turn it on.

"There's all kinds of talk around the set about you. Mr. Sloan's been saying some things that aren't real nice. He's talking about suing you. I'm real sorry about your friend, John. I don't remember him, but I think I met him once. He seemed real nice."

"He was."

"So you want to be alone tonight?"

"Something like that."

"I don't think it's good for you."

"What's not good?"

"To be alone. Come over. Cranston's only twenty minutes away." Her voice was a breathy singsong.

"It's just not a good time."

"Okay, if that's what you want." Melodious became brittle.

Oh not now please.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" she asked.