Tangled Vines (7 page)

“Not if he doesn't see me.” Sam was counting on that.

Staying out of sight of the shack, Sam worked his way down the slope to the fence along the west property line. There the overgrowth of grapevines and weeds in Dougherty's vineyard offered heavy cover. He ducked between the wires and slipped into the leafy tunnel of vines. With the location of the dilapidated cottage and Dougherty fixed in his mind, he made his way toward it with slow and silent stealth – something he hadn't practiced since he was a boy, when playing Indian and sneaking up on people had been his favorite pastime.

The thought crossed his mind that he wasn't a boy anymore and Dougherty wasn't a vineyard worker or one of the maids. Before he could question what the hell he was doing there, the rifle cracked again, and the thought was forgotten, pushed aside by the conviction that Dougherty had to be stopped before somebody got hurt.

Sweat trickled down his temples. Sam wiped at it and paused to get his bearings. Not a breath of breeze penetrated the thick vegetation. The hot air was stifling, pungent with the smell of thick vegetation and ripening grapes. He batted at an insect whirring near his face and pressed on, dimly conscious of heightened senses that had made the buzz of the insect sound loud.

Dougherty shouted something and his voice sounded close. Much closer than Sam had expected. With increased caution, he crept toward the tall weeds at the end of the vine row. Through the brown stalks he spotted Dougherty, half lying and half leaning across the Buick's waxed fender and hood. All of his attention was still focused on the slope, beyond the range of Sam's vision. But the rifle was clearly visible. It looked like a military carbine, an old army issue. Sam had a vague memory of once seeing Dougherty in uniform marching in a Memorial Day parade to honor the area's war dead.

Taking advantage of the cover, Sam studied the area close up. The car was parked near a corner of the house, angled away from the front steps. From the car to the vineyard, there was nothing but open ground. If he could get the house between them...

On that thought, Sam retreated a few yards and found an opening between the gnarled trunks of the old vines. He took off his hat and pushed it ahead of him as he wiggled through the space on his belly, closing his eyes against the slap of leaves and weeds. He cut across two more rows in the same fashion, careful to keep the rustling sounds to a minimum.

A quick check confirmed the tumbledown dwelling blocked him from Dougherty's view. Rising from his crouch, Sam moved swiftly across the weed-choked clearing to the house. Cautiously he worked his way around to the other side of it and peered around the corner. He could see the rear tires and part of the car's green top. That was all.

He edged his way along the side of the building, planting each foot with care. The sweat was running from him now, but oddly his mouth was dry. He wetted it, conscious of the pounding of his heart, nerves strained to a high pitch of alertness. He hadn't been involved in a brawl since his college days, but right now the adrenaline was pumping and he was primed for a fight.

When he reached the corner of the house, the hood of the Buick was directly in front of him. He stopped, waited a beat, then looked around the corner.

Len Dougherty hadn't changed his position. He was still propped against the hood, muttering to himself something about the Rutledges. Sam measured the distance between them. Three long, quick strides-and he'd be behind him.

There was still no wail of a siren in the distance.

“For chrissake, Dougherty, will you stop shooting and let us get outta here?”

The instant Ed Braiser yelled out from the slope, Sam crossed the intervening space. Reaching out, he tapped Dougherty on the right shoulder. Startled, Dougherty pushed off the car, whirling to the right, away from Sam, and bringing the old carbine with him. Sam grabbed the barrel in one hand, spinning Dougherty the rest of the way around, and seized the rifle stock in the other. With a twisting jerk, he wrested the weapon from Dougherty's grip and used the same movement and momentum to shove the man backward. Off balance, Dougherty fell to the ground.

Automatically Sam yanked the magazine clip and ejected the bullet in the firing chamber. There was a movement in his side vision, far up the slope, as the two workers scrambled to safety. Dougherty started to rise, preparing to launch himself at Sam, his face mottled with rage.

“Do it,” Sam urged, his voice low and vibrating with a barely controlled anger. “Give me an excuse to ram this rifle butt down your throat.”

Dougherty had taken a couple jolts of whiskey earlier to get rid of his hangover, a little of the hair of the dog that bit him. But he was sober enough to realize he was too old to be tangling with a younger man like Rutledge. He sank back on his elbows.

“Make you feel big to knock an old man around?” he jeered.

“You may be old, Dougherty, but you stopped being a man years ago.” Sam stepped back in disgust. But he was still close enough to smell the sickeningly sweet stench of whiskey.

A marked car careened up the rutted lane and swerved to a stop near the Buick, its lights flashing and its siren silent. A uniformed deputy got out of the driver's side and approached with caution, his holster flap unfastened and his hand on the butt of his gun.

“What's going on here?” His glance ran from the prone Dougherty to the carbine in Sam's hands.

“He was shooting at two of my workers.” Sam passed the weapon to the deputy, keeping the muzzle pointed skyward. “I already unloaded it.”

“You just can't stay out of trouble, can you, Dougherty?” The deputy shook his head at him.

Outraged, Dougherty clambered to his feet. “He's the one in trouble.” He jabbed a finger in Sam's direction. “I didn't do anything wrong. A man has a right to defend his property and that's what I was doing. They were tearing down my fence and I stopped them.” He turned to Sam. “This land doesn't belong to you yet. And I swear on my Becca's grave, it never will.”

“You crazy fool, is that what this was about?” Sam challenged, his voice thick with anger. He flung a hand in the direction of the slope. “Those men weren't tearing down that fence. They were repairing it until you started shooting at them.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “My God, you could have hit one of them.”

“Not likely,” Dougherty scoffed. “I only hit what I aim at.”

“You hope,” Sam countered.

“You calling me a liar?” Dougherty bristled and punched a hand to his chest. “I've got a sharpshooter's medal to prove it. I could have shot them anytime I wanted to, but all I did was scare ‘em and keep ‘em pinned down.”

“Nobody got hurt then, is that right?” The deputy looked to Sam for confirmation.

He glanced at the slope. Ramon and the other two workers had moved back into the open again. “It doesn't look like it.”

The deputy hesitated. “Do you want to press charges, Mr. Rutledge?”

“What are you asking him for?” Dougherty demanded. “He's the one trespassing on my property.”

“Don't push it, Dougherty,” Sam warned, his temper again near the flash point. “Or I'll have you hauled up on assault with a deadly weapon.” To the deputy he issued a clipped, “You know where you can find me.”

He walked away, turning a deaf ear to the empty threats Dougherty shouted after him.

Under the deputy's watchful eye, the rotten post was replaced and the, wire re-strung. Not until it was done did the deputy leave, taking the rifle with him and telling Dougherty he could pick it up in a few days after he'd run it through ballistics. That had tasted as bitter as the lecture he'd gotten.

When the patrol car pulled out of the yard, Len Dougherty stormed into the house, snatched up a nearly empty whiskey bottle, and sloshed some in a dirty glass, still seething from the injustice of it all. He knew exactly where the blame belonged – right at the feet of the great Madam and her high and mighty grandson. Between them, they had turned everyone in the valley against him.

He tossed down the liquor in the glass, drinking it in one big swallow and welcoming the fiery burn in his throat. Immediately he refilled the glass, emptying the bottle, and flopped down in the lumpy armchair that had doubled as his bed after he'd passed out the night before.

Cigarette butts and ash spilled over the sides of the cracked and chipped ceramic ashtray on the end table next to him. The walnut-stained wood was pockmarked with the blackened scars of old cigarette burns. Empty matchbooks, crumpled cigarette packs, and other unidentifiable bits of trash were piled around it. The only relatively clean area on the table was occupied by a cheaply framed photograph of a young, dark-haired woman, smiling shyly and anxiously from it.

Len slouched against the stained cushions and stared at the amber-brown liquor in his glass. “Thought they could tear down my fence, but I showed ‘em. I showed ‘em.” He grunted in emphasis and took another drink of whiskey, rolling it around in his mouth before swallowing it. Then he turned his head and gazed at the picture “I showed ‘em, Becca,” he repeated, very softly.

He let the empty whiskey bottle slip from his hand and tumble onto the seat cushion, wedging there against his thigh. Carefully he picked up the photograph and propped it on his lap, facing him. Grief and a vague kind of anger twisted his face.

“Why did you have to die, Becca?” he moaned. “Why did you go and leave me? You know I was never any good without you. It wasn't fair for you to die. It wasn't fair when I needed you so much.”

A sob threatened to escape his throat. He swallowed it back with another gulp of whiskey. He looked at the photo again, this time with watery eyes.

“We had such dreams, Becca. Such dreams for this place.” His voice was husky and soft. He sniffed noisily. “I won't let them take our land. I swear that to you, Becca. I'll find the money. I'll get it somewhere...somehow. Maybe...maybe...” He let the thought trail off unspoken, the fragment of an idea – a hope spreading across his face. He returned the photograph to its former resting place and smiled. “I'll get it. You'll see.”

He drank down the rest of the whiskey in his glass and pushed out of the chair. With surprising purpose in his stride, he crossed to the door and slammed it behind him as he left the house and headed straight for the car.

Half an hour later, he pulled up in front of the crumbling brick tavern and went in. The hanging fixture over the pool table threw its light on the green felt surface and left the lone player in shadow. Billiard balls cracked together as Len crossed to the bar.

“I need some change for the phone.” He slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the counter. “I gotta make a long-distance call.”

“Does this look like a money-changing place?” Big Eddie grumbled, but he pocketed the ten and took a roll of quarters from the cash register drawer, then slid it across the counter to Len.

Tightly gripping the paper-wrapped tube of quarters, he headed back to the rest rooms and the pay phone on the wall. Once there, he hesitated and rubbed a hand across his suddenly dry mouth. Maybe he should have a drink first. Just one short shot. He immediately rejected that thought.

A dozen times he'd tried to work up the courage to make this call, and each time he'd drunk a little too much courage. Not this time. He'd promised Becca.

Still he hesitated before reaching for the receiver, and ran a hand over the stubble of his day-old beard. He wished he had shaved, cleaned up a little before making the call. It was important to make the right impression.

Why the hell was he worrying about that? It was just a damned phone call. It didn't matter how he looked.

Before he confused himself with more crazy thoughts, Dougherty snatched the receiver from its hook and punched 0 for the operator.

A woman's voice came on the line. “Thank you for using AT and T. May I help you?”

“Yeah, I want to call...” He had to search a minute before he remembered the name she was using. “...Kelly Douglas in New York.”

“And the number, please?”

“I don't know the number.”

“You can contact information directly by dialing area code two-one-two, five-five-five, one-two -”

“No, you get me the number,” he broke in impatiently, then caught himself, and tried to summon up some of the old charm that had once worked so well for him. “You see, I'm calling from a pay phone, miss. I don't have a pen or any paper to write it on.”

“That is a problem,” she agreed pleasantly. “One moment and I'll get it for you.”

“Thanks.” He waited, chewing nervously on his lower lip, his mouth getting drier by the second. Then came the bad news – according to New York information, there was only one Kelly Douglas in the book and that number was unlisted; under no circumstances could it be given out. “But this is an emergency,” he protested in agitation. “I have to get a hold of her.”

“If you will state the nature of your emergency and leave a number where you can be reached, we will be happy to relay the message to the individual party so that they may contact you.”

“No, that won't work. I've got to talk to her myself.” He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to think. “Look, let's try her at work instead, okay?”

“Where does Miss Douglas work?” the operator asked.

“She's a television reporter. She works for – the one, with the peacock, NBC.”

“Shall I make it a person-to-person call?”

“What? Oh -yeah, right, person-to-person.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and grabbed on to the metal telephone coil, the tension working on his already frayed nerves.

Soon there was a ringing sound on the other end of the line. It continued for an intolerable number of times before it was finally answered by a brisk voice. “Good afternoon, NBC.”

“I have a long-distance call for Kelly Douglas, please,” the operator announced.