Free Book 02 - Bitter Gold Hearts by Glen Cook Page B

can’t be everywhere watching all the
time.”
    “I thought you said you wouldn’t interrupt, Mr.
Garrett.”
    “So I did. Go on. When last seen you were making a getaway
out the back door of Lettie Faren’s place.”
    “Yes. I stopped to say good night to someone, right in the
doorway, with my back to the outside. Somebody put a leather sack
over my head. It must have had a drawstring sort of thing on it
because before I could yell I was being strangled. I was scared to
death. I knew I was being murdered and there wasn’t any way I
could stop it. And then the lights went out.” He
shivered.
    I set my mug down. “Who were you saying good-bye
to?” I tried to keep it casual but he wasn’t a complete
dummy. He didn’t answer. I stared him straight in the eye. He
looked away.
    “He doesn’t want to believe it,” Amber said.
    “What’s that?”
    “That his favorite little tidbit was in on it. She had to
be, didn’t she? I mean, she would have seen whoever it was
over his shoulder. Wouldn’t she? And she would have had time
to warn him if she wasn’t part of it?”
    “That’s certainly worth a few questions. Does the
lady have a name?”
    Amber looked at Karl. He tried divining the future from the lees
of his beer. Maybe he didn’t like what he saw. He grabbed the
pitcher off the tray and poured himself a refill, mumbling
something as he did so. I collected the pitcher and pursued his
fine example. “What was that?”
    “He said her name is Donni Pell.” Put a point down
for the kid. If she had wanted, she could have stuck it to him
anytime, but she held back until he was ready to surrender the name
himself.
    Karl started working himself up a case of the miseries. He said,
“I can’t believe Donni was in on
what . . . I’ve known her for four years.
She just wouldn’t . . . ”
    I reserved my opinion of what people in Donni’s line would
and would not do for money. “All right. Let’s move on.
You were strangled unconscious. When and where did you wake
up?”
    “I’m not sure. It was nighttime and in the country.
I think. From what sounds I could hear. I was bound hand and foot
and still had the bag over my head. I think I was inside a closed
coach of some kind but I can’t be sure. That would make
sense, though, wouldn’t it?”
    “For them it would. What else?”
    “I had a bad headache.”
    “That follows. Go on.”
    “They got me where they were taking me, which turned out
to be an abandoned farmhouse of some sort.”
    I urged him to get very detailed. It was in moments of transfer
when kidnappers were most at risk of betraying themselves.
    “They lifted me out of the coach. Somebody cut the ropes
around my ankles. One got me by each arm and they walked me inside.
There were at least four of them. Maybe five or six. After they got
me inside, somebody cut the rope on my wrists. A door closed behind
me. After a long time standing there I finally got up the nerve to
take the bag off my head.”
    He paused to unparch his throat. He could pour it down once he
got started. Being a naturally courteous fellow, I matched him
swallow for swallow, though I hadn’t been working my throat
nearly so hard. “A farmhouse, you say? How did you discover
that?”
    “I’ll get to it. Anyway, I took the bag off. I was
in a room about twelve feet by twelve feet that hadn’t been
cleaned in years. There were some blankets to sleep on—all old and
dirty and smelly—a chamber pot that never did get emptied, a
rickety homemade chair, and a small table with one leg
broken.”
    He had his eyes closed. He was visualizing. “On the table
was one of those earthenware pitcher-and-bowl sets with a rusty
metal dipper to take a drink with. The pitcher was cracked so it
leaked a little into the bowl. I drank about a quart of water right
away. Then I went and looked out the window and tried to get myself
together. I was scared to death. I didn’t have any idea what
was going on. Until I got back here and