Ransom (5 page)

And he had a kid. Pretty little wife—Erv had seen her this morning when she left the house to go shopping— yes, sir, a kid and a pretty wife. And all that money. Now, wasn't that just a combination to warm a fellow's heart?

Erv laughed out loud. Warm his heart or, more to the point, his purse strings.

Yes, sir, this whole thing was coming together just fine.

Chapter 3

John Taylor laid a penny on the counter, lifted off the lid of the big apothecary jar, and withdrew two red-and-white-striped peppermint sticks.

“For Loozy?” the storekeeper said.

“One of 'em,” Taylor said with a wink and a grin. He slipped one of the candies into his shirt pocket. The other he popped into his mouth, biting down until the peppermint stick crunched and crumbled.

“You're supposed to suck on those things, you know,” Edmund Jewett observed.

Taylor's grin flashed again. “Was I you, Mr. Jewett, I'd encourage folks to bite them. They don't last so long and you're likely to sell more.”

Jewett chuckled. “If you say so, John.” He wiped his hands on his apron and reached for a feather duster.

Taylor took another bite of his candy and asked, “I don't suppose you'd have any work you need done, do you?”

“Not right now but you know I'll keep you in mind when I do need something. You always do a good job. Don't overcharge neither like some folks I know. Not that I'm saying anything about who, you understand.” Jewett began dusting the shelves behind him.

“No, sir, I wouldn't expect you to.” John stuck what was left of his peppermint back into his mouth, gave Jewett a bit of a wave, which the storekeeper did not see, and sauntered out onto the sidewalk, his heels ringing hollow
on the rough planks. He gave thought to a shave and a haircut but settled instead for dropping into one of the rocking chairs that sat in front of Jewett's mercantile and idly watching the world—or such of it as could be found in Thom's Valley—pass by.

Gradually, slowly, Taylor's chin sank down toward his chest and his eyes drooped nearly shut. He could feel the heat of the late afternoon sun on his legs. He gave fleeting thought to buying himself a proper dinner for a change. He had enough money put by that he did not have to work for the next few days if he chose, and a meal at the café might be just the thing.

It was early for dinner, but he was feeling a mite peckish. So why not treat himself to some proper, sit-down cooking? Steak covered thick with flour gravy, say. And mashed spuds with more of the same poured over. Hot baking soda biscuits with butter and preserves and maybe some pie to finish off. Taylor had not had a meal like that since the last time he worked out at one of the larger ranches. That would have been . . . He had to think about it for a moment in order to remember. The Bar 7 H? He thought so. Not that it mattered. But the food. Oh Lord, the cook at the Bar 7 H could really put on a feed.

Taylor's mouth was watering before he got off his chair and stepped down into the street.

The next thing he knew, there was a flurry of motion to the right just outside his line of vision and he felt something smack hard on the side of his jaw.

“You son of a bitch!” someone bawled, and hit him again.

“Now damn it, you . . . Hahn?” John could scarcely believe his eyes. It was Richard Hahn who had attacked him without warning. And was doing his level best to do it again.

Hahn's fists were flying—inexpertly to be sure but every once in a while one would connect and the damn things stung when they landed—and his face was red as a dance hall girl's skirts. John could not be sure, but it almost looked like the little bastard had been crying.

Hahn tried to belt him again. John decided he had had just about enough of that. He took hold of one of Hahn's arms, spun him around, and wrapped his arms around the little man, pinning Hahn's arms firmly to his sides.

“Will you settle yourself down, you dumb shit?”

“You bastard.” Hahn yelped. “You lousy son of a bitch. Where are they? What have you done with them?”

“Done with what? Man, I dunno what you're talking about.”

“Let me go, damn you.” Now Hahn was crying. Taylor could hear it in his voice.

“I'll let you go when you settle your ass down an' tell me what this is all about.” By way of demonstration, John clamped down on Hahn even harder. He had broken a man's ribs in a bear hug once. He considered trying to duplicate that now with Richard Hahn. It would be a pleasure.

“Let me go, you big ape. I . . . I can't breathe.” Hahn struggled, trying to break loose from Taylor's hold, but that was a losing proposition.

“If I let you go, will you tell me what this is about?” There was silence for a moment, so Taylor shook him a little and tried again.

Passersby were staring but no one interfered. For one thing, everyone in town knew there was bad blood between the two men. For another, there were few in the valley who wanted to tangle with John Taylor.

“Tell me what it is you want, damn you, but first you
tell me what you've done with Jessica and Loozy. Where are they? What have you done with them?”

Taylor felt a chill of sudden dread shoot through him. “What do you mean, man? They're not at home? Where are they?”

“I thought . . . oh Jesus!”

Without reaching a conscious decision, Taylor let go of Hahn. The smaller man staggered, turned around, and slumped down onto the edge of the sidewalk. He sat with his head down, openly weeping now.

“What are you talking about?” Taylor demanded.

“Jessica . . . Loozy . . . they're gone.”

“Gone. What the hell d'you mean ‘gone'?”

If Hahn's blurted comment had not been so serious, Taylor might have laughed at the little man. Hahn, usually so impeccable in appearance, was sitting on the sidewalk of Thom‘s Valley's main street, head in his hands and eyes red and puffy and running tears, necktie askew and one point of his batwing collar crumpled and pointing off to the side. The man made a ludicrous sight. But if Jessie and Loozy really were gone . . .

Taylor knelt in front of the devastated financier and shook his shoulder. Getting no response, he shook Hahn again. Hard.

Hahn looked up and glared at him. “You took them, damn you. That's what the note said. Now where are they?”

“Note. What the hell are you talking about, asshole? I didn't write any note to anybody.”

“You can call me whatever you like. I don't care. But surely Jessica did not go willingly with you. What did you do, threaten to harm Loozy if she didn't do what you said? That would be just like you, you ape. All muscle and
no brain, that's you. Jessica is bound to hate you after this, you know. You can't force her to love you.”

Taylor held a hand up to stop the flow of Hahn's accusation. “Whoa there, shit for brains. Back up a little. What note are you talking about?”

“Why, the note you left in the house. Your note.”

“I already told you, damn it, I didn't leave no damned note, not in your house nor anyplace else.”

Hahn straightened his tie and tugged at the bottom of his coat, trying to get himself back in order. “You really didn't? No note?”

Taylor shook his head.

“Then . . . who did? Who took my girls?”

“Look, let's get something straight. Those aren't your girls. They're mine and don't you be forgetting it. Mine, wedded and bedded and forever. But back t' the original point, I didn't take them anyplace and I didn't leave no note neither. What does the note say exactly?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“Somebody took your, uh, lady friend and her daughter and left you a note and you didn't bother to read it? Jeez, Hahn, you're even more of a dumb shit than I thought.”

“I did so read it. That is, I . . . glanced at it. Sort of. I saw that it said something about taking Jessica and Loozy and I, um, knew it had to be you that took them. So I came . . . came looking for you.” Hahn peered down toward his toes, looking about as miserable as Taylor had ever seen a human person be.

“All right, damn it, I think what you and me need t' do is to look at that note. D'you have it with you? Did you put it in your pocket?”

Hahn shook his head. “I left it . . . I think I dropped it when I ran out of the house. It must still be there.”

“Then that's where you and me are going now.”

“You aren't going anywhere with me, you big ox. You aren't wanted. Understand? You are not welcome in my house.” Hahn looked like he was ready to aim another punch at Taylor.

“Tough shit. Welcome or not, I'm coming, Hahn, unless you're big enough an' strong enough to keep me away.” Taylor stood and reaching out took hold of Hahn's arm. He pulled the smaller man to his feet and turned him to face toward his house on the side of town opposite John Taylor's. “Let's go, damn you.” Taylor started marching in that direction. Richard Hahn had little choice but to go along. Either that or be dragged, for he was much easier to mug than a thousand-pound longhorn steer.

* * *

Practically no one in Thom's Valley locked their doors. Except for Richard Hahn and a very few others. There were some—Taylor was not among them—who mocked the little man for that. This time the door not only was unlocked, it stood wide open to any chicken, duck, or stray cur that might wander in. Taylor followed Hahn inside. Habit made him remove his hat when he passed through the doorway.

Taylor had never been inside Jessie's current home. It was pretty much what he expected. Small but impeccably furnished. All cherrywood and chintz, with frames on the walls and pillows on the couch and chairs. And it was tidy. Jessica liked to keep things in order. Taylor liked that but did not bother with it now that she was gone. The house smelled of lilac water and naphtha soap. It smelled like his shack used to.

 

“Here. Right here.” Hahn plucked a half sheet of foolscap off the arm of an overstuffed easy chair. He read the note, blurted “Jesus!” and showed it to Taylor.

 

I GOT YOU WIFE AN KID.

YOU WANT THEM BACK PAY THE BANK MONEY ALL OF IT.

I HAVE TWO MEN OF MY GANG WATCHING YOU. YOU GO TO THE MARSHEL OR SHERFF AND THEY DIE GURANTEE THEY DIE.

I GIVE YOU TWO WEEK TO PAY ME. I WILL SEND YOU NOTE TO TELL HOW & WHERE TO PAY ME MY MONEY.

REMEMBER. YOU ARE BEING WATCH. NO FALSE MOVE OR BOTH DIE. REMEMBER.

 

“Jesus!” Taylor echoed Hahn's exclamation.

Hahn crumpled the paper and threw it down. Taylor bent over and retrieved it. He smoothed the sheet over his thigh and walked aimlessly around the parlor.

“I still think you had something to do with this,” Hahn said, his voice unsteady.

“You want proof that I didn't? I can give you proof, you idiot.” Taylor stopped and whirled to face Hahn.

Hahn glared at him without speaking.

“Read the damn note again. It says something about your ‘wife.' Which Jessie never was an' never will be. I wouldn't've wrote it like that if it was me. Besides, my English ain't that bad. Mine ain't perfect but it sure isn't that bad.”

“I'm being watched, it says. They will harm Jessica and Louise if I go to the marshal or one of the sheriff's deputies.”

Taylor resumed his pacing, fists clenched at his side. “Being watched? Being watched by who? Do you know?”

“Let me see that note again.” Hahn held his hand out.

Taylor hesitated for a moment, then handed it over. They were silent as Hahn spent several long moments rereading the kidnap note.

“Two men, it says.”

“Could be anybody,” Taylor said. “Have you noticed strangers in town?”

“No, but then I wouldn't necessarily notice anyone. I mean . . . people come and go all the time. I don't pay all that much attention to . . . that sort.”

“And what sort would that be?” Taylor challenged.

Hahn met his eye, chin defiantly up. “Your low-life sort,” he answered.

Taylor's complexion darkened, but he contained his fury. For the moment.

Hahn walked across the room to one of the front windows and stared out of it; then without breaking his gaze from whatever he was looking at he said, “I can't tell.”

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“The note. Somebody watching. I can't tell. There could be someone on the street or something. Someone watching my office.”

“Could you really take all the bank's money and turn it over to these people? If you had to, I mean.” Taylor came over to the window too. He stood beside Hahn and looked out at what he could see of the town.

Hahn hesitated, then looked at Taylor. He took a deep breath. His shoulders slumped and his expression was haggard. He nodded. “Yes. If I had to,” he said slowly, as
if having to drag each word out kicking and screaming against exposure.

“How the hell could you do a thing like that?”

“I have power of attorney for the investment funds. I could . . . I could go down to Pueblo and take it all out in cash. A lot of it anyway. Anything past a certain point and they would need authorization from the bank. But I could get . . . a lot. They would give it to me, I'm sure. I could . . . Jessica is dear to me, Taylor. You can't know how much. I would do anything to protect her.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Anything.”

Taylor stood where he was for several seconds, then said, “I want something to drink, damn it. You got anything to drink in this house?”

“Sit down. I'll get something. I could use a drink too.” Hahn turned and went into the kitchen.

Taylor paused, then deliberately took a seat in the easy chair that he was sure would be Richard Hahn's usual resting place.

* * *

Taylor felt a pang of deep hurt when Hahn returned to the room carrying a fancy silver tray with a cut glass decanter on it and a pair of matching tumblers. The set was Jessica's. Taylor had given it to her the Christmas before Loozy was born. Jess saw the set in a mail-order catalog and fell in love with it. John saved every extra penny for four months in order to buy it for her. Now . . .