papers on his desk.
“We’ll finish our literary discussion later in private,” he murmured to Ambrose. Congreve nodded his agreement.
“Ah, Pippa,” Hawke said, “Here you are.”
“I was wondering where you two had run off to! My last night in Key West after all. Hullo, Alex.”
“Have a good time, did you?”
She giggled, slightly tipsy, and said, “I danced and danced, really.”
“Ah, lovely,” Ambrose smiled wistfully at the girl, seemingly at a loss for further dialogue.
“At the Hot Tin Roof?” Hawke said.
“No, some little dive called the ‘Varoom Room.’ ”
“Ah,” Alex said, instantly running out of conversation as well. Finally, he looked at Congreve and said, “Your fiancee, Diana, loves to dance, does she not?”
“We are not engaged, Alex. We simply have an understanding.”
The little minx did look rather fetching posed in the doorway, Alex thought. She had her blond hair up in rhinestone combs and it now fell in a few stray wispy curls about her blushing cheeks. She was wearing red, a sheath of silk under a red satin shawl, and it was, Hawke saw uncomfortably, an inspired choice. Her cups runneth over, he saw, despite making every human effort not to notice.
Hawke dragged his eyes away, looking pointedly at Ambrose. “Well, I’m for bed then.”
“So early, Alex?” Congreve said. “A tinge of autumn in the air, is there? Hmm.”
Hawke looked at him. “What?”
“No need to get snarky, old sausage,” Ambrose said, chuckling into his brandy snifter.
At that moment, Tom Quick entered the room.
“Skipper, you asked to be informed the minute Wally arrived back from Cancun. Pulling up at the dock right now.”
“Thanks, Tom, I’ll be right down.”
“Wally?” Pippa asked, twirling a red satin evening bag by its strap, “Who’s he?”
Alex said, “Not a ‘he,’ Pippa, a ‘she.’A new boat. You’ll see her in the morning before you leave.”
“Can’t I see her now?” Pippa asked, smiling at Hawke from under her long lashes.
“You certainly cannot. There’s a good deal of preparation to be done before dawn,” Hawke said. He was anxious to get his first real look at her and get feedback from the crew just returned from a quick shakedown cruise to Cancun. The first radioed reports from her new skipper, Gerard Brownlow, were encouraging. She was blisteringly fast and very seaworthy. Armed, she’d be lethal in a fight.
“A quick nightcap after all that preparation, Alex?” Pippa asked shyly, her long lashes lowered.
“I think not. Good night, Constable. And I wish you a very good night as well, Miss Guinness. It’s been a pleasure having you aboard. Most helpful. A pleasant homeward journey.”
“Pity about him,” Pippa said as Hawke crossed the room to confer with Tom Quick. “You’re not going to bed, too, Mr. Congreve?”
Ambrose said, “Well, I suppose I could be persuaded to have just one more brandy. Just the one, mind you! Don’t be naughty.”
“We need to crack that code, Constable. Tonight, if possible.”
Ambrose said, “I’ll read the thing straight through, Alex. Soon as I’m finished, I’ll ring you up. First light too early?”
“Not at all.”
“Code?” Pippa said, plopping herself into Alex’s still warm chair. “What code?”
“The Da Vinci Code,” Alex said, pausing at the door, “Read it?”
“Not yet.”
“You and Mrs. Zimmermann,” Alex said on his way out.
48
GUNBARREL, TEXAS
H omer crouched down on the forlorn pile of bones and waited. He was hiding in a rear corner of the trailer. He was up against the rear door, about four feet below where the top would have been if it hadn’t rusted out. He had his gun out and he was breathing hard. His shoulder burned like the devil and was bleeding pretty good now out of the exit wound. Hadn’t hit bone, just muscle. He’d stuffed his bandanna in the little hole but what he needed to do was tie it off. He could hear the man outside, maybe a hundred yards away.
He took a chance and put the gun down a second so he could wind a tourniquet around his upper arm. He wound the bandanna tight, clenched the knot in his teeth and pulled. Hurt like a bitch, but he felt the bleeding ease up instantly.
“Shitfire!” the man on the ground said. Must not have seen the tangle of wire fencing Homer had ripped down. Sounded like he’d tripped over it and gone down hard. It was a heavy thud; he was a big man. When he got up, his steps were slow and heavy.
He had a smoker’s hack and the sound of his cough was getting closer. Homer couldn’t figure out why the sound of the man’s gunfire hadn’t brought all the outside security lights on and more folks streaming out of the big brick warehouse building. Then he got it. Except for the Yankee Slugger that had pulled inside, the building must be empty. The smoker out there was all she wrote.
The lone night watchman.
Who was watching what, exactly? A junkyard?
No. Something really, really interesting, that was what. Somebody had put serious money into that fancy electric sliding door. And then paid a lot more to make the whole building look old and weathered. And, invisible to anyone who happened to take a detour through a forgotten hole in the wall called Gunbarrel, Texas.
“Hey. You in there, asshole?” Smokey said, between hacks. “You still alive and kicking?”
Voice sounded familiar. Homer didn’t say anything. He picked up a bone. It was surprisingly heavy, a leg bone, thigh maybe, and threw it hard across at the opposite sidewall of the truck. It made a hollow clang, more of a thonk. Two loud shots instantly rang out. Jagged, magnum-sized holes appeared in the trailer’s aluminum siding. This was at the other end of the big open truck, right where the bone had bounced off.
“Throw the gun out,” Smokey said. He was standing now near the rear of the truck. Maybe six feet from where Homer was hiding. The voice was starting to sound more and more familiar, but it was so hoarse he still couldn’t place it.
“I ain’t got any gun,” Homer said, his voice sounding like it was on reverb.
“Shit. You said you was a lawman. Toss out your damn gun. I could just set out here, couldn’t I, podnuh? Jes’ let you starve and rot in there, y’-know. Ain’t nobody ever going to find you in there, Lone Ranger. I promise you that damn much.”
“I’m hit.”
“I figured you was.”
“Need a doctor.”
“Where’d I catch you?”
“Arm.”
“Bleedin’ pretty good?”
“I guess.”
“Yeah? So throw out your fuckin’ six-shooter and we’ll talk about getting you over to the Emergency Room.”
Homer picked up another bone. It was smaller than the first one he’d thrown, only about a foot long. Rotted black cloth had stuck to one end of it, embedded in a knobby joint. Part of the person’s shirt, maybe. There were still some pieces of people’s clothing mixed in with all the bones. Lots of sandals. He tied more black rags tight around the bone. Didn’t look that realistic. Had a good heft to it, though.
“You win. I’m throwing out the gun.”
