“Sure fits in with the rest,” Fargo said. “I’m not a journalist, but I’ve looked into a few murders in my time. And I’m sure going to look into this one.”
“Any idea how you’ll start?”
“I need to find the white man who came up to my room with the Mexican. And that means starting with getting the body and bringing it back here for identification.”
She smiled. “I was going to say ‘be careful,’ the way women always do. But I have a feeling you’ll be able to handle yourself just fine. But he’s got a lot of rough men working for him, old Noah does. I’ll talk to Tom about this. He’ll be honest with me.”
Fargo picked up his hat. “Any easy way into that ranch of Noah’s?”
“Not unless you’re awful lucky. He has dogs and men riding shotgun and standing sentry all over the land that surrounds the house itself. You could get on the property with no problem—just wait until one of the shotgun riders is working a different part of the spread—but getting into the house would be next to impossible.”
“Maybe I’ll try the easy way.”
“I’m not sure there
Fargo laughed. “It’s called walking up to the front door and knocking and asking to see old Noah.”
“I guess I never thought of that,” she smiled. “That might just work. But even if they let you in, what would you say?”
Fargo said, “That’s the part I haven’t come up with yet.”
“So,” Noah Tillman said, returning to sit behind his desk and sip his brandy. “Have you figured out the part you left unfinished, Mr. Ekert?”
Tillman could imagine what was going through Ekert’s mind. This was the ultimate final exam. Ekert had to know that if he failed to answer correctly, there would be hell to pay. And it would be a hell much more fiery than getting a simple “F” on a progress report. He had to know that Tillman would have two or three of his men take Ekert somewhere out of the county and kill him. He’d be buried so deep that he’d never be found. And everybody involved would proclaim with great dramatic innocence that they had no idea where Mr. Ekert had gone to.
Ekert smiled anxiously. “I’m almost afraid to answer, Mr. Tillman. If I said the wrong thing—”
“But you have to answer, Mr. Ekert.”
“It’s just so hot in here—” Ekert’s face gleamed with sweat. Even his neck glistened with moisture. You could almost feel sorry for him.
“It’ll be worse for you if you don’t answer at all, Mr. Ekert. Let me assure you of that.”
Ekert, obviously unable to deal with the tension anymore, blurted out, “Is it that I didn’t kill Fargo?”
The silence was thunderous. It squeezed even more sweat out of Ekert. And it made his entire head twitch, as if it might just rip free of his neck.
For a ham like old Noah, this was a moment to enjoy and extend. Maybe he could get Ekert to twitching like a chicken that had just been beheaded. Maybe Ekert would start running around the study, stumbling blindly into things and finally falling on the floor and going into spasms so severe, his spine would snap. Now that—for a man like Noah who wanted to amuse himself with new and novel situations—that would be something to see.
Ekert said, “Would you just please tell me if I answered right, Mr. Tillman?”
“Well, before I tell you, let me ask you if you want to change your answer.”
Ah, genius. Another way of prolonging Ekert’s suffering.
“You’d let me change it?”
“Yes, I would, Mr. Ekert.”
“Does that mean that my answer was wrong, Mr. Tillman?”
“Not at all. It just means I’m in a generous mood and I’m willing to give you another try.”
“If my answer was right, would you tell me now?”
“I will if you’d like me, too, Mr. Ekert. But if it’s wrong, I wouldn’t be able to give you that extra chance.”
“Oh, God.”
More brandy. “It’s all up to you. I can tell you if your answer is right—or I can give you a second guess.”
“I’ll take a second guess.” Ekert glanced around the study, as if the answer might be hidden somewhere in its appointments and furnishings.
“I’ll give you two minutes.”
Tillman took his watch from his vest pocket. “Ready, Mr. Ekert?”
“Ready.”
The sweat glazed Ekert now. And the shaking and the twitching—spasms, real spasms now. Except for a man who was about to hang, Tillman had rarely seen anybody look so forlorn.
Ekert licked dry lips. Smiled anxiously up at Tillman. “I’m real nervous.”
“You’re wasting your time and mine, Mr. Ekert.”
Once again, Ekert blurted his answer. “It’s because I didn’t kill Fargo.”
“You’re sure of that, Mr. Ekert? You’re sure that’s the answer I’m looking for?”
But Ekert didn’t look sure at all. And he didn’t need to tell this to Tillman, either.
Noah Tillman smiled. “You managed to give me the right answer, Mr. Ekert.”
“I did?” He sounded shocked.
“Yes, now go clean yourself up, Mr. Ekert.”
From the stain on the front of his pants, it was clear that Ekert had wet himself.
“And now that you know what I want you to do, I want it done right away.”
“I understand that, Mr. Tillman. I’m sorry I didn’t kill him this morning.”
He walked bow-legged from the study. Tillman went over and opened a window. Some fresh air, even if the day was hot, torpid. Fresh air was what he needed.
10
Fargo had spent time on waters of various kinds. On wide creeks with Indian friends, on rivers working as a hand, even on the Pacific Ocean, though never far from the coast.
Cap’n Billy’s tugboat brought back a lot of memories. It was a flat craft with the sheer—the top of the tug’s sides—running only a foot high. The bow was open for loading and off-loading whatever Cap’n Billy was hiding. On a hot night like this, a myriad of acrid odors—the remnants of various things the Cap’n had hauled—kept the air sour. The sentimental sound of the squeezebox playing an old forlorn Irish sea ballad brought back Fargo’s time on the water.
Fargo ground-hitched his stallion and walked down the hill leading to the riverside where a heavy rope lashed the tug to a large steel spike driven deep into an oak tree.
No cargo onboard tonight. Just an old man sitting on the empty deck with a dog lying next to his chair and a cat on his lap.
Cap’n Billy didn’t stop playing but he did look up and say, “Sara Jane told me I was gonna have a visitor tonight.”
Fargo boarded the craft and walked its length to where Cap’n Billy sat.
“Sara Jane is your daughter?”
“Nope. She’s a witch.”
“I see.”
“I can tell by your tone you’re not a believer.”
“Not a believer, not an unbeliever. I could be convinced either way.”
“Have a seat, stranger.”
Fargo smiled. “I guess she didn’t tell you my name, huh?”
The Captain quit playing. “See, there’s that skeptic tone again. She ain’t that advanced in her witchery yet.”
“I see.”
