By the time I reached Podunk Hollow, I was damned sure nobodywas following me. Of course, Kratz already knew where Ridge lived. He’d provedthat. So I actually was just wasting my time and gas. Say I was rubbing thetraces of rust off my sword in preparation for battle.
I wondered if thistrip would be the real reason why Ridge had hired me, or just anotherpreliminary round. I arrived early so I could circle around the village andhills and dales, scouting land in daylight that I’d only seen at night whilewearing handcuffs and couldn’t choose the route or pace. That “Mom and Pop”convenience store at the corner did a steady business, not heavy, but someone should have seen what went downwith Kratz and the propane truck driver. Wes. In a place like that, strangersget noticed. But I’d seen the report by way of Mac and Cash. Nothing. Wizardwork. One reason why First Cop and Second Cop had been so spooked they couldn’tthink straight.
Speaking of Batman and Robin, First Cop drove by me headed theother way on patrol, no eye contact. Which in cop body-language meant he’dspotted me and recognized me in that State Patrol panzer and suffered from anacute case of oh-damns.
Like I said before, he had worse coming, whether he knew ityet or not. Don’t call it revenge, though I did allow a few petty and unworthythoughts to pass through my head, but protecting public health and welfare. Badcops hurt good cops everywhere.
Anyway, I scouted both the lay of the land and my back trail,no sign or signature of Kratz, and filed away a few extra routes in and out oftown in case I ever needed them. Habits. Then I pulled into Ridge’s drivewayand rolled down the hill into a swath of scorched earth worthy of a napalmstrike, even rocks in the fieldstone wall cracked and spalled from the heat. Isaw fresh work there, money talking — the gravel drive re-graded and dead treesfelled, stumps pulled and some hefty saplings planted to take their place, newloam spread and seeded and covered with hay against erosion. I could stillsmell char and diesel fuel and burned metal.
I drove on through Ridge’s money-manicured woods, thinkingidle thoughts about how much land went with the house and how much it wouldfetch on the current market, subdivided into rich-folk lots of onlytwenty-thirty acres each. Unless I missed my guess, Ridge had well over athousand acres out here, couple of square miles in the country-gentry district,annual tax bill higher than the value of my condo. Or maybe higher than thewhole apartment building. And yet the whole scene felt like he was running somekind of cheap-assed scam, using me.
I pulled up on the gravel oval in front of his portico, twoBMWs and a Lexus there before me, all polished and glittery even though one ofthe BMWs looked like it was ten-fifteen years old. So I’d be performing for anaudience this time. Ridge had mentioned the cost of repairing the roof, so Iglanced here and there while parking my faded chariot out of the way of thefashion crowd. Yeah, the place was showing some wear around the edges.
Then Ridge popped out the door and I quit gawking at thescenery. My client glad-handed me again, the common touch, and ushered methrough the entry and into that baronial central hall. The stained glass stillglowed against the deep shadows, the only light in the room.
A couple of small groups waited there, two men chatting and aman and two women pointing at this and that and nodding their heads to eachother. All had fancy glassware and liquids in their hands, probably samplesfrom the cellar we’d found. Ridge offered me a glass of my own and I declined.I’d be working and then driving.
A stepladder waited in front of the fireplace. I lifted aneyebrow at that, a suggestion of why Ridge had asked me to come out. Somethingto do with the sabers, I guessed, therefore something to do with the old major.
But Ridge ignored that for the time being and introduced mearound the room. The man and two women turned out to be various forms of Ridgecousin, representing the other heirs and heiresses by virtue of proximity tothe scene, and the two others belonged to a law firm with five dead men on theletterhead and roots back to the Magna Carta.
They all put my teeth on edge. The lawyers looked like they’dbought their suits from the FBI and their haircuts and slick hair grease andcold eyes from the Mafia, sharks who specialized in cutting edges close. Onewoman, a slim brunette, wore country tweeds that clashed with perfect hair andnails and a pair of heels that had never left pavement in their life. Probablya fashion “look,” and I was too low-class to know it.
The other woman, a bleached blonde, dressed in what I callDolly Parton chic — “You wouldn’t believe how much it costs to look this cheap”— low-rider designer jeans that dove nearly to her pubic hair and a tightorange silk blouse held closed by two buttons in the middle, a look she mighthave been able to carry off fifteen years and thirty pounds ago. Don’t get mewrong, I find older women, heavier women quite attractive. Maggie had anotherten years and fifty pounds on that “blonde.” But Maggie had the fashion senseto change her image as her body changed. This woman didn’t.
The guy cousin came across as the only genuine critter in theherd, worn stained work jeans and a patched Black Watch Pendleton wool shirt,smile wrinkles around his eyes, a smell of horse and fresh-baled hay ratherthan aftershave. Good thing I don’t really use
