somehow. In one fell swoop he'd lost an entire
family, and he had trouble swallowing the idea that it was only a
lousy coincidence. But Amos wasn't listening. He'd already made up
his mind. So there was no use in ranting on about it.
"Fine, I'll let it go for now." He stood up and the
sheriff followed suit. "But my brother is still missing, and until
he's found, I've no intention of letting the matter rest
completely."
"Let what rest?"
Patrick turned as Owen Prescott strode into the
spartan office, his face worn and haggard. Patrick breathed a sigh
of relief. Owen was his father's best friend—a second father. He'd
sort through all of this.
"I came as soon as I heard." He clasped Patrick's
hand and pulled him into a quick embrace. "I'm so sorry, son."
Patrick nodded, trying desperately to hold onto his
emotions. He suddenly felt like a kid again. Seeing Owen, hearing
the sympathy in his voice, somehow lent a cruel reality to the
tragic events of the morning. He sucked in a breath and quelled the
urge to give in to tears. He was a man after all, and men didn't
cry.
"What aren't you going to let rest, Patrick?"
He struggled to follow the gist of Owen's question,
focusing on the concern in the older man's face. "I was just
telling Amos that it's reasonable to think that there's some sort
of connection between Michael's disappearance and my father's
death."
"Amen to that." Pete ambled into the office, perching
himself on the windowsill, his shrewd glance sizing up the others
in the room.
Owen looked over at Amos, who was seated again,
concentrating on lighting a cigarillo. "Amos, what do you think?"
He pulled up a second chair and sat, facing the desk.
The sheriff looked up, the thin cigar, dangling from
the corner of his mouth, a thin wisp of bluish smoke curling toward
the ceiling. Patrick couldn't help but think how discordant the
picture was, an angel indulging in a devilish habit.
Amos blew a ring of smoke. "I'm guessing that
Duncan's death was part of a highway robbery, nothing more."
Owen frowned and looked at Patrick. "But you have
more questions?"
"Damn right I do. I have a little trouble accepting
the fact that my father was murdered on the very same night my
brother up and disappears."
Amos narrowed his gaze. "Now there's a thought.
Michael getting along with Duncan all right these days?"
Pete let out a string of expletives that would curl
the toes of a three penny whore.
Patrick felt his hackles rise. He opened his mouth to
respond, but Owen beat him to the punch. "Now, Amos, if you think
about it, you'll realize there's no way Michael could have killed
Duncan." Everyone turned to look at Owen. He smiled reassuringly at
Patrick and then leaned back in his chair. "What time was it when
you found Roscoe?"
"I don't know exactly, a couple hours before sun-up."
Patrick glanced over at Pete, who nodded in confirmation.
"Right, so that would indicate that Michael was
injured well before dawn."
"You're just speculating that he was hurt. Maybe the
blood on the saddle was Duncan's, not Michael's." Amos paused
dramatically.
For a moment Patrick felt sick at his stomach. Then
almost as quickly the feeling was gone. Michael would never kill
his father. Never. He looked over at Pete. The old hand was staring
intently at Owen, waiting for his reaction.
Owen scratched the side of his jaw absently. "Well, I
suppose your theory is possible, but hardly likely. Besides, how
would you explain the fact that Duncan's body appeared by the road
after Pete and Patrick left to try and find Michael?"
"It was barely daylight when they left. They could've
easily missed the body."
"Now, look here," Patrick felt his voice rising, "my
brother isn't a killer. He isn't. Besides, there's still the
horses. Even if what you're saying is true, and I don't believe it,
you can hardly expect Michael to make a getaway on Jack." He
glanced frantically over at Pete.
The old man spit out the open window, his grizzled
old face shuttered.
family, and he had trouble swallowing the idea that it was only a
lousy coincidence. But Amos wasn't listening. He'd already made up
his mind. So there was no use in ranting on about it.
"Fine, I'll let it go for now." He stood up and the
sheriff followed suit. "But my brother is still missing, and until
he's found, I've no intention of letting the matter rest
completely."
"Let what rest?"
Patrick turned as Owen Prescott strode into the
spartan office, his face worn and haggard. Patrick breathed a sigh
of relief. Owen was his father's best friend—a second father. He'd
sort through all of this.
"I came as soon as I heard." He clasped Patrick's
hand and pulled him into a quick embrace. "I'm so sorry, son."
Patrick nodded, trying desperately to hold onto his
emotions. He suddenly felt like a kid again. Seeing Owen, hearing
the sympathy in his voice, somehow lent a cruel reality to the
tragic events of the morning. He sucked in a breath and quelled the
urge to give in to tears. He was a man after all, and men didn't
cry.
"What aren't you going to let rest, Patrick?"
He struggled to follow the gist of Owen's question,
focusing on the concern in the older man's face. "I was just
telling Amos that it's reasonable to think that there's some sort
of connection between Michael's disappearance and my father's
death."
"Amen to that." Pete ambled into the office, perching
himself on the windowsill, his shrewd glance sizing up the others
in the room.
Owen looked over at Amos, who was seated again,
concentrating on lighting a cigarillo. "Amos, what do you think?"
He pulled up a second chair and sat, facing the desk.
The sheriff looked up, the thin cigar, dangling from
the corner of his mouth, a thin wisp of bluish smoke curling toward
the ceiling. Patrick couldn't help but think how discordant the
picture was, an angel indulging in a devilish habit.
Amos blew a ring of smoke. "I'm guessing that
Duncan's death was part of a highway robbery, nothing more."
Owen frowned and looked at Patrick. "But you have
more questions?"
"Damn right I do. I have a little trouble accepting
the fact that my father was murdered on the very same night my
brother up and disappears."
Amos narrowed his gaze. "Now there's a thought.
Michael getting along with Duncan all right these days?"
Pete let out a string of expletives that would curl
the toes of a three penny whore.
Patrick felt his hackles rise. He opened his mouth to
respond, but Owen beat him to the punch. "Now, Amos, if you think
about it, you'll realize there's no way Michael could have killed
Duncan." Everyone turned to look at Owen. He smiled reassuringly at
Patrick and then leaned back in his chair. "What time was it when
you found Roscoe?"
"I don't know exactly, a couple hours before sun-up."
Patrick glanced over at Pete, who nodded in confirmation.
"Right, so that would indicate that Michael was
injured well before dawn."
"You're just speculating that he was hurt. Maybe the
blood on the saddle was Duncan's, not Michael's." Amos paused
dramatically.
For a moment Patrick felt sick at his stomach. Then
almost as quickly the feeling was gone. Michael would never kill
his father. Never. He looked over at Pete. The old hand was staring
intently at Owen, waiting for his reaction.
Owen scratched the side of his jaw absently. "Well, I
suppose your theory is possible, but hardly likely. Besides, how
would you explain the fact that Duncan's body appeared by the road
after Pete and Patrick left to try and find Michael?"
"It was barely daylight when they left. They could've
easily missed the body."
"Now, look here," Patrick felt his voice rising, "my
brother isn't a killer. He isn't. Besides, there's still the
horses. Even if what you're saying is true, and I don't believe it,
you can hardly expect Michael to make a getaway on Jack." He
glanced frantically over at Pete.
The old man spit out the open window, his grizzled
old face shuttered.
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