The passion was reckless, two people flinging themselves at each other in a kind of carnal madness, him thrusting faster and deeper, faster and deeper, his hands clenching on her buttocks making her cry out each time he did so. Her breasts were wonderfully swollen with his tongue and her own desire.
“Now, Fargo! Now!” she whispered.
And he was glad to comply, sending his searing semen rich and deep into her.
Spent, they lay in each other’s arms in the drifting ecstasy that always follows a good round of sex. Finally, he said, “Now, that’s what I call getting my room cleaned.”
“Yes,” she smiled, “I’ll have to remember your room number next time I’m in the mood to do a little cleaning myself.”
Fargo was in need of a drink so he pushed through the bat-wings of a place called Curly’s.
He wasn’t surprised to find Deputy Sheriff Larson sitting at a table by himself with a fifth of whiskey in front of him. Fargo ordered a beer at the bar, and when he turned to look for somewhere to sit—not hard since the place was empty except for three old guys playing a card game Fargo had never heard of—Larson waved him over.
What the hell, Fargo thought.
The old farts gave him the once-over. One of them apparently knew who he was because he whispered through a set of store-boughts the word “Fargo.” Notoriety, he thought. All he wanted was a fishing pole, a fishing hole, and some sleep.
“I thought we might as well be friendly,” Larson said when Fargo reached his table.
“Now why would you think a thing like that?”
Larson shrugged bony shoulders. Fargo had the impression that Larson was probably one of those bony gents who could be pretty tough when he needed to be.
“We’re both working for the same thing, Mr. Fargo.”
“Oh? What would that be?” Fargo had yet to sit down. He glanced around the saloon. It was new enough that the long pine bar still smelled of sawn lumber. The floor was dirt. But at least Curly’s didn’t smell of the usual vomit, blood, beer, and urine. But give it a year. It would have a scent like an old latrine.
Larson smiled. “Why, law and order, Mr. Fargo, law and order.”
“Would that be law and order or Noah Tillman’s law and order?”
This time, Larson laughed. “They couldn’t be the same thing?”
“Probably not.”
He flipped a chair around and sat with its back facing Larson.
“Tell me about Skeleton Key.”
Larson shook his head as if he’d just heard a very sad tale. “So they’ve already gotten to you, huh, Mr. Fargo?”
“Who’s ‘they?’ ”
“ ‘They’ are the ones who practice granny medicine and believe that half the women in town are secret witches.”
“So there’s nothing to it?”
“Is there anything to a witch on a broomstick flying across the moon?”
Fargo sipped his beer. On a boiling day like this one, beer was equal to the elixir of the gods. “Then why all this interest?”
“Because it’s another way to get at Noah Tillman. Another rumor to ruin his reputation with.”
“Then people don’t really believe anything’s going on out at Skeleton Key?”
“Some do. The ones I talked about. The ones who believe—as my mother did—that if you wrapped a rattlesnake around your throat, it’d heal your swollen tonsils. Fortunately, Papa would never let her try that particular medicine out on us kids.”
“How about the other people?”
“Businessmen, mostly,” Larson said. “There’s no doubt that Noah runs this town. Hell, he should. He built it. If he hadn’t been successful, nobody would ever have come here. You realize that?”
“I suppose that’s right.”
“But people get tired of being grateful. And they get tired of always having to kowtow to the most powerful man in the area. It’s like the dukes and earls in England. Eventually, the serfs revolted.”
“Anybody around here revolting yet?”
Larson poured himself a clean shot of whiskey—good bonded whiskey—and knocked it back without hesitation. “That’s enough. The wife tells me two drinks a day and by God you don’t want to go up against my wife. Ninety-seven pounds of pure hellishness when she wants to be.” He said this with obvious affection.
“You didn’t answer my question. Is anybody around here revolting against Noah Tillman?”
“Well, in quiet ways. Rumors, really. That’s about all. That’s their weapon of choice. They wouldn’t dare go up against him directly. So they gossip. And gossip eventually takes its toll in small ways.”
“So there’s nothing going on at Skeleton Key?”
“You want an honest answer?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
For the first time, Larson’s face showed both strain and weariness. “I’ve got a very sick daughter, Mr. Fargo. A bad heart. I’m always taking her to Little Rock to see doctors. And I’m not rich. When Noah came to me and said that I was to report back to him on anything ‘interesting’ that went on in the sheriff’s office, I said no. I said I like Tom too much. Tom’s the best sheriff this town’s ever had.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“Then Noah offered me money. I always thought I was an honest man. I took the money. Because of my daughter. Every penny goes to her. You can believe that or not but it’s the truth.”
Fargo surprised himself. He believed Larson.
“I did one more thing, too.”
“What’s that?”
“I told Tom what was going on. I told him that if there was anything he didn’t want his old man to find out, not to tell me. I didn’t want to cheat either of my bosses. I tell Noah everything I hear. But I don’t hear much because I warned Tom ahead of time. He plays everything close to the vest. That leaves only one other person who could be supplying Noah with the information I don’t have, Queeg.”
“Queeg’s a spy for Noah?”
He laughed and not without a certain respect. “That’s Noah. He knew how much I liked Tom and he knew I’d tell him some things but not everything. So he put Queeg on the payroll, too. Queeg needs money like everybody else.”
“Why doesn’t he fire you?”
“Because anybody who worked for him, Noah would get to one way or the other. Tom’d end up firing everybody who ever pinned on a badge. If it’s something real secret, Tom keeps it strictly to himself. Queeg learns some things I don’t and vice versa. But there are things that only Tom knows about, too.” This time his smile was tainted with embarrassment. “I guess I’m not the honest fella I always thought I was.”
This was all supposed to work out so simple, Karl Ekert thought, as he looked down at the grave site that had briefly held Daisy’s body.
Me and the Mex go into town, find the girl, take her, bring her back.
Easy as pie.
Except they hadn’t counted on finding her in the room of some gunny called the Trailsman. And they sure hadn’t thought the girl, after being knocked out with the drug splashed on the handkerchief, would suddenly wake up, jump down from the Mex’s horse, and start running.
The Mex had caught her, wrestled with her and then, with rage, shot her in the forehead.
Somebody had returned the favor, Ekert thought as he looked down at the Mex.
Ekert looked at the ruins of their plan. The grave they’d dug had been dug up again, small piles of red clay everywhere. Plus the muddied shovel. And the body of Lopez itself.
The last time Ekert had seen Lopez alive was after they’d dug the grave. Ekert wanted to get back to the ranch so he told Lopez to finish up and then head back.
Then something happened. But what? How had anybody figured out that Lopez was here? Maybe Lopez, a man with a treacherous temper, had opened fire on somebody and started the whole thing that way? But who would unearth the girl and then steal her corpse? Whatever was going on here was very confusing.