Seven Days in Paradise

Heyes walked down the corridor, deliberately keeping his mind on the immediate. That was another old habit, something he could do if he had to. Part of being self-sufficient, he supposed. Or maybe of being introspective, which wasn't quite the same thing...

"He doesn't have any friends, Amabel. Aren't you worried about him?"

"You make it sound as though he's completely isolated. I assure you, Hannibal has all the friends he wants. He sees his cousins several times a year after all, and he hardly pines for them when they're gone. He can amuse himself, and he prefers it... And don't talk to me about his education: if Hamilcar is satisfied I'm sure I am. He's already reading Virgil, and Hamilcar says he'll be reading Homer soon. What more could he learn somewhere else? I won't send him away from his home, not at his age. He wouldn't be happy. When he's older, there's William and Mary."

"Not Harvard?"

"A Yankee school?" Laughter had silvered her voice again and he had smiled to hear it. "Don't be ridiculous, Susannah. Oxford, maybe, but never Harvard."

Nowhere, as it had turned out, of course... But she'd been right about one thing, anyway: he had preferred to amuse himself. He didn't mind it when his cousins were around, or children of visiting friends of his parents, but he was happier alone. At least, since he was five and Micah had gone... and maybe, most likely, he'd have outgrown Micah, one way or the other. At any rate, he was never happier than when on the back of a horse, or under a tree, alone except for a book. Reading inside was good, of course, there was nothing quite like a library, but then you run the risk of people.

And that of course made him remember... was it only yesterday? He'd been reading Journey to the Center of the Earth—who knew when he'd finish it now—and every couple of pages, every time he'd turned a page in fact, he'd glanced up and let his eyes rest a while on Curry, sleeping late, a little restless, and wholly—

He stopped himself, balling his right hand into a fist and hitting his leg in front of the holster strapped there. That was exactly what he wasn't supposed to be thinking about. He wasn't being very successful at keeping his mind on the immediate, apparently. Or, he admitted ruefully, on that part of the immediate that didn't involve Curry. You run the risk of people, he'd just been thinking, and here was the proof of it. Curry was... He shook his head. "Orcae," he swore (Latin and Greek had rendered anything acceptable around his father), and then laughed at himself. He didn't even believe in Hell.

He believed in hell on earth, though. He'd seen it.

He turned away from the stairs and walked over to look out the big window. The snow was just noticeably slacking, still falling steadily but not quite as thickly as earlier. Of course there was no sunlight, not even cloud-filtered, but the lights in the front room had been lit and they were plenty strong for looking across the front. The woods off to the side of the building were an impenetrable darkness, and he couldn't tell where the mountain dropped off in the front... He allowed himself a minute of savage wishing that they'd never heard of the Paradise Hotel, or Aspen, or even the whole state of Colorado. We should have stayed in the Territories, he thought, knowing it was irrational and not, for the moment, caring. Anyway, what he really wished, and he knew it, was that the English had stayed in their green and pleasant land and the hell out of his.

He indulged for just a minute, though, and then shook his head, considered how very un-green and unpleasant his land was just at the moment, and turned to go and get himself some coffee, which might help his mental discipline. As he crossed by the front desk, not manned at this ungodly hour, he spotted one of the waiters and called out, softly, "Excuse me."

The waiter, shirtsleeves white against the cranberry vest, stopped and waited. When Heyes was close enough the man said, "Yes, sir? Can I get you something?" His face looked a bit strained; he'd probably heard, but was going to pretend everything was normal.

"Would you mind bringing some breakfast up to my room? The same as yesterday, but for one."

"Oh. Yes, sir, of course." He took a deep breath and found his professional face. "Only," it slipped a little, "it may be a half an hour."

Heyes didn't want to eat downstairs, but some things even twenty dollars a day didn't pay for. "If it's going to be a lot of trouble," he began.

"Oh, no, sir. Not a lot. It's just..." He paused. "No, sir. If you don't mind waiting I'll get it up to you as soon as I can."

Heyes cocked his head. Selfishly, he appreciated the distraction, but there was more to it than that. It had been the blond waiter who'd brought up breakfast the day before, the one who'd looked off his feed last night. Right now this one, the brown-haired one, looked like he needed someone to complain to; all things considered, Heyes doubted the manager was ready to listen. He offered up a sympathetic expression and said, "Waiting's no trouble. I suppose the kitchen is in a bit of a turmoil."

The man blew out a breath and took the opportunity. "You can sure say that again. And Robert hasn't showed up and things are kinda," he paused, apparently looking for a word, and then gave up. "It's no trouble, sir, it may just be a little longer."

"That's all right." Heyes was remembering the other waiter from supper the night before. "Is he sick?" That would be just what they needed, stuck up here.

The brown-haired man shrugged. "I don't know. He just didn't show up this morning."

"You live up here?" Of course they did. "You check on him?"

"He ain't in his room." He glanced over his shoulder and added, "That don't mean nothing, necessarily, of course, 'cause he isn't there a lot. But..." He shrugged.

Something else occurred to Heyes. "Did he take off during the snow? Or before it got too bad?" He couldn't for the life of him remember the last time he'd seen the blond waiter.

"No, sir. He was workin' last night right up to they closed the kitchen. I don't know where he is." A door opened down the hall and he took a step away from Heyes. "I'll get your breakfast up to you as soon's as I can. I can bring some coffee right away?"

"Thank you. Please do." Heyes watched the waiter duck past the manager and wondered. If the blond—Robert—had been pushed into killing the woman, not a real stretch of the imagination (though why tie up her feet like that? his mind persisted in wondering), and then he might well have panicked when he remembered the Wells Fargo man. He might be hiding out in the stable, if he had friends there, or he might have been scared enough to brave the snow. It wasn't a storm, just wet heavy flakes falling gently onto the ground: in great profusion, perhaps, but without violence. Heyes figured he could have made it down the mountain on a horse he knew, and Robert might know them all...

Of course, a motive for Robert might mean he wasn't done yet. Heyes hesitated on the stairs, and then continued up. Morrison wanted his ten thousand dollars. He'd take care of Curry. On the hoof, the Kid was a fortune; dead, he was an albatross, good for nothing but attracting the attention of hot young shootists looking to make a name for themselves. Morrison wouldn't want that. He'd drink some coffee, get his unusually roiled emotions back under control, and then he'd find the Wells Fargo man, ask him if he knew about Robert, suggest Morrison have a look at the stable... He smiled again, thinking about the cold, wet trip there and back. Let the man earn his money, he thought.

The waiter was right behind him with a pot of coffee and a cup. He let the man into the sitting room and watched him pour, and then handed him two bits and said, "Could you please... What is your name?"

"It's Thomas, sir." He paused. "Mark Thomas," he added.

"Well, Thomas, could you please ask Morrison to come up here as soon as he's free?"

Thomas nodded and left, and Morrison showed up before Heyes had finished his first cup. "They're servin' downstairs," he said.

"Thanks," Heyes said. "I'll wait."

"Not in the mood for the Hornes? I don't blame you. Mrs. Horne is jumpin' back and forth between scared and furious, and if I don't arrest somebody pretty damn soon," he shrugged. "Too bad there's not a whole lot of people here. I got a hard time seein' Weston in the role, or that desk clerk of his."

"There's a waiter missing."

"Missin'? Where the hell could he have gone?" Morrison flung his arm at the snow.

"I expect he's around," said Heyes. "Somewhere."

"A waiter... Well, I admit that would be nice."

"I suppose Lord Edward was really passed out?" Heyes asked, more to see Morrison's reaction than because he thought there was anything to it.

"I'm sure he was." That was matter of fact. "He usually is by two or thereabouts... I suppose you really were asleep?"

Heyes grinned, feeling sardonic. "You may be needing help," he said, "but the way I see it, I can only rule out two people: me and Jones."

Morrison looked affronted, and then the humor of it caught up to him and he laughed. "If I'da been goin' to kill her," he said, "I'da done it in New Mexico."

Heyes nodded acceptance of that. "Still," he said thoughtfully, "nothing happened until you were here."

"Nothing happened till I arrested," he paused, "your man."

Heyes smiled, and then sobered. "What I don't understand," he admitted, "is that nothing happened until we were snowed in."

Morrison paused. "Yeah. You'da thought that would have stopped whoever. You don't think...?"

"I don't know." But he too had felt that frisson of unreason.

"Maybe I'd better go find that waiter."

Heyes nodded. "Maybe you had."

Heyes sat on the bed, his back up against the headboard, and thought. He was trying to keep his mind on what he needed to do in response to the important things that had happened last night. The murder. The blizzard. Not anything else.

But it was the anything else that kept intruding. Curry. The Kid and the Englishwoman. The lady and the outlaw... God, it sounds like a very bad novel, he thought, and shook his head impatiently. He truly didn't have the luxury of thinking about that now. He knew what happened if you tried to do too many things at once: you didn't do any of them very well. He knew he had to prioritize, to set himself three tasks that had to be done and forget all the stuff that had no bearing on them. Three, maybe four. No more. And worrying about what the Kid had been up to, what the Kid's hangdog expression was trying to hide ...

No. He shook his head again. He was not going to think about it. He was not.

Not that it would do him any good. Which was another reason not to, if he'd needed another. The Kid had always been attracted to the ladies. And the ladies to him, just like that English cat in heat...

Stop it.

He thumped his head gently on the headboard a couple of times. Just because Curry had, if he had (if, he sneered at himself), it hardly signalled the end of the world. It was nothing new, after all, that Curry went with women. He always had, the whole time he'd known him, and he hadn't exactly been a maiden when they'd met. To any vice, if it came to it, or at least any of the common ones, drinking, gambling, fighting, fornicating... a normal man, who'd fit right in with the Gang even though he'd always preferred Heyes's company, because he wasn't as dumb as he made himself out to be (and the watcher in Heyes's mind laughed almost gently at the arrogance in that).

Unlike Heyes, who'd known his whole life that he was different, even if he hadn't known what that difference comprised until that night, eight months ago, nearly nine now, when Curry had said to him, "Damn it, Heyes. I got... thoughts... Bad thoughts. Wicked, sinful... bad thoughts. It's no good, Heyes. I gotta get away from you." Then Heyes had looked at himself, faced his darkest secret self in the blazing light of the Kid's pure, clean love, and understood it. And embraced it, and Curry, and never wanted to let go.

But Curry... ah, the Kid was the one who'd run. Simpler, more honest than Heyes, he'd figured himself out earlier, and he'd run. He'd called it wicked, sinful, bad... Heyes knew Curry loved him, but he knew Curry loved women, too. And women were the safe life, the expected life, the life the Bible said you should have...

Damn it, he brought himself up to a quick halt. He did not have time to worry about this now. He had to worry about other things, because if he sat around and worried about what the Kid was feeling or what the Kid might do after they got out of this mess, it was all too probable that they wouldn't. And then it wouldn't matter a tinker's dam what either of them were feeling.

Feeling was a luxury most of the time, anyway. And it certainly was now. He had to think. That was his job, after all.

His hands were playing with that silken scarf, folding and unfolding it, pleating it, pulling it through his fingers. He shouldn't be doing that; it kept reminding of the thing he couldn't afford to think about: Curry. And that Englishwoman.

He looked down at the material, the crumpled center section, the tears... It was no good thinking about what could put a hole in silk. No good smelling Curry mixed in with the artificial perfume the woman had used. Artifical color. Artificial scent. Artificial manners...

Damn. He hit himself, hard, on the leg. He wasn't used to this; his mind was supposed to do what he told it. It always had. Savagely he crumpled the scarf up into a tiny ball and wrapped a corner of it around itself, tying it off. Then he pitched it through the open window into oblivion.

Curry would have been complaining about that window. "There's a fuckin' blizzard outside," he'd have been saying. Heyes shook his head. He'd come into the room they hadn't used to do his thinking, so nothing would remind him of Curry, but it was no use. Everything reminded him of Curry.

He got off the bed and sat on the floor, crossing his legs and letting his wrists rest on his knees. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and held it, and then let it out slowly, concentrating on the movement of the air. After two more breaths, he started conjugating Latin verbs, cogito, cogitas, cogitat, cogitamas, cogitatis, cogitant... cogito, cogitabo, cogitaturus, cogitabam, cogita! I think, I shall think, I am about to think, I began to think, think!. He repeated that last out loud, "Cogita, Heyes!"

He opened his eyes and looked at the snow drifting past. Okay. Now to prioritize his tasks. Obviously the first, most important, one was to keep Morrison (and everyone else) from even wondering if he might be Hannibal Heyes, or some other outlaw. If he failed to do that, if he were locked up as well, then nothing else could be done at all. The next one was to find out who’d killed the Englishwoman. Or perhaps the next one was to keep Curry from getting killed, too, considering how easy he was to get at, how vulnerable. That might be easier to do if he could figure out who the killer was, but it was really more important. After all, he didn’t really care who’d killed the woman, as long as he kept Curry alive. But those two tasks had bumped yesterday’s most important task down to a definite fourth place: figuring out how to get Curry loose and them both out of this damnably misnamed hotel.

He could allow himself four this time, because if he could pull off that fourth one then the others would be irrelevant. But four was the limit.

Get those done, and then tasks five through infinity, screaming for his attention, could get some. But not till then. He sighed softly. "Cogito," he said out loud. "I think, I am thinking, I do think..."

Okay, task number one. He could probably back-burner that one for the moment. He'd have to keep an eye on it, stir the pot every now and then so to speak, because he couldn't afford to fail with it, but it seemed secure enough. It helped that Lord Edward Ransdale and his cronies seemed to have fallen for it, believing that he was a man of wealth if not breeding. Morrison didn't want to contradict them. Morrison, in fact, didn't much want to cross anybody... certainly not Joshua Smith.

He could use that on the others, he realized. Keep on behaving as though he were a landowner who'd hired a shootist and been grossly deceived, but toss in a few words here and there, a few looks... Hell, he'd known men like Joshua Smith who'd have dearly loved to have a gun like Kid Curry on their payroll if they could have gotten away with it. Let Morrison think Smith might be taking an interest in Curry's future... in a purely legal way, of course. He might even be able to convince him to give the Kid a chance by uncuffing him, given the snow...

Almost on cue, there was a knock on the door and Morrison's voice called, "Mr. Smith?"

Heyes got up and walked into the sitting room to unlock the door. Morrison didn't comment on that; that was the first clue. The second was the look in the man's eyes as he tried to figure out how to say something. Heyes waited a minute, and then offered, "You find the waiter?"

"I found him." Morrison took a deep breath. "I found him, all right. And a whole pile of trouble."

Trouble, Heyes thought. That was sure one way of putting it.

The unoccupied room, bereft of a fire for days now, was cold. Morrison started to pull the window shut, but Heyes said, "Leave it." After a moment, the man nodded, a wry twist to his mouth. They were going to want to keep it cold in here.

Robert had not gone to the barn. Robert hadn't gone anywhere. Although, Heyes thought, looking down at the body reposing neatly and quietly on the bed, a religious man might say Robert had gone on his last, longest journey.

He glanced over at the Wells Fargo man, who was standing by the window as if unwilling to come closer. He didn't blame Morrison much: this was probably quite a bit outside of the man's usual job duties, and the implications were stark and disturbing. It wasn't only that Robert as the killer would have been just about the best solution possible, it was that the killer was still with them.

And still killing.

And it was hard to imagine a coherent motive for killing a duke's daughter and a waiter, let alone laying them out so neatly, though hardly normally. The man's boots didn't have laces, but the angle of the arms crossed on his chest was odd. Heyes leaned closer and realized that the cuffs of the still pristine white shirt had been buttoned, not together, but to two of the buttons on the dark vest, holding them in place. The hairs on the back of his neck tried to stand on end, the old raised-hackles reaction to danger of man's beast ancestors. Not much scared Heyes any more, but madness... madness did.

He paused, and then touched his fingers lightly to the vest. That darker spot was in fact blood, dry to the touch and flaking off when he scratched it. Yet there was no tear in the material. He swallowed once, and then began to do undo the buttons, half expecting Morrison to stop him. The Wells Fargo man didn't say a word, just moved in a little closer.

The buttons were easier to deal with than the arms. They weren't rigid, but they were stiff and hard to move. Heyes settled for wrenching the left one out of the way so he could get at the heart area, under the blood stain. He heard Morrison make a small sound of distress, but that was all, and when Heyes began to undo the shirt front, the other man came closer still, looking over his shoulder.

There was even more blood on the equally intact white shirt. Heyes unbuttoned it as well, uncovering a bare chest. No undershirt? He wondered if that was usual. Blood had matted the hair that covered the chest, but the single slit over the heart was obvious. Heyes touched the injury gently. He wasn't a doctor, but he'd seen his share of corpses. This was the death blow, all right, and it looked very much like Robert hadn't been expecting it. And unless he was much mistaken, it looked like Robert had died sometime during the night, probably a little earlier than Lady Clarissa had. He wasn't stiff yet, but it was cold, and it would take longer to set in. Heyes tried to remember what the other waiter had said... He was workin' last night right up to they closed the kitchen.

Heyes straightened up and looked at Morrison. "I think he dressed him."

"Well, he sure put the shirt back on afterwards."

"No. I mean, he worked last night. Thomas—the other waiter—said he was there till they closed up the kitchen, and that was after ten-thirty, anyway. Maybe closer to midnight. And he hasn't been dead much less than that. But he never wore that shirt all that time, working."

Morrison scratched the back of his head. "Now you mention it," he said, "that collar's mighty clean. And so are those sleeves... You think he was dressed when he was stabbed, then? Just in his other shirt and vest?"

"Could be. But it's one blow, and nearly straight in. I reckon he was lying down, and probably not wearing a shirt."

"Sleeping?" Morrison's tone was revolted.

Heyes shrugged. If you were going to murder a man, waiting till he was asleep didn't make the deed more dreadful, surely. There was nothing about this that indicated a sense of fair play at work... though just possibly there was some thread of cause warped out of recognition. "Or in bed, anyway."

Morrison raised his eyebrows, and then turned to take another look at the dead man. He blew out a gusty breath and said, "Well, he's about good-looking enough for Lady Clarissa to settle for, if she couldn't get your man." There was a the briefest pause before the last two words, enough to show Heyes that Morrison had decided to shelve that whole question, at least for the time being.

Of course,though Morrison didn't know it, she had been able to get... his man.

For just a moment Heyes felt his equilibrium shudder under the irony of the phrase. Obviously, not his, not in the way he'd thought. With an effort he hoped didn't show, he wrenched his mind back on track, away from the distraction of the possible disaster looming over his future and back to the much more certain one immediately at hand. Sufficient unto the day, Hannibal... He swallowed and said, "I was wondering that. I mean, he might not have been killed here, but this isn't the cellar: dragging a body around on this floor would probably attract some attention. Plus, unless we've got more than one killer, he had to run downstairs and take care of Lady Clarissa."

"More than one?" Now Morrison sounded appalled. "You don't really think so, do you, Smith?"

"No," he shook his head decisively. "I don't. There's something about this that says one person to me. Maybe it's the finicky way it's all put together—I have a hard time seeing two people doing this." He gestured at the corpse, waving his hand in the air over the right arm, still buttoned to the vest.

"Yeah, I see what you mean. Surely to God there ain't two people here that crazy."

"We can hope. One's bad enough."

"You can sure say that again. You reckon he was waiting for her?"

"I'd have thought she'd have been inclined to use her own room?" That turned into a question as Morrison shook his head.

"No, she liked what she called slumming." That was a new word to Heyes; at his raised eyebrow Morrison added, "Visiting the lower classes where they lived, for a thrill, you see."

Like a jail... Well, she'd gotten her thrill, he supposed. "So you figure they'd have used a room like this? Not his?"

"She wouldn't have wanted the maids to see her," Morrison said with certainty. "I bet he was waiting here for her, in the dark..."

And she was off taking her pleasure somewhere else. Maybe knowing Robert was waiting for her made it even better, Heyes thought. At any rate, it offered a glimpse of motive. He said as much to the lawman.

"You think he had a ladyfriend already?" Morrison answered. "Someone who didn't take kindly to his slipping off to bed someone else? That makes sense."

It did, just on its own. Heyes wasn't sure one of the hotel's maids fit the rest of the picture—the weirdness—but probably a maid could go crazy just like anyone else. He shrugged, suppressing his instinctive but so far inexplicable distrust for the idea. "Could be. This is a bit more than not taking kindly, but..." He shrugged again.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," Morrison said, rubbing his chin. "I'd sure like it to turn out that way."

Heyes looked back at the dead man; attractive enough, but not a substitute for Curry. Not for her, evidently, and not for him, certainly. He closed his eyes briefly; just for a moment he was assailed by a doubt: perhaps he'd misread the Kid, perhaps nothing had happened. She'd been there, but dropped her scarf innocently—or, since Lady Clarissa hadn't been anyone's idea of an innocent, at least without gaining anything by it. But then he pushed the doubt away; fooling himself wasn't something he indulged in. The whole point of those childhood memories that had been teasing at him all day was that he was, in essence, an observer. But he was a good observer, and rarely wrong, and there had never been anything in the universe he had observed as closely, or as passionately, as Jed Curry. He wasn't wrong. What had happened had happened; the Kid's guilt was too strong for anything less. It was a fact.

And it would have to be dealt with, but only when its time came. Right now he slapped it aside, one more time, and turned back to the things he had to deal with now. By the end of the day, he knew, it would have learned to stay away until he called it, like a dog repeatedly and invariable shooed away. He looked away from the dead man and said, "There's a lot of blood on him. If you get lucky, you might find his shirt in someone's room."

"I might?" Morrison didn't seem to have noticed his momentary distraction.

Heyes grinned at him. "You're the Wells Fargo man," he reminded him.

"That don't make me a marshal," Morrison reminded him.

"I doubt anyone will complain, not as long as you flash that Fargo badge around. After all, you're the closest thing to the law we've got here," Heyes said one more time, reassuringly.

"I suppose so... But you really think anybody's still got it?"

"No. I think you'll find it in the laundry, if you find it at all. A lot of fires going here last night and today."

Morrison heaved a prodigious sigh; clearly he agreed with both the futility of the search and the necessity of it. "I already asked everybody where they was last night. I suppose I can ask 'em again, but since most of 'em said they was in bed, asleep, I don't see much point to it."

Heyes responded to the oblique request. "No. But it might be instructive to see what they look like when they find out about Robert. I don't know his last name," he added to the raised eyebrow.

"Goodwin. He's twenty five... was twenty five. Not married. From Denver. The other one's from St Louis, said they didn't know each other before this summer. I guess I'll have to ask about him now, ask the maids I mean."

"Ask everybody," Heyes said. "Don't get wedded to your theory."

"Yeah... I reckon you're right. Sure would be nice, though."

"It would," Heyes agreed. And it would. He just wished he believed it would work out that way.

Morrison sighed. "Me, too," he said, and then reached down and pulled the blanket up over Goodwin's body. "I guess I'd better go break the news to Weston."

Curry looked up as the door opened. He hadn't been expecting Heyes again, so he wasn't disappointed when the Wells Fargo man came in instead, or at least not much disappointed. The man's chin was stubbly with a beard a bit darker than his hair, and his light brown eyes had a sleepless look to them; apparently he hadn't got much rest since that morning, if any. He'd come by with a halfway nervous, halfway excited maid and breakfast, and then, much later, probably ten, he'd walked Curry back upstairs for a break. Both times, he'd been pleasant enough, but at noon he'd just put the tray on the floor and left without a word. Now he paused in the doorway and said, "You doin' okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He blew out a breath, leaning up against the doorjamb as if he needed a breather.

Curry cocked his head. "You look worried," he said, hoping for a bit of conversation; he was going crazy by himself.

"That's hardly surprisin'," Morrison said. "What with one thing and another... Don't you worry, though; I'm keeping the key on me. You're safe."

That hadn't been exactly worrying Curry. He hadn't thought of himself as a target, though he supposed he might be a reasonable one. But nobody was going to hit him over the head; even if he was asleep he'd hear them if the door opened. But still... He shrugged. "I'd feel safer if I was out."

"And armed again?"

"Sure."

"I reckon you would. Don't know about the rest of us."

Curry grinned. "Worth a try, though."

Morrison nodded, grinning a little himself. "Ain't going to happen, though." The grin faded and he picked up the tray. "I'll bring supper later," he said. "Might not have a chance to look in on you before then."

"I said you looked worried," Curry observed, more to put off being left alone than because he was really interested.

Morrison glanced at him, and then down at the tray, and then shrugged. "Can't hurt to tell you, I reckon," he said. "I mean, you were locked up."

"What are you talking about?" Now Curry was starting to feel worried. "Something else happened?"

"You might say," Morrison nodded. "Another murder. One of the waiters."

Curry blinked at him. He couldn't remember the waiters, well, not to say remember, though he'd known they'd been there. But, "That strike you odd?" he asked. "A waiter and a Lady?"

"Yeah," Morrison nodded again. "It does. It's all damned odd. But like I said, I'm keepin' the key on me now."

He shook his head, frustrated. He sure didn't think he was a target. Not now, not with a waiter dead, too; it just didn't figure. On the other hand, it sounded like there might be a lunatic out there, and that worried him for Heyes. "Look, Morrison—"

"Save your breath. You're staying here."

"Morrison, look here. You know I didn't kill either of 'em."

"Of them, yeah. But you're still a wanted man, and you're still worth ten thousand dollars. Do you know how long I'd have to work to make that kind of money?"

"I don't know. Thirty, forty years? If you never spent a dime."

"Exactly. You know how quick I'll quit my job after I collect?"

Curry shrugged, a reluctant smile tugging his lips. "Thirty, forty minutes?"

"If that. So, no: sorry, but I don't quite trust you not to head off even in the snow."

"I wouldn't leave Mr. Smith in the lurch like that."

Morrison snorted. "I kinda think you know the way back to Wyoming."

"I got no sense of direction."

Morrison hiked an eyebrow. "Sure."

"Anyway, you could get to Wyoming your own self."

"Wyoming is a big place. And, to tell you the truth," he said, "while I do believe he's a landowner, I don't think Smith is his right name, any more'n Jones is yours. I reckon he just wants to be left alone... which is fine and dandy but makes finding him a mite difficult."

"That's the way he likes it," Curry said, giving up. "A mite difficult."

"I bet." Morrison shouldered the door open. "I'll check on you again at supper if not before."

He shut the door, and Curry heard the key turn in the lock. He sighed, rubbed his left wrist where the cuff chafed a little, and stretched out on the bed. Hell, he thought, this room doesn't even have a window, bars or not. If he was going to be here for any time, maybe he ought to borrow that book from Heyes after all.

Assuming Heyes was in the mood to lend him it.

He sighed again. Maybe he ought to spend his time thinking what he was going to say. He closed his eyes. Maybe he ought to spend his time trying to figure out why he was such an idiot...

"Curry?"

Curry looked up at the door, which stayed shut. That was Ransdale's voice, Clarissa's brother. "You talking to me?"

"Of course I am." He sounded annoyed. "Whom else?"

"Just wonderin'," he drawled. "Seeing as how you called me 'Curry', I mean."

"Oh, please. Morrison's uses may be few, but he doesn't mistake faces, especially not with such a sum of money contingent upon it."

"Well, maybe so. I'm not admitting it, on advice received, but I don't suppose it matters much. What can I do for you?"

"I could talk Morrison into letting you out."

"I'd 'preciate that, Mr. Ransdale," Curry said, wondering what was up.

"Lord Edward." That was sharp. "Or my lord."

"I'm an American. I don't 'my lord' anyone except Jesus." There was a pause, and Curry wondered if everyone the man had met before had fallen in with his ways. Money did buy a lot; hell, maybe if he'd been looking for a job... God, he hoped he wasn't. Not that he wanted to work for the Englishman no matter what happened with Heyes. He let the silence drag on for another minute, and then shrugged and said, "Your lordship."

"Yes... Well, at any rate, Curry," Ransdale seemed to decide that was good enough. "As I said, I could get you out."

"And as I said, I would appreciate that. But I do have to wonder why."

After another brief pause the Englishman said, "I would want to hire you. To keep me alive."

"You think that's a real likely problem, your lordship? I mean, killing a waiter—"

"Whoever killed him was looking for Claire," Ransdale interrupted. "He was—" he paused, and then, "Well, you know."

Curry whistled softly. That put a different complexion on things. Now he really would feel safer if he was out.

Ransdale had continued without waiting for an answer. "I don't know what in bloody hell is going on here, but I do know you didn't kill Claire, or that waiter. And I know that, whoever's right about you, Smith or Morrison, you're a killer. Set a thief to catch a thief, that's what they say; to catch a killer..."

Curry let the designation slide; killed he might have but killer he wasn't (though thief was a horse of a different color), but that wasn't important right now. "I could watch your back all right."

"But?"

The Englishman wasn't so dumb. Curry leaned up against the door and said, "But I already got a boss."

"Smith? He's armed. He can take care of himself; besides, he and Morrison are thick as thieves."

Curry grinned at that, but shook his head at the same time. "Mr. Smith ain't a shootist. That's why he hired me."

"Yes, but you're in jail now."

"That don't mean I don't work for him."

"I'll pay you twice what he is."

Curry raised an eyebrow. "That'd be fine, except I'm already hired." He wondered even as he said it why he was being so insistent; he did want out. At least Heyes hadn't publically disowned him, Ransdale would've said... "Look, I tell you what, your lordship: you get me out and I'll watch your back, too. Long as you and Mr. Smith don't want each other dead, it'll work out just fine."

"And if he does?"

Curry let the man hear his amusement. "If he does, your lordship, it won't matter much if I'm in or out." There was another silence; he wished he could see the other man. After a moment, he added, "But with three of us armed—maybe more, depending on who's working here—"

"Yes, and one of them is probably the murderer," Ransdale said sharply. "Though so far he hasn't shot anyone... So. Presuming Smith isn't the murderer—"

"Or you aren't," Curry put in.

"Why would I want to have you loose if I were?"

"I'm just saying."

"All right, then. Presuming neither of us is the murderer, if I can convince Morrison to release you, you'll guard me?"

"You'll be number two on my list, your lordship."

"What would it take to make me number one?"

"I hope that's just idle curiosity," Curry said sharply. "I'm telling you flat out—"

"I was just wondering," the Englishman protested. "I don't mean anything by it." He took a breath audible through the door. "I think we understand one another."

"I reckon we do, your lordship." We had better, he thought. Curry listened to him walk away and wondered if he had the pull with the Wells Fargo man he claimed to. Morrison had sounded pretty sure of himself earlier, saying Curry would be staying put till the snow cleared anyway. But Ransdale sounded sure of himself, too. Now maybe that was just a lifetime of being kowtowed to over in England. Hearing "yes, my lord" all day every day might make you overestimate how much pull you had when you got to Colorado. But if he did have some influence with Morrison, well... Curry wanted out. He'd have wanted out no matter what, but now, with someone running around the hotel killing people, he really wanted out.

And not to watch over Lord Edward Ransdale, either.

"God damn it," he said aloud and slammed his fists into the door. "Why in the hell did I want to come here in the first place?"

Nobody answered. He blew out a breath and sat on the bed again, staring at the door.

Heyes sat curled up in the big chair, A Journey to the Center of the Earth lying open on his knee. He hadn't read a word in a while, though. Liedenbrock and his overly disingenuous nephew might be treading on a pavement of bones down in their cavern, but rather fresher bodies, if only two (so far), kept pulling his attention away from the novel. He'd managed to make it through one chapter, but only a paragraph or so into the next and he'd had to concede defeat. He'd picked up the novel in an attempt to distract himself, but it hadn't worked, and he'd given up on it a while ago now.

Sometimes you just couldn't be distracted.

No matter how much you wanted to be.

Sometimes reality just wouldn't go away.

He reached over and picked up the bookmark and closed the novel over it. Dropping the book on the low mahogany coffee table, he looked out the window. The snow had finally begun to slacken its steady pace; the manager's forecasted day or so had been optimistic, probably deliberately so, to avoid panicking the customers who, when they saw they weren't going to starve to death, would probably not mind an extra week of snug snowed-in coziness... A week, Heyes thought, looking out the window at the view that had so entranced Curry, or more accurately looking at where it had been; it was now shrouded in falling snow and floating mist. That would be about right. And that wouldn't have been bad; it would have given him plenty of time to figure out what to do; if it weren't for the fact that they seemed to have a lunatic snowed in with them.

Heyes rubbed the back of his neck. He wouldn't have minded one murder, he had to admit it, at least not if that one had been Lady Clarissa. Two was a different story. And three...

Lunch had been an awkward affair. The shadow of that third murder was hanging over everyone in the Paradise. The English were nervous, and not particularly happy that Morrison had brought Weston to the table to join them. Weston himself wasn't happy, though Heyes didn't think it was the company so much as the circumstances. And Morrison wasn't happy at all.

The Wells Fargo man had spent a couple of hours interrogating the remaining staff. Based on Weston's comment when they'd locked Curry up, Heyes figured the staff was reduced; it had been almost the end of the Paradise's season, after all. But to keep even nine or ten guests in luxury required a lot of behind-the-scenes work. It had been a long time since Heyes had been in such a situation, but he rememembered the silent-footed men and women, and children...

Abruptly Heyes stood up; the chair skidded a couple of inches on the hardwood floor. He caught it and carefully returned it to its place. Then he crossed over to the window and leaned on the sill. Somewhere out in the white distance he heard crows, and then a jay. Was it really only two days ago that he'd stood here watching birds and contemplating an actual holiday? Seven days in Paradise... He snorted in what was genuine amusement. He looked to get that week after all. Even though this wasn't exactly what the Kid had had in mind when he made his plans.

Another reason lunch had been awkward, he thought as he watched the snow fall: the Kid. Not that he'd been there, of course, but Ransdale had brought him up a couple of times, pointing out to Morrison, who hadn't wanted to hear it, that Curry was, after all, "the only man we know can't be the killer."

"Not this killer, maybe," Morrison had finally snapped. "But you can't possibly think I'm going to turn him loose."

"Are you more interested in the reward for him than you are in apprehending my sister's murderer?"

"I don't think—" Morrison had bitten off whatever the rest of that had been going to be.

"Apparently," Ransdale had said in an intended to be audible aside.

"The two things got nothing to do with each other," Morrison had been goaded to respond. "Curry ain't part of this, and having him running around loose ain't gonna help find your sister's killer. 'Cause he won't be interested in anything except saving his own neck."

That had been pretty final, and Ransford had turned to Heyes. "Don't you think your man could be helpful?"

What Heyes had been thinking for a while was that maybe, given Morrison's conclusion about Goodwin's relationship with Lady Clarissa, maybe Curry was better off where he was. Unless Morrison was the killer, and even then that ten thousand was probably more important than a single encounter. If that was what it was about. If he even knew about it. If anyone did.

If it was just the once.

He'd choked that down and said, "It's not my call, Lord Edward, though there's no doubt I'd feel safer if he was out. But that's just me, and I doubt he'd do much to make anyone else sleep better at night."

Horne had been nodding. "The fox guarding the hen-house, what?"

"Oh, do shut up, Marcus," Ransdale had snapped, and then they had both sulked in silence for the rest of the meal.

Raines hadn't said much more than yes and no, himself, and as for Isobel Horne, her dark eyes had flickered between the men at the table but she hadn't opened her mouth to speak once. Heyes might have thought she was nervous—hadn't the Kid complained she was the delicate one, always going to bed (he could hear the Kid's light incredulous tone repeating the word "retire") early?—except that her eyes had been calm, even occasionally amused, and she had eaten quite a lot. Heyes figured Lady Clarissa's company might drive another woman to ground, as far as that went; at any rate, she didn't seem to be missing her cousin too very much.

Nobody did, come right down to it.

He rather thought, though, that somebody might be missing Robert Goodwin. His return to the room after lunch (going to ground himself) had caught one of the maids just finishing her dusting. She had excused herself and run out, but he'd gotten a good luck at her reddened eyes and wan face before she'd vanished. She wasn't the maid who'd done their room the other two days, a slim Negress in her mid-thirties who'd sung hymns in a sweet contralto as she worked, reminding him of days long gone that had never really existed in the first place. This one was much younger, pretty enough in a thin, pale blonde fashion. He'd have to point Morrison in her direction, assuming the Wells Fargo man's tactics weren't what had her crying in the first place.

Not that he particularly thought she'd have much of substance to tell him. But he wouldn't mind seeing Morrison get dragged deeply into this mystery. Anything to keep him off-balance, distracted. Thinking about something besides Joshua Smith.

A sharp gust of wind slapped the back of his neck, dropping a few heavy snowflakes down under his collar. He shivered involuntarily and turned around. If the wind was fixing to rise he'd have to shut the window; no sense in drapes and furniture getting wet. The snow, which had been falling nearly straight down, was beginning to swirl in huge waves, the afternoon light, what there was of it through the clouds, fading into the oncoming dark of an early October afternoon. Soon it would be dark. If the clouds would lessen, the moon would be huge and bright, a big full moon. Full tomorrow, to be precise, Friday, but near as damn all tonight. And Saturday. If this wind moved the clouds away, or even just tore them ragged, he thought, looking out into the easing weather, travel at night was going to be, if not easy at least not impossible.

Somebody rapped on the door and then pushed it open. Heyes tensed, shifting his weight onto his left arm. Damn. He hadn't locked it after the maid; distraction had snuck up on him after all.

"You lookin' to catch pneunomia?"

Heyes relaxed and turned to face Morrison with a half smile. "Just checking the weather," he said. "Looks like it might clear."

"Looks like it's gettin' worse to me." Morrison joined him at the window, peering out, and then shook his head and pulled the window shut.

"It's blowin' up," Heyes nodded. If Morrison couldn't read weather there was no sense in telling him any more. And if he could, well, and then he already knew.

"You must be used to this, though." The Wells Fargo man leaned up against the window sill.

Ah, yes. Wyoming. Heyes shrugged easily. "Didn't exactly expect it this early, not down here."

"Aspen gets a lot of snow," Morrison said. "I hear they're thinkin' about tryin' to get folks to come here and what do they call it? Ski? Like in Europe, or New York."

"That makes some sense," Heyes allowed. "They're going to have to do something about that road, though."

Morrison laughed, too much for the joke's value. Heyes crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the wall, waiting. Morrison hadn't come up here to chat, or to talk about the weather for that matter. "They will at that," the man said finally. He took a couple of deep breaths and looked down at his boots for a minute, and then transferred his attention from his own dusty brown ones to Heyes's shiny black square-toes. Neither pair seemed worthy of comment to Heyes; he waited silently. Beyond the window between them the snow swirled; when a huge drift suddenly fell from the roof, momentariy blocking what light there was, they both started and looked out, relieved to see the wan sky again.

Morrison smiled and shook his head. "Nerves aren't what they used to be, I reckon... Can't wait to get down off this mountain and pick up that reward. You know, I was thinkin' about what it would be like, owning my own place and havin' someone else to do all the work for me. You know," he shrugged. "But what I want most of all now is to get shut of Lord Edward Ransdale."

"Hope those aren't prophetic words."

"Oh, God... Well, you know what I mean. Anyway." He let out a long breath. "Look, Smith. Let's lay our cards on the table."

"If you like."

Morrison laughed abruptly. "Not that I know anything about whist."

"We can stick to American games," Heyes offered, and then decided to at least pretend to join in. "Or not play at all."

"If by that you mean, get serious, I'm for it." Morrison paused a moment, apparently liked Heyes's expression, and nodded once, decisively. "You keep tellin' me I'm the closest thing we got to a marshall; I keep sayin' I ain't no Pinkerton. You a smart man; you hafta be, put together that kind of property no older'n you are. And you a watchful man, I've seen that."

"What are you suggesting?" said Heyes, as though he couldn't make a good guess.

"We put our heads together," said Morrison, "we might just get a handle on this. Or at least put the brakes on it."

Heyes bit the inside of his lip, watching the light brown eyes looking steadily into his. Then he nodded. "I reckon you're right," he said.

Morrison heaved a sigh as if a huge weight had just dropped off him. Heyes hoped it wasn't going to end up crushing him.