Free Bitter Gold Hearts by Glen Cook Page B

thought that wasn’t your style.”
    “So Domina wouldn’t hear about it. I was supposed to be out working.”
    That puzzled me. “The word is that she has everyone on a tight leash while your mother is in the Cantard. Yet you two seem to come and go when you want.”
    “Not when we want,” Amber said. “When we can. Courter and Domina 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