A charge nurse led us to the ICU, where a pair of city cops stood outside a room and personnel in scrubs hurried in and out. The cops greeted Gary respectfully and gave me curt nods. They didn't seem to know that I was the shooter, or if they did, to care.
We stepped into the room. Jessup looked like a creature being cloned in a sci-fi movie, lying on his back in a reclining chair with a network of tubes attaching him to IVs, oxygen, and blinking, bleeping monitors. He'd have been hard to recognize, anyway, with his beard shaved and his glasses gone. His eyes were closed and his face was bloodless. It was hard to imagine him as the big, hearty-and murderous-man that he had been.
Maybe that helped me stay numb.
I stayed where I was while Gary talked to an ER doc. I could hear enough of what they said to glean that Jessup had extensive internal damage, and his belly was full of blood. Trying to operate would have been futile. He was in his last minutes and probably wouldn't regain consciousness.
But then I glanced at him and saw that his eyes were open. His gaze was fixed on me and focused, and I got the chilling certainty that he recognized me.
'Need-to tell you-something,' he got out in a hoarse, painfully slow whisper.
I stepped forward like I was approaching a coiled cobra.
'Just did what I had to,' he rasped. 'Not personal.'
He raised his right hand a few inches, extending it toward me as if imploring me to grasp it and render him absolution-a final con.
'It was personal to us,' I said.
The hand dropped back to his lap and his eyes closed again. I turned away and walked out of the room.
Gary followed me and laid a fatherly hand on my shoulder.
'Pretty cold, Hugh,' he said. 'But right on the money.'
I found out later that Jessup died within the next few minutes.
61
The next day started with good news-the tomcat was going to pull through. The veterinary surgeon had taken out a slug lodged between his heart and lung, and he'd stabilized during the night. The downside was that the shot had damaged his left foreleg so badly it had to be amputated below the shoulder. But the vet assured me that three-legged cats tended to get along fine, and pretty soon he'd never even miss it.
Then came a couple of hours around my place with a team of law enforcement personnel, giving them a statement and showing them what had happened where during my run-in with Jessup last night. I was given to understand that for a noncop to shoot a fleeing man was not regarded favorably, but the fact that he'd just murdered his wife and then took a couple of shots at me would smooth the path.
In the process, we checked Renee's Subaru and found that Jessup had done the same thing as with the phone line: cut a chunk out of the negative battery cable-covering bases with his usual thorough caution. It was an easy fix, another wire splice that would serve to get it to town.
When the cops were done with me, I drove the Subaru to a parts store and replaced the cable, then dropped it off at Renee's house for her to use when she got home. Madbird met me there and loaned me a Datsun pickup that he used for hauling brush and such. It was small and beat-up, but four-wheel drive and king cab, so I had plenty of leg room-fine for running around for the time being.
My own truck was a question mark. It still ran fine-the gunshots hadn't impaired anything mechanical and a body shop could take care of the external damage. I could get aftermarket interior door panels and seat cushions from a GMC reconstruction outfit, and do that part myself. And it was long overdue for a thorough cleaning, anyway.
The issue was whether I'd feel Lon Jessup's presence clinging to it. I decided that if I did and that was too disturbing, I'd have to try to find another pre-planned obsolescence rig, but saving the old one was worth a try.
By the time all that scurrying around was done, it was two o'clock in the afternoon. I still hadn't had a chance to talk to Renee, but I'd checked in with Gary Varna a couple of times, and he'd told me her flight was due in around three-thirty. He wanted to pick her up at the airport and talk with her, so I wouldn't be seeing her until four-thirty or five.
I suddenly found myself alone and with nothing to do. If it weren't for Renee, I probably would have headed for a bar.
Instead, I drove back to her house, let myself in, and started walking around-for the first time, taking a careful look at the remodel work that was needed. The way things had changed, maybe she'd decide to take the time for that before she sold the place.
And I wanted to keep my mind off the man I'd killed, although it was inescapable.
Jessup hadn't made any kind of confession before passing on, but now the police had his fingerprints and some other information from tracking his business dealings. They had identified him with fair certainty as one Raymond Tice, wanted in Florida for a fifteen-year-old string of crimes that included murdering two women there.
I'd only gotten a thumbnail account from Gary, but apparently Tice was a backwoods Southern boy who already possessed a large measure of natural cunning, who'd joined the military and acquired the kind of training he could readily turn to a criminal career-special operations and intelligence. After getting out, he'd quickly graduated from low-level drug dealing and scams to more sophisticated swindling, eventually setting himself up as a financial adviser who preyed on Miami's large population of wealthy, lonely widows.
His name became known to the police, but nothing stuck until one of his suspicious victims hired a private investigator and discovered that he was spending her money on a glossy lifestyle, complete with a stripper girlfriend.
It sounded bleakly familiar, and so did the follow-up. The woman pressed charges that would have sent Tice to prison. He got out on bail and vanished-but both the older woman and the stripper were found dead.
From there, the story was still largely speculation. It was known that he'd made his way to Colorado-he probably already had the Lon Jessup identity established-using the skills of his upbringing to get by as a woods hand. But that wasn't going to suit him for long. He was looking for his chance.
He found it when he spotted Professor Callister and Astrid, who were in Boulder to attend an ecological convention. Somehow he met them, no doubt picking up on the fact that Astrid was hot for more radical action than endless debate and counterproposals. He convinced her that his own sympathies lay in that direction, and if the story that Buddy Pertwee had heard was true, he led her to raid a gyppo logging camp where they shot and wounded one of the men. He then used his connection with her to come visit them in Montana, soon married Evvie, and returned to his former high-rolling lifestyle.
There things might have rested forever, except that Astrid decided she wanted more-his help in blowing up the Dead Silver Mine. But Tice knew perfectly well that he was dealing with amateurs who would certainly get caught-and that his past, including the Miami murders, was bound to come to light.
Had Astrid seduced him like she had the mine manager who'd died with her, for the same reason-to draw out information that she could use for her own purposes? Still playing her game, not realizing how dangerous Tice truly was? Had he let slip some damning story about his past, which she then threatened to reveal unless he gave in to her demands?
It seemed like a strong bet that that was what had gotten her killed. Just as with the other women, he hadn't considered it personal-simply a businesslike precaution.
That chilly emptiness was mirrored by the vacant lifeless rooms of the old house. As I wandered around, I became keenly aware by contrast of the warmth that once must have filled them. The intrinsic beauty of the inlaid hardwood floors, the high plaster ceilings, the carefully fitted trim was still there.
Sell it, hell.
I had just enough time to do some shopping before Renee arrived.
