Maria and John had hardly left the hotel when another tap sounded at Joe's door. He opened it to discover Brainard, gazing anxiously back over his shoulder in the direction of the lobby, then almost pushing over his aunt's chief investigator in his eagerness to get into the room.
"Somebody after you?" Joe inquired.
Brainard affected not to hear that. Staring as Keogh hobbled back to his chair after closing the door, he commented disapprovingly: "That looks fairly serious."
"I'll manage." Joe eased himself back into his chair. "I've got some young people to handle whatever legwork needs to be done. Who are they and what do they want?"
"Who?"
"The people who are after you. I'm assuming there's more than one. I'm assuming also that you're the one who shot off a gun last night."
G. C. Brainard sat down and closed his eyes. "A federal offense here in the Park, I know."
"That's right."
"But there are other things that worry me more." Digging into a jacket pocket, Brainard produced a heavy-caliber, stubby-barreled revolver. "I want your advice on what to do with this."
"Do the other things that worry you more have any connection with your missing daughter?"
Brainard blinked at him. He seemed saddened and even injured by the suggestion. "No, nothing directly to do with her. Why?"
"Because the job your aunt Sarah originally wanted me to do was to get her back. Now everyone, my client, and you, the girl's father, are trying to edge me away from that. Tell me, Mr. Brainard, how did you come to adopt Cathy?"
"I'm concerned about my daughter. I want her to be all right," said Brainard, in an injured tone. His eyes looked hurt.
"So tell me about the adoption."
"All right, if you think it'll help. My late wife and I adopted Cathy in 1978, when she was—four. We were childless, so…"
Joe probed for more details. As far as he could learn, the Brainards had adopted Cathy largely at Aunt Sarah's urging. Sarah had apparently encountered the girl through some kind of charitable work with which she was then involved, and had been drawn to her. But at that time the old lady had been already in her sixties, too old to be approved as an adoptive parent.
Brainard suddenly blurted, "I can't believe I'm actually carrying a gun."
"Can I take a look at your weapon?" Joe asked.
When Brainard gingerly handed over the gun, Joe broke it open and inspected the loading.
"What're you looking for?"
"I was wondering," said Joe, "if your bullets might be made of wood."
"What?" No comprehension showed in Brainard's face.
"Never mind."
The stocky man shook his head. "It was dumb of me to carry that thing; I hardly know one end from the other. I'm liable to kill someone I'm not aiming at. If you're willing to help me out, maybe you can get rid of it for me?"
Joe put the pistol down carefully on the arm of his chair. Later, he thought, he would unload and disassemble it, and pack the pieces away separately in his own luggage.
Then he faced Brainard. "If you expect me to help you," he said to him, "you'd better tell me why you're carrying a gun. Who are you afraid of, and why?"
The other closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. A pulse beat visibly in the side of his throat, just below his unshaven jaw. "I owe some people a lot of money. Jesus, how did I ever get myself into such a mess."
"What kind of people?" Though to Joe it seemed fairly obvious from the way Brainard was behaving.
Brainard's eyes came open, and he lifted his head slowly. "Mainly a man named Tuller. Ever hear of him? But why should you, I suppose there are a thousand like him. I think he's in with some branch of the New York mafia. Loans out money at a nice clean fifty per cent per month. I thought I had a chance to make a killing, clean up a lot of old debts…"
"How much?"
"I borrowed eighty thousand. He wanted a hundred and twenty back by the middle of December, about two weeks ago. I couldn't pay, I couldn't come close to paying, and so here I am. Aunt Sarah won't hand out that kind of money, and I don't blame her."
"Maybe you're here hoping to get something from her, or from Tyrrell, that you can sell."
"Hoping to stay alive until I can do something like that." Brainard tried to smile. "But no such luck. Now I'm on the edge of dead." He did smile. "Get me out of here, somehow, Keogh. Get me away from this bottleneck and give me a running start somewhere. There won't be any conflict with what you're doing for my aunt. You'll be well paid, I've got enough cash stashed away for that."
"No thought of going to the police?"
The other made a sound somewhere between a moan and a laugh. His soft hand bounced on the chair-arm as if he were testing the hardness of the wood. "That would really put the seal on it. They'd really kill me, then. So far, I don't think they're actually quite ready to do that. It's just that I have this prejudice against having my balls smashed, or my kneecaps broken."
Joe nodded thoughtfully. "If you help me out a little first, then I'll see what I can do for you."
"Help you how?"
"To begin with, tell me all you can about Tyrrell."
"There's not a hell of a lot I can tell you." Brainard shivered slightly. "We do business, we don't have long, chatty visits. He never talks about himself. And he's definitely not looking for publicity."
"I don't suppose this Tuller knows about Tyrrell? That the old man is still alive and doing business?"
"No way. He's never heard about it from me… and Tyrrell is not a man I'd want to appeal to for help."
"I see." Joe thought for a minute. "Does your aunt know about this Tuller and his people being after you?"
"She knows I'm in some trouble of that kind. I don't think she realizes how bad it is. I've told her that people are actually here looking for me, but I don't know if Sarah believes that."
"All right. Stay here in my room for the time being. Make sure who's at the door before you open it."
Joe's next move was to dispatch a hotel bellhop to bring him a cane, or failing that, a crutch. Both items, the youth assured him, were available in the general store near the park's Visitor Center, and he would deliver a cane shortly.
Joe thought the next knock on his door, a few minutes later, might be the bellhop, having established some kind of a land speed record; but a cautious opening of the door revealed Sarah Tyrrell.
A few moments later, old Sarah, her nervous nephew, and Joe were all seated at the small conference table.
Sarah wasted little time in preliminaries. "Mr. Keogh, the disturbance at the house last night was caused, at least in part, by my husband. I did see him."
"Why didn't you tell me then? And why do you tell me now?"
"Others were present then. Besides, I wanted to think the matter over. I am convinced now that Cathy is in no danger from my husband. I wish that I could say I believe her to be in no danger."
Brainard was staring at his aunt. "I hope to God you're right, about Edgar. But look, what I saw—what I shot at last night—that wasn't Edgar Tyrrell."
"There was another visitor to the house last night," Sarah confirmed. "Another presence. Something—came with Edgar."
Joe looked from one of his visitors to the other. "I wasn't in a position to see what was happening. Is that all either of you can tell me? 'Something' came to the house?"
"At first," said Brainard, "I thought it was one of the people trying to collect from me, somehow outside the window. But all I could really see was a—pattern of lights. My nerves were ready to crack, and I took a shot at it." He shuddered faintly.