Читать книгу Rattler - Barry Andrew Chambers - Страница 6

She was shaking so badly she had to hold the cup with both hands as she nervously sipped the hot tea. Wilma Ducette closed her eyes. Soon, very soon, the sheriff would be at her door.

Wilma got up and paced the small parlor, afraid to look out the window. Soon, very soon. She wished the day was over. She wanted to get it over with now. If she looked out the window, she knew she’d see the ghost of her husband. A frightful, unforgiving apparition that would point an accusing finger at her.

“You killed me.” His voice would be cold and deep, coming from the other side of life. Stop it, Wilma. Think about what it’ll be like an hour from now. It will all be over, with the sheriff’s visit. She would play the grieving widow, plan the funeral, and in a week, she’d be on her way to Denver. Back home. Back to the carefree life of a single woman. Back to reliving her days as a social butterfly. Maybe there would be a rich, handsome man available for an attractive young widow.

Wilma glanced up at the clock. It was ten minutes to noon. Ten til noon. Twenty minutes earlier, Charles Ducette would have met his end at the hands of a highwayman, a vicious killer, whose only aim was to put a bullet in Charles’ head and take his money.

The killer, whose unlikely name was Percy Pierpoint, had been hired by Wilma to do the deed. It started two years ago when she came up with the plan. She’d asked her no account cousin who lived in back of a saloon if he knew a man who could do the job. A tough man. A cruel man who killed without mercy. A man like Percy.

Her story had been airtight. “I need a man who can protect Charles when he goes to town.”

The cousin, bleary-eyed from a night of drinking and carousing, looked at her dully. “Huh?” was his reply, equally as dull.

Wilma bit her tongue and held in her impatience.

“Charles has a long, daily ride to the bank. People know this. I fear for his safety and I need a man who could shadow him.”

“A, uh…a body guard?”

She was mildly surprised that her cousin had a coherent thought. “Exactly. I want an outsider…someone who doesn’t talk to the locals.”

With furrowed brow, her cousin rubbed the stubble on his chin. Wilma wasn’t sure if he was thinking or about to fall back into a drunken stupor.

“I know someone who knows someone,” he said.

The next part of the plan was simple. She presented her gun-shy, derringer-toting husband with a Colt .45.

“For your protection dear. You need it on the long road to town.” Charles held the gun away from his body like it was a sleeping skunk.

“This is quite a gift, my love.”

“You know I don’t like you on that long road, unarmed.”

“But dearest, I have my derringer.”

“That wouldn’t help you against a man with a real gun,” she said, patting his cheeks. “I love you. Please carry this gun with you. Do it for me.”

He shrugged and gave her a shy smile. “Whatever you say, sweetheart. I’ll put it in my briefcase.”

Wilma knew two things about her husband. The Colt would stay in the briefcase. And he would never load the gun.

She contacted the man who was recommended by her cousin. He gave her a name and she met the gunslinger in a remote town called Scrubb’s Junction. The man called himself Percy, but he looked like the toughest Percy she’d ever seen. A light scar ran from the left corner of his mouth, down his chin. His hair was midnight. His eyes were a deep blue. An alertness in them hid danger. Percy’s face was clean shaven, and he wore a scent that was pleasing to her. Pine, she decided. If he’d been in any other line of business, she would have considered him excellent second husband material.

She explained to Percy that she wasn’t looking for a bodyguard. She needed a man to kill her husband.

“He beats me!” she cried. “And he consorts with women in town.”

Percy showed no emotion. He merely let her speak.

“I have a strange request,” she said. “I am going to pay you three hundred dollars as a retainer. In about eighteen months, I will contact you and tell you when I need your services.”

Percy Pierpoint’s voice was soft and patient. “Believe me, Mrs. Ducette, your request is not so strange. However, my standard retainer fee is five hundred.”

“Of course.” Without hesitation, she pulled out a handful of bills and counted out five hundred dollars. She had been prepared to pay a thousand. Percy Pierpoint had an impeccable reputation for professionalism and discretion. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Pierpoint.”

She shook his black-gloved hand and felt a tingle. His eyes held a gaze with a mixture of killer and sexual allure. He definitely was a dangerous man.

Wilma went back home. She found her cousin at his customary table in the saloon, gulping down cheap whiskey like it was rainwater.

“I talked to the man that your friend recommended.”

Her cousin was just starting to drink, so he was as clearheaded as he was going to be for the rest of the day.

“Did he agree to be Charles’ bodyguard?”

Wilma shook her head. “He asked for too much money. And he smelled like a polecat.” She thought back to the pleasant pine scent of Percy Pierpoint.

Her cousin smirked. “Who cares? You don’t have to smell him.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t pay him the ridiculous price he was asking. You know Charles. He saves pennies like they’re gold from El Dorado.”

Her cousin took a long swig, then wiped his mouth. He was bored with the conversation.

Wilma continued her tale. “Anyway, I bought Charles a gun. In the long run, it’s cheaper and the more I think of it, there hasn’t been any crime on that road since the Wells Fargo was robbed three years ago.”

Wilma left the bar, satisfied that her cousin would never connect her talking to Percy Pierpoint with the murder that would happen eighteen months hence.

The day had finally arrived. Wilma knew exactly when Pierpoint would perform the deed and how long it would take. The road was not well traveled, but Charles’ corpse would be found by a rancher or farmer who was headed into town. Since the town was closer to the scene of the crime than the house, the excited rancher would go get the sheriff.

Wilma looked up at the clock. 12:07. Seven minutes after noon. The tea in her cup was cold. Her hands still shook. She wasn’t nervous about the murder. Her confidence in Percy was solid. It was the waiting. She hated the waiting. She couldn’t wait much longer without screaming. Then she heard it.

The clip-clop of hooves was steady, sure. Sheriff Hawkins was approaching the house. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Of course not. Who was in a hurry to deliver bad news?

She dared not look out the window. Instead, she picked up some sewing and pulled the needle through the cloth. Look busy. Be calm, then surprised. Should she cry at the news of her husband’s demise? Or should she faint—fall deadweight into the sheriff’s arms?

Heavy boots clomped on the wooden porch planks. They stopped. A shadow appeared in the glass. The sharp rap on the door made her jump.

“Yes?” she called out in a strained voice.

“Sheriff Hawkins, Wilma.”

She put the sewing down and tried not to hurry to the door. Smile, she thought. Take a breath, she thought. And she did. Greet him with a pleasant, untroubled smile.

Wilma opened the door. Sheriff Hawkins stood there with his hat in his hands. He looked like he’d lost his best coon dog.

“Wilma,” he said softly.

“Sheriff? What is it?”

She was proud of the alarm she was able to put into her voice. Perhaps she had a flare for the dramatic. She made a mental note to check out some of the fine theatre companies in Denver. They would be looking for a leading lady of beauty and quality.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Wilma.”

“What? Tell me quickly Sheriff.”

“I’ve come to arrest you, Wilma.”

He held up a pair of handcuffs. The shock and disbelief on her face would make any of the finer theatres in Denver proud…if she’d been acting. The sheriff stepped into the parlor.

“You are charged with the attempted murder of your husband, Charles.”

Without thinking, Wilma dashed to the kitchen to escape through the back door. As she shot out of the house, she was greeted by Percy Pierpoint, who blocked her way.

“Afternoon Mrs. Ducette.”

He held up a gold badge. “I’m Randall Foster of The Service, a branch of the U.S. Marshals.”

Wilma felt red hot irons puncturing her chest. She put her hand to her throat.

“Wha…? You aren’t Percy Pierpoint?”

“No ma’am. Mr. Pierpoint has been rotting in jail for two years. I’ve been taking his contracts and saving lives…such as your husband’s.”

The sheriff had followed her outside. He caught Wilma in his arms as she fell back in a real faint.