Snowball in Hell - lanyon Josh (читать книги без TXT) 📗
«Cynic.»
«You think she'll quote you, Loot?»
«I hope not.»
Jonesy chuckled at Matt's tone. «You want her to do the dirty work. You figure in her efforts to prove her sweetheart Doyle innocent, she'll speculate in print on all the things we can't.»
«Yep.»
«You think it's occurred to her to wonder why there was so much time between when the ransom was paid and when the Arlen kid was supposed to be released?»
Matt said, «If it hasn't yet, it will.»
Jonesy said slowly, «Whoever did that killing was as cold as Christmas. They shot the kid, and then threw him in the tar pit to try and conceal the fact. Maybe they didn't want anyone to know he was dead. Maybe there was another reason, but I've got a feeling it's going to take more than little Miss Tara Renee asking pointed questions in The Examiner to shake that killer's nerve.»
It was late when the phone call came through. Matt had been leaving for home-or in the process of leaving-for the past three hours. There was no rush to get back to an empty house, and he was not going back to Pershing Square again. He'd had two nights of that insanity. He wouldn't spend another standing in the darkness, hot and sick and shaking inside with a confused mess of feelings that weren't worth analyzing. That he shouldn't have felt anyway.
With Rachel gone it was like balancing on the edge of a cliff-and all the little wildflowers, the netting of grass and roots that kept the cliff from sliding into the sea below, were gone. It was just Matt standing there looking down, waiting to fall.
Even Rachel's memory, the sweet recollection of all they had built, all they had shared, was no longer strong enough to fight gravity. From the moment he had looked across the wet grass and seen Nathan Doyle standing in the shadow of a stone saber tooth tiger, something had changed inside him. Something battened down had torn free, like a sail taking its first deep breath of sea air.
It terrified him.
And at the same time it exhilarated him.
Which terrified him all the more.
The phone jangled loudly, and Matt reached for it. He had been thinking about the one thing that tied all the suspects in the Arlen case together-thinking about how far people would go to protect their secrets-thinking-because he couldn't stop thinking about it-about Nathan Doyle's secret. The voice
on the other end of the line was Doyle's. He sounded a million miles away, like he was calling from the moon.
«I've located Pearl Jarvis. She's staying at Little Fawn Ski lodge up near Indian Falls.»
Indian Falls. He and Rachel had honeymooned there. They had gone camping in the mountains there every year until he was sent overseas and Rachel had got sick.
«You're kidding,» Matt said. It occurred to him that he might have seriously miscalculated in not having Doyle followed. If he was wrong about Doyle-but if he was wrong about Doyle, Doyle would probably not be calling him to say he had found Pearl Jarvis. He said calmly, «How'd you find that out?»
«I followed her from Los Angeles.»
«By car or train?» He found a pen and began to write, listening to Doyle's voice. It was a quiet voice, level. Doyle kept himself tightly under control; at least, that's what Matt would have thought if he hadn't seen him half-naked in the shadows and moonlight of Pershing Square on Tuesday and Wednesday night.
«By train. I'm in Indian Falls right now, trying to get a ride up to the lodge.»
«Why are you telling me this?» Spain asked.
Doyle answered, «Because-« And something changed in his voice; he said simply, «I want you to hurry up and solve this thing.»
«Any particular reason? Or are you just a concerned citizen, Mr. Doyle?»
He had to press the phone close to hear that weary, «I … think you know my reason.»
The honesty of it caught him off-guard. Shook him even. He wasn't sure he was ready for it. Wasn't sure that he could ever be ready for it, because to admit that he understood what Doyle was saying was to admit to something within himself. Something he wasn't sure he was ready to face.
He said finally, «You're heading up to the lodge, you said?»
«If I can hire a car.»
«Try not to spook her.»
Nathan snorted. «Tell it to your granny!» And Matt had to laugh at the amused affront.
But after he rang off, after promising to send help, he began to worry a little. He thought that Doyle might easily underestimate the fairer sex, and he thought Pearl Jarvis would not have run if she didn't have friends waiting for her– and that those same friends might be waiting for Doyle as well.
* * * *
The effort of trying to open his eyes hurt. He postponed it, taking a moment to place himself-but he was used to that: the freefall feeling of trying to remember where he was, and whether he needed to be on alert-even after months in hospital, he still woke with it.
But he wasn't in hospital now. He was lying on a bed-a cot-and he was cold. He didn't seem to be wearing any shoes. He opened his eyes.
He was in a room he'd never seen. The log ceiling seemed a long way away and a little fuzzy. He tried to focus on it. His head hurt. He didn't feel very well. Granted, he hadn't felt truly well for a long, long time, but he felt worse than usual. Quite a bit worse. And his feet were like ice.
He wasn't supposed to get sick. He didn't have much of an immune system left.
«Gin,» someone said.
Nathan turned his head. Two men sat at a small table. They were playing cards by the light of a kerosene lantern. One was balder than Cueball, and the other looked like one of the Marx Brothers. He knew them, though it took him a while to remember where. They had been in the hotel bar.
«You're a goddamn card shark, Lawdie,» said Harpo.
Cueball grinned widely-like a shark-displaying a mouthful of gold teeth. «No names,» he told the other man, and glanced at Nathan. His face changed. «Hey,» he said, and he nodded at Nathan.
Harpo looked at Nathan. «Well, well. Sleeping Beauty joins the party.»
Nathan sat up. It was a mistake. He sat there for a moment trying to decide how bad a mistake it was.
«Just stay put, newsie,» Lawdie said. He pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver and showed it to Nathan, who blinked at it tiredly. «Nobody wants any rough stuff.»
«That's good to know,» Nathan said, and the other two laughed.
The man who wasn't Lawdie scooped up the spread of cards, shuffled them expertly, and began to deal again.
«Can I have my shoes?» Nathan asked. «My feet are cold.»
This got another big laugh.
«No,» Lawdie informed him. «Ya can't.» The other man chuckled.
«Can I at least have my socks?»
«Nope.»
«Ah, let him have his socks,» Harpo said. «We don't need to litrally keep him on ice, do we?» He snickered, but Lawdie wasn't amused.
«You gotta big mouth, Hammer.»
«Hey,» Hammer protested.
Hammer and Lawdie, Nathan noted wearily. He'd have to remember that in case he got out of there alive. «That much I worked out for myself,» he said. «You can't be working for the girl, so who? Sid Szabo?»
It had been a shot in the dark, but the two thugs exchanged looks.
«How long do you plan on holding me for?»
«Depends,» Lawdie said.
«You talk a lot,» Hammer said to Nathan. «It's not a healthy habit.»
He was probably right. Doyle lay back down and closed his eyes. The best thing was to shut up and let them forget about him for awhile.
He must have actually dozed off for a few moments because the next voice seemed unnaturally loud.
«Is he still sleeping?»
Nathan opened his eyes. Lawdie was standing over him, staring down. He blinked up at him tiredly, and then closed his eyes again.
«I told you not to hit him so hard,» Hammer said. «You probably killed him.»
