"You'll have them tonight."
He climbed up on his horse, weary, addled, sorrowful. Not until now did he realize his true nature. He was a con, a grifter, just like so many of the men he'd arrested over the years.
He swung his horse westward and, without saying anything, headed back to town.
Chapter Eleven
Prine spent a mostly sleepless night. He realized that while he'd always been a law-abiding man, he'd never been a good one.
All it took was the temptation of a reward and he forgot everything he supposedly knew about morality.
Cassie no longer mattered to him. She had her own life. He wouldn't tell anybody anything about the kidnapping—not for her sake but for his. If Sheriff Daly ever found out what he'd done, he'd fire Prine for sure. And let every lawman he knew know just how much a risk Prine was as a lawman.
He didn't delude himself. Part of his shame was his anxiety over being found out. Cassie could always say the wrong thing. Richard could start taking a closer look at the entire incident and begin to expose it. Tolan and Rooney could ask for more money to be silent—and where would something like that end?
Dawn found Prine in a wooden chair, a big gray tomcat in his lap, watching Claybank begin, groggy and reluctant, to awaken.
He shaved, washed up, dressed, and headed for The Friendly Café. He felt ridiculously happy to see Lucy.
She brought him his first cup of coffee.
"You didn't get much sleep last night, did you?"
"Not much."
She leaned in so she could whisper.
"And you didn't tell me the truth about what was going on out at that farmhouse, did you?"
He stared at his coffee cup.
"Are you in trouble, Tom? D'you need to get out of town? I've got a few dollars put by. . . ." He touched her hand.
"Did I ever tell you how sweet you are, Lucy?"
"Not for a long time."
"Well, I'm telling you now. And I'm going to tell you every single day from now on."
She did something she'd never done before—knew she shouldn't have done. She sat down at his table. Serving women were never supposed to sit with customers while on duty.
"You're in trouble, Tom. And I'm afraid for you. But that's not a reason to come back to me. You know I love you. But right now's not a good time to try and make up. You have to be a man and face up to whatever you've done."
He laughed. "You sound like one of the nuns at Catholic school. Be a man and face up to whatever you've done. They told me that the day I broke the school window with a baseball. They couldn't figure out who'd done it. So they held up class until the guilty party confessed."
"Maybe that's what you need to do now, Tom. Confess."
"If you mean confession, it's been a while."
"Not necessarily confession to a priest. But to somebody. You need to talk about the trouble you're in and how you think you can handle it."
"That makes sense, I guess."
"Maybe you could talk to Sheriff Daly."
"Maybe he's the man I need to talk to," Prine said.
Prine hadn't thought of that before, but now that Lucy had brought up the subject, it sounded like a good idea.
Tell Daly what he'd done. Take responsibility for it. Tell Daly he'd like to stay and show him how good a lawman he could be.
But what would Daly say? He wasn't an especially forgiving man, but he wasn't merciless, either. Maybe he'd understand how a young, dreamy lawman could get caught up in living out his dream. . . .
Prine guessed that was probably the best way to handle it. Instead of trying to keep his involvement in the kidnap secret, just tell Daly what had happened. Even if he fired Tom—even if he threatened to bring charges against him—Tom would feel better with the whole situation out in the open.
"I need to get back to work," Lucy said. "But please think about talking to Daly. Maybe he won't be as rough on you as you think."
"That's a good idea, Lucy. And that's just what I'm going to do as soon as I finish my coffee here."
Sheriff Daly and Bob Carlyle were already at their desks. The morning usually began with the three lawmen making out the list of what they needed to do that day. They shared the lists to make sure there wasn't any duplication and that they weren't needed on other jobs.
Prine knew he'd have to wait for Carlyle to leave before he could talk to Daly. He'd made up his mind for sure now. This was the best way. Straightforward and honest. Maybe Daly would be in a forgiving mood once he knew that Cassie was safe. Prine assumed she hadn't gone back home yet. If she had, they'd have known about it by now.
Carlyle stood up, stretched, yawned. "It's funny that you like sleep the older you get, when that's all you're gonna do after you die."
"Maybe this is like a warm-up," Daly said. "Learnin' how to sleep for longer periods of time."
Prine managed to make a joke. "It sure is a lot of fun hanging around with you two. What're you going to talk about next? Somebody getting his innards cut out?"
"The lad thinks we're morbid, Sheriff," Carlyle said.
"Hell, he already knew that. The tales we tell around here . . ."
"Yeah," Carlyle said, "and at least half of them are true." He tapped a piece of paper. "Note here says Riley's hardware was broken into last night. Guess I better get over there and listen to Riley tear me a new one about how law 'n' order's goin' to hell in this town."
"Just remind Riley that when those twins of his get going, they're responsible for most of the arrests on Saturday night," Daly said. "Damned animals."
Carlyle went over, scooped his hat from its peg, cinched it on, and said, "You'll probably hear Riley shoutin' from two blocks away."
The time was here.
Prine's bowels felt cold and sick. His stomach burned. This wasn't going to be easy. He started to speak, but then the door opened and the woman from the courthouse, Emma Hampton, peeked in and placed a copy of today's court docket on Daly's desk. He'd missed a few appearances over the years. The judges decided it was best to give him a copy of the daily docket. That way it wouldn't ever happen again. And, to date, it hadn't.
After she was gone, Prine stood up and walked over to Carlyle's desk. If he parked himself on its corner, he had a good straight view of Daly.
Daly was writing furiously. He despised paperwork. The scratching of his pen tip had a violent sound to it. Prine knew better than to interrupt him. Daly didn't look up once.
Finally, he set his pen down and said, "This had better be good. Man has a hell of a time concentrating when somebody's hanging off the corner of his eye the way you were."
"It's good, all right," Prine said. "Too good, actually."
For the first time—probably more because of his tone of voice than his words—Daly looked interested. "Somethin's been gnawin' on you these past few days. Probably a good thing to talk it out, lad."
Prine had been all ready to go. To state his case simply. Not to offer any excuses. Not to play for any sympathy. Simple and straightforward.
But when he opened his mouth to speak, he spoke only silence.
"You all right, Tom?"
That was all he had time to say, because just then the door popped open and Wyn Grover, who owned the livery, said, "Stu Byner's just pullin' into town in his wagon, Sheriff. You better come take a look at what he's bringin'."
Grover, a slender man given to drama—he was legendary for tearing into the town council for not much reason at all—wasn't the sort to explain himself. He liked keeping a mystery about things.
If Daly and Prine wanted to see what Stu Byner was bringing to town, then they'd just have to damned well step outside and take a peek.
Prine heard wagon brakes creak outside in the street. Stu Byner jumped down off his seat right away and went around to the back of the wagon.