Pemberley Ranch - Jack Caldwell [39]
“Come in,” called a male voice.
“Stay close by,” Whitehead told Pyke as he turned the knob. Pyke nodded and stepped away to the head of the stairs.
Whitehead slowly walked into the bedroom. The room was bare—only a bed and dresser joined a small table with a couple of chairs. Whitehead’s quick glance took in a battered suitcase at the foot of the bed and a hat on one of the series of hooks on the wall opposite—but no inhabitant.
As alarm bells went off in Whitehead’s head, a voice softly said, “Close the door quiet like, or I’ll plug you right now.”
Moving slowly and deliberately, Whitehead stepped far enough in to close the door. Hands outstretched away from his body, he turned back towards the door. Standing beside it, in a spot where he could be hidden from the outside, was a man holding a pistol.
“If you’re holding me up, you’re bound for disappointment,” Whitehead said with a trace of bravado. “My wallet’s in my office.”
“Shut up. Move over to the other side of the room. Don’t talk.”
Whitehead became nervous. The man’s voice was deadly calm, indicating this was a planned ambush. He handled the gun with practiced ease. Whitehead knew he had to be very careful, or he would not leave this room alive. Hands up, he did as he was bid, placing the table between himself and the man called Carson.
“All right, now unfasten that gun belt—one hand only.”
Whitehead’s eyes never left his assailant as he slowly unbuckled the belt with his right hand. The holstered gun slipped to the carpeted floor. Whitehead stared hard at the man opposite. There was something familiar about him.
“I suppose you have a reason for all this, Mr. Carson—if that’s your real name.”
“Oh, I have a reason, all right. You’re George Whitehead, right?”
“I am.”
“The name Churchill mean anything to you?”
Whitehead’s blood ran cold—a ghost from his past had come visiting. He knew that yelling for Pyke would do no good. By the time Pyke could open that door, Whitehead would be dead.
“Yes,” Whitehead said. “James Churchill and I served in the war together.”
“I know. He told me all about it. I’m his brother, Frank.”
Whitehead said nothing, his mind racing.
“Where’s the money, Whitehead?”
Whitehead’s first thought was to deny everything, an impulse he dismissed immediately. Lying would do no good. He had to stall, though—he had to find out how much James had told Frank.
“Here.”
“I’ve come to get Jimmy’s share.”
“It’s not that easy.”
Churchill raised his gun. “This says it’s easy. Half of twenty-five thousand—that’s twelve thousand five hundred. I want it.”
“And then you’ll kill me?”
“Get me the money, and we’ll see. Don’t and you’re dead.”
“No, you’ll shoot me as soon as you get the cash. And I don’t blame you.”
Churchill gritted his teeth. “You killed my brother.”
“No, I didn’t. He saved my life.”
“Don’t you lie! You killed Jimmy and took all the money! The law came to the house during the war saying Jimmy took that money an’ was hiding out. But I knew that was a lie! Jimmy would never just leave and not get word back to his family. When months went by, we knew he was dead.” A feral look came into his eyes. “I knew what really happened, because Jimmy wrote to me—told me what you two had planned. Stealin’ a U.S. Army payroll. So I knew it was you that did away with him.”
Whitehead shook his head sadly. “That’s not what happened. Things didn’t work out like we thought. There was an extra guard, and he got the drop on me.” Whitehead grunted. “A bit like you did tonight. I thought it was all over for me when Jimmy jumped the man. Before I could pull my gun out, there were a couple of shots, and they were both dead. There was nothing I could do. I got the strongbox and Jimmy out of there and hightailed it.”
“I knew it. I knew Jimmy was dead. What did you do with him?”
“Buried him.”
“Where?”
“I really can’t tell you—in a farmer’s field, but it was in the middle of the night. Doubt I could