Seasons of Death Read online

  “Awful thing,” Maggie insisted. “Why, Lee would’ve killed poor Reub if some of the fellas in the bar hadn’t stopped him. Reub took off for his cabin, and how he lived through the next few days, I’ll never know. Weren’t a doctor around.…”

  “Don’t figger he’d’ve gone to one anyhow.…”

  “And he had to take care of that gash himself. Wouldn’t let nobody near him. Even took a shot at Vern one day when he tried to go up to the cabin.”

  Vern shrugged at that. “He was just shootin’ into the air. Didn’t mean no real harm.”

  “Vern left medicine and bandages and food for him on the road below his place ever’ few days afterward.”

  Conan asked, “How long did he stay in hiding?”

  Vern looked at Maggie for confirmation as he replied, “Well, it was about three months altogether before he finally come into town.”

  “In the daytime,” Maggie amended. “But folks said they saw him around town at night—remember, Vern?—right after the fight, oh, for about a month. Well, up till the robbery when Lee and Amanda disappeared. We kept hearin’ stories about how people seen him prowlin’ around after dark, him with his face all bandaged up, and his rifle—always carried that rifle, even before that. Still does. Anyway, some folks thought he was a ghost.…”

  “Leastways,” Vern put in with a laugh, “if they’d had a bit to drink when they saw him.”

  Conan smiled at that. “Did you see him during that period?”

  “No, Maggie and me was always early-to-bed and early-to-rise people. Nobody ever claimed to see Reub ’cept at night. Most folks figgered he was lookin’ for Lee.”

  Conan ventured, “Maybe he found him, finally.”

  At that, both the Roseberrys were aghast. Maggie asked, “You don’t think Reub killed Lee, do you? Oh, Mr. Flagg,

  I can’t believe—I mean Reub…”

  Vern declared, “Reub wouldn’t’ve killed him. He’d darn sure tried to beat the blazes out of him, but that’s all.”

  Conan nodded agreement because he saw that Vern and Maggie found themselves confronted with a new idea, one they didn’t like, and he hoped to avoid shutting off one of his few willing sources of information. “Reub strikes me as a man more inclined to use his fists than a knife. When did you say this fight took place?”

  Vern was apparently reassured. “Well, near as I can recollect, it was almost exactly a month before the robbery.”

  Maggie nodded then. “Yes, that’s right. Oh, that poor man, what he must’ve suffered all by himself up in that cabin. Why, he should’ve been in a hospital with a gash like that. Must’ve hurt somethin’ awful.”

  Both physically and emotionally, Conan added to himself, and Reub would have no trouble carrying Lee’s body from the office to the mine and no trouble finding the adit. He probably knew the location of every shaft and adit in the Owyhees.

  *

  It was nearly six o’clock when Conan left the store with Delia’s groceries. The clouds were an unbroken ceiling pressing upon the backs of the mountains and hurrying the twilight; the wind had died, and he seemed to be the only thing moving in the landscape. When he reached the Starbuck house, he took the groceries to the kitchen, where he found Delia stoking up the wood stove.

  He asked, “Where’s Clare?”

  Delia thrust another stick of wood into the firebox, then closed the door with a sharp clang. “Oh, she took the food to her grove. Left about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Alone?”

  “She didn’t want me tagging along this time.” Delia turned to the sack Conan had put on the table. “Thanks for bringing these. You have a good talk with the Roseberrys?”

  “Yes, and with Lettie.” The coffee pot was still warming at the back of the stove; he filled a mug and sat down at the table with it, while Delia took the sack to the counter and began emptying it. “Delia, Lettie told me Dex Adler was in serious financial trouble before the robbery, but he apparently had an extremely opportune windfall that got him out of trouble soon afterward.”

  She unwrapped the chicken and examined it closely. “I told you Lettie knew a lot about other people’s business.”

  Conan waited for her to answer his implicit question, but she seemed very busy putting groceries in the refrigerator. He made the question explicit. “Did Dex have an opportune windfall, Delia? And, please, don’t tell me to ask him about it.”

  She smiled faintly as she closed the refrigerator. “Conan, I know what you’re wondering about. You think maybe Dex’s windfall came out of the Lang-Star safe, and if it did, then maybe Dex is the one who killed Lee—right?”

  “Well, it’s a possibility.”

  “No, it’s not. Not even a possibility. So, that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.” And with that assurance, she picked up the empty sack and began folding it.

  Conan sipped at his coffee. “Delia, I need more than that to eliminate the possibility.”

  She put the sack in a drawer, the lines around her mouth tight. “I can’t give you more, Conan. Except, like I told you, only Tom and Lee knew the combination to the safe.”

  “But Dex was the bookkeeper; he handled the company funds.”

  “He didn’t handle them in or out of that safe.”

  Conan studied her a moment, then nodded, recognizing a stone wall when he ran up against it. He turned to another subject. Or suspect? No, not yet. “How did Lettie get along with Lee?”

  Delia crossed her arms as she leaned back against the counter. “Well, I never heard her say anything good about him. The best she ever had to say was—how did she put it?—‘Too damn good-lookin’ and sweet-talkin’ by a long shot.’”

  Conan smiled, hearing those words in Lettie’s sour, disapproving tones. “Did he ever try sweet-talking her?”

  Delia raised both eyebrows. “I doubt that very much.” Then after a moment, she added, “And I doubt Lettie appreciated being ignored.”

  “Perhaps she protests too much about Lee.”

  “She did then. But that’s just my opinion. I don’t know how she really felt about him. All I know is she always seemed to keep close track of everything he did. Well, I guess I’d better get started on supper.”

  Conan came to his feet. “Unless you’ll accept my assistance at that, I’ll take a shower.”

  “No, I won’t accept any of your assistance, so go on. Holler if you need anything.”

  Conan found himself rushing through his shower, and he couldn’t explain the brooding anxiety that seemed to lurk in the shadows at the back of his mind. The prestorm heat, perhaps; the low barometric pressure. It wasn’t until he returned to the kitchen half an hour later that he realized what in particular was bothering him, not until he asked Delia, “Isn’t Clare back yet?”

  Delia was tending a big iron skillet sputtering with frying chicken. She glanced up at the clock, frowning. “No, she’s not, but she stays out till dark sometimes.”

  “It’s nearly dark now with the clouds coming in.”

  Delia nodded. “I think you’d better go look for her. That’s what you were leading up to, wasn’t it?”

  Conan was already on his way out. “Yes.”

  He was no more than fifty yards from the house when he heard the shots. It was almost an exact repetition of the previous evening, except for the electric quality of the air, the saffron light reflected from the pending clouds. He set off at a run across the gullied slopes, and by the time he reached the road up Slaughterhouse Gulch, he was panting in the rarefied air.

  He found Clare lying huddled on the ground near the road, sobbing pitifully, her face and clothing smeared with dirt, her small hands clutching at the gravel.

  “Clare!” He knelt beside her; she didn’t seem to be hurt. “Clare, what happened?”

  “Kill me…tried to…Delia, oh, help…”

  That was as close as he was to get to an explanation; she broke into renewed sobbing, the only coherent word her sister’s name. Conan picked her up a
nd carried her to the house, while she clung to him, face buried against his shoulder, and he doubted she had the faintest awareness of who he was.

  *

  The storm broke at 1:00 A.M. with explosions of lightning and thunder cracking against the mountain faces, while drenching rains rattled on the metal roof. Conan heard Clare, waking, cry out in fear. A few minutes later, he saw a light under the hall door: Delia crossing to Clare’s room.

  He rose and lit a cigarette, then opened the balcony door. The rain-laden wind was clean and cold, and he could feel the vibrations of thunder under his bare feet. He looked out at the town intermittently washed in blue-white light, and thought of Clare, of the terrors inflicted on her, the imagined ones worse than the real. And he thought of age, thought of choices.

  Would anyone, given a choice, not choose to grow old with the indomitable grace of Cordelia Becket Starbuck? Who would choose to live in the warped, unfocused world that was Clare Langtry’s lot?

  But who was ever given such a choice?

  Chapter 10

  The storm spent itself during the night, and by morning the sky was clear, the blossoming crab apples magnificent against its flawless blue, the ground beneath them snowed with white petals. Conan left the house armed with a mental map supplied by Delia that would, with a little luck, guide him to the mine adit where Lee Langtry’s body had been discovered. He paused at the foot of the porch steps to savor the scents of wet earth and sage, and it seemed he had suddenly acquired the sight of a hawk, so clear was the mountain air.

  “Halloooo!”

  He frowned, refocusing his new sight at a point just beyond the crab apples. That friendly greeting came from Betty Potter, ensconced in her director’s chair among her artistic paraphernalia. She was waving a brush and smiling, and, since it seemed unavoidable, he walked over to her. “Good morning, Mrs. Potter.” The showy, diamonded wedding ring hinted that she would consider “Ms.” an insult.

  “Isn’t it a glorious morning? You’re Conan Flagg, aren’t you? Jake told me.” Then with a titter, “Well, I had to find out who that handsome man staying at the Starbuck house was. A private investigator—oh, that’s so exciting!”

  “Not really,” Conan replied, looking down at the work in progress. Mrs. Potter had switched to watercolor, which was unfortunate. That underestimated and difficult medium fared badly at her hands. He quickly looked away, fearing an inquiry for an opinion.

  It wasn’t long in coming. “Well, what do you think, Mr. Flagg? I felt those trees really demanded a watercolor treatment, you know. They’re so incredibly subtle. I mean, you look at them and think white, but there are a thousand colors in that white.”

  And she seemed determined to work every one of them into a pallid mud. Conan mustered a smile. “I admire your daring, Mrs. Potter. Watercolor isn’t easy under the best of circumstances.”

  “Oh, it’s a challenge, but I always say—” She stopped, distracted by a click and whir. On the road behind them, Mrs. Bonnet stood with the blank eye of her camera lens fixed on them.

  Another click and whir, then she walked toward them, negotiating the hummocky road nicely in her high wedge shoes. She was wearing dark glasses, as usual, a Panama straw hat, and denim slacks and jacket remotely inspired by Levi Strauss, but removed from his original by several hundred dollars. Her leather camera bag was slung over one shoulder, and the camera, Conan noted, was an impressive Nikon F2A 35 mm.

  “What a great shot!” she commented as she approached. “Artist and kibitzer, those beautiful trees, and that terrific old house.”

  Betty Potter tittered again. “Be sure and let me know when your article comes out. Won’t my friends be jealous!”

  “Don’t ever count your pictures until the editor has passed judgment, Betty.” Then she looked up at Conan and offered a hand. “I’m Mimi Bonnet. I’m here doing an article for Sunset Magazine.”

  Conan shook hands with her. “Conan Flagg. Yes, I’ve heard about you.” And what he had heard was that she was doing a picture page for the Los Angeles Times. “Mimi, did you say? That’s an unusual name.”

  Her mouth smiled, but her shaded eyes were an enigma. “I seem to be stuck with it. Well, I’d better be on my way. Can’t waste this fantastic light.” She walked on up the road by the house, stopping intermittently to snap more pictures. She seemed oddly casual about it; at least, she spent very little time framing her shots.

  Mrs. Potter speculated, “Maybe she’d let me have some of the pictures she doesn’t use for her article. They’d be just marvelous for painting.”

  Conan tried not to groan. “I’m sure she’d be willing to forward the cause of art. Well, I’d better be on my way, too. Good luck, Mrs. Potter.”

  “Off to do some investigating, Mr. Flagg?”

  “Something like that.”

  He headed north and a little east, passing within a short distance of Adler’s house. Adler, pointedly oblivious to Conan’s proximity, was hammering at a shutter next to one of the front windows. Conan crossed Slaughterhouse Gulch above Clare’s grove. Under his feet flecks of mica glittered in the sunlight. Clare’s stars. He found a few rusted, hand-forged square nails along the way, but left them where they lay. The little church gleamed white on the slope below him, and he paused to look down on it. There was a sturdy optimism about it, as there was about the entire town from this point. It survived with no discernible purpose to justify its existence, except perhaps the satisfaction of curiosity.

  He looked up at the mountain of tailings that marking the site of the Lang-Star mill; it towered above him now, a still, white avalanche. Perhaps the satisfaction of curiosity was ample purpose. And did existence—or life—require justification, when the alternative was nonexistence or death?

  He smiled to—and at—himself, and turned his thoughts to the mundane problem of finding the path that Delia had assured him lay east of the tailings. He encountered a collapsed mine adit, but it wasn’t the mine. Juniper and mountain mahogany grew thicker as the slope behind the tailings steepened, and he began to wonder if he’d have to go back and recruit Delia as a pathfinder. But at length he found the path. At least, a path, winding up the base of War Eagle toward a massive outcropping of granite. He stopped in the shade of a juniper and looked back. The mill site was below him now, and he considered the difficulty of finding this path at night, of traversing it while laden with the body of a large man. It made less and less sense, but Lee’s body had been carried over this route somehow.

  He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye; something in the trees near the tailings. Yet when he examined the area he saw nothing, nor did he hear anything except a warm wind sighing in the juniper above him. He shrugged and continued up the path.

  Half an hour later, he reached a grove of aspen and took advantage of their shade to catch his breath. The leaves shimmered around him, their intense green presaging the incandescent gold of autumn. A whistling cry made him look up, and he saw an eagle plying the wind above him in slow, sinuous spirals. Again he was reminded of Clare, but he found it difficult to think of Lee Langtry in terms of a golden eagle. The Lee Langtry Conan had come to know had nothing in common with the eagle except its predatory nature, and the eagle had no choice in that.

  A short time later—after laboriously gaining another two hundred feet in elevation—Conan reached the object of his search. He was alerted by a faded sign nailed to the trunk of a juniper. It proclaimed the area posted by the Owyhee County Sheriff.

  He stayed on the path, and beyond the next curve, it delivered him, at last, to the adit. A horizontal passage had been blasted into the mountainside; for thirty feet it was simply an open chute, the walls increasing in height until the channel became a tunnel disappearing into the mountain. He made his way up the channel, the granite walls rising on both sides of him, into the dark mouth of the tunnel. A cool breeze blew out of it, and within it the stone was patched with moss. There were even, in this arid climate, clumps of tiny ferns growing in th
e rocky interstices.

  He took off his sunglasses and stood facing the dark interior while his eyes adjusted, and then he could see that the tunnel ended only twenty feet away. Rather, access to its further reaches was blocked. He walked slowly toward the barrier of boards where a white-on-red sign warned him to keep out. He had no intention of defying that silent order, but he went all the way to the barrier. One of the boards had been pried loose, probably by sightseers.

  Not that there was a great deal to see; the only light came from the break in the boards, and the tunnel was soon swallowed up in absolute blackness. The body had lain on the rocky floor just beyond the barrier—he knew that from the police photographs—but there was nothing left his eye could discern to substantiate that fact. Conan felt the chill air on his face and thought of the miners who had toiled and died within those lightless passages and wondered if anything could make that life worth the price.

  But he had a tendency to claustrophobia, and obviously many people had considered the rewards worth the risks. He turned and made his way back toward the light, which seemed blindingly bright now. Lee’s car was the problem, he was thinking. Now that he’d seen the burial place and fully understood the difficulty of finding it at night, of carrying the body here, plus taking down and restoring the barrier that had blocked the tunnel then as now, it didn’t seem possible that one person could accomplish that and get back to the office in time to drive away in Lee’s car in the hour and a half between eight-thirty, when Lee left his house for the office, and ten, when Adler went there—according to his sworn testimony—and found the car gone.

  Conan frowned at that. Sworn testimony was not what he considered iron-clad evidence.

  As he left the tunnel behind, he squinted against the light and reached in his shirt pocket for his sunglasses. The granite walls still enclosed him on both sides, and he heard a sound—two sounds—above him and to his right: a gravelly scraping, then something like an animal grunt.

  But he didn’t have time to explore the sounds or their source more closely. A swiftly moving shadow was all he saw, and something crashed against the back of his head.