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Terry said to him, “What the devil are you doing here?”
The four of them congregated on the front step of the shack; Oakley thought vaguely that Floyd Rymer must have had a predilection for abandoned habitations—first Soledad ghost town, now this deserted ’dobe. Mitch Baird sat against the wall with his legs stretched out, Terry ministering his wound—not much of a wound; Floyd’s bullet had dug a shallow trench along the side of his hip. Oakley found the strength to say, “That’s a fu
Terry said without looking up, “He saved your life, didn’t he? Doesn’t that count for anything with you?”
“I don’t get any of this,” Oakley said helplessly.
“Nobody asked you to.”
Orozco was opening the trunk compartment of the Olds-mobile. Oakley watched him lean over and heard the snap of suitcase locks and saw Orozco lift the lid of the suitcase into view. Orozco said, “I think it’s all here.”
Terry said, “You can give it back to my father. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
Oakley’s eyes widened. “Your father is—” He couldn’t finish it.
“A first-class son of a bitch,” Terry said. “We heard about what he said on the phone. As if he cared more about getting revenge than saving my life.”
“That wasn’t your father on the phone,” Oakley said. “Where the hell have you been?”
Mitch Baird said, “She’s been with me.”
“You. That’s fine. That’s just dandy. Kid, do you happen to know what kind of trouble you’re in?”
Terry looked up, drawn and furious. “You’re just like him, aren’t you, Carl? You never let simple things like gratitude stand in your way, do you? Mitch saved your life!”
“I know he did. But it doesn’t change the fact that—”
Terry bounced to her feet. “Shut up, Carl. Just shut up, will you? You just take that damned money back to my father and get a receipt for it and tell him I don’t ever want to see him again. Tell him Mitch and I are going away together. He ought to get a boost out of that.”
Grim as a pallbearer, Oakley planted his feet and dragged a hand across his eyes and said, “I can’t tell your father anything, Terry. He’s dead. He’s been dead since the night you were kidnaped.”
Terry’s reactions baffled him; but then everything baffled him. Oakley felt as if he had lost his grip on reality; he sensed he was going mad.
She had gone from shock to rage; she had stormed, spiteful and willful; she had gone off into the rocks and he had heard the sound of her retching and seen the signs of misery on Mitch Baird’s wan face. But then she had come back, subdued, and she had sat down beside Mitch and groped for Mitch’s hand and Oakley stood above the two of them watching them and simply did not understand any of it.
And then Terry said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Carl.”
“Are you apologizing to me? What for?”
“For hating him,” she said. “Maybe that doesn’t make sense to you. He’s dead? I still can’t get it into my head, Carl. There were things we had to say to each other—it isn’t fair.”
Oakley saw Mitch grip her hand in both of his; Mitch murmured, “Take it easy.”
Something burst inside Oakley: he roared, “What in the God damned hell is his part in this?”
Both of them looked up at him, and after a while they told him.
Oakley had to absorb it. He turned a dumbfounded face toward Orozco, and the fat man said in his quiet way, “You can’t prosecute him anyway, Carl, in case you forgot. There never was any kidnaping—remember?” Orozco came away from the car and said, “Walk off a little piece here with me, Carl,” and Oakley, too wilted to question him, followed obediently.
Orozco took him around the corner into the shade and said, “We got a few things to talk through, Carl. Right now.” An odd light burned in his eyes. When Oakley made no sign of resistance the fat man said, “You’re going to have to tell them the whole thing, you know. It’s the only way you can convince them not to talk about this, ever. You got to make a deal with them—promise you won’t expose the Baird kid. In return they promise not to expose you. Nobody ever mentions that there was a kidnaping. You get to keep Co
“Nuts. I don’t have to tell them a damned thing.”
“Sure you do.” Orozco began to smile. “Because if you don’t I will.”
Oakley rested his back against the grimy wall, tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “You’re not finished, are you?”
“Uh-unh. You understand me now, Carl—price is high, my price for not exposin’ you. Because once you get done setting up with these two kids you’re going to sign the Co
Oakley said, softly, finally, “You made it work, didn’t you, Diego?”
“You always used to tell me to grab an opportunity when I saw one.”
“I never thought you wanted the ranch.”
“Oh, I don’t mean to keep it. But once I give it all back to the chicanos, the whole damn land grant, I’m go
Oakley opened his eyes. He felt strong again, decisive. “Sure you have,” he said. He clapped Orozco on the shoulder and said, “You’re the meanest bastard I ever met, amigo, and it’s a pleasure knowing you.” He gri
Orozco came after him, smiling.
Oakley came around the corner and saw Terry and Mitch sitting together with their arms around each other’s waists. They looked up when he appeared; they looked uncertain, afraid, slightly punch-drunk. Oakley felt full of self-confidence—strong, sure, warm with benevolence. He said, “We’ve got a lot of things to clear up but everything’s going to be all right. Will you both take my word for that?”
They just watched him, not so much suspicious as puzzled. Oakley hunkered down on his heels beside them in the shade of the adobe wall and put an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth and before he began to talk he looked up past Orozco’s looming hulk at the hard brassy sky above the rock hills. A few diaphanous cirrus clouds moved languorously overhead and a buzzard began to circle down toward Floyd Rymer’s body.
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copyright © 1971 by Brian Garfield
cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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