“I don’t like being alone.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said.
“What about mountain lions?”
“They’re rare.”
“But they might come around, right?”
“Theoretically I guess it’s possible.”
A hundred steps later they passed the first rusty hulk and then wound deeper into the guts of the mess. River pointed to a trailer.
“That’s your new home.”
The woman stared at it in disbelief and shook her head.
“No, no, no. I can’t do this.”
River grabbed her hand and kept her in pace. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
Inside the dead hulk he showed her rope, chains, food, toilet paper and all the rest.
“I set this up to keep you here,” he said. “This proves that I wasn’t joking when I said I was hired to take you. Take a good look around because this is what my replacement is going to do if he gets his hands on you.” A beat then, “Wait here.”
He stepped outside.
Thirty seconds later he came back and handed her a gun.
“I had this stashed for emergencies,” he said. “You take it, you keep it with you at all times. Use it if you have to. Do you know how to fire it?”
No.
She didn’t.
“I’ll show you before I leave,” he said. “Here’s the important thing. Stay inside this structure. You need to look like you’re being held captive.”
“Why?”
“Because, what I’m going to do is say I took you before I got the message that the contract was rescinded,” he said. “Someone might demand proof. They might make me bring them here. If that happens, I can’t have you sitting around outside getting a suntan. Do you understand?”
Yes.
She did.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you,” he said. “Well, correction, it will either be me or a woman named January.”
The woman’s face contorted.
“I can’t do this,” she said. “I can’t be alone out here at night. There’s no way.”
“This is the best place.”
“I want to go to a hotel or something.”
“No, you need to be here. It needs to look like you’re being held captive.”
She shook her head.
“I can’t stay here.”
River shifted his feet and frowned.
“I hate to do this but you’re not giving me a choice.”
With that, he flung her over his shoulder, carried her to the back wall and chained her leg.
“You tricked me!”
“No I didn’t. This is for your own good.” He tossed her the gun. “To fire you flick the safety off and pull the trigger. Spend tonight figuring out who wants you taken. The sooner we figure that out, the sooner we can deal with it.”
She flicked the safety off and pointed the barrel at River’s chest.
“That wouldn’t be a good move,” he said. “I’m the only one who knows where you are.”
He turned and headed out.
The gun exploded.
A bullet passed so close to his head that his hair moved.
“You better come back tomorrow,” the woman said.
River turned and looked at her.
“I already told you I would.”
Then he left.
55
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Afternoon
Dollface.
That was the name of the bar Brittany Pratt was at in New York the night she died, according to the reporter’s notes. It was an upscale jazz club in Manhattan. “Sounds something like the Bokaray,” Wilde said as he dialed.
A gruff man’s voice answered on the third ring.
It turned out to be the manager, a guy named Marty Brown. Wilde explained that he wanted to know if a man who looked like Robert Mitchum was in the club on August 14, 1949, the night a woman named Brittany Pratt took a dive off a roof.
“You’re asking me about something that happened three years ago? That’s nuts.”
“Yeah, I know. But-”
“Ask me what I had for breakfast. That I might remember. I’d have a fifty-fifty chance.”
Wilde exhaled.
“This is important,” he said. “Let me rephrase it. Have you ever seen a man in there that looks like Robert Mitchum?”
A beat then, “Yeah.”
“You did?”
Yeah.
He did.
“When?”
“I don’t know. He shows up once a year, maybe twice. He’ll be here for two or three days in a row then he disappears.”
“You remember him, though?”
“I remember him. He gets my share of the ladies.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone who might know his name?”
“Not offhand.”
“When was the first time you remember seeing him? Was it at least three years ago?”
Silence.
“It could have been.” A beat then, “Eggs. That’s what I had for breakfast this morning. I just remembered.”
“Eggs.”
Right.
Eggs.
“I had coffee and three Camels,” Wilde said.
“Did you remember right away or did you have to think about it?”
Wilde smiled.
“I had to think about it.”
“There you go.”
Wilde hung up, looked at Alabama and said, “Mitchum’s the killer.”
“No he’s not.”
“Yes he is and he’s been at it for at least three years. The only question is how many more has he done besides the one in New York and the one here in Denver.”
“None, that’s how many.”
Wilde tapped a Camel out of the pack, set a book of matches on fire and lit up.
He blew smoke.
When the flames got to his fingertips he shook them out and tossed them in the ashtray.
“Stay away from him,” he said.
Alabama hardened her face.
“You’re wrong about him.”
“This isn’t negotiable.”
“Good because I’m not negotiating.”
“I’m serious, Alabama.”
She opened the door, stepped through and said over her shoulder, “So am I.”
The door slammed.
Wilde was alone.
From the window he watched Alabama huff down the street and disappear around the corner.
He didn’t go after her.
He knew that she knew he was right.
The best thing he could give her at this moment was time alone, time to work through it.
He finished the Camel, mashed it in the ashtray then leaned back in his chair. His feet went up on the desk and his hat went over his face.
He closed his eyes.
The darkness was cool water for his brain.
Tonight he’d guard London.
Something was going to happen, something bad, Wilde could feel it in his bones. He reached into the drawer, pulled his gun out and set it on the desk.
“Rest up.”
56
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Afternoon
Mouthing off to Sean Waterfield about what Waverly was going to do was one thing, gathering the intestinal fortitude to figure out if she was bluffing or not was something else. She stayed hidden in the apartment until Su-Moon showed up. The woman got filled in and then said something unexpected. “Tom Bristol and Sean Waterfield are in cahoots.”
Waverly grunted.
“That’s not the impression I got.”
“Think about it,” Su-Moon said. “Whose side is he on now that everything’s hit the fan?” Silence. “Answer, not yours, and that’s been true from the start. Don’t trust him, don’t talk to him and don’t see him. That’s my advice.”
“Well, you’re too late. We already decided that ourselves.”
“He’ll be back with a big apology and a dozen roses,” Su-Moon said. “When he does, keep him at bay. In the meantime, I have a plan. You’re going to wander around Chinatown. I’m going to follow and see if Bristol or one of his dogs follows you.”